Crest 2019

the crest

The Crest

A

Letter from the Editors

Hello!

Welcome to The Crest. All that we ask of you is to read this magazine. Every year the team of Crest editors evaluates the work of hundreds of extremely talented OPRF artists and writers. This year we have been amazed, as always, by the work submitted to us and we hope to share with you what your classmates have created through dedication and commitment to their crafts. We also want to congratulate all of the artists who are contributing to The Crest's 726 year long legacy at OPRF. The Crest is a testament both to the talent of generations of students and the commitment of our school to appreciate that. We encourage you to become a part of OPRF's legacy of celebrating the Arts by enjoying this year's edition of The Crest. ff v{,nwnrs tut +rw

Bay Gugel-Dawson

Ella Roadruck

Sophie Shaw

Nick Paris

Ava Eckman

Nina Allread

Chris Ray

Claudia Wolfe

Lua Powers Keisi Ago

Manny Flores

Tess McConville

Gianna Perez Allen White

Ariana Spruille

Egan Homerick

Daniel Weiss

Olivia Badrinath

Alyssa Coughlin

Abby Van Santen

Paige Wright

Ituleigh Clarke

Our Artists (in order of appearance)

Nicholas Berry Anandita Vidyarthi Estella Slocum

Prachi Mehendale Ella Haas

Remy Gajewski

Caroline Nichols Alice Atkins Logan Nijensohn Cyrus Nijensohn

Teanla House Adele Henning Sophia Iqbal Ella Weatherington

Benjy Ross Natalie Serratos Cleo Hendrickson

EIise Pope

Olivia Hunsberger

Nick Bango Maddie Howe Cecelia Crumlish

Jennie Bull

Sydney Hunnewell Emery Brandhorst

Molly Gibbs

Rachel Paulk

Annaliese Baker Leila Winn Nina Catrambone Jackalyna Neumann Ian Heining Luke Elwart Azaria Bradley Sarah Kohout Isabel Sichlau Anjali Pride Elise Beile Adia ftacek

Anastasia Khoubaeva Jordan Smith

Caroline Anderson Evelyn Reese

Kate Willsey

Rosalyn Beile

Allison Ttrner Bridget Pierce

Victor Droblas

Aleah Schallack

Ella Taira Danielle Guralnick Claire Von Ebers Aaron Baker Ben More Harper McKinney

Emma Meister Bresnahan

Fiona Golden Nico Gonzalez-Stuver Janine Pohlman

Leif Bryning Brooke Bellmar

Azreinna Wilson

Chloe Jacobson Amelia Yu Abby Mullen

David Greenstone Marriana Gutiemez

-Bay Gugel-Dawson

Scraps and Whispers

by Ella Roadruck

I used to feed on scraps and whispers. Obtaining my nutrients from protruding collar bones and rib cages. I'm Welcomed into the world of sleepless nights and thinning hair, Trading diet pills like Spearment tic tacs. Flashbacl<s as vivid as the smell of my mothers perfume, I gt'zzle water and try to fit my hands around my hips. There is a sense of power in the pain I feel, when my body is pleading to be fed. My ribs are screaming at the surface of my skin over and over. I destroy myself for your satisfaction. Until I choose recovery, The vicious cycle in my mind Will only continue to make me blind.

l

-Sophie Shaw

Rebirth by Nick Paris

C::t.i:i:1.ic gLrilt is a )o';ierful- taol,i Ti;a;:.< 3oc I:'ras irsi-i tieri,,,i-i*;iri t ils.l ci:i'ic; i'd stuff myself like a bear and drive myself into the ground; But; There is the Catholic guilt; There is alr.rays something more to your t'ife; So; Like a zombiel You heavel Struggle; CoIlapse; And Ri se; It isn't pretty or miracutousl It's workl You fatl aga'in1

For a second, only the immediate is rea1l Dirt seeps into your pores and you begin to stiffenl Veins go from blue to blackl Your mind drains like a cotd bisque; The dirt enters your eyes and seeps through your optic nerves; Gu'ilt isn't enough sometimes; You wail in agonyl Why, God Why? The guitt is back; You aren't making sense; There's more to life than anger; The gui1"t flushes you cleanl It starts in your eyes; They glaze over dutl and sedated; Your veins are filted with light; There's more to me; There's more to tife; vc>ur €,'lisLeircg is =;i i;nproi:at;ii.iry: Iiur,vbe I sholili r';r-ite sornctL'ing haprier; rrat: is <:oi:ring and:t rre,rcr:;ici;s; -Iire gu ii-r i s back; I :i;ess i *rjl :co;

Tangy Mango Salsa

by Ava Eckman

Abrupt tapping at the window startles me as my uncle motions for me to unlock the door and greets me with an unusually upbeat smile. Extending his hands it opens to show a bright, red, shining object. He hands me the piece of candy from the top in his palm. Confused yet excited I grab the candy and tear off the orange wrapper and sniff the strange, beaming, substance.

The red orange mixture reminds me of sliced cucumbers sprinkled in Tajin sitting on the China plates at my great grandmother's before having a strawberry popsicle from the freezer while she sat in her rocking chair watching the news.

I pop the sweet into my mouth eagerly. Sliding over to the other side of the car he sits on the edge of the seat leaving the door wide open to the sounds of the highway a few yards beyond the gate and watches me at first as if there was a catch to what I was about to eat. The coating is spicy and sweet as the flavor rolls over my tongue and the powder dissolves into sweet nothing.

He tosses the bag of them into the car from out his coat pocket of the black Patagonia and zippers covered in keychains jingle as they settle back into place. Trying to figure out the complex mixture of flavors in my mouth, I read the packaging, which to me seems impossible to decode, but a chile on the front of the bag draws my attention as the taste continues to shift between flavors.

The taste at first reminds me of my Abuela's tangy mango salsa she makes which ignites my tongue. As people begin to crawl out of the funeral room eyes adjusting to the harsh light from the sun and their shoulders nearing parallel to the ground, my grandpa makes his way over with my Abuela who came out from the room last. Clutching her black purse which spills with pens and tiny coin purses ripping ar the seam rhey cross rhe parking lot over to our car. As she lifts her glasses wiping dry tears from their face dragging her skin making her eyes seem small.

The lollipop is now marble sized when my grandparents start talldng to my mom, though still transforming in flavor on my ton€Ire despite the lack of original size. This new blend of flavors continue to perplex me as the drivers door opens and a faint "mija" reverberates from the crowd of unfamiliar faces.

I roll down my window to draw the attention of my Abuela before she gets into their black car that faintly smells of old leather. As I waited for her to finish I stared out into the back seat of their car where I could make out the small statue of Jesus proffuding out the pocket of the back seat that had always been there every time they picked me up from my house. She lowers her small gold rim glasses and with ease reads the packaging. The blend of chile and mango reminds her of train rides through Mexico with her cousins and brothers eating popsicles of similar taste from vendors off the street or made by her cousins during the sweltering heat of the afternoon.

I savor the taste of the lollipop more now as if the candy will connect me to my mom's side.

As the car starts through the ominous black gates of the cemetery I stare back into the single door of the dimly lit room where flowers decorate the edges of the walls and over the podium in the front of the room trying to add color. The table previously covered in food now empty and the plates littered with cookie crumbs. A casket lay in the center of the room its finish over the wood reflecting the lights hidden in the ceiling paneling. And a single woman sits in the black plastic chairs holding a flag while the parking lot empties onto the highway.

-Nina Allread

-Chris Ray

-Claudia Wolfe

Animocity

by Lua Powers

If I could say anything beforehand I'd say that it doesn't matter how tough you are The second you step in the city the buildings are gonna chew you up and soon you'll find yourself the headrush of souls grinding on asphalt and skids burning on street I could never be over the blazing mid-days with humidiry always panting down my neck or the cold nights when framed yellows and glaring blues invade through breathy fog always watching but never waiting for anlthing in particular They always have been and I'd say they always will But I'd also say that getting chewed up doesn't always mean getting spit out and once you've flossed your way through high rises I'd say you'll find your way to something fresher Thick skinned sidewalks can break down into something softer Trains won't always scream like you will, busses won't always plow like you'll try to Sometimes it will all just flow tough and tender lives intertwine pulling and pushing apart like muscles maintaining a pulse that's been veining out and in on itself longer than I'd say any of us have

-Keisi Ago

Adult Teeth

by Manny Flores

The best thing about me comes from picking fruit.

I pluck each from its stem like slips of numbers from a ticket counter. Each fruit comes into my hand like a green paper strip, The first time I picked a fruit from my grandmother's tree, my mom pressured me to bite into it.

I think she was teaching me all the things My adult teeth would need to be ready for.

I use pruners to take the fruit off its branch, Making it cry as it leaves its only home. Those immigrants need green cards but our country hacks at them with hedge shears, They bawl into tears wanting to share this home.

- Tess McConville

Gianna Perez-

The New Heroes

by Nlen White

AII other heroes were written on white paper

Till black pens made a new hero on the scene

He struck down from the clouds and vapor Lean mean wisecrackin machine fighting fiends

His name was Static, victim of police brutality

But even when he looked beaten and broken Wasn't another stat in black mortality

Cuz he shined like black gold, not a black token Black Panther, Black Lightning, Black Manta, Black Light Shouldn't have to emphasize the "Dark" in the knight But static taught me that my head was what won the fight, Taught me how to look both ways with wrong and right Taught me superheroes didn't have to be white

Through his black ink, he still beamed bright

Laid to Rest

by Ariana Spruille

this is for police officers in the U.S with their premeditated opinions handed out like prizes. I was six years old, didn't even know what police brutality was, a shadow of beads and barrettes in CVS hiding behind my grandmother because I thought I saw my name on their warrant. discarding bullets like it's a game of hot potato. the fear originating from my skin not mirroring the one of my oppressor look us in the face and answer this: how big of a deal is it when you're laid off but my brothers and I are laid to rest.

You cling on to others for you won't sink But what does it do to you when you drown me? Filling up my throat with water Oceans suffocate me

Leaving me no room to breathe.

Your nails digging into my sandy soft shoulders Crumbling away with you As you struggle to stay afloat. What use am I to you When all I do Is act like a buoy to you?

Instead of grabbing onto my tentacle wrapped hands To pull you to shore, But you ignore Me, you just stare

Like I'm a hurricane and it was my fault

As if I pushed you in those waters...

But you let yourself sink.

You were the one nailed those anchors on your ankles And let yourself go deeper, Soon you'll hit rock bottom And I'll be staring at the seashore.

Rolling Tides

by Gianna Perez

Your clear blue hands wrap around my sand built legs As if you were trying to turn another kid's sand castle Into nothing but wet sand. I struggle to lose the grip of the seaweed's song But the swaying of your body Pretending to be the wind Is a storm Turning seaweed songs Into slimy dancing eels.

The Clouds Know My Face at Night

by Daniel Weiss

I find that the clouds, purple and tinged with orange echoes of downtown Chicago, are the only uniSring factor in my peace of mind. I walk at night and every tree feels Like a stranger brushing past me in the sreet and every lamppost eyes me with an expression it forgot last night. But the clouds stand above me and they've always been watching me up there, and they know of what I've done and seen, they watch my life like deities every day, always there, and I walk the night knowing their knowledge hugs me and rhey Remember Me when I Don't. They see my face at night, lit pale and clearly as though under a spotlight by the gleam of the moon, tonight its bright pallor in the sky is still strange to me, never quite the same to me, but the clouds watch me and they remember me and bear a familiar face. The clouds were white and pure like thick marshmallow fluff when I watched them crawl past above blurry cornfields and falling leaves, above the sound of the car's motor, their eyes calmly observed me and remembered and those eyes were as loud as the music playing in my ears. They were a different color then, but they've got the same expressions now as they had then; everybody looks different at night but their memories still cling to them like glue. The only connection between us under the light of a strange moon and the people we think we saw in the mirror is the clouds' memories of us during the day.

Egg Shells

hy Olivia Badrinath

Wilting, tumid eyes.

Tears that scorch flesh like rain pounding on the door of this earth for the very first time. Look up at me.

Let your eyes remain ripe, bleeding grapefruits for just a few more sentences.

When you forget the order of the letters to your own name because you can only think of the person who sunny-side-up-ed, poached, and scrambled them. Remember your heart before you stepped on the shells.

Before the scabs clungto the bottoms of feet as a constant reminder of what it feels to be unbroken Know that your name was who you were before. And it will still be who you become after. And when you question what spiteful rype of gravity or spacetime fabric that still pins you down to this tormenting, moist rock That is me.

There have, are, and will be galaxies upon universes in which you do not exist Where the thread that seduces the past to evolve to the future has been cut. That very thread that Iures you to live another day, tugging at your limbs, just out of sheer curiosity. But whenever you cannot decide: Remember your value isn't determined by how many stars streaked the sky on the night that you were born And that this stepping stone of a planet would be just a little bit nastier, hungrier and more putrid if you were to vanish from its brief existence.

One morning, you will wake up barefoot dancing on those shattered egg shells. Let your feet grind them until they are the finest of sands.

Glitter the soil with gritty stars trailing under your feet. The ones that people believed were missing in their own beginnings.

Because you know that even the smashed up and breathless porcelain hearts can be beautiful if you wait for just one more minute for the dawn And that there is only one type of glue that so delicately binds us all together in this version of the universe And it is hope.

blindness altered so all else was interference by

Alyssa Coughlin

There's a field by his house he never sees out of stubborn blindness. It was a field of unseasoned perennials that squinted their green eyes at us, and voyeuristically noted how my heart my heart rate altered with the potency of his proclamations so they could hypothesize the speed at which I would dotingly descend into the hands that met me with a hunger so fierce, what they had clumsily consumed the night before and whatever ambition fuelled their apetit e leapt from their memory as they went on ,o find the next midnight snack that would catch his eye and gratify his palate. And they were quick. Found in the same places they found me, for rustling sheets to sing ro.

He decided it was best he ft'e in the backseat, all the way down.

The field had bloomed, an amatory purple and you missed it a1L Distracted, you dreamt of someone else While I sat in the front seat, where I was looking at flowers and thinking of you. Now I'm jtst interference.

-Abby Van Santen

My Anchor

by Paige Wright

I lay back on the bed, Stress from grieving my grandmother's passing, And worry for life after high school hovers over me like a dyingwater lily

Turning quivers into spasms as I fight past tears

Dark shadows chase the corners of my vision

As my newborn cousin lulls in and out of sleep

My nerves calm

While my hand rubs up and down her back

I squeeze her tighter not wanting to let go

She is the one stopping the waters from overflowing

Letting an innocence sweeter than spice llood my system

To hold me together in trust that she will l<eep me afloat

Just as she trusts me to keep her out of harm's way

I close my cyes her baby's-breath invading my mind

While she sleeps soundly holding my finger, not loowing she's my anchor

-Abby Van Santen

Ashes

by Kaleigh Clarke

I stopped praying because of him

But what I like about me is I recover

I'm a dandelion sumounded by ashes

At night we talked but it slowly went from hi's to lies, each text message was a rant about his issues, but the next day my baggy eyes would show me how naive I was I always asked myself "Why do you give into his trouble?"

But reflecting on each text was like walking on burning rocks He never listened to my problems

My anxiety was on rewind, but I stillwas addicted to his depression story

He got help and I went back to church for clarity

Now my ashes are soil for new grass.

How I Slice Cheddar

hy Nicholas Berry

What I find most curious about myself is how I slice cheddar. How I celebrate the power of blade, how it commands the respect of even the most stalwart things. The kind of power a black boy only gets when asked to fight. In my house, we know how year-old turkey breast is the only thing that can satist/ a mewling stomach. How when whole wheat bread reclines on the counter, My mother and I thank God for its crumbs. I remember the first white boy to ask why I don't have a lunch if there must be a free one for every black boy who managed to escape to white suburbia. The grin he gave me was Swiss sharp, making a sliver out of my starved stomach.

Angry Poems Aren't My Thing

by Anandita Vidyarthi

The best way to write a poem is to get angry Which isn't hard-have you met my mother? All the plants in my house have died except mine It's growing into something beautiful that waters itself And seeks happiness from the sun but mostly I keep it away from my mother Angry poems aren't my thing anymore I wanna write a review for the Oak Park Bakery A community institution I recommend for girls who need mothers that bake and have learned to grow from glucose Thank them for all the strawbemy donuts

With powdered sugar on my nose and jelly on my thighs I want to eat a donut every week till I leave for college To let the sugar coat memories of my mother with a glowing review instead.

The Four and a Half Lies You Hear About Hunting by Estelle Slocum

My Grandma can speak to animals.

Hymns somersault out of her mouth as she calms the scared pig putting her cracked lips to the animal's blushed skin. Her words sing stories of love and despair. The unsuspecting animal finds peace in her words and stops its trembling. It doesn't see the spear. It dies quietly. It's not mourned. It's celebrated. My Grandma says story,tellers and hunters are the same. Both find ways to get from home to hell in as few words as possible. My Aunt Hilda, who writes books depicting erotic mythical beasts, scoffs. She thinks her mom is insane. Says she doesn't know how to act like the Hunter's Wife.

Grandma replies by saying, "I am not the Hunter's Wife. I am the Hunter." My Aunt Hilda is the Baker's Wife. She lives in the Baker's house and cares for the Baker's kids. All ten of them.

My Grandma used to be beautiful. She would wear the pelts of the animals my grandfather killed for her. She'd parade around the town, causing everyone to stare and wonder how the Hunter of all people had gotten her to fall in love with him."He used to be romantic," my Grandma says. He raveled up to Canada to kill the Snow Fox to make her a new hat to show off. They shared their bed, each getting a pillow He gave her the side of the bed facing the window. Now, my grandfather is not romantic and my Grandma is not beautiful. After giving birth to my mother and Aunt Hilda, her youthful glow was replaced by a sour milk face and stretchmarks.

On Wednesdays, my Grandma takes me out to hunt. She hands me a pistol. She holds the spear so that it pierces the wind, making a crackling sound. She used to go with my grandfather. But, she told me that he had become too much of a pig to be able to kill one. She says this because he has the bed now. She says this because he gets to celebrate the pig first, even if he didn't kill it. So now she goes with me.

This Wednesday she takes me deeper into the woods than ever before. She sits me down on a rotten tree. I hold the pistol in my lap.

"Trevor, I am gonna teach you how to hunt."

"Okey."

"lt's not gonna be easy, my boy."

"Okey."

"You might lose a finger or two to some wild boar."

I am silent.

My Grandma ignores my silence and tells me there are five lies that you hear about hunting. "Number one: You can't cry for the animal. This is a lie, because in order to fully celebrate its life, you must feel for the creature. Understand that you are connected to it. Y'all live on the same planet, share the same air. One of you just got luclcy. Imagine it was hunting you. You'd cry then.

Number Two: You should never get too close to the animal. This is a load of bullshit. The amount of insensitivity hunters these days have. Thinking they're any better than the animal. You have to prepare the beast for its death. They're much less heartbroken when they are aware of the hunter. Get up close. Introduce yourself.

Number Three: You have to be quiet. This a terrible lie. No animal enjoys being stalked by some quiet predator. You want the animal to die happy or else its ghost will come back to haunt you. And you don't want that do you?"

"No, ma'am." My Grandma likes to ask questions with only one answer. Just like how she likes only hunting on Wednesdays. She used to say that the animals were unpredictable enough for the both of them.

"The only way to make them happy is to talk to them, tell them stories. Sing them lullabies.

Number Four: Hunters have no soul. Well my boy, if I had no soul, I would have killed your Aunt Hilda as soon as she came out of the womb. Wouldn't even bother singing her a song.

Now Number Five is an interesting one, because it's sometimes fue. It says that hunters enjoy the Hunt. To be honest, Trev, I like the smell of pig's blood more than any flower shop. I like to taste the game. It's entertaining, really. To hear the squeals and groans. But, I only enjoy it because I draw royal flushes. There are plenty of hunters who don't. As I said, it all comes down to luck."

My Grandma sits down next to me and teaches me her songs. Teaches me that pigs liked the stories that involve love fiangles and birds usually like the adventure ones. She says that one day when I inherit the role of the Hunter these are things I'll just have to know. I ask if I should be taking notes. She says that notes are for wimps, and I don't ask any more questions.

She hands me the spear. It doesn't crackle when I hold it. It is heavy in my hand.

My Grandma crouches down, the bubbles in her knees pop. I follow her down. We sit there frozen. Barely breathing. That's when she starts to sing. Her melodies gallop off her tongue in search for any creature who might want to listen. She stops her siren-like call and asks me...

"Well, are you gonna sing or not?"

"Yes ma'am."

My tone is scratchy and unrefined. Like someone is scraping my throat with a rock. No creature would ever be attracted to that.

A rabbit comes out from a bush. It sits down in front of me and listens to my song. It winces every time my prepubescent voice cracks but never moves from its spot. My Grandma picks the rabbit up and holds it close to her chest. Rocking it back and forth. Back and forth. When it calms down she hands it to me.

"lt's all up to you now. You ready?"

I nod.

Holding the spear high above my head, I continue to sing. I bring it down as fast as I can.

The spear goes through something, but paralyzed I can't tell what. I start to yell. My voice is loud and it startles the woods. All the birds fly from the trees and the bloodstained rabbit jumps from my knee as agile and quick as ever. My Grandma sighs and walks away.

I can't follow.

_t J_J l _i_l IIJ]I].

-Abby Van Santen

Nichols

What She Was Preaching

by Alice Atkins

I hate the church. lt made little girts aspire to be virgins; scared scnselcss It madc me rccite scripturcs whcn I wanted to perlbrm vcrscs The bible is poery I'illed with oxymorons and clicho lines The bcst way to pray wasn't to bcat my brokcn hand on my chcst To leave bruises ol' repcntancc and sorrow lt wasn't to put my rveight on my knecs havc the cross around my necl< lcavc a marl< on my brerasl, Or have AbLrelita use my lacl< olfaith to justil'ythc wrongs in my lile "The worst oncs go to church" .y Tia said, rosary in hand as il she l<ncw what shc was preaching.

Queenhall Manor

by Cyrus Nijensohn

"Welcome to Mystery Haunts! I'm your Host, Chet Hallden. On this episode, we go deep into the tragic tale of the Queenhall Manor, one of the most haunted locations in the world...let's get spooked....How was that? Dramatic enough?"

"Here we are in the front hall. The mansion is composed of two floors and one basement, with most of the haunting supposedly happening near the basement. Queenhall Manor was home to the Kingston family, and was composed of Arthur Kingston, his wife Marilyn and their twin children Maximus and Eleanor. Local legend claims that Arthur and Marilyn went mad and killed Eleanor while Maximus fled into the woods. Both parents soon were found outside their house with a knife impaled through both of their chests...What horrors must have befallen this place...lf you're hearing this Max...l feel for you..."

"Dude, that was money!"

"Really, you like that tear?" a**rr:t rpXlt Sold it!,, "...What the 'r*** was that?"

"Dunno man, probably some rats."

"Shh Eric, this is obviously paranormal activity! We found something!"

"Dude, it's Jack. It's alway's Jack. He's just setting up the noise makers."

"No way dude, I didn't invite Jack"

"What? What do you mean you didn't invite Jack?!?"

"Shh, record!...Anir,vay, here we are in front of the master bedroom. This is where Arthur and Marilyn slept. This is also where Max leapt out of the house and into the forest behind the mansion. Local legend says that he's never resurfaced since then."

"Ok, what is that tappin$"

"Dude, sounds kinda like Morse."

"Morse? Why the **** do you think it's Morse? Who knows Morse?"

"Well unlike you Chet, I read up more on the legend instead of the basics. Supposedly Eleanor was mute and to communicate she learned Morse to speak with her brother."

"That's just bull****. You're making that up."

"No dude, I swear! [t's Morse!"

"Then what does it say?"

"How should I know? I never learned how to speak ******* Morse!"

"Then how would you-...did you hear thal?"

"What, that large thump outside the door? No. I did not."

"lt was a ghost! Come on man!"

"Stop pulling my arm!"

iA.s we can see viewers, the noise outside the door is leading us back to the front hall! Now that we've returned we can find the sour-WHAT IS THAT???"

"DUDE, WHAT?"

"DID YOU NOT SEE THAT? THAT'S A GHOST! RIGHT THERE!"

"Where, Where?!?!"

"lt's gone...Viewers from across the globe. I have just made contact with paranormal activity!"

"Give it a rest, Chet, that was just a prank! You made that up!"

4**** No man! Never!"

"Where is that tapping coming from!"

"Did you hear that slam?"

lNo **'(* Chet....Stop pulling my arm!"

"Come on! It came from the basement!"

"Dude!..."Holy **** the door closed behind us..."

"Eric, this is actually happening! This is actually happening!"

(oh **** oh ***** oh ****, "Let's go down...What the **** is that?"

"lt...looks like a...oh my god...what did those two do to her?"

"...that came from behind us, Chet."

"Dude...look down. Keep your eyes...down."

"This

"It

"WHAT THE **** IS THAT???"

(Al,A,dd{Ar{GH***',

"Oh god CHET!!!!...Stay away from me you freak! STAY AWAYrrl fudAld{GGHHH!!!"

"This recording was recovered from the Queenhall Manor Tuesday Morning after local police heard the screams coming from the house. After investigatin$ they discovered the tlvo men, Chet Hallden and Eric Maquil dead. There were no suspects found for the next two weeks until Jack Torrence came forward admitting to staging the haunting to kill them. However, he did not admit to the Morse, claiming that the house had been abandoned for years and there was no way Morse could be used that way. This concludes our Report on the Queenhall Manor Murder. I'm Stacy Bin with Mike Xander as co-host. Thank you, and goodnight."

"What was that?"

isn't The Blair Witch, Chet!"

might as well could be!"

Teanla House-

-Adele Henning

-Sophia Iqbal

Ray

- Teanla House

- Adele Henning

- Tess McConville

Benjv Ross-

l)aniel Weiss-

-Cleo Hendrickson

-Elise Pope

-Olivia Hunsberger

-Cecelia Crumlish ESS MCConV e-

Jennie Bull-

-Sydney Hunnewell

Emery Brandhorst-

- Chris Rav

-Cecelia Crumlish

-Molly Gibbs

- Rachel Paulk

Bango

-Caroline Anderson -Annaliese Baker

-t".,.

-Nini Catrambone

'i

-Jackalyna Neumann -Ian Heining

-Sophia Iqbal

-Isabel Sichlau

-Ian Heining

-Sophie Shaw

-Anjali Pride

-Daniel Weiss

-Natalie Serratos

-Elise Beile

-Natalie Serratos

-Adia Ptacek

-Anastasia Khoubaeva

Caroline Anderson-

-Jordan Smith

-Carolinc Anderson

Chris ltar -

- F.r'elvn ltccsc

\Iarriana (iutierrez

-Kate Willsey

-Rosalyn Beile

-Sophie Shaw

Chris Ray-

-Victor

-Nick Paris

-Sydney Hunnewell

-Aleah Schallack

- Ella Taira

Prachi

Mehendale

-Danielle Guralnick

Grandma's Kitchen

by Claire Von Ebers

Grandma's kitchen cradles mc in hiccups

And leaves my stomach watermelon lull

The mcmories arc a third eyc sccing into the past

And we laugh like we forgot, old age transfering onto us

It rechs ol cinnamon trying to mask spoiled airplane smells and college dorm rooms And covcrs us with fbrked laughter

Grandma's kitchen is a museum

It's constantly crowded and the furniture is dusted with expiration

It's f ine china happincss, vulnerablc and woundcd

Likc how we prctend that no one is dead

When I'm there, Ispeak in double dutch and use words Idon't l<now the delinition to My tongue cursive in the air and my family gawks in disapproval

Grandma's kitchen is a graveyard and we are all buried together It will outlivc us all.

-Aaron Baker

"Wow. I mean, wow. This is just crazy," declaimed Californian Morgan Williams, in the first of a series of partisan statements on President Trump he delivered this morning to an audience of several co-workers at the daily water cooler congregation. "l can't believe we elected this guy. Great.job, America." Spurred on by the President's recent actions concerning the Mueller investigation, Williams, a live chat tech support consultant, continued: "This is, like, totally like 1984. Wish we could make Orwell fiction again, right guys? Because what Trump is doing is exactly like, uh, big brother." Williams' constituents, to whom he was speakin$ confirmed: "Mm. Yeah. Crazy." Williams' comments are merely the latest in a series of attacks on the President, as he is one of Trump's most outspoken critics on Instagram and belongs to several Democratic Facebook groups. Williams has previously slammed Trump's policies ("Saw Donald Trump on my counter today. Oh wait, my oranges must have gone rotten. #missyouobama".) and refweeted a large amount of females with blue checkmarks next to their names following Brett Kavanaugh's confirmation. At the time of writing this, Williams is currently drafting further statements, which pundits speculate will likely concern further commentary on the President's appearance, references to authors Williams has heard comedians talk about but has not read himself, and the first few words of the most recent headline he has read. Williams first established his pattern of rhetoric during the 2016 election, when he weighed in: "Can't vote for either of these two. #Trump is the lethal injection and ffHillary is the electric chair. #feelthebern.,, When asked what he planned to touch on next, Williams remarked that he had recently seen Harry Potter and found it extremely relevant to today's political climate, minus the magic stuff.

Company of a Heartbeat by Harper McKinney

Why is it no one takes time to listen to their heartbeat? To hear the rhythmic tone, to which we no longer follow Running, racin$, moving chasing Ignoring the steady pacing And the inevitable doom we are facing The noise only comes accompanied by silence It cowers in the face of the man-made noise A noise that only mimics the maternal beat to which the man is made Because, as it appears, it brings with the realization we are alone. So the last beep of the call that ended a S-month relationship was followed by the knock on the bedroom door of my mom, the loud sound of tears down my face, the somehow comforting sound of her heartbeat, and the concealed sound of my heartbreak More ashamed to hide in the arms of my mother, than scared to sit alone, I ventured into the dark halls, back to my own bed. I cowered knowing of the approaching beat, and with no options left but to listen. I found companionship in the noise that no one takes the time to listen to.

"This is, like, totally like 1984:" by Ben More

-Abby Van Santen

Hearts

by Emma Meister Bresnahan

I draw little hearts on every paper I receive. They hover by exponents, shading articles and annotations, Dancing on the back of my eyelids, my hands and on whiteboards. Hiding away from this overcrowded headspace, your magic ficks freeze where I stand through the love that I openly give, my leftover energy expiring as far-fetched feelings fall into Iong hugs that speak for me, giggles over pieces of paper that parallel lines between old friends tucked under blankets of snow. The energy shifts and again I'm engaged in your silence, And now all I think of is how I want to draw hearts on your personality.

Other Desert Cities

by Fiona Golden

How do you let yourself mend when there's no wound?

You're left behind in the desert while covered wagons and gilded chariots continue west and their roaring that once seemed deafening trickles out until the only thing you can hear is the sound of dust coming back down to earth and settling righr where it belongs.

The thing about deserts is that from when the sun cracks and fries in the atmosphere, to when your voice has faded to a hoarse whisper and Helios dips into the horizon at last, during that excruciatingly scorching day, you're left in the heat and the Thos Hum of your thoughts

And as the universe balances out both suffering and joy, pleasure and pain, it shrouds the Mojave and the high Sierra Nevada in an echo of cool and turns the ground into polar piles of dust and bones. And that- in that deafening, lonely cascade is when you look around, as far as you can see and make a decision.

You decide that the cacti, the hawks, the lizards, the roadrunners, the.jackrabbits, and even the rattlesnakes return to this cold void each dav.

And you decide that if they can live through this, you can live through the small dues you must pay to feel release, to feel contentious, to feel like you're wrapped up in a whirlwind speeding down a hill by the sea.

You can't see those for their raw, unprovoked beauty unless you see the rain that has sprouted them, the withering hand that has fed them, and the state of mind that has led them.

Flowers don't bloom in Joshua Tree, but the rain still rejuvenates and breaths fresh starts into our collarbones. We can pick ourselves up from dust and say "l can heal because I am infinite. I am infinite because the only person that will constantly be with me is me."

-Nico GonzalezStuver

Renaissance by Vivian Picciotti

I wish we were figures in a Renaissance painting. Still, perfect, and showing emotion at something just out of frame. We'd be wearing clinging but ornate fabric as our hair fell past our shoulders. Our pose, one of mild fear coupled with leisure, would have us against a beach or in the forest. We were figments in the brain of a delusional artist, and we knew it. Centuries later, we'd be in storage or in the living room of a timeshare, but we'd still be together. Some 79 year old angling for their MFA would write a thesis on us, but it would get lost in the midst of other pretentious writings. It didn't matter if our visage was loved, we knew we were loved. But for now, as we are in this time, we're just the lockscreen of a smartphone. Covered in notifications, showing emotion at something just out of frame.

I

Dear Laurel

by Annaliese Baker

Dear Laurel, it is January. You have sparked my curiosity, but I do not plan to take any chances since our time is limited, so I will watch from a distance. I have noticed you.

Dear Laurel, it is February. You have noticed my distanced stares and I believe I have sparked your curiosity. You have become the interesting part in my day. I look forward to seeing you in the afternoons. I am developing a crush on you.

Dear Laurel, it is March. You and I no longer see each other in the afternoons, which disappoints me. When we pass one another we always lock eyes, and I feel a sfong bond between us. You are a piece of who I am becoming. I have now taken a liking to you.

Dear Laurel, it is April. You have decided to begin asking about me. This both scares and excites me. Maybe this is why I cannot look you in the eyes anymore; I have become nervous and I am deeply somy. I know our time is limited. I feel a connection stronger than a liking.

Dear Laurel, it is May. Our time together is coming to an end very shortly, and I will miss you. The way you look at me has become full of somow, and it saddens me. I wish that our time never had to end; for I could look at your eyes until the last sunset. I feel smongly connected to who you are.

Dear Laurel, it is June. I have not seen you since the end of last month. I have stopped thinking about you as much, and I am afraid that I no longer feel so strongly about you. This might very well be my last letter. I will always care for you.

Dear Laurel, it is July. I saw you once, and I felt a rush of emotion wash upon me as a wave does upon the sand. It felt as thou$h you wanted to see me too, but something seemed different about you. Did you not want to see me? Am I too hopeful? Has my youth been mistaken for innocence to you? Does that bother you? If so, I am deeply sorry. I have started to love you.

Dear Laurel, it is August. I have not seen you in a while. You are leaving soon, I am sure of it, even without you noti$/ing me of your departure. I have physically been away from you, but I have mentally never been closer to you. I love you.

Dear Laurel, it is September. Surely you are gone now, and I am sorry I never properly said goodbye to you. I hope you still think about me. I don't believe you could ever forget me. I know I could never forget you. I still love you.

Dear Laurel, it is October. I have been reminded of you in many ways, and in doing so I have been inspired to take after you. Other people have reminded me of you as well, which frightens me of both my emotions and my future. I remain in a state of loving you.

Dear Laurel, it is November. I wish to see you, as I'm sure you know. I do genuinely miss you, and I am beginning to wish I did not. There was a point where I was thankful for the time you took up in my life, but now I am not sure. I am angry with you because I still love you.

Dear Laurel, it is December. Are you home? May I see you? Will you remember me? It feels like an eternity since I last saw you. If I have driven you out of my life, please forgive me. Do you miss me as much as I miss you? I hope things are well for you.

Dear Laurel, it is January again. I still have yet to accept that our time together has become something of our past. I must stop feeding off of the stories my mind so carefully crafts to create an alternate timeline. That timeline is a fixation of my fantasies which are purely fiction. I will always love you.

The Stroll

by: Janine Pohlman

dawn: the bottom of shoes hit the slabs of concrete. some are cracked, covered with sprouting weeds, Iiving dangerously, and some are smooth and smothered with blue and pink chalk.

my footsteps tap like a beating heart. i think they, like a reassuring mother to her child, tell me that they'll always be there. a bleached white infant is rolled in a stroller by a mother with dainty limbs. incoherent gurgles and giggles are birthed from its puking lips. vibrant toothless smiles shine as it reaches out at the candyfloss clouds with its fat stumps, just barely learning to function. not far behind, who protrudes from the bus stop, a schoolboy, kicking up dust like perfume, back arched and weary, his bones feel brittle. in both hands, he's burdened with a book as thick as his arm. like a snail he sfolls, slimy trails of tissue and toys falling so innocently out of his satchel. an inevitable chill rises. it curls and spirals around his spine like a jungle snake. it tunnels between the eyes, the ears, and, most importantly, the brain. like chicken pox, common amongst our children, it is expected to arise once. it has begun to burrow. the boy's path intercepts a lover, coughing and wheezing. his cheeks flush pink, his undereyes the same tainted yellow as the daisies he gave her and the dandelions over the concrete cracks. i can see his face turning gray, bile rising in his throat. he clenches his chest with his one free, quivering hand, while the other is immobile, limp at his side. the imminent was left untreated. wasn't beaten out soon enough. it has long devoured him, metastasized from his head to his heart. Then, the Soldier comes off the bus and firmly strides, surpassing the lover. he, too, once wheezed and limped, but he, unlike most, exceeded it by force, but at what cost? army boots sound like cannons. heart is stone still. eyes grayer, vacant, not glistening. might as well be dead. he carries his empfy satchel over one shoulder. the other limb wrapped, kept in cloth, mutilated and infected like spoiled meat. he stares ahead, silently charging down the street to where he does not know, for all he needs is the knowledge of that destination, where all Justice is laid. it's the definitive truth, the final judiciary. some unwillingly stumble upon it, snatched by piercing jaws at the front door the soldier thought he saw it at the frontline but the no one answered when he knocked. so now he marches alone. and i? i hike up my Pantaloon and sit on the crooked porch steps,

my can v are that no longer remember how to function, bones, unable to withstand the satchel, bile and quivering, coiled with lusting malady, and mangled, tattoos ofwarfare prlce my spindle verns. i watch them all go by on their individual strolls. I witness them cross paths and mingle about this and that and whatnot. see it all with glossy, graying eyes. plan to do this till when those mighty doors swing open and, whether you like it or not, you enter. whatever ls there you might have a host that smiles warmlv' you might have an empty room. heat, no windows, no light. but no matter what, home

-Ella Taira

Retrograde

by Nice Atkins

I hate when your mouth locks open And the words spew out like spitballs. Because the shouts linger. The anger ricochets. The not dead love disappears to find a hole in the corner to hide in. There was a time when your hands wouldn't choke the happiness right out of me. But that changed when you stopped going to therapy. You thought that you didn't need help, But the picture frame you broke screams a different story. People say silence kills, But it's the opposite It's the abuse that tramples. The absence of love. The assassin syllables. It's when you fire words that shouldn't be repeated Then act like I shouldn't bleed.

What Am I?

by Azreinna Wilson

I am strong.

I am equal- This I know. Discrimination does not bother me.

I am dark skinned wonder, Even though my reputation has been thrown 6 feet under.

I am a person, just as the man. Although my rights are placed on a particular ban. Without me, there would be no him.

My body's a temple; it's made by the best.

I have the same heart beating in my chest.

I pay my way and still am considered weak. Ani,thing he can do; I can do better than he ever could.

Why? It's because there isn't I can't do.

You tried to stop me, but I kept going. You tried to keep me in bondage, but I broke free I am a properfy holder. I am a mother.

What am I?

I am a woman- this I know. Why? Because I said so.

I am a wife. I am a taxpayer.

by Chloe Jacobson

Dad, I mipped into our dining room like a doll with one leg, my broken pieces scattered about, but you refused to acknowledge them. You put me in therapy, to see if an expert could assemble dismembered parts. I thought of the five month vacation mom took without giving notice, the long nights dancing with insomnia, a dangerous duet leaving my glass covered in scratches. When therapy disappointed, you put me in a hospital for "repairs." They taught me to stitch myself back together with the false hope they called happiness, but my happy is my ripped out heart somehow still beating but not enough for me to sew it in.

Dad, you gave me the gift of life and I wanted to return it. Even though I don't have scratches covering my glass anymore, my body is forever tattooed with regrets and I don't know any other way to show you I am unhappy, because you refuse to take responsibility for what you and mom fractured all those years ago. So when I say it has been a bad day, I mean it has been a bad week. But I am too afraid to tell you that, because I can't smash your hope for me anymore like when I told you I let that boy shatter me into oblivion and when I ried rebuilding myself, my depression was the hammer beating my hands apart. I'm sorry that you wished for a blonde barbie but instead got a broken doll wrapped up in a box with a bow, and when you took the lid off all you got was fragments. Even though you try to put my pieces back together, your hands will soon be engulfed in gashes like mine.

Dad, I know you don't understand why I am so irreparable, but I don't understand how you can tell me to mend my busted body when my broken limbs lay out in plain sight.

-Amelia Yu

House on Fire

by Nice Atkins

I wish I didn't wander to wash away the words that blister. The words that finish the light and strike the windows black. The words that reuse yesterday like my home is steel.

It's not.

My mom's brother died in a house fire. Yet momma doesn't seem to care about the flames in my house. About the whiplash of syllables, About the gasoline my brother spits out When his emotions get too heated.

He wasn't always hot headed.

I didn't always wander.

And the house never used to burn. But I've come to realize My burn marks can't heal

In a house that's still on fire.

Gold

by Abbey Mullen

gold is the color of your glasses. the beads on your braids. : biting into a KitKat treasure chests of spicy fries on lunch trays. the color of buttered popcorn under movie seats and heavy heads clutched into shoulders by good morning texts. gold is the aesthetic of us in English class. windows splintered with gold paned stained glass. three seats over, sharing the back row the air vent crowning our lips with dusty oxygen. the chalkboard crunching vocabulary into our fists, so our palms are softer in the hallway. yellow is the thick paint on the ten-lane crosswalk your hand holds tighter than the gaze of uber-taxi-headlights the moment my fingers lose circulation us finally feels official yellow is the gummy worms in my backpack bedazzledstickers and thrift store finds yellow is the karaoke countdown the facetime filters, snapchat streaks, and candy corn picnic blankets and your dress with pockets it's the handles on public buses. getting offearly so we can walk for longer

The Scientific Method

by Olivia Badrinath

Every action, angle, and anecdote is pummelled, squashed onto my mental Iist. They're fraudulent. Pulpy and bubbling, each gasping for a shade of validity that no longer lingers in the air.

That twitch of the eye? For sure a wink

That brush of the shoulder last Wednesday was ultimately mystifying.

Steaming insults churn into "but he knows me so well!"

The fact that he said "no problem" instead of "sure" definitely had to mean something And we splashily exaggerate our abilities. We adorn ourselves with tailored, glittering lies, wrung around our necks, across our lips, and behind our eyes.

He becomes a reason to walk a little faster, wake up a little earlier, smell a little better. And we glob the evidence together, presenting our feeble, soggy and dripping claim: He's surely, most definitely, absolutely, totally in love with us.

And our logic states that since he finds us atfactive, delighting, tempting, smart, talented, and beautiful, that only now we're finally permitted to feel worthy again.

-Rosalyn Beile

Creation by Nick Paris

The first day. Although heat scorched my doughy flesh, I lay sprawling on the sidewalk. I opened my eyes to nothing but blank sky. My family walked onward without glancing back. Stumbling on half-baked legs, I careened forward. I caught up to them. I quit pouting.

I was restored, but I felt changed-Recalibrated. My infantile miscalculation was corrected: pity is not the way to fulfillment. I yearned to find a better solution, but time wore on without.

The second day. My mother gave us a rule, "Whatever your brother has, you can have, and vice versa." Her doctrine of fairness was seared into my prefrontal-cortex. Fairness was something of a family relic, wrought from ancestral opposition to the conquistadors'unfair will. I trusted, and embarked to live as it decreed.

The third day. "Cookie or Ice Cream?" Mother offered. I chose the former and was satisfied. I looked up, and saw my brother trying to decide. I implored my mother honor her promise and give him a cookie as well. She explained we were both given the same thing: a choice. It was then that I began to grasp at the importance of independent thought and free decision.

The fourth day. I was led out into the hallway. My gaze locked onto the Crucifix for a momentary prayer. Mrs. Palermo yelled at me, repeating, "What did you do?" Synapses worked feverishly to reconstruct the scene: I ran towards the cry. My classmate was sprawled on the ground, having fallen offthe jungle gym. I replayed the memory and realizedmy teacher believed I had pushed him. She refused to accept my explanation. She taught me that even those who claim to protect could have lapses in judgement; nobody could claim infallibility.

The fifth day. I knelt and wept before the altar; my grandmother's death had formed an pit in my heart. Father Michael spoke softly to me, and I trusted him. He had known my grandmother well, administering her Last Rites as she lay weak. "God is so good"-with this, his simple epithet, my soul was filled with hope and faith. In his own last months, Father Michael did not despair. He prayed. During the mass to pray for his health, the town poured into the church. He died two months later, his mission complete. Father Michael taught us how to strive for something better than despair, how compassion and love are required of us. The sixth day. I spent a decade insulated by Catholic grade school,longing for the unknown. Public high school was the opposite: nothing but the uncertainty of freedom as far as the eye could see. Choosing friends meant choosing poorly; I had to learn to accept my misjudgements, and the immorality and abuse done by some of those I chose to hold closely. I blamed myself. I fought back. I relapsed. For months,I ran, I prayed, and I learned. I grew to understand that you must have a sense of your own inherent value, or else people will take advantage of compassion and empathy; I tried to maintain thoughtfulness, mercy, and hope. The seventh day. This handful of short, intense experiences has not determined my being; they are remembered with reason. We alone choose to take meaning from the experiences we undergo. We alone implicitly choose what we will remembet and what will be forgotten. These are the memories curated by -y own inner workings to give my life a definite purpose, that continually inspire me to dedicate using my gifts to serve others. Anything less would be a waste.

Ostriches Can Love

by Daniel Weiss

Ostriches can love.

I wonder if he has a wife, I think while I stare at the painting. The osrich, clearly nothing more than brushstrokes on a canvas, manages to muster up the livelihood and personality to stare back at me with its beady, reflective eyes.

I wonder if he has a wife. Or maybe a husband. I'm not one to judge. It doesn't matter anyway. All ostriches look the same to me at first glance.

The ostrich is a handsome Suy. Or girl. Long brown feathers and tall, lanky, backward facing legs thar tower like thin weeds erupting from the grass underneath her. Or him. They'd have a tall husband or wife, too. They'd be a tall couple, I bet. They'd sleep together every night in their ostrich-sized bed in their ostrich-fitted nightgowns, and the taller husband or wife would rest their head on the other's head. A classic romance.

They'd have kids, too, I bet. I stare at the ostrich in the painting on the wall. He's a handsome guy, of course he'd have a husband or a wife. Give it a few years, and yeah, you know what? I bet he will have a kid. A son. Or a daughter. It's not important. And they'd be tall, too. It'll be a family of extraordinarily tall ostriches, and there'll be endless teasing and comments among their friends.

Maybe the ostrich in the painting has a dark past.

He does.

You can see it in his eyes, right where they glint, like he's hiding somerhing. That little glint of light is supposed to distract you from the otherwise completely black, beady eye, no pupil, just black, and that little glint is a mischievous way of dragging my attention away from a past as long, complicated, and unnerving as this ostrich's billowing feathers. This ostrich's tricks don't work on me. I see those black marbles that look at me, hiding guilt behind a curtain of innocent indifference.

This ostrich used to be a bartender, I think. He seems like the sort of guy who would be a bartender. A bartender with a tendency to get into fights. I can picture it, a frozen second in time, a flashing memory. He's holding a shattered beer bottle in one of his feet and he's balancing on his other foot, clumsily hopping around like a loon, making a fool of himself while trying his very hardest to fight a second, slightly shorter, much chubbier, and very drunk ostrich that just insulted his exceptional height.

He used to be involved in the illegal grain market, too. But this ostrich, he (or she) doesn't really like to go into it--they're a changed ostrich now, you can see it in those eyes. They don't like to talk about it, and I respect that.

The paint is cracked with age.

The ostrich, I think, is gonna go on to be a lawyer. It'll be an unforgettable life story. An ostrich who found redemption in his husband (or wife), and went on to become the best goddamned lawyer in history, saving his other ostrich friends from death row and building a reputation as an ostrich to be reckoned with. A dark past can't hold this guy back, no, a dark past is just the indifferent glint in his eye that takes on cases one by one, winning them, the people's savior.

He'll come home after a long day of fighting for justice and hug his ostrich wife and play carch with his ostrich son. And then he'll brush his teeth with the same toothbrush he's used for years, holding the brush with one foot, and hopping around like a loon with the other. But he's gotten ok at keeping his balance at rhis point.

The frame of the painting is yellowed and antique, like coffee-stained paper. It's still alive, though old. It's seen a lot.

The ostrich will go on to be a grandmother. She'll kiss her little baby ostrich grandkids on the cheek and give them overbaked cookies that the kids will eat and say "Yum!" even though they're disgusting. It makes her heart flutter, though, hearing that they like them. And they love her, so they lie to her. It's for the best, I think. Her feathers won't be so brown anymore;they'll be gray.

No. Shc'll bc a badass. She'll be onc of those grandmothcrs whose obituary in the newspaper says, "This ostrich died sltydivingwhile wrestling a lion. Shc bcat thc Iion and her parachute functioned flawlessly, but shc died in the air out of shecr thrill." She'll kiss hcr grandl<ids, oi course, and say sweel things, and reminisce about hcr dark past thal she's rnanagcd to move on f'rom, and she'll go wrestle an alligator.

Or maybe thcy'll pass peacclulty. Sitting in thcir I'avorite rocking chair on thc porch ol'their littlc cabir-t, contcnt and happywith who they'vc become and the routes they took, he (or she) will pass lil<r: a moment in time, and I'll rcmember them. 'l'he artist got that glint in her eye so perlectly.

I mutter a quiet "hm." and movc onto the trcxt painting.

Grinch Theory: A Scholar's Analysis

by David Greenstone

The beloved children's book How the Grinch Stole Christmasl was originally published in 1957 by beloved children's book author Dr. Seuss. At the time, the tale of the Grinch seemed an isolated one, simply a tale of holiday redemption with no other necessary context. The Grinch mythos has expanded over the years, however - an animated special adaptation of the book, fwo feature-length adaptations (one Jim Carrey, one Benedict Cumberbatch), and two animated specials with completely original Grinch stories. And of course, one can't forget about Seussical, the musical interpretation of all of Seuss's books, as well as possibly related Seuss boolcs llke Horton Hears a Who and The Cat in thr Hat. Although most of these pieces of media seem unrelated, one has to wonder... are they? Or are they instead all puzzle pieces adding up to a complete portrait of Grinch lore? A Grinch timeline, perhaps?

In order to make sense of the issue, I sat down and watched, read, and otherwise consumed every facet of Grinch-related media I could get my hands on. It took five hours. I did this for you, dear reader.

We start our Grinch timeline analysis where it all began: How the Grinch Stole Christmas! This animated Christmas special is the heartwarming tale of how a bitter, reclusive hermit who can't stand the garishness of the holidays learns to appreciate the true meaning of Christmas. Nearly everyone has read or seen this tale at one point or another, so I won't bother reiterating every single plot detail. What's important here are the lore tidbits we encounter:

- The story takes place in a town called Whoville and on the neighboring Mount Crumpit.

- The Grinch lives alone atop Mount Crumpit, save for his dog Max. He lives in a barely-furnished cave amidst the freezing winds, but seems to have access to some elements of technology.

- The Grinch can't stand the constant noise and capitalistic excess Christmas produces. However, when he realizes the compassionate values behind Christmas, his heart is warmed.

- The residents of Whoville don't seem to know the Grinch very well (ex. Cindy Lou Who not recognizing a man with green skin as the Grinch).

These facts may seem to be obvious or have no immediate relevance to any greater theory. For those who haven't studied Grinch theory for years on end, the Grinch's tale seems to be a solitary one. However, as a professor in Grinchology, I can definitively say that these facts will form the backbone of our greater theory. To pin down our first link, we turn our attention to other Dr. Seuss books.

The first connection ro How the Grinch Stole Christmas! that most scholars make is Horton Hears a Who.The link here is obvious--both feature towns called Whoville and people called Whos. The 2000 musical Seussicalsupports this interpretation; the Grinch makes an appearance in the same Whoville that Horton the Elephant desires to p-t..t. However, although Seussical implies that the Grinch is active and malicious during the same time period as the events of Horton Hears a Who, this idea is impossible for one simple reason: the noise. At the end of Horton Hears a Who (and Seussical), the entire population of Whoville must make as much noise as they can in order to prove their existence to the Sour Kan$aroo, lest they be boiled in Beezle-Nut Oil. Every single person on Whoville's speck of dust participates, and if he were there, that would include the Grinch. However, one of the very first things we established about the Grinch is that he hates noise. Why would the Grinch try to save the town he hates by creating awful noise? Clearly, he wouldn,t, and yet the book Horton Hears a Who clearly states that everyone did. When faced with a direct conflict befween original books and material written after Seuss's death, like Seussical, we have to side with the books, so Horton Hears a Who must therefore take place before the Grinch's birth. How long before? Well, long enough that the entire apearance of the town changed in the interim, so at least many decades.

Another book linked to the Grinch's backstory is The Lorax. The connection here is less obvious; The Lorax mentions that the Once-ler lives on "the other side of town," but never mentions the town's name, and the lllumination adaptation of the book calls the town Thneedville. However, we're ignoring that particular movie because it doesn,t contain the Grinch, because it warps some aspects of the book it was based on, and because I don't lile it very much. Instead, we turn to our old friend Seussical, which, in the song "Here on Who," mentions that very same "other side of town" and the desfuction of the truffula trees that occurred in The Lorax. Therefore, Whoville is the selfsame town mentioned in The Lorax. This revelation camies with it numerous implications. First of all, it explains the presence of

truffula-looking trees in Horton Hears a Who both in Whoville and in Horton's realm: obviously, they are the same trees. Secondly, it gives us a clue as to the Grinch's species and family. Consider this: the only green-skinned humanoids we ever see in all of Seussian canon are the Grinch (including his rarely-appearing family members) and the Once-ler and his clan. The Grinch and the Once-ler are clearly not the exact same kind of creature, based on their differences in personality and appearance, but perhaps the two are related in some distant fashion. The exact taxonomy is irrelevant;what we should care about here is their shared history.

Earlier in this essay, I mentioned how the Grinch's situation was somewhat odd. He lives atop a desolate mountain with his dog, seemingly a hermit ostracized from the Whovian community. Despite his isolation, however, he has the technology to build sleighs, design present-stealing contraptions, and much more. Where did he get that equipment, and why is he on that mountain in the first place? My theory: the Grinch's parents were engineers in the thneed industry, employed by the Once-ler, explaining the Grinch's technological ingenuity. When the last of the ruffula trees was chopped down, however, the Once-ler's business collapsed, and the Grinch's parents found themselves unemployed. Prejudice would have risen against green-skinned humanoids in Whoville for causing environmental collapse, and the now-impoverished Grinch family would be forced to move to a cave atop Mount Crumpit, where the young Grinch would develop resentment against society. The Grinch's father, a man as bitter as his son would become, would return to Whoville in search of work but never come back to his family. Why? Keep reading; we'll get to it. In summary, this is all an allegory for how capitalism inevitably leads to exploitation of the working class, and Seuss was no doubt paying homage to the hit publication The Communist Manifesto. One final book is related t"o How the Grinch Stole Christmas!, and it's perhaps Seuss's most famous book of all - The Cat in the Hat. The link here, however, is by far the hardest to get a grip on. The actual events of The Cat in the Hat do not take place in Whoville, or even any,vhere near the Grinch. The primary connection is through The Grinch Grinches the Cat in the Hat, a completely canon animated special that we'll talk about in more detail later. So how does the Cat get from babysitting human kids in a human town to interacting with the Grinch in Whoville? How does the Cat, who adopts many roles in Seussical, go from Horton's large world to the microscopic Whovian one? How does he show up in both the distant past of Whoville (the Horton era) and its future (the Grinch era) when the lifespan of a domesticated cat is a mere 10 to 20 years? The answer is obvious: the Cat is a dimension-hopping time traveler. With that simple fact out of the way, we can now begin our analysis of the other Grinch animated specials. Next up is Halloween is Grinch Night, the story of the Grinch coming down from Mount Crumpit to torment the Whos one Halloween, whereupon he tries to gaslight a child. I remembered this special fondly from my childhood, but it's a bit worse than I remember. There's an uncomfortable amount of animal abuse here (there was some in How the Grinch Stole Chrislmas!too, but it was played off more lightheartedly) and the songs aren't particularly good. Nevertheless, the special is highly useful for the sake of its lore and additions to the timeline. First of all, we learn that every time the sour-sweet wind blows, the Grinch comes down to Whoville to wreak havoc. The town even has a Grinch alarm system that alerts the public whenever he draws close. This is clearly not the case in How the Grinch Stole Christmas!, indicating that there is some length of time between the two. Secondly, the Grinch demonsrates some sort of hallucination-inducing or alternate-world-creating technology stored in his cart that he uses to scare Eucariah Who. The use of this technology isn't very important to anything we've discussed so far, but it comes up again in the next animated special and is critical to understanding some of the more arcane details of Grinch lore. Third, the Grinch is still a malicious hermit who hates society, implying that his heart has not yet grown three sizes. Finally, during the events of Halloween is Grinch Night, the Grinch's dog, Max, runs away from his abuse to live with Eucariah Who. The Grinch is somewhat dismayed but shows little remorse for his actions when Max leaves. I have to admit that these last two points frusrated me a great deal when trying to form a cohesive timeline on the subject. The Grinch is not a reformed member of society yet, so therefore Halloween is Grinch Night must take place before How the Grinch Stole Christmas! However, Max runs away at the end of Halloween is Grinch Night but is still living with the Grinch in How the Grinch Stole Christmas!, suggesting that the order should be reversed. It's possible that Max returned to the Grinch in the intervening period of time, but the Grinch still whips and abuses him in How the Grinch Stole Christmas!, so Max would have little to no reason to do so. There's the possibility that Max is trapped in a self-perpetuating cycle of abuse, but frankly, I don't want to joke about a serious topic like that. Not that this paper is a joke. This paper is a serious topic too. I swear.

Anyr,vay. We still have the issue of the timeline contradiction on our hands, so let me unveil the solid, definitive evidence: Halloween comes before Christmas, therefore Halloween is Grinch Night comes before How the Grinch Stole Christmas! Case closed.

The Max issue can be resolved in a surprisingly simple manner, actually. Max acts fairly differently between these specials -- between all three specials, in fact. Not only that, but we've established that a significant amount of time had to have passed between the specials for Whoville to either beef up their Grinch security system and create alarms for him (despite hirn having supposedly reformed), or to lower their security and let the horror stories fade into legend. The Grinch likely has a long lifespan, considering all the shenanigans he gets up ro, but Max is a dog. Dogs rarely Iive more than 13 years, and Max seems to already be an adult by the time we meet him. My proposal: they aren't the same Max. The dogs we see in each animated special are simply dogs of the same breed, all named Max after the Grinch's original family dog. That dog, the original Max, is actually still alive around this time period, although the Grinch isn't aware of it. How, you might ask, and why? well, I'm getting ahead of myself again. With the Max conundrum solved, we can finally discuss what I believe is the most important piece of Grinch canon, and perhaps all of fiction: The Grinch Grinches the Cat in the Hat. ln addition to genuinely being high qualiry this animated special (which you can find on YouTube and should definitely watch) is a gold mine of lore. The very first thing we see in this episode is the Grinch waking up in the morning along with his dog, Max. Some things are different about this Grinch, however: he's living in a normal house, rather than a desolate, snowy mountain, and he seems genuinely happy and cheerful. From these characteristics, we can deduce that this special is the final event in the timeline we have so far. The very next thing that happens is crucial: the Grinch sees his reflection in the mirror. The reflection, moving and talking independently of the physical Grinch, notices his good mood and forces him to repeat the "Grinch's oath", a vow to commit vile crimes and always be in a bad mood, which will later turn the Grinch against the Cat in the Hat. But wait a moment -- what the hell is going on with this mirror? Another Grinch inside it, convincing our Grinch to be more evil? That has to be significant in some way, right? Yes, it is. Remember the Grinch's father from way back in time? Well, that's him. Ladies and gentlemen, the Grinch's father is rapped in a mirror with the Grinch's childhood dog, and he's also played byJim Caruey.

I haven't worked either of the alternate versions of How the Grinch Stole Christmas!into the story yet, because having three versions of the same event in one timeline is bizarre and complicated. At first, I wondered if they were actually three separate timelines caused by some sort of temporal split, but then a revelation came upon me: the Jim Carrey Grinch is simply a tr,visted version of the original one. A mirror image, if you will. Not only that, but if we assume that the mirror Grinch is a character we know, then of course, it would be the Grinch's father, who went out for smokes one night and never came back. How did the Grinch's father get trapped in a mirror? I suspect foul play from none other than that time-travelling bastard, the Cat in the Hat. We all know that the Cat in the Hat is fond of fun and games, so Grinch Sr.'s bitter attitude toward society would surely have rubbed him the wrong way, causing him to stick Papa Grinch in some sort of mirror containment device. There, Grinch Carrey would have gone through his own Christmas tale (now known as Christmas Beta), probably sometime between Halloween is Grinch Night and our own Grinch's Christmas, which I'll dub Christmas Alpha. The events of this version of the movie are pretfy much the same with some added plot points, so I won't go over them, but it makes sense that events inside the miruor would mimic events outside it. So why, if GrinchDad was reformed during Christmas Beta just like our Grinch was in Christmas Alpha, does he try to sway his son back to evil? Simply put, revenge. He knows the Cat in the Hat is out and about once again, and he wants his son to inflicl misery on the feline, which of course, he does.

After being slighted by the Cat, Alpha Grinch makes it his goal to tormenr him by means of a Vac-U-Sound Sweeper (like a vacuum but it sucks up sound), a Darkhouse (like a lighthouse but, well, you know), and some sort of machine that can create elaborate illusory realities. This machine is reminiscent of the technologff/magic/whatever inside the Grinch's cart in Halloween is Grinch Night- the same type he used to scare Eucariah Who. This technology will come up again in a little bit, so just hang onto that thought for now. After being provoked by the Grinch for a long period of time, the Cat in the Hat decides to play therapist and psychoanalyzes an entirely imaginary version of the Grinch that is nonetheless very realistic. We'll create a third Cnristmas for this imaginary Grinch and call it Christmas Gamma, even though it won't ever be relevant. Why? Because I like needless overcomplication is why.

It's worth noting that the Cat in the Hat's main goal, apart from eating his picnic in piece, is to make the Grinch an irreverent, fun-loving person like himself instead of the grouch he has returned to being. This, too, was the Cat in the Hat's goal when he babysitted those two human children in his self-named book, and it hints at a common purpose of his. Perhaps the Cat in the Hat is a divine agent ordained to spread goodwill across the planes of existence, or maybe he is a narcissistic bully who uses time travel to force his ideology on others across all of spacetime. Personally, I think he's a representation of the opportunities of youth -- Rosebud in the flesh, if you will. Another example of Dr. Seuss brilliantly

rlluding to powerful films like Citizen Kane. At the end of the special, the Cat manages to get through to the Grinch by rppealing to his love for his mother. The way the Cat describes the Grinch's mother makes it clear that she is probably leceased, and since we didn't see her in any of the previous specials, she most likely died quite a while ago. How? Probrbly hypothermia. Those mountain caves get cold. This revelation adds a tragic fwist to the Grinch's tale; not only did he grow up without a father, but he likely spent some of his youth without a mother as well, fueling his resentment against the world. However, the Cat's ability to figUre out the exact way to describe the Grinch's mother to pull on his emotional heartsrings is no mere coincidence. What likely happened here is that the Cat traveled through time and space to the nealm of the hypothetical Grinch he created in his mind to psychoanalyze -- to the elusive Christmas Gamma. Hey, look rt that, it was relevant! There, he studied the Grinch's past, before returning to the current events. I believe this series of events was what inspired Inception I literally cannot exaggerate how genius this plot is. To conclude the special, Max uses the Vac-U-Sound Sweeper to suck the sound away from Jim Carrey, preventing the Grinch's father from feeding his resentment anymore and thus symbolizing the Grinch finally coping with the truth about his youth and growing past it, as the Cat allows us all to do. Thus, our timeline is completed. But wait, I hear you say. What about the other Grinch movie? What about... The Grinch by Illumination? I really didn't want to watch this one. Look, if you like this movie, good for you, and I'm glad you were able to enjoy it, but for me... eurgh. Not only does this movie have no reason to exist, but it doesn't even get the Grinch right. Rather than a bitter, unlikeable Ioner, this movie paints the Grinch as a slightly antisocial, goofy guywho's mostly just misunderstood. But... wait a second. You know who would want to make the Grinch look better? Well, Illumination executives who want to increase market appeal, but also... the green man himself. It all makes sense now! Of course the Grinch seems nicer than he should be! Of course the movie has a bad Tyler the Creator rendition of the classic song! Of course -- and this is the important one -- it's computer generated!

This version of the Grinch is literally an in-universe retelling of the classic Christmas story. Rather than sitting around a fire, however, our old Grinch friend had to go overthe-top when trying to tell his story: computer generated images, commissioned songs, the works. That's why he was building all those reality warping machines: to create an entire reality that could simulate his story, so he could finally set the record straight (in his eyes, at least). It also makes sense why he would choose a movie format rather than just telling the story out loud; the Grinch doesn't have any children, and as far as we know, he might be the last of his species. He's trying to reach a general Whovian audience, not just people he might know personally. A simple movie wasn't enough for him, though; he had to simulate an entire version of Whoville, creating what I'll refer to as Christmas, or alternatively, Cumberbatchmas. Grinch doesn't just seem nicer because Cumberbatch is playing him; it's because the Grinch is trying to increase his status in the eyes of the public. Look, Illumination, I may have doubted you earlier, what with Minions and all that, but I see what you were going for here. It doesn't tie together as many things as the Jim Carrey one did, but this adaptation is a pretty good addition to the overall canon when you consider its true value. And I think that's... that's it. Wow. We really did it. Together, reader, you and I just proved definitively that the Grinch's story, rather than one of Christmas spirit, is really one of overcoming socioeconomic struggles so that you can become the one who writes the history books. It may have taken us over 3500 words, but it was worth every Wait. There's a NickJr. show?...And the Grinch is a puppet?...And there's 40 episodes? Can I go home now?

by Olivia Badrinath

My hands and eyes don't know the difference between the hips of Telugu and waists of Hindi. My ears do not know which dialect will sound more like home because my grandparents ran faster than the speed of scolding for them to get one last chance to hear where they came from. And that curry leaves will never mask the smell of mothballs, which, apparently, is not what India is. When I ask my grandmother how many lentils go in the dal, she just says "some". How many more cups until I never feel full? Or how many more unknown Vinas, Deepas, and Rinkus in India will I have before I'll feel similar to just one? How many more yards of shimmering sari fabric will I wind around my words until I can fashion an answer to every person who has asked me "why is your family different?"

Because it's not. I used to Iet the taste of spice and curries be strangers to my tongpe, crying "situational irony," until I forced myself to like them, drinking until my stomach would bubble with culture, somehow wishing it would make my skin browner or my blood more Indian. Until I was thirteen and one of my friends laughed, asking me "what the hell are you wearing?"

I threw it in the back of my closet along with the bangles and bindis and Bollyurood dancing. Forever wishing that I could share a foundation shade with the rest of my friends. Or that people would stop asldng me if I was adopted because I somehow don't look like my mother. Now, when people ask me what I want to be for who I am, I say neither. Not because I do not care. And not because I don't feel like either. Simply, because it doesn't matter.

-Jasmine Burns

Oak Park

by Ben More

With an emphatic sip of her latte, they marched out the coffee shop door, To the average spectator they seemed ordinary But oh! they were so much more. They danced down the concrete runway, The star of their personal drama, With lingering pride from the sentiment That in 2072,they voted Obama.

Homeless men with their last dime spent Begged them for monetary assistance, And they were so touched by that predicament That their hearts had no resistance. The misfortune of her inferiors had roused them to the core, And they knew they must now do something more. They unlocked their phones with poise and pride And logged into Facebook, "Oh, what a sociefy!" they angrily cried.

"These homeless-- these deprived-- just look!"

"Our town- so affluent, so discriminatory," "Has taken these men from their funds."

"We are all so corrupt, with our false, privileged glory And someone must do somethin$ at once!"

With a sense of pride, they smiled, For they had done their part for unity. Though they never did give money to the homeless men, they had decried her community. "Oh why," they thought, "doesn't society know that the right thing to do, I can see?"

"Oh why," they thought, with a final sip of their drink, "lsn't everyone as progressive as me?"

Editor Biographies

Annaliese Baker AI(A The Tripod "l literally cannot think of a single thingl'

Likes: John Mulaney, Hottie McThottie, Chris Evans Dislikes: doing that funny thing, Odd Smell She Likes: Lake Water

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Kira Imowitz AI(A The Destroyer "Rewdo do do do dol'

Likes: Aquaphor because Alyssa likes it, beingJewish (come to Jewish Student Alliance on Tuesday), hot dogs Dislikes: Pie, beef, hearts of palm, the class of 2OZO Odd Smell She Likes: Ink in Pens

LucyJordan AKA The Cryptid "l'm texting this boy right now and I'm gonna destroy him."

Likes: Ms. Lee's snacks, Hockey Boys, Dr. Joseph Cipriano, Chiropractors Dislikes: Chromebooks, pugs Odd Smell She Likes: Freshly Sharpened Wooden pencils

Bridget Pierce AKA Arthur the Scholar "l don't know how to smile on command!"

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Nick Paris AKA Editor in Chief of Anti-Crest "For the boys (boys being a gender neutral term)"

Likes: The Three Caballeros, Adobe Photoshop Mix, Sam Schneider, Mr. Rad

Dislikes: Crest, seag1rlls, mean crayfish, when Alyssa's mad at him

Odd Smell He Likes: abstain.

Mariama Sidime AKA The Obliterator of Nicks "l loooooove a $ood serif font"

Likes: Dramatic Shades, Sarcasm, Turtle Handshakes Dislikes: People who text instead of working, non-Meats

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Angela SuArez-Prieto AKA The Best Bat "l'm inside of Horatio right now!"

Likes: Thomas Mars, makeup, picking fonts, Takis Fuego Dislikes: snakes, being on time, school newspapers, salsa that tastes like paint

Odd Smell She Likes: Malls

Daniel Weiss AKA dandroid4S "Oh no, it was just a sigh of general exhaustion."

Likes: chocolate milk, paperboy caps, D&D Dislikes: literally nothing. like actually nothing (except being a CIA agent)...he is the sweetest person ever.

Odd Smell He Likes: His Kindergarten Hallway

Acknowledgements

Ms. Lauren Lee AI(A Mother Crest "lt could be shade..." Likes: Productive Cresties, Dark Chocolate, Her Family, "Dressing Her Truth" Dislikes: Mice, lrresponsible Students, Explicit Content

Odd Smell She Likes: Kimchi

Mr. Nathaniel Rouse AKA The Principal "#OPRFislit"

Likes: Football, Family Dislikes: A.rgry Parents, Fra$lity Odd Smell He Likes: A Fresh Pair ofJays

Additional Thanks to Ms. Fox, Ms. McGinnis, Ms. Gallagher!