ATHENAEA Spring 2019
Table of Contents Cover..............................................................................................................................Harriet Zhu iii. Dedication..........................................................................Ashby Baker and Owen Rask 1. East...............................................................................................................Annie Clifford 2. sunday, four o’clock..................................................................................Adeline Thames 3. Mixed Media Pink Woman ..............................................................................Sage Keller 4. Haiku.........................................................................................................Various Authors 7. Pika..................................................................................................................Mia Sanchez 8. Anger (Excerpt from The Five Stages of Grief)......................................Celeste Carter 9. Corgi...................................................................................................................Yinuo Wei 10. Where I’m From..........................................................................................Arielle Teplitsky 11. Art Attack.........................................................................................................Mia Parsons 12. I’m Going Swimming........................................................................................Shola Mao 13. Insomnia...............................................................................................................Kolbi Lee 14. City-wide Athenaea Poetry Contest......................................................David Reynolds 15. English First Place: The Anatomy Lesson of Dr. Nicolaus Tulp............Lisbet Jackson 16. English Second Place: Being Black in Private School.................Faith Newsome-Hutt 18. English Third Place: Subject line: Meaning?...............................Imani Lige-Crenshaw Bilingual First Place: El Mundo Suyo..........................................................Mia Sanchez 20. 22. Bilingual Second Place: Laila Al-Ghambi.................................................Laila Ghamdi Bilingual Third Place: Personas que no amón el mundo...................Austin Hamilton 24. Erasure Poem.......................................................................................................Eli Fricke 26. Where I’m From....................................................................................................Lily Ryan 27. Learning Rhyming Words in First Grade.......................................................Zoë Banta 28. God Didn’t Say ....................................................................................................Kolbi Lee 29. Untitled..........................................................................................................Laila Ghamdi 30. Glory and Ruins...........................................................................................Kenneth Song 31. Magnet Poems......................................................................................Unknown Authors 32. Excerpts from “The Six Types of Customers One Encounters While Working in a 33. Bookstore”.......................................................................................................Ashby Baker Where I’m From.................................................................................................Shola Mao 34 Desk...................................................................................................................Harriet Zhu 36. 37. An Ode to Outlaw Arthur...............................................................................Owen Rask Shower...........................................................................................................Lisbet Jackson 38. i
39. Flowers............................................................................................................... Serena Liu 40. Where I’m From..........................................................................................Sydney Staples 41. God Says, Ask Again Later .....................................................................Adeline Thames 42. Untiled Excerpt...............................................................................................Ashby Baker 43. Untitled...................................................................................................Madeline Cornett 44. My Mind and Math..........................................................................................Owen Rask 46. Spring Cleaning...................................................................................................Kolbi Lee 47. Art Attack.......................................................................................................Shirly Song 48. Art Attack..........................................................................................................Annie He 49. Common Loon.........................................................................................Belinda Garrow 50. Talking to God..................................................................................................Owen Rask 51. Kwajalein...............................................................................................................Kolbi Lee 52. Acknowledgements
ii
Dedication Growing up is coming to terms with who you are becoming. It’s realizing that it’s okay to be a weed in a flower garden and that all flowers are weeds depending on whom you ask. It’s starting to hike a fourteener but settling with a thirteener because you know your limits. It’s planning to study an extra three hours for that calculus test but, instead, spending that time comforting your roommate because her problems aren’t reflected on a transcript. It’s having your first fight with Mom, words of self-frustration slipping into the wrong argument, and apologizing with a hand-written note and a cup of her favorite tea after. It’s learning that broken people tend to cut those who try to fix them and that sometimes the best you can do is let them piece themselves back together. It’s realizing that thrusting doubt, trepidation, and excitement at the future won’t make it arrive any slower or faster. But growing up is also the salt on your lips after winning a soccer game. It’s falling in thirds, fourths, and bits of infinity for that girl in sixth grade math class. It’s understanding that when you plant a part of yourself somewhere, you trust that others will water it after you’ve gone. It’s finally getting an A in English and not knowing what to dream for next. It’s developing the patience to watch the sun disappear behind Pikes Peak the evening before May 1st. This Athenaea is dedicated to growing and to accepting who we are becoming. We hope that this issue not only reminds you that it’s okay to embrace the you who stares back in shards of broken glass, but also reminds you of the sepia smiles and crinkled eyes printed on the photograph beneath.
iii
-Ashby Baker and Owen Rask
-Annie Clifford
one
sunday, four o’clock a frazzled barista summoned by the tinkle of the door’s bell returns to the register where a man shakes off the season’s first plump raindrops onto the unassuming tile below and inquires about the chai latte an orange and gold book teeters on a nearby shelf its spine hovering on the ledge dripping with possibility outside, the woman sitting on the curbside asks a passerby for a few silver pieces only to receive the cool breeze of his overcoat retreating the barista wipes her hands on a torn towel and shakes her head the man at the counter settles for the house coffee
two
i swallow the last sip of cinnamon-laced froth and catch the tangerine spine before it hits the ground then i tuck a dollar saved for the tip jar inside its creamsicle cover the woman outside is grateful for some words to keep her warm and the orange pages are a beacon in the afternoon’s easy rain -Adeline Thames
-Sage Keller three
Haiku prom night her white dress a hospital gown -Owen Rask
the sharp pitch of her voice burnt cookies -Jungso Jung
fluttering wings the hypnotist’s eyes find mine -Grace Everitt
dust gathers on a broken piano dreams morendo -Kolbi Lee
federal workers’ paychecks stacking up a wall — Kenneth Song*
rink has melted at least the pool’s open -Quillan Reed
*These haiku will be featured in the summer edition of Modern Haiku. four
lonely nights he and the fire smoke as one -Arielle Teplitzky all I wish to say to you becomes eraser shavings tabula rasa -Adeline Thames filling the jar bit by bit emptiness - Marlee Brooks* silent embrace in an empty bedroom words forgotten -Sydney Staples thin gray hair unevenly dispersed clouds -Jeremy Naiman burnt pancakes with syrup divorce papers -Celeste Carter
five
honey drips slowly from its jar Sunday morning -Annie Clifford graduation caps fly in the air dandelion seeds -Kate Baum old envelopes returned incomplete love -Hieu Nguyen branches bowed under the children’s weight supermoon -Sydney Staples*
six
-MiaSanchez
seven
2. Anger (Excerpt from The Five Stages of Grief) When the skin peeled back and exposed the crimson pouring from her knees, blood rushed to her cheeks. Her stomach hardened, and her fists clenched. The vexation moved through her like water, seeping into every inch of her fingertips and her hair. She pounded on the walls and the floor with her knuckles. She screamed as loud as she could, hoping someone would hear her, hoping he would hear her. He never came back, and she never cried. She smashed pictures and glasses, plates and bottles, paintings and windows. Her face was as red as a stop sign, her hands the color of plums and raspberries. She slammed her feet onto the wooden floors and with every stomp, she shook the earth. As she rose she felt her toes sink further into the ground. When the harshness of the coffee touched her tongue and the chip in the mug cut her lip, she spit up a single word. Help. She stomped around the kitchen, from the distant shimmer of light in the east to the mundane glow in the west. She knocked over the stack of untouched books and set fire to their pages. The flames enclosed her and tarnished the yellow paint, but she kept stomping. She felt her orange and red dress jumping to the pulse of irritation. As she lifted each leg they became heavier and heavier until she could no longer lift them. Shards of glass punctured the balls of her feet and dug into her heels. When the pain of her body was worse than the piercing pain in her heart, she stumbled and collapsed in front of the shattered window.
eight
-Celeste Carter
-Yinuo Wei
nine
Where I’m From I am from the mountains of Bhutan and the beaches of Israel. I am from the gravel marks left on my knees; from the climbing tree in Queenstown Park. I am from making smores by the fire during Lag B’omer. I am from my father’s sarcasm and my mother’s passive aggression. I am from my sister’s humor and my brother’s courage. I am from the coloring pages, printed out by Zara and me. I am from Percy and Annabeth’s adventures; dreaming of my own while I slept. I am from singing and dancing along to High School Musical with my siblings. I am from Pocahontas and The Lion King. I am from the chicken noodle soup and the green curry made by MaiMai. I am from the buttered popcorn with M&M’s that my father and I would share.
ten
I am from endless days and nights spent on a plane –– traveling someplace new. I am from contradictions and paradoxes; from indecisive to strong-willed manners. I am from the everlasting highs and the inseparable lows. I am from the fresh batch of tulips rising in the spring, welcoming my birthday.
-Arielle Teplitsky
-Mia Parsons eleven
I’m Going Swimming my legs dangle over the edge toes skimming the crystal water everyone tells me to be careful don’t fall be careful watch out for waves be careful don’t stand in the boat be careful but I think drowning could be cool a once in a lifetime experience
-Shola Mau
-Belinda Garrow twelve
Insomnia On my mattress I turn and writhe. I’m uncomfortable beneath my comforter. Stiff. Every muscle is tense enough to fight or flee, But none have considered resting. I want everything to be still and silent, But my brain rushes urgently between regrets. I hear every wrong answer, failed joke, And accidently impolite sentence I’ve ever said. I clutch my head, as if to strangle the thoughts. Hours pass. The ticking of the clock Measures each lost second of sleep. I don’t know what time it is, and I fear Getting up to check might delay my sleep, Which is always near, but never arrives. My eyes are closed, but my room seems Painfully bright, like I’m staring at the sun. I open my eyes. Moonlight sifts through The blinds, and my computer’s charger Gleams blue, mocking my depleted energy. I get up, tuck the charger under a blanket, And get a drink of water. My brain feels Stale, like an old television’s static. Though everyone else is already asleep, I’m still falling.
-Kolbi Lee
thirteen
City-wide Athenaea Poetry Contest Fountain Valley’s literary magazine began in 1930 as The Fountain Valley Magazine. In the 1950s and 1960s, however, it published work by students at other independent schools in Colorado and it changed its name to The Fountain Valley Literary Review. In 1966, under the direction of Hunter Frost, it became the Athenaea and resumed its focus on intramural writing. As faculty advisor for the magazine, I thought it would be rewarding and stimulating to publish poetry from other high school students in the Colorado Springs area. Hence, in 2010, we joined forces with the Pikes Peak Poet Laureate program and created the first annual city-wide poetry contest. This year, the city’s former poet laureate, Aaron Anstett, judged both the English and bi-lingual categories. He chose the three finishers in each category. We received over 100 entries in the two categories.
-Dave Reynolds, P ’13 and ’18, English Department Chair
English Category 1st Place — Lisbet Jackson, Fountain Valley School, “The Anatomy Lesson” 2nd Place — Faith Newsome-Hutt, Fountain Valley School, “Being Black in Private School” 3rd Place — Imani Lige-Crenshaw, Sierra High School, “Subject line: Meaning? Bi-Lingual Category 1st Place — Mia Sanchez, Fountain Valley School, “El Mundo Suyo” 2nd Place — Laila Al-Ghamdi, Fountain Valley School, “Laila” 3rd Place — Austin Hamilton, Fountain Valley School, “Personas que...”
fourteen
The Anatomy Lesson of Dr. Nicolaes Tulp, by Rembrandt Seven mustached men with faces narrowing into goatees, Peer over shoulders and onto the corpse upon the table. All pale skin with shadows filling the cracks between his ribs, He grabs at the world a final time with fingers stripped to muscle and bone. The men encase their academic necks in starched white pleats, As if, without them, the sudden realization of everyone’s mortality Might cause their pointed heads to slide right off and onto the table. Dr. Nicolaes Tulp wears no collar, knowing the innermost workings of the human form, He has long since come to terms with cold skin and rancid blood. Instead, wearing a black hat like a lid to keep his knowledge from Boiling over and escaping into the students’ wobbly heads. A darkness holds the doctor, corpse, and students in the scene. All men simply shadow lit by the whiteness of the collars and the corpse. All men caught in a moment of life and death and preserved in brush strokes.
-Lisbet Jackson
fifteen
Being Black in Private School Being black at a private school is not Hearing racial slurs passed around casually It’s having support and the chance at a better life It’s avoiding the hardships Being black at a private school is not The constant questions about your hair Or about if you know anyone in your family who’s a slave It’s having peers who believe in you When society does not Being black at a private school is tiring Because you feel their eyes on you When anyone mentions slavery or the civil rights movement Being black at a private school is lonely Because you are not like your white friends Being black at a private school is sad Because you can’t curl your hair Or share makeup with the other girls It’s disappointing being discriminated Because you look a certain way When you can’t control it Being black at a private school is Only one person liking you Out of 200 It’s the isolation when there’s no one who relates To the feelings that you have
sixteen
Being black in private school is Having a heavy load That pulls you down and Leaves a sinking feeling in you stomach That brings tears, which sting your eyes Being black at a private school makes You feel horrible about being born in your skin Makes you feel as if you can’t be your true self Without the fear of being judged by everyone But being black in a private school Doesn’t have to be any of those things It doesn’t have to be lonely, sad, disappointing, or heavy Being black in a private school can be A way that allows for me to show people That I matter and that what I say matters Being black is beautiful My skin will not automatically choose my destiny in life Being black shouldn’t burden me or anyone else So I will rise up and be the first to make change Being black at a private school Isn’t what I will be known as
-Faith Newsome-Hutt
seventeen
Subject line: Meaning? To whom it may concern, Universe. Why me? Why these 46 Chromosomes? With no one to share with. Why these two Parents? Who rarely take anymore. Why this brown skin? That glows in the Summer sun. Why this chest and wide hips? That lures unwilling gazes. Why this genetic code that wires my brain to love all and hate none. God - Christ Almighty, Answer This Pray. I pray every night, Twice on Saturday. Say my blessing before Dinner every family night. “God is good God is great We thank you for this food. Amen!” Yet you allowed my life to be filled with so much strife. Sometimes I wonderWonder if I’m speaking into thin air. Death, my lone friend of an early teen life. You are so close to my heart, I look to you rather than the man who hangs on my grandmother’s wall. How-when will you set me free? I already beg for mercy, in these silent tears A sweet release as one calls it. From this hallowed ground which my feet have forsaken. How I see the man that my grandmother idolizes as the Frankenstein, and me the monster he shocked too long and left one thread loose.
eighteen
Laozi, You, before Christ himself, may help me now. I question this flow of life. How to take the Yin within the Yang and the Yang within the Yin. To balance these cosmic forces like I balance my life, my family, me. To see beyond the grey mist of life Into The moon and the sun, The light and the dark. Me You’ve been blindly searching the world like an Instagram explore page. To find meaning in this timeless 2 am darkness. Your search for answers without asking questions. Only receiving Partial truths and whole lies. You ain’t no waterboy. They are only Johnny Appleseed. Don’t let them plant the seeds in your mind without asking why. Question the strange fruit that will hang. Question the bitter taste of the juice. Question the Unique color that stains your hands. Question but never accept because they can lie. Now. Just question, only question. There will you find knowledge, sometimes truth, but never meaning.
-Imani Lige-Crenshaw
nineteen
El Mundo Suyo Puedo respirar al aire libre, El paisaje extingue de lo que temí. Cuando camino por el campo, Siento una fuente de energía nueva. Las ovejas comen el césped en el monte, No sé si ellos reconocen la belleza. Pero yo no puedo ser tan descuidada. Amo este refugio con toda mi alma. Olvidamos sobre la cordillera, la costa, la brisa, No valoramos la tierra que desaparece. Cada dia la tierra se sacrifica. Revuelvo adentro, y mi energia acaba. La playa es una amiga salvaje, Y el mar me hace recordar Que nosotros no somos más que vándalos ¿Quien dice que este mundo es nuestra?
twenty
-Mia Sanchez
Their World I can breathe in the outdoors, The view extinguishes the fears I had felt. When I walk across the field, I feel a new source of energy. The sheep eat the grass on the mountain, I don’t know if they recognize the beauty. But I cannot be as careless. I love this refuge with all of my soul. We forget about the mountain range, the coast, the breeze, We do not value the disappearing earth. Every day the earth sacrifices itself. I return inside, and my energy runs out. The beach is a wild friend, And the ocean reminds me That we are no more than vandals Who said this world is ours?
-Mia Sanchez
twenty-one
Laila هذه ليىل مريم محمد يحيى صالح السعيد الغامدي مع أنف عريب مدمن مخدرات ،مع عيون بنية عادية وشعر لتتطابق .مع االسم اإلسالمي ملاري ،مع التاريخ يف عروقي ،فضال عن ، IGGمن اآلالف من الناس لن أعرف أبدا (شكرا لكم جميعا) .بأظافر ملطخة بالحناء وشعر مبيض .الفنان الشامل والصاخب /الهادئ .النسوي. ليىل الغامدي ،مع قلة الستريويد الصحية .ليىل .ليىل مريم الغامدي. -Laila Al-Ghamdi
twenty-two
this is laila mariam mohammed yahya saleh AlSaeed al ghamdi with the hooked arab nose, with the plain brown eyes and hair to match. with the islamic name for mary, with history in my veins, as well as IGG, from thousands of people i will never know (thank you all). with henna stained hands and bleached hair grown out. the all-encompassing, loud/quiet, artist. the feminist. laila al ghamdi, with steroid stunted health. laila. laila mariam al ghamdi.
-Laila Al-Ghamdi
twenty-three
Personas que no amón el mundo En este mundo nadie cuida la naturaleza Hay mucha contaminación del aire Hay mucha contaminación del agua Hay mucha contaminación del terreno Pero nadie quiere hacer nada Yo quiero vivir en un mundo Con tierra saludable, con muchos animales Pajaros, cerdos, leones que son sanas Yo quiero vivir en un mundo Donde las personas con poder protegen la Naturaleza Cuando yo veo el aire yo no quiero ver Nada. En este mundo contaminación es normal, Destruyendo las habitaciones de animales es normal, Lluvia ácida ocurre en todo el mundo pero nadie Quiere reparar el daño que nosotros creamos. A fin de que vivimos, nosotros necesitamos saber que Sin nuestra ayuda el mundo no se repara a sí mismo Yo vay a tener un legado que dice que nosotros tratamos de reparar el mundo, No porque esta bien Para la politica O porque es mas barato. Yo quiero ver un mundo que está reparando porque nosotros amos el mundo.
-Austin Hamilton
twenty-four
People who do not Love the World In this world no one cares about nature There is a lot of air pollution There is a lot of water pollution There is a lot of land pollution But no one wants to do anything I want to live in a world With healthy land, with lots of animals Birds, pigs, lions, that are clean I want to live in a world Where people with power protect Nature When I look at the air I don’t want to see Anything. In this world pollution is normal, Destroying the animal’s homes is normal, Acid rain occurs across the whole world but no one Wants to fix the damage we have created In order to live, we need to know that Without our help the world won’t repair itself I am going to have a legacy that says that we Tried to fix the world, Not because it is Good for politics Or because it is cheaper I want to see a world that is being fixed because we love it.
-Austin Hamilton
twenty-five
-Eli Fricke
twenty-six
Where I’m From I’m from sunscreen. From cool aloe on tender skin. I’m from skinned knees on concrete, From hand-me-downs that smell like my aunt’s house. I’m from the water in Lake Michigan, Unsalted, no sharks. I’m from my mom’s deep fried wisdom, Her laugh bounces around my brain. I’m from the bubbles in my pop can, From come here and go away. I’m from lazy days and open windows And the sunshine seeping in. I’m from Dixie Chicks and the car radio, From big plates of Mac and cheese. From scary movies with my grandpa From bickering with my big brother. Way down in my basement there’s a photo Of my brother and I when we were younger. I am from our laughter and our tears, Our memories growing like flowers in our front yard. I am a seed in the flowerbed.
-Lily Ryan
twenty-seven
Learning Rhyming Words in First Grade (At the dining room table, practicing rhyming) Mom: Ok Jake, hun, are you ready to practice your rhyming words? Jake: YES! I’m so good at them. Mom: Let’s start with something easy, can you tell me two words that rhyme with bat and mat? Jake: Cat and Rat!!!! See mom, it’s easy. Mom: Okay let’s just practice one more time. Can you tell me a word that rhymes with book and cook? Jake: Fook! Mom: Fook? Jake: Yeah you know, when daddy loses something and he asks where the fook it is? Mom: Oh, you mean f**k. WAIT I DIDN’T SAY THAT, NEVER SAY THAT! Jake hun, never ever use that word. (At school the next day) Teacher: Can anyone tell me a word that rhymes with duck? Jake: F**k. Teacher: … Jake: What, it rhymes with duck. Teacher: Well, uh, er… I um, I suppose it does. Jake, do you know your mother’s phone number?
-Zoë Banta
twenty-eight
God Didn’t Say I asked God if it was okay to talk and he didn’t respond I asked if it was okay to be sad when I should be happy and he said nothing big brother, I said to God I call him that sometimes is it okay to love someone of my sex and I was ignored again I decided if I couldn’t count on Big G for help, I would decide for myself and I chose Yes Yes Yes
-Kolbi Lee
-Adan Estrada twenty-nine
Untitled in the absence of speech, we bake bread we dance near the river, white dresses stained with dirt. we drink black tea from mason jars and count freckles on our cheeks in the absence of speech, i drive too fast and you pick the music. in the absence of speech, we jump into freezing rivers and ponds in our underwear we give each other blankets we dance and spin in circles, laughing and laughing in the absence of speech, i cry and you lie on the bed. there is love, or something like love, in the absence of speech.
-Laila Ghamdi
-Ky Dang thirty
Glory and Ruins Speaking of Paris, it’s the first place I traveled. Women think of perfume. Men think of romance. Sages think of art. But a six-year-old kid only knew it as a gift from the god. In Notre-Dame Hugo would discuss civilization, freedom, and destiny. Wanderers would miss the Seine and coffee shops; scholars would think of the struggling Quasimodo Notre-Dame: Eight hundred years grips my eyes and mind You even own the wings from Demon and Angels, but still can not afford a fire; people don’t even get time to confess you only left the ruins behind. I had the fortune to see you closely once, but now I am contemplating, you, humankind, and myself. Is it we do not cherish you enough? Or you abandon us because of our ignorance? I still look for the answer.
-Kenneth Song
thirty-one
Magnet Poems
thirty-two
Excerpts from “The Six Types of Customers One Encounters While Working in a Bookstore” 4. Those with Child Organizing books in the kids’ section, you jolt as you hear a heart-rending schrrrippp! Apprehension stiffening the hairs along your arms, you thrust Rick Riordan’s The Red Pyramid between The Lost Hero and The Hidden Oracle and swivel on your left foot. It’s a child. A child with The Lorax in one hand and the Lorax’s head in the other. As a book-lover, you stare aghast at the jagged tear in the fiber. Your soul tears at the sight. The woman, who you assume is its mom, plucks the book from its hand and shoves it in a random place on the shelf. “Johnny, I told you not to do that with books. Come along, now. We have to go grocery shopping next.” You gape. “Excuse me? Your child just ripped the head off The Lorax.” The woman shrugs. “Yeah, he does that sometimes. I’m trying to train him not to do that, but it’s hard.” “But—the book—it’s—it’s damaged.” The woman quirks her brow. “Yeah, and…? What do you expect me to do about it?” The woman grabs her grotesque, Lorax-killer offspring, and you watch balefully as they exit the store, determining that, between the headless Lorax bleeding figurative sorrows on the shelf and the literal tatter of tree on the floor, the child has a future in destroying the environment.
-Ashby Baker
thirty-three
Where I’m From I am from coconuts and cane sugar. From my ancestors carelessly yanked from their family trees. I’m from the freckled black nights in North Bay, and the freckled black face of my grandfather. I’m from the optimism my father has. He taught me to find silver linings, like he did, when he was kicked out of his home at sixteen. I am from crinkly chocolate wrappers and jangling coins making music in the pocket of my hand-me-down coat. I’m from my mom’s closet, proud to be the only one of my sisters who can comfortably fit in her shoes. I am from my mother’s satin voice reading The Very Hungry Caterpillar and Norbert Nipkin, my eyelids drooping with every flipped page. I’m from lullabies and my parents’ constant words of reassurance, but still keeping nightlights in every outlet to scare away monsters and doubts. I am from curiosity and fear. From loving to learn and hating school. From testing “superior” in every subject, yet still having crimson zeroes tattooed on every report card.
thirty-four
I am from inhalers and epipens and gluten-free recipes. I am from an autoimmune disease. An unfortunate combination of DNA. A human barcode on a hospital band. I am from bad influences that turned me into a bad influencer, and the ensuing downward spiral. I’m from New Trier, Newport Academy, Eva Carlston, and Fountain Valley. I’m from four schools in two years, and I’m from choking on my words when asked why.
-Shola Mau
thirty-five
-Harriet Zhu
thirty-six
An Ode to Outlaw Arthur Outlaw Arthur roamed the West in the late eighteen hundreds. He stole and cheated and lied in jest but he wasn’t defined by punches. He lived by a strict moral code, helping the needy, time and again. Targeting those the poor owed, and he especially hated lawmen. But as the years carried on, Arthur found his usual deeds hard to commit. Civilization cried that the Wild West had died and that Arthur should go along with it. They asked the Marshall to get rid of Arthur, whom they did detest. So the Marshall and his men chased farther and farther, pushing Arthur west. At California, Arthur met the water’s edge but had never learned to swim. The Marshall found him resting in the sedge, his lips recalling a hymn. “How are you doing, old friend, it’s time to face the facts, the lifestyle I lead is medieval. Prairies have been turned to train tracks, the buffalo replaced by people. But I am glad you are here, A semblance of the life I once held dear.” And with the bark of a command, Outlaw Arthur was laid to rest in the sand.
-Owen Rask
thirty-seven
Shower I am always washing my hair before my face, And rubbing soap behind my ears because Six-year-old me learned that mushrooms Would grow there if I didn’t. And I am always staring at that green drop of paint, The one that dripped off the wall and fell, unnoticed, Onto the plastic shell around the bath, A sprout unable to bloom in bleached-white soil. And I am always turning up the hot water So it clouds the bathroom mirror, making everything a mirage, And using lavender soap till I smell like my granmother’s perfume. Always following the same motions through every shower. Every anxious one, Where I tear up the sticky spiderwebs of ‘what if ’s that dust up my mind, Sending the spiders scurrying into the steam and heat, And out beneath the bathroom door. Every depressed one, Where I slump into the hot rain crushing my shoulders, And taste salt and shampoo on my lips, sweet and bitter And crushing like the smell of tropical violets. Every tired one, Where my feet leave black mud puddles on the shower floor, Earthen proof of the trails I ran and the dust I kicked up onto my legs, Sticky from sun-screen and summer heat.
thirty-eight
Every shower, I am washing my hair before my face, putting soap behind my ears, And staring at that drop of jade on the wall because in this familiar rainforest I am habits and spiderwebs and violets and black, muddy footprints.
-Lisbet Jackson
-Serena Liu
thirty-nine
Where I Am From I am from hair covered clothes of cats and dogs, and a dusty driveway where I learned how to drive. I am from a farm where the forecast determined my family’s success in the year to come. I’m from riding four wheelers, snowmobiles, and horses, and making mud pies (mixture of dirt and water) in the barn. I’m from catching grasshoppers for my brother’s bearded dragon, and fighting on who gets the front seat until an even/odd day system was enforced. I am from a 2007 Mustang and 1968 Camaro, where rock music often drifted me to sleep in the backseat, and my father’s curiosity that often leads to more confusion and frustration. I am from learning how to braid on my horse’s tail, and shooting guns before I knew what homework was. I’m from a trailer, and blue Kool Aid bottles with the twisted cap. I’m from my mother’s aggressive outbursts, and sleeping in the same bed with her until middle school because I was too afraid to sleep alone, and maybe she was, too.
forty
-Sydney Staples
God Says, Ask Again Later I asked God if it was ok that I don’t really go to church anymore and She said Most likely. I asked her if it was ok if I never brushed my hair and She said Better not tell you now. I asked her if I could get into my dream college and She said Sugar (She calls me that sometimes) Don’t count on it. I asked her if I would boulder v8 one day and She said Very doubtful. I asked her if I could eat meat or not eat meat and She said Signs point to yes. And is it even ok if I don’t punctuate my poetry? The shiny black plastic orb settled on Ask again later.
-Adeline Thames
forty-one
Untitled Excerpt “You really don’t want to be here, do you.” It’s not a question. Taewon scuffs his boot against the cheerful “Welcome” mat already stained brown. The woman sighs. “Well, you’ve got a couple options, here.” A computer screen swivels toward the young man. “Right now, we have three available veterans therapists. Each has been successful with patients your age who have served about the same time you have.” Taewon glances at the fuzzy images and returns to contemplating white ash. The woman leans back in her chair, the joints squeaking in protest at the sudden shift in weight. Flinging her glasses to the marble, she throws her head back and pinches the space between her eyes. “Look. I know you don’t want to be here. Heck, I don’t want to be here, either. But we’ve both got obligations, and right now, yours is to choose a therapist and mine is to set you up with an appointment and report to the embassy you are on your way to recovery.” Taewon’s gaze sharpens. “So, if you want to get out of here sooner, just cooperate and choose a darn therapist. I’ve gotta get home and feed the cats—” Brriiing! Brriiing! Icy eyes snap open as the office phone shrieks. Shoving her glasses back on, the woman lunges for the offending device and smacks it against her ear with a cheery “Good morning! This is Bethany, how may I help you?” Taewon sighs. Despite her lack of tact, the woman was right; it wasn’t her fault she had to be here. She really was just doing her job. But sometimes it isn’t enough to just “do the job.” Especially when that job involves others’ lives, a little self-determination can connect an individual to another better than a job. Taewon stares at the white ash in the photograph. He wishes he had known that when he raised his arm and tightened his calloused index finger around warm metal, tightened around the twelve-year-old life hunched before him, tight when the bullet spiraled into a face tight with tears. He wishes he had known that when he connected with the boy, connected so well that the tightness dissolved after connection into loose, everything loose—thoughts, that tear-drenched face, the finger, the arm. All because of “Fire!” and “It’s your job to obey orders.”
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And what if he had run away, escaped with Lily before his life exploded in his face? Would their connection still be just as tight? If he had to relive all the moments in his life where he could have been more self-determined, it wasn’t any wonder that he didn’t want to be here. He particularly didn’t want to be here in a room with bright lights, mudcaked welcome mats, and cold marble counters, all the while choking on the cloying combination of latex and sweat and artificial lavender perfume. Even that photograph of white ash with the chipped frame looked like it would rather be in a dumpster behind the butcher’s shop than hang on a wall in this room.
-Ashby Baker
-Madeline Cornett forty-three
My Mind and Math I don’t know what it is, but I distrust myself when I begin to take a math test. It makes me nervous. I don’t use the right formula or perhaps I start to question, doubt change
what I have written.
If I find that a particle’s total movement is 47 inches but my calculator tells me that it is 23.582 inches I start thinking: did I plug it in wrong, or is my work flawed? In other words I get worried. My sister told me that, “You cannot change an answer once you have turned it in, so stop fretting, it solves nothing.” I think she’s right and, besides, I will still drive home, take off my shoes, and eat spaghetti and meatballs with my family. That matters more.
forty-four
BUT If I walk out of that classroom and join a group of my classmates discussing the answer they got for question 3 a) and we all confirm we got 47 inches but one of them asks, “Did no one else come up with 24.6 inches?” and I say, “It’s total distance, did you forget the absolute value sign?” and he says, “Shoot,” And looks frustrated at the chipped adobe wall, I think: Thank God, it’s you, dude, this time, instead of me.
-Owen Rask
-Sofia Mier-Galindo forty-five
Spring Cleaning Often, when I was unhappy, I would clean the house so I would have something other than myself to focus on. I began sweeping the kitchen. Each time I stepped on some small object that was invisible against the hardwood floor, a jumbled combination of expletives would fill my head, but I would recede to melancholy before I said anything. After a few minutes, the kitchen floor was spotless, but my mind was still tumultuous and unkempt. I decided sweeping the garage would be my next distraction. As I swept, I noticed the trails of dust that formed on either side of the broom. Ever the perfectionist, I would go back to sweep these lines, but despite my best efforts, I could never quite remove all the dust. The broom’s tracks reminded me of my own imperfections: an uncommunicative nature that makes it hard to make or maintain friendships, my constant desire to be the best at everything I did, the self doubt that led me to abandon new passions for fear of never improving, and the apathy of someone who believed he didn’t matter. Though I’d tried to sweep away these shortcomings countless times, it seems they’ve never left. Two cars were parked in the garage, my blue Subaru and my mom’s black BMW. Though it was easy to sweep around these steel monoliths, sweeping under them proved more difficult. From a sitting position, I would stick the broom under each vehicle and pull piles of dirt and gravel toward me. Though I was able to collect most of the dust, the piles under the wheels and under the center of each car were unreachable. The piles made me think of all the things I didn’t like, but couldn’t change. In two months, I would graduate, and all my friends would scatter across the globe, and though I hoped for the best, I didn’t know if I would still talk to any of them. Though we had long conversations in person, I seldom called or texted anyone. Would they be enough to change that? I didn’t know what came next. Would I be able to re-establish myself in college, or would I spend my time longing for the past I had grown accustomed to? I had to leave the dirt I couldn’t reach, but knowing I did everything I could was reassuring. Once all the dirt had been swept either into a dust pan or out onto the driveway, I looked back over the garage. The floor wasn’t exactly clean, but I smiled at the progress, nonetheless. As I stared at the brown floor dulled by a thin layer of dust, I admitted my defeat to the grime and began to wonder whom I would be if I swept away the parts of me I disliked.
-Kolbi Lee
forty-six
-Shirly Song forty-seven
-Annie He forty-eight
Common Loon Eight years have passed. This blanket is too small for me now. I must choose whether to sacrifice my chest or my ankles to the cold. There is still sand between my toes which tap the ladder of the splintering bunk bed I last slept in when I was eleven. Though my eyes are closed, my mind wanders, periodically finding its way back to the loon’s eerie song, echoing from the shoals I swam to at thirteen. Her spirit mimics that of cruise ships at night. Hundreds of windows lit up against snow-capped mountains in summer. Me, now sixteen, watching from the shore. Can you see it? Hear it? She has been so kind to remind me every night where I am and why. She harmonizes with the dregs of this afternoon’s wind storm, still rustling the branches near my head. I join, whispering, “Goodnight, friends. See you in the morning.” I sacrifice my ankles.
-Belinda Garrow
forty-nine
Talking to God When I was young, I asked God if it was okay to lie and he said nothing. I asked him if it was normal to be worried and there was no reply. I asked him where babies came from and he was silent. I asked him if my heart would let me run, exercise, play, live. Or if the imperfection he gave me would eventually confine me by the length of an I.V. tube and I didn’t hear anything but the faint ticking of my chest synchronized with the evening cicadas. Thanks, Mom, I said, for answering all the questions he wouldn’t. O, Po, she said, I will answer any question you have but, please, just remember to Ask Ask Ask.
fifty
-Owen Rask
Kwajalein After she asked me for pictures the island seemed vibrantly painted. From the back of a black bike with red, rusted gears I saw the palm leaves’ green hue echoed imperfectly by the grass, the light blue water where the crabs emerged, and the the dark blue waves that hid the sharks the fishermen fed with their catch’s unsellable remains. The sharks were gray, like my room where, most days, I hid from my new, tropical home. I was longing for the colors of a home I had left behind, instead of adjusting to a new pallet.
-Kolbi Lee
fifty-one
Acknowledgements Faculty Sponsor Dave Reynolds, English Department Chair Editors
Ashby Baker Owen Rask Lisbet Jackson
Athenaea Staff Laila Ghamdi, Kathryn Potts, Kolbi Lee, Junseo Jung, Lisbet Jackson, Annie Clifford, Sophie Potts, Kim Macdonald, Meghan Walsh, Elisa Liu Printed by Colorado Print Connections Athenaea is a publication of Fountain Valley School of Colorado.
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