Table of Contents
33. City-Wide Poetry Contest
34. Multi-lingual First Place...............................................................Ryunosuke Kobayashi
35. Multi-lingual Second Place............................................................................Taka Omori
36. Multi-lingual Third Place................................................................................Noah Gouy
37. English First Place.................................................................................Charlize LeClaire 38. English Second Place..................................................................................Sarah Holman
40. English Third Place.................................................................................Kimberly Barker 41. Acknowledgements
Dedication
The Spring 2025 edition of the Athenaea Magazine is dedicated to the things that bring us joy. There is a common saying that, “laughter is the best medicine”, and I personally believe that holds true.
I dedicate this edition to those nights we spent hysterically cackling on our common room floor, cheering each other on at sports games and through college decisions, and every moment where we made others smile. Those times where we stopped to hold our stomachs, grab a friend, cover our mouths, and catch our breaths after howling to the hills of the prairie. I dedicate this edition to everything and everyone that makes us laugh, and to all of the laughter-filled experiences that will come in our future. From rewrites of old childhood stories, to each stroke of a prismacolor pencil, we hope that this publication can help bring a little empathy, joy, and laughter to our lives as we end this school year.
-Brynn Jensen
As for the Cowardly Lion
He runs his own consulting firm now, Selling advice he Googles. He’s been “thinking about therapy.”
“Is it worth the time?”
He still roars occasionally Only at bad drivers.
Dorothy?
She’s back, but not really. She swipes through dating apps, Clicks her heels after bad dates, But doesn’t quite feel at home. There’s no Wizard to fix her now, Just deadlines, coffee runs, And an overdue laundry pile Bigger than the cyclone That brought her here.
She wonders if she’s missing something Maybe a little magic.
But it turns out, There’s no place like not being stuck. And maybe She’ll find it after another “Soul-searching” weekend.
-James O’Brien
I Am From
I am from fuchsia bunny feet keychains, from Tide Pens, and Shout!
I am from skinned knees, ripped tights, with memories of picking the blacktop crumbs out.
I’m from the mother;
Gluten-free toast, beet juice, and apple cider vinegar. Keto kitchens, freezer-burnt tofu, Safeway sushi wrapped in ginger.
I’m from broken Spanish, splintered wooden spoons, and scratched Pitch-Perfect CDs. Baseball, maple syrup coffee stains, and, mannersno thank you, I’m full, and yes, please.
I’m from hunger and tummy aches, ER visits and swallowed nails.
Copper penny collections, strawberry shortcake-scented hair, chewed-up polly pockets and pinched pigtails.
I’m from polka-dotted ceiling fans, latex bandageswhere the adhesive still lingers; From Ceelo Green and talent shows with dreams of becoming a singer.
I’m from brothers belonging to many, sharing jeans the wrong size. From BB guns, lamb’s ear, earthworms, and mud pies. Ladybug speckled skunk cabbage, the land and sky; Runny noses dripping blood, curly hair, and clippable ties.
I’m from hockey and house music, hospital visits racecar beds, bonding over McDonald’s fries, our “family dinners,” caveman nights, you always hugged me tightly, listening while I cried.
I am from dislocated collarbones concealed with gold, shitty tattoos, magenta hand wraps, black eyes, white lies. From fears of growing old.
I’m from bubble gum mouthguards, poker chips, and chewed bottle caps.
Freshly waxed snowboards, playing cards, from concussions, and sticky tree sap.
I am neither here nor there, I’m all around, I’m everything at once, Every sight and every sound.
-Sophia Cisney
Ant War
Jerry the ant stood atop the great battlefield—otherwise known as Dave’s kitchen counter. Today was the day. The day he would defeat the mighty human oppressor once and for all.
For too long, Dave had terrorized Jerry’s people with his soapy death waves (which he called “cleaning”), his giant, earth-shaking stomps, and—worst of all—the dreaded vacuum monster. But Jerry had a plan. A flawless, foolproof plan.
The human approached, groggy and unaware, his enormous, furless hand reaching for the coffee pot. Perfect, Jerry thought. Time to strike.
With the strength of a thousand warriors (or at least, like, three), Jerry reared back and unleashed his ultimate attack: a series of tiny, furious kicks against Dave’s pinky finger.
The human did not react.
Jerry doubled down, delivering a barrage of microscopic punches, channeling the power of his ancestors. Take that, you oversized menace!
Dave scratched his hand absentmindedly.
Jerry narrowed his eyes. He’s playing it cool, trying to hide his pain.
With one final war cry (which, to Dave, sounded like nothing at all), Jerry leaped forward and latched onto Dave’s finger with all his might, clamping down with mandibles of steel.
Dave blinked. Then he sighed. Then, without even looking, he flicked his hand.
Jerry flew through the air, landing unceremoniously on the floor, dazed but victorious.
As he lay there, struggling to regain his footing, he smirked. He knew I was too powerful. That’s why he retreated.
From the heavens, Dave muttered, “I really need to clean this place.”
Jerry grinned. Yes, run, coward. Run.
-Kai Sonderman
Bathroom Walls
There used to be eleven different photos hanging on the bathroom walls. Three empty spaces are now covered in paint swatches. Missing are his pale blue eyes and circular glasses. Gone is my favorite photo, him holding me, holding a baby tiger. The reminders of him were removed, swiftly. Just as the day he left, on a cold, Saturday morning. -Phoebe Bain
I don’t know if I told you but
I’m planning on leaving.
Where are you going? I asked.
I think I’m gonna go sprout wings and migrate, he said, until time begins to melt the fringes of my fragile body and I begin seeing things I haven’t before. Until I’ve discovered the colors of love and forgive everyone who tore my mother’s smoothness out of me. Until the taste of God enlightens my mouth.
I’m planning on staying, I said, until my cheeks get chunkier and my teeth turn into gums. Until I see my dad again and until my knees are covered in scratches and I get tucked into bed saying “Do I have to?” Until every day feels like the first day of my life. You don’t wanna grow up, he said. You just wanna move on, I responded.
-Yosi Hardie
Haiku
reliving his ski jump lights up his eyes in the hospital bed
-Lewis Hoyt
waking up to morning kisses kibble breath
-Phoebe Bain
following footsteps my mother’s sandals I never grew into
-Sophia Cisney
family garage a bicycle with both tires flat
-Rebecca Huang
al;skdfjlksjdf I couldn’t find the words
-Yosi Hardie
*blood moon keys between my knuckles like my mother before me
-Brynn Jensen
*To be published in Modern Haiku, Summer 2025
Peacocking
A group of female peahens are pecking at the ground, bored and thoroughly unimpressed. In the distance, two (male) peacocks fan their elaborate feathers.
Deborah: Oh, my god, look at them, just look at them.
Janette: They’re so obnoxious, I swear, it’s like all men are the same, always fanning out their feathers, looking at their reflections, worrying about the newest color trend.
Dorothy: They just have to make a whole spectacle about it, don’t they?
Deborah: We get it, you have a tail, we all do, we just don’t think about it all the damn time like you.
Dorothy: Wow so manly, so vibrant.
Janette: Do they actually think we’re impressed by this? I mean that we would seriously care about the specific hue of a tail when we are trying to provide and care for the future of our species.
Deborah: Right, they don’t even do anything, just fan their beautiful tail in our face, meanwhile we’re actually out here blending in, and raising the next generation.
Dorothy: You know, Bob took nearly an hour to get ready for dinner the other night, it is utterly absurd.
Janette: Tell me about it, Dave was looking at his reflection in the pond all last night while I was out hunting crickets for the kids.
(a new peacock (Reginald) lets out an unnecessarily high-pitched shriek then shakes out his massive tail while strutting by)
Reginald: Ladies.
(Deborah, Dorothy, and Janette all sigh sharply.)
Reginald: Did you happen to notice my flawless dazzling blue and green feathers today, I got my tail redone just yesterday, super exclusive molting technique. You probably wouldn’t understand.
Dorothy: We can’t be the same species.
-Lewis
Hoyt
First Person to Milk a Cow
The other villagers are going to be so judgy, leaping on the opportunity to once again make fun of me.
But I don’t care. Because I know I’m onto something. Surely this has got to be it.
I stare at the cow. The cow stares back. She doesn’t look like she wants to be a part of history today. But discovery waits for no one.
“You’ve got this, Gregory,” I whisper to myself, “You’re a visionary. You were born for this moment.”
I glance around the field, making sure nobody’s watching. Last time I tried one of my “visionary” ideas, I spent three days in the Shame Hole for “kissing a chicken just to see if it would make it lay an egg.” But this is different. This is science. This is progress.
I take a deep breath and reach for the weird dangly bits.
The cow does not like this.
She expresses her displeasure in the universal way: by kicking me in the chest.
I lie in the grass for a few minutes, contemplating my life choices. Maybe the other villagers are right. Maybe I am an embarrassment to the tribe. Maybe I should stop coming up with new ideas and just accept that our only food options are dried berries and whatever Paul smashes with a rock.
But then I sit up. Wipe the blood from my mouth. Because I saw something, right before I got kicked.
A drop of white liquid.
I scramble back over and try again, this time dodging the cow’s retaliation. More of the strange white liquid dribbles into my wooden bowl.
I sniff it. No immediate signs of poison. Good.
I stick a finger in and taste it.
Huh, not bad. Kind of warm. A little weird. But not bad.
Wingwoman
Adam and Eve go to a college party and she acts as his wingwoman. Get it wing-woman? Like angels?
Eve: Why don’t you talk to anyone?
Adam: Why would I talk to anyone when I can talk to you?
Eve: It’s like you’re attached to my rib or something. We need to get you out more.
Adam: Ugh, fine.
Eve drags Adam over to a table splattered with drinks. There is every sort of booze you could imagine sitting on this table. How tempting.
Eve goes to grab a red solo cup.
Adam: Ew don’t drink that! That is so NOT healthy. Cmon Eve.
Eve: Party pooper. I can’t persuade you to drink with me?
Adam: Nope. Not going to be tempted by that. I’m good.
Eve: Fine. If you won’t drink with me, then I have to find you someone to talk to while I go have fun because I’m not letting you stay attached to me all night. You need to meet someone!
Adam: Is this necessary?
Eve: Yes!! You can’t stay stuck to me or else people will think we are together and that is very much not what is going on here. We both know that. I need to meet someone too yanno.
Adam: Yeah. I guess.
The two begin scanning the room for potential candidates for the other. Adam is shy and refuses to make the first move, but Eve is loud and proud about liking people...and putting Adam into situations he doesn’t want to be in.
sixteen
Haiku
a simple plan
no one thought of Deportation
-Braulio Valenzuela
concealing the bruises covering her body family portrait
-Madeleine Soteres
the kids watch a classic love story divorce papers
-Tim Russell
* autumn leaves her last words heard in a voicemail
-Phoebe Bain
sober celebration champagne powder covers his face
-Arturo Quiñonez
war victory the names of the dead misspelled
-Tenzin Tinley
lunar new year my family gathers a world away
-Somtso Mira
the best view of a hike… parking lot
*To be published in Modern Haiku, Summer 2025
eighteen
-Tracy Chen
Where I’m From
I am from dried glitter glue and the ash from American Spirit cigarettes. I am from cheap gas station meals, Lunchables, Twinkies, and old Slurpee cups.
I am from the Cherry Red Lazy Boy and split pea-green walls in my childhood bedroom. I am from altered versions of Frere Jaques and bedtime “dream walks.”
I am from songs like “Dynamite” and “Party Rock Anthem.”
I am from a split personality, molded by characters from childhood.
I am from fables and hymns filled with magic and heroes. I am from loved tales of Greek mythology that eventually morphed into comforting worship.
I am from two different families, one loving and one absent.
I am from a hard-working single mother and a father that I had to parent myself.
-Brynn Jensen
My Doctor’s Office Terms of Service Contract
1. Agreement to Terms
1.1. By entering our premises, you agree to these Terms of Service in full.
1.2. If you do not agree, please feel free to exit through our emergency exit (located next to the supply closet, but please mind the mop bucket).
2. Scope of Services
2.1. Our services include, but are not limited to:
-Diagnosing medical conditions
-Administering treatments
-Providing unsolicited advice on your diet, exercise, and other important life choices
2.2. We reserve the right to recommend procedures that may or may not involve drowsiness, fatigue, headache, or lifelong chronic suffering.
3. Patient Responsibilities
3.1. You agree to:
-Arrive for your appointment at the scheduled time
-Pretend you remember the last time you had a tetanus shot.
-Not lie when we ask, “And how many drinks per week?” We know you’re rounding down.
-Fill out paperwork that asks for the same information you just gave us verbally, because repetition builds character.
-Try not to take it personally when we say, “Hmm… that’s interesting” while looking at your test results.
4. Payment & Insurance
4.1. We accept most major insurance plans, as well as the following alternative payment methods:
-The equivalent of your mortgage in cash.
-Your firstborn child (some restrictions apply).
-Whatever is left of your soul after waiting on hold with your insurance provider for three hours.
5. Miscellaneous
-If, in the case of a life-threatening emergency, you slip from the mop bucket on your way out, please put it back where you found it and triple-check that it still works before fleeing from the life-threatening emergency.
-Any screams heard from adjacent rooms should not be interpreted as cause for alarm.
-The phrase “This might feel a little uncomfortable” should be interpreted as “brace yourself, because pain is coming for you like a surprise visit from your ex-wife with the child you left behind.”
-If you have an issue with these Terms of Service, please file a formal complaint by writing it on a piece of paper and gently placing it in the nearest bin that says: RECYCLING.
-Lucas Fassman
Eczora - Your Skin Savior
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Man: Finally, I have found something that works on my dry hands!
Narrator: Say no to eczema and say hello to Eczora! Side effects may include: itching, redness, mild discomfort, temporary paralysis, permanent paralysis, hemorrhoids, burning, unusual hair growth, hair loss, small bumps on skin, large bumps on skin, benign tumors, skin cancer, and eczema.
Everyone: Thank you Eczora!!
-Phoebe Bain
twenty-four
Fourth Grade Autobiography
Fourth grade was the best era of my life so far. Back then, sixth graders looked like adults from afar. We played soccer every day, chasing the ball Until sunset blurred it and we couldn’t see at all.
Then home we’d go, muddy socks, messy hair Straight to Minecraft, building worlds out of air. I still hear the background music play, Blocks clicking gently as night chased day.
Weekends meant two amazing things A soccer match buzz or the joy of gaming brings. Anime runs, snacks in my hand, While pixelated trees swayed across the land.
No worries. No rush. Just moments that shined, With friendship and freedom perfectly combined. If I could go back, I’d stay just a bit more In that 4th grade era I still deeply adore.
-Kent Seto
twenty-six
Where I’m From
I’m from Arturo Quiñones, that came from Arturo Quiñones, and he from Arturo Quiñones, and then Arturo Quiñonez, and from Arturo Quiñonez - my father. yet never meeting my other grandfather From lunch going past midnight, de la bachata and young driving the bolos. From the real city of mountains, the city of strawberries, where blind men see. From runaway bunnies, And the cracked turtle shell. I am from Lucas el chapo; From Chica la chiquita, and Jerry, I am from the surviving Gignac, from belts and screams, to Walk This Way. And the Ferrari bed. From tamales after misa And ceviche under the sun. Coronas next to the grill. Smell of cigarettes. From the solid rock, from unfinished passion projects, and unreachable dreams that were reached.
-Arturo Quiñonez
twenty-eight
Haiku
cashmere
the lingering scent of my grandfather
-Brynn Jensen
dandelion meadows bending with the morning breeze into the tractor
-Lucas Fassman
*buck moon tents pitched under the overpass
-Isabel Garza
Christmas dinner we stare at the lights on the tv
*To be published in Modern Haiku, Summer 2025
-Phoebe Bain
City-Wide Poetry Contest
The contest received some 150 entries from six schools across the city. Ashley Cornelius, the poet laureate of the Pikes Peak Region, judged the poems and decided awards for the top three in English and translation categories.
Multi-Lingual Winners
1st Ryunosuke Kobayashi, FVS, “Koto in the Moonlight”
2nd Taka Omori Gentle Arrival of Spring
3rd Noah Gouy, FVS, Surros del Bosque
English Winners
1st Charlize LeClaire, Cheyenne Mtn. School, Immortal Love: The Gift of a Poet
2nd Sarah Holman, FVS, I Don’t Believe in God
3rd Kimberly Barker, Colorado Springs School, Life in the Vineyards
Multi-lingual Second Place
“Gentle Arrival of Spring”
The silver world melts away, kissed by the breath of spring.
Mountains awaken, adorned in hues of life, as plum blossoms whisper their love.
Snowmelt turns to rivers, flowing like destiny, carrying the promise of new beginnings.
- Taka Omori
English First Place
Immortal Love: The Gift of a Poet
To have been loved by a poet is to be hated by the world itself and to break a poet’s heart is to wish of books filled with you
Whether or not you truly dreamed of books does not matter It does not matter if you never want to see the love once held again
It does not matter if your love only lasted a single tick of a clock
To you, the love could’ve been the death of a single star in a universe full of others
To a notebook however, it could seem as though love lasted forever or no time at all
For when you are hated by an artist, It does not matter the days, nor weeks, or even years a moment may be The world will understand you
Now,
they may not know your name but they do know your face and the color your hair turned in the sun and the way your clothes sagged and cinched in all the perfect places. The audience is blessed with a perfect mirage of your body first thing in the morning Then, brutally drug out of the desert and forced upon an image of what morning really looked like
For those loving an artist, past or present, beware, for your body will pillage and poison the pages of notebooks and journals
Then, burn the minds of its readers
-Charlize LeClaire, Cheyenne Mountain School
English Second Place
I Don’t Believe in God
I wish I believed in god
The way so many of you do I wish I could believe in a benevolence above Creating miracles for you
I wish everything Had a reason to be That there is some purpose Behind suffering Fallen soldiers and innocents might suggest Approaching peace or blissfulness
I wish this world
Were just a little less flawed I wish I believed in god
I wish I believed in god And maybe too the afterlife
Perhaps I wouldn’t fear death and survival so much Knowing there was more yet to arrive
I wish I didn’t feel the need to Dilute myself
I don’t want to be so Digestible
If only other people weren’t so important to me Maybe then my own validation could make full
thirty-eight
I wish this life
Was less a facade I wish I believed in god
I wish I could say something
Perhaps comforting
Be the person we all need right now
But I don’t believe in god And I need someone too
So you’ll have to believe in yourself somehow
I wish for all of us
That he is more than just a fraud
But I cannot provide you
Any proof
So all I can do is wish And wish, I do I wish I believed in god
-Sarah Holman
English Third Place
Life in the Vineyards
I loved running through the vineyards more than anything when I was little, The volcanic soil of Vesuvius getting all over my shoes and hair, All I remember was I could not have cared, Miles and miles there were grapes ready to be plucked from the vine, Fresh fruits and vegetables thrived above and below the soil, I’ll never forget how those bright green leaves looked, As if they were purposefully coiled, Not as a serpent or beast, But they covered and protected these crops from the Eastern Sun
-Kimberly Barker, Colorado Springs School
Acknowledgements
Faculty Sponsor
Dave Reynolds, English Department Chair
Editors
Brynn Jensen
Emily Safyan
Stella Rhee
Sofia Bedoya-Correa
Printed by On Target Marketing
Athenaea is a publication of Fountain Valley School of Colorado.
