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THE CREST The Crest, formally known as the Literary Thbula until1950, has been published since 1893 by the students of Oak Park and River Forest High School. The Crest staff is proud to present the 124th year of Crest.

This book may contain potentially triggering content

1

Co-Edrtors in

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Kelly Sandoual Katherine Sang

Senior Editors Isaac Schaider

Boy Gugel-Dowson

Irnior Editors Benny Poris Buzz Smith

India Guthrie Gabe Darley

Faculty Aduisor Ms. Lauren Lee

2

Editors'Letter Dear readers, Welcome to the Lz4thyear of Crest! Over the past school year our team of eight editors has been working tirelessly on enjoying all of the hundreds of submissions we've received! So many works have challenged what art is -- works that have struck us with awe, poetry that has made us sit back and think, and humorous writing and cartoons that have made us laugh. In hopes of spreading the love, we have limited the number of pieces an individual may get published. We would like to represent the many styles of art so this year you'll see a range of pieces.

As you read through this 96 page magazine we hope you appreciate all the beautiful works produced by students and truly recognize the undeniable display of OPRF's tradition of excellence. We profusely thank the school for generously supporting Crest for so many years. It is easy to take for granted this publication but we must remember it is rare to have such an opportunity as this. We want to thank everyone for submitting and the continued support of Crest, the encouragement of the OPRF faculty, the support of the administration, and our lovely sponsor, lv1s. Lauren Lee. Every submission we've received this year attests to the talent and bravery of the students. We can only hope you cherish Crest as much as we do.

All our love, Kelly Sandoval and Katherine Sang Co-Editors-in-Chief, Crest 20L7

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Table of Contents

n livia Haas Haas Haas

9 1

Ross, Robert Iwashima

1

vi Valle Savi Valle, Eliana Gerace

Thomas

Shields Shields Gabe Udofia, Robert

Curran, Andrew Ortega

4

Table of Contents Weiler, Gabe Darlev

Hubei

tthew lr4innich tthew Minnich, Ella Haas

59

Farren

H Ross

5

Canada Dry as means

for stopping

black on black crime

After Terrance Hayes Jesus be an undeniable body of carbon. be

the spitting twist, be the pop sound. be a childish liquor, something my mama takes out of the pantry. bless the sick day, holy in numbers. bless my black mama for believing my crimson throat. this time. the wine is a crystal piss color-- it is a sweet burp. Jesus did the two step on a river of ginger ale. let my sisters split their bread and open the green liter. let my brothers clean their wounds in a glass. if l should die before the next sun, know God likes his soda. know His beard is a wet nest of bubbly. Jesus be as convenient as they say you are, the all-purpose kind of drink. Jesus halt the stomach aches, and smooth the grooves out of a gun hole. bring every sneaker home, blood, toes, and all. be a remedy and a political stance. tell the folks a little something about hell. that it was never a country of fire,but a forgone sickness.

-Kara Jackson

Annabel Huber

>

6

Stimulation I chewed open one of my cuticles today, and yesterday cut open closed cuts on my fingers a couple of times. Some days when I'm slinking into math class early, or sitting at my desk, I press them to my nostrils for

warmth and the savory smell of a mild infection.

-Oliuia Sipiora

Mahal Schroeder

>

7

The Def

inition of Insanity

The winds were cold that night, with all the icy rage of Thor that their biows once held in times of old. The waxing crescent of a moon, growing hungrier for light with each dusk, appeared almost ghostly in the black sky dotted with silver stars. In the nearby distance, some sort of beast of nature rushed into the cluster of tall weeds that lined the dirt road upon which the dark figure walked, with a sinister quiet as swift as the nearby river. Yes, one would say it truly was a night on which something was bound to happen, in one way or another.

The being, as old as time and cloaked in black darker than the blackest voids of all of space, stopped at a crosswalk where a small, dimly lit farmhouse resided in the fields of the South. It let out an ancient sigh, neither human nor beast, and strode with surreal elegance towards the weary

Iittle house.

It did not bother to knock - it opened the door, as silent as the whisperings of a hot summer breeze, and gently shut it as it walked inside. It was unnoticed, as it had always been. In days of old, it had once sang, songs more beautiful than the most fiery sunsets, smoother than stained glass, and softer than silk made in the hands of all the gods the figure now recalled sitting with the thrones of It watched the family inside, eating their supper with content. At the table sat a man, no younger than forty-five or so to the human eye (to the being's eye, it knew that this man had been born fifty-seven years ago, on the twelfth night of February, to a family swamped in poverty in southern Illinois), a woman who it knew to be forty-nine and rather unhygienic, and three children: There was a boy with brown hair and eyes and a freckled face, twelve years old in four days. Another boy, six years old and ninety-four days, whose hair was also brown and eyes were a dull grey. It studied him, for he was a complicated character, but even It could not decipher him. At the end of the table, there sat a very young girl, perhaps five or a few months and a day. She had had the misfortune of being lactose intolerant on a farm, and often was underfed as a result.

At this time, thrice was the door knocked upon. Three gentle, soft knocks, clearly a sort of dining families. With a grunt and a mumbling of disapproval, the man stood up and answered the door shyness did the knocker possess, and would rather not be knocking upon the doors of

for the young man who stood on the porch.

"What-ya want?", the man, whose large body was quite intimidating, gruffly demanded.

"Hello, sir", replied the young man. He was to be twenty in eight months, and had an aura of hope and potential surrounding him. A bright fellow, from the looks of it. "IvIy name's Henry.

I'm collecting donations for the Veterans'Fund for World War Four veterans, I was wondering if 8

you'd be interested in donating? It's entirely optional, I understand, but any help the Fund can get is appreciated-" "War veterans?", growled the man.

"Yes, sir", Henry confirmed. "You see, many of the men and women who fought

in the war are-"

"I don't give a damn about no veterans'] he interrupted as his voice rose. "Now get yourself offa my porch before I ve gotta kick you off!"

"I'm sorry, sir'] apologized Henry immediately, rushing offof the porch. "Please, have a nice night... Goodbye!"

The man slammed the door behind him. Even It was startled, despite being created apathetic.

"Those damned Vets againl the man complained. "It ain't my fault they all went an got their offand their faces all bloodied in that war, and now they wanna make us pay for it? Bull,I tell youi'

legs all blown

'Aye, couldnt-a said it better. I say we just kill-em all, get it over

withl his wife agreed.

"But father, they was forced to fight. It aint their fault the governrnent sent 'em those draft letters", the younger of the two boys argued.

"You shut your damn mouth; I aint talkin to you!'l his father bellowed. "Shut your mouth before I gotta beat it shut again, you hear me?"

The boy's eyes widened in pure, uncensored horror.

"Yes, sir", he immediately responded, returning to his meal.

It had seen enough for now. Sick not in stomach but in soul, the figure left the house, quickly and quietly. It was time to move on.

As It stood in the crosswalk, it willed itself away, this time to a children's elementary school after dark in another time. Under a streetlight stood a huddled group of men, two of which led a pair of pitbulls, one black and one brown, to the centre of the group.

It knew what was going to happen. Not permitted to do anything under orders, it could only watch as the fight began.

The sounds of barking eventually grew louder, as did the men's cheering and the sickening turning in the nonexistent void of the being's gut. Claws, teeth, heads collided as moneywas exchanged between the people. And amidst this sick sadism, for the first time in all the years of its existence, It began to think. It was not the first time the thing had seen such cruelty in this world - it had once seen wrongfully imprisoned men, a child stolen offof the streets, fire exploding in two towers 9

in which were hundreds of lost lives, thousands of people led to death and torture for something as innocent as belief, cruel tyrants holding their victims captive to their own nation, children starving as others crammed food down their throats without rhyme or reason. And It asked itself: Was this the greatest race to walk the planet? Were these truly the humans of which it had heard so much, these godlike mortals? Vere the most aduanced of animals the ones who turned upon their own youth for speabing their minds, those wbo wanted to let die joung people forced to turn on others for a nation that they no longer belieued in, those who let others go without home and food and drink because of the currency thot really had no power unless they granted such power to the society that produced it? Vas the pinnacle of life really those who did not allow their own people to liue in certain lands because of brick wolls built by the scared and foolish?

'Xlere the people that had been reuered for ages truly those who forced man upon man, dog upon dog, soldier upon soldier,father upon child, propaganda upon people? Could this truly be humanity? And was it so that still they were permitted to thriue? lYas this humankind, that lVere they not the Sisyphus man foul-smellingband of cruel beasts that thought neither with mind nor heart? rolling his boulder up that mountain of legend, repeating what they had attempted ond failed without learning? 'Why did they repeat historl ouer and ouer again? Vhy did they not wake up? Vhy did they still let men die, let liues be lost, because other supposedly-superiorhumans who had no true power ouer them tell them it is the right thing to do?

V/hy do they still surrender to the nonexistent, destructiue Plan that has no place in this world? lYhy do they not wake up? Vhy do they not stop? lYhy do they not listen?

Vhy

do thel refuse to change?

At last, it dawned upon the waking being.

It is because they cannot.

As the black dog let out what sounded near its final cry while it slowly faded away under the cruel white light, a colour meant to be one of hope and purity and good, the Universe snapped its fingers, and all that ever was and that ever was to be vanished in a mere instant.

-Ella Haas

10

sea salt automatic I feel a reflexive toxicity bleeding into me, like parasites, embedded in my underbelly, or barnacles, sea salt crusted and algae coated, a

laggard limestone evil.

if my prayers were any heavier I would already have sunk the wet and writhing sea creatures would have already eaten me away corroded my blood and scraped out holes in my ribs.

I would rest in an abyss, a sinful wreck, while bulging-eyed crustaceans and flat sallow fish built their homes around me, a salty armor, a shell-shroud for the dead of Challenger Deep. my blissful invocations are to the dormant deeps, coated in muck and a film of fish scales. oily membranes and pale gore are spread beneath the waves, a holy testament to forgotten beasts and wrasse-swarmed scripture. maybe the cephalopods, caressing my hardening skin with their suckered arms, their loose and warped tentacles, will give me more peace than the discordant fit of my flesh, or the awry sound of contemplations settling on my skin.

-Sophie

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Ross

11

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Spiders That summer I watched my back crack onto couch cushions I listened to my vertebrae snap off each other like tiptoeing IvIy bones have begun playing hide and seek like daddy does My papi used to crack my bones every time he smiled Iulryb" his teeth are buried in the bricks with his heartbeat If I press my ear against the walls long enough I can hear him whisper I've spent years checking under floor boards trying to find him Papi is more important than my bones are And I am starting to wonder how long you can live without a spine

I think my bones are starting to crawl back to me Sometimes I dream that my bones are made out of spiders Papi used to weave stories about what spiders hide in their webs He can paralyze 206 spiders with every yell Maybe if he knew I was made of spiders he would remember how to save things Like spiders And ants and centipedes and caterpillars and cockroaches Or daughters

I wonder if papi is balancing on the floorboards And every time he hears me breathe he snaps my ribs a little bit more than the last time Poking through my wishes papi only makes me hoid my breath So I keep my lungs in my back pocket and don't use them unless I need

t2

I am my father's spineless daughter crawling on all my 8 legs hoping if I can transform myself into my father he will remember how to hug me I wonder maybe if I sort through all these cobwebs I will find him That maybe if I can collect my vertebrae I can snap them together like loving I think my bones are starting to crawl back to me I wonder if papi told them where to find me I wonder if daddy remembers my name I wonder if he knows what it's like for someone to rip your spine out -Saui Valle

13

L "So, I sent Mrs. Graham a basket of cookies and fruit because she broke her leg, and then I started to make a quilt for her." IvIy grandma was explaining her week to me. "I told the pastor I would take Saturday morning shift at the homeless shelter, but he said I've been working too hard -- Ahhhh Jeeeesus chri- Jim! JIIIIIM! It's on the feeder. Hurry, quick! It's a humma ma it's gonna fly away!Jiiiiiim!" Itzty grandma was on the other end of the line losing her religion over the hummingbird at the feeder. I heard my grandpa's cowboy boots click across the wood floor quickly. "Boy, that's a beauty." He said in awe. "It's really here! Weeeooo I swore it would come one day! I've uh been putting umhm juice in that contraption for years!" I thought I heard her voice cracking softly like she was about to cry as if the Jesus Christ himself had come back to Earth. But, this was just a humma ma bird.

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My great grandpa died in the fall. After the funeral I watched my grandfather traipse around the back yard. He picked up sticks as he went around and around until the lawn was well manicured. My father went out to join him. I watched them talk and the sky turn gray. The leaves were burnt orange and brown, but the image became black and white. I went outside. Both of their similarly shaped heads faced the garden as they pointed to different parts of its collage. \Mhen my grandpa heard my foot snap a twig, he turned around, eyes wide and glaring at the twig he missed.

"Veronica, have you ever seen deer scat?"

"Like droppings?" I said, confused. Poop felt too improper to say to my Grandfather's face.

'Uhhh, no I haven't" "You'll want to see this." He commanded and retraced the route his fingers had danced before.

"There's some right there. See? And there."

"Oh yeah, that's cool," I said with concern for both of them. 'oYou can tell it's a deer's scat because the pellets are found in piles--" "But it's a bit larger than a rabbit's." My dad interjected. He learned that from his father.

My father's father's father just died, but my father and his father were talking about deer shit.

"What are we going to do about the deer, Dad?" My father asked like a little boy.

"We're going to fix the fence to keep the damn deer out! They've enough of my plants." eaten

t4

ilL I sat in the lobby next to amagazine rack waiting for my own grandma and another pruney woman's wheelchair faced the bird cage in the corner. Her face was the soft pink-white of seashells, matching the nautical theme of the nursing home. Her hair was a brighter white and it matched the fluorescent light bulbs. He slowly trailed down the hall talking to a nurse. He came to the wheelchair handles and looked down at her from above. The wrinkles near his eyes creased but fought to disappear.I recognized him as her son, but she glanced at him like she was flipping through channels-- then back at the iron birdless cage.

-Veronica Thomas

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The Pianist The pianist was old now. At forty-nine, it had been seventeen years since his final recital, and the dark stage now tempted him to walk its surface, to touch the piano that lay basking in the single stage light shining upon its once glossy ivory keys, that were now yellowed with age. He looked down at his own hands, which were also beginning to deteriorate as far as agility and technique went, and flexed his weary fingers. He most likely wouldn't be able to remember anything, but nonetheless he felt his soul being seduced by the piano that stood before him in the empty theatre. It had cleared out now, after the opera had closed its final number, and he was the only one left - surely none would be able to hear him.

Thking a deep sigh, the tired man placed one pale, thin leg before the other, walking slowly to the stage. He was a rather tall and lanky blue-eyed man, with equally thin, graying hair and a subtle chin clef that made the beard he had tried to grow in his twenties rather unattractive. He wore a suit today that fit him somewhat awkwardly, and he was glad to remove his jacket when he sat upon the bench once again.

He did not remember anything. The stage on which songs had once grown was now a graveyard, where so long ago his gift had died. His eyes fell to the floor as he began to stand,leaving the piano behind again, when, by a mere accident, his finger struck an E note in treble clef.

The man remembered this piece now. Half a step down, his index finger followed, and he repositioned himself on the bench. His wrists were curved, posture straight, with all the elegance and form that he had once held when he was still young and new to the art of the piano. In a flood as slow as molasses, the pieces began to come back to not his mind, but his fingers, as they had always done. He closed his eyes, feeling the music flood through him. Beethoven's Ftir Elise.

His right hand danced in treble clef, floated lightly in a grace that he no longer believed he poswhile the bass clefs notes rolled like waves sweeping away a ship. He inhaled sharply, feeling the rhythm of an invisible metronome pulsing through his veins like blood. And just when it sounded like the song was going to end, he went back into the refrain, played with a relentless passion so powerful it seemed to fill the presence of the entire opera theatre, not needing an applause to validate his performance. For it was his best yet, lonely and yet not - all throughout the song, he could hear the shifting of the audience in their seats, the hushed whispers, the people who had paid good money to see him in his final show. He imagined the entire theatre filled with people, craning to get a glimpse at the legend who could play such eloquent song,listening to the delicate intricacy with which he played. sessed,

The piano began to drag him back to reality to face the feeling of his hands dancing again across the keys. With Ftir Elise beginning to face its twilight, the pianist gradually began to let the song slow down and grow quieter, until the song came to a close and this time he let what was truly his last performance to rest. And at last, so slow that it may have felt like hours, the pianist closed the lid of the piano, and bowed gracefully to a dark and empty theatre that he had once conquered. -Ella Haas

t6

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32

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For the people

f you hear this

For the people if you hear this then I know you get me It's ironic most dimes in the NBA were thrown by Penny please don't forget nickels that compose years of my age Like homeless cta rappers, we rarely see any change The police out here still love shooting like spit from a stutter The death squads march marked but sometimes stay undercover IvIy black friends don't work at superstores but they seem like targets Federal indictments on innocent drug charges Brendan, the family's first born, anticipation and promise The bicuspids of criminal justice keep biting his conscience Cannabis seeds and stems got him thrown in the slammer Pretty funny that's what you would normally find in a planter Still the stems of our city prematurely produce petals Tiusted trustees give medals to cops who pop metal Race is just scarecrow, made to frighten society I'm tired of walking streets, police never keep their eyes on me.

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33

Charlotte True

Ross

V/here the sirens hum, Cars pull toward the edge of the road, uninvolved, uninformed.

Where blood creeps around rims of potholes, Making kiddie pools where there are no children.

Few blocks down, Another black boy gets shot, Slamming the breaks on another life.

Here, the boys banter.

Here, the boys speak of futures.

There, fate is twisted into contorted limbs.

There, destiny is scraped off the pavement of parking lots.

A small boy, burned and broken, Filled to the brim of a trash can, Where he has been taught that waste is where he is from.

DO NOT TELL

IVIE

THIS DOES NOT AFFECT

I refuse to be colorblind, And my pupils are black, so I will I will see my friends, my peers.

IVIE.

Because

see black.

Now I see empty desks Still warmed at the seat.

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-Camille Rogers

34

Inside Out Toast *Note - typos are intential Ingedients - Bread and toaster Instructions l) Toast bread, typicallie white bread 2) Remove bread from toaster 3) Eat the crust of the bread 4) Hold bread by the edge, looking at the innards 5) slowlie peel the bread, exposing the soft innards 6) Completelie seperate the piece of bread into two pieces 7) hold the pieces of bread together as you eat, with the soft innards exposed and the hard outside within India Guthrie

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in silent shivers Down soulless, empty spines Sinking heavy into vacant bellies And bubbling into burning ice She floats

Down soulless, empty spines Breaking off piece by piece And bubbling into burning ice She sizzles into melting minds Breaking offpiece by piece Old memories rotted dark and twisted She sizzles into melting minds To bum the broken into absence

Old memories rotted dark and twisted Beg for forgiveness, for grace To bum the broken into absence To salt the wounded into searing peace Beg for forgiveness, for grace She floats in silent shivers To salt the wounded into searing peace Sinking hear,y into vacant bellies

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-Casey Groulx

36

Playlist Quiz I like making up cool names for my playlists consisting of an entire artist's discography; for example, my playlist for The Killers is called "Songs by Lotus Flowers" because Brandon Flowers is the group's frontman and they are from Las Vegas, which had a hotel called the Lotus Hotel.

My titles usually have something to do with where the artist is from or other monikers. Wanna guess some other artists from one of my playlist names?

Young and The Restless Silverpool Bradford Badboys Big Drac Apple TGIF Jersey Boys Churches Lindos Good Ivlorning Pathetic Hopelessness Test Tlrbe Lads, Dudes, NO!!

The World Renown Ol' Blue Eyes, Chairman of the Board and the Voice of Carlo's Bake Shop 14 July Londinium and24 August (Or 23 November) 79 Plinian Event EIla Y EI Fourth World Failure-->LAX Five Glee Big Bro I Write Sin Ciry Not Tragedies That Happen and Stay With The Fear You Can't Sweat Out Peter Ferrara Pan Poison Love-Conquering Arrow Ivytronica League Peach Pit Stuck In A Suburban Ramen Slump With The Trevians The Only Way Is Humber Holy Ginger Hair

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Are the Stomach Flutters Are the stomach flutters I feel in church similar to the slaves'sea sickness? lVhy did this corrupt country hand my people Leatherback salvation with leather whips and shackles Why should I suffer the pain of Force fed religion Thste washed up scriptures And blood at the back of my throat Pastor preaches a whitewashed God IVIy savior lost his melanin along the way Pastor says my black is the furthest away from Him Pleading my mother to beat the doubt Out of me put the fear of God in my heart So I can comb through verses without catching on the knots of lynching ropes.

I want to have faith but I'm needing faith to have it -Tamia Byrd

Megan Carraher

>

38

n Shaolyn Redd

Buried There's something you need to know: Before you he hid Behind walls cemented in 15 years of repressed expression Charred in brazen social facade Through which you clawed.

Do you care Deeply for his solitary emotion, Hidden from judgemental eyes Jeered onwards by empty approval?

You are the rose bush; blood to the touch.

You are the inviting thorn Piercing cement walls Yet your aura seals the invitation.

Do you feel The fog swallowing his wide eyes Blocking the glass As expectation unravels?

You need to know To care To feel.

He drowned in the debris Piled 15 years high.

Golden trust tightly packed in the vault behind his eyes Escapes from the wound Carved clean by your thorn.

-Ethan Haussmann

39

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I remember I remember when a boy told me I was rude for not allowing his palms to grace over my skin.

Like my body is some mantel for him to spill over.

The sun pricked my body as hypocrisy silted his teeth My nerves coil.

I'm tired of boys writing about their love for black women but not milking respect from their jaws.

Not tucking hands to sleep When ears swallow a "no thank you".Using rappers or their daddies as an excuse.

I've overcome men in my family who's thank you's are grunts.

Think the bass in their voice is enough to shake me.

But I can tell you I got my grandmother's flesh.

Tongue loaded and triggered.

If I can call out my own father's childness, stare down the devil in my uncle's eyes and ask him to try me, be afraid if the only thing I tell you is no.

-Grace Johnson

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40

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Empty Spaces The sun shone straight down on the city so that no shadows appeared on the asphalt. Birds fluttered from tree to tree chirping their melodies like a free concert. Bikes rode by on the streets more frequently than cars. Adults walked their dogs as their children strolled right alongside them complaining about the heat. There was one kid, however, unburdened by his parents'calls and warnings. Free from any disapproving glares, he played down the sidewalk. He had not a care in the world, skipping, running, and spinning through the crowded streets, staring up at the clear blue sky - seldom glancing down to see where he was going.

He soon danced himself away from the busy streets and onto an empty street. On the opposite sidewalk, a bland wooden fence beckoned the boy. It was splintered and cracked but kept the outside world out, and the inside world in. The boy looked both ways before he skipped across the street. The fence was almost twice as tall as the boy, but to his little mind into went up to the heavens. He placed his small innocent hand on the fence to feel its strength. He backed up to examine the fence and noticed a small hole at the bottom of the fence, just big enough that he could slip through; that's what he did.

As he made it to the other side of the fence he saw a world beyond his wildest dreams. FIowers bloomed and stood tall all around, the grass was cut, and a small stoned path smoothly brought the garden together. The garden's right wall was several one storied buildings that were all interconnected so that they looked like one building. The boy's smile widened when he saw at the center of the garden was a pristine stone bird bath that was roughly as tall as the boy. He ambled over to the bird bath, taking in the beauty that the garden had to offer: the bushes trimmed so eloquently into perfect geometric shapes, the rosebush on the boy's right side climbed a building's wall almost to the roof.

As he drew nearer to the bird bath a large butterfly fluttered slowly past him. He Iet out a laugh. He kept moving towards the center of the garden, but his eyes were fixated on the butterfly.

He eventually had to turn his head to continue watching, then his entire body, until he had followed the butterfly out of sight. He had reached the center of the garden, standing next to the bird bath. He faced the building that had been on his right side moments before, he was still laughing and smiling. The building was grey and rundown, there was an open door, rather a hole in the wall where a door used to be, and standing inside that old door frame was a man just as old. He was potbellied, not very tall but aiso not short, his hair was grey and unkempt, as was his beard, and his eyes were the color of the sea. His face was wrinkled and his eyes, though deep blue, showed nothing but pain and sadness.

The boy seemed not to notice the old man though he was staring directly at him, he just kept

4l

Iaughing and smiling. But no amount of laughter or happiness could cheer this man up, he simply stared at the boy as he laughed with his entire body until the image of the boy and the garden began to fade. The image flickered like an old TV set with unadjusted antenna. Flickered. Flickered. Flickered, until it was gone. There was no boy, no garden, just a broken bird bath in the middle of an alley getting soaked in the rain. The man let out a sigh and turned into the building. In front of him the building was lively and colorful, people were strolling about, ordering drinks, and laughing with friends and family.

"On your right sir," a young man said as he brushed by the older gentleman with a platter of drinks resting on his hand and shoulder.

The old man watched the young man around the bar and restaurant delivering drinks but talking to every customer as if they were family. He moved with such grace and speed, never breaking a smile, or a conversation. He came back from the restaurant after serving all the drinks and walked into the kitchen that was directly in front of the old man.

"I'm going out to have a cigar," the young man said to the kitchen staff as he set the tray down. He turned to the old man. "Can I squeeze by you real quick sir?" he asked as he passed the old man who sifted out of his way, but never stopped watching.

The young man opened the back door, propped it open and pulled a cigar from his pocket.

He lit the cigar and stared up at the beautiful summer night sky, the moon hit him almost like a spotlight as he enjoyed his Brennan 's cigar. He was confident, but most of all he stood happily as if he had everything in the world.

A few moments later the bar and restaurant erupted into terrified screams, the man dropped his cigar to the garden below as he spun into the bar and raced past the old man, who never stopped watching. The kitchen was ablaze, kitchen employees ran from the fire while the young man ran head long into it. He fought the fire with all of his strength but ultimately had to be pulled from the kitchen by one of his cooks.

The image of the bar and restaurant began to fade. It flickered like an old TV set with unadjusted antenna. It flickered. Flickered. Flickered, until the old man saw grey walls with black scorch marks. The building was empty,water pooled in the corners, spiders made their homes in the burnt out light fixtures, and the old man stood alone in an empty rundown bar.

"Dad?" the old man heard a woman ask as she entered the building from behind him. "Dad! There you are!" she burst forward and gave him a hug, he did not reciprocate. His face showed nothing but confusion and shock as this woman held onto him. "Come one,let's get you home." She grabbed him by the hand and led him out of the bar.

They walked for a long time, the old man looked around at the world and the buildings like they hadn't been there for a generation. He wandered with this woman through a city he had no 42

recollection of, no knowledge of. Eventually the two reached a retirement complex, they rode the elevator up to the fifth floor and exited the elevator. They walked through the halls of the building, the old man moved his head around as if he were trying to examine every inch of the hallway. But soon enough they reached apartment no. 11.

"Here we are" the woman said as she opened the door.

The old man went in first as she released her grip on his hand The apartment was small and grey, dreary and unpleasant. There were holes in the floor where water pooled, unclean dishes piled the counter around the sink, and takeout containers littered the floors. The wallpaper was peeling from where water had run down. The ceiling was just as much of a mess, paint chipped, there were holes, mainly from where a light fixture had been which now rested, shattered on the floor just beneath the hole in the ceiling. In the middle of the room was a large leather recliner, in it, a small thin young man eating cereal. He wore tattered clothes, his hair was falling out, and his teeth were stained yellow from years of neglect. The chair, and the young man, pointed directly at a small TV that was pressed up against the far wall. The image on the TV cut out, and the young man sighed, placed his spoon into his bowl of cereal, and chucked it across the room at the TV. He missed high, the milk and cereal left in the bowl splattered out onto the TV as the bowl exploded on impact with the wall. Then the man sat back into the chair and stared at his blank TV screen, until it flickered.

Flickered. Flickered.

"Dad?" the woman asked.

The old man turned around sharply and stared at her as if he didn't believe she was there.

"Why don't you go inside?"

The old man turned back to the apartment and it was beautiful and brightly colored. The walls were painted red, several light fixtures hung overhead. The kitchen was brand modern styled and brand new The ceiling was white and the floor was wooden, and perfectly flat. In the center of the room was a large leather chair pointed at a TV on the far wall.

The man stepped into the apartment and the woman grabbed his hand once more and led him to the leather recliner. He glanced around the apartment confused now more than ever. She sat him down in the chair and turned on the TV before walking to the kitchen.

"What do you want for dinner dad?" the woman asked from the kitchen.

But the old man didn't seem to hear her, he just stared forward at the TV, the flat TV. He saw, colors and people fly across the screen, and he was in awe. The woman continued speaking in the background but the old man payed no attention. He stared intently at the TV for several minutes. Then, it flickered. Flickered. Flickered.

-Aiden Shields 43

'When

your negatiuity erupted

When your negativity erupted the answer was no solution, When your mouth puckered, newton dropped down and took my brilliance When your words circulated, I just wanted the noise substituted.

When your pain grew, a line created

a needed distance

I stood there and found the absolute value of your thinking is inequality.

I stood there and watched you spit an extra variable that became irrational.

I stood there damaged, as I angled towards depression past a 360 value.

The point of this, is not for us to be mixed fractions and one goes under.

The point of this, is not for us to be equal and find a way to get along.

The point of this, is not for us to be fake like imaginary numbers.

-Gabe Udof ia u Robert George

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44

'When

I am my mother

Love spit me out and into the hands of my mother I think love is what weaves her fingers together All the excess goes to the fatty part of her palm Some will sprinkle out when she is stirring cake batter Or when she holds my hand

I think she dripped too much love into the crease of my lips Everytime I smile I am my mother Whenever I don't I am my father IvIy father has a smile like crooked bricks Sometimes I pretend he is smiling on the walls of my house But then he comes home and the walls cave back in He has been cemented in the death of his father Depression has tied my father's lips shut Ivlama smiles for the both of them Except when he yells Then the bricks crunch in the corners of my father's throat And suffocates us all

But the next day my mother manages to wake up smiling She has taught me how to see the sunrise at midnight That all the happiness you could ever want is trapped underneath your lip fuIy mother taught me that happiness can be a constant Even when you're married to a man that only hurts Only screams Never smiles Love spit me out 17 years ago Wet and sticky doused in all the excess my mother had dripping out of her Iips I wonder how much time it will take my father to swim in my mother's puddles Until he can smile again -Saui Valle 45

"A Night After a Shtft at the Theater" We perch on concrete columns like vultures with our pre-killed phones.

Hunched over, our beaks haven't touched a meal in weeks.

One by one, or in flocks, we catch our wings on the thermals that we soar and totter on, relieved that we don't have to stuff our wretched claws into ripped black boots and plaster stuffy feathers over our gross faces in the shape of a smile or a sigh.

n -Oliuia Sipiora

Oliuia Pope

< Buzz Smith

46

u John Sreenan

47

I Feel Like I Don't I feel like I don't call often enough, to remind him I love him, it surprises me how a marriage can coil; Iiving in two different worlds.

Grandpa built their home with scraps and bottles,and kissed her for each one.

Sundays after church, his is ankle swollen from his blood pressure and Crown Royal.

His fingers sink into beer cans.

Grandpa sips your memory when we are gone; and says he misses you again.

I see the crown in his throat slur his words.

He may call me his favorite granddaughter or mistaken me for your sweet name Rosa

Because

in the moment he only remembers your buttercream tinge and freckles

-Ryhen Miller

Shayna De Luc

>

Pressure Something comes into being in church aisles and bedroom corners.

There's pressure, or maybe there's twisting bits of twine that wind through auditoriums and their lobbies, a certain feeling like eating an extra bite after you're full.

Simple moments bring it to notice overhearing conversations, or boredom coming on differently than you'd prefer.

-Oliuia Sipiora 48

The Meaning of Tattoos Ifyou get a clock tatted on your body, and there

are no hands, that means prison time. Everything is a prison, though.

If you really try.

You waste your time in bed, murdered hours in the middle of the day.

How about tattoos on the knuckles? That's a little less hardcore, your ink doesn't mean anything.

For you tattoos of teardrops would mean you got sad after you stopped smoking and listened to The Smiths way too much.

You started to smoke again. Accidentally.

If you get a tattoo of spider webs, it probably means you killed someone.

Or you got bitten by a spider and are now Spiderman.

I think the spitting webs out of your hands would give that away though.

You're ironic if you get tattoos of Jesus.

Or you aren't ironic.

It's hard to tell, you're pretty mysterious.

-Amanda Hunt

^

49

C ele ste Gonz ale z-

Belobradic

Smiling Smiling Less, missing naptime the most.

The innersprings we knew So well are worn out.

I really need a new mattress.

I find myself losing sleep, because even Though I try my hardest, this bed which I rest upon will always be memory foam. You're Not my dream girl anymore, what's the point of sleep?

I can stare up at the cracks above me.

Withering away like the echoes of a voice I heard when waking up long ago.

Feathers ruffled from the pillow talk.

Now all that can be heard Is the sound of snores From the other rooms.

Do you still Dream of me?

-Andrew Ortega 50

^

Clare Curran

Let's get this straight Let's get this straight You reached out with Candied Apples, Pulling me closer into your L^fu Thfir embrace, Getting stuck in my teeth with every bite.

Gummy Worming your way into My life became so sweet.

But Gummy Worms rot Candy Apples Tirrning sweet sugar into bitter poison.

You think this is Fun Dipping in and out of my mind.

But I don't need a Lifesaver.

I'm Red and I'm Hot And I'm a Smartie too.

And let's get this straight, I don't need you.

-Belle Weiler

/a r,}:

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51

Gabe Darley

n Annabel Huber

52

Flux My intentions aren't to fill you with silly Shakespearean metaphors.

But if I had to compare you to one thing, It would be along the lines of the seasons.

Summer is far too temperate to sum you up, And autumn too flimsy and crinkly. \{aybe right between winter and spring.

That kind of time where You're not so sure if you'll be chilled and brittle, Not so sure if you'll be reborn and baptized in warm beams That saturate you only to the brink of sweat.

I'd never met someone who could simultaneously Make me quiver and tremble at the idea of safety.

Or make me so insecure a drizzle of perspiration was always there, Reminding me I was one of many who were feeling the same thing.

Cause I don't believe in that drenching, Heart hugging kind of love.

I think people are gonna leave you when you're least ready to let'em go.

And no altering season is is gonna change that hovering, cloudy thought.

Don't you recall that night, When the moon sent down sharp teeth onto the earth, And swallowed everything we knew about the inky black parts of night?

You told me everything was okay with us.

I wished day would come and materiahze the truthful syllables under your tongue.

But funny thing about affection is, It falls right when you think it's rising.

-Camille Rogers

53

W.I.T.C.H. (women Indulging

in Thrills, Conuulsions, Horrors|

FADE IN: ROOF OF AN APARTMENT BUILDING - AFTERNOON

A rooftop in January, sky empty and roiling. A smell of lavender settles around GIRL-THING, raised up on her tiptoes. A nearby bird caws.

GIRL-THING (quietly, head down) Has anyone found my wings yet? I know I had them yesterday at dinner-- no, the day before, after school-- no, I don't-GIRL-THING's arms drift upwards slowly. She is dangerously close to the edge of the roof, A bird lands near her foot, wings flickering. GIRL{HING startles and wavers for a moment before falling, arms outstretched.

GIRL-THING wind rushing past her) I remember! They've been here-- Iike they've always been-- time to unfold them! (eyes wide,

GIRL-THING smiles brightly, a hundred feet offthe ground. She flexes her shoulder blades, muscles blooming, and disappears in a flash of not-light.

GIRL-THING (from elsewhere) I want to be what I was meant to be- transcendental, auspicious, deafening, turbulent, unfettered, consecrated, sinister, unconstrained, exalted, ominous, blissful! I want to be the skeletons in the closet, the arcane figures in the corner of your eye, the slavering wolf, the monster at the end of the book, the void under your breastbone, the spectre in your walls! I want to forget myself and become up and down and top and bottom and charm and strange! I want to be everything at once!

-Sophie 54

Ross

bug blood three thick flies waddle in a line up one side of the window. on the other, cars ptzzle piece through division & milwaukee. i am at my friend's final show and critique, hearing everything that she has written this summer, during six weeks of poetry. just this morning i stomped out a fly with a paper towel on the window of the coffee shop where i work, while a quiet french woman drank her 2o/o cappuccino outside. ive only snagged a few big flies, since they're harder to catch, but i've decorated dozens of paper towels with red smears from the little ones that want to flick around the brioche. my friend has a dozen poems to show from this summer. i have bug blood.

-Leah Kindler

^

Michelle \Xloolfurd

55

The man who scons my pass at the YMCA The man who scans my pass at the YMCA has stories talking to me in his brow that he doesn't know I've sewn in for him.

I think of them as I run on the treadmill.

His wife- I hope she's pretty -may she rub chamomile on his lusciously balding head before bed, both a roll of drool swimming out their mouths, both their books spread on their chests mid sentence, both their fingers laced like shoelaces.

-Megan Carraher

^ Emma Sher 56

post roin undialogue Coated with a green-eyed daze, open tidal waves arms

that complemented yesterday's torn newspaper trampled on the sidewalk and today's weather (brutal snowfall prediction transformed into hopeful showers, double digits above zero, after my mouth formed the o of surprise, mirroring this morning's cheery o's) he sighed

the birds trembled,

I felt troubled to ask him about his day as he sat next to me because I wanted to ramble about how every contour I mentally draw is a caricature of reality; my mind resembles the scrambled eggs I can smell under his breath, yellow is tangf, tangible, like the handful of bananas on his grocery list yet any sort of attempt at communication

is a deluge of wonders that expels out

of

my mouth like a

drizzle.

Is she talking to herself? he thought She is not

- wait, I am not, my thoughts don't say.

He clutched his paper bag of groceries, tidal arms dampening bananas, droplets collecting dripping

quicker than my words and he left.

-Kotherine Sang

57

Nebraska A faint beam of pale-yellow light flickered from the lantern at the stern of the NebraskaThe wood reflected the beam and cut it deep through the night, and into the clustered stars. The planks holding the boat above sea-level were weathered and pale, with hairline cracks running through them. They scraped and creaked as the heavy ship lulled through the choppy waves, sloshing on the rudder and running board below the surface. fuIist hung over the stained cotton sails and filled the moisture laden deck with a scent of rainwater. The glass windows, turned a faint yellow through time, were coated with a thin, briny layer of seawater and surf. Below the swells and splash of the waves, barnacles and seaweed slicked the bottom of the ship, and minnows wove delicate trails in and out of the plants.

Although the night seemed deep and never ending, it crept slowly forward. The night had been eerily soft. Usually the nights in the Atlantic were brought on with lightning and fat, heavy drops of rain. They would splash on the sails and deck of the ship until there was nowhere dry Ieft to consume. Sometimes it would pound endlessly on and on until the men on the ship would go mad. They would tear their rain jackets and curse towards the sky, but when morning came, they would be delighted to see the first rays of sunlight. That was simply how things happened in the Atlantic and how things happened on the Nebraska.

At dawn, the very first taste of sunlight reflected off the sky, and onto the deck of the ship.

It moved through the windows and off of the ship, touching the water with its warmth. The deck began to warm as well, and the moisture from the night started to evaporate. Fish began to leave their hiding places in the seaweed and flock to the surface. This was the best time of the day to fish, simply because they were all huddled near the surface of the water, warming their bodies.

The fishermen would haul them in by the pound, and watch the little minnows wriggle on the deck.

The fisherman climbed above deck to see the ethereal dawn breaking on their ship. Each man reached down and grabbed his nel Without speaking any words, they grinned and you could see the twinkle of the sea in their eyes. Every last man on that ship had a deep passion for the sea. So much so that sometimes they would fantasize about swimming down to the reefs and gliding in and out of kelp beds past schools of fish. But these would be broken up by a tug on the net, and they would be abruptly awakened back into the real world.

It was the first time in many days that it had not rained. The smell of the seafoam and surf still sat in the air, but there there wasn't a droplet of rain or a cloud in the sky. Seagulls sat gently in the sky above the ship, and their white bodies were perfectly contrasted the powder 58

blue sky that hung above the ocean. They followed the fisherman everywhere, hoping that a fish would find a way out of the net and they could float down and snatch it up. Sometimes it seemed like the fish would rather be eaten by the seagulls then be brought onto the deck of the ship.

Ivlorning on the Nebroskawas not a quick affair, but the fish only came to the surface for a little while, before turning around and gliding back into the kelp forests. Whenever the fishermen saw their silvery bodies begin to fade away from the surface, fishing became a great challenge, so the men would sit down on the deck and eat lunch. They always had fish, sometimes raw and sometimes cooked. Every single bone in the fish's body was picked out, and the organs and inedible parts were thrown off of the ship. The seagulls would fly down and just before the meat hit the water they would open up their beaks and catch it. For their drink, the fishermen drank seawater and had become acclimated to the salt and brine that coated their mouths afterwards. Sometimes it would strain the stomach and they would be forced to choke down the water.

The afternoon floated lifelessly in on the backs of gentle gales. There was no use fishing in the sea anyrnore, the fish had become plenty warm for the day and were down in the plants. The smell of salt hugged to the wind and added a deliberate scent to the air. The fishermen sat on the rails of the ship and dipped their feet into the water. The sea was so peaceful and the wind flowed calmly through all of the ship. Even though the wind and sky were so beautiful, the water was what was most alluring to the fishermen. It seemed like it was almost asking them to come below the surface. They all wondered what life was like beneath the waves. How delicate every coral grew and how perfectly combed the sand was. What the rocks felt like and how refreshing the water was. Their mouths watered at the thought of life under the ocean.

Evening came on the ship with high breakers and even stronger gusts than the afternoon.

The air had become saltier, so salty that the fishermen's eyes stung and tears crept over their eyelids. The water had become cold, and the sun had begun its slow descent into the ocean. In its place was the pale luminescence of the moon, blocking out all the warmth the sun had given.

The fish were no longer calm, they hurried along to their reefs before night came, abandoning the kelp beds in the deep ocean. The fishermen were on edge and the boat became tense very quickly.

The waves became choppier and louder, breaking on the sides of the ship.

The rain came soon after - thin shrill drops screeching into the sides of the vessel. The mast blew in the wind and the deck strained under the waves. The drops pelted the cotton sails and began to tear delicate holes through the cloth. The wood at the stern ached, and the starboard side began to dip, taking on buckets of seawater. The Nebraska had sailed through storms

59

before, but none with this magnitude of strength from the sea. The sea dipped and rose, drastically picking up or plunging down the ship. It seemed like the fishermen would be riding straight to the bottom before they would be picked up by the water again. The wood began to crack, and the mast tore at the top, ripping into the night and blowing backwards out into the sea. The fishermen held onto the deck, and certain that this would be their last stand yelled into the night. They looked at each other and then looked right into the eyes of the sea. The boat pitched forward one last time, crashing their bodies into the side of the ship, and throwing them into the water. They gulped in seawater through their mouths and choked down buckets of salt. Their frantic hands tore at the surface before tightening out and becoming limp. Their eyes were covered with a cloudy film, and looked like the sea had taken all the life out of them.

The fishermen floated delicately down into the water,lifeless and fragile. Above the surface the storm continued to consume the ship and the ocean, but the fishermen were calm below the waves, nestled between the rocks and plants.

-Matthew Minnich

v

60

Ella Haas

I hoped you would emulate I hoped you would emulate the most malleable of metals, shiny with a specific grit, palatable with zest of her pollen.

Paltry plastic professing sums of suicide, your crux has yet to reveal itself.

There isn't time to peel salutations from porous yellow flesh or squeeze fresh fluid from a failing body

The white reaper feeds on soulless candy, squinting her amber eyes at a lemony twang from balmy warheads sugar coated in liquid ambrosia of the plant kingdom.

Bumbling massacres of buttered honey bees reaP you oh so sweet, sugar bee.

Viscous honey trails your golden sins at the corners of tempting lips.

The colony cries for your apparition.

This is the honey comb tryrng to guide you home.

-Guineuere Orenstein

61

V/hen she called My dad's fingers are spent shotgun shells, clutching bad news like he is made to hold it.

He tells me his mother is dying like he's predicting a chance of rain.

So

I believe him when he says there is no need

for a coat, hail is bouncing on the roof with every window wide open.

Because he has sat in her storm since age 6, watched her pucker her skin with needles and grasp bottlenecks like stairway railings.

She set fire to the house while he slept once, a nightmare of cigarettes and shag carpeting.

He would come home to her slumped at the table, more than just blood running through her veins.

Kindergarten teacher asked why homework never got done.

He is still that kid but now he receives hospital bills from a state he's never been to, guilty for not wanting to step back in her downpour.

-Maggie Farren

62

AU

I wanted

was

for my hair to lay flat

All I wanted was for my hair to lay flat.

For it not to wake up and stretch its hands to the sky when I went out into the sun.

I wanted to murder my hair, Break its wrists and chop off its fingers, Ir4ake it so that when the summer's heat found its corpse, its hands stayed limp and weak.

Resting its broken bones on my shoulders, hanging down my back So I laid it down straight in a casket.

Now I visit your grave in the back of my head where strands are tangled and nappy, and I think of when I was unhappy.I have let a new mane grow in your place thick, curly and full.I wear your successor like a throne upon my head, and hope that I succeeded in bringing you back from the dead.

-Lauren Flint

63

Our Girls Some summers ago, our mothers thought the hinges of the backdoor would fall off as Karen and I rocketed from kitchen to swingset, swingset to kitchen.

The backdoor swooshing while our mothers sipped iced tea from the sidelines and marked our girls with every slam our girls with every knee scrape our girlswith each goldfish we killed.

Always sipping tea.

I never knew what they were savoring.

-Megan Carraher

Helen Traczyk

64

My great grandfather raised nine kids on Vlest Fulton My great grandfather raised nine kids on West Fulton, Everyone encountered the scorch of popping grease In his hopscotch kitchen, Three generations later and his kids are bobbing from the gutter Submersed in sewer Suburbia wants to soak up the ghetto too, I guess Three generations later and they want to Relocate our relocation Wash away the hood, Burn offthe block, Clean up this seaweed of a city

AII his nine kids and their kids left swamp I wonder what it feels like to Be burned in an institution and to drown in it all at once To be kicked out of their neighborhood, Put in your hood and to have it all drained up But they can never rinse Chicago's black residue They will have to gargle it down because this city will always smolder like popping grease In my great grandfather's hopscotch kitchen -Sydnel Johnson

65

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Benjamin

Ross

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66

Mellow Yellow There's a new kid in class. His name is Bobby

me a new one but it won't be the same. The old one smelled like apple juice and dandelions and lvlommy got it for me. Bobby sucks! I hope he gets eaten by a T-Rex!

Bobby wore a wrinkly yellow t-shirt. The shirt was yellow like my dinosaur pen.I like dinosaurs. Mommy says that I could be a dinosaur. I said, "I like your shirt," and he gave me a big frown.I don't think I like Bobby very much.

I wore my banana shirt. I grabbed my second favorite dino pen (stupid Bobby) as I ran out the door. As I waited for the lemon-colored school bus, I thought about Bobby. I cried, scared that Bobby would yell at me again. I told the driver I just had allergies. He looked like he didn't give a shit about me. Mommy would get mad at me for thinking that. (Father shouts that word when he leaves dark yellow bruises on Mommy but I'm not allowed to repeat it.)

Bobby's scary yellow teeth poked out from behind his lips.It made him look like a dinosaur.I was thinking about growling at him but Mr. Smith said I couldn't do that anymore. I was clicking my pen. Bobby was very mad and told me to stop. When I click my pen the sound is louder than Mommy's screaming in my head.

She sounds like a small animal getting eaten by a huge T-Rex. I didn't stop clicking but Mr. Smith gave me a yellow card for not listening to

I thought today was gonna be good'cause when I got to school I didn't see Bobby right away. But then I saw him talking to Mr. Smith and pointing at me. I Felt like a fiery finger was poking my tummy and I tried to look away From IVIr. Smith's burning eyes.

"Listen kiddo," he whispered. His hot breath was blowing right into my Face and making my neck all sweaty. "Robert over there tells me you keep bothering him and I would like you to stop. Got it, buddy?"

I made a scared noise-like Mommy-and hid behind my hair for the rest of the day.

Bobby.

Today Bobby poked my shoulder and asked me something. I couldn't really hear him but I did hear him say "stop it" and "pen." He seemed kinda angry but we were learning about the triceratops so I ignored him.

I hate Bobby! He snapped my favorite yellow dino pen in half and said he couldn't take the clicking any more.IvIr. Smith said he'll get 67

I

got a yellow card for the third time this week. One more card and 1'11get a time-out.I don't get why though. Mr. Smith says I need to focus more. Father says it's because I am'hn abysmal child." Ivlommy says I'll understand when I'm older. Bobby just grinned his horrible yellow grin.I wanted to play with my new raptor toy but I guess I'm too old to bring toys to school.

The weather was nice enough for Mr. Smith to finally let us outside for recess. We haven't gone to recess since before Bobby came.I ran to my favorite GIGANTIC yellow slide.

When I go down it,I feel like I'm a pterodactyl flying through the air. I rushed to the top of the slide but guess who got there first? Stupid Bobby! rvt/hy can't a T-Rex just pick him up and eat him? He wouldn't let me on and said that only cooi kids were allowed. I told him that I am cool but he just pushed me down the ladder. I started crying but he said that only babies cry and if I tell Mr. Smith then he'll tell him about the raptor toy I snuck to school today.

I shut up right away I took out my raptor toy in class because I was still nervous and clicking my pen was starting to leave a red dot on my skin.I ran my fingers over the little scaly dots covering the body and went over the names of my favorite dinos in my head. "Tyrannosaurus Rex, 6B

o s auru s, P achy c e ph alo s auru s, H odro s ourus, Dreadno --'The raptor was suddenly snatched out of my hand. "fuIr. Smiiiiiiith!! He was playing with a toy during class!!" Bobby waved my toy around in the air.

"Now Bobby, we don't use outside voices inside, remember? Give me his toy." Ivlr. Smith turned to me.

"Try to wait until you're home to play with toys, alright? Stay a minute after school and I'll give it back to you." He waited 'till I nodded to go back to teaching.

D ilo ph

I didn't see IVlr. Smith after school.I felt bad but Father says I have to be home fast or he'lI spank me. He uses a leather belt that I thought was dino skin for the longest time and when it hits me I see yellow stars.

But when I got home he wasn't waiting outside like usual.

A police car with the blue and red flashing lights was outside of our house and our door was cracked open. I tiptoed inside, past our dark brown door with the little silver knocker and walked towards the voices I could hear.I got to Mommy and Father's bedroom where the voices were the loudest. Outside of the door was deep red liquid, staining our neon pink carpet. (Father says it's ugly. Ivlommy wiil be mad that she has to clean it.) I saw some policemen with navy blue jackets inside the room. Policemen are cool. One time, a policeman

gave me back my yellow pen after

it rolled under I

Bobby came over with his Mommy to see me.

They said they heard Mommy was sick and brought a yellow raptor toy with them to replace the one I never got back. Uncle Joe said that I can play with it whenever I want. Bobby also said he was sorry about being mean and that when I come back, I can play with him all the time.

a green car and patted me on the head.

tried to get inside the room but a hand grabbed my shoulder.It was dark and smooth and pressed into my skin, hard.

"Hey kiddo, let's talk." It was Uncle Joe. It was weird because he never comes over to our house. Father and him don't really get along, I think.

I'm glad he wasn't really eaten by He told me that I wouldn't be seeing Father anymore and wouldn't see Mommy for some time. I was fine without Father because he's scary but I was nervous without lvlommy.

Uncle Joe said that I'd be staying with him. I was okay with that because he said he'd let me watch dino cartoons.

-Eu Berger-'Volf

I haven't been to school for a while.I saw Mommy and she had even more yellow bruises all over her face. This time there was purple and blue mixed in and a big red line on her cheek. I don't know when we're getting home but Mommy said that as soon as we do, we're getting a whole bunch of neon pink rugs. She's also letting me paint my room whatever color I want Maybe I'll try blue? I'll probably stick with yellow, though. Mommy says that everything will be okay because Father is gone.

I thought everything was already

okay?

Bobby came over with his Mommy to see me 69

a T-Rex.

Tangled There was once a Mayan queen who pulled rope through her tongue to satisf,i a man who only appeared in the clouds.

And the people warned her that bloodletting would leave nothing but half drained veins and a dislocation of her values.

IvIy grandfather asks if I want to get married when I grow up.

He assumes that a woman should curl around a man like welded iron on the crown of a king.

As if I could pull my lover down from the clouds with my rope, because I am always the pulley in the relationship.

Counterweights would never break even, ropes would splinter and spur.

So do not tie me down with those loop-knots, those don't-taik-to-other-guy-knots, those you-have-to-do-all-the-work-and-not-break-a-sweat-knots, because I untie your standards.

-Camille Rogers

ShaynaDe

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70

Verbal Abuse If I had superpowers, I would be indestructible I would take the tension that lingers around my house and crumple it up I would watch it wither away with the rest of my problems And repress the ruminating thoughts in my head If I were indestructible, I would protect my mother From my father's menacing words Aiming his hateful comments at the woman he once loved Spite at the tip of his tongue He doesn't think when he spits out his foul words His voice projects out into the air and devours her Those taunting phrases are etched into my memory like rivets in steel If I were indestructible, I would make my home serene I would not stand still and quiet If I were indestructible,I would help my mother deal with all the weight on her shoulders And I would say all those unsaid "I love you's" to her I would grasp her hand tight And never have to watch the pain suffuse throughout her eyes As she makes an effort to prevent acid tears from trickling down her cheeks Because all she ever did was provide me with raw, unconditional love IvIy mother is an indestructible woman fuIaybe she could teach me how to be indestructible too.

-Jansan Vertin

7l

Safe She is safe when she is

^Michelle \Yolfurd

with me

For 22 years mama was raised on the lip of a beer bottle Was the middle child squeezed between all the abuse and alcoholism

Her father had to gift Her older sister left her to marry anorexia Left my mother and her brother alone With the dripping fingers of their father Until she met my father She said my father saved her but it was not until she had me that she felt safe I was born the same year he killed himself fulama says I was born with my umbilical cord around my neck Two seconds longer I would have been taken into the bottle with my grandfather But my mother is safe when she is with me He sucked himself into a beer bottle all on his own This one he can't break over mamas head fuIama was worried I'd take his spirit in when she found him dancing Just tiptoes away from the floorboards Dangling to his last dance When I was born my mother forgot the stench of beer Forgot about her father's dance And for the past 17 years never worried about being safe ever again.

-Saui Valle 72

Two Sticks One day, it was around mid-December, I was walking home when a couple of sticks caught my eye. One was slightly longer than the other, and it had fallen on top of the other to form a perfect right angle, creating a cross. They were halfi,vay submerged into the semi-melted snow crystals, yet their dark outer bark made them clearly visible against the grey and white backdrop of ice.

At first, it was nothing out of the ordinary. There were plenty of other sticks falling from the trees around this time, and it was ludicrous to spend any more time noticing them than any other twig. Yet, the reason why I had to reprimand myself for taking the sticks into consideration bothered me almost as much as it bothered me for looking at them for longer than normal.

Would anybody else walking home on this sidewalk notice the sticks as I do, or is it simply some random aspect of me specifically? It's true that you don't see many perfect right angles in trees, or nature as a whole, the only reliable way create such things is with human hands. Iv1ath, too is a purely human invention, a set of symbols which we attach logical meaning to in order to solve logical problems. Math itself doesn't exist in the real world, it's humans who attach significance to its representative logic. lvluch in the same way, the concept of a 9O degree angle is geometric, and was created using meaningless symbols in order to classify and standardize shapes. There's no reason why anybody who didn't understand math, or simply didn't understand arabic numerals, would be able to understand the mathematical significance of the crossed twigs.

Along with math, it's also impossible to look at this symbol's significance without considering its connection to religion. One does not have to be a devout Christian, or even a Christian at all, to have some sort of connection, negative 73

^

Mary Lotus

or positive, to the symbol these two sticks create Even so, to think of the billions of humans, all recognizinga random collection of carbon atoms representing a shape they had previously noticed truly makes one feel small. And that only takes into consideration humans who would recognize the sticks. After all, if there is some other civilization beyond our own planet, the chances are logically almost none that they or any million other life forms would recognize this symbol as anything significant. Hell, if you count animals then the majority of life on our own planet wouldn't be able to recognize them as anything more than two sticks. And even then,I, the insignificant human that I am, am too limited in my mental capacity to respect even the vastness of those who would recognize the sticks, much less those who don't.

I would not have recognized the sticks as anything more than sticks had they not formed the way they had. Why did the universe simply decide to place two sticks on top of each other like this? Is it random, or part of some larger plan? Before the 1930's, scientific lvlarxism, the idea that if you had every factor in the known universe you could predict any possible outcome, prevailed as the basis of all scientific theory. However, the discovery that the velocity and position of an electron could never be accurately mapped disproves this. By proving that we cannot track one of the smallest particles in existence, we learned that every possible object and event in existence, at least as far as we are able to scientifically calculate, is unconfirmed.

Of course this only comes from thinking from a

3 dimensional perspective, where we view time as travelling in a line from past to future. Just Iike how a2-D object can travel through a3--D space without noticing the extra dimension to their environment, we travel through this fourth dimension, or time, without being able to notice it other than in one direction. Even in stories of time travel, time is depicted as a series of events, rather than as a series of static points which do not flow in any direction.

^ 74

Elena \X/Ltitney

Once we move past both space and time, the 5-11th dimensions deal with probability. In the 5th dimension exists every possible place and configuration two sticks could be ai at any given time, assuming the sticks exist at all. Dimensions 6-11 are more abstract and universal, considering every possible formation of the universe following accepted laws of physics, every formation of a universe different to ours following the accepted laws of physics, and every possible formation of a universe that does not follow our universe's laws of physics, to name a few. Thking this into consideration, even two sticks can become incomprehensible to the human mind if one takes the time to view everything that led to the twigs' existence and configuration from the standpoint of quantum or relativistic probability.

If one mind can barely comprehend what makes a symbol significant to them, the same can be said about millions of other minds. In his Theory of the Myth, Joseph Campbell firmly believes that the majority of journeys portrayed in both religion and literature are representative of a struggle by humans to achieve godliness, or to become more than oneself, Just as Adam and Eve searched for what they thought was an elevation to godliness, or how Diomedes fought the goddess Aphrodite, people of all cultures feel that they have something special about them which wairants divinity or pseudo-divinity. The idea that by following specific doctrines one can go to heaven, as

prachiMehendate

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ff..ffi'fi1T::iff"1,:il"H::,i:..lT,:TJril"r""TtrX to understand the world around them. Whether a person can achieve this through their own physical actions or by living through a fictional character, it is on the base level of Maslow's hierarchy of needs for a person to feel in control of their environment. In this way humans search for meaning in everything, be it how the Earth was formed, the true nature of evil in the world, or all of the possibilities that could lead to sticks being in their current position.

And yet, as is apparent when viewing the wider causes of why actions in the universe occur, humans are in control of their situation less than they would like to be. The infinitely grim works of H. P Lovecraft utilize this theme in horror, with the majority of his works purveying the idea that human's narcissistic worldview matters little when placed on a cosmic playing field, where simply understanding the true nature of godlike beings is enough to make humans go insane.

To continue this plane of logic, there is no real free choice in 75

humans, only a preselected universe of possibilities in which the uncaring timeline of the future has already determined all of the causes and effects of the actions anybody will take. As stated previousIy, time is not progressive, and so every action I take while considering the mystery of the sticks has already placed itself on a predetermined timeline.

This theory, while suitably cynical for modern philosophy, is far too similar to the already debunked theory of scientific lvlarxism. And so the quest for humans to truly understand and control the environment they have been placed into continues, most likely in vain. As far as human intelligence is able to tell, there is no reason the sticks exist the way they do, and no reason why the series of events which led me to taking an unusual notice in them is anything special. On the other hand, all of this relies on the conception that somebody should somehow care about a pair of crossed sticks.

-George Phelon

v Natalie Ungaretti

n lris

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76

My aunt and my father

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and my grondmother My aunt and my father and my grandmother all stretch their tongues to lap up a whiskey. They're genetically molded to smother the neck of a glass or a bottle or anything transparent that slinks down their throat to make them more opaque. It was imprinted in my father when he trampled down the back hall before his legs brittled, lusting for a vice that singed but wasnt quite hell. His had more of a tickle on your tonsils. I will not be devoted to the flame of a Grey Goose on ice like Grandma at dinner. Mv bloodline has been torched far too many times.

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-Maria Kent

77

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I'm a Big Boy Now You're hungry, starving actually You've been waiting all day for mom to get home You are getting antsy, and starving.

But hey, you are pretty responsible So you go for it, you stride to the kitchen And you begin making a grilled cheese all. by. your. self.

Bread, Cheese is that all you need, you ask?

Yeah probably so you go for it.

You get the pan turn on the oven, you mean stove

It's cooking, cooking how long you wonder, t hour 2?

You say I'11 check in at 1.

You check in after t hour and your mistake is evident Black, burnt and reeking of gas You are sad and now you are really waiting for mom.

Waiting, just waiting.

-Charlie Cole

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"Blobdimir Putin" - an emotional response to the Russian interference

in the 2016 election.

78

The OPRF Copypasta Inspired by the Nauy Seal Copypasta.

\Mhat the did you just say about me, you little freshman? I'll have you know I graduated top of my class as an OPRF Huskie, and I've been involved in numerous clubs and sports, and I have over 300 confirmed hats taken off.I am tutored in taking the ACT and I'm the top percentile in the entire high school class. You are nothing to me but just another student. I will roast you the school out with precision the likes of which has never been seen before on this Earth, mark my words. You think you can get away with saying that to me over the Intranet?

Think again, good sir. As we speak I am contacting my secret network of security guards across the school and your Chromebook is being traced right now so you better prepare for the storm, maggot.

The storm that wipes out the pathetic little thing you call your social life. You're dead, freshman. I can be anywhere, anytime, and I can roast you in over seven hundred ways, and that's just with my words alone. Not only am I extensively trained in Assassins, but I have access to the entire arsenal of the security guards' golf carts and I will use it to its full extent to wipe your miserable self off the face of the Tiapeze, you little kid. If only you could have known what unholy retribution your little 'tlever" comment was about to bring down upon you, maybe you would have held your tongue. But you couldn't, you didn't, and now you're paying the price, you idiot. I will unleash fury all over you and you will drown in it. You've been burnt, kiddo.

-Bradley Houha 79

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key on the stuffed mother, Wiro clings dearly to life familiar and follicled, and even by instinct, He shall find nothing more than a laughing classroom to soothe him.

Blankets in the sweet winter cool, covering us like our DNA Longs for the pre-humanity of insulated fur

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I am too hard on fuzz;It is frightening in my gut, acid rising To dissolve thought like an alchemist's nightmare; turning gold into soot and tossing it out before the light of day.

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EDITOR BIOS Kelly Sandoval, known for her luscious locks, spends most of her time being a slave to Crest. She gives impeccable hugs and aspires to obtain a velvet pantsuit. Kelly is fantastic at getting rides from Buzz.Kelly is slowly going insane becuase of her participation in way too many activties but it is okay because she has India to feed her. She is an aspiring tiny hand YouTube vlogger.

She adores corduroy in any fashion. She watches over all of us in Crest from her chicagofuton. Also never put a tortilla chip on Karen, her tortoise. We hope Frida Khalo's ghost will pleasantly haunt her for the rest of her days.

.:\']r

#

.

r, :

,,,i

Katherine Sang, not to be confused with the sentence indicating someone who engaged in vocal music in the past, is honestly our resident calla lily.

She is a lover of words like 'thartreuse", "pomegranate seed", and "concept'l A virtuoso of violin and master of visual and written color and composition, she's always creating something She is a gentle but enigmatic dove, creating the birdsong of Crest. Katherine will forever be the enr,y of Gabe Darley, not the least because of her perfect lvlandarin. Her continuous thinking should never be mistaken for quiet; one way or another, KSang is the boldest and most artistic of the artists of Crest. about AP Gov. His primary food sources include cafeteria hummus and whatever food International CIub is serving on Wednesdays. Like the cookies and brownies that he loves baking, he is always warm and sweet...even when he's late for Crest meetings. If anyone asks, he does in fact run cross country.

Oftentimes, he's caught in a pensive metaphysical stare. By the way, does anyone have aquaphor?

Bay Gugel-Dawson would go to Halloweentown High. Contrary to mistaken beliefs, she's not a small body of water nor is she the collective significant other of all of Crest, even though we would love it if she was. We often ask if she has ever gotten a haircut or is her hair always fashionably manicured? In addition to being India's secret back-pocket wardrobe, she probably makes her own clothes out of spider silk in her free time. She's been known to roll burritos impeccably well. She may be the youngest Crestie, but she packs a punch (especially for Benny).

94

Benny Paris, unaffiliated with the popular French city, is a ride or die River Forest kid. All of Crest is in love with his dog, Ollie, and his vocabulary surpasses the N4erriam Webster Dictionary. Catch Benny in his cowboy hat walking his dog and composing yet another Instagram masterpiece.

His laugh is commonly mistaken for that of Santa Claus. Benny's lifelong dream is to obtain a bust of Friedrich Hayek. His product-laden hair is a shield to ward off ignorance and Bay's punches. May his opinion be ever heard.

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India Guthrie is the girl who holds hands with everyone. You may know her as Lola from Shark Thle. Contrary to popular beliei she is not a mystical subcontinent home to 1.1 billion people, although she would love to be friends with all of them. When she's not being the cutest little button in Crest, you can find her taking photos of all the other buttons of Crest.

Although she will never be able to become president because she was born in Australia, we would vote for her because she supplies Kelly with Nutella and Crest with youthful energy. She wants you to know that she thinks you're really pretty!

Buzz Smith, akaBuzz Lightyear, arguably has all the honey. His arm to leg ratio is exquisitely questionable. In addition to designing tables within tables, he is well known for his ever changing mane of glory.

He has a LaCroix shirt. Contrary to popular beliel he does not live on a small Kansan farm and overall, his overalls and his overall being are moderately pleasant. He also has a love for small hands, which fit perfectly in his oversized hands. We love Buzz to the Ivloonrise Kingdom and back.

Gabe Darley is a sweater wearing cute sock owning puppy dog. While he recoils from the grotesque and edgy, he adores everything that is beauty, color, and form. If his life had the coior palette of a banana, he would be eternally happy. Let's face it: he's happy;just happy to be here How does he do it? And how has he become the hardest working member of Crest while balancing a lead in a musical and dancing his heart out in Show Choir? If you're gonna choose one Crest member to be your friend, it has to be Gabe.

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CREST STATISTICS Over 1,000 submissions 180 pieces

in the book

l24years of crest 32 weeks 8 editors

4 computers Countless hours

SPECIALTHAIff$ TO: Elizabeth Fox, Nancy lvlcGinnis, Helen Gallagher, Regina Topl OPRF tech help desk, Kristian Frumkin and IvIECK Print, Charlie Crain, Tiacy Van Duinen, Lindy Novotny, Ivlichelle Carrow, Valerie White, Vinni lVlatisse, Abby Eck, Orville Redenbacher's Popcorn, Frida Kahlo's ghost, Ernest Hemingway's ghost, and above all our radiant sponsor IvIs. Lauren Lee. Covers by Katherine Sang and Benny Paris.

Editor portraits by India Guthrie. Set in Crimson Italic and Average Regular.

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