EditorialStaff
POETRY EDITOR-IN-CHIEF
MR. RYAN EICHELE ‘25
PROSE EDITOR-IN-CHIEF
MR. DIEGO GOMEZ-ZAMORA ‘25
VISUAL
MR. PATRICK STEINAUER ‘25
MAGAZINE DIRECTOR
MR. ALEX MILLER ‘25
CHIEF COMMUNICATIONS OFFICER
MR. CONNOR JURACEK ‘25
CLUB & MAGAZINE MODERATOR
MR. AARON MENZEL
Gavin Balanay, Joshua Ferro, Connor Freeman, Chu Htoo, Henry Jones, Leo
Kelly, Tyler Lenz, Gavin Liewer, Andrew Lawler, Brennen Nelson, Daniel
Paronable, Charles Petro, James Powers, Solomon Smith, and Chris Tollo
FromtheEditorialStaff
We are honored to present Ink, Inc. magazine's 2024/2025 first-semester edition. As we celebrate the vibrant creative spirit within our school community, this online edition represents the beginning of a year-long endeavor; alongside the forthcoming second-semester edition, these contributions will culminate in our second annual printed publication, reflecting the enduring power of storytelling and artistic expression.
Rooted in the Jesuit values that define our identity, Ink, Inc. is guided by the principle of Ad Majorem Dei Gloriam creating for the Greater Glory of God and embraces the spirit of Magis, encouraging us to pursue excellence in our craft and collaboration. This year, we are delighted to continue welcoming contributions from neighboring Catholic high schools, enhancing our reach and fostering a vibrant literary community that transcends boundaries.
This semester’s edition is a testament to the diverse voices, perspectives, and talents that enrich our collective experience. It artistically captures the essence of human connection through written and visual narratives, creating a unified celebration of creativity that represents our community.
We express our sincere gratitude to all contributors for their passion and dedication. Whether experienced online or in print, may Ink, Inc. continue to serve as a source of wonder and a catalyst for creativity as we honor the voices that shape our shared narrative.
Alex Miller, Magazine Director
Prose
Welcome to the prose section of this issue of Ink, Inc., a space where storytelling thrives, voices resonate, and the written word comes alive. As Prose Editor-inChief, it has been my privilege to immerse myself in the worlds created by our contributors worlds brimming with emotion, complexity, and imagination. Our Prose staff has worked diligently and tirelessly to ensure that this selection of prose inspires all readers to dive into each word and cultivate an ever-expanding imagination.
Prose, at its best, allows us to connect deeply with the human experience. It challenges us to see from new perspectives, reflect on the familiar, and even confront the uncomfortable. This collection is a testament to the diverse, unbounded spirit of storytelling. Whether it's a spine-chilling horror narrative, an informative and socially-critical piece, or a bold experiment in narrative form, each piece you’ll find here is crafted with care and intent.
Our contributors come from varied backgrounds and write with a range of styles and voices. What unites them is their commitment to authenticity and the courage to share their stories with the world. I am endlessly inspired by their creativity and am honored to present their work to you.
I invite you to read with curiosity and an open heart. As you turn these pages, may you discover moments of beauty, surprise, and resonance May these stories linger with you long after the final word, reminding us all of the power of prose to illuminate, connect, and transform.
Diego Gómez-Zamora, Prose Editor-in-Chief
“ImportanceofAccurate EstimationsofPre-Columbian IndigenousPopulations”
Prose by Hamzah Alsaleem ‘26
Attempting to accurately study and analyze history inevitably comes with a degree of uncertainty. A significant example of an obscurity in American history is the long-debated topic by historians of the true size of Native American populations in the pre-Columbian era. Previously estimated to be about 1.5 million, the latest estimates of Native American populations are close to 90 million. Although a truer approximation of Native populations in the pre-Columbian era may not seem significant in a moral perspective, striving towards an accurate estimate still holds a political importance
It is plausible that some could see the issue of finding the truer number of Native Americans as morally insignificant An argument that can arise is that intently focusing on finding a precise number of pre-Columbian Native Americans could cause them to be merely viewed as a basic statistic or number. This perception could take away from the rich indigenous heritages and undermine the harsh history that Native peoples underwent, both of which are more important than the size of their populations As a result, some historians would likely not value fixating on finding a truer estimation of indigenous populations, finding it pointless or even insensitive to confine Native American history into a number. Instead, some would argue, the focus should be shifted on understanding and learning more about how they suffered at the hands of European colonization. The specificities such as the true number of Natives isn’t nearly as significant as their broader story of being exploited by the Europeans in their process of colonization.
Nonetheless, striving towards a more accurate estimate of pre-Columbian indigenous peoples holds a political significance that outweighs the aforementioned drawbacks. Evidently, many Native Americans were killed by European colonizations, and such a massive scale of suffering and death deserves to be acknowledged accurately. Without a precise number of Native Americans casualties, the pain and hardship that they endured could be misrepresented and possibly not be perceived as seriously as they should. Furthermore, the effects of colonization on the Native Americans have been evident for years in their displacement and instability, and more accurate historical population estimates would be important to facilitate Natives’ role in politics concerning their rights and lands. There is a different gravity between the numbers 1.5 and 90 million, and so Native Americans could benefit politically if their situation was taken more seriously due to a more accurate representation of their losses. Additionally, by highlighting the torment the Natives went through more, a truer estimate would further historically solidify forceful colonization as a destructive political practice. This is incredibly significant as it would allow more people to recognize the grave impact of European colonization in America, helping ensure that similar policies will never be in place again. Lastly, prior to European colonization, indigenous peoples were organized into advanced civilizations Notable examples include the Aztecs and the Incas, who utilized effective labor and agricultural systems such as mita labor, a form of obligated public service Finding a more precise approximation for the pre-Columbian Native population would give further insight into these developed civilizations. By representing history more accurately, common misconceptions and stereotypes could be dispelled. For instance, society would not view Native Americans as primitive and not as advanced as the Europeans if a more precise understanding of these highlydeveloped civilizations was gained.
While striving for a truer estimate of pre-Columbian Native American populations may, to some, seem counterproductive to the appreciation of Native culture, it would inevitably bring more benefit than harm to a marginalized community. As historians continue to argue to accurately find the number, it is evident that their efforts are not futile. Not only does a truer estimation provide crucial information about Native American history in general, representing it more accurately, but it is also valuable politically.
“TheWorm”
Prose by Andrew Lawler ‘25
Monday:
I was pouring my twelfth cup of coffee and celebrating the end of my all-nighter when the phone started to ring. This time it was Chris, ranting about the press conference in a few hours. Bad news. Some loser at the New York Times found out that the president is in a coma. I told Chris not to worry about it, but I think he could tell that I was lying. I’d just spent eight hours trying to come up with a speech, a briefing, just something, I mean anything to bring some sense of comfort to the American people. What the hell was I supposed to tell them? The truth? Yeah, the President is in a coma Yeah, he has a disease that’s never been seen before Oh and, you’re right, that wasn’t a Russian drone, it was a damn U.F.O. that blew up the capitol.
I skipped the press conference
Wednesday:
The president is dead and I’m at the autopsy. A mechanical eyeball that looks like something out of a Star Trek episode is scanning his body, trying to pinpoint the cause of death In the next room over, Vice President Johnson is getting sworn in as the fifty-fifth, and probably last, president of the United States of America. The eyeball starts scanning, sending data into our computer which begins to crunch numbers and calculate data at a rate of a million equations per second.
Life Form Detected:
Extracting…
Extracting…
Extracting…
I try to contain my desire to puke as the head of the president is cut open like a watermelon on the fourth of July A mechanical hand extracts a long, tubular creature It looks like a worm The doctor tells me it’s an extraterrestrial life form. A brain worm, he calls it. Apparently, it’s been in the poor guy’s head since he was sworn into office.
Thursday:
The U.F.O. came back today. Chris says it teleported into the atmosphere, blew up the Empire State Building, and flew back home in a span of ten seconds. They’ve been analyzing the brain worm Apparently, it was manipulating the President for the last five years The creature was sentient and in complete control over our leader. It was leaking information to Mars. Weakening our defenses. Polarizing our population. Spreading misinformation. Wrecking the economy And now, the aliens are here They’ve taken over the world
An excerpt from the diaries of Joe Valentino. Taken from the textbook “The Downfall of Humanity,” currently utilized in Martian classrooms across Antarctica.
“Torment”
Prose by Thomas Rhine ‘28
My name is William Britten, and I have just bought an apartment in Manhattan, New York, where I will live for the rest of my days I don’t have any family, so I had to find a place myself, but I am thirty-four. I should know how to do this. I carried all my belongings in a backpack because it's better to pack light when starting something new. I’m going in for a job interview tomorrow to have enough money to furnish my new place Luckily, I had a checking account with some funds from previous jobs before I left so that I wouldn't run low on funds for a hot minute.
I made my way up the stairs to my new apartment, which was situated on the thirteenth floor. “It will be a pain to get the furniture I want up here. No matter, that is a problem for the future me to handle” I thought Right now, I just want to sit around and enjoy myself I opened the door to the apartment door, numbered 1313, with the key I had gotten in the mail from the building owner. The inside looked exactly like the online listing: one bedroom, a bathroom, a kitchen, and a living room. I went to the living room, which housed a medium-sized sofa with a coffee table in the middle and one of those box TVs from way back when I sat down on the sofa and looked around the room. I felt happy with what was there as I fell asleep from such a long journey to the place.
I have gotten a job as a store clerk and am on my way home from my nine-to-five shift on the bus. I work as a longshoreman, unloading and loading shipments on and off boats In the harbor It’s hard work, but I am getting paid, so that is all that matters; money is money at the end of the day. I entered my house after a long day, wanting to rest. I sit on my couch and look around my apartment again, but this time, there is something that wasn't there before a little yellow sticky note posted inside my door.
I get out of the couch and go over to it warily, for I didn’t put it there, and it was inside my house when I was gone I picked up the note, “I know what happened on the night of October 7, 2002.”
I froze right then and there. What did it mean that it knew what happened? That was the day my little sister went missing while we were running around in the forest behind my house The police searched for days, and nothing turned up. She was declared missing or dead. It angered me that someone was mocking me about that sad day. “What do they mean they knew what happened?” I asked myself worriedly
I searched the house from top to bottom, looking for whoever placed that note, staying on my toes in case someone jumped out from a corner Yet after the search, I didn't find anyone or discover anything. I have to watch for a prankster now, but it still worries me that they know about that incident. Could they be from my hometown?
It is the next day, and I am still on the lookout I have placed the event in my mind and am trying to go about my day without incident. Work has been going well, but my coworkers have noticed I have been more on edge lately. I told them it was due to a lack of sleep, but I was just making sure no one sneaked up and tried to pull another stunt on me I was still worried about the note.
I got home again after a long shift, and I was tired as usual and wanted to sleep I got home and lay on my bed, closing my eyes, feeling eerie. I open my eyes again, and this time, they go wide another note is on the roof of my bedroom. The note read, “The incident in the bathroom of December 5, 2004.” Now, I was terrified. That was the day that my parents were murdered in my old home I ran around the house searching for answers, hoping to find someone or something to explain, but I saw no one. I was scared, angry, and exhausted. Someone knew about my life before coming here to New York.
They were toying with me and bringing the past I desperately wanted to leave behind. I felt like I couldn't do anything, and something was inching closer to me day by day, stretching the cold hand of death in my direction. But yet, I could see nothing, and that scared me; the visible danger is never a real danger, but the threat in the dark is what will swallow you up.
I was on the edge of breaking down Everyone around me could tell I was constantly looking over my shoulder, just expecting something to be there, ready to take my life. The paranoia was in fourth gear, and it was suffocating. I was more agitated than before, and in a fit of rage from being told off, I sent one of the shipments into the harbor, prompting me to get fired I was at rock bottom in my outside life, but I had yet to see another one of those god-forsaken notes again, which kept me rolling.
After being fired, I thought it was fine and could always find another job in about a week. I thought of giving myself a haircut, so I went to the barbershop and got the hairstyle I wore in my town back then. It brought back the nostalgia of home again, but I could never go back because there was no one to go back to anymore The notes had me panic-stricken, and I think I would collapse if another showed up. But yet, one hadn’t shown in a few days, which relieved and worried me. The notes could have stopped, and this prankster’s play time was over, or they could be waiting for me to let my guard down I would just have to wait and see
When I entered my home, there sat another note on the couch. I dreaded what it would say—I was on the verge of a panic attack, dying with every step I took to get closer and read it But this one left me confused. It read, “What did you do?” “What did I do?” What did it mean by that? I had done nothing. The person pulling these pranks must have run out of ideas to scare me and was trying to pull something on me. I crumpled this note up and threw it away. I was sure they would be done sooner or later, having nothing left to say. I wondered how they knew about what happened back home, but it was probably a lucky guess, or they just searched it up.
Still, in the back of my mind, I was worried and petrified for some reason that I didn’t know, but my logical thinking kept those thoughts away. The notes will stop soon I can promise myself that.
The next day, I was in a better mood now that whoever was stashing these notes in my house had no more dirt on my past tragedies I got a new job and was back to making a recovery. Still, I wondered who had done these pranks, but it wasn’t of the utmost importance at the time being. People noticed my positive again, and friends came to talk. Things were looking up until I entered home once again
The door came open with the ease it had always had, but it felt lighter today. The house felt more serene It wasn’t bad because after the prankster had pulled one on me, I needed time to relax. I go to my bathroom to wash my face before bed as I did every night. I turn on the sink, let the water warm up, and wash my face. After I am done, I turn off the sink but continue to hear the drop of liquid hitting the surface. This, of all things, had stood out to me, and I thought that I didn’t remember having a leaky faucet I turn around and see two figures standing in my shower. One was a man about 6 '1 and in his forties, and a woman who seemed to be about 5' 6 and in her late thirties. They were covered in their blood as if they had bathed themselves in it The man’s arms were shattered, bits and pieces of bone punctured the skin where, more blood filled its place, and his muscles were peeled off his arm in the same fashion you would a banana. The woman appeared deformed and mutilated her airway had more and more blood gargling I was petrified, stupefied, bewildered, but at most, I was scared; trying to run away wouldn’t work because my legs had no power to move. With everything I had in my body, I took a step back to be able to leave such a gory scene. As I try to move away, my back comes into contact with another force. I turn around to see my sister strung up in a tree in the doorway Her eyes contained no life behind them as if they had never had a life before Her pale tone face reverberated her lifeless image.
I stood in the room, not knowing my next move. What could I even do in the first place? They just stood there facing toward me, never changing position once The stares became whispers, but they didn’t speak with their mouths, without moving. Soon, the whispers became voices, and then the voices became resounding shouts. I covered my ears as it got louder and louder. Screams echoed through my ears, and in my mind, I soon realized that this was all too much for me anymore With this revelation, I heard something shatter Nothing outside broke, but inside was different. Why did he care that they were here? They are dead; it doesn’t matter to me anymore. A smile crept onto my face. I had no reason to fear them. They should fear me, a man of the living I look to the sink again and find one last note in the mirror, “Look at yourself ” I looked in the mirror, and as I had done many times, I saw it was different this time. Blood covered every visible surface. My face, hands, and chest are all covered in it. So much blood it would sicken someone to their stomach But no, I rejoiced in it as the crimson liquid soaked into my hair, turning it a startling red. I had no reason to fear them because I killed them already. They are already dead by my hands, and I’d do it again. A joyous chuckle escapes my ever-parting lips, and I soon break into uncontrollable laughter that extends for hours and miles
There is a large white brick building on the corner of the street. A woman has just been hired to work at a new facility for the mentally disturbed that he recently opened She walks over to her manager and asks about her patient: “So who do I have for my first assignment?” Presumably, her boss says to her.
“Some guy named William Britten. Guy’s an absolute nutcase, killed his family and tried to run. I guess it caught up to him sooner than later.” We see the man mentioned in a white room with a single pane and door. Before she could walk off, her boss caught her again and said, “Oh, and also don’t touch the damn sticky notes ” His room was covered in notes, all questions directed at himself, asking what and why he did it, a constant reminder, forever tormenting the man.
“AThousandLittleWars”
Prose by Gabriel Sus, Mount Michael ‘26 | Magis
Dallas, Texas
Just after midnight on a very dark, storm-lashed October night, a solitary light glowed dimly in a small house on Monticello Avenue. If someone would have approached the front window of 6364 Monticello Avenue, they would have seen something that could best be described as very strange
In the living room of the single-floor brick house, Lieutenant Nicolas James Adams of the United States Army Air Forces restlessly paced back and forth, flattening the soft carpeting that covered the floor. He was entirely absorbed in a long string of distressing thoughts. His mind was working so late into the night, on overtime, as it were, and his body screamed for sleep. But sleep would not come.
There was, however, no one peering through the window. No one saw “Nick” act so peculiarly. That was because no one no one at all was awake in any of the other homes that lined the tranquil street
In his early twenties, Nick was a man who was quintessentially complex. His analytical mind was well-hidden beneath an unassuming facade Whether at a social function or a military engagement, he was constantly calculating his next move. He had memorable slate-gray eyes that could shimmer when he wanted them to and burn when he didn’t.
But for once, Nicolas Adams couldn’t figure out what he would do next. Tonight was something different entirely As a member of the 5th Ferrying Group of the Army Air Forces, his unit was responsible for the transport and maintenance of military aircraft as well as training of aircrews. The post could be at times quite dangerous, and Nick had distinguished himself as one of the unit’s best pilots. Now, the commander of the unit, Brigadier General William Rataczak, had personally called him to his office at Love Field the next day for a meeting.
Something was up
The night was wet and dark. Bone-chilling raindrops plunged to the ground in torrents, turning the streets of the Lakewood Heights neighborhood in northeast Dallas to a rushing river The deranged howling of the wind echoed through the trees, shaking loose legions of dead leaves. There was a hint of something sinister in the darkness, and the thunderstorm had nothing to do with it.
Nick continued to walk frustratedly. His tired, apparitional appearance made him appear more like a specter than a human, moving dazedly about the room as if he were floating. What his superior wanted, he didn’t know What was more, the why, was also unknown and was more a cause for concern. There were some thoughts he just couldn’t get out of his head. These were the thoughts that kept him awake.
There was nothing with which he could adequately occupy his time. Of course, that didn’t stop him from trying. A few minutes later, he flopped awkwardly on his couch and picked up a copy of Ernst Jünger’s Storm of Steel. After perusing the book for a fleeting moment, he found himself unable to concentrate He looked up every few seconds, stole a fleeting glance at the window, and adjusted his posture before starting the page all over again.
“One morning, when, thoroughly wet through, I went up out of the dugout into the trench, I could scarcely believe my eyes The field of battle that hitherto had been marked by the desolation of death itself Suddenly there was a shot that dropped one of our fellows dead in the mud. Whereupon both sides disappeared like moles into their trenches.”
There was a deeper meaning in the passage somewhere that Nick couldn’t quite decipher Storm of Steel was the famous memoir of a German soldier’s experiences during the First World War. It was preserved for posterity and would not change. It would still be the same tomorrow.
But would Nick’s life be the same tomorrow? There was an immediacy to the next day’s events that a book could never have. The book was close to his face. The future was closer.
Unsatisfied with his reading of but a meager paragraph in the last five minutes, he tossed the book down and decided to get a bite to eat. He got to his feet and trudged to his kitchen, a small open-concept room that was separated from the living room by a bar counter. Tossing three eggs into a pan, he leaned against the counter and returned to his thoughts as he waited for his meal.
In two minutes (but it seemed like an eternity), the stove timer dinged and Nick found his way back to the present. Pulling a plate from the cupboard, he transferred the small serving from the pan. He turned off the stove, picked up a fork, and sat down at the kitchen table, where the Dallas Times-Herald waited in a neatly tied bundle
He ate his meal as he flipped gingerly through the pages, settling on a review of the latest detective movie. Four stars out of five, he read. Wonderfully executed... Sure to be an instant classic
He surveyed his kitchen. The used pan sat in the sink, and a small cloud of smoke hovered over the stove His eggs, unfortunately, were slightly burnt Oh, well He never had been a good cook. The thundering rain outside and the lingering scent of smoke in his kitchen gave him the impression that a hard-boiled, trench-coat-sporting P.I. might pound on his door at any minute. It was just that kind of night, he surmised. One where something entirely frightening and unexpected waits just around the next corner
Finishing his snack, he set his plate and silverware in the sink and again settled on the couch, turning on the radio “The rain will continue on until about noon tomorrow,” a meteorologist said as he detailed the forecast. “People inside the Dallas metropolitan area can expect several more inches of rain before then.”
Fantastic. More rain.
With that, the forecast ended abruptly, and the late-night news continued with updates on world events First, there was a report on the war A correspondent told of a desolate battlefield, littered with weapons and debris. Then, the latest casualty numbers from battles in Europe and the Pacific.
Enough with the war! Nick returned to the tale, hoping to find an article worthy of reading that was not about the war. There was an article on the American Airlines Flight Twenty-Eight collision, a story about the Ruislip Wellington accident, and the results of the Icelandic parliamentary elections.
Perusing the titles, Nick reached a regrettable conclusion. Two plane crashes and a handful of socialists in the Icelandic government Real nice There were many bad things happening in the world. At least for the “world peace” politicians always went on about, 1942 had been a mess of a year.
Seeking an outlet for his trepidation, he threw the paper as far as he could. As it flew through the air, it came apart, finally settling on the floor in a jumble of pages He was as concerned about the state of the world as anyone else, perhaps a bit more. The daily news streaming back from overseas war correspondents was enough to make even the strongest men cry. He was most certainly strong, both physically and mentally. He hadn’t exactly cried yet, but by this point he was a knife’s edge away from a nervous breakdown
The nervous breakdown would have to wait. He had work to do tonight. That work, however, was constantly dominated by a relentless fear that preyed on him and clawed at his psyche He sometimes referred to his fear as though it were a distinct and malevolent entity. He referred to it as the Fear.
No matter the reason for his apprehension, he decided he wouldn’t let him overtake him. He knew that if he gave in to his fear now, he could never would never sleep a wink again.
Restless, he stood and walked to his bedroom Flipping on the light switch, the dull glow of the overhead light brightened the small room. He moved to his desk and pulled a cord on a lamp. Sighing, he picked up a framed photograph.
In the grainy, black and white image, a man in an army general’s uniform stood proudly, smiling for the camera. That man was Nick’s father, Samuel Adams. Named after the Revolutionary War hero and called the “Patriot” by most, Nick had always admired his father’s great accomplishments and missed him bitterly.
VisualArts
This semester, our visual arts collection honors the significance of storytelling and the demonstration of human emotions through visual media. These artworks serve as a reminder that each brushstroke, pencil line, and photograph encapsulates a narrative awaiting expression.
The selected works not only showcase technical proficiency but also resonate profoundly with the theme of connection linking us to ourselves, one another, and the surrounding world.
Through meticulous curation, every submission has been chosen to contribute substantively to this celebration of storytelling, ensuring that each piece acts as a crucial thread in the broader narrative crafted by this magazine. We invite you to immerse yourself in these visual narratives and engage with the artistry that epitomizes the essence of our institution.
Patrick Steinauer, Visual Arts Editor-in-Chief
Visual Art by Sebastian Mendick ‘25
ATouchofBeauty
Photograph by Ian Thompson ‘25
Photograph by Ian Thompson ‘25 CrownedinWhite,FramedbyFire
DivinityinDarkness
Photograph by David Szalewski ‘26
Dreamscape
Visual Art by Leo Kelly ‘27
Visual Art by Joey Bast ‘25
Iraya
Photograph by Gavin Balanay ‘26
Photograph by Matthew O'Meara ‘25
Photograph by Carson Richter ‘26 Tall,butTimid
Photograph by Matthew O'Meara ‘25
TheSpark
Visual Art by Patrick Steinauer ‘25
Visual Art by Leo Kelly ‘27
Photograph by Ian Thompson ‘25
Photograph by Shawn Wascher ‘25
Poetry
Poetry is the language of the soul a place where emotions find a rhythm, stories breathe between the lines, and imagination transcends the limits of prose. In this issue of Ink, Inc., we invite you into a space where words become music, imagery becomes art, and silence carries as much weight as the words themselves.
Poems have a way of distilling the complex essence of life into moments of clarity. They explore the universal love, loss, hope, and fear while celebrating the deeply personal. In this collection, you’ll encounter voices as diverse as the experiences they share. From the raw vulnerability of self-reflection to the bold exploration of identity, these works remind us that poetry is not just a mirror but a window, offering glimpses into worlds both familiar and new.
As you read, we encourage you to slow down. Savor the cadence of the words, the images they conjure, and the emotions they evoke. Let yourself pause between the lines and find meaning in the spaces. Whether you come away with a new perspective or simply a moment of connection, we hope these poems leave an imprint.
In a world that often moves too quickly, poetry invites us to linger. It reminds us to find beauty in the fleeting and strength in the fragile. As you turn the page, we welcome you to take a deep breath, step into these crafted worlds, and let the power of poetry speak to you.
Welcome to the poetry section of Ink, Inc. a celebration of the best poetry from across the Omaha Catholic High Schools.
Ryan Eichele, Poetry Editor-in-Chief
‘28 “Aspirations”
Poetry by Nathan Buda
Hard work and dedication will get you admiration. But in the buzzing bee, that society wills to be, our aspirations begin to flee And away our aspirations, waning into acclimations, one does not simply see. That is why me, decreases into we, And eventually, into the crowd of the buzzing bee.
“Envy”
Poetry by Autumn Hall, Gross Catholic ‘25 | Magis
We are books on shelves: Your cover is soft and attractive, Eager to be opened.
Mine is hard and plain, Protective and hesitant.
We are words on pages: You are calculated prose And flowery poetry. I Am scribbled out phrases, Ink bleeding through paper And onto the floor.
We are lives in literature: You are read over and over, Creased and cherished.
My spine is pristine, never Been cracked open.
We are books on shelves. You’re sat on the one below Me and we are miles apart.
Different genres, different characters, With vastly different stories.
We are humans, Desperate to be art.
“FilialFlower”
Poetry by Chris Tollo ‘27
I sometimes wonder how a flower feels
When its gardener is absent during its bloom
Does it grow far faster than normal?
Or does it slow to the point of retrogression?
Does the flower blossom to shine like the sun?
Or show its full might in the darkness of the night?
It must be a rose.
The most beautiful of them all.
However, its relationship with its caretaker is Full of Thorns and Roses.
Without the care of the gardener,
The flower starts to wither and shrivel up.
It becomes laced with ice in all its geometric forms, Losing the warmth of the sun.
When the sun tries to offer hope the flower rejects.
It starts to droop, as if it were hung on a cross.
It loses petal after petal,
Holding on for as long as it can
In hope that the care it needs will one day come back
No one knows how long it holds on
Not even the flower itself.
It is only known to the flower once the last petal falls
To the friendly, fertilized soil it grew in.
It can be questioned, that the flower,
Has the proper soil and nutrients required to thrive.
A strong base is beneficial to the flower
However, without the essentials to keep it up
The base the flower grew on becomes ineffective
Day by day.
Until nothing is left of what once was.
I’ve seen flowers become weeds.
They poison all others around them
Because of their lack of care
They are never healed
And continue the process
That once began with them.
Poetry by Jack Moore ‘25 “Golf”
Reach in and grab a tee
Trying to set the ball free
Drive has the right height
But it flies way right
Reach back into the bag
And look all the way to the flag
Taking a huge swing
And there is that cling
My refurbished ball
Now in the waterfall
Drop it in the long grass
The ball flies right past
Put me in the Hall of Fame
Because I am terrible at this game
“MyLifeonaTightrope”
Poetry by Jay Coughlin ‘28
I am the circus. A tightrope walker. My anxiety is the rope I formed in my mind. The ladder is the tension inside of me. I climb, I'm fine, I'm fine, I'm fine, breathe in breathe out. Close your eyes think of thoughts of other. I come to the top. I balance my stick. Don't look down, don’t don’t. Thoughts thoughts thoughts favorite book favorite movie thoughts thoughts inaccessible. Breathing heavier in out in out in out in out in out in out. Too late to give up much ahead. I walk, I walk in fear of the fall. I don't fear the fall itself, I only fear the people I might disappoint like you, the crowd For every step a sigh of relief One sigh two sigh three sigh. I suck in my gut I think all for what, to please you, why am I this way from dusk till dawn worry fills me. I mustn't quit. I swallow my spit, I suck in my gut, for better or worse I walk faster faster faster. Leaning left right left right left right and so on and so forth. The end is almost in my grasp. I want it. I need it not for me but for you. Left right left right left right end. Now I realize I spent more time worrying then not. Big or small it shall pass. That is what I want to leave you with today.
“OdetoMyFather”
Poetry by Patrick Bosilevac ‘25
Through long days spent with care and healing hands, You work with quiet strength that understands.
A humble heart, you lift us up each day,
Through loss and struggle, you still find a way.
With every patient, friend, and joyful smile, You brighten paths and make life worthwhile. You strive to give the life you never knew, Making jokes, saying, "Oh my son, anything for you."
Because of you, I stand with dreams in sight, I’m thankful for the father who guides me right.
“SchooldropoffDecember2010”
Poetry by Tom Hoover, Department of Theology
I sometimes envy the older couple walking to church in orange safety vests
I drive by at 7:45 am on school mornings just after delivering our six children to the upper parking lot of St. Margaret Mary’s school with barely enough time to race to my school by 8 am to greet sleepy-eyed high school boys for another round of holy instruction in the Jesuit tradition of St. Ignatius. I imagine them entering a warm and candlelit Saint Margaret Mary’s church that smells of incense and wax and pine, too, because it is Advent and there are already wreaths in the alcoves–
finding their pew among the regulars and kneeling to recite prayers for grandchildren and friends with bad hips while waiting for the 8:15 Mass to begin they attend most weekday mornings in their lives without work schedules. I often wonder what that life is like when I speed past them to catch the light at 72nd and Western that I hardly ever make–anticipating the dash from my car to the classroom I’ll soon be sprinting to beat the last bell. Or sometimes, I will think of them when I am standing at the counter in our kitchen at 5:30 am on school days lit only by the glow of the small lamp next to the bulletin board and the calendar that is colorcoded with game times and dental appointments.
My color is orange this month, the seven others a rainbow of comings and goings that remind me of the children still asleep upstairs as do the slices of bread laid out on the counter in front of me, and I inhale, breathing in the smell of wheat and peanut butter and apple–the one I begin cutting the skin off for the youngest who prefers them that way–quietly eating the rejected pieces and wondering if I should start waking them up.
Poetry by Ryne Lux ‘25 “Senioritis”
The finish line is close, but yet so far.
Each and every day feels like a fading star.
The halls I’ve known, the lessons learned,
Now it feels like a long bridge burned.
My mind drifts off to distant places, My heart holds tight to cherished faces.
Assignments pile, but I don’t care. I’m halfway gone, I’m already there.
The cap and gown are on my mind, But motivation’s hard to find.
Senioritis, creeping slow, It takes hold as time begins to go.
“Tango”
Poetry by Ben Whealey ‘26
A frantic flute, like a bird in a summer evening,
Dancing with life, twirling with a fervent desperation.
Oye Como Va, the trumpets scream and wail.
The hiccuping of a güiro is heard in the background, The rumbles of a trombone slowly building
In a rhythmic, thundering crescendo.
This is music, this is life.
“Telemachus’LettertoHim”
Poetry by Jonah Alagaban ‘27
My life began without you. I have become who I am in your absence. And now with your troubles resolved, you expect a single letter to resolve a lifetime away?
Every day, I have been woken up to the sounds of men, with no caring intent for my mother, in my house. Again, I walk to the ocean, looking… searching for your ship. And again, my desire has been drowned out by the sound of the waves folding in on themselves, while I just wish to be pulled out to you.
This “life” I have been given, I wish it no more.
I can not manage your leave a single moment longer.
Father, come home.
You have given my life a separate peace from the war, but that peace is given no value. No one to commend my troubles and no one to nurture my dreams. I have been starved of a meaningful beginning, so please give me an end; you are blameless, so return. As fast as you left, come back.
Father, please.
“TelemachustoOdysseus”
Poetry by Kuek Kuek ‘27
Odysseus, my long gone father,
For how long has it been since I have last seen you?
Years no doubts, but doubt hasn’t entered my heart.
Among the sea of suitors seeking to take weeping Penelope’s hand, You will serve as the Moses in the sea of suitors
Splitting the suitors like a strike from the beloved Athena.
From Pylos to Sparta, I have been clawing closer, And each step I take brings me closer to the summit of truth.
For wherever you are now, I know you’ve come closer.
The gods have indeed planned this,
And our day of encounter is surely fated.
“ThereisNoWayto EscapeTomorrow”
Poetry by Makenzi Konopik, Mercy High School ‘26 | Magis
There is no way to escape tomorrow
It feels just as dark as sorrow
The worries we have for the upcoming day
Are in a loop and on display
A ticking clock that keeps repeating
Hopefully nothing is too misleading
I don’t want to deal with the loop,
Of every day, and problems to hoop
A grain of salt that falls again
The continuous writings of a pen
So all we really need to know,
Why is there no escape to tomorrow?
“ThroughaRenaissance”
Poetry by Maggie Naughton, Mercy High School ‘27 | Magis
a single piece once solid more than a shard a piece of what? too many pieces like stained glass shattered and rebuilt full of that teasing joy called life as a beautiful mosaic every piece too tired to hold itself together giving in to the cold. but through the cold new warmth a patchwork of colors is reflected through every sharp angle every rutted edge every cracked surface every piece.
“WhenaWorldStandsStill”
Poetry
by Jake Kolker ‘26
When a world stands still
When a world stands still and holds its anxious breath,
Sounds blend together as the symphony ends
Colors sit placid as the light dims
Silence fills the cracks of the passing seconds
Yet the World still shifts on the outside,
The sounds and colors blare
Indifferent to emotion
Both worlds contrast
Polarizing in perspective
When a world stands still,
The World still stands
As silent as its mismatched reflection.
“Woods”
Poetry by Jacob Feuerbach ‘26
A place of peace and quiet
A place of danger and threat
A place of life and growth
A place of death and decay
A place of rest and renew
A place of stress and chaos
A home for animals, insects, and trees
A dance of life
Some will take
And some will make
A factory of sorts, making and consuming
All fueled by those without life
Soil, Sun, Water, Air
All necessary for life
Yet without lives of their own
