Crest 2020

Jnlln* frorn tlrn 6d;t",

This year has been,to say the least,the most "unique" year I think any of us have experienced,or will experience,during our four short years at OPRFHS. We were all going about our business,and then just like that,we were stopped in our tracks. Us seniors never got to say goodbye to friends and never got to make our Iast, meaningful memories of high school, juniors never got to experience the last, painfully stressful stretch of their junior year (perhaps for the best),the sophomores never got to say goodbye to their "underclassmen" status,and the freshmen never got to finish their first, and perhaps most foundational,year of high school.

This pandemic went in and took no hostages.

But where there is pain and suffering,almost without fail,there is art. Students have been through a lot this year and every year, and perhaps the most rewarding part of working on Crest is getting to see how each student expresses those experiences in unique,beautiful pieces of art--through writing,through painting,through pottery,through clothing. Getting to review this year's artwork was a true privilege.

The challenges overcome and the painstaking labor involved in producing this final product,this small magazine you now hold in your hands,were worth it. Trying to complete, polish, and produce a literature and arts magazine during a global pandemic was,though an unexpected one,a thrilling challenge that put all of us to the test. It tested our abilities to stay motivated, our resourcefulness and creative problem-solving,and our desire to show the community just how much every student has to say with their art. But through and through, it was worth it.

Each piece you see in here was crafted out of a desire to express or create, and when compiled into one magazine,one sees just how incredible OPRFHS'artists really are. OPRFHS,this book is your creation. Everyone has something to say with their art,and this year's artists have created a choir with their artistic voices.

After too many months of waiting,l'm delighted to present to you: Crest,2O2O.

Thanks for a great four years.

- Daniel Weiss, co - editor - in - chief

Oog"" I Ylo*nn"!

1. Olivia Badrinath, ElenConour 2. MonicaSwanson, Emma Balma 3. ElIa Haas, Sydney Hunnewell 4. Shoun Trock 5. Evelyn Reese 6. DawsonPickens

Natalie Serrotos 8. Mia Forsythe, KyIa Robateau 9. Chrfsfine Donovan, Elijah lennison 10. Gianna Perez 11. Annaliese Boker, Iaya Ashrafi, Zora Johnson 1i?. Olivia Casey, Isabel Sichlau 13. Luke Elwart, Emma Balma 14. Iulargaret Kennedy, Iulia Forsythe, Elijah lennison, Larson Wood 15. M aclain e Wats on, IUI addi e IvI ac ek, H ann ah IVI c K ee, Cece Cru m lish 15. Elia Gerace, Tesso lulcconville (2 pieces) , Luca Andersen, Sydney Hunnewell 17. Kyle O'Brien, Olivia Reynolds, Davion lames, Charlotte True 18. Anjali Pride, Grace Richards, Alice Flynn, Carmen Catrambone 19. Annie Wollmuth (2 pieces), laya Ashrafi 20. Christopher Ray, Clara Casey Wahlfeldt, Larson Wood 21. Marianna Gutierrez, Addison Rexroat, Cecelio Crumlish, Kyla Robateau 22. Abigail Van Santen, Christopher Ray 23. Evelyn.Reesg AbigailVan Santen,Anjali Pride, Natalie Serrofos 24. Davion James, Tessa lttlcConville, Zora lohnson,AnikaWilsnack 25, Annie Wollmuth, Ella Taira, Abig ail Van Santen 25. Hannah McKee, Zachary Traczyk, Daniel Weiss, Christopher Ray 27. Ioe Roucka (2 pieces),loise Lappe, LucaAndersen, NinaCleofe 28. Elena Catrambone, Holden Green, Gianna Perez 29. KyIe Ryniewicz,Tyler Williams, EIIaTaira SO. Amelia Yu, l ames Diskin, EIij ah |ennison 31. Abigail Ryan

Abigail Ryan (continued)

WillaSagal

AnikaWilsnack

Eliza Zamudio 36. NatalieSerrofog Phoebe Fosfer 37. Ianine Pohlman

38. Emma Balma, Amelia Yu 39. Basma Raja 40. Carmen Catrambone 41. Daniel Weiss 42. Daniel Weiss (continued) 43. Shannon Lane 44. Hannah McKee 45. Cade Dublin,Iulaeve Mascarenhas, Holden Green 45. Daniel Weiss, Clara Cosey Wahlfeldt 47, Iane Wahlfeldt, IuIaxweII Gonzalez 48. Tyler Williams, Evan Powell, Maxwell Gonzalez 49. Holden Green, LiIy IVIoore 50. KyIa Robateau, Elena Catrambone 51. ElIaTaira, Evan Powell 52. Leif Bryning, Groce Sfchords 53. Rosalyn Beile, Addison Rexroat, Iulaeve Mascarenhas 54. Lauren Edwards, Lucy Suchomel (2 pieces) 55. Zachary Traczyk, Evan Powell, Rosalyn Beile 55. Cecelia Crumlish, Iulargaret Kennedy, Alice Flynn 57. Maddie Macek, MaclaineWatson, Lauren Edwards 58. Margaret Kennedy, McKaleThompson (2 pieces) 59. Zora lohnson, Harrison Kratz, Addison Rexroat 5O. Maeve lvlascarenhas, Sydney Hunnewell, Lily luloore 51. EIla Weatherington (2 pieces), Gianna Perez 52. Phoebe Foster, Anjali Pride,Olivia Badrinath 63. NinaCleofe 54. EIla Haas, Amelia Yu, 65. Iulia Dingman 56. Claire lularko, Charlotte True, Jana Casey, 57. Zen Phillpotts 68. Evelyn Reese, Eliana Gerace 69. Ava Jackson 7O. Ava Jackson (continued) 71. EllaWeatherington 72. Elise Pope,Aleah Shallack 73. Bridget Pierce 74. Bridget Pierce (continued) 75. TylerWilliams

Credit for the beautiful cover goes to co-editor-in-chief, Bridget Pierce!

"t" W"ng

by lVlonico Suzonson

Catching the things you never said on your tongue, Stutters spill out of your lips Ivlixing with the tears that blend together with the rainstorm Washing your hair Draining your thoughts You realize you have to start over. Breathing in your clammy palms, You remember how honesty was a sign of affection for you How your favorite thing to eat was the confidence he gave you And the laughter that ensued between only the two of you

Now

Lonely in the middle of the rain, An absent smile cracks on your face And you decide to laugh the silence away

-Emma Balma

$lo"E(ouf ) onJQlnllou): alt @noslu @rbitolxrn-Walino gono, $o&nn f*"rn' 4 n n W"";J g*oln " 6y 3;'*; "*; Wh" A o n "n' I &htn @opuolxo,

There is no way I'll graduate.

Report card,all B's - that's me!

Special day, graduation. Never thought I'd make it. Grade school. High school.

College? I'm not going.

Heads up,you have worked your whole life to get to the point where you can work your whole life: We constantly strive to stress. What do you think he makes? Not enough. Nlillions of jobs are small.

Every job,done well,means a lot. Choose carefully, You'll stay in the job you pick for the rest of your life. I haven't had one day off in 27 million years. What's the difference? One job forever?

I'm relieved. We only have to make one decision in lifebut they never told us that. Why would you question anything? We're the most perfectly functioning society on Earth -

You ever think maybe things work a little too well here?

by Ella Haas

-Sydney Hunnewell

YloulicalWap"

by Shaun Trock

The premier deal made with Mason, I was two, Clinging to my mother's legs as she shielded me An eroding outcrop among the ripsaw jagged-edged battery He commanded through.

"Take solace in shifting waters, the same kind Which fills the Iungs of souls unfortunate Who journeyed to the end in their mind" He told me,my lifeline when my dad got intimate.

For a blood fee, IVIason guaranteed me success I had no variables to block my plotted course Distancing myself from what others deemed best And should others fall, Mason instructed to show no remorse

I grew, Ivlason developed alongside Shapeless swaths of shifting realities--linked \[ason drew lines, my skin a map, however sublime Longitude and latitude etched in crimson ink

Changes permanent,insured by burning it in with whisky.

My plotted course,when bruises received interrupted, Mason rewrote with his bright crimson ink pen I, oblivious to the pain (the ocean waters were long corrupted) "Trust me," he reassured, "l know how this one ends."

My ocean,previously warm and clear, With its own roaring forties and calm bays Mason sailed its surface, tracing in fear Cracking the permafrost layer in which I laid waste.

The darkness people fear, a void which waits at the final line Is what I sought to finally calm my ocean

Clear the map and let it be forgotten,let it fade from time IVIason put the death plan in motion.

Dead lungs can't draw breath Dead lungs welcome death

The sea churned when someone else touched it They,to,had their own map,however not etched in crimson Theirs used a different kind of linguistic Using voices and a different person

Scared and alone,l turned back to my old friend

Letting IVIason use me like a machine Finding Lloyd gained access, Mason condemned Almost successful in forcing them to leave

No! I want them to stay

The first person to enjoy what I have created NIy beautiful waterscape, even if it was in disarray I decided to give into my crave

Sinking my teeth deep in his neck

I bid Mason bon nuit

Until he decides to rise from his previous wreck I will be ready to sink teeth into revenge so sweet.

-Evelyn Reese

g nice ,n[o*in€ riJe Jo*n tlrn ,o66;l [r"b

by Dawson Pickens

A nice relaxing ride down the rabbit hole

Yeah...I think I'm getting fat. No worries it's in my head It's not made from bread But more of what's in the bed The thoughts that don't tread But come crashing down Like feathers

In a rainstorm. Too scared from lightning To have the strong and brave form

They surround me now Questions like, "man what's the cape for?" "You ain't no hero, You just another fake boy!" fust tryna make it through life Before I sacrifice Another given right Cause of more and more fright Comin from a rejection sight. Not an injection on the brain but Instead from the stain That bites me with no pain Sayin "stay in your lane"

Mom tells me get fame Dad tells me no shame Sis tells me gold chain Bro tells me wedding ring Dog tells me fight back Against oppression in all forms Even light ones,in u since we were born

I gotta make it, Past the lights

That create more darkness here

I can see it. Can't you see it? You gotta see it! Man y'all gotta think Crystal Clear Cuz ain't no colors here Not even for 16 years From a boy livin off fear

Fear ofpain Fear ofstruggle Fear of rejection Fear of hate Fear of love Fear offorgiveness Fear ofacceptance Fear of life Fear ofdeath

Fear of everything and anything That you could dream of.

Could you make a correction? Man screw the connection Enou gh with su g gestions I'm tryna take lessons And it's you that I'm bestin Cuz from pre-adolescence

Wait,hold on, This is a WARNING This next part, Is my favorite part Anyway,

I've been told ain't no room for testin

IVIan you gotta go catch it

IVIan you need to go catch it You succeed ifyou catch it We achieve if you catch it We can dream if you catch it It's one team if you catch it No low esteem if you catch it It's the thing to be if you catch it Everything's free if you catch it Come with me if you catch it One big scene if you catch it

It/lan no more of the catch bro. Enough, ok? we get it, we get it.

These false passes

For me to show off Show me how off You can be to off Set my dream and off Bet you're team and off Let my scene.

So I'll drown my sorrow in words That keep me in this curse Thinkin ain't no reverse To make the fat stop spreading Like my grandma's cancer, IvIy dad's tumor, \4y brother's depression, My dog's age, And my isolation.

So yeah,l think I'm getting fat.

-Natalie Serratos

gfttto/gooJbyn

by Mia Forsythe

Our friendship is a clock With the hands of time spinning us around. They met at 12 sharp in a far away land,Then parted when minutes flew by With the metal bird flying me back to whence I came before. For 6 long years,the hands kept ticking,parting more and more, Despite our short-lived--but valiant--efforts To break this ever-persisting and vicious cycle Of natural progression.

I am the short hand, and you the long. Time has never been on your side. You rush and change at life's command,letting it knock you off your feet, But still, you persist, like the thick rubber bands strapped to your tired wrists. Yes,you're always changing, yet I was the one who left. While you were going through your fifth identity crisis,l was halfway across the world,IVIy hand moving only slightly,but still moving. Our dial became our phones--the connection between our polarizing worlds.

Until the two hands grew closer again: Oak Park and West Virginia--around 12:55. Trapped at the turn of the hour, Obstacles piling, consuming, eating away at our separate lives, So separate, in fact, that you've turned into nothing more than pixels on a screen,Transformed into a distant memory from a childhood dream. I forgot you were real--it seems so long ago... I long for the day when our hands collide once more, Patiently, I wait until 1:54.

-Kyla Robateau

9lou L'

by christine Donovan

The skin between your teeth iviade me seethe with jealousy

That the girl you made yours Scratched her name into my all of my thoughts how f told her all about your friends But left me out her whispers dripped softly like honey in your ears

And your endless apologies craved her blame Her eyes are unwashed river banks Flowing into the sea of wrongs

Your garden of lies have grown thick vines that now swell around her neck all the texts you left unread while she calls you to her bed

She dances alone in the middle of despair trying to forget your callous arguments Her fingers meddle into my conversations

And she pulls me aside stringing her thin arms around my neck Clinging me close to warm satin of her dress

-Elijah Jennison

$ro*n th" $[ro*n,

byGianna perez

The water mimicked the sound of static when I turned on the shower. The steam reflected in the mirror, glassy, and without weight. As I watched the water slipping down the nose of the showerhead,landing on the white-chipped bathtub floor,dancing and diving down the drain, something blue caught my eye. There in a pile of dirty laundry was a plastic bag,lnside was his phone. The'iecord"light was blinking red. Perfectly staged for his sick show. My fifteen-year-old hands held onto his phone with fear in my eyes and survival dictating my mind. I knew the show must go on. After I filmed his pedophilic intentions on my phone,l deleted the video and placed it back where I found it. I got myself undressed and took my shower. My hair now stained a dark heat,l battled my thoughts. Should I tell my mother what I had found? I then remembered my friend's mother always said I could text her if I ever felt unsafe, so I did just that. Instantly she responded by saying she was on her way. As though time fluttered away those twelve minutes became heavier with every exhale. I'm here,she messaged back. With my hair meticulously clean,I slipped on my favorite sandals, and with slight hesitation, I walked towards the living room. Spread across the couch,my step-brother,a guardian angel with bleeding wings. I knew my step-father would never hurt me while my step-brother was in the house. I saw him,sitting on the futon,with a Corona in one hand and fondling the remote in the other,while he watched soccer. His eyes greeted mine for merely a second and a lifetime. I never knew that would be the last time I saw,him,my step-father.

The show of a lifetime,I thought, from the clean hair down to the second it would have taken for a proper shower.l did it. He had no idea that I had found him out. The door swung open with silence in its lungs and softly closed behind me. I saw the bottom door and ran towards a life that was not mine. The beige sandals broke beneath my weight and unguided feet,with full force and survival in my throbbing veins. I hit into the bottom door with such speed and exertion,like a bulldozer. The warm September night air kissed my cheeks as I tripped onto a parked car,then, like a mouse that was just found,I scurried into my friend's mom's car. The world outside of the windows became white noise static,muted,and before I could catch my next breath my faucet eyes burst under the weight.

Eight years I knew him before my mother's empty "l do." You would think that you would know the stench of a spoiled mask. I used to tell myself that I should have known what lingered behind his drunken grin,his forceful hands,and crushing weight,but the remnants of my past are stained with beer and sinful eyes. We were a team, the best team, closer than I was with my mother. I loved my stepfather unconditionally. He and my step-brother taught me how to appreciate the rhythm of video games,the excitement in watching superhero films. He molded who I was for the majority of my childhood. Eight years. We would always test our strength in wrestling matches,or rather he would test mine.

In the end,l was the stronger one.

-Annaliese Baker

-laya Ashrafi

-Zora Johnson

$lrrneO{ings

The Amazon Rainforest is split between three kings.

The king of the smoky cloudline And the hazy weeping canopy;

The king of the smog-soaked earth And footprints crushed in mud and dirt;

The king of the draining waves And the smother of bog and algae

These kings have their place: They are the apex predators of their kingdoms

The Harpy Eagle flies the sky The Jaguar hunts the land The Anaconda rules the swamp.

They are not the apex predators of the Amazon Rainforest.

A champion takes their place, bolstered by Chemicals Machines

Dry trees And a clog of dead leaves in the ]aguar's kingdom.

The new Phoenix King steals each kingdom While the former rulers cower away.

The Harpy Eagle floats loftily on air it cannot breathe;

The Jaguar is suffocated by the breath of the Phoenix King;

The Anaconda gasps for water As its lakes And ponds And bogs Drift away into the clouds.

by Olivia Casey

And the apex predators of a different kind of jungle waste away With their eyes on the unreachable and unreal Sipping wine and laughing Uncaring of the fight they have brought To the Amazon Rainforest.

-lsabel Sichlau

{hn 9t;nE of @ruslacean s

by Luke Elwart

He was the King of Crustaceans the Commander of crabs, the Lieutenant of lobsters, and the Caliph of clams. He was the baron of barnacles, and the Bishop of brine, the princep of prawn, and the Kaiser of krill. The mystical Oracle of the oysters, and the almighty Shogun of the shrimp. All the crustaceans bowed down to their king, and glorious songs,to him they would sing. Yet to this mighty king, They could no longer cling.

As now he just waits, on a piping hot dish, waiting to be served as a mere appetizer, to a main course of fish.

-Emma Balma

-Eli Gerace

-Tessa IVIcConville

-Tessa I\lcConville

-Luca Andersen -Sydney Hunnewell

-Kyle O'Brien

"2-

It

-Anjali Pride

-Grace Richarads

-Alice Flynn -Carmen Catrambone

-Annie Wollmuth

-laya Ashrafi

-Annie Wollmuth

-Abigail Van Santen

-Christopher Ray

-Evelyn Reese -Abigail Van Santen -Anjali Pride

-Natalie Serratos

-Davion James -Tessa IVIcConville

Johnson -Anika Wilsnack

-Annie Wollmuth

-Ella Taira

-Abigail Van Santen

.: _-,.

-Hannah nzlckee

-Zachary Traczyk

-Daniel Weiss -Christopher Ray

-Joe Roucka

-Joise Lappe

-Joe Roucka .sa i

-Luca Andersen -Nina CIeofe

&

-EIena Catrombone

-Gianna Perez

-Holden Green

-Tyler Williams

-Kyle Ryniewicz

-EIIa Taira

-Amelia Yu

dhnSno,

by lames Diskin

She sets new digs with the ticks and twigs; The fresh spring snow chills her limbs, The wind sways her coat like an old winter's hymn.

The solemn river beside her wails; Near the cypress tree,the quiet impaled, When the barrel cracked, her eyes grew pale.

-EIijah Jennison

g$ronil,rnotlrn*'s

by Abigail Ryan

Have you ever heard of the fairies of old? I'm sure you have. They're a staple of children's books, the magical fairy that lives in flowers and helps people. Or,you might know them as the good people, mischievous beings who dance in circles and lure people in with their magic. But,like any reasonable person in the twenty-first century,you know that they don't exist. They're legends and myths, not needed for anybody who wants to think rationally about the world.

Well, I'm here to prove you wrong.

Our story begins in a small apartment. There are faded pictures on the walls, shelves of knickknacks. There's countless wind chimes in the open window, reflecting rainbows onto the walls. Oh, and one more thing. There's bright light everywhere. It's like the sun has taken a bit of it's light,the best bit,the most golden bit,and put it into this apartment. Contributing to this golden glow is the sound of laughter,of music,and the smell of something - you know that one smell that you can't ever place but it's good? Yeah,that smell - filling the rooms.

"Grandma,Grandma," There's a little girl here,too. Small,but smiling bright and talking loud. She tugs at her Grandma's skirt as she stirs the pot on the stove.

"What is it?" The Grandma replies. "l saw a fairy yesterday." "Did you? Really? What was it like?" The Grandma smiles, and you can see that this, this smile, this spirit, is the source of the glow in this apartment.

"Awesome." The little girl falls back onto the floor of the apartment, her arms spread wide and her eyes closed, a ghost of her grandma's smile on her face.

"You know. I saw the fairies once." The Grandma (You know what? Let's call her by her name, Elva.) Elva shoots a smile, her golden-light smile, over her shoulder as she goes to sit in her favorite chair,the one with the softest cushions,well-worn and well-loved.

"You did?" This pronouncement is apparently enough for the girl (Zoey) to get up from the ground,and run and plop down at Elva's feet. "Was it awesome too?"

"lt was! I can tell you about it, if you want." That smile appears again, bigger this time. If you were there, you could've seen the apartment glow brighter, just for a second,like the flash of a camera.

"ygs!"

She'll tell you, too, if you're willing to listen. But I bet you aren't, I bet you're reading this as a pastime,a silly,made up story. You know,that's what Elva thought too,so read on.

"lt happened long ago,when I was a teenager. My Grandpa,your great-great grandpa,believed in the fairies. Well, he called them the good people, but fairies is easier, don't you think? Anyway, I did not believe in fairies. Not at all. I thought I was so smart, only believing in things I could see. That day, I grabbed my camera, ready to take pictures for my photography class. I decided to walk to the forest Preserve, to take pictures of all the plants. The sun was shining, and it was gorgeous outside. Not a cloud in the sky. Oh,you should have seen it-"

"Grandma? The fairies?" Zoey's laying on the ground again. "Oh,was I rambling? Ok,back to the fairies." Elva boops Zoey's nose as she sits back up again, causing both of them to giggle.

"l was out for a long time that day,taking pictures of the evening sunlight dyeing the plants gold. And as the sun fell,the world turned purple. Only a bit of the indigo light was slipping through the

trees, silhouetting them against the sky. I've always loved that- when the trees are silhouetted. The lines are always so crisp, so clean. I walked through the forest, taking pictures as I went. There was a bit of mist forming, sweeping through the trees and giving everything a mysterious look. I kept walking, ever forward,even though I knew it was time to turn back,Grandpa would be worried,it's dark now,time to go home. But I didn't,and I'm glad I didn't,because right then,when I was going to force myself to turn back,l heard it."

"Heard what?" Zoey, now, is completely caught in the story, her eyes focused on her Grandma's face as she leans forward.

"The singing. There were no words, only a melody, but it was beautiful. I didn know what was happening,who was singing,but I knew I needed to find out. I turned around,not towards home,but into the forest, where the music was coming from. I followed a deer trail, and then when that ran out,I just clambered through the bushes,wanting to find out who was making that beautiful noise. It reached a peak just as I was stumbling onto the shore of the small lake in the forest." Elva leans back, her eyes closed, head against the back of the chair.

I have a question for you- yes you, reading the story. Have you returned from the forest yet? Once you have,read on.

Have you ever listened to the sounds the creatures in the lake make at night? You'll know if you have- think about it for a second. If not, go out and find a lake at night. I dare you. It's haunting, and almost impossible to resist.

In the pause,a rush of wind pulls a cloud over the sun. There's a smattering of wind chimes,and the glow in the apartment starts to fade. Elva's eyes open, slowly, and she glances over to the window, a blink and you'll miss it glance.

"Grandma?" Zoey asks. "What happened then?"

"The song stopped. It felt like I was waking up from a dream, almost, and I knew I had to get home. Feeling confident on my location,l found a path, and followed it. And as I was following it,I kept hearing things again. And the sounds kept getting louder and louder- it almost sounded like a party! I broke through the trees. There, in the glow of the moonlight, was a perfect ring of stones. The mist was covering everything around it,but inside the circle it was perfectly clear. And inside there was a multitude of fairies, all dancing in a circle. The dance was joyous, everyone switching places and laughing, their feet moving so fast that you could hardly tell when one step ended and another began. All the girls were wearing brightly colored dresses, and the men were all wearing green jackets. They also all had red caps on, and some had white feathers in them. They were laughing, singing, and they looked like they were having the best of times."

"Were those the fairies?" Both of the girls are smiling at this point,bright, golden smiles. "Yes, those were the fairies. I couldn't believe my eyes! Grandpa was right- they were real. I knew I had to have proof, so I took out my camera and snapped a picture. The music stopped, and all the fairies turned as one, facing me. The forest was deathly silent. Then, suddenly, there was a rush of wind, and all the fairies disappeared at once. When the wind finished,there was no ring of stones,no fairies, just a path leading towards home. How it was there,why it was there,l never figured out. But by the time I got home,the memory of the fairies had all but faded. The house felt like the forest,all quiet and still."

Are you convinced yet? Maybe you think that it was a dream. Maybe it was just a circle of mushrooms swaying in the wind. Or maybe it was the good people,having a party. You never know.

"The next morning,l knew that something had happened last night,but I didn't quite remember what. It was the weekend, so I didn't look at my camera until l\4onday. And when I looked at it, can you guess what I saw?"

"The fairie st" Zoey squeals. The sun has returned, once more filling the apartment with the golden glow.

"Yes, it was the picture of the fairies- here, I have it somewhere." Elva goes looking in the pockets of her skirt, and inside is a folded up picture, its creases well-worn. It is a faded picture of the fairies, mid-dance,and looking at it,you can almost hear the music. "The picture must've jogged my memory, because as soon as I looked at it, I remembered all that happened that night."

They stay there for a second, staring at the picture. Suddenly, a timer in the kitchen goes off, and EIva and Zoey are snapped back into that glowing apartment. For a moment, all is silent except the beeping of the timer. Then they both explode into giggles, and Zoey follows Elva into the kitchen as she goes to finish dinner.

Our story is over now- what did you think? Has it convinced you to believe in the supernatural? If not, don't be worried. When you go into a room and forget what you did there, or the time you spent outside iust flew away, or heard a sound you just can't place,you've found the fairies. Or they've found you.

Oh! There's one last bit of Elva's story- one I almost forgot. If you looked through the window, after Elva finished her story, you would've seen two small humanoid forms, about as large as your hand. One's in a long, flowing, brightly colored dress, the other in a green jacket, and both in red caps. With a rush of wind,they disappear,the only evidence of their presence the ringing of the wind chimes.

frf"logies

by WiIIa Sagal

The art of apologizing has been lost. What the wrongdoers of our world have forgotten is the classic saying, "actions speak louder than words." The phrase "I'm sorry" does not equate to instantaneous forgiveness,as many of the apologizers of our day have mistakenly assumed. It leaves me utterly dumbfounded when I am presented with an apology for an action that the apologizer simply refuses to stop committing. If the action is continued, then how can the connected apology ever be seen as genuine?

I think of these ungenuine I'm sorrys as false apologies. The false apology can be seen in many different forms. For instance, a few examples include, "l'm sorry it happened like this", or "l'm sorry you're upset", or "I'm sorry you had to go through this", or "l'm sorry you didn't like my actions". "I,m sorry that what I did made you feel this way". What the receiver of these words may notice is that each and every one of these false apologies is missing a factor that is of the utmost importance: the feeling of regret. Not a one of these false apologies shows a single inkting that the apologizer is actually sorry,or reveals any notion that the apologizer was at fault. The admittance of responsibility is not present. None of them show the message of a true apology: "I'm sorry that I hurt you. I won't do it again".

The words "l'm sorry" have lost their meaning. Their weight and importance have dissipated from the English language due to overuse and mistreatment. False apologies wrack our society with abuse of trust and damaged emotions. False apologizers run wild, true intentions unchecked, wreaking

havoc within every relationship they enter.

The art of apologizing has been lost. Who knows when it was lost. Irllaybe it has been lost ever since the English language was created,and the word "sorry" was given its meaning. Maybe apologies were never sincere. The words "l'm sorry" are continuously utilized as a mask as to which cruel misusers hide their unchanged opinions and intentions behind. Actions speak louder than words. Work and effort towards improvement are both essential,yet are often the forgotten components of a true apology. The words "l'm sorry" are a start, but are, in the end, only a beginning.

Jnllnrs lo OQJ"ro;oJ

bvAnikawitsnack

6/10- Last night was my lowest point. I felt very alone. I had a terrible panic attack and I tried to find help, but it just continued. I ran into a bat, got all my adrenaline out and finally slept.

6/11- Ruby and I talked about our home community and what we missed. Some of India felt familiar,like my grandparents house,but I still feel out of place.

6/12-The harder part was coping with the responsibility of being a teacher,and trying to genuinely help without reinforcing a white savior complex. I want to focus on empowering the kids to work toward a future they want. I'11 be ok but I feel so scared. I feel responsible for the girls and looking out to 50 of their faces staring back at me brought a lot of emotions.

6/18- It's hard for me to really know why I came here versus why I want to stay. I mostly wanted to see my culture and teach something I'm passionate about. One of the hardest things on this trip is that you never get used to India. I've realized this is ok. I can learn a lot from discomfort even if it doesn't sink in until I'm home.

6122- One thing I want to remember is talking to some students about how to get to college and convince their parents they deserve an education. That made all of this program feel worth it.

6/24-Everything about charminar was overwhelming,both in good and bad ways. What really got me was the harassment. A group of men swarmed our group and filmed us,the more we fought back the more they laughed. When we got to the train station I felt unsafe and too noticeable,I didn't know how to cope with being alone in an overnight train cabin full of older unfamiliar men.

6/28- We got back to Tagore at 5 am and I immediately fell asleep. At some point a monsoon woke me up. Everyone crowded around the doors to watch it, and lilah slipped running into the rain. It was the most comfortable and bittersweet I've felt. I love these girls and I'll miss them.

6129-We're on a plane back to New York. I can't believe this is pretty much over. We had to say a lot of quick goodbyes and I'm not ready to do it again in 20 hours.

by Eliza Zamudio

Rained poured down onto the bed of the truck,sounding like little drumsticks beating down onto the chipping paint of the old chevy. The whirring noise under the hood seemed like we were going to break down any second,so loud we could hear it over the downpour outside the sealed up windows. I looked down to the glowing numbers illuminating the deep charcoal dashboard. It was almost midnight, I had to be home in 20 minutes. I was savoring the last few minutes I had in this seat,the one I spent most of my summer in,as the truck groaned while attempting to make its way through the potholed streets.

I looked to my left,seeing my driver just as I had most nights. I could only pick out a few of his features when the small street lights came over us. His long hair, as dark as the black chipping paint of the truck, flowed past his ears, topped with a Cubs baseball cap. I promised him we would go to a game as soon as he came he came home. His hands draped over the steering wheel,with wiry tanned arms flowing into a shirt a little too big. As we drove,the rain seemed to get stronger and stronger,fading out the sounds of the sputtering engine. Noises got more and more distant as I tried to focus on the happy memories of this truck. The truck wasn't so dead at the beginning of summer, ushering me through all of the memories I had shared with its owner. Driving around the small streets seemed to be a recurring activity.

A hand grasped mine. The familiar icy cold hand laced it's fingers around mine.

"I'm coming back for Thanksgiving,and Christmas,and everything. This doesn't have to end right now," The voice he spoke with was soft, sounding like it was trying not to crack. It felt strange, having to really recognize that the two months he had spent here were really over. IVIy hand slowly pulled away from his,bringing my feet up on top of the dashboard where I usually put them. I studied my surroundings in order to avoid responding. The size too big shoes I wore,to the small glittering anklets covering the tops of my socks, all the way up to the bottom hem of my t-shirt covering my shorts. My finger traced over the small stain on the tan colored seat, from a red slushie the first time I had ever gotten into this truck. It was almost two months ago, but from this seat, it felt like only a week ago.

"l think it's the right thing to do right now,l have too much going on to focus on something like that,you know that." We had tried to avoid having this conversation all summer,knowing it would eventually have to happen. VIy eyes scanned the interior of the car, avoiding eye contact. A few developed pictures from the disposable cameras we had used were scattered on the dashboard. They were all snapshots of the summer, from parties we went to, pictures of people in the cab of the truck, to the long days spent in our friends bedrooms. A long string of red beads hung from the rear view mirror, matching the stripe on the seats.

"l don't know," were the last words uttered in the conversation. I couldn't bring myself to keep talking as the truck slowly rolled on. I felt tears beginning to form in my eyes. I could feel his eyes staring, the color of grassy hills on a day when the sun shone directly onto the blades. I looked over into them, a smile slowly curling on my cheeks, scooting closer to the driver's seat to have an arm wrapped around me.

"l'm sorry,l don't want it to be this way" I whispered. The truck slowed and pulled to a stop on the side of the road in front of my house. I couldn't bring myself to get out.

"I love you," The three words had been said dozens of times throughout the time we spent 36 together, this time, it felt different. The words sent shivers through me, only because I knew it would be the last.

"l love you too." I said as I sat straight up. He placed a small kiss on my forehead,then connected both of our foreheads together. I shifted away,placing my hand on the door,opening it into the pouring rain outside. As I jumped out,the rain surged onto me. "Thank you," was all I could muster as I waved and ran up the steps to my front door. He idled on the street to make sure I got inside. It was an end that was inevitable,sputtering out just as the engine of the'89 chevy had.

-Natalie Serratos

Joun

by Phoebe Foster

Never taught Yet genuinely simple Guiding hopefuls to disaster The power within is underestimated Noone can understand its full potential Unconsciously fending for our right to happiness

Though tenderness is weak and detestation is strong Declarations for passion and resentment are very much alike We use hate perfectly and love destructively obsessing over oneself Contradiction for passion and resentment are very much alike

Though detestation is short and tenderness is long Consciously forcing the world to challenge itself Everyone knows the strength it possess Fearing its opposers will triumph

Feeding ID for satisfaction Hard to understand Life lesson Hate

thn$oil;ng$on

by lanine Pohlman

The cathedral breathed before the boy, Windows sighing like a moaning reed, Its fish maw gaping, licking,sucking Till he was entirely swallowed.

The boy, shagged and starved,was suddenly swept Under a thousand painted eyes That whispered in clacking bells, humming tomes, Praising choirs But he knew their judgment Absolute and hollow Like the ceiling that swallowed and sung They blinked on his back Crowned thorns over his temple

He was titled a false man

Where he crumpled before the velvet stairs Picking red threads between his teeth Even in the presence ofthe untouchables In their indescribable beauty His light had whimpered out Reaped and raped by their benign, stone lips

He was no longer a boy Yet he never knew Nor had the strength to understand Who had snuffed the light Or why he had been knocked Or what compelled him to shake Or how he had become so pale Or when his tears began to plot

He was void of faith. And to lift his head Against the beat of air Was the hardest pull Before his release From his leaf-in-the-gust fingers, Mlore rigid than the statue's stretched wings, He curled himself To stare Him in the eyes And snip his wings Pivot from grace And all holy things

With a whip and stumble Aworld had crumbled Under the arch of his bare feet With tired eyes and quaking arms

He was gone from the light of the Son and the Father

-Emma Balma

-Amelia Yu

{h" Vulnnro\ln $orJen

bv Basma Raio

Every morning I wake up hoping to see you outside the window watering the dull flower garden, but I never do. It seems impossible to pull my lifeless body out of bed and into the garden. I am alone in this unlivable world with nobody protecting the thing I care most about.

I try to reach my hands into the dirt until I reach the disappointed seeds and my fingertips plead for forgiveness. I want to travel back to when the dry clouds didn't hinder the searching sun with nothing to offer.

I'm dragging myself through the dull garden path, forced to watch the poor helpless petals shrinking and decaying into the dried out mulch. The petals are trembling down to their unfortunately inevitable fate,but there's nothing I can do. You were the stormy nights that provoked destruction but at the same time sufficed the garden with the essential element that fed and protected it, and the sunlight that allows flowers to create the oxygen that I can't live without.

When we first started the garden,you surrounded it with a silver wired fence and your dominant voice seemed to weed away danger and keep the slowly blooming flowers safe. But since you've been gone, the drooped fence has stunted their growth. Now, the powerless, innocent, and fragile flowers are vulnerable. They might become malnourished,dry,overfed,or maybe the filthy weeds will attack and leave them helpless. I can't do anything about it.

All I know how to do is clean your mistakes. Like when I melted into the blue rocking chair while your addiction took over once again and your vomited pledges of regret travelled in and out of my ears,l was always there. Or how I drove you to the hospital after you used violence to assert your prominent ego more times than I can remember, I was always there. But really, it was the least I could do. I have always been your personal butterfly seeking to perch on your sweet nectar words,but you only supplied me with contaminated words that echoed whispers of unworthiness. Today,while I was running my hands through the dry desperate dirt,I connected with the roots and the soil. I understood them, and for an instant, I finally felt happier. Although, it was short lived when a bee's venomous stinger drilled into my exposed skin. It didn't hurt me nearly as much as your stings did; your stings that left iris imprints on my body and scars that binded to my skin like weeds to soil.

I don't think you ever truly wanted to hurt me, but with reassuring safety, comes a demanding price. I learned to pretend I was in my garden with the confidently flourishing flowers. While observing them display their full potential that is hidden behind their fearful sepals. But you snapped me out of it when your brute palm plunged into my blinded cheek.

While I was patting down some rose seeds into the soil,l imagined you giving me a freshly picked velvety rose along with a repeated apology that held promising lies: "it will never happen again". Your compellingly sweet honey eyes made it easy to believe you.l always forgave you,knowing that your anger was merely a reflection of your care. In some ways your anger supplemented your devotion to the garden.

I try to remember the good things like how every year on the first Spring day we would blow dandelions into the endless spring breeze and make hopeful wishes. Every time,l wished for the same

thing. You always asked what i wished for, but I thought if I told you it wouldn't come true. UnfortunateIy, my superstition didn't make a difference.

For the 3 weeks after you left I would lie on my broken blue rocking chair while my 56lonely velvet roses wilted, and expected you to come home with a lingering scent of whisky mixed with ferocity; the way you did every night, waiting for you to prick me with your unhesitant thorns. But I have to remind myself that you are gone forever, and can't protect my garden. You left it here all alone.

For the first time since you've been gone,I didn't force my body to pass the rickety door to the garden. \rly worn out purple sandals made a squeak with every step going through the curved rocky path to the garden. But without you here, the flowers don't sprout like they used to. They seem to be staying in the dirt where they feel safe and invulnerable; they don't want to be seen or open themselves up to a world that might hurt them, where there's nobody there to protect them. You were supposed to be here. They depend on you.

It's been a while since 1've written to you, i've been pretty busy since I'm practically prancing to the garden everyday now,taking advantage of the beautiful gift I was given. The flowers are absorbing the fiercely blazing sun and the skies valuable tears of aspiration,while they overpass their hedged potential. The robins and sparrows are fluttering around and dropping subtle hints of summer down their path. IvIy life cycle seems to be overcoming this detrimental point of desperation. Although,l can see my garden still misses you. It still doesn't feel completely protected from harm,but it's independence is finding its way to the light through dirt, darkness, and irreversible damage. Nothing bad has happened since you've been gone. In fact,this morning while I was removing the controiling silver wired fence, I noticed the iilies sprouting with ambitions, the daffodils revealing overwhelming vibrance, the orchids flourishing with glory, and the sun and clouds working together. The petais seem to sing sweet songs of freedom and I can even hear the flowers joyous rooting. I wish you could see what I've accomplished without you.

-Carmen Catrambone

th" O(rouen s O(oun o Jinnil.

by Daniel Weiss

A tall, worn-down looking man with a thick gray beard and a suit appears. He cleors his throat, and paces around the room in silence for a few moments before speaking: Jesus wasn't lying,you know.

All that stuff did actually happen. The bible,surprisingly, is nonfiction. Yes,l flooded the earth; yes,I created humanity; yes,l do hear it every time you use my name in vain, and no, for fuck's sake, Mlississippian #3472,1 am not "out to get" specifically you because you've had a bad day. But other than that, for the most part, the supposed "myths" are true. And frankly, the entire story is a bit of a mess if you ask me.

Now first off,l need you all to understand something very important about me: I was very,very young when all of this happened. Well--relatively speaking,l suppose I was ancient at the time,but what's important is that it was only just after I had created humanity. Life on earth was my little passion project. First came the single-celled organisms.which were kind of my test guinea pigs, and I let them grow and change as my ideas got bigger and crazier. Soon enough there were fish and trilobites. Everything was turning out as I had hoped. I even had some creatures walking on land. With legs.

God,legs were a strange idea.

Soon I was throwing legs at everything I saw. I got smashed one night and gave these fucking noodles a hundred legs each. You humans started calling them centipedes. Funniest thing I'd seen all month. The next morning.when I'd sobered up,l thought the idea was just too good not to keep. But yes, eventually these creatures got further and further along until I was finally ready for my masterpiece, my magnum opus:the human.

And lesus Christ--the entire project's flopped. Why do you think I'm talking to you all now? I'm not supposed to interact with my projects. I'm supposed to remain something of a folk Iegend. A concept. A maybe. A haunting suspicion in the back of people's minds, existing for humans only as a vague idea fuelled by faith and faith alone. Well hey,l guess this is your proof. Surprise everybody! I'm real, and you're aII dumbasses.

So why am I here? It's because, frankly, it doesn't matter anymore. Congratulations, everybody. You've made God a nihilist. You ruined yourselves. You were apes. You were beautiful and intelligent, but at the end of the day,you were still apes. You foraged. You hunted. But it wasn't long before you began to hack the system.

It started with farming.

I thought you were just curious,like a baby human first exploring the world, shoving anything it can into its mouth (and yes,by the way,l made babies stupid for fun). But it went further than I'd expected. A few of you watched plants a little too closely and figured them out. I didn't think you'd do that. You weren't supposed to do that! It stopped being birds that shat seeds from the sky, and instead, soon, you were ruining perfect ground and placing the seeds yourselves. The old lifestyle entirely died out. You all switched to farming. You found the code,and you were never meant to do that. You weren't meant to figure out seeds, to figure out fire, tq figure out any of it.

Because the fact of the matter is,well,you're humans. Your preferred state of nature had,for

eons, been ignorance. You loved ignorance! It was a happy time! You were glad not knowing how things worked,and you were fine with hunting 1nd gathering. And I was happy toot tvty project wa-s working out! Any conflicts were minor tribal coilfli.ttl "nd my-enchanting vision was coming to its glorious fruition. And then you weren't so satisfied, and then it was too late for me to stop you.

Next up came the stone age. Needless to say,stones are hard. I made them hard. It was my way of making the world untouchable. Like what I suppose you humans would call "solitary confinement,,. It was my way of making sure you humans,with all your strength and intellect,wouldn't be able to destroy the beauty I'd crafted around you. You were supposed to be ituck and unable to ruin it. The earth was a beautiful wallpaper painted with mountains and ravines and rivers and snow,but you weren,t meant to try to change the paint on the wall! So,l made it out of stone. I created the earth, and how stunning it was! And how better to protect it than by making almost all of it out of a damn near indestructible material?

ISigh.]

But you figured that one out too, didn't you?

You always were the smartest ones,l suppose. And before you ask, no, dolphins aren't that smart. And then after stone,you picked up bronze. You weren't meant to harnesi fine metals. Fine metals weren't even meant to exist outside of their states in ore. I didn't even know it was possiblel You melted away the stone,which I'd never even thought of doing,revealing such beautiful metal! you cracked a code I didn't even program. And all the while,Christ above,all thJwhile,you prayed. You thanked me. You praised me!Olivacus Prolletti,a prominent merchant fro* Rb*","ctual- ly said to me in one of his more memorable prayers that I hadgifted you all with a world of wonders to explore and things to discover. I didn't do any of that. You all were fusi so incessantly curious that you went out and found things you weren't supposed to find.

IApause.]

Everything else followed suit. Onward came steel. And then gunpowder. And then drugs, and politics, and genocide, and guns, and world-domination, and empiris, ond bloodspill, and minarchieq and dictatorshipq and for fuck's sake, aII of it was in my name!

So why am I talking to you all?

It's because I finally cracked. I'm done. I'm hanging up the hat. I'm being "let go." Leaving. Finding other work. Quitting. I'm sick of the crusades and the walls on the borderr

"i-ra tnJ.ivil wars,ind all of it being in my name. You're not my passion project anymore. You're my mistake. It,s ironic that you fear the machin_es you've created gaining consciousneis and destroyingyou--that's the plot of that popular movie, eh, Terminator, right?--well, yes, that's awfully ironic. neiauie you mock youiselves. You mock yourselves.

You've gained consciousness,and with every sword you stab into another human while uttering that it is in my name,you defile your creator. Consider this my letter of resignation. Enjoy your peaceful nonexistence, humans.

_

G n Q,,{,nou o iJob t, Qh;J

by Shannon Lane

A fine line is drawn through the walls that leaves me with a ringing in my ear. That leaves my eyes unsealed and my brain pulsing in and out. The thin auburn hair trickles up my skin that was once mended. Broken to the bone,left with the faint scent of red wine and cigarette smoke.

I wonder what the sun may bring, how the thorns feel on the roses, pricking my fingertip. Letting the blood drain out into this fine line of something unknown,something that can tear the whole thing down by one crack. It takes me back in my head,back to the old bashed in walls that I covered with the images of my nightmares.

I lay uncovered, in a void, feeling the vibration of the chalky concrete upon my skin. It starts for five seconds and ends with a shrill screech pulling me further in. The crooked line bleeds through the vacant walls of lost minds.

A ballad of screams chimes out like a broken orchestra, and I am the only one in the audience. It gets louder and louder, overpowering the sound of an old cadillac.

It picks away at my eardrum hearing only a distant siren. The line begins to split,two solid yellow linLs,l only iemember from a glance out the foggy window. The air gushes through my lungs, itopping more aii from coming in. My eyes,tight,waiting for the air to come in,and it does. The oxygen has been taken from the lost souls that once nurtured me. Sparks still linger from the cigarette as I find myself lost in this once mended piece of concrete.

The concrete peels back further, clogging my ears with chlorine and the sound of a stereo glitching in and out of country music. Irly unpolished toenail numbs when I watch the water ripple. A second faie appears in the leaf-filled pool,l wonder who I am seeing, a deflated face with bulging eyes, reaching througil to my core, struggling to find my deepest secrets. Another image appears, a beach ball rushes orer *y head. Back and forth,throwing my mind off. I see each color for a split second until the pool floor stirts to descend. Gasping for air,I view twenty different eyes on me,telling me to sink deeper' Unwilling to use mymuscles...willing to sink down into the back of my mind,wondering who is watching from the inside.

Cracking more and more,dragging me through a child's mind,curious,lost. Each echo of light, each image shows less of my reflection.

Every turn, another perfect appearance, another reflection of a little girl's desire.

The mirrors threaten me, inching forward with each restricted breath.

I\{y eyes refuse to recognize this drained silhouette. Cornered into this perfect society, facing this perfect reflection,wanting to step into it,wanting to disappear in a reflection that is not my own. The fine line bleeds into the cracked oak floor of my grandmother's cabin, the crisp air seems to whip past me,with each step I take. A forest,the growth that has deflated lingers in the old cookery. Still smettirrg the rotted scent of peace lilies, what was once a breath of light. now leaves my lungs decaying.

Flakes of olive green leaves dwindle into the uneven cracks of the oak floor. Disappearing into fragments.

My heart rots with the pungent stench of stale weeds. A creeping plant weaves through a chipped acoustic,longing to be strung by the fingers of my grandfatlerGtalloused fingertipi. Still I crave the smell of fresh lilies,the strum of a made up tune.

The strumming fades into a steady drone,a buzzing fixedly becoming louder,the only other sound piercing its way through, a dull tapping cautiously creeping closer. Witts crawl "..o.i my broken skin,bloated harbingers of a lagging serrated strain.

I slip through the fine line, distinguishing the pulsing of my own existence.

2:2Opm

"Calm down Lily,it will only hurt for a second." We had to pull her out of consciousness,she was rotting in her own cell.

Lately,the inspectors have been bothering us about checking on the patient's environment. But the're all the same plain, dreadful rooms. gray walls, gray toilet, gray mattresi, that was it.

But something was different about her room,it had a cold wind that brushed across you each time you moved a muscle. I didn't like to stay in there too long while she was gone,becausei thought she would come back to kill me in my sleep.

However, I noticed something, there was a crack in the wall next to her deflated mattress, it seemed to be spreading.

"We better get that patched up officer."

"Well that's strange,we just fixed all the walls last week.,,

-Hannah McKee

fr"o Ouil" inlo tl* oStot;o*, a ra1,r7,

by Cade Dublin

There are so many things I want to say to you. Mounted on your stool, You sit in your puddle of selfishness. Repellent, as you were, And always have been.

Your ears continue to be blockaded as I rehearse my fury, "A fantasy world," burning bridges, With the carefulness of a dancer in a jewelry shop. With your focus unabridged,we are left alone.

MIy anger is coal,fueling the screams and callouts That conform hastily towards the top of my throat. The steam engine prepares for it's ultimate release.

Suddenly,the train of thought is halted in it's tracks By the elusive Conductor Consequence.

-Maeve ltllascarenhas -Holden Green

-Clara Casey Wahlfeldt

-Daniel Weiss

-lane Wahlfeldt

-lVlaxwell Gonzalez

-Tyler Williams

-Evan Powell

-Ivlaxwell Gonzalez

-Holden Green

-Lily IVIoore

-EIIa Taira

-Evan Powell

-Leif Bryning

-Grace Richards

-Lauren Edwards

-Lucy Suchomel -Lucy Suchomel

-Evan Powell

-Zachary Traczyk

-Rosalyn Beile

-Cecelia Crumlish

-Alice Flynn

-lVlargaret Kennedy

-N4addie IVIacek

-Xlaclaine Watson

-Lauren Edwards

-l\rlargaret enne

-IrlcKale Thompson -lVlcKale Thom on

-Harrison l(ratz

-Zora Johnson

-Addison Rexroat

-lVIaeve Mascarenhas

-Sydney Hunnewell

-Lily \4oore

-EIIa Weatherington

-EIIa Weatherington

-Gianna Perez

Gtlonlis

by Phoebe Fosfer

Art washes away from the soul the dust of everyday life

Yet in life we find everyday the soul washes away art

The up from life making we jump the soul white sold

We see the bones of the beginning And grasp its tenderness in our arms Tasting red lies and smelling fear

Our father is Atlantis Heard ofbut never seen One lucky enough to have seen him is a father within themself. How does one see what is not there? Only a fool will believe in Atlantis and live their life in fear of disapproval from our father.

It would be lit to find a father of my own phd believes art is his Atlantis.

If Cain and Abel were the first on earth Who did their sons marry? What came first?

The artist or the paint and brush? The heinous skeleton of religion is a detriment to the soul Couldn't the brush bend our past

As the artist straightens our future The art I create will save us from humanity

With transparent paper Our future is behind us Notre pass6 est en avance

Donc je dis putain de chris

My brush will guide us to success And sing sweet hymns of joy Paint spilling on clear cloth

-Anjali Pride

-Olivia Badrinath

Wonigotdt Jnnnoro$olnn

by Nina Cleofe

She needed a disappearing act. Like the way she would hide under the covers when her mom came in her room because she couldn't bear to be looked at while something important was being said, or how the girls at school caked on their make-up but you could still see the bumps under their skin. Wishing he could be a stranger like the good old days was as hard as it always seemed. To say goodbye to him wasn't as simple as stealing away to cry in someone else's bathroom or a slow drifting apart where neither of them could remember who said what to irritate the other. It was like the way she abstained from blowing out the candlestick on her nightstand, so that she wouldn't get wax on the photos she took over the summer-none of which she and him were pictured side by side. Instead she would suffocate it with her thumb. The first time,she didn't realize it would require a dip of her fingers into a glass of water,and skipped to the part where she would pinch the wick,burning her fingertips and her bedroom's melancholic darkness reinstated the pain.

She felt him sitting beside her on the train one afternoon and wanted to tilt her head, resting on the shoulder that was taller than hers. Going through the motion, she felt nothing. The collapse onto a comfortable, safe sanctuary had been replaced by a fall into impassioned disappointment, comparable to the sip of tea she took that morning and consequently realized she hadn't steeped it long enough nor had she added enough sugar. Though to the common eye,she only appeared a youthful girl who simply forgot her bedtime two hours past. There was a fast, constant beat of the train, and a loud whirring noise in the background that she observed once and remained stuck in the back of her head like the fly in her room that was always too fast to catch. She exited the train with an anxious hallucination that she had left something behind.

It was the girl with the slender hands and long dress that gave her the same euphoria as tapping a spoon against the crust of a crdme brOl6e,the way she walked with a slight drag in her feet but not enough to become an annoyance. She wasn't sure if it was her who stole the image of him or if it was the whirring noise from the train. Walking alongside her, it was unclear whether or not she should keep her hands in her pockets. She tapped her seared fingertips together and felt the blisters sting as they bounced off of each other. She wanted to stimulate the friction between them until they burst, spilling pus over her hand, revealing the raw skin underneath,and forming a crust within half an hour. I\4aybe later. IVIaybe then she would squeeze her thumb like a tube of toothpaste and Iet it drip onto the candle to put it out instead of letting it soak into her coat pocket. Or maybe she didn't want their hands to touch. At the thought of that she imagined herself picking at her own mutilated fingers and peeling the skin back even further until they bled, but discarded every trace of such a concept when she asked about her day.

At that moment her greatest fear was of her departure, followed by the abandonment of the blissful illusions she had fabricated of their eyes meeting. Although she remembered that they agreed upon walking home from the station together after school,to her it was as if they were both wandering with no set destination or plan in mind.

While walking beside her she wondered if she was just better off alone. During the summer

when it was hot she would think about how many things she planned to do,but doing nothing at all 64 because of the heaps of sweat and shame upon her after letting him go the way she did. She didn't want to become like the old t-shirt that she, as a child, insisted on wearing even after its poppy red faded to a pale pink,the same one that her mom now uses to clean the windows and wipe dust from the sill. Before turning the corner she raised her right hand and tilted it side to side. As they parted ways she marveled at the way her arms hung by her side,matching the grace of her hair like watching the sun glisten through leaves in the summer. She was a few footsteps from the set destination,the plan in mind, the sudden revelation of her futile attempt at having the same luster with her that she thought she had with him. Not unfair, just unlucky.

Ur"o Woior is ShrpeJ

J,;ltn a$,ist

by EIIa Haas

I christen you constellation:

Your freckles mimic the spread of the stars. You are also the heavens

When I bruise you the color of a hot night sky.

Your freckles mimic the spread of the stars

On a galactic body brimming with space junk. When I bruise you the color of a hot night sky, I take beauty and warp it into a black hole of my own

On a galactic body brimming with space junk: Planet, freckle, star, and bruise. I take beauty and warp it into a black hole of my own I bring Orion's Belt down on your back.

Planet, freckle, star, and bruise. You are the sky because I fashion you in its image: I bring Orion's Belt down on your back, Fill you with darker matter.

You are the sky because I fashion you in its imageI christen you constellation, Fill you with darker matter. You are also the heavens.

A

-Amelia Yu

Vl)"utJ I "titt 6" ygu, fouorile ify"u ltnn*?

by Iulia Dingman

You always wanted a granddaughter with a river of copper hair streaking down her freckled cheeks

You always wanted someone to brag about on bingo night,compliments pouring out like plastic chips on the table

Would I still be that perfect little girl if you found out the truth? Would I still be your favorite if you knew?

If you knew that the fingers I intertwine with mine are the same ones that would someday slip on an engagement ring

If you knew that the mouth I kiss, and always seem to miss, is one that is also painted with lipstick

Straight As but not straight I try to slather jokes over the burnt bread of pain Iike cream cheese,but crumbs always manage to peek through

Those bagels at your house blended into sleepy mornings, but I was always awake early for your homemade pancakes drowned in sugary toppings yet I get sick of that sticky syrup I try to layer over my overwhelming, overbearing feeling of being a disappointment

When I imagine what it would be like if you knew,what always sticks with me is the face I picture you making

Not the same one you made when my brother broke your glass collectible, shattered like your hopes of having a cautious grandson

The face I imagine would be... displeased, disillusioned, disappointed Those fears crash in my head harder than the waves of the ocean you took me to as a toddler The tides that are now something that can knock me over if I'm not careful

The sea salt spray not as refreshing as it used to be, but rather coating me with a discomfort I can't shake off

The grains of sand that could never seem to get out of every crevice, clinging to me like my insecurities today

You took me to church years later,the air stuffier than my throat filled to the brim with lumps They tired to drill the sinfulness of being gay into our heads,but screws seemed to stay loosened in mine

Somehow loose screws seem alright to me

Not to you though, for you everything must perfectly placed and tightened I don't think I'd still be your favorite if you knew.

$lrn"e niohls

by Ctoire Ufrt o

These nights the girls stray further from the house. It holds nothing but a roof, lacking that which makes it a home. As it watches the girls dance through its rooms the light fades from their eyes. Their restless eyes set on anything granting an escape. The eyes that watch them are gone and with the the girls' innocence, forced to maturity in their prime. The house plagued with a haze that rises briefly with the early morning sun then settles back in,all too comfortably. It occupies the corners and the bookshelves in the form of objects no one has touched in months. The owners aren't home at the house that isn't Home.

-lana Casey

QrlLt Jo"6"

by Zen Phillpotts

I always loved the way my hair fell when it was wet. It had the illusion of being elongated and sprang with every step I took, down the long road of Oak street. In front of me, I examined the pool drenched golden blonde coils,belonging to my one and only best friend. The beam of her smile intertwined with the shimmering silver string of her braces exemplified the brightness she had filled me with for the past four years.

"Where are we going?" Veering my eyes up and down the street,l realized I had never been in this part of River Forest, never past the large structure that would soon be the new source of her and I's education.

"To my house, I know where I'm going".

She always knew things,she was smart.

She wasn't the condescending smart of my mother and sister,who insisted on being the most shrewd people in every room. She was a casual smart, never having to boast or even try that hard to impress someone. I was the one whose best friend was the smartest girl in our grade. The one who's back burned from the glaring eyes of my peers who all wanted to have a friend to cheat off of during a word search. The rhythm of our hair was lased with the raw beats of an unsung song that only those who knew my best friend could sing along too. A song that only her playful and musical mind could sing. A song that had the POP of her open can of sprite, The crunch of double stuff oreo moving into her mouth, and the smoothness of fresh banana traveling down her throat. A song that when listened to,a person could feel connected to her beautiful mind.

With another leading step,l noticed her soiled and scraped up hands. The dirt under her nails is what's left of past play. Each battle scar telling a story of an adventurer's past. The now pink scars tissue made her tougher than any lO-year-old I knew.

We were tougher than other girls,always ready to wrestle or chase anyone that messed with us. And no one ever did.

No one wanted to mess with the two tallest girls in 4th-grade history,standing at a whopping 5 foot 2 inches, sometimes 5,4 if my knotted dry hair was restricted into a tall bun.

"Do you think we will be the tallest in our grade at Roosevelt." I wondered if anyone would take our title of giants, now that our grade would be littered with kids from lincoln elementary.

She walked faster her hair damp but no longer dripping.

" I'm not going to Roosevelt,l'm going to Latin with my brother and sister."

I wasn't that surprised, both her older sibling went to this school. We always knew it was a possibility. Although she promised she would try and fail her entrance exam. I doubted that was possible,she didn't know how to fail at anything.

"That's ok,we can still hang out and study together after school,and on weekends." Honestly,I didn't know if I could ever pass a spelling test without her.

"No, I'm moving."

Then my mind went numb. Tears didn't drip down my face,and I didn't scream in anger. I simply laughed, because that's what one does when a joke is told. I knew the words that had just come out of my best friend's mouth were nothing but a practical joke. Nothing about it seemed real, in my head it was simply impossible for her to stop being in my life. Yet the world doesn't belong to my head,and what I thought was impossible ended up being the guaranteed outcome. Then the joke stopped being funny. and my laugh turned into a hole of emptiness that had just lost its most important piece.

We finished our last walk, our steps detached and without rhythm, and our hair stiff and dry around our faces. I never asked when it would happen, or where exactly she would go too,l just let it be and enjoyed every last second we had together, just letting our hair loose.

@oil$h;"@obino by Eliana Gera{e e' t rI

-Evelyn Reese

The holidays are different this year. We bought new tree lights and their vibrance doesn't match the dull of the old ones,or of the year we've had. The strands have twisted and tangled,like that of LVAD wires. And when one bulb burns out,so does every one after it -Alive,but not glowing. We hang commemorations of passed loved ones in the form of Christmas decorations, and I guess we call this copingthe rearrangements we make to replace the irreplaceable.

Wh"rn6(n $[""nnnJ

by Ava lackson

"Stare con le mani in mano," sit back and stop moving, she told me as I sat on her stool, twisting the freshly picked flowers in my palms. I knew she didn't mean it,she winked as she wrapped up her bouquet, delicately draping the metallic wrapper around the petals.

I can still remember that day, with the muggy air, and the fan on the floor that barely brought in a breeze.

The store was small,but it was my second home every summer. The rundown building,browns and creams that contorted in the wooden walls were lively with the hundreds of flowers brought in from the field each day. Nonna bought this when she was young and poor,raising a family and business,only for her children to move away as soon as they turned eighteen. I was her only companion each summer, Ieft behind by my parents so they could focus on work.

"l want to help." I grumbled,bored of watching.

She glances at me, finishing her work and wiping her hands on her apron. "Vincenzo,Iet's go. Into the field." She said, grabbing her bucket and pliers,leading me to the water pump. Behind the rickety store was the field, surrounded by pastures of violet, crocus, oleander, jasmine and daisies.

The country behind it, once lively and bustling with neighbors, is silent, except for the distant hum of the tractor from the farm miles away.

"The city is for the young,once they bloom they come here." She tells me,pushing the handle, the metal groaning as water gushes out. She hands me the bucket, "You spill,l yell." and walks away. I feel the warmth of the sun on my face as I waddle over to her. The water splashes among the sides of the bucket, testing my balance. She kneels, tugging the stubborn weeds. "Vincenzo,look. This is weed, not flower. You try."

She grabs the bucket from me,walking through the field, carefully dripping water down onto each sprout. The marigolds tap her hand, as if pulling her in, her wrinkled fingers inspect each petal. 'I hope I can be like her one day,' I think to myself,pulling the weeds.

Time seems to stand still as I separate the flowers from weeds,yanking the deeply rooted sprouts. I don't seem to notice the sun setting until she taps my shoulder, gesturing towards the sky. "Now it's time to make a bouquet. Never pull the flower in afternoon,only night." She hands me her rusty pliers, guiding me as I cut violets, my favorite.

It was that field of flowers, where the sun dipped below the cracked earth, the golden vibrance shining on our faces,that I found my passion. I spent hours in her shop,twisting the vibrant hues together, the marigolds below the crocus, the jasmine next to the daisy. Vty bouquet was uneven, but felt all the more special.

I only improved from that,learning more ways to better my skills. "When cut, only little water," she would remind me,promising the more water,the less chance the flower had of surviving.

I started helping her business. Every Sunday we would drive her creaky van to the city market and sell our work. She would kiss me and say "go buy a treat," hand me some coins,and send me off to wander through the stands. Often times I would choose cannoli,we'd split it in half and rest behind her stand. She would give me the bigger half for being "such a helpful boy."

My dad didn't understand why I would ever choose floristry over swimming,or reading,or hanging out with friends. Mom chose to follow Dad's shadow, fearful to stand up to his judgemint. They didn't understand that I cherished my afternoons,that I enjoyed it,that I was never forced to work.

My dad would argue, telling her to give me a break. "Do what you know is right, my boy," he'd say during our calls. "You are being given too much work for a young man like you."

My usual response would be a mumbled "of course," but I knew he was wrong.

Nonna would whisper "listen to your heart,not his," wink at me,and listen to his rambling. What he believed was false,we both knew it.

Nonna taught me her tricks. "Bad petal means bad luck" she would say, glancing up at the clouds.

_

She was usually right,those wilted flowers seemed to alert the skies,within days a storm would come and go. I would watch her bend her head,whispering prayers for her flowers to be guarded from the storm. I would watch as the lightning struck on the field nearby,but in the morning the serenity would return.

I savored the sweetness of the flowers,the dampness of the newly watered grass.

After a long day of picking flowers,l was sitting on her stool,twirling her freshly cooked spaghet- ti with my fork. It was a particularly cool day,yet I was strangely tired after my work. She put down her plate,unknotting her well-worn apron,and sighed. "Vincenzo,l have news. Your parents ire coming to bring you home," she told me, rinsing the tomato stains off the plate. "Be on your best behavior. You will leave soon."

Three days later they arrived at the shop insisting I needed to get ready for school,which was weeks away. They stayed for two nights,sighing when I would head out the back door,with my own aPron, mending the plants. "Vincent needs to take a break,the heat is getting to his head," my dad would declare.

Nonna tried her best to get them to stay,listening to their demands about the boring country, and how exciting the city would be for them once they returned home. "Don't worry my boy," she whispered to me the first night. "Remember, they haven't bloomed yet, it will take a while.t

On the first day,l showed my work to mom. She was surprised to see the results of my summer, and later helped me create a bouquet to take home. Dad was adamant about leaving,returning me home where I could "return to my studies," and "start acting my age." He refused to go outside, reminding ,-rs of his monotonous childhood and how he would not take part in any "flower picking." I secretly believed he was envious of my progress.

How could he not be the only one to teach me success?

On the second day, it was raining. So hard, in fact, that I could not go outside. The sweetness of the flowers were overpowered by the smell of rain. I could not say goodbye to the plants I had worked on,the fresh grass,the cracked earth.

The mud was all I had left.

The sun set as we packed our taxi with my few belongings. Nonna beckoned me inside one last time. "Come back and visit me next summer,my boy.Take this." She placed a packet of violet seeds in

my hands. I wrapped them tight and tucked them in my pocket, hugging her. "Now you must remember. Your parents are still growing yet they have not bloomed. Use your own growth to increase their acceptance."

I tried to smile back at her while she led me outside to the waiting taxi. My parents bickered in the front seat about the train's arrival, disagreeing with the time it would leave at.

As we drove away from the field,l stared out the window,barely able to make out the moon shining bleakly in the distance through the heavy storm.

I watched the sun dip past the last petal, and the first few stars twinkle above, desperate to return to that rickety building surrounded by silence, enfolded with the few who have had the ability to thoroughly "bloom" in the country others call dull.

-Ella Weatherington

-Elise Pope

eS"ulolure QorJnn

ory Aleah Scffillack

Her stun agonized me, marble spine under scathing fire Wash away frigid blisters,let blind light in a jar

Twist yesterday closed and peel it from your glass body Silent past wanders about us, a simple blessing of hours

Our home is clear fields,milky windows I still see through Purple flowers that fly my way if we glance strikingly

She can melt away my steal face,slippery to touch These thoughts corner me,should we finish this sharp day?

The maze closes until paths grind like dry black coffee Her marble spine will have wandered to me without scathe

Jo"llnl

by Bridget Pierce

This summer,my cousin came back from Juvie. \A/e received a call from my aunt late in the afternoon. The nonchalance of her cigarette stained voice wafted into the living room as lVIom, Dad, and I huddled around the phone.

"lake?" Mom asked, "already?"

Mom's face crumbled. She took a deep breath. "Tell him to visit us soon," she said.

When I was ten, Jake showed up on our doorstep with a busted lip and an offer to mow the lawn for a week. Irrlom pulled him into our house,Dad cleaned the wound on his lip,and I made sure to remember to set an extra place at the table. Iake woke up at six a.m the next morning,but my dad had gotten up uncharacteristically early and had already taken care of the yard work. I remember being stirred awake by the sounds of footsteps across the creaky flooring of our house. I peaked my head out of my bedroom and peered into the living room.

I watched Dad put his arm around Iake's shoulders, "you don't have to earn a place in this house."

I heard a broken inhale,and Iake began to shake. Silently,l closed my bedroom door on the sound of Jake's sobs and snuck back into bed.

Jake never explained why he came to our house with a split lip and a red stain on the crisp white of his school uniform collar, and I never asked. Instead, we spent the week side by side with our knees knocking, playing video games, and watching reruns of old black and white T.V shows. We gorged on junk food,and I almost choked on a french fry from laughing too much at Jake's horrible impression of one of the snotty old detectives on the show we were watching.

At the end of the week, I awoke in the middle of the night, still lying on the couch and surrounded by empty cookie tins. A pink blanket was draped over my shoulders,and I had felt the fading touch of someone kissing my forehead before whispering, "goodbye." That next morning my breathing seemed to echo off the walls of the house. I turned on the T.V to watch the same show Jake and I had found so funny the day before,but none of the jokes seemed to land. I was alone.

My parents don't talk about my older brother often. I was seven when it happened. We got the phone call in the morning, and suddenly I no longer had a brother. It didn't rain at Jamie's funeral like it does in the movies. But I cried until my body didn't have a drop of water left to spare me. Jamie had been sixteen. Four years older than Jake.

]ake is the only one who offers me his memories of my brother. Once,in the fall,we were outside kicking around a soccer ball. I had managed to sidestep lake and had landed a smooth shot into our makeshift goal.

Jake smiled, "Your brother always beat me too."

I felt the wind whip through my hair,and for a second,I remembered my older brother,s soccer cleats sitting in the doorway, tracking mud into the house.

I have carefully stored every memory Iake has gifted to me. They are dearer to me than the dainty silver locket Dad gave me on my 12th birthday. More precious than thL gold barrettes Mom insists I only wear for fancy dinners.

Last year on October 30th,an unsuspecting Tuesday filled with long hollow silences from my normally chatty parents,lake landed on our doorstep. He waved to my parEnts,who were sitting pen- sively at the dining table and then motioned me towards the kitchen. Hi ope.red his backpack ind set a lily-white box on the marble tile of the kitchen island.I opened it.lnside revealed a small cupcake with orange frosting and bat-shaped sprinkles. IVIy gaze shot up.

He looked bashful, "it's all I could find," he said while scratching the back of his neck. "lt's perfect."

Together,we stuck a candle shaped like a 2 and another shaped like a 1 into the top of the cup- cake. When Iake lit the stems of the waxy 21,my eyes began to water.

"Happy Birthday, Jamie," I whispered,and I blew out the twinkring double flames.

It was Christmas the last time we saw Jake. He had been staying with us for a couple days,and the night before,l had heard him on the phone with his father. Snippeti of their conversitiorr,is small and indecipherable as paper gone through the shredder,had slippld under my door and into my room. It had been another one of uncle Richie's angry drunk monologues.

That morning when Iake came into the dining room,hiseyes were wine rimmed,and his jaw was tightly clenched. He didn't speak a word all throughout brealifast. Still,the three of us tried to make pleasant conversation,and once the pan of blueberry pancakes was empty,we circled around the Christmas tree.lake lingered in the back.

"Come and sit," my dad had said,pulling a ribbon wrapped box into his lap. Jake's eyes widened, he looked startled by this proposition.

"l think I need to leave." He inched further away from us.

"Don't leave now,we all got you something," my mom said,riffling through the gifts and trying to find the one we had picked out for Jake.

"No,I need to leave." He turned around and grabbed his coat from the banister.

"fake,wait," I said,standing up.

He whipped around, his expression was dark, "No. Okay? I don't belong in this house.,, Mom frowned, "honey, that's not true. We want you here." She spoke ilowly, almost as if she was trying to sound the words out. That seemed to irritate lake, his face flushed and hijmouth turned sharp and ugly.

"If you want me here,it's only because you need a replacement for him."

Mom, Dad,and I all froze. All caught by the cruelty of the phrase. Our momentary pause was enough for Jake to slip away and disappear into the cold Christmis morning.

A week later,Aunt Wendy gave us a call to tell us that Jake had been sent to a Juvenile Detention Center.

"What happened?" my mom had asked.

"Does it really matter," I could hear the shrug in Aunt Wendy's voice, "l've told you time and time again: that boy is bad news."

I had to bite the inside of my cheek to prevent myself from screaming.

It was a lazy summer Tuesday when the doorbell rang. I opened the door and found )ake standing on the doorway. His t-shirt was blue, and his eyes didn't meet mine.

"Who is it," my mom said,coming to the door with my dad behind her. They both froze when they saw |ake, "oh."

Iake shifted from side to side, and his ratty sneakers kicked up dust. Then he looked up through his dark brown bangs, "l don't want to bother you guys, but I just want you to know how deeply sorrY-"

I pulled him into the house.

My dad held Jake when his shoulders began to shake.

I\rly mom set four places at the dinner table.

6du"r$io"

Ot;ng I Q."en in @h;.f

lCompleted layout during quar antine ! l

Doniel Weiss

Relation: The father of Crest

Quote: "1walk in.l open my arms.l scream,'daddy'shome!,,,

Likes: Spending ll hours on layout in one day,flannel coats,finding ways to bring up Dungeons & Dragons,chocolate milk

Dislikes: Gamer dudes, freshmen, neon sock boys

S,ilgd Q\erc,e

Relation: The mother of Crest

Quote: "l can't tell if things are good or if I just can,t see.,, Likes: Geoscience, stationery

Dislikes: Wearing glasses, reading sentences aloud

AilNAIIESE BATGR

Relation: Red wine aunt

Quote: "You guys are oxymoronic."

Likes: F. Scott Fitzgerald novels, Silicon Vattey (the show), Ratatouille

Dislikes: SAT prep booklet, s u b i t , Silicon Valley (the place)

Heidi Enger

Relation: Prodigy younger sister

Quote: "She laughs like a Windex bottle."

Likes: Ballet, cello

Dislikes: Having Instagram

Kira Imowitz

Relation: G reat grandmother

Quote: "Heyo,som ebody should abstain, hello!"

Likes: Cardinals

Dislikes: Walking to class, calculus

Q***A.-* -/

Relation: Extravagant fashionista uncle

Quote: "Cows!They go moo."

Likes: Cats he knows,his selfies

Dislikes: Cats he doesn't know

GItioD $ennison

Relation: Storytelling grandfathe r

Quote: "He is making fun of a tragedy and he will find himself at the butt of a new one."

Likes: Leading lines, BOATS,f.ountain pens

Dislikes: Spiders

Lucy Jordan

Relation: Sleeping on the couch "'til they're back on their feet"

Quote: "Shorty,that ain't water."

Likes: Stephen Hawking

Dislikes: Spicy things,small dogs

Samuel Warzecha

Relation: Daddy

Quote: "l want Bernie Sanders to win just so we can hear more of Seth IVIyers'impressions of him."

Likes: Ieff Rosenstock, Pokemon

Dislikes: People who say they don't have Instagram

Thank you to Ms. Lee and the administration for allowing us to produce this book even despite a global pandemic! And thank you to the student body for all your submissions. Picking pieces was extremely difficult this year. Stay safe and stay healthy!