2020 Vibrato

vibrato THE HOCKADAY SCHOOL | 2020 | VOLUME 55

The Hockaday School | 2020 | Volume 55

KAREN LIN | TO: YOU, FROM: ME | CYANOTYPE, PEN, ACRYLIC

VIBRATO | VOLUME 55 | 2020 The Hockaday School 11600 Welch Road Dallas, Texas 75229 213.363.6311 Hockaday.org

Art imitates life. It’s an old adage we’ve all heard.

It is an imitation of how we perceive the world, or perhaps even how we wish to perceive the world.

A mimesis, as the philosophers would say. As you read this magazine, Vibrato hopes to open up your eyes to a variety of different interpretations of reality through captivating short stories and poems, beautiful artworks, stunning photography, and thought-provoking media. Dive headfirst down the rabbit hole or slip through the looking glass into Wonderland and reflect on your own recollection of reality, because, life, too, imitates art.

LOOKING GLASS | AMBER LI | CHARCOAL ON TONED PAPER

TABLE OF CONTENTS

LITERATURE 06

may all my sins . . . - Hailey Sipes

08

Rhiannon - Abby O’Brien

10

numb - Merritt McCaleb

13

Concealment - Noelle Diamond

15

Open Tears - Annie Zhao

18

Why Do You . . . - Mohana Ghosh

20

Trudging On - Catherine Sigurdsson

23

Challenging the . . . - Sonali Konda

24

Just the Way I Like it - Shea Duffy

33

Dusk - Merritt McCaleb

35 Delusions of Grandeur - Ivy Becker 41

heavy summer - Merritt McCaleb

42 I Mean You No Harm - Honor Wood 45 Daisy - Annie Zhao 46

Sycophants on . . . - Seerat Sohal

48

Emotional - Sonali Konda

53

How . . . - Catherine Sigurdsson

54

Track Five . . . - Abby O’Brien

57

The . . . - Charlene Brzesowsky

58

Dies Irae - Hailey Sipes

61

In The Fairy Tale . . . - Angie Walsh

64

Their Views - Mohana Ghosh

67

Pristiq - Annie Zhao

74

The Writer’s Wheel - Ivy Becker

77

Amor Vincit Omnia - Hailey Sipes

78

Collision . . . - Sydney Ghorayeb

81

Leaving Vesuvius - Merritt McCaleb

82

Rising Ashes - Seerat Sohal

85 Ocean City, New . . . - Abby O’Brien 88

Left in the Dust - Annie Zhao

92 Worlds in Paper - Sonali Konda 94 may we speak in . . . - Hailey Sipes 98 Thirteen Ways . . . - Merritt McCaleb 102 Silence - Kylee Hong 104 Listen, young . . . - Hailey Sipes 107 Drowning - Evan Johnson

PHOTO

ART

06

Sunrise - Christine Kirby

03

Looking Glass - Amber Li

10

Passing By - Allison Yang

09

Color Theory - Karen Lin

16

Infinity - Jade Nguyen

12

Tired - Nancy Dedman

19

Rocky Waters - Varsha Danda

14

Homeostasis - Katherine Hancock

28 Icelandic Horses - Kate Peterson

21

1960s Collage - Katherine Hancock

34 The Simple Life - Jade Nguyen

22 Starry Night - Emma Schnitzius

40 Off-Time - Jade Nguyen

25 New York State . . . - Graydon Paul

48 Sea Mountain - Christine Kirby

32 Painted Wolf - Asha Gudipaty

52 Sakura and Spring - Airu Weng

42 Submerged - Karen Lin

58 Day Break - Noelle Diamond

44 Tabula Rasa - Nancy Dedman

62 Gravity - Velayzia Scott

47 My Best Life - Simone Hunter

65 Nature Calls - Gabriella Rees

51 Pepto-Dismal - Nancy Dedman

66 Majesty - Leena Mehendale

54 You are Bee-autiful - Karen Lin

75

A Rough Landing - Kate Peterson

56 June - Katherine Hancock

76

A Bug’s Eye View - Riyana Daulat

60

Don’t Eat Gluten - Nancy Dedman

83 Rebel Heart - Makayla Woods

73 Drip - Nancy Dedman

84 Contrast - Bethany Vodicka

79 Telescope - Wendy Cao

99 Coffee Date - Courtenay Sands 102 Ocean Break - Kylee Hong

80

Glance - Nancy Dedman

86

Hidden Eyes - Nancy Dedman

105 Becoming a Star - Velayzia Scott

87 Gifted Hands - Nancy Dedman

106 Frozen in Time . . . - Jade Nguyen

89 Cole Sprouse - Karen Lin 92 III - Karen Lin 95 Fire Phoenix - Nancy Dedman

MEDIA 30

Comfort . . . - Anoushka Singhania

50

It’s Not October . . . - Abby O’Brien

90

Le Corbeau . . . - Abby O’Brien

96 Thx 4 The Inspo - Simone Hunter 100 RISD 2 - Karen Lin 108 Matisse Mimic . . . - Nancy Dedman

MAY ALL MY SINS BE REMEMBERED

Hailey Sipes

A fickle beast, Eternity crept on with a sense of malice.

With jagged skeletal fingers, it dug its nails into the dirt as it dragged itself forward, tearing up the grass around its rugged form.

On some days, it gnashed its teeth at whoever dared to forget its presence, but on others, it smiled. The empty sockets where its eyes had once been, once, long, long ago, crinkled with such foreign happiness.

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SUNRISE | CHRISTINE KIRBY | PHOTOGRAPHY

RHIANNON Abby O'Brien

This bruised dusk is lonely.

She arrives late with a droop to her neck, a roll to her shoulders, and a lazy smile.

She speaks with a low, gravelly lilt as she drapes herself over that olive armchair hiding in the corner.

I can’t tell what she has tucked behind her ear, but it catches the light as she tells me: you know the trees have it in for me, right?

YOUR CAR IS TOO HOT your hair looks better when it’s pulled away from your neck.

It’s all idle talk until she’s honest, and all you can hear is the regret in her voice.

(I’ll never ask exactly what she regrets but it will keep me up at night) listen, kid, leave the door open for me, won’t you?

I know she’ll be back tomorrow with the same tousled grin and haphazard hair.

She never runs to my doorstep, but rather walks away with a cavalier, long-legged swagger, that makes me think everyone knows I’ve sold a piece of myself, So I can feel the comedown in my ears and my fingertips.

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08

COLOR THEORY | KAREN LIN | ACRYLIC

TITLE NUMB

Author McCaleb Merritt Dodging raindrops, he steers a fresh new set of wheels, blinding in its neon yellow hue.

Swearing to build Noah’s ark herself, she fatally veers to the right, like Cupid drawn to a lover.

Cars impact, glass shatters —loveless limelight leaks in— he arrives on time, and early.

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TITLE | PHOTOGRAPHER | MEDIUM PASSING BY | ALLISON YANG | PHOTOGRAPHY

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12

CONCEALMENT

Noelle Diamond

THE GRAVE DOESN'T KNOW OF THE LOVE OR SIN BUT ONLY OF THE PERSON BURIED IN. TIRED | NANCY DEDMAN | GRAPHITE PENCIL

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HOMEOSTASIS | KATHERINE HANCOCK | OIL PAINT

OPEN TEARS

Annie Zhao

I reach a moment of clarity after I cry, a moment when the fog clears out of my mind and I see myself again and not That which stares back from the curved mirror.

I reach a moment of sanity after I cry, and I know how I am, safe and sound in my mind which returns to its original shape, like before the fog ate it away.

I cry a lot because I love a lot, and because I love a lot, I lose bits of myself to that feeling, but I cry and it's ok — I regain consciousness.

Thought is all that exists in reality, and in reality I can only think after I cry.

And the chain of thought continues because every tear spilt is a tear on the surface, my skin Splits open and I am whole again.

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INFINITY | JADE NGUYEN | PHOTOGRAPHY

WHY DO YOU LET GO?

Mohana Ghosh

Clouds blush as the setting sun kisses them goodnight Like lovers Only this is their final goodbye.

The sea thunders as it churns and crashes into the coast, a raw brininess drowns my lungs Seafoam bubbles under my hand, water embraces me only to withdraw The night-wind rustles the tall grass, caressing me before moving onwards without a care I let the night-wind billow me but it does not take me along The wind has let me go and there I remain, a bird without its flock Wondering how you could fly on, not even having noticed me gone I know that I cannot tame a wild horse, that the moon that rises and sets, that the ocean that ebbs and flows, that words scorch and scar, but still, I wonder, how can you so simply let go?

I lie here, frozen and alone, unable to grasp you, leaving my words unknown No sizzling fire can thaw me, no strident trumpet can awake me, no threatening wolf can stir me Your sunshine shimmered in my heart, the warmth of you kept me alive Until our hearts filled with nightfall and you left me behind to freeze Why do you let go?

I must learn to be the sea, the wind, the birds, but until then I anguish How can you, like the setting sun does the cloud, so simply let go?

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18

FRUIT | PHOTOGRAPHER | MEDIUM VARSHA DANDA | ROCKY WATERS | PHOTOGRAPHY | VARSHA DANDA ROCKY WATERS

TRUDGING ON Catherine Sigurdsson

The dark black stone and the darker water, The broken bodies of cannon fodder, The heavy feet that fall as mice scatter, The sewer gates wrought of iron clatter— All cling to me as I thrust forward to light, Pull my bleeding feet deeper into blight.

The scratching tinted sheets starched stiff, The cherry red baby pink soap with tar’s whiff, The symphony of coughs and hacks and moans, The scattered taps of nurses and doctors’ groans— All draw to me as I slip backwards to gloam, Fill my echoing ears with fading worms that roam.

The yellow fields glistening gold under blistering sun, The stalks sinking and ripe with work to be done, The brown dust rising and clogging my breath, The rushing river’s white peaks and navy depth— All open to me as I collapse downwards to dark, Wash my blighted skin free of calamity’s mark.

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1960'S COLLAGE | KATHERINE HANCOCK | OIL STICK, CHALK, CHARCOAL

FRUIT

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| PHOTOGRAPHER | MEDIUM

2

STARRY NIGHT | EMMA SCHNITZIUS | OIL PASTEL AND ACRYLIC

CHALLENGING THE STARS Sonali Konda

As the sun sinks Slowly into its cloud-canopied bed below the horizon Splatter-painting the sky with rosy fire and purple shadow The stars come Into the spotlight, blazing bright pinpricks Against the shadow-blue canvas of night The lines between them Trace pictures in the sky, constellations we name And point out to each other, excited, laughing The stars are there for us Always gleaming against the curtain of darkness at night Returning every evening to shine down from their celestial home But we're challenging them Filling their midnight domain with our own harsh, electric light Replacing their friendly glow with streetlights and skyscraper windows

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JUST THE WAY I LIKE IT

Shea Duffy

The word ‘divorce’ always seemed so permanent. Sure, we fought a lot more than most. But it had never been out of anger. No, no, it had never been like that.

It’s not like I had any choice. If she wanted a divorce, she was getting a divorce, even if her life depended on it. She always got what she wanted, but I guess this kind of thing was different. This was not up for discussion. This was something I had to be okay with; losing her was something I had to be okay with.

My index finger traced the nearly invisible stitching on my navy slacks where the tailor had sewn up a tiny rip near my hip bone. I loved wearing suits. I loved the feeling of commanding the room’s attention when I walked in, knowing that my outfit, head to toe, was as much as my secretary’s monthly rent. A suit brings power to the weakest of men. I was certainly not weak, yet, still, a navy suit and brown shoes always made me the most powerful man in the room.

Strangely enough, we had met at a gas station in Hillsborough. I noticed her in my rearview mirror at the green light before the dirt road merged into the freeway. I almost crashed into the blue bumper in front of me, and, without thinking, I signaled left and switched lanes. Of course, I did this only to avoid love-tapping that tacky blue Suburban that braked as frequently as the school bus that peels out of my neighborhood each morning. North Carolina should really make drivers' tests more difficult to pass. Somehow, we ended up at the same gas station 36 miles from Charlotte, from home. I remember the way her eyes burned a hole in my navy suit as she pumped her gas. She was bold, always the one to make the first move or start the first fight; on the contrary, she was never the first to apologize. The night of our second date, three weeks after our gas station run-in, she told me she loved me. She was my obsession, but I was hers too. We just worked.

There is something so empty about wearing a suit when the only people you have to impress are a lawyer and a judge.

She was so late, almost 25 minutes now, but that didn’t surprise me. Nothing about her ever surprised me. She was so unpredictable that I had grown to recognize her impulsive, spontaneous patterns, like when she leaves in the middle of the night to sleep at her sister’s house or how, bimonthly, she throws out all the food in the refrigerator so that she can finally make it past day four of the Whole30 diet. I scanned my surroundings. No one else in the courtroom seemed to notice she was absent, but, then again, everyone else was so focused on the papers in front of them that I’m sure they didn’t even notice me either. For someone so insistent on the divorce, she should have been on time. Deep down, I was hopeful that she had perhaps changed her mind, that perhaps the judge was about to get a call that canceled the entire procession. “Go home, Luke,” they would say, and minutes later, I would be home with her where I belonged.

I remember the night that I thought everything might be okay. It was a Saturday, two weeks after she hastily set the manila envelope on the tiny little table by the door that she had insisted on painting eggshell blue. I hated that table. I thought it was tacky and cheap, like her collectible snow globes that sat on the windowsill and the pink plastic hangers she used to hang her old sorority T-shirts on her side of the closet. She knew I hated that table, but like most things were with her, she got her way. Perhaps I was always too scared of losing her to challenge her authority. I guess, in the end, that didn’t matter.

It was a Saturday. As if nothing were out of the ordinary, she tautly sat on her chair, her head turned away from the door. That was her chair. She was a wooden puppet

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NEW YORK STATE OF MIND

| GRAYDON PAUL | DIGITAL ART

missing its strings, stiffly arranged like a damaged marionette. Her face was emotionless but her eyes bright, perhaps from tears or perhaps because she had fallen in love with another man. I knew that the ivory dress she wore took 15 total minutes to zip up. She had recently gained weight but refused to acknowledge it. I often noticed her weight, but secretly, in my head, in moments when she rolled on top of me in her sleep and I instinctively reached for my inhaler, or when she had to trade in her racing ski boots from college for ones with a little more support. But I would never say anything.

It had never been like that with us.

“You look beautiful,” I told her. “Do you like the dress?” No response. I wasn’t surprised. Petty and cruel, she was a master of the silent treatment. She found pleasure in this dance, this game that only she knew the rules to.

She did look beautiful. I had given her that dress as a gift not long ago. I loved her in that dress, and it seemed as though she had lost a little weight since the last time we spoke. There was a cold silence in the air, and it never crossed my mind that perhaps she was waiting for someone else, a businessman who had booked a hotel suite that overlooked Charlotte, perhaps, or a renowned chef who brought her roses that he had sprayed with cologne in the car and opened the door for her and pulled away when she tried to kiss him even though there was nothing more that he wanted. She didn’t love me anymore.

But on the other hand, maybe her game had developed a new set of rules. Maybe this was all for me. Maybe she was begging me to grab a match and torch the divorce papers into the cloudy atmosphere, and then light the candle that sat a little too close to the wrinkled charcoal duvet, a wedding gift from her controlling, possessive mother, (whom I despised, but she loved more than anyone) and make up the only way we knew how.

I imagined her slipping that dress over her pale, grey-toned skin and admiring herself in the mirror that separated her bathroom from mine. Perched at the vanity her father built her when she turned sixteen, she always applied her makeup using the tangerine light the sun broadcast across our room. Champagne eyeshadow came first, then powdered, tulip-scented blush, swept across bloated, shimmery cheeks. I could imagine her hand shaking as she painted her lips pink with the lipstick she wore every day—this was always the hardest part for her. An invisible two-week layer of dust coated the applicator, so she wet a Q-tip and wiped off the surface. Perfection. She looked just the way I liked her to, and it wasn’t even for me. After all, she didn’t love me anymore.

“You look beautiful,” I repeated. Nothing. Absolutely nothing. I didn’t dare ask her to dinner. Our marriage was too far gone. There was nothing I could say or do to fix it.

“You look beautiful,” I now whispered, as though I were talking to myself. That’s how it felt, at least. Going from talking to someone every minute of every day to being masked by silence is a pain more excruciating than being choked to death, I can imagine.

If she had responded, maybe things would have been okay, but we both knew that they weren’t going to be okay. Sometimes things aren’t okay, and I would have to learn to deal with that. We may have lost our love and lust, our rage and passion, but that didn’t mean I had to lose her. I sighed. Why could she never just… cooperate with me? We fought more than most couples. We lacked the communication, the collaboration that might have quenched the thirst of our dying relationship. When we were not splayed across the sheets of our king-sized bed, we always seemed to be bitter with one another. More often than not, she was bitter with me. I couldn’t stay mad at her for more than an hour, but, deep within me, a fire broiled at the thought of her stepping out the door and never looking back. She always wanted to see the world, to run through the sand of the Outer Banks, singing with the seagulls, to fly through Costa Rica’s lush rain forests, to shout from the stands of the Plaza de Toros, to dance with a stranger in an Annecy marketplace, to stomp grapes at the Marchesi di Barolo and

26

wrap her legs around my shoulders as I galloped through hilly vineyard plains. I was within and without the realm of her love. I was simply not enough.

I moved closer to her, slowly, as though I was approaching an uncaged raven that, triggered by the slightest of movements, would soar towards the face of the sun, towards a blissful, unknown infinity.

“You look so beautiful…so, so beautiful,” I sang. “You are my beautiful angel, my perfect doll…just give me one more chance and I will paint the sky for you. Can’t you just give me one chance one more chance?”

Silence.

“Say something, please. I’m b-begging you to say something, anything.” My voice trembled. I was scared of myself, scared of the love I had for her, scared that the most enchanting thing in the world would slip through my fingers. “Say my name,” I said, and I noticed I was beginning to scream, a scream that might have rattled the foundations of this broken household if I had not been shackled by my devotion. “Say my name like you used to say my name, say my name like I’m yours and only yours. Say something… please. PLEASE!” Silence. She was gone. I had lost her forever and there was nothing I could do about it. I had to pack up my things, I had to leave this place before my own obsession hunted me down.

Taking one last glance at the beautiful being that graced the living room, I walked towards the hall closet. I removed the wooden hanger on which a Neiman-Marcus garment bag hung alongside my winter coats, buttoned my jacket and put on my black gloves that rested on that eggshell blue table. ‘The Divorce Table,’ I would now call it.

Our eyes met, but I looked away. I couldn’t bear the thought of her looking at me and seeing only a holograph of the man she once loved. If I turned my head, he would disintegrate into a weak man in a navy suit, a Cinderella story with a not-so-magical ending. But this was okay. I wanted, needed her to love me and not the man I once was.

We were not the same.

With caution, I unzipped that stubborn zipper and watched her dress fall down to the Persian carpet that blanketed the scratched brown wood. I hated this part, the part when my hard work went to waste. I didn’t spend hours learning to apply perfect, clump-free mascara the way she always did for nothing. I closed her eyes with my index finger and grunted. The fabric on my glove had started to pill. I would have to ask my secretary to buy me new ones. I retrieved a grapefruit-scented face wipe out of my pocket and erased her skin until her emaciated, naked flesh stared back at me. I loved when she didn’t wear makeup, but I loved it even more when she did. Now, I could apply it just the way I liked it, without the blue eyeliner she scraped across her waterline or the much too dark bronzer she packed into the crevices of her cheekbones. Perfect, just the way I liked it. Just the way I liked it.

“You look beautiful,” I muttered. Possibly out of habit but probably just out of pure temptation, my lips met hers, but she didn’t kiss me back. I guess that’s how it is when people don’t love you anymore, they stop kissing you back. She didn’t love me anymore.

She didn’t love me anymore, not anymore.

It will be okay. It has to be okay. Everything is okay.

I carefully placed her in the black garment bag alongside her dress and zipped it close. She could only sleep when it was pitch black and the thermostat read 68 degrees.

I checked the temperature. She would be sleeping well tonight.

I flipped off the lights in our house and stepped down the brick stairs leading up to the entrance, taking a long glance at the inviting closet door.

“Goodnight, honey,” I called after her as I locked the front door behind me. “I love you, forever and always. You are mine, forever and always. I love you.”

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ICELANDIC HORSES | KATE PETERSEN | PHOTOGRAPHY

COMFORT FOOD Anoushka Singhania

I wanted to make a film about food because, as a first generation immigrant that is one of the main ways I connect with my culture living in the states. I wanted to talk to others to see what their own experiences were like.

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Merritt McCaleb Final traces of daylight tinged with gold glisten upon thick, overgrown flora.

A grim forest teems with hostile pests— moths flit about, dodging the light’s final breath.

Shadows silently skulk from the highest branch to the damp ground beneath my chocolate boots, a foreboding spot where daylight has decided to depart.

But look!

Delicate flowers lie just off the edges of this path, their blue petals wistfully seizing last glimmers of light.

Sapphire seeds seductively beckon me from the trail’s security.

Yet someone has given themselves away— Colossal paw prints upon this untrodden path announce steps, and thin gray strands pepper damp ground, revealing traces of a prowler.

Shall I stray from my path?

Chocolate boots suddenly meet untrodden ground.

A shaking hand pulls the heavy red cloak tighter around myself, and my basket flies next to the indigo blossoms.

I suppose a small delay.

PAINTED WOLF | ASHA GUDIPATY | ACRYLIC WATERCOLOR

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DELUSIONS OF GRANDEUR Ivy Becker

2:46 pm The first line of a great novel is supposed to be iconic. To begin what is widely considered her magnum opus, Virginia Woolf wrote, “Mrs. Dalloway said she would buy the flowers herself.” There we have it. A protagonist, an action, and most importantly, unanswered questions. Who is Mrs. Dalloway?

Why did she have to buy the flowers herself? Who did she say that to? But this isn’t a great novel, it’s a manifesto. “A manifesto?” You may ask “why a manifesto?” Well shut up and listen. Was that harsh? Oops. I hope you know that this isn’t how I am in real life. Were we to have this conversation face to face and you asked “a manifesto?” I would answer with a smile and a flick of my gold bracelet clad wrist: a manifesto to explain my actions over the course of the past afternoon.

She’s going to try to say that I left because I was unhappy.

That’s not true though, because I’ve always been unhappy, yet I’ve never left before. The real reason for my leaving is that I felt guilty for being unhappy which made me unhappier, unhappy enough to finally do it. I felt guilty because in comparison to the rest of the world my life is golden. But then again, who is the rest of the world? Who are those faces I see on the news living in grass huts stretching condoms over piles of trash and kicking them like soccer balls? Does that make me sound like a brat? Because I don’t want you to think I’m a brat.

Brat. That’s what Mother shouted at me when I refused to call her “mom” even though it’s a plebian nickname. If you live in Syosset, which, if you’re reading this you probably don’t because Syosettites are practically illiterate, then likely you’ve seen her, Mother that is, bumbling down Dorcas Street in her barf green clogs, stapling pictures of my face to every available surface area. God, she better not be using a picture where my hair’s still curly or I’ll kill myself. Oh my gosh, I’m kidding, I promise. Suicide’s not a joke, I know. But, like, I swear to God if Mother’s distributing grotesque photographs of me then I will kill myself. I want you to know that I’m not obsessed with looks or anything. No really, I promise. I mean I definitely think that presentation is important. Like, if you show up to a job interview wearing a Kmart maxi skirt and carrying a tattered leather bag from the recession, then you’re probably not gonna get the job *cough* *cough* Mother. I’m not shaming anyone, it’s just how the world works.

3:03 pm Sorry, I had to take a break. My pen ran out and the idiot conductor took like, eight years to grab me a new one.

Anyways, I don’t think it’s too much to ask that my mother, the breadwinner of our family of two, at least attempts to get a new job. It’s completely unfair and totally fascist of her to tell a sixteen-year-old that “Christmas is going to look a bit different this year” and “no more going out to eat unless it’s a special occasion.” Like she’s the one who made me accustomed to a certain lifestyle and now she’s just gonna take it away? Because of her own lack of motivation? It’s honestly absurd. God, my hand’s starting to cramp. Give me like five minutes I’m gonna see if I can snag one of those mini bottles of chardonnay from the bar in First.

3:12 pm Ok so two things: first of all, the shiny bald man with the bushy eyebrows (some type of train butler maybe?) said that only the First Class riders have access to the bar. Like I’m in Business not Unreserved Coach- really? They couldn’t have made an exception? Whatever. Maybe I’ll, like, sue Amtrak.

Second of all, walking all the way up there and then getting turned around gave me some time to think. It’s been almost an hour since I ditched fifth period, so they definitely called Mother like thirty minutes ago which means that she should have called me by now asking where I am. I guess she’s too hysterical to even try to contact me. Maybe she thinks I’ve been like, kidnapped, or something, and she’s at the police station. Dammit, I should’ve tried to get kidnapped. Would’ve made a helluva college essay. Oh shoot one second. My phone just rang. It’s definitely her, Mother, I mean. Oh my god I can’t wait to hear her voice! It’s gonna be sooo shrill. Like shriller than that one time I forgot to let Froufrou out and she peed all over the rug Mother spent like ten years knitting. So funny. Ok oh my gosh should I let it keep ringing so she panics?

3:22 pm Sooo, it was just a telemarketer. Some idiot who sounded like they were gargling mouthwash trying to sell me a life insurance policy. No freaking thank you. The train butler just made this big announcement about how there’s “ah-two mo stahps til ya get to tha city” and my phone’s at six percent so Mother really needs to call me soon.

I’m not quite sure yet what I’ll do when I get to the city. I might go to Bergdorf’s for tea and look out at all the people in Central Park and wonder why they’re walking so fast. Like I did with Mother when I was little, and we still went to the city together, and she still called me her curly haired cutie, and let me order the deluxe macaron platter. Maybe afterwards we’ll walk around the floor with the fancy dresses and I’ll try on the most expensive one and she’ll tell me it was made for me.

Maybe…

4:30 pm I could file a lawsuit against the evil woman on my right.

I guess I fell asleep or something and my neck craned slightly toward her and instead of lightly tapping me to let me know she just shoved me? I wasn’t aware this train was under Draconian rule? Oh shoot, what time is it? FOUR FREAKING THIRTY! Oh my God what if I missed Mother’s call? We’re pulling into the city any minute! I need her to call me, Mother that is. She will, though. I know she will.

5:11 pm The train pulled into the city half an hour ago. I’m sorry I didn’t write during that time. What happened was that the train butler grabbed my manifesto out of my lap and screamed at me that he wouldn’t return it until I got up out of my seat and left the train. Then, when I asked him if he would yell at a BOY for taking an extra couple of minutes to get up, he called me a spoiled little brat. I guess that’s what I get for trying to make a feminist statement. Sorry Gloria Steinem. Anyways, now I’m sitting at Grand Central, completely alone. I know that you’re supposed to ‘show not tell’ when you write, but it’s just the facts of the matter. Me. Grand Central. Alone. No Mother in sight. She didn’t even give me the dignity of a call.

Instead, a simple, scathing text. “Aunt Ninny saw you boarding a train for the city. What were you thinking? Anyways, don’t bother coming home until you get rid of your delusions of grandeur.”

I’ve got two hundred dollars’ worth of birthday money in the back pocket of my mini skirt and I’ve always wanted to explore the city on my own. Looks like now I’ve got some time to kill. Sorry Mother, but I’m never coming home.

***A stack of Amtrak branded napkins were found on a bench at Grand Central Station yesterday containing the above words. If you have any idea who these musings belong to, please contact Maury Cohen (producer of The Wealthy Women of Westchester franchise, Beverly Hills High Schoolers, The Rich Teens of Richmond etc.) at MauryC@realitystar.com or 917-BEA-STAR with this young lady’s contact information for a reward of $500 USD.

THE SIMPLE LIFE | JADE NGUYEN | PHOTOGRAPHY

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HEAVY SUMMER Merritt McCaleb

we tumble into heavy summer with lost knowledge and a hunger for orange midnights, windows down, midsummer tides, and pure rapture. mouths turn up at the thought of a lover, of obsession; but my summer love is a blank page and the lips with which I kiss, my pen.

I hold stories within me just as firefly evenings conceal secrets – the freedom I feel when writing is not unlike flying with a light breeze in my hair. alone, at my desk, I wield the power to create small infinities. sentences flow from my mind as elegantly as you dive headfirst into swimmers’ paradise. commas litter my page as charred fireworks litter grass on the fifth of July.

I choose words carefully, meticulously. the best ones sneak up behind you, like August does September. eagerly, excitedly, ecstatically. we tumble out of heavy summer holding hands with our lover – I’ll never stop slipping my thoughts into words, I’ve discovered.

OFF TIME | JADE NGUYEN | PHOTOGRAPHY

I MEAN YOU NO HARM

Honor Wood

Deep in the murky bayou That teems with snakes and alligators, The heron remains stoic and serene.

When mighty Katrina thrashed and flailed Her torment upon the Gulf, Humans flocked to high ground.

Yet the heron holds steady, sheltered beneath the Cyprus trees.

What are you afraid of?

The striking blue brush strokes against canvas Take a young woman, away from the cool museum Back to Louisiana, the summer after the storm.

Toes curled over the edge of the timeworn dock, the wide-eyed ten year old girl Skipped jaded stones, provoking a blue heron into flight.

Is it me?

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SUBMERGED | KAREN LIN | ACRYLIC

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DAISY

Annie Zhao We were childhood friends, poking each other with grimy fingers and leap-frogging over the short white pickets separating my home from yours.

My mom didn’t know I went outside at all, “Honey you need vitamin D,” she wasn’t as bright as the sun.

Our little American dream didn’t arrive with the future or expire with the past.

Instead it trickled through the cracks in the hourglass, like when we celebrated your birthday for the last time together...

The oblivious daisies in your old front yard beam anyway, until your Uhaul runs them over.

TABULA RASA | NANCY DEDMAN | COLORED PENCIL

SYCOPHANTS ON VELVET SOFAS

Seerat Sohal

Fear me.

I may be adorned in luxuries and exquisiteness, My smile oozing with lies, deceptively coated in sugar and spice and everything nice.

Yes, my eyes are a painted dream.

Just gaze into them once and you will find yourself lost, floating away in a trance you can never escape.

My promises are empty, luring you into fantasies and illusions of anything you could desire.

Look past it all and see that I am a sycophant on a velvet sofa, lounging on my makeshift throne.

I desire more than the meager things you offer.

I desire a crown, coatwed in blood.

I desire a throne adorned in blades.

I desire a castle, dripping in power.

I desire a life full of tension and passion.

To seize what I desire, I would gladly do anything.

Even be a sycophant on a velvet sofa.

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MY BEST LIFE | SIMONE HUNTER | GOUACHE

BEAUTY UNCOVERED BY A BRAIN BLIZZARD

Noelle Diamond

A writer stoops in the bone-chilling cold Her story buried in ice Her thoughts frozen but snow white Vulnerable in her attic room She slowly begins to chip away Each word she thaws turning the paper less blank She lights candle after candle against the cold Though weak next to the dark winter They offer her just enough light in the blackness Until the icy air snuffs their flames And the writer is stuck in the blizzard again Still chipping away pages from the ice The inspiring sun peeks from behind the clouds Though only visible for an instant It mocks the candle with its magnificent light And provides the warmth to continue composing Her ideas finally beginning to thaw As weeks pass, hard ice turns into sludge Words form sentences, pages, chapters The writer, still bent over her stone desk Continues her journey to slowly uncover a beautiful story The fire of her words softening the ice The first bird chirps in the distance And offers a glimpse of the spring ahead Still, the days are short so she must keep sculpting Her words now only covered by a thin layer of frost Her vision clears as light flows through her She can feel the warm air on her face The writer smiles at her polished piece Like the new, fragile birds and blossomed flowers Her masterpiece is ready to face the world

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SEA MOUNTAIN | CHRISTINE KIRBY | PHOTOGRAPHY

IT'S NOT OCTOBER ANYMORE

Abby O'Brien

(just one more time i think - let's go) it's not october anymore - the leaves are gone and so are you it's been much colder since you left and i suppose there's nothing i can do and real life doesn't wait for you to feel okay before taking what you love most, what you hope for, away and when you said you loved heather's hair beause it loooked lke mine it didn't mean that you loved me or wanted me this time it's my fault for overthinking and for seeing things that were never there i just wished i could have ignored the way you smiled and flipped your hair its over, it's over it's over. it's over the way you shuffle in white shoes, holy ground, imagine that and i'll admit that i will never look at you the same - it's kind of sad now breathe out, stop your crying, who said that misery was this much fun? ‘cause when you break down, say what you’re thinking, you’re no good to anyone it’s over, it's over it's over, it's over (guess it really is, huh?)

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PEPTO-DISMAL | NANCY DEDMAN | ACRYLIC

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SAKURA AND SPRING | AIRU WENG | PHOTOGRAPHY

EMOTIONAL

Sonali Konda

I feel so strongly, with rushing tides of love and hate, of joy and sorrow, of excitement and fear.

Uncontrollable, my emotions, fierce as lion’s roars in my head, dictate my life, my actions, reactions, interactions.

Sometimes I wish I could rein them in and stop them from growing from a candle into a wild blaze.

But my heart does not answer to my head, and my head bows to the whim of my heart.

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HOW DANCING WAS INVENTED

Catherine Sigurdsson

Bees fight to move their fat I

bodies through the air, just as

do. They bounce flower to flower to hive as we bounce from color to light to movement.

Did you know it’s wrong to say humans are the only land-based animals who sing? It’s as if the lie has never listened to the keening howls of dogs when they hear ambulance sirens, or the squeaks of lab rats as their feet keep time in mazes, or the hisses of bobcats as they arch their backs, unafraid to strike.

Solitude is where it is easiest to hear songs, not share them. Why do you think we invented noise cancelling headphones?

To exclude the uninvited from our songs.

Songs are the noises of all working together in broken slapped chords and jagged harmonies, of stomps and claps and screeches and soft burbling whispers flowing from my heart to my hands and face and limbs as I whirl in a storm of silver and skin, the song burning me from the inside out and the kinetic flame bouncing and whirling to the gasoline of your blood.

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BEE-AUTIFUL | KAREN LIN | BLOCK PRINT

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TRACK 5 (THE ONE WHERE THE SONG SINGS BACK) Abby O'Brien Loose lip, bobby pin, you can tell she’s young and in pain from the way she moves all six of the strings here.

It comes naturally – the manic, silken tongue.

When Truth tumbles out it’s soft and tear stained, rings from the bottom of tea cups and muddy December snow.

She’ll lose herself in it; only the coppery, red sting of the intention-burdened needles (when she gets too close to herself and forgets that everything is real) can pull her out of the hum.

The art is heavy but the mannequin is light and empty, her italicized stitching speaking only to Styrofoam ears and expensive carpet.

She’ll never quite get why they can’t stand her sewing in silence, tailoring something to sit with her when nobody else will.

It’s a liminal, ponderous existence with open-armed vices, but the cloth is her creation and hers alone.

JUNE | KATHERINE HANCOCK | ACRYLIC AND COFFEE

VARIOUS TASTES OF TRAVEL

Charlene Brzesowsky

Only half-conscious due to sleep deprivation, I stood in the endless airport check-in line, impatiently waiting to take my flight back home from China. Still sleepy from the early wake-up call and tragically lacking in energy, I deliriously fell into a vivid daydream.

The last few days, I had traveled through so many remote villages full of oriental flavors and perfumes, all the while being trained in a myriad of tastes new to my Western palate. In Tibet, humming monks had presented me with trays of ripe goji berries, whose shimmering scarlet shade seemed to prove God’s proximity to the procession of men clad in sunny yellow kasaya robes. I had taken a mouthful—I remembered—of this not too intrusively sweet snack and felt as refreshed as the cool mountain air around me.

Now, in the gray airport air, my thoughts were suddenly interrupted by a dull droning from my own stomach. Ashamed, I pushed against it to try to silence the sound. The last time I had witnessed my body producing such an orchestra, I was surrounded by better scenery, I recalled. Between the rolling, emerald hills of Yunnan, after entire days of working with the Bai tribe in the fields scattered throughout the valley, in the evenings I was so famished that I almost did not perceive their singing language around me.

Never before had I felt so near to our Mother Earth, willing to devour even raw crops if I had to, but the toothless yet smiling villagers shared with me their slowly-cooked meals seasoned with garlic, ginger root, and cassia bark, bursting with such color that it made those mere evenings more unforgettable than any world travel. Some of their dishes were bittersweet, just like my days: the view of the morning fog from the farm was breathtaking, but my dripping sweat often interrupted my dreams while I was towing sacks full of heavy squashes. The same fog seemed to return to me in the evenings, rising from their bubbling, warmly vaporous soup. The steam rose up from the happily simmering dish and lazily twirled around my nostrils, mixing with my silence and slow thoughts, flying directly into my heart. With every long sip and deep, curious bite, I widened my personal scale of sensations: I was suddenly sure I could see vast, unexplored forests and other valleys hiding behind the horizon, even if the hot air of the fire illuminating my smiling face was rather energizing than relaxing.

Now, a fiery voice spoke out loudly, interrupting my recent memories: “Your flight has been delayed fifteen hours, Miss.”

What? Fifteen hours? I looked sideways and my eyes caught some modern airport fast food corner. Fifteen hours here? Behind the countertop, the server reached for a plate with a bulging heap of French fries dripping with some dense sauce, seeming as heavy as I suddenly felt now. All his teeth were intact, but he was not smiling, sneezing instead, even though this meal did not seem to contain any traces of spice or flavor. My empty stomach had never before felt so heavy and full. Fifteen hours...

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DAYBREAK | NOELLE DIAMOND | PHOTOGRAPHY

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DIES IRAE Hailey Sipes

ANGER FESTERS LIKE AN UNTREATED WOUND, AN INFECTION SPREADING FAST THROUGH YOUR VEINS WHILE BITTER PUS SEEPS FROM YOUR LIPS.

DON'T EAT GLUTEN | NANCY DEDMAN | GRAPHITE PENCIL

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GRAVITY | VELAYZIA SCOTT | PHOTOGRAPHY

I creep across creaking floorboards Feel drowsy with a warm belly and rested feet I laze under a hand-patched quilt Curl into a lumpy mattress that cradles me just right But I bolt the second their lumbering footfalls jostle me awake

Angie Walsh

IN THE FAIRYTALE FOREST

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I climb splintering steps Find lampshade-muted light and glistening bowls of porridge

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NATURE CALLS | GABRIELLA REES | PHOTOGRAPHY

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THEIR VIEWS Mohana Ghosh

HIS VIEW I spy my father on the balcony torn with agony questioning his nationality he picks me up so I can see what he sees the breeze b i l l o w i n g the trees, the Ganges this is his childhood view, but the trees are taller now but he is too, anyhow, He says when he was small like me verdant as these trees he would stand here, gazing out into his own view contemplating what would be but oh, how the time flew I ask him, “what has come true?”

He turns to me, tearing away from his view and replies, “only you.”

HER VIEW My mother can only tell me stories of her childhood view She whispers to me at night about the forest her mother grew on their balcony of the mango tree that she planted that rained ripe fruit when shook the bushes of berries she would pilfer She shivers in this Chicago cold, where none of her childhood plants grow So I do everything I can Dyeing her gray hair black Massaging her worn-out back Trying with all my heart To keep her young with me Her view, her stories alive

MY VIEW Outside my bay windows is a triptych I know by heart It’s my parent’s prized magnolia to the left the robins munching on holly to the right And my favorite swaths of white crabapple blossoms in the middle There is no Ganges, no balcony forest to be seen They said goodbye to those long ago They left behind their views so I could see petals snowing in spring They gave up their dreams for me

MAJESTY | LEENA MEHENDALE | PHOTOGRAPHY

Annie Zhao Drinking pure water is the death of grit.

To be so dependent on something or someone in the name of purity hurts in the end.

We fall sick.

I draw from lofty, empty places in my head.

I write too, as a disciple to someone who won't read my mind.

In the school bathroom, I scrub away what's on my face because the faker she looks, the realer she gets.

Vice versa.

I guess I don't mind.

Once I formed a -ship as fragile and utilitarian as a fragrant bar of soap, and as it aged, it dried out and broke.

Limerence ails my judgment though it cures a cloudy mind, rainy eyes, salt water.

I can't grasp the end of all things, And whether I'll learn of it, Who knows?

So it goes.

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DRIP | NANCY DEDMAN | COLORED PENCIL

THE WRITER'S WHEEL

Ivy Becker

My stomach sinks to my feet As I ascend toward the heavens.

The air is thinner up here; It tastes like sky.

Gravity grips my ankles And yanks me down with its invisible fist.

I unleash the breath held captive in my chest, And with it comes words; they take their places on my page in perfect order.

What next? What left is there to say, to do, to be?

The wheel rotates. I travel upwards and beam at my words as they dance and hold hands.

Then back down again, to where it is blank, where there is nothing.

I exhale an empty, wordless breath.

I replay the memory over and over.

I have spent more time reliving the moment than I have living it.

What was once vivid and in high resolution Is now grainy and distorted.

I can no longer feel the air or taste the sky.

I read what I have written, And discover that it hardly resembles The real thing.

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A ROUGH LANDING | KATE PETERSON | PHOTOGRAPHY

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AMOR VINCIT OMNIA Hailey Sipes

Love strikes you with his golden tipped arrow.

It pierces you straight to your bone, and you tip your hat to him in greeting, for the pair of you are well acquainted.

A BUG’S EYE VIEW | RIYANA DAULAT | PHOTOGRAPHY

COLLISION COURSE Sydney Ghorayeb

In kindergarten you were just a planet to me; Now, I see a star.

Not a glittering speck, but a fiery sun.

You blind me as I cross the cold void to you.

You pull me away from my galaxy.

Abruptly, I see that you are more than a sun.

A vast solar system, with many planets on roller coaster orbits, screaming past me.

For a moment your gravity fails me.

Aimless, I drift outside your asteroid gates, fearful.

What if we collide?

The way we did in kindergarten.

Igniting supernovas, wrecking our planets.

I hurtle on, blasting despwerate radio waves, on the brink of changing course.

But you chart a route for me, and I reach you.

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TELESCOPE | WENDY CAO | DIGITAL ART

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LEAVING VESUVIUS Mohana Ghosh

Spewing malice Fissuring bonds Erupting at nothing Eroding my sanity With your toxic plume Burning everything you touch I was your ocean, I let you turn me to steam If it meant the chance for obsidian, for islands But no longer can I ignore the sirens. I will go where I am safe.

GLANCE | NANCY DEDMAN | WHITE PENCIL

RISING ASHES

Seerat Sohal

I will rise I will rise from my ashes stronger more powerful fueled by an intrinsic thirst for vengeance Until then, enjoy your fleeting happiness while you can

REBEL HEART | MAKAYLA WOODS | PHOTOGRAPHY

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SEA SUNSET | BETHANY VODICKA | PHOTOGRAPHY

OCEAN CITY, NEW JERSEY - 2008

Abby O'Brien

It’s orange and dappled with marshmallow and smoke like the click of a tape before you play it.

No—like the last whispers of the night before the adults realize the door was open.

I’m lost in the screaming of seagulls and the smell of Nan’s rum raisin from the kitchen, and the dock keeps splintering away like a dissolving tablet every time I move my hand.

When the moon is ripe enough to drop down from the sky, we’ll catch frogs in that field there, and I’ll give a big ol’ gap-toothed-red-eye on your disposable— one like the first time you trotted me to Boston and let me fall all the way in, as gentle as your chest cough, as kind as those blue Irish eyes. but eventually, the ocean swallows up the moon, and the horses drag that westward bound chariot.

Suddenly, it’s knuckle-bruised and gasping for breath, and i can’t move my pinky toe or eyelids by myself anymore. now, i hear trumpets and the howling of threadbare wolves— all fires underfoot, not sand. sometimes you wait for me in gilded, velvet mahogany, concert halls, but then the crowds bustle in, and suddenly i’m crushed under sunday bests and perfume. i swear i listened. i think you would have been proud. i scream like i never have before, and then i’m alone again.

It’s blue and spattered with scars, but at least I’m grown now.

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OCEAN CITY, NEW JERSEY - 2008

Abby O'Brien

HIDDEN EYES | NANCY DEDMAN | GRAPHITE PENCIL 16''X18'' HIDDEN EYES | NANCY DEDMAN | GRAPHITE PENCIL

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GIFTED HANDS | NANCY DEDMAN | GRAPHITE PENCIL

LEFT IN THE DUST

Annie Zhao

You don't reach for me anymore, your trusty pick and shovel while you mine life for all its glitter­— those gems have made me dull, blunt.

You don't love me anymore.

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FRUIT | PHOTOGRAPHER MEDIUM COLE SPROUSE | KAREN LIN | |CHARCOAL

LE CORBEAU TITLE

Author

Abby O'Brien

A clown, tormented by a crow and its elusive puppeteer, ultimately realizes the nuance of human anguish and artistic expression.

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WORLDS IN PAPER

Sonali Konda

One book Contains a world Of imagination far beyond our reality

One shelf Holds a solar system Each planet a fantastical kingdom

One room Encompasses a galaxy Where stars are realms we long to visit

How much must a library hold?

A whole universe Of worlds in vessels of paper and ink

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III | KAREN LIN | ACRYLIC POUR

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MAY WE SPEAK IN VAIN TO SILENT ASH Hailey Sipes

the macabre seduces even the purist of hearts, and watching a disliked neighbor burn at the stake for a crime no priest or king or god could ever prove, conjures a joy, rivaled to none. empty accusations of sorcery are tossed around like greetings at the dinner table to a loved one, long separated by miles and miles of barren fields, only bridged by superstition. by the end of the day, men and women alike dance upon the ashes of the fallen, sharing a drink with folk they despise more than heap of bone on the pyre. today, they are a friend, tomorrow, they’ve bewitched a son into a love most foul by the standards of the father, but one all-consuming by that of the son and of the daughter. over time, the graves build up. cemeteries expand beyond the fences, and hopeful mothers and wives whisper to themselves: this will be the last time. but then guilt begins to eat away at them, mothers and wives and fathers alike, sons and daughters, too, who no longer find the same joy in this little game they’ve played for oh so long. guilt tears into their guts and disembowels their spine vertebrae by vertebrae until they are a boneless sop of nothing, floundering on the dirt for a measly scrap of existence. there is a certain temptation to it, to forgo all belief that the supernatural is a force of evil, that witches are nothing more than the devil’s daughter, to allow the weight building upon their shoulders to crush them into oblivion, perhaps even to plant the seed of their own false enchantments into the minds of those who harbor nothing but hatred. fate comes full circle. the heap of bone upon the pyre is their own, and the neighbor sleeps soundly in their bed, unaware of the remnants of ash lodged in their lungs.

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FIRE PHOENIX | NANCY DEDMAN | COLORED PENCIL

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thx for the inspo SIMONE HUNTER | WATERCOLOR PAINT

13 WAYS OF LOOKING AT A CUP OF COFFEE Merritt McCaleb

I Amid the Sun’s arising, The only existing thing Was the puff of steam from a fresh cup of coffee.

II I was undecided in my choice, Like a customer observing a countertop On which sits three cups of coffee.

III A cup of coffee rests among thousands of black and white words.

It was a small part of the morning ritual.

IV A fireplace and a book Are one.

A fireplace and a book and a cup of coffee Are one.

V I do not know which to prefer, The splendor of hope Or the splendor of satisfaction, Sipping sweet, smoky coffee Or just after.

VI Pennants lined the glass windows With irritating flashes of color.

Small breaths of coffee waft Up to the teacher’s ceiling to greet them.

The mood (during this calculus test) Is defined by this lingering whiff of morning peace, An amiable reminder that life goes on.

VII O glorious snowy blouse, Why did you protrude so dangerously?

Did you not see how the waves of coffee Danced out of the cup with the sways of the train, and you remained, Stalwart in your spot, as it splashed all over your buttons?

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VIII I know sleepy melodies of Paul and John And Father’s fingers tracing guitar strings; But I know, too, That the sharp aroma of peppermint coffee beside my blanket Is involved in what I know.

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IX When all the coffee vanishes from the pot, It marks the beginning Of a perilous journey.

X At the sight of a neon coffee sign In the dead of night, Even the roars of impatience Would accompany parched lips to taste the mirage.

XI I ventured through Charlottesville In a rental car with my mother.

Once, a thought struck us, In that we had left Our awful suitcases in the hotel room With a flimsy, half-consumed, lukewarm coffee cup.

XII Horns are honking today.

The cup of coffee must be drained.

XIII It had been drizzling since dawn.

It was storming, And it would continue to storm.

A cup of coffee warmed The young boy’s arctic hands.

COFFEE DATE | COURTENAY SANDS | PHOTOGRAPHY

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RISD2 | KAREN LIN | CHARCOAL , CONTE, INDIA INK

SILENCE Kylee Hong

(do you sometimes wish everything was silent just for a moment: frozen sound waves) the air conditioning continuously sighs. (do you sometimes wish the world would just pause, and your blood didn’t have to pump so loudly) the cold clock constantly clicks. (do you sometimes wish you didn’t have to listen to the thoughts echoing in your own head) whispers snake through stuffy spaces. do you hear it?

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OCEAN BREAK | JULIA KATZMAN | PHOTOGRAPHY

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LISTEN, YOUNG EXPLORER

Hailey Sipes

You love the stars, you really do.

You love the way they glisten against the night sky like freckles dotted across the cosmos’ face.

You love the stories behind each constellation of daring heroes and wrathful gods.

You love the way the world curls around at its edges the more you stare at it, and you imagine you live inside a snow globe seated upon some deity’s shelf.

But you also find that the more you stare out into the abyss, the more you feel like you are drowning in the shadowy framework of the universe.

Just a tiny speck of pollen in a field rich with peonies.

Nihilism creeps in, and you begin to wonder if anything you do really matters at all.

If you, as minute and insignificant as you are, Against that brutal black and blue canvas could truly influence anything in life.

You have to tear your eyes away.

The bright light of the stars illuminates a subconscious riddled with uncertainties, blinding you to the wonders at a cursory glance.

You haul yourself to your feet and turn to go inside.

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BECOMING A STAR | VELAYZIA SCOTT | PHOTOGRAPHY

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FROZEN IN TIME AND SPACE | JADE NGUYEN | PHOTOGRAPHY

DROWNING Evan Johnston

Perched on the ledge of the tattered boardwalk I glance down at the midnight ocean as waves crash into the surrounding rocks.

My thoughts wade in the deepening water as they slowly sink farther and farther still, quiet (Drowning.) still, quiet trapped in the depths of my mind, caught in the foundation of my thoughts, I reach up to surface, looking for a glimmer of moonlight to grab.

Perched on the ledge of the tattered boardwalk, Waiting for something to drag me out of the water.

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A

COLOPHON

MANY, MANY THANKS TO: Ms. Copeland for the tremendous amount of effort and care and time that you have put into helping us create this magazine. Your patience, dedication, passion, and perseverance are truly some of the only reasons that we were able to get to where we are today. Your advice was and always will be invaluable, your positive outlook and drive to get things done, unforgettable, and the work that you put forward for the magazine, deserving of more thanks than can be put on this page.

Thank you.

Dr. Coleman, Ms. Palmer, and Ms. Culbertson for your never-ending support and encouragement for the creation of Vibrato.

Melanie Hamil at Impact Graphics and Printing for always being an email or a call away, (even when those emails come late at night), and for finding a way to make our vision of Vibrato become a reality.

AP Art Students, this magazine would be nothing if not for the endless supply of work that you provide us with. Thank you for allowing us to storm the studio and abduct all your artwork. You guys are amazing.

Everyone who submitted because this magazine would literally be nothing if not for the courage that many of you had to submit your original creations. We got so many submissions this year, and every single one of them was fantastic.

Vibrato is a magazine that exhibits the art, photography, literature, and film of Hockaday’s Upper School Student body. Students submit their original work to the magazine. Then, together, the Vibrato staff reviews each piece we receive anonymously, carefully selects pieces to include in our publication, designs the spreads, and distributes the magazine. As you venture through this year’s magazine, we hope that you approach each piece with an open mind and a genuine sense of curiosity for the meaning hidden within each priceless work. Bask in the creativity of the future writers, artists, photographers, and film makers of this generation.

Enjoy.

The text of this issue is set in Georgia and the titles are set in Circe. Variances in size are used for titles of literary pieces, art, and photography, as well as names of authors and artists. The table of contents is set in Circe with variances in size for titles and subtitles. The main title of the magazine is set in Georgia. The magazine was designed using Adobe InDesign 2020. The 113-page book is printed on Polar Bear Velvet Book 100#. The cover and divider pages are printed on Topkote 130#. All parts of the magazine were printed by Impact Graphics and Printing in Dallas, TX.

MATISSE MIMIC (BLUE NUDES NO. II & III) | NANCY DEDMAN | ACRYLIC

OUR STAFF Christine “i don’t want to talk about the rhino” Kirby Co-Editor-in-Chief

Hailey “chicken on a raft” Sipes Co-Editor-in-Chief

Tarini Alexandra “i dont like the french” “the second hart” Gannamaneni Hart Co-Managing-Editor Co-Managing-Editor

Merritt “lit queen” McCaleb Literary Editor

Emma “art hunter” Roseman Art Editor

Gabriella Doris Varsha Bethany “mathematician” “close your eyes!” “hey upper school!” “kid fantastic” Rees Zhang Danda Vodicka Co-Media-Editor Co-Media-Editor Communications Editor Photo Editor

Leena “thing 1” Mehendale Asst. Photo Editor

Sonali “this is my buddy” Konda Staff

Catherine “future ceo” Stidham Asst. Literary Editor

Abby “artsy” Ruble Staff

Victoria Allison “the last hart” “thing 2” Hart Yang Staff Asst. Art Editor

Ava “freshmore” Franklin Staff

Julia “i have the TV screen” Copeland Faculty Advisor

NUMBER ______ of 650

KAREN LIN | TO: YOU, FROM: ME | CYANOTYPE, PEN, ACRYLIC

vibrato THE HOCKADAY SCHOOL | 2020 | VOLUME 55

The Hockaday School | 2020 | Volume 55