Crest 2018

Hca. (./' '" t /''/ v Queen Bees lsaac Schaider Gabe Darley Drone Bees Buzz Smith Bay Gugel-Dawson lndia Guthrie Worker Bees Mariama Sidime . Alyssa Coughlin Maciej Dzumala . Angela Suirez Prieto Beekeeper

Ms. Lauren Lee

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Hey youl

It might surprise you to know that this book is probably older than your grandmother. Unless, of course, you have a 1,26-Year-old grandmother, in which case we offer our sincerest apologies for our previous accusation.

Things we would like you to do with this book:

. READ IT.

That's itl The 2018 Crest is undoubtedly a labor of love, on the part of the editing team, our scanners, our computers, our eyes, and every single OPRF student who decided to take a chance and submit their work. lt [s our privilege to have been able to comb through and enjoy just under a thousand poems, short stories, paintings, drawings, teapots, collages, and photographs. Now it is your privilege, reader, to see and admire the insane pool of talent which lies deep in the heart of your schooll (So don't throw this book awayl lmmortalizingOak Park's artistry is your responsibility nowl)

And, of course, this magazine would not have been possible to create without the help and support of the school administration and faculty (namely our amazing sponsor, Ms. Lee). Have fun with this one and happy 1.25th birthday to usl

Gabe Darley lsaac Schaider

14....... 16............ 17.................. 18........................ 19......... 20......................... 13 aa ZJ..

.Grace Boughton, lffy Dike ..Ryan -Jansen ugman N/ il er ....Jackalyna Neuman, Danie Weiss ...Maggie Fa Tessa McCo rren, Emily Kerstetter nville, Breanna Henry .............Owen Dispensa Emily Wunsch Wunsch, Bryce Sipiora son, Prachi Mehendale ..Aaron Baker, C aire Ciserella ......Gia Fisher, Jackson Fischer

....................Maya Plotkin, Kaelan Dublin ...................Katherine Bauhs, Lyn Redd .Adele Henning ...Lena Hen ry, Audrey Baker ...Rachel Barkdol , Cecelia Crumlish ..............Caro1 ine Anderson. Aaron Baker

38... 42....

ison Turner ..............Maya Plotk n, Lyn Redd garet Perisho .......Daniel Klugman, Anna Van Dyke .....Connor Ostrow .Charlotte True, Benjamin Ross .......................Sukari Holloway .............Lena Henry bbey Gianna B bbey liams Angela Suarez Prieto, Maire O'Donnell ......Serene Hanna

...Ella Karnowski Buzz Smith SamariWi ......Serene Hanna

3?....................... 41....................... 44.................... ..............Ben

46.

31........ 33......... 34............. 35.......... 37.................. 4

B2 OJ B4 85

.....................Ri1ey Moloney 67 ...Abigail Amador /l Jonathan Banks, Rachel Barkdoll :::::

B6 87 B9 BB.. ..Emma

Vejci Christlna Ro

:: : ::::

Elizabeth Zazycki , Robert lwashima -7') N 74 75 76 Chloe J 77.................. Hannah Rule, Maire O'Donnell 78.................. ......Abbey Mullen Bryce Sipiora 79 Ryan Jansen, Morgen Varnado o4 o _1. ...Anna Ka aire Cise lay, CarlySwanson rella, EllieTraczyck k, Maciej Dzumala rres, Maya Plotkin 5

Rosarah, You were my lifeboat. You kept me from being engulfed by an ocean so unforgiving That even the most unnerving monsters of the depths were intimidated

When therapy became my second home You were the one who did not abandon me like everyone erse did. By being the anchor for me You kept me from floating away and getting lost at sea. You wrote to me when I was sent to a place where nothing was familiar. Your handwritten words gave me strength everyday updating me on the life I was missing at home,

And even though the ocean is still merciless And the wild rapids still try to pull me under You taught me to stay afloat And now I can frnally swim on my own.

ryt

/',^h{ ru'l{/3 Pr.

My aunt came as a tied bow on a box, Stomach swelled with a tangy smile, A life changing two-in-one package. lnside containing candy-coated letters written in frosting, And advice that sometimes wasn't easy to swallow, It took me four months to read them all. one letter was penned in orange summer heat and purple night skies, And in it, we sat on kitchen chairs, She said to speak my mind or be happy with my own silence. She left me with the taste of our laughter and her child's echoing cry.

,H' ft,g* /- a*t'

I cried drivlng home. The burnt orange glow radiated from the city, Giving the night sky a sense of warmth that Contradicted the bitter weather.

The fluorescence cracked the eggshell Armor that protected my heart and I sobbed at the beauty outside My windshield.

I wiped the tears and put myself together, Not out of embarrassment, I was Alone, But because I could no longer see As I scuttled to the door.

A drift began. From a subdued whistle, It howled. The windows rattled, replacing the Silence with a more vicious Assault. lmpatience swelled, the frrst hour Of darkness wasted. The wind softened and retreated. Hope lasted seconds.

Weeping turned to melancholic sniffling, and I completed the nightly routine that Sent me to the gallows. I labored up the stairs, crashed into bed And pulled the covers up.

The silence screamed at me, as My eyes lazlly stared at the Sable blankness In front of me.

Through the once-rattled windows an Unrecognized whimper drowned me. Eventually, it barked before the whimper Continued.

Whining echoed in my head, a stray in the Alley tormented me through an endless night

My eyes grew heavy, filling with a reservoir ready to Unload.

Eggshell armor turned to dust, and I discarded hope for Those few hours of middle night reprieve, Where the pleces were picked up and glued for the morning.

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Brother, you ruined our candyland to a point where our gingerbread house isn't even semi-sweet. l'm a gumball and you're a jawbreaker, but i'm not af raid of your violent tendencies, not even that one night when your rock candy fist went pop and almost hit my face. Fear wasn't present even though it should've been.

Anger was.

Anger towards my parents, who expect me to sugar my words just cause you can't handle the bitterness.

Anger, that they think I am doing something "wrong" if I don't sweeten everything just to make sure you can swallow it.

l'm pissed thatl've tried everything to make you skittle sweet but you eventually turn sour like every moment we've ever had.

So all I can do now is watch our house crumble and try not to mrss someone who doesn't even know they're missing.

-Daniel Klugman

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And these the type of raps that make me really miss so-and-so Pray to god happy odds daddy didn't overdose

Mine's inside a clock, it's ticking slow but don't flop Flat head, llfespan, at wrist (risk) like a stopwatch

Pops'skin weak, lack rehab and tippin doctors green lf I see his smile it's defrled wit yellow teeth

I ain't get a call, his train of thoughts like he can't remember me Called me up, "Sorry Son, l'm just losing memories"

You ever cry every few months because your pops ain't there to hug you? You ever frght so much, because you don't know who really loves you?

Pop wasn't there, I lost my friend, my lungs shifting My friend's lost and he's lost and it shot straight into my kidneys

The only thing I love in life is my lil sister I wanna live to see her kids, hope Pops here to see them get bigger

I sought problems, failed my logic, and every year I been a flunkie And, I got depression cuz I don't know if l'm next to be a junkie

And sad fact is that i don't reveal any type of hatred

I hate myself, my regular health, cuz it's not enough to save him

1" ?lf,hkv

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Ugly winter is the burden that the beautiful fall comes with. With that whiplashing wind of his 70 degrees is forgotten and 35 now becomes great. I do not appreciate his flakes of white Nor how he turns glistening water into a strong lcy sheet of something cold That then breaks into squares That look like deserted islands of Nothing. When he comes, I hear everyone's teeth Chattering like typewriters and Boots stomping on the contracting pavement he made his. Although I have many memories from when I was little, I now do not see his beauty anymore through my eyes. I never find myself missing the days of Crying in pain from hitting my knee on something buried in the snow, like a stone

fu,p*d W;*

They drench my brain in hardship and an overspill of learning. This thing is your product, not your buddy. lt is your drained work of art, labeled (OpRF, oil on canvas.)

fu'Uw*,f**

Leggings didn't used to come with eyes attached. My sister and I bought them on a bargain deal but we didn't know they were magnetic. That they would attract sticky hands connected to bodies much bigger than ours. Like when she and I walked with our hands scooped together, as ice cream Slid through our frngertips and a pair of eyes tracked us up and down the block, stepping on every grease frled sidewalk we stepped off of. I don't know how to tell my sister that she has bought something she didn't ask for, that she will begin to collect discomfort like cicada shells off the swingset. This autumn she has only pulled sweatpants off the shelf. And while I understand, lwish lcould tellherthat a man can turn anyfabric into a magnet.

Emily Kerstetter-

-Tessa McConville

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The summ er of 2O1O

My soles melt on the sand next to the steady drip-drip-drip of sunscreen l'm reminded of kids who don't know to not touch a hot stove, As my family dives into the waves

They spray me with the ocean and the salt stings my fear Driving to st. George lsland, my uncle becomes Animar pranet

He beams as he tells me of the many ways the ocean could kill you The story a tide that pulls me farther out into my nerves

After the car ride, the ocean is a .44 revolver

My uncle Iets out a yell: I guess he was shot

He wades out of the water and I watch the long, limpid jellyfish attached to his Ieg

Along with the little bullet holes it left behind I couldn't help but laugh

Maybe next time he'll know to take his hand off the stove

fi,

fu, Oa^,/h piTen*

The shadows which creep across his universe

The mirrors of time shrouding his moves in convolution

The ghostly child follows steadily, never stepping outside of the boundaries

The x across her stomach marks a life that was taken so swiftly

Memories that span f rom the conception of time to the end of all

Memories that were ripped from her but remain in deep cruelty

Memories that remind her of a better time

Memories that she could never forgive them for

Pain that keeps him from falling out of light

Pain that moves his bloodied feet across the concrete

Pain that drowns his nerves in sedation

Pain that hides him from them, keeps him focused

The ghostly child cries out for her

The squeeze of his grip around the dagger of death

The fear that envelopes them, the sun that burns out alongside their hope The lord above who turns away, refusing to intervene

And the thoughts of vengeance swim through his perception as if they were brand new

And he crouches, with the dagger frrmly placed in between the teeth of fate

And the mirrors align, and the chemicals mix

And they return into the abyss, the depths of his humanity never resolving

,H,Ng

UkaoA

She felt the most awake in the mornings. The small Denver airport was empty and open. She took her last sip of coffee before going through security. Her son had bought her a new coffee maker for Mother's Day. The small metal spout on the side shot out steam that whistled like strong wind through a closed window. Some mornings its wind woke her up more than the coffee it foamed.

Her son had joined the Air Force two years ago and she only saw him two or three times a year. This time he had brought home the coffee maker and a fossil he had bought in a small shop on one of his missions. lmelda remembered his face the first time she took him to the Natural Museum of Nature and Science. His brows raised, his cheeks smiling as he played wlth excavation tools in the anthropology exhibit. His questions too curious for her answers.

She wondered if he had joined the army for the same reason that shops owned by immigrants always hang the American flag. lf he was somehow trying to prove his nationality beyond his papers lmelda prepared her cart as she did every morning. Setting a new trash bag underneath the one she tucked around the can. Her future self would thank her. She put her duster in the furthest hole so it wouldn't tickle her face as she bent over the cart. Small children would always walk by her cart and touch its soft, fluorescent mane, looking around to see if anyone had seen them. She always did.

lmelda was a wallflower, a silent observer. Every day she collected vignettes of strangers'lives that fit together and contradicted each other or carried no meaning whatsoever. She collected them on dirty mirrors, through the cracks between and under stalls, beyond the blowing of the hand dryer and the running of automatic faucets and toilet flushes.

She watched teenage girls on Quinceanera trips sneak condoms from the vending machines. Snickering and quickly stuffrng them into their large wallets. She listened in on intimate conversations between mothers and small children in the bathroom stalls. Conversations that would usually happen behind the doors of their home. She once watched an old lady's aid sneak a pill out of a bottle in her purse while the ladywas strugglingwith a new roll of toilet paper.

Her least favorite customers were the hiking hippies with long, cocooning backpacks that bumped her cart. She couldn't exactly explain why this type bothered her. Something about the way they tried to excuse their privilege with dirty hair and bronzed dry skin and nose rings. Something about how they used the sinks as if they hadn't felt running water in months. They washed their faces and brushed their teeth and ran water through their hair as if in slow motion. They were always the most polite to her, many self consciously greeted her with a slight bow of the head and said goodbye with a smile. They saw her but they didn't see lmelda.

But that was the thing about working at an airport. All looks are glances. All interactions come in fleeting flashes. Everyone was moving in a different direction, except for her.

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I used to "write" in Greek

A quick code, replacing letters like crushes, Caching kappas in colorful pens while seeming smart.

Later, love of language lived Where love of love languished,

So I guess the message l'm trying to impart ls that language is, over love, a lasting art.

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we can leave a memory / like a turntable now / and we can vislt it again past curfew / on its B-side / we can hailthe ladydjagain/the one we bless /forher slippingfinger/ blame her spinning/for all the sweat in our kisses / to think people bombed for this / in London / a man blew up a bar with sweet sweetmen/thetwerkandawhynot/isreasonenough /forahatefulsmoke /over ourfun/onegirl sits on another until they become the other's / mother's greatest fear /as if to say that all of this means fire / somewhere

Prachi Mehendale

-Aaron Baker

-Claire Ciserella ,

-Jackson Fischer ri

-Gia Fisher

-N/aya Plotkin

-Kaelan Dublin

- Katherine Bauhs

-Adele Henning

- Lena Henry

Audrey Baker-

-Caroline Anderson

Aaron Baker-

-John Cundari

Audrey Baker-

-Lillie Sheridan

Rachel Barkdoll-

-Liam Loughran

Grace Sagal-

-Maggie Farren -StzzSmith

-Christina Rorres

Allison Turner-

-Maya Plotkin

Lyn Redd-

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-Daniel Klugman

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My mouth was stretched out by Nana's pinching frngers

As Dad turned off the lights Daintily lit at the expense of darkness Though the shadows were bad gift-givers:they hugged at the candle's torso Propping up the flame That sang "Happy Birthday" to me out of its dripping candy cane striped body The off-key sound was a sprinkled toothache And made my light grow bigger Five years later, you blew it out

With a stenched breath of waxed jealousy That shined like wrapping paper just bought My eyes stung with unforgiving smoke

From a candle unwillingly melted Ruining my birthday cake

3A. r"tr

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She fell, skid her knees and forearms on the sand paper cement, but didn't cry when she saw the speckled red dots like most 5-year-olds would. lnstead, she got back on her pink Barbie bike and tried again. She peddled awkwardly for a few seconds, then proceeded to drop sideways onto the plush grass. Each time she fell, it hurt less than the next, and each time she rode, she was able to propel herself further and further.

The sun was beginning to set as Mariah approached the hill on her bike. She knew she had to be home before the street lights turned on, but she was just beginning to feel the freedom of learning how to ride a bike. She pushed harder, calves began to tighten. When she reached the peak of the hill, she stopped. She saw all the warm tones dusk had to bring: pinks that faded into oranges that blended into a deep red.

She stood there for a while. As the sun crept down she debated on following, or going home to tell her parents what she had seen and done. She buckled up her helmet and headed downhill. She sped up so much that she took her feet off of the pedals which continued to turn on their own. Even after hitting the bottom of the hill, she was still speeding down the sidewalk. She kept going until she reached the end of the block.

The sun was gone and there were only a few stars in the night sky and a flickering street lamp with rusted holes and black chipped paint to illuminate the world around Mariah. She started to turn around and head for the unfamiliar side of the hill. She had only been to this part of the town in the car to get to her grandma's house with her parents. Mariah wasn't even allowed in this area during the day despite it only being a few blocks away from her home.

ln her usual world she was used to seeing nothing but freshly clipped grass and flowers around the neighborhood. Anything that was broken or didn't look new was replaced. The grass in this place was mostly tan colored or it didn't exist, nothing lavish or able to break a fall. Everything around her was anything but luxurious. There was garbage in the streets consisting of McDonald's bags and Wendy's cups. The only trash bin she could see was overflowing, and although she couldn't see them, she could hear the buzzingof flies.

None of this scared Mariah. However, she was confused. She wondered if kids from her elementary school or friends she's made at the park lived here. She wondered why no one picked up the trash and why there were holes in the lamp post.

When she made it back to the bottom of the hill she decided to walk her bike up. Her legs were sore from the short excursion earlier. As she approached the top of the hill for the second time she stopped again to catch her breath and look at the difference between the two sides of the same hill.

P /fil* !."+"

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For three years your alarm clock was the pitter patter of a toddler crawling up your stairs You packed my lunch box with Oreos and my childhood with memories A thermos of cigarette butts and off-key melodies But Uncle, your rusty blue van smelled like tobacco and excuses

My age, a pine tree air freshener hung around my neck Once, you told me you didn't like the taste of beer

I said I believed you And I wasn't lying I miss thinking that you had superpowers instead of schizophrenia You could turn your tool box into a Toys-R-Us but You can't treat mental illness with pliers and hot glue

-Benjamin Ross

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The road stayed lifted

So I kept on driving

The cliff tops glared at each other

I could hear the two by fours creaking

So I kept on driving

I felt the old wooden bridge struggle to carry my weight

I could hear the two by fours creaking

I tried not to look out over the flimsy railing

I felt the old wooden bridge struggle to carry my weight

The vapors from the white water joined the fog cloud

I tried not to look out over the flimsy railing

The trees disappeared in my rearview mirror

The vapors from the white water joined the fog cloud

The ground dropped from under the fog

The trees disappeared In my rearview mirror

But I could not see to the end

The ground dropped from under the fog

The road stayed lifted

But I could not see to the end

The clifftops glared at each other

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I never prayed to God with my hands up. So, what makes you think that l'll throw my hands up for you? Offrcer make a crucifrxion out of me. Scrape the skin off my bones the way Jesus'executioners did him.

What makes you so different? Playing with your trigger as if it were the bristles to a paintbrush and I am your canvas. Your barrel ain't the first one hot glued to my chest.

I was there, outside my apartment window, I watched as lead streamed onto his flesh like fresh spray paint. Offrcer, how do you forget the face of A body when it plops to the ground?

Willyou forget mine? lf massacre is your art, then maybe survival is mine. I grew up in a blood pool, my cousin's bones lay sprawled on

the floor as I trace blood stains on the wall like a coloring book. Red became my favorite color. Dad wears his scar like a badge when we go to visit family. You know, you remind me a lot of that crackhead

down the street from my old school, always questioning me, slopping me, asking do I have any smokes on me? All your harassment is the same;your uniform calls it legal. I have never seen God, but I know he doesn't

look like you and your white pastel painted Jesus don't look like me. I call death by his first name, the same way he called my grandfathers, the way he called my cousins, my friend. The same way he called the boys outside my window, all within a year. lt would be rude if we weren't so comfortable with each other. Look at you officer still trying to make a masterpiece out of me. Death told me a lot about you offrcer. He lived across the hallfrom me. He's an art collector. I used to sneak a peek at the name on the paintings through his cracked door. I remember seeing yours a lot it was always next to my canvas.

-Lena Henry

$*rry H, 9u*",FJ$

Dear Camilla, Ithought lshould letyou knowthat I sawyou sittingon the porch swingeveryday.You said you were reading fairy tales. You didn't like fairy tales and you never looked down at the pages. The wind blew them Iike your own hands as you stared across the road where there was nothing but open frelds where the dog used to run. I never quite knew why you kept asklng about the house across the street when we lived on a20 acre farm with no one for miles and that one lonely road sitting in f ront of the house; rarely ever used.

I loved watching you skip through puddles on the way to the barn on a rainy day. You looked like a butterfly. So fragile and light, leaping in the damp afternoon air like you would fly away when you left the ground. I loved braidingyour smooth, auburn hair, even though I didn't know how; but you never complained. I loved how you used to play with the string that hung f rom your f rilly lilac dress, never bothering to cut it. I loved how you only ever walked on the third plank from the hall to the kitchen, because the others creaked and it was your favorite. Always staying in its boundaries, as if you would fall if you stepped out of place.

I thought I should let you know that our old, creaky house feels so empty without you, when there is no one to clean up after, no one to help with math homework, no one to eat cheese and carrots in the tree house with. I remember when we used to sit up there all day reading aloud to one another, picking cherries from the tree with the branches that always wormed their way through the windows no matter how much we trimmed them. I loved how you would call me a Grasshopper and I would call you a Ladybug and one year for Halloween, Mom made us costumes even though we never trick-or-treated and no one ever came to us. We just played in the tree house, in our own world where we could conquer anything together. When Mom called us in for dinner I would say, "Ladybug ready?" and you would answer, "Ready to Flyl'And you would take my hand and we would leap from the branches because it was more fun than taking the ladder. We would scurry inside imagining what the house would smell like, only to learn we were having noodles and bread with a little bit of jam if we hadn't caused too much trouble.

I thought I should let you know that I used to go in your room while you were out feeding the horses. I loved the smell of fresh oranges that came from the air freshener mom made you a while ago. I would wrap myself in the soft fur of the blanket on your freshly made bed and sit in the back of the closet and wait. Waiting until you came back and I could have the opportunity to jump out and scare you. I longed to hear that little squeal of fright right before you burst out into a frt of giggles.

And we would both sit in the closet alone together wrapped in blankets, hiding from mom so she wouldn't make us clean the pig pen.

I thought I should let you know that I used to wait outside your door until you came out of the shower to smell the lavender and vanilla of your shampoo. I miss that smell. I took the bottle and I keep it in the tree house. Sometimes I open the bottle just to get a whiff. I close my eyes and hold it with me.

I thought I should let you know that I loved your macaroons even though they were purple. Everything was always purple and when I asked you would say, "Just so they look prettyl' But I ate them anyway. And when you told me I couldn't have them, I would hide behind the counter and take one when you weren't looking. I miss those too. I tried to make them once, but they cracked every time I tried. And the color was never right. lt was always just a blop of blueish purple goo.

I thought I should let you know that I thought it was funny when the cow whacked your crooked nose with its tail, but I held in my laugh as I comforted you. He only ever whacked you.

I thought I should let you know that I treasured the moments when you would cry for me if you had a nightmare. I loved cradllng you in my arms and rocking you as you told me about the house across the street that caught frre and the little girl waving in the front yard. You cried because she was your friend. You didn't have any f riends. Mom rarely let me take you to town because it was a long walk and you were so young. I felt bad that you never had any llttle girls your age to play puppets with. Just me, but I was always there.

I thought I should let you know that when our house frlled with nasty, orange arms reaching out to take you wlth them, I rushed back in to get you. I called out, "Ladybug ready?" But you didn't answer. On the floor I saw your fairytale book already taken by the boiling thieves. l'm sorry I couldn't save it. I found you collapsed on the floor byyour favorite wooden plank; I guess you fell out ofthe boundaries. I scooped you up and ran from the house offiery mouths that threatened to swallow us whole. You were so little in my arms, almost shrinking away in the mlnutes I held you. I crumpled in the freld across the street; tears streaming down my face as I looked at yours. lt was sweaty and red. You had burn marks everywhere. My eyes longed to meet yours, but they never opened. I just sat in the itchy grass stoking your hair listening to the wailing sirens in the distance coming closer. I didn't want to face the hard truth that my little Ladybug had flown away.

I thought I should let you know that through the tears in my eyes, I saw it standing there for my eyes to see; an image of you sitting on our little porch swing.

f,,#L pt*t g*t

pj, ;$"c,*t ?.U,fii"r"o

Little black girlwatching these little black boys

Growing too fast and using violence as toys

Can't sleep at night cause there is so much dang noise Thinking to yourself

Hopefully Daddy not out there Or they might just take his breath My little black brother can't survive the weather Gotta get a new sweater

Can't survive the cold if daddy is in the hold Don't know when he gon out

Hopefully, his body doesn't decompose Cause Mama working all alone Hoping her son willcome home

Cause it seems like Little black boys can't survive in the streets without a glock Can't survive in the streets without a clock Cause every hour someone is getting killed She is just praying that it's not real And when it's time to come home the 12 pull up And with his luck they take him to the front spit in his face and call him a runt Oh little black boy don't fight back cause you never know who will come up and have a gun to your back

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Shades the color between white and red frlled my room like a private palette. My brother's walls were as tall as my mom's expectations and ruby as my bare gums with missing teeth. I remember the medicine yellow tiles with a hint of buzzed blue, tip-toeing at the counter trying to memortze how my mom made vanilla infused lemonade.

Her hands were as soft as an "abrigo'l I long for my adventures in the backyard, and my small concerts in the rain, but now l'm the splotches on her hands because "ljust don't listenl'

But mom all I do is listen until my ears leave an endless ringing, like the doorbell of our old house. l'm aware l'm changing. l'm still the little me you miss, just better.

-Maire O'Donnell

,fu, 3** a/"n"

Blood is more polluted than water. That's why it's So Thick

It illuminates the world's reflection on to you Like that puddle on the sidewalk. And Failure lsjust a natural consequence.

After consequence. Of trying. so the next time you're feeling down on that high ledge. walk away and erupt. Don't be afraid to spread your wings And die.

Adjusting to the discussion is disgusting Tough break kid Ease up. But Late last night You Called me. lnsomniac conversations are quite narcotic.

Life has all its context clues laid out To lead you On a conflicted Exhibition. It's the full package Stored components incl ude: Contrad icting compl ications Within the complex yet incompetent Conversations of Opposing minds.

Want you

To get off your knees

And get over it

Stop being sorry. Your damn sobs ruined my new insults Similar to the ones you hung in your closeted mind. But those who hold tight to their inflamed egos Can't ever get bruised.

Down that drink in ya hand. Cause the usage of substance Subsequently, delivers saturated sustenance Within. Groveling while shallow Makes for the heaviest molotov cocktail. And I think you're lying when you say you're lost. X marks the grave. So

It's every man for himself. Once your thoughts Leave your side

Cut them loose. They'll abandon you anyways. Be freed from your own brain. Don't resist the rest frlled bliss Of permanent deletion. It'll intoxicate you Make you lnhale

The aroma of completion. Extinction.

{A" f,J,i. alqlry. f

fu,P* nl"oet"

Possibly the most universal hymn In the world, the ABC's, by literally whatever children's TV show or child is singing it that day, discusses a central aspect to all of our lives. The core of all of our statements. The only universality in all poems. The very building blocks themselves. The letters.

Many might argue that this song isn't poetry. lt's too simple, the haters say. lt's only for childrenl But there are many arguments to refute these petulant and close-minded claims. Thls poem discusses the theme of acquiring something beautiful, in this case knowledge. One proof of its status as poetry is its concision. Perrine argues that poetry is the most concise form of literature and I can guarantee that among the swath of songs that will permeate this blog over the next few days, the ABC's will be the shortest. Second is the multi-dimensional nature of the words at the very end: "Now I know my ABC's. Next tlme won't you sing with mel' Let's start with an explication of this line.

First the word "now'l lt not only signifres the simple act of learning an entire language, but it also symbolizes what the singer can "now" do. They can now, in the simplest sense, create anything f rom hate speech to love poetry to essays on the existence of life; all are founded in letters like the one the singer "no\,v" knows.

Next, "now ll'While the "l" doesn't itself give meaning, the "now l" is a multidimensional treasure trove. lt gives agency in a miraculous way, perhaps the most empowering statement that can be uttered, even more emphatic by the realization that the singer probably frrst uttered a declaration of agency through the same phrase. Second, the phrase "now l" talks to the fact that the poem is currently frnished and "now l" need something new to do, a commentary on the current social progression to a society whlch lacks patience.

Next, "now I know'lThis text discusses something deeper than anything before. "Now" the singer "knowsl'The singer knows everything in the world in a frgurative sense. There is literally nothing that the singer can't know now that he understands the foundation of everything, the letters. ln additlon, it is a spiritual reference. Throughout, the Torah the phrase "now I know" is used as an expression of repentance In specific reference to the failure to perform tikkun olam and the relationship with Yom Kippur there implied. Because we have our children sing this song, we have imparted onto them the figurative sins of the father.

"The ABC's" is the next section of the ending phrase of the song and is perhaps the most disturbing yet. And yet, that doesn't take away its classification as poetry, as Perrine writes that poetry can be ugly. "The ABC's" is westernization in the very letters it holdd. There is no room for the language of other cultures. We, as a supreme culture, have completely covered our childhood singsong rhyme in the very frber of our being. we are excluding, when we should be accepting.

The next phrase is "next time'l lt implies something that cuts, me at least, to the bone. lt implies that there always will be a next time, so obviously I wonder as an invested reader how many times the ABC's have been sung without the next time being fulfrlled. How often has a child been left there with no one to sing with? I see my niece as I analyze "next timej' in a state of sadness I would be happy to never see her in again. But at the same time, it is the ultimate sense of future. The "next time" along with the tools the song itself has given the singer implies a power to do anything and to be constantly expanding one's knowledge whenever one returns to the song.

The next phrase is "won't'l This is interesting because of the inherent contradiction it possesses. "Won't" is a negative phrase plain and simple, but at the same time it encourages a practice in the specifrc context allowing for a rumination period in the mind of the singer. However, the true poetry in this phrase is found in the basic etymology of the word. "Won't" means, in the colloquial form, will not, but that contraction wou ld have been willn't, no? I n fact, the actua I word is a contraction of the words woll and not an archaic English version of will not. What does this have to do with poetry, you might ask? Well, the archaic nature of the word belies its actual intent the future action of singing creating another interesting contradicting parallel.

We follow with "you'l The ultimate accusatory phrase. What does this word mean? Well it attacks in the way only one singular word can. lt defrnes anger, but can accompany itself instead with honey and comfort. lts vagueness is its poetry. Whatever you want from it, "you" can provide.

We follow with the word "sing'l "Sing" provides an existential threat to this argument in its very defrnition. How can a song that in its very lyrics commands the reader to sing be poetry? Well, "slng" does not mean exclusively the action of speaking in a method where notes are bound to the words. No "sing" can also be phrased in the context of "sing for joy" and that is what this word truly commands the reader to do. Knowledge, or Ietters, is commonly synonymous with sweetness or joy in many cultures, physically symbolized with honey or candy, and in thls case that joy of knowledge is what the author is commanding us to sing out for.

We have now come to the frnal phrase, "with me'lThis phrase is benign in almost every sense until we consider what I fi rst mentioned at the start of this post. We don't know who the author of the ABC's is. Therefore to write the word "me" in their work is the ultimate act of the mysterious genre of poetry. They leave us thirsting for what cannot come.

/n $Ltr 94hry U*{ ,fu'/u* rW

l'm still getting used to Embracing the saturation of silence That floats in the awkward moments between us. Trying my best to play it off like it was never there

Going back months to when we were Sitting on plastic chairs at the end of class Telling me your new name that fits your new haircut. And now I realize it embodies more than just a green light, The camouflage of an actor washed away.

Meanwhile, the costume I put on to hide my secret is fading. Making my heart wish it would only fall for boys My "normality" forever gone as I question without a Iabel Still getting stuck in the awkward moments you don't know are there

One boy like honey. With hands so big and soft, enveloping me, sticking, peeling, then resuming until I feel short of breath. How can I be all of those things he says? Words like molasses, the sounds are slow and designed to trap me, fatten me with professlons of my beauty. Clues everywhere, but they taste good, easy to swallow. I know of poison, and there is no comparison. This is good. This is what I wanted, right? He bakes a trifle of my mind, sweetens thoughts, they encase me. I am a beetle in amber. My body stuck, I can't remember who we were.

One boy like milk. ltry to make him somethlng else, churn him to make him thick like the last. I leave him out too long, and he turns sour. I try to avoid inhaling the smell, remembering I got sick last time I indulged, remembering my shoes stick to a floor laden with syrup. Now I walk through sun-baked half-butter, and spoiled milk's fragrance frlls the air.

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Sometimes it feels like I can't recognize my own name unless it's in 12pt Times New Roman.

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The penultimate house on the street stood silent. Children said, "There lies a treasure," through doors wide open and windows broken they feared the sounds of the amorphous soother. She hid at the top of the winding stairs waving away their peers that punched like pillows, smothered

Her mother was battered, bruised, her mind smothered by the neighborhood's knocks, the pounding gone silent. The girl's persistence was waning, waving like the ocean, back and forth. The fading treasure no longer pushed her out of the house, her constant soother, it had bumped through the riptide a time too many, now broken.

The grandmother had died years before, her heart had been broken by a man whose love lifted her soul. She was smothered and spoiled by his ever presence but he was her soother. Grandmother learned that footsteps through the halls must be silent, she peered over her shoulder, creeping, searching for her treasure: the little girl on the corner, always smiling and waving.

The little girl and her inelegant waving reminded her of the dead ends snipped, and the pencils broken from her days before, when she shone bright, even her secret treasure. she wished for her mother, the dinners she made. Her favorite: smothered chicken. She wished to make it for her own daughter, the mother, sitting silent in the kitchen and they both longed for the soother.

The husband, the father, the no longer soother. The grandmother began saying "Hi" to hersell waving in the bathroom mirror, but there was never an echo or silent nod back. The grandmother and the mother found the mirror broken the day he left, the grandmother reached for her daughter, smothered her in love, wishing she could give her a treasure.

The daughter pushed away, protecting her growing treasure from the hands ofthe accidental soother. She feared the grandmother's touch, her love, and vowed not to be smothered or smother someone with strong love again. Without waving to the house she stepped over the broken cracks in the yard and left in the night, silent.

She returned with the silent girlwho was waving on the corner, a new soother she swore never to smother a new treasure protected from ever being broken.

Oq^ry /a"LJ"

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Yesterday, I engraved our initials into the newly poured sidewalk, But I don't think we'll be able to last as Iong as cement, I doubt we're as grounded as the concrete is, This is hard on both of us, lknow, Our kisses travel so many miles they have frequent flyer poi nts, My brain has an east and west side, You and school, We both know that the streets don't combine and the Ianes don't merge, lf you're both of our priorities then who's gonna prioritize me, Over facetime I told you that your love is selfrsh, The words seemed to spill through my teeth, Finally liberated from the lumps in my throat when you ask me what's wrong, You said you missed me, When I cried that I miss me too, You concluded that I was trippin' But these roads are just as smooth, As these shoes are tied. I will dig in pavement and carve in gravel, Until you understand that sometimes, I miss the Me before the Us.

/r"oh,"

ru, Cil-iqo ft,lrt"n

Grandma used to stretch mark over me like a body cast. Mummifred my torso with hugs, kisses, and lucky charms with just the marshmallows, I miss the way I would confuse her house with mine because I was five, or the fairy tales that gushed out of her mouth Iike prayer on Sundays. I miss the anxiety that dressed my breath in hospital gowns the one time I sat on her egg shelllap, how her kitchen was a confessional for empty stomachs, the vibratlon of her bone shattering laugh as she stitched hunger back together again. Philadelphia and Chicago are more than a storybook away, and God would be embarrassed to X-ray my call log and frnd the lack of her that's in it.

frr

I ai?ne

fu, & paynt 11/"tf

He never said "l love youl' -Just "je t'aimel' He didn't even know French. The first time he said it, I was at a sleepover. The last one up, textlng him at 1:OO am. " Je t'aimel'

My phone died. I went to sleep. He sald it when we baked cupca kes. Peanut-butter-chocolate. We threw flour at each other. ".Je t'aimel'

The cupcakes came out burnt. Ithrewthem away. The last time he said it, he was leaning against the bike racks. I told him it wasn't his fault. Cecelia Crumlish-

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"l miss the pool already because you're allowed to be ugly at the pool"

"The world is not very big, we're all gonna end up in the same place"

"Oh. My. God. Ella we cannot buy that we are broke as a skunk"

"Lady Gaga is bad. To. The. Bone. I wonder how old is she?"

"So don't trick us too much, it may turn into reality"

"l bought this blouse for $2.50... don't be jealous"

"l can't create war, I find it very stupid"

"lf I ever get a job at Twitter, shoot me okay? What a nasty job"

*Picking up an earring* "lsn't this beautiful? Too bad I can't wear anything that isn't gold"

"Of course everyone in the street knows more than we do"

"l'm just watching my show looking for a guy to marry. l'm picking them off the news right now"

"lsn't The Grinch cute? He's more cute than The Who's, he's got more lips, more cheeks, more frown... Let's keep him, to heck with The Who's"

Me: "l kinda look like Robert Smith right now" Mom: "Oh my God... a white man???"

"We don't know if we're watching TV or if the TV is watching us"

"Everyone knows us at Sears"

"Look --- it's those musicians you listen to on TV! Those nasty things don't take showers for a month"

"l cried for a year and then there were no tears left"

"Look out the window and look at all the houses... now do you see all those antennas and satellite dishes? That's how they're spying on us"

flg"fA"aX

fu, fl"+X"+J peu'A"

When I was young I dreamed Of becoming a conductor.

Tapping my music stand. My composition begins as Wind sings out in bravados

I watch as the leaves turn into Rustling maracas. The rain hails

A storm of harps, fragile, and soft with Each pitter-patter. I raise my baton. Now a Blizzard crescendos down, flushing out the harps

With harsh cymbals crashing onto the concrete. Tornadoes Swirl through the audience, blending into harmonic xylophones, Glockenspiels ring with every twig they tear, every brick they break. Houses crumble and mold into bass drums. The song reaches crimax A hurricane forming, me as its all-seeing eye. Each thump of Waves booms the horns of the tubas. Splashes of clarinets And oboes. Finally, allthe notes begin their descent as The water of brass instruments seeps into the Dirt. Dust from each xylophone fades

Off stage, taking all the percussion And backup vocals along with. But no one claps until Give them the signal. Rustle seizes, wind Whistles one last Note. I lower My arms. Smile.

fu,/L $buu,en

Wake up catching the change of season on your tongue Then wash your hair with dried lotus petals

Or if you're feeling extra special Fresh dirt from Machu Picchu And cracked seashells and seaglass for breakfast

Then go on an adventure

Sit on your biggest book and fly to the place of your choice While you're there buy and build a family Only get divorced when you can look beyond what you see Your children should spend their time basking in the chill of Mt. Everest lf you ever feel lonely go drink a coffee Or buy another book and sail back home

For your next adventure breathe tennis shoes and explore

,,F"3"

oh ru, N /C'o/kv

Forgiveness is finally making a home of me. r've found ways to look again at boys, not with matches in my mouth or a frstful of myself, but just to see what's light in their soft hard faces. Once, a door shut and I said I was intimidated by rorl of the people in the room and everyone said, "The boys?" and I thought about the street where K grabbed at my words and presented them back to me mangled, a snare in the meaning. No one wants to see that fear and anger can run in parallel. l'm at the corner now, can see the girl I wanted to be. She is full of fluid anger and her smile is fanged, too. She has not met any girl who summons discomfort in her, then flicks it back and forth like a joke. Two years later, and l'm forgetting I should avert my shoulders when a boy leans in. I forget I ever liked or hated them beyond their blunt friendship and their seamless answers and all the smiles waiting in their eyes.

ru, N /4.h{-o.

Though we now think everything turns to shame, to aversion, to eraser marks, we used to grin at the thought of heartbreak. For months at l-3, I filled sleep with something louder, with music videos where a girlwilts over a guitar, a neon depiction of pain. Now, when l'm salvaged, l'm inside outmy heart leans away and my skin curls inward and my guts stay suspended between. Hurt ransacks my bedroom, the 7 /tL,the gym, entire blocks. lt blacks out every somewhere the two of us existed in tandem, every together. lf I was the kind of person I saw myself becoming at 13, l'd tuck my heart inside the wallet of my ribcage and let allthe metals shake out instead. l'd be pretty pain, be messy enough to stain but not to spend hours scrubbing at. l'd sketch self-pity into my schedule. l'd know where to frnd it, on the coast of morning, on YouTube, curled across my floor and ready for it to hit

fi,e{ r/*r

fu,&* $^JA

You spent months eroding my confrdence until I became a rusted nall But in May, you chose to limp away from me What you didn't realize is that l'm more hazardous when stepped on Three times since then, you've injected yourself back into my life like a tetanus shot

Expecting me to cling myself to your punctured heel Just because you have the same Zodiac sign as Jesus doesn't make you worth worshipping You can never admit the memory of me nails you into place like the Romans That's why the word goodbye always clogs your throat l'll swallow it for you while I guide you back to the coffin I nailed you in

-Grace Ciacciarellr

Oha" fiu.

,fu' dyo fr.#

olive juice, not forest, notjade, but when color begins to fade tm

Obligated to love Leaves me frustrated with us lndecisive with trust Volatile? Exactly, was rushed i'm sorry, it's

Just talking to you makes me sappiest Uncanny ain't the half of it I can't stand my own dumb Ca llousness Even when at my unhappiest yeah

olive juice it's sweet it's smooth it's nothing without you

Wt rydA rye

fu, p"^d 'lll.,*

There comes a point when my mouth can hold

No More Work.

Like water, we can put in as much As We Possibly Can, and I can always say "Just a drop morel' My rosy cheeks will expand and it will hurt; I Can Handle lt.

I will find my mouth can hold more water than I ever thought possible. But regardless, there comes a point, When My Mouth Bursts and I frnd maybe there is a limit.

,ru'&#e 5*a

Made /mad/(v.)verb 1. To make or form something: such as H. H. Holmes made his infamous "murder castle' in 1887. A tower of destruction, a mecca of slaughter. He made his plans carefully, different contractors, different times. Kept it quiet. 2. To cause to exist, occur, or appear: he made his way to Chicago from Philadelphia, from Michigan, from New York. A new identity, quickly cast off. The castle made the man, a new being. The World's Fair had made a great disturbance... no one would notice. 3. Formulate: he made his plans, he checked them twice. Doors and stairways to nothing, a sound proof vault. A basement quiet except for the drippings. Made a fake diploma. Yale, no, University of Michigan. He made no mistake, made no doubt about it. Holes in some walls, no holes in others. Construct: he made a contract, a drug store bottom floor, run by his mistress. He was never made to go to bed alone. Gain or earn: he made a healthy profit. Continued to make improvements. Scam construction companies out of their money, he continued to switch and sue. No one but him would know. To carry out:Then he made a move. A snake slithered close enough to the baby's basket. His mistress, suffocatlon. Silence. Twenty-seven total. They struggled to their feet, but he always made it to the door frrst. Then he made away, to Florida. But their ghosts followed. He made them come in. Then he didn't let them out.

rUt ,fu,,nq ryhry

The swimming instructor told me to hold my arms behind my back until it was my turn

My range of motion had other ideas

The kid who was up was allergic to learning

So I did what I had learned thus far

Cry for mom to reel me out of the class

She dried me off, and Dad frshed out the self confrdence

I had left it in the pool

They learned everything I needed to know for me

That was l2years ago and l'm not sure l've learned anything myself in that time

And as l'm in the last lap of my childhood I realize how hard it is to stay afloat

And that my arms are the only part of me not stuck behind.

P'a'*u

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ls it bad I still miss a cracked room that was four shades of pink in a house too expensive to keep? And if I knew it was for the better why did I still choke up when we drove by it with its boxy shrubs now diced knowing the walls probably don't recognize my voice anymore Why did I feel like I was the only one who understood its ancient staircases and glass windows I stained

Looking through no one would ever see a time when I didn't know change could come in screaming and slam doors

After that every time I thought of divorce and pink rooms ln the sickly white walls I now sleep inside so thin I don't think l'll ever be able to scribble a trace of myself on its surface so brittle the smallest screams tear through and tellstories l'm not supposed to hear l'd try to go to sleep but l'd only think of my old room on lowa Street And it'd only make my eyes four shades pinker

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When did I stop measuring my flour

I can't point to that date

When I stopped cracking

Eggs in a different bowl

There's no way for me

To know why I don't follow the time

l'm supposed to bake for. this time

The cake looks done with the flour

Topped a golden brown. Perfect for me

Not for the recipe used since the date My mom moved out getting a mixing bowl

And a recipe book cracking

Expectations going to college cracking

The small town with no money like the time

Dictated she should have the bowl

Of her diploma teaching me how to mix flour

It's stuck inside my mind since the date

I covered the room in it and nobody cleaned but me

And who taught me

To not separate dry ingredients cracking

The very foundations of baking since the date Of Betty Crocker's birth the time When everything was ordered f rom flower to flour

Nothing was mixed up why did they even need a bowl

Why did I stop eating the brown sugar out of the bowl Why has it been years since my mom told me The vanilla extract tastes as bad as raw flour

And I ate it anyway cracking My mom up as I spat it nearly back in time

I haven't remembered that date

Why have I only been cooking to eat since the date Senior year started and the bowl Became less frgurative than it was in another time

I haven't had an oilflame that was taller than me

Since the day I cracked And turned tossing it into a college essay like rotten flour

For me it was always flour Whose bowl never had the time

-Ella Haas

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When the weight of the world lands on your tongue, The bitter flavoring sends excitement down the spine Maybe bleaching from the top of my head will wash The eraser strands, I scrub my hair Open the freezer at eight p.m. And grab a brand new box of bullshit, Still not tired of the taste, I guess, eh?

The dead roses on the virgin white dresser Means he loves you more than yesterday

Criminals receiving Nobel Peace Prizes

Do you always let their lies slip between that big gap? The yells and demands uncrunch the roses While slowly being sucked back into hell Children killing one another for cigarettes All they do is exhale only to puff another lndulging the harsh words of angels sent from above Leaving the frosty air to respond back in a lifeless cloud Hide the eggs in plain sight I bet you stillwon't be able to find it

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My poetry is playing hide & seek. It squirms down the drain of sophomore year Coddled in the shadows of my locker, I have been choking out a rope of words Trying to reel it back in.

It must have looped itself Down the rim of a boy's lips I hear it giggle. It sounds eerie like uncle's smirk I see his hand shift from my bottle to a frst.

It must have drowned itself in the candle of my chest, Filling the lungs of a lost friend with a sweet smoke

I just want my poetry to double dutch again

It's senior year And my father is too played out to deserve another poem. He hides in excuses. Peek-a-boos through pride.

Now, l'm letting joy climb the slide of my throat My truth is not a game.

why. it's a question, or is it a statement? puzzling p h i I oso p he rs, stumping socratists. why.

why call my name in attendance if that's the only time you speak to me? why don't you see me? why can't you see my raised hand? why won't you see me?

why can't you see me unless i wear a snapback, durag, or bandana spraying color while some cops are spraying coloreds?

why do we even listen to these pacifying politicians babying us because we're not intellectually capable some scientists still think maybe we belong to a different species

why do we invest millions in privately owned prisons where we can send our little black and brown kids who used to go to underfunded schools

why do we cut taxes for those better off but grumble about raising the minimum wage so people have enough money to afford the food they serve instead of fasting on thelr breaks

why don't kids get props for their locks accolades for thelr fades or praise for their braids?

why did you just touch my hair?

why don't you notice us hidden frgures why do you throw up your middle fingers why aren't you you when you're hungry eat a snickers why do you call us dirty, stupid nwhy do you think i belong in the frelds not baseball though, robinson oh, so you mean the cotton one so now i'm just a common one?

why do you want us to go back to africa as if your people originated here as if you didn't bring us here as if you own this country as if i don't sing america too why do you think i play basketball because i'm tall and dark-skinned why am i dark to you but light to them? why does it even matter? why can't we love each other?

-Rachel Barkdoll

fu,rTH{ }u.t

Hair washed with a rough night's Sleep less tossing and turning Around, asking for your affection

Looking for the connection But, the signal is broken

Ears echo with the spring cord cadence of your words

Wake up call, ringing Turning early morning beginnings

Sunny side up, side down

It's never over Easy, peasy Your embrace, tight like fresh OJ Squeezy, Screenshots cracked hot, and served for breakfast

Coffee bitter, black Burned, you left my tongue Twisted like flaky pastry

Yolky egg running Away, citrus sunset memories fade

As long as you stay awake

(Bo' .D,hil U.f"css tll V

They drench my brain in hardship and an overspill of learning. This thing is your product, not your buddy. lt is your drained work of art, labeled (OPRF, oil on canvas.)

,ru ryA,b P*g

Back when 30 minute [ecess was my novocalne When nobody cared if I was mustY 'cause we all were, I could write a 19 page story about a ninja and his weaponlzed tortilla chip, And the teachers couldn't say anything but, "This is so well written", Back when my best friend and I stuck like skin on burning leather. But now dust floats off the relationships I haven't touched Since four square and snow forts, now my best f riend has gone numb, His tongue unable to recognlze the bitterness of the word n-----, So he lets it float llke dandruff onto my to face, Each flake branding his whlte privilege onto my skin. --

Maya Plotkin-

-Grace Sagal

,ft9 CJI nJ.

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I Cannot Love My Neighbor if they Call Me ,,He-She,,

Love is when laughter perfumes the air The way organs in my chest frll to animate me Love is classroom-wide nicknames And complimenting each other's hair.

But I cannot love my neighbor if they call me ,,He-she.,,

Love is a collective eye-roll over a teacher's B.S. Love is knowing you will barely pass a group project But comforted by doing so together.

I cannot love my neighbor if they call me "He-she.,,

Hate is stench. Hate turns organs to ash and fills the empty space with anything to prevent pneumothorax.

Hate is holding a blade bare-handed, bare-hilted And being laughed at or avoided and deciding that's safest.

still, I cannot love my neighbors if they reached for their hated blade first.

N*ffru

fu'4ry 9**

When fall came the crisp leaves frlled the branches with life,

Walking outside the cold smell of lake water felt like ants trickling down my back, While black boots squashed the leaves creating a palette of warm colors,

Scanning the cherry tree in my backyard, I spotted one last leaf preparing to plummet,

"Do not plummeti' I tellthe leal "For every leaf that falls diminishes the branch's life'l But as the brittle bluestem lost its grip, I heard a snap,

When fall ended, The branches were left with no fulfilment of life, And that fall I wished the leaves had held on a little longer

furry Us fu, cAc"

/--",1,a

My family believes that when l'm sad I need a reason, They stood cutting onions Tried to slice my layers off to frnd out when I started waking up sad every day. The stench still makes them cry.

I taught myself to cement my mouth shut instead Of exhaling the fumes of my sadness onto my family. They said no one wanted my breath to prick their eyes with tears so instead I let the infection fester in my chest till my ribs crumble

From all the pressure and poke my scar littered side.

It took me over a year to be able to talk about it. No one likes to admit daddy's little girl is sick Not with an illness that will pass but something that sticks like the smell of onions on a unwashed cutting board My family only likes onions when I don't serve them.

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fi,,L

Once in third grade I was once asked, "What are you?"

Her eyebrows moved as if Paper crinkled in frustration Her mouth tried to scribble the answers down

I should have told her that I was an Alien princess from the planet Tamaran And my name was Starfrre

I could have said That I was a devious tlger My claws as sharp my brain

Or that I was A blooming sapling growing to become a flower

ln another dimension She was asking me, "Why does your features look different than mine?"

Money doesn't grow on trees Nelther does kindness.

Maire O'Donnell-

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My frosty La Croix, you inspire me to thrive. Forever in love with your bubbly refreshment Sweetened by honey of mind as from the hive, Pamplemousse and orange my never ailment.

Underwhelmed by the existence of soda, The taste of carbonation on my tongue. Corrupted never by sugar-having coda, Winter and summer;for need neither have wrung

The color of can and liquid as pure as thee. Addiction not separate from devotion. Lost for the nature of metal beauty. Lightning strikes of taste ambling by ocean

The affable happiness destroys allenmity, Nevermore gone;the enigma of sparkling drink

fr" rrb#-%

CoMh{v

Pl' Pry'" 1$7*+"

"You don't have to movel' I told the cat before started straightening the sheets and duvet on my bed. "That corner's already made-upi' Velma blinked at me and turned her head. She sat, serene as her paws sunk into the mattress of the Made-Up Corner.

I dragged the top corners ofthe duvet into place, fluffed the pillows until you could almost fall through them without even feeling them, and straightened everything out, but the Made-Up Corner still seemed the straightest and smoothest of the four.

I laid on the bed after the chore, one leg dangling off the side of the bed, one hand dangling through the Made-Up Corner.

3,h"

fu,fi,g* /-aun

Navy invades the Western sky

Dancing dots interrupt the obsidian ocean The moon rises, with an illuminating aura.

Eastward, amber shards assault the loomlng night, Pierce the sky with savage light. Orange fluorescence stains the sky, The midnight hues assailthe pastel pink.

The plunge glows red, As if the sun is bleeding and soon dead

The irradiation is absorbed bythe Earth, It's fervent pallet subdued. Triumphant, a bleached corona looms, The moon's reign begins.

/a lfu $a"J.A fu'A*t*

1/,i4J

I feel an axe scratch on my neck With a hazmat solar plex With a backpack, to the West Of math class and my desk They'll know there's death in my head They'll know there's shake in my knees You're so used to my breath You can't see when I wheeze So please leave, your pity feels like tackling stones Go back please, no tag teams I fight asthma attack alone My domes built to burst Blimp on my skull, limp to a hearse God give me coal, make sure it's burnt Hiding in school, friends never learned My rib tips burning

A furnace inside a pulpit Churning, my throat a bullet Learning I got a wool chest Cool it, l'm soothing, I don't need you healing me ljust need to fall alone so I can hear the trees.

fl,n Coh,*,F*[ ru'P$J F*."

Mom comes back from Korea sticky with tattered pictures

Of the family I should know I am tricked into feeling phantom pains For people that have been severed from my temporal lobe

on the way to school with mom's body still shot awake by 5.45 p.m. seoul time I ask about Sungjae

Expecting at least a familiar silhouette of my cousin whose hands kissed the frsh in the Han River with me Believing that there is still some trace of the Sungjae who spoiled the end of Percy Jackson for me and told me with the sky in his voice that he was going to be a writer

But mom only talks about a boy whose face is stippled with acne

Who is taking the bus an hour to school

Who is going to be a lawyer

Who is that person? What kind of music does he listen to? What are the books that he wishes he wrote? I don't know

How do I miss him or any of the people my memories have shattered into?

-Anna Kallay

-Carly Swanson

-Claire Ciserella

Ellie Traczyk-

-Christina Rorres I

Maya Plotkin-

Jack Valenti-

-Christina Rorres

- Emma Vejcik

Sarah Lotus-

Maciej Dzumala-

-Emma Vejcik

IGflORA,IIE r

-Miya Chiang

Zazycki-

-Carly Swanson

-Jack Valentr

-Bay Gugel-Dawson

Sarah Lotus-

Allison Turner-

-Erin Proctor

-Olivia Uz

-Ben Ross

Liam Loughran-

lsaac Schaider

tLikes: Preserving wildlife, selling chocolate to preserve said wildlife Dislikes: Separation from the comforts of River Forest living Mascot: Klng Kong Quote: "l'll be there in ten..l'*Walks in 30 minutes later*

Gabe Darley

Likes: Chocolate cake, happiness & love, Vampire Weekend Dislikes: Varsity Tennis, blood, violence, lsaac's impressions Mascot: Golden Retriever Quote: "You're beautiful. You're amazing. I love youi'

India Guthrie

Likes:Anything pink and fluffy, being your friend, videos with lots of zoom Dislikes: Being compared to Lola from Shark Tale Mascot:Amoeba

Quote: " l'm deeeedddddl'

Buzz Smith

Likes: Red, running, Dinico's pizzaon Sundays, flooded pants Dislikes: Leveled hair, Steve Mascot: Lemur Quote: "Oh, yeah. I recognize him. That's Ashton Kutcherl'

Bay Gugel-Dawson

Likes: Spiderwebs, chameleons, short pajama pants, the Lotus sisters

Dislikes: Disagreement, math

Mascot:Spider

Quote: "Y'all..l'

Angela Sudrez Prieto

Likes: Bomb makeup, Takis, asking if she can ask you a question

Dislikes. sarcastic comments, when you talk about her Android

Mascot: Peacock

Quote: "How was your day?"

Alyssa Coughlin

Likes: Knitting (in theory), washing clothes and exploring mythology

Disl ikes: Actua I ly knitting (especia I ly in cantankerous cars)

Mascot:Corgi

Quote: "Hey do you guys want to go to a party...? A Shakespeare party?"

Mariama Sidime

Likes: Having nice nails and perfect winged eyeliner

Dislikes: Shopping with Alyssa for vanilla beans, Alyssa asking questions

Mascot:Owl (the beautiful kind)

Quote: "This is just an image of a man pretending to eat a carrot, obviouslyl'

MaciejDzumala

Likes: Tennis, tennis, tennis, architectu re, h is signatu re

Dislikes: Nature magazines, crooked lines, uglyfonts

Mascot: Meerkat

Quote: "Nope. Not levell'

Hey you I lt's us again

U""y" f+'o" {4"

We ended up with this funny empty page all the way at the end of the book, so we thought we might put it to good use by giving you an environmental news alertl

It has come to our attention that the bees are dying. That's right, the western honey bee (Apis mellifera) has seen a dangerous drop in its global population. Within the 28 years between 1980 and 2008, scientists have recorded the loss of approximately 2 million hives. This climbing death rate can be attributed to the infamous Colony Collapse Disorder (CCD), a phenomenon with many unanswered questions related to cause and prevention. These beautiful bees are notthe mean stinging kind, butthe nice pollinating kind which allow our awesome agricultural economy to thrive and feed us hungry humansl So, please keep them alivel

"Well, what can I do?" you might ask

. StoQ using pesticides and herbicides in your gardenl

. Plant bee-friendly plants like lavender, rhododendron, and cotoneasterl

. Put a small water dish out on your balcony for our thirsty friendsl

. Buy raw honey f rom your local beekeeperl

Thank you for doing your part in protecting your environment. The Earth will thank you in the future (or at least NOT cave in on itself f rom lack of attention).