Crest 2021

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Dear Reader,

Xetrer"f,rrr,r*A,!.gdtor"

I hope this letter finds you well. To say this past year was stressful would be an understatement. But, despite the many confusing group chat messages and Tuesday afternoons spent waiting for laptops to load, we still found ourselves fortunate enough to publish the 2o2L issue of Crest.

For a majority of us, this mag azine you are holding is a parting gift to OPRF for the four years we spent here. For others, it's a representation of the trials and tribulations that came with this year. For some of us, it's both. Whatever the case may be, this ma$azine was truly a labor of love. And that is what we hope you do: love it.

2o2r is a paradoxical year; it is filled with both optimism and fear, excitement and anxiety. We hope that this year's issue of Crest will allow you to reflect on not only your past and present, but also your future through art and writing.

And, most importantly, we hope you enjoy reading it.

Sincerely,

Annaliese Baker Co-Editor-in-Chief

Annaliese Baker Sam Warzecha

"lzr,.Arv ed^tolr* Davion James Elijah Jennison Heidi Enger Lucy Jordan ft,r^;*rv edtor',* Elizabeth Vollentine Jade Aich Sammy Smith

Ms. Lee

gol,l,e,dh^t?^t*

Alani Espinosa - 5

Abigail Govea - 6,20

Addison Rexroat - 6,42,45, 53

James Bartley - 7, 8

Leah Gerut - 9, 10

Annaliese Baker -10,17,18, 19,20

Anna Van Santen - 11,12,13, 14, 15

Lucy Jordan - 15, 31

Ava Eckman-L6,22

Rory Cronin - 20,34

Gretchen Block - 2I,22

Sophia Jozefczyk - 23,24,35

Willa Marie - 26

Maya Guerriero - 27, 28, 29

Jakob Jenks - 30, 31

Octavia Ikard - 32

Soren Shah Hempel - 33

Jade Aich - 33

Isabel Sichlau - 34,35, 40

Maeve Mascarenhas - 35, 39,49

Kyla Robateau - 36,43

Mena Patel - 36

Gia Fischer - 36,,50, 56

Elise Pope - 37,39,5I

Bern Kerstetter - 38, 4l

Elizabeth Sersen - 39,59

Lena Tang - 40

ZevadiyahDrizin - 40

Krys Denise - 44,7I

Luna Mazin - 45

Grace Balma - 46,76

Olivia Zimbler - 47

Isabel Farren - 48,53

Samantha Smith - 49,55,57,65

Holden Green - 52, 58, 61,69 Isabella McCullough - 52 Rowan DeJule - 54,55

Lauren Edwards - 54,60,69 McKale Thompson - 56,57,64

Lucas Kult-Banout - 58, 61 Elizabeth Sersen - 59 Eva Carson - 60 Anna Russel - 62 Porter Hays - 62 Hailey Baker - 63

Luca Andersen - 66,72 Madeline Macek - 66,67 Ophelia Puccinelli - 68 Maclaine Watson - 70,73,74,75

tJ/,tlni/"rryfu

by Alani Espinosa

rogue tongues and green tea with a little extra water spoonfuls of sugar, to soften the surface where the burns of our words lay, when awake, they wrestle each other to the bitten edges and make diving cliffs out of loose lips till we mutter words, we'll never forget the way you make your tea, the recipe tattooed to my text streams, you were never one for the sweet, liked it bitter, like a hipster's coffee, let it stain the best parts of me, black as the bottom ofrotting teeth, you'll never believe it's been five hundred momings, since you last spat at me, you and me, twenty nineteen two used tea ba$s, spoiled and unfiltered, no wonder you turned to the spinning wine glasses laid out on the counter, she tasted like cherries, while I was pepper in the wrong shaker brewed for the seasoned drinkers, who remember to ready the kettle, the morning after.

Xuu+-Waza o

by Abigail Govea

I agonize the sharp silence I wander through. Please peel past me. But the glances do not scathe my frigid face. The window into yesterday is clear. I want to break it and forget. Find me in a love maze, Under this body is a stunned heart. That love song twisted my spine and blinded my thoughts Embarrassment still strikes when I see you. I corner grinded glass and fire. My body blisters. We are not simple. You are milky marble and I am black light. Hours fly by with you, a slippery path. I want to like you but I do not want you to become my home.

Addison Rexroat -

a JtA-

by James Bartley

Afloat I am, in the middle of the sea, atop a ramshackled raft of seaweeded wood that feels moments away from shrivelin$ to sogged dust. I find it makes a fascinatingly warm feeling squished between my toes, the wet wooded grain, and I have fun playing in the water it holds in its fibers. It's fairly comfortable I must say, and the weeds certainly make an interesting plaything. So slimy and slippery the grassy green travels through my stubby fingers.

I can't see my mother from here, just the bits of shoreline behind me, and the horizon that lays before the bed of sea. The sun looks comfortably rested atop the ocean waves, massaging her rosy chin with every bob of the water's surface. I'll find my mother waiting with the sun in the coming hours I'm sure. She's never too far from me, after all. There are faint calls from somewhere behind but they are drowned by the wafted waves of saltbitten water. I try to stand and listen for whoever is callin$, or what they're calling for, but I'm met again with my driftwood bed once my legs, and the floor beneath, gives way. I'm sure it was nothin$ important.

I roll around with the sun's light salty winds for a short while before I notice water seeping through the wooden base of my play yard. A hole has made itself known, and I think it's quite a fun little thing. Perhaps I should name this small water spurt of mine, it is after all greeting me as an old friend would. I can't form the word well, but I've decided to name it Jerry. Hello Jerryl How's your day been? Some water spits from his mouth. Well I'm sorry to hear that, but I'm sure it will get better. The head of a rather curious fish, the rest of its shimmered body I assume to be somewhere beneath the waves, pops up in Jerry's mouth. Who might this be? I try to grab Jerry's slippery friend with the forefront of my stubish fingers so he might join us on my driftwood home, but my hand is too small to grasp it. It swims away. Your pet is fairly shy Jerry. Oh well. Hmm. Jerry, what exactly are you? Are you a friend, a living breathing thing, or a passerby, a drifter? He doesn't answer. Not very talkative now I guess. Well, you've piqued my curiosity Jerry, and now I must figure you out for myself. I poke my hand into Jerry's mouth, the cool water swishing between the slits in my fingers. I feel his pet rub across my palm, his scales as smooth as a kitchen countertop but equally as sharp. Whatever you are Jerry you're too fun.

With the golden shoreline now missing from my backward horizon, I've grown tired of babbling with Jerry and I've become oddly destitute of a mother's presence. Maybe mine will come out to me if I begin to cry and wail, though I doubt she will. I'm quite far from her now. Perhaps the sun will come and comfort me? Oh, she's gone to bed too. I guess I didn't notice her drifting underneath the forward sea. Oh well.

I try to stand again to see if anyone else is out upon the water, but it's just me. And Jerry of course. I fall back down upon my rear yet again, and I come to find that Jerry has invited another friend to our little shindig. She's found a seat right next to her Jety, and quickly starts spilling the sea onto my bootless feet. Her cold saliva stings the soles of my feet, and as I back away from her spewed nonsense. I wonder how Jerry could involve himself with such a person. How rude. I shan't be making any conversation with her thank you very much.

But this gets me thinking, perhaps I should tell Jerry to invite more of his friends, to balance out his girlfriend's rudeness. I stand up and call out to the sea around me, in a sort of cheerful howl. Someone responds, and at first I think it's one of Jerry's brothers, but I believe it's just a bird passing by. It decides to hang around above me. I slump back down. Oh! Hello there!Another of Jerry's friends has come aboard. What's your name? Jerry? No, we already have a Jerry. Silly me. Mike, that sounds appropriate.

Mike, with every droplet he shoots onto my aboat, grows ever closer to Jerry. His body consumes him and I'm confused. How'd you do that? why'd you do that Mike? Oh I see, you two are an item now. It's nice knowing Jerry is no longer with that one rude girl, who seems to have disappeared somewhere. The wood on which I sit sinks slowly into the water below, the waves of salt bitter smoothie nibbling at my feet. Jerry and Mike have almost split the wood island in two, and I find it absolutely wonderful that the two of them have opened up like that.

Now I do believe my raft will fall apart, but in what amazing circumstances. Born out of love. I fall through the melted grain and barely hold myself up with what remains of the raft. Jerry and Mike, you scamps, are you inviting me to your home now? well by all means, I can't seem to think of a reason to not join you.

I let go of the wood and fall beneath the waves as the rest of the raft drifts away, and falls apart. My eyes $o crystal, they burn, and as I watch the ocean surface wave me goodbye I can hear Jerry's calls.

Jfu"d,W

By Leah Gerut

I imagine the wind as thousands of small dogs biting at my fleshy cheeks. I imagine the wind as dogs, but they have the face of my mother and when they open their mouths to yell at me, they have shark teeth, and the only noise that comes out is red fury. Their aggressive chomps break my skin, wearing me out not because I'm in pain, but because I know my skin will have scars, and the dogs won't ever stop biting. I don't duck away from their needles, and I let their syrupy saliva infuse my bloodstream. I refuse to cry. Crying would only make me taste better, and then they would never stop coming for more.

I don't expect the dogs to stop, but the gnawing on my rigid face eventually fades, and my attention is diverted to something new.

Ants.

I enjoy the way their clueless limbs tickle up my ankles, covering each centimeter of my skin until my kneecaps. They're packed so tight together they look like a pair of socks, a melted swarm of ongoing comfort, slurping off caked blood and barred cabinets.

I pluck each one off, but it's hard because their bodies are sticky and they are determined to stay. I decide to burn them off, and I'm only satisfied when I see their scorched, lifeless, corpses tint the underside of my nails black. Pulsing flames strip my flesh, waiting for a reaction they'll never get. I find pleasure in scraping the ant paste from my uneven nails. I savor each moment of dragging them on the concrete, liberating myself every time I do so. It takes time for me to notice my back beneath me is getting damp, liquid oozing through the stiff cotton of my shirt.

My back stings because the scalding water seeps into my body, melting layers of skin one by one until my bones are exposed to the raw earth. Their rotton color contrasts with the soggy mud. The ground caves and I follow. I grab the string of bones, I let it tug me through dirt and dust and litter and fossils. Years fuse together, the dogs paw, the ants rise. The soft patch of grass that took me will forever be too stubborn to open its mouth for me or anyone else. I let my teeth sink into my bones and my bones sink into the earth, and when I breathe there's no fiber glass in my lungs. My mouth fills with soil so bitter it tastes like cough medicine. It brims until all I can do is swallow the thick, savory mixture, purifying my dark lungs even darker.

I finally see the murky, deep liquid I've been waiting for. Water so mealy and clouded I want it to soak through my pores, bleed into my veins, puncture the soft mounds under my eyes. My bones plunge first. I let the fluids turn them into clay, and watch as the moldable mixture folds into itself, leaving my body hollow.

My face is next.

Impact turns my eyes inside out, detaching until the last nerve connectin$ me splits.

My sockets are empty.

My bones are gone.

I let myself snap further into foam and I let my teeth pry free from my gums. I let my gone features twist and let my skin fade paler.

I open my mouth to suck in the water, and it rushes in like it's been waiting for me too.

I let myself sink.

The dogs will no longer bite.

The ants will no longer rise.

- Annaliese Baker

'J/r?. Y,r;bf alLd He *rrn ou*rt

by Anna Van Santen

A dense fog had emerged as our ship docked in the port of Doven, and with it an uneasy feeling among the men. The chill of the harsh wind felt like a ghost had followed us there reminding us all too much of the dead man lying in the captain's cabin. The only noise was the light slap of freezing water against the draft of the boat. Other than that, there was silence all around the ship-a blood-chilling silence. It was a silence that made you notice every little creak of the boat or rush of the wind, that would normally be drowned out. I rubbed the goosebumps on my skin as if the heat could force them down but it wasn't the cold that formed them. The blue sky above was enveloped by a thick layer of somber clouds, which didn't let even the sun's powerful rays through. Below, the icy blue threatened unimaginable depths. There we waited, blocked from heaven, and too close to a bitter hell.

It was said to be no more than a 15-day journey from Doven to Bellow and back-it had been almost thirty. Our ship was a small merchant vessel, virtually unknown when we began our journey. But by journey's end, it was known throughout all of Morgan for the untimely and mysterious death of our captain, John Parker. It was on a Monday that we reached Bellow for a shipment, on Tuesday we found John in his cabin with a knife wound in his heart, long dead. We were forced to stay in Bellow for a while more while the authorities looked into it. We were finally allowed to leave when it was cleared that all of the shipmates had given each other alibis for the time of the murder. An agreement we had made the day before.

The way back to Doven, tension grew between all of the crewmembers as if we were all waiting for something but we didn't know what. Maybe some of them didn't believe we were all innocent of his murder.

Other than his work life not much was known about Captain John Parker. Through scorching heat and frenzied rain, I had sailed with him and I still didn't know any more than the new crew members we would get each voyage.

John always had a cigar in his teeth. The fancy kind, not some common crap the men smoked, the real stuff. It never looked right on his face, like a little kid wearing his big brother's clothes. It didn't suit him.

His first mate named George told us he had no family and should be buried in his own town lest his name be forgotten, but I doubt that will happen.

Death likes to gloss over the bad and focus on the good. Although many are free to remember the good in him, it is my burden to remember his darkness. The minute we docked, men pulled the coffin from Bellow offthe ship as if pawning off responsibility for him could lighten their conscience. The men lined up, as I did, for George to give us our pay. I scratched at a scab on my palm and thought about hot food waiting for me at home. The scab started to bleed but I kept scratching. Sometimes it's comforting when you're the one who controls the pain instead of something else. Afterward, George yelled, "If any of you want anything from his cabin... you can take it." I stopped in my tracks. There was no question as to whose cabin he meant. Part of me wanted to leave and never return to another ship, but the other part of me turned around. Most of my crewmates had rushed off the ship right after getting their pay-some even before $etting their payment. But, a few stayed as I did. Maybe in the hopes of finding something valuable or just gruesome awe of the dead man's things. George unlocked the cabin door and stood near. Nobody moved as if afraid to disturb the infamous captain's cabin. I pushed through the men and stepped into the doorway. It was dark except for the small bit of light coming from the windows at the back. It was, as I have already stated, a foggy day so I could hardly call it sunlight, more like brightness from the outside seeping through the dirty windowpane. The room stunk of cigars, tobacco, and the dank scent of blood. The odor invaded my nose and forced its way into my mouth until I could taste the disgusting stench. Everything in the room looked dead and dull as if their use had died with John. Even the air lost it's will to move and sat, thick with stale oxygen. I went straight to his desk, sure of what I was looking for and found it. On the outside, it seemed to be a log of all the voyages and what the vessel carried but, all over it, John had scribbled notes. Small things like how Tommy and his brother Toby threw up all over the deck which must mean it's their first time sailing. It was more like a journal than a logbook. I thought for a second. Did I deserve it? The last words of a dead man scrawled with shaking hands and furrowed brow. The last thoughts of a man who knew his fate as the small knife, clasped out of anger and used out of passion, was plunged into his heart. No, I didn't deserve it, but neither did they. I picked it up and turned back to the doorway realizing that the other crew members were still waiting there. I walked out and muttered to the first man in line "ya don't have to go one at a timel'Outside the cabin I could no longer smell it, but the taste still lingered on my tongue.

Squeezing past my crewmates, I was able to $et a view of the market and beyond that, home. I wiped the blood on my hand onto the cuff of my shirt and walked down the ramp as if I could leave all my troubles on the boat. But the second I saw the faces of the people by the dock, I knew it wouldn't be so. A deep knot thickened in the pit of my stomach. I guessed the word had gotten around as to what had happened but it seemed deeper than that. It was as if they could see into the depths of my heart and were disgusted with what they saw. I didn't like how familiar it felt to have their cold wide eyes staring at me- unblinking like a corpse. I put my head down trying to ignore their imposing glances and started walking towards the street market. The loud barter for goods and the sweet smell of fresh food helped me to sink into the crowd, hidden from their one-track minds.

It felt like I had fallen into a world of color. My eyes weren't ready to adjust to the bright clothes and I kept closing them so the headache forming at my temple would go away. I continued walking, desperately trying to avoid the gaze of the people around me. I didn't like the way their invasive stares found a foothold in my discomfort. I liked the noises and the feeling of drowning in the problems of others rather than my own. It calmed me. I let the water of their words flow over me and consume my breath the same way the water had consumed the blood-stained knife. Sinking into the dark blue of hell. I shook the thought out of my head and continued walking. Starting up the hill, on which my house stood, I was filled with relief. The nightmare was over. I was home.

I counted each second of the hike up the hill. Catching sight of my small cottage I sighed with relief. I could make out Melanie playing on the porch. She must have seen me coming cause she stood and walked inside. A minute later, Lydia came out drying her hands on a towel. When she saw me her hand flew up to cover her mouth. She waved for Melanie to go inside then dropped the towel and began to run toward me. In an instant, she flung her arms around my neck and started to cry. The sound comforted me. I smiled for the first time in a month.

We stood there for a while, Lydia weeping into my shoulder, her arms around my neck. We walked inside leaning on each other. I stepped onto the porch which whined under my weight. Running my hand over the smooth wood of the rocking chair, I could almost feel the hours spent sitting there, waiting. I turned to Lydia who had ceased her crying and now only gave a small sniff once in a while.

"Where is Melanie?" I sat down at the small table in the middle of the room and watched Lydia brush the hair out of her face.

"I sent her to bed. If she had seen you she would have never fallen asleep and I'm guessing you don't what to be up all night talking about... what happened." I rubbed my chin and leaned my elbows on the table. The towel she held was older than Mel. I remember when Lydia first stitched the now faded flower design along the bottom. Lydia rested her hand on my shoulder.

I didn't sleep that night but I don't sleep much anymore.

I thought about the little girl. My little girl. How her tiny body felt so still and peaceful.

Even wracked with fever and a dim fate she never cried. It was like she accepted it. We hadn't even named her yet. I had been searching for anything to make me feel the same fury as when she died, but all I could find was an ache in my chest. Time likes to numb your scars until you can only feel the prickle of the ruined nerves Ieft behind. The distorted flesh, a harsh reminder of the pain forced for years into submission.

Maybe if we could have bought the medicine she needed she would be here. It was maybe that hurt most, because even if we had enough money to buy her medicine she might not have made it. I had been so quick to blame someone else for her death because f wasn't ready to accept that it could have been my fault too.

Our bedroom door opened a crack letting in dancing candlelight. Melanie peaked her head in and called quietly for her mother. I climbed out of bed and walked with her out to the porch.

"Daddy you're homei" Her gentle voice was a beautiful symphony to my ear. I nodded as she grabbed my hand and led me to the creaking wood planks of the porch. She ran her hand along the bottom of the rocking chair making it move slightly.

"Why did you call for mommy?" She didn't look at me as her skinny shoulders bobbed up then down.

"Do you want me to read to you?" I asked. She smiled at me in response, which only made my chest hurt more. I don't know why I got the journal and brought it to her. It could have been the rough leather of the cover which pilled when I rubbed it.

Or maybe it was something deeper which doesn't matter now. She sat on my lap and I began to read John's last addition.

"To the curious soul who reads my journal, I hope you will reach a better fate than mine. These pages are where I make my confession to the world. Dismal, I know, but it deserves to be known for the wretched things I have done for my life to end in this way.

Today we left for Bellow. I have a crew of 22 men for this voyage. Many of them I have sailed with before and seeing their faces, my actions of the past years begin to grow heavy on my heart. It is time to tell the men. My own greed has controlled and tormented me for too long. I will not fall victim to it anymore. A few years ago I fell into an immense debt with some powerful people. To pay off the debt I started to take a small portion of each crew member's wages. Just a small bit I thought they wouldn't miss. But as time went on I began to take more and more until they were barely making any money with each shipment. Each time one asked me about the low wages I'd blame it on the falling value of our supplies.

I gambled hoping I could make enough to pay off the collectors and the money I had taken from my crew, but my luck failed me again. I stole money from the weak to give to the wealthy and my men have suffered more than I can imagine.

I have decided to tell my crew about the money I have been taking from them. My life has been empty of hope, but, with these last words, I accept my fate. Whether by the hand of my own crew or the collectors. With this last page, I welcome death.

I closed the journal, looking down at the sleeping Melanie in my arms. The slow sound of her breathing warmed my heart. I felt for the wound on my palm and realized the bleeding had stopped.

Lucy Jordan -

XaAe-ln^il,y^

by Ava Eckman

My flip-flops sit beside me as I dip my toes into the navy blue water and the air feels bitter against my bare skin when the wind blows. The water that splashes my ankles when the waves crash against the rocks is cold. I stare at the nail polish on my big toe, which is chipped, and hug my knees into my chest. The last time I cared enough to paint my nails like this was to slip my foot into a heel. Slowly, I take off my clothes and submerge myself down into the water. Once I close my eyes, she appears. The hot pink flip-flops smacked the concrete as she ran down the street, arms racing at her sides. Tears were streaming down the sides of her cheeks and the hot air flooded her lungs as she took in each breath. Finally, she reaches a small bridge over a river and lets her feet dangle over the edge. She thinks about laying in the passenger seat of the car in my sparkling blue dress. She is staring out at the skyline through the foggy window of the car, drawing hearts onto the glass with her finger. The car is off but the battery is running, letting the music play lightly over the sound of a heartbeat in her ears.

Underneath the water I'm surrounded by the darkness and my hair feels light above my head. I replay the thought of my blue dress until I'm numb and my fingers have pruned up. The light pollution has drowned out most of the stars, so I just stare at the blank sky. I pull myself from the lake and let myself drip onto the rocks, laying on their jagged edges and letting the back of my skull rest in a divot.

by Annaliese Baker

The Simmons Public Library was a melting pot of the haves and have-nots, a mixture of homeless people and the wealthy older residents of the neighborhood. That was why it was Lilith Day's favorite place- it was a conflation of the people that made up her hometown of Saddlebrook. She'd practically grown up at that library; it was the place she felt most at home.

The crisp New England air hit the nineteen-year-old's face as she left her childhood home that morning. Salty ocean waves crashed along the rocky shoreline as she walked. The past few weeks had been strange for Lilith. She came home to Saddlebrook for summer break after finishing her freshman year at Berkeley, where she studied political science. While she loved the hills and The Campaline and the Bay Bridge of Northern California, she missed the capes and the fishing docks and the lush trees of New England.

Lilith found great comfort in the landscape she'd grown up in. She continued down the sidewalk and checked her watch, hands ticking past the eleven. The sky was a light grey and a cool breeze blew in from the Atlantic. Autumn was fast approaching, which meant shewould be going back to California soon. She played with her necklace as she made her way up the concrete steps of the library thoughts of the summer on her mind. She needed to think, and the library was the place she went to do so. She gave the man who always sat on the steps a quick smile, thinking about how the library was always there. It didn't matter how far Lilith would travel or how much she'd changedthe Simmons Public Library would be the same.

The air conditioning made Lilith shiver as she stepped inside. She looked around the library with a smile as she hugged her bare arms, finally feeling as though she was at home. She visited the library whenever she was back from school, but it wasn't as frequent as she hoped. Lilith expected to volunteer there that summer, but her mother needed help, and she couldn't leave her alone. Lilith was never close with her mother; she was always close with her father. She figured that was why she kept that silver dagger necklace.

Deep down she wanted to get rid of it. She wanted to throw it into the ocean, to ensure it would disappear, but she couldn't bring herself to do it. Lilith knew that if she threw the necklace away, that would mean her father was really gone.

She absentmindedly wandered through the library passing the sections she'd

grown up in. There were the children's books from her elementary years. Then there were the fantasy books from her tween years, the dystopian books from her early high school years, and the classics from her young adult life. Lilith's finger traced over the spines, her eyes glancing over the titles of each book. She played with her necklace as she walked. Lilith replayed the events of the summer in her head, from the moment she pulled into the driveway of her childhood home at the start of summer break to that moment in the classics section in the Simmons Public Library.

She didn't know what to expect that summer. It was $oing to be different, but she had no idea how different. She could sense something was wrong when she came home for the holidays. Her parents were never in the same room aside from at night, and even then Lilith could tell by the indents on the couch in their bedroom that they weren't sleeping in the same bed anymore. She knew what was going to happen. It was just a matter of how long.

A brown box showed up in Lilith's mailbox right before spring break. A small knot made from cooking twine wrapped around it. There was a notecard tucked underneath the twine with small black letters written on it. A smile danced on her pink lips as she realized who it was from.

"Dearest Lilith, I ltope tltis letterf.ndsyou uell. You harse aluals been an ertraordinary persln arud I am both, so honored and luckjt to callyou mj daugh.ter. Inside th,is bor is szrnething almost as special asJ)ou dre. Your name is symbolicfor somnth,ing so aonderfulit means nigltt monster. f knou th.at may seem odd and rother sacreligious, but f beheve it to mean af,gltter. You ltave alaajs been so strong<oilled and resilient. I h,opeltou nel)or forget that, no rndtterahat happens in. th,efuture.

Best uishes, Dad"

Lilith tucked the notecard in her back pocket and tore the brown paper off of the small box, unfazed by her father's words. They had always communicated in a rather formal way. Lilith's father was the one that took her to the library when she was a child. He'd wanted to raise his daughter in an intuitive and perspicacious environment instead of the feminine and loose one his wife wanted to raise her in. Lilith, unaware of the paradox she called her parents, opened the small box. Inside was the silver dagger necklace. The metal felt cool against her skin as she dangled the silver chain from her fingertips. She put it around her neck, the dagger resting against her chest. She touched the necklace at the memory as she continued walking down the rows of books in the

Iibrary that August afternoon.

Lilith stopped as she came across the "S" authors in the classics. Her dark eyes read over the yellow words on the spine of one book. The Catcher in the Rye by J.D. Salinger. And just like that, Lilith remembered what the silver dagger necklace signified: her father leaving her.

The box was the last time Lilith's father contacted her. She came home that spring break only to find out her mother and father had filed for divorce, and her father left. Lilith didn't know where he went, and neither did her mother. Her attempts to comfort her mother were met by a firm hand pushing her away. Lilith eventually gave up and went to the only place she could think: the Simmons Public Library. She spent the rest of spring break in the library, hiding out in the classics section. It was there she would read Salinger's famous novel about innocence and isolation. For Lilith, it was a way to remember her father. She recalled being fifteen years old and reading it for the first time. She told her father she felt as though she "saw herself" in Holden, to which her father replied that Holden was "a sociopathl'The two laughed about it at the time.

In a moment of nostalgic irony, Lilith pulled the book off the shelf and walked to the same corner she'd spent her spring break in. She sat down on the floor and tucked herself away to hide from the others inside the library. Lilith opened the book and began turning the pages, smiling as the familiar words floated into her brain. Despite how clich6 it was, she was truly in her own world. She'd never felt more like Holden in her entire life.

Lilith felt a water droplet fall onto her hand. She looked up at the ceiling to see if there was a leak, but there wasn't one. Soon another droplet fell onto her hand again, and another fell onto the open pages of the book. It was then Lilith realized she was crying. Once she realized what was going on, she couldn't stop. Lilith began to silently sob. She realized how truly alone she was. Her mother didn't seem to bother with her, her only friend from high school never came home, and her father left. Lilith began to cry harder at the thought of her father. She clutched the book close to her chest and covered her mouth to muffle her sobs.

Lilith wasn't sure how much time had passed since she began crying, but she knew it had been a while. She rested against the dark wooden bookcase and tried to catch her breath. After a moment, Lilith pulled herself off the floor and put the book back in its place on the shelf. She wiped her eyes and swallowed hard, forcing herself to move forward. She headed towards the exit. If it had been any other day, she would have looked back to make sure the book was still there. Lilith knew it would always be

there, but it would hold a different meaning, much like the dagger that rested on her chest.

Although it was a small, harmless dagger, Lilith found it ironic what it represented. It was a gift from her father and it would always be that, but it meant so much more to her after that day at the library. While daggers were used for unlawful acts, they symbolized freedom. And Lilith had never felt more free than that August day leaving the Simmons Public Library. In a strange way, Lilith felt at home again.

eo20

by Abigail Govea

Ask me about the time the still world was frothed in a pale gray. Footprints swept awa;r, the wind fizzed. The window, two faced. The outside, cracked crisp cold. On the inside, edges were smothered in warm plastic I did not walk outside anymore, I circled indoors as time lapsed. Tim Burton animated in my head, my optimism sat next to him, corpse. I listened to music until I felt sick, and waited for next year's fantasy.

by Rory Cronin

I am taking a vacation from this isolation. So while the pandemic grips the nation, I hold my book, Find my nook, And live in a world of never-ending inspiration.

ful++"rrlroe-

by Gretchen Block

Anyone who has ever needed an escape knows how real magic is. They know the divine strength of the cover of night. Though they come from an infinite number of varying locations, their experiences transcend cultures, languages, and borders. Tiptoe down the stairs at midnight, or through the hall, or into the cellar. The air is cool, or warm, or somewhere in-between. Ever movin$, the Moon casts Her Favor upon those drifting awake in the depths of darkness. Maybe She isn't visible, but She always watches. After all, they are Her Children. The inky black feels like a coz\ hand-knit blanket wrapped around the shoulders by a loving hand. An air conditioner's breath, the hum of cicadas, or only the creak of their footsteps accent the silence. They may feel alone, but they never truly are.

Just as they slip into the comfort of a familiar, frequented path, a pang in their stomach will draw them towards the kitchen. If there's a window, they'Il peer outside with their faces pressed against the glass. The Moon will greet them with a warm smile. If not they'll pace the floor, presenting an unspoken speech to an invested, imaginary audience. She will listen no matter how far they wander. Whatever it is, they have their ritual. Nobody else ever sees it, and that makes it beautiful. The moment carries the splendor of being unseen and unknown, if only for a lilliputian stretch of precious time. Eventually, their soft, padding footsteps lead them to the refrigerator without them even noticing.

Regardless of size, shape, or material, their hand will latch onto the handle. They'll pause a moment, considering the risks. They've been here before and rejected the pull in their stomach. They could swear this exact snapshot of life has been taken a billion times. It has. Their bones remember what their minds cannot. Almost unwittingly, prompted by some invisible force, they pull the door open. Inside, an infinite array of possibilities soar as various concoctions hold a whispered roll call. Persephone and her pomegranate seeds seem close at hand. They relive a tale that recycles itself throughout time. Their outstretched arm, illuminated by the soft fridge light, stretches towards the item of choice. It will be at the back of the fridge, as it always is. They will lean forward and tumble into a new world. No longer are they tethered to their circumstance. They gain the freedom that only arises from the ability to live on their own terms and conditions. The true magic lies within the simplest actions: spreading peanut butter on bread, or dipping a carrot into a petite dollop of ranch

dressing. As they bite into their decadent snack, a smile undoubtedly crosses their face. It stays resting, prolonged by the satisfaction derived from being themself. They won't check their watch, clock, or phone. They don't need any additional light to see. Standing, glowing in the culmination of human achievement, their happiest moments trail to the front of their consciousness.

They know to disappear before the sun rises. The sacred door seals itself. The remaining food rests safely shut inside, but it will never quite taste the same once the night's blessings fade. Tiptoe up the stairs, through the hall, or out of the cellar. The air is cool, or warm, or somewhere in-between. Rest once more, Moon Child. The events of the night will be but a blip in the great cosmic scheme of life, but now Her Favor stays until the end of time. Magic is real. It lives and breathes around and within each bein$, one only has to know where to find it. Keep a close eye out, now, it can appear at any time, in any place: always where it is needed most. Breathe. It will be okay.

w4t/

by Ava Eckman

Broken down in an alley left with your love letters in hand dating back to June

A box held a shriveled white rose to store

My unwritten words shove pink matter, strewn

The Recipe's euphony persistent Glow of sunrise hues send waves of despair discordant to yours and inconsistent with when you began a mental affair Pixel red flames while you get red hearts

The predictable carry a price

And as leaves fall, come desire to depart But the painter brings a fool's paradise

Forced to internal examination

Until we meet on another occasion

by Sophia Jozefczyk

The cool, crisp fall air felt refreshing compared to the summer heat. My grandma loved this time of year, which made me love it more. The trees, just starting to turn different colors, swayed in the soft wind. I can feel the sun beaming down on me and it gives me comfort.

As I'm walking past the park across my house, I see the willow tree. It's the only willow tree in the park, which makes it special. There's people near the tree, which is strange because it has always been my tree, my family's tree. I squint and see that there are cones around it, and the people I saw were... they can't be, I tell myself. A wave of nerves rush through my body. They were. I needed to get over there, I think. I run, telling myself that they were probably just trimming a branch, over and over again. Running usually makes me happy, but not today. As I run I feel like I'm getting closer and closer to reality and I get the wave of nerves all over again. I feel the way I did when my mom called from the hospital that night.

As I get closer to the tree, I see my mom. She has a sad look in her eyes, but forces a smile when she sees me.

"Mom?" I ask, "What's happening?" I brace myself for the answer I know I'm going to hear. Part of me wants to cover my ears and run away from the tree, pretending like this didn't happen. If I did that I would always wonder. So I stay. She hesitates to tell me, but then she finally says, "Paige, it's ok]' My mom said softly, "The tree has a disease, they need to cut it down." I knew it wasn't ok because her eyes were red and puffy. She was tryin$ to stay stron$r for me.

"It's not ok!You know how much that tree meant to her!" I screamed. My mom looked like she expected it, but a little shocked. I feel so helpless, like there's nothing I can do to stop it from happening. I've always liked to be in control.

"I'm sorry can we have a minute?" My mom asked the people waiting to cut down the tree. They looked at their watches, shrugged, then walked away. She turned towards me, "I know it will be hard, but we will always remember your grandmal' She tried to wrap her arms around me but I pushed away. I couldn't believe this. My mom was acting like the tree didn't matter. Like we didn't have picnics under its low branches

every time my grandma visited, and she didn't take my birthday picture there every year.

so many thoughts were running through my head. why were they cutting down the tree? Why didn't I know about it? Will I still remember my grandma? I feel overwhelmed without knowing the answers. My mom is comforting me but I can't pay attention. I feel dizzy with thoughts and emotions. Not knowing answers is making me go crazy inside, one of my worst fears is being out of control.

I walk towards the tree. The sun poured through the willow tree's leaves creating a kaleidoscope of dancing sunlight. I think of all the times that I danced with it as a little kid. The rustle of the branches and leaves sounds so peaceful. The smell of the freshly cut grass tickles my nose. I run my hand across the rough, bumpy trunk of the tree, and remember all of the picnics I had there, and all the times I've climbed the low branches. Then I look up and see the people waiting to cut down the tree. Reality hits me. I don't know why I ever thought this tree would always be there. I feel a tear trickle down my face. How could something so beautiful be destroyed?

The tears start to come quicker, they stream down my face, faster and faster. All of the sudden I need to get out of there, run away from all of my problems. Almost blinded by -y tears, I start to run, anywhere but here.

"Paige!Wait!" My mom said with a worried tone. I look back and almost turn around, but I don't. I know my mom needs me there but I can't stay. I know that the people would start cutting any minute. I can't watch them destroy my tree. My sneakers make thumping noises as they hit the freshly paved sidewalk. My heart feels like it's beating out of my chest. But I keep running. The tree was a part of her that could keep livin$, but the thought of it being gone too scared me.

My grandma would have been there for me. She would've wrapped her arms around me and sat there with me until I wanted to talk, or didn't. I feel like I'm losing her all over again. She had grey hair, circle glasses that usually sat on the tip of her nose. She was always wearing $ardening gloves, and a h"ppy, floral shirt. Her house had a beautiful garden, full of fruits, vegetables and flowers. I never Ieft her house without dirt under my fingernails and a smile on my face.

As I run I feel like I'm losing a part of myself. It wouldn't be the same to make a garden with my mom, or anyone else. As much as she tried to understand she couldn't, my mom was never into gardening like my grandma and I. My mom would always say that my grandma and I were like "two peas in a pod", we were inseparable whenever we visited.

Through my tears, I see the now cloudy sky and the chill in the air feels colder. I feel like I'm in a nightmare I had as a little kid, running away from something silly, like a monster. Except I won't wake up and realize that it's all just a dream. I hear the shrieking, splintering sound of a chainsaw cutting through a tree. I've heard this noise more than I can count, but it's never sounded this way before. The way nails sound on a chalkboard, making you want to cover our ears and make it stop. The noise is ongoing, making me cry harder. I know at some point, probably soon, I won't have any tears left to cry.

On the day my grandma died, I felt this way. Like the world will end and or you'll be miserable your whole life. I think about how hard it was, at first, but then I felt better. I think about how if I can recover from that, I can recover from this. The shrieking sound of the tree bein$ cut down would stop eventually, I know, even though I had run far enough away that I could no longer hear it. My grandma used to tell me this when I was little and got hurt. She would say, "I know it hurts now, but it will feel better before you know itl' Then she would give me a cookie. I smiled as I softly wiped away tears from my cheeks. I guess this goes for everything in life. I knew I would always have my memories, and that's what matters most.

by Willa Marie

She sat on the edge of the star covered sky. She dangled her legs over the side. I watched her as she pulled her feet towards het her knees to her chest. Then I watched as she rose to her feet and jumped. She didnt fall. You cant fall in a place with no down or up. She shot like a hummingbird, straight towards the frayed cutoff. She passed where the black velvet of the universe's backdrop ended, past where the white stitches of its edges lay bumpy against infinity. I watched her as she did this, and silently wished her well on her journey. She had left what we know behind. She had said goodbye to the glued-on stars with the swinging of her dangling legs. She had wished farewell to the papier-mAch6 planets with the wistful, bittersweet crinkle between her eyebrows.

I wish I could know what she saw as she left. What she's seeing now. If she knows now what's in between the stitchings of the universe. I cant remember anymore. Those days were much too long ago.

I stretch out on the sand of salt and sugar, granular but soft. I gaze at the craft glitter that adorns the inky velvet of space. I wait for midnight, and then, for sunrise. I love seeing the paper sky that rises to cover up our glimpse of that glimmering, stygian fabric. I love seeing the pastels and watercolors splash across its surface. Waiting for cotton ball clouds to fill our colored pencil sky.

I dont miss it. Although, I do miss her. She was nice, always had jokes to share and laughs for the ones I'd tell. I've done my fair share of traveling. I've seen my fair share of stitches, of all the different fabrics. Anyways, I like it here. This universe is beautiful. Itt soft and adamantine, confined and infinite, mystical and scientific. It's all real and none of it is. Perfect for someone like me.

Pfu,I%

by Maya Guerriero

I cant squit enough to block out the sun without closing my eyes. It is like the sun has channeled all the light straight into my eyes. They slowly stop hurting as much. I can see the blue of the sky.

A blue I dont know how to describe. It's a powerful blue. Not a baby boys room blue, and not a night sky or blueberry blue. But that perfect blue in the middle. It almost looks transparent. Yet it is a sturdy wall stopping me from seeing the stars hiding behind it.

Clouds are scattered across the sky like the wisps of torn-apart cotton balls. In some places, the color of the sky mixes with the clouds like it would when mixing paint. I wonder what I look like from their perspective, the perspective of the clouds. Or maybe the perspective of the stars. Does this mountainous lake I stand next to matter? To the stars, this world is just a little blue dot.

Once I hung up a picture of the Earth taken from Pluto. I had to stand no less than a foot away from the picture to even see Earth.

I laid on my bed looking at that, and I often found myself asking, "Why does my life even matter?"

To the sky, I'm nothing but an ant in an anthill. To the stars, I'm nothing but a fleck of dust in a bag of marbles.

I took that picture down.

A river the size of a microscopic creek flows beside me. With one hop I clear it. What do the rocks at the bottom see? Is their vision warped by the clear liquid moving above? Does the world twist and turn to them?

Do my eyes look enlarged like my friends' eyes do when I see them through a water bottle? Eyes big like a bug.

Or is seeing through water normal for the rocks,like the way I see through air? And when I reach my hand into the liquid ice and bring one out into the air, is the rock's vision distorted?

I throw the rock, and it flies on wings of gravity through the ait through the water, to the bottom of the lake. The lake, the reason we here in the first place.

If only I could jump in that lake. To cool off this winter jacket of sunlight. But the wind says it is still 40 degrees outside. Sweating boatloads and feeling like a lobster boiling with your coat on. And feeling the wind go directly through your single layer of clothes and chill your skin like air made of ice when you take it off.

Brown stalks stick out from the ground. They look like stick bugs. Actually, I guess stick bugs look like them.

Their leaves separate from the stalk like the number of paths I can take in one life. They are creamy, tan, brown. But I imagine flowers for days on them. I can see the flowers without seeing them. Like a filter my friends use on their phones.

They are mango yellow with brown centers like coconuts, blue to match the sky with sun yellow in the middle, and deep violet purple. There are butterflies and dragonflies too. They extend over the whole field to the right. All the way up to the summit. And down the opposite mountainside, too. Obviously, the flowers do not grow over the lake, but the dragonflies hover over it. They chase after each other like my cats loudly playing tag downstairs when we are trying to fall asleep. The dragonflies are quiet though.

I wish that painting that I made with my mind could come to life and we could walk through it, my family and I. But I guess there is no way for anyone else to really see what I see.

I see both the brown stalks and the field of flowers at the same time. Like seeing through VR glasses. The screen on the phone shows you one thing, but you imagine the real world with your memory.

I stop to sit on a boulder. It is grey. Not a simple flat grey, but a grey with texture. There are black specks. There are also clear, shiny, miniature, stone specks in it. Like our countertops, but on a smaller scale.

When I lift up my hand from the boulder, it is red from the pressure of my weight. There are little white indents in the red texture on my hand.

I heard somewhere that when a pattern like that is left behind it means you had a good nap. Whenever I wake up to find a pattern on my skin I feel like I just crawled out of a bowl of syrup.

You only know you were sleeping when you have woken up. when you are sleeping you don't know you exist. I could bet that is what dying is like. Does this boulder I'm sitting on know that it exists? You can't call it dead because it was never livin$,

but then what can you call it?

The sun bounces and reflects off the lake. It shimmers and shines like glitter. I can see everythin$ from here: Mom, Thomas, Dad, the lake, the tips of the mountains that cradle this lake in the tops of them, the shrub{ike trees that dot the side of the hillsides. I can see everything. Everything but the field of flowers and butterflies.

I know what is behind me, to the right of me and to the left, but when I look ahead, a wall stops me from knowing what is there. It's a clear, dark navy blue wall, like the sky. Air is technically see through. But in the day I can't see through the sky into space. It's the same way with this dark wall.

From the other side of the wall, I know I look like I'm standing at the edge of a cliff. Everything is filled in behind me, to the left and right. But in front of me, there is nothing but the drop.

This is the highest point I have ever been on the mountain, but it is not the summit. I know the summit is ahead. But I cannot see it. How can I know it is ahead if I cannot see it?

Mom says we have to go back. We have to make it to the car before it is dark out. I guess I will never see the world from that summit.

From the summit, I must look like a fish in a fish tank. There is a limit to where those fish can swim. They are blocked by a clear wall from the rest of the world.

As we turned away, the sky bled into a semi-soft dark pink. It's a little darker than pink that they assign us little girls who have not yet decided we want to be girls,

By Jakob Jenks

The ivory drops pawed the ground as I snuck to the concrete sidewalks he lived on. It couldn't be called a home, but a place under a gutter where the snow would not fall. He held his sign of browned bird's bones and bucket that mirrored the ivory drops. I lay next to him, reaching into my heart and offering a 2 dollar leaf to grow from his tiny metal garden.

Inside the bucket, plants bloomed, growing from the dents and folds of metal where the light hit especially strong. I would wait, I did not want to disturb what little rest he got. After some time his eyes opened, rotatin$ in their sockets to match mine. I wondered aloud what took him away from his family and the numbered green grass so many $rew in their gardens. Without judgement, he replied: His blood relatives, he said, were not able to grow flowers, so they had gone out into falling ivory and diamond. Others gave what they grew, but his blood eventually drained, making the 20 given stay whole, no longer divided among crimson bodies. My brain itched, his story connecting with another in my head. We left the past, and he looked to the growing weeds, thanking me. I threw the sentiment back and my arms forward. We met, and the night was brighter than usual, ivory taking no light for its own, reflecting compassion back on those who gave it. I sobbed into his ivory dusted body, from regret, fear, or the horribly kind light that reflected off the snow on his body.

My regret, for a moment took precedence over my blood, my skin draining to ivory. I can't do this, it's not right. He didn't deserve his circumstance, livin$ only through the light of others. My hands stayed, feeling the regret of a hungry animal. I remembered who he reminded me of, the boundless compassion only a child could have. He was much like my son, or what he would be later in life. My instinct took over my compassion, the ivory in my skin replaced by the crimson ichor of my family. My hands stayed, but my fingers moved, plucking the last of his numbered weeds from his waists pockets. After all, he is only one man.

I am not one man, and I cannot live for myself. I turned with a certain finality, tossing back the phrase he gave me one last time before striding from the dulling snow, which stole the dead grass, mud, and leaves it was given. He turned one last time to look back to me, eyes looking through me, with sorrow and sympathy, as if he knew all too well what I had done. My heart danced with drums, organs, and flutes, dancing to a joyously sick song. I did it, whether I wanted to or not. Ivory would never shine from

my body, its blood was too reddened to be hidden ever again. As I moved to my home I could call a home, I discovered something in myself. Something in me broke with a snap of finality. My heart once moving to the rhythm of the moment's song, chained itself down, quieting completely forever.

I entered my garden, my blood sprinting and hopping down the stairs and reclining in the armchair to greet me back to my home. The blood still inside me rushed out, no longer restrained by the beating of my heart. I now had the numbered leaves, freeing me to love and be loved. More importantly, I now had the stomach to succeed. I moved to my plants, pulling the dandelions and roses from the rich compost filled with the failures of others. I threw the bouquet of vivid, green flowers created for the month's meals into the surging blood. I dug through the soil, not caring how much dirt I wrested away or drove under my fingernails. I lay the weeds into the crying soil, and waited for the fruits of my labor, sure to spring forth after the ivory boiled away.

Lucy Jordan -

,ga/r"b a*7nf 4ofl,z*

by Octavia Ikard

A boy as dark as my father, with a nose like my father, and the lips of my father Asked me if my hair was real Cause black girls like me, With two black parents With full lips and full noses Can't grow long hair

I sat there unmoving, flowers growing large in my lungs until I felt the soft petals in my mouth The thorny stems in my throat Generational hurt moved through me, pain from black women who were hated and beaten down in this country only to return home and be hated and beaten by their own men

I thought I was used to being ugly in America After all a black woman's home must be made of strong and alone and strong and alone

Yet I sat there, hair nappy and scratchy like fresh cotton Weak and surrounded My pride bruised like dropped fruit at the grocery store

BRAINWASH BRAINWASH BRAINWASH america whispers to black boys at night

Hate full lips, Hate nappy hair, Hate dark skin, Hate me, Hate Black women, Hate

But as i stared at this boy as dark as my father, with a nose like my father, and the lips of my father America had once again Ieft me speechless

gflt-Bea"v

by Soren Shah Hempel

A few friends having fun on a snow day. I didn't mean to poke the bear. I didn't know he was a bear. I know about all the stress people have. But I was just playing with friends.

A snowball splattered on his back window. Who would have known it would have put him over the edge

My friend was unaware.

When we saw the tail light stop. We took off into the woods. Not knowin$ how unaware he was. IIe was in his face before he had the chance to run.

He never looked up from his phone until he heard the bear growl at him.

Felt so helpless watching from afar. Wishing the snowball had never hit the car. Wishing even more for my friend's safety as I hear the roars. Knowing what could have happened.

-

Jade Aich -

Jylttr.

by Rory Cronin

Thudding steps on the stairs, Eyes searching familiar corners

you begin the hunt. Hidden behind an Easter Lily, Bright spot in the golden morning. So you leave the egg your sister colored With her brow scrunched in concentration

And fingers darkened in dye. A discovery worthy only of its creator!

You move on. The creaking Chickering bench, Obstacle in the pursuit. You pass your grinning brother, Taller this year than last.

His yellow basket thrust in the airThe first to be found!

You mustn't be the last. Settled on worn leather couches, prizes clutched in still stained hands. Finally the treasure is found, gift of the morning, cursive name across the top. Inside - selected with careYour favorite sweets!

You relish promise's release. Time passed, time apartMarked by uncertainty. How wonderful it is to be together.

- Isabel Sichlau

Isabel Sichlaut., f

- Maeve Mascarenhas

- Kyla Robateau - Mena Patel

Gia Fischer -

- Elise Pope

-Ben Kerstetter

Maeve Mascarenhas -

- Elizabeth Sersen

- Elise Pope

- Isabel Sichlau

- Lena Tang

- Zevadiyah Drizin

- Ben Kerstetter

- Addison Rexroat

- Kryr Denise

- Addison Rexroat

- Luna Mazin

- Grace Balma

Kyla Robateau -

- Olivia Zimbler

--!*; ,a

- Olivia Zimbler

- Isabel Farren

Isabel Farren -

,((5'-"-*

- Maeve Mascarenhas

- Samantha Smith

)

.gffiqu*..

- Elise Pope

- Holden Green

- Isabella McCullough

- Isabella McCullough

- Addison Rerroal

- Isabel Farren

- Rowan DeJule

F- Lauren Edwards

- Rowan DeJule

- Samantha Smith

McKale Thompson -

- Gia Fischer

Samantha Smith -

- Lucas Kult-Banout

- Ilolden Green

- Lucas Kult-Banout

- Elizabeth Sersen

- Lauren Edwards

- Lauren Edwards

- Eva Carson

- Holden Green

- Lucas Kult-Banout

- Anna Russell

- Porter Hays

- Samantha Smith

- Luca Andersen

- Madeline Macek

Luca Andersen -

- Ophelia Puccinelli

Ophelia Puccinelli -

Lauren Edwards -

- Holden Green

Maclaine Watson

- Kry. Denise

- Luca Andersen

Luca Andersen -

- Maclaine Watson

- Maclaine Watson

- Grace Balma

glA,rb |er,a,

Everyone at Crest is incredibly grateful to have published a book this year, and that would not have been possible without the help of several people.

First and foremost, we would like to thank AK Kahmanne and Jon Wells from the technology department for getting everything set up to allow us to actually moke the book. Without them, the 2021issue of Crest would not have been made- literally.

We would also like to thank Helen Gallagher, Susan Johnson, Nancy McGinnis, and Chris Thieme for providing us with the support to go through with publishing this year's Crest. Despite all of the many changes made to accommodate for the pandemic, they were still able to help us publish it as though everything was "normal" (or however life was precovrD-19).

Thank you to all of the English and Fine Arts Department teachersl you are all truly the backbone of our submissions. Without all of you, we would never have received as many pieces as we did.

That leads us to our next thank you: the students! Thank you to all the students who submitted art this year. Crest could not- this year or any other year- be made without you. Seriously. If we had no submissions, there would be nothing to print. So thank you.

And, of course, we would like to thank our sponsor, Ms. Lee.

ed,hr" Bb*

Editor-in-Chiefs

Annaliese Baker

Quote: "John Mulaney is one of my top artists on Spotify3'

Likes: Ron Swanson's Pyramid of Greatness, New York City, Episode 8 of WandaWsion

Dislikes: Ohio, sea urchins, dehydration, chemistry

Quarantine Hobby: Googling colleges' acceptance rates

Sam Warzecha

Quote: "H.A.G.S."

Likes: Yoohoo, Math Rock, Evangelion

Dislikes: Allergies, people who "listen to all music except country"

Quarantine Hobby: Gunpla

Senior Editors

Davion James

Quote: "Irrelevant, but I just had the most amazing glass of waterl'

Likes: nature, the color green, Tauruses

Dislikes: non-sugar free gum

Quarantine Hobby: lunch under Lemon Trees

Elijah Jennison

Quote: "What's an Instagram baddie?"

Likes: Mr. Patrick Pearson, wooden boats, cello, fresh mornin$s

Dislikes: losing in Smash Bros., virtual cello lessons

Quarantine Hobby: highly competitive family Smash Bros.

Junior Editors

Heidi Enger

Quote: "Whoever has the piano, can you turn it off?"

Likes: naps, Christina's Bridal Brigade, Anya Taylor-Joy

Dislikes: Alan Brinkley's writing, The Unit Circle, love triangles in books except The Last True ?oets of the Sea

Quarantine Hobby: elaborate 3-D birthday cards

Lucy Jordan

Quote: "Sorry there's paino playing in the background3'

Likes: Legos, maps, Desmos

Dislikes: tomatoes, small paperback books

Quarantine Hobby: baking colorful cupcakes

Elizabeth Vollentine

Quote: "My hate for Jeff Bezos runs deep3'

Likes: paying extra to ship from Etsy, pasta, planning to renounce her U.S. citizenship

Dislikes: raisins, physics, Amazon

Quarantine Hobby: reading medical textbooks

Jade Aich

Quote: "sometimes I wake up and then it's five minutes late, and I think I should just miss it3'

Likes: the color green, earrin$s, Grey'sAnatzm)t card tricks

Dislikes: being called out, breakout rooms, grapes

Quarantine Hobby: impulse buying earrin$s off etsy

Sammy Smith

Quote: "Have you seen young Johnny Depp? Because it's life-changing if you're into guys."

Likes: academic validation, sloths, Anime theme songs

Dislikes: velcro, frats, squash, Subway sandwiches

Quarantine Hobby: pursuing dreams of being a pro dummer

sam warzecha wants you to know that he made the cover. that's all folks.

'I-his Year's (lrest is one ol'the best let! Don't believe us? -f he critics are raving!

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