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Semper

Fortis


This publication is dedicated to all those affected by the Northern California fires, that they may rise like a phoenix from the ashes.

Justin-Siena Literary Magazine

2017-2018 Publication


Thank you to Mrs. Laura Kelley-Weakley, for your continued support and leadership of the Lit Mag and its editors. Thank you to Ms. Eileen Mize, for your work in streamlining the publication process. Thank you to Ms. Monica Jacobson, for ensuring that our artists are always seen in their best light. Thank you to Ms. Debbie Skillings, for lending a helping hand when we needed it most. Thank you to Mr. Rebullida, for ensuring that each editor can put their best face forward. Thank you to Ms. Karen Foster, for offering your unwavering support to the Lit Mag team at all hours and at every point in the editing process.

Justin-Siena Literary Magazine

2017-2018 Publication


What is Lit Mag? The Justin-Siena Literary Magazine is a studentcurated publication showcasing the work of writers, painters, photographers, and creative people around the school. Founded over 30 years ago, the literary magazine recognizes student work and reflects the spirit of each class that passes through Justin-Siena High-School. We present the 2017-2018 Justin-Siena Literary Magazine, Semper Fortis, in representation of a student body that is always strong, always resilient, and always brave. Sincerely, Editors of Semper Fortis

Justin-Siena Literary Magazine

2017-2018 Publication


Editing Team

Lauren Yung ’19

Lucy Harrington ’19

Hunter Schaufel ’18

Esther Cottrell ’21

Kay Duffy ’19

Justin-Siena Literary Magazine

William Gauthier ’18

Sam Forbes ’19

Katherine Booska ’19

Nicole Drawsky ’18

Amanda Bueno-Kling ’19

2017-2018 Publication


Table of Contents

Lauren Yung ’19 Esther Cottrell ’21 Elizabeth Chavarria ’20 Esther Cottrell ’21 Sarah Pyrce ’21 Max Gilsenan ’21 Travis Manning ’21 Gianna Say ’21 Alex Kirby ’19 Antonius Wells ’18 Connor Machado ’21 Victoria Olivera ’21 Rachael Fitzgerald ’19 Lauren Mispagel ’20 Maena Yeriell Manzon ’18 Madison Mannasse ’18 Erin Bolch-Saunders ’20 Kennedy Heil ’18 Gianna Say ’21 Grace Bouchet ’19 Juliette Nast ’18 Sebastian Medina ’21 Jaxon Levy ’21 Francis Martin Rebullida ’21 Kennedy Heil ’18 Rachael Fitzgerald ’19 Kennedy Heil ’18 Chorthip Ralog ’19

Justin-Siena Literary Magazine

Flute on Fabric “to be lazy” The Hunter Allergy Season “I Daydream of Euphoria” 1000 Words Visual Idiom Time The Bridge 1000 Words Sergio Perkovic She Dreamed of Elegance “The Missing Piece” Feather “Where Would You Go?” 1000 Words “What Do You Stand For” Freedom “The Little Dancer” Peace and Tragedy “My Hands” Texture Hand Flower Power “Animus” Don’t Drown “Why Are We Not Right?” Someone Is By Your Side Morning Light

Art Poetry Art Art Poetry Art Art Art Art Art Art Art Prose Art Poetry Art Poetry Art Poetry Art Poetry Art Art Poetry Art Poetry Art Art

1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10 11 12 13 14 15 18 19 20 21 22 23 25 26 27 28 29 31 32

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Esther Cottrell ’21 Kennedy Heil ’18 Amina Schnebelt ’21 Gabrielle Bon Borquez ’18 Michael Jeramaz ’20 Esther Cottrell ’21 Owen Benson ’19 Amina Schnebelt ’21 Gianna Say ’21 Dominic Moore ’19 Claire Sullivan ’20 Chorthip Ralog ’19 Rachael Fitzgerald ’19 Esther Cottrell ’21 Kennedy Heil ’18 Kennedy Heil ’18 Ines Keller ’21 Esther Cottrell ’21 Kennedy Heil ’18 Maena Yeriell Manzon ’18 Esther Cottrell ’21 Ines Keller ’21

Justin-Siena Literary Magazine

“The Garden of Verses” Fly Away “Fireflies” Vanishing “A Single Spark” Elpis Doll Heads “During the Great Depression” A Weekend’s Necessities A Happy Horizon Storm The Wailing Sound of the Ocean Wave “I Sail, We Sail” “Common Differences” Faith Crosses the Border Guidance Taking the World Hostage “Futurity” You’re Not Alone “All These Years” “Space-Time Continuum” Bird Reaching for the Stars

Poetry Art Poetry Art Poetry Art Art Prose

33 36 37 38 39 40 41 42

Art Art Art Art

43 44 45 46

Poetry Poetry Art Art Art Poetry Art Poetry Prose Art

47 48 53 55 58 59 60 61 64 65

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Flute on Fabric

Lauren Yung ‘19

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to be lazy Esther Cottrell ‘21 to be lazy is an undisputed luxury full of grammar shortcuts and mumbled words half eaten apples and dandelion studded lawns on a drowsy august day i can lie on a couch of indolence and be busy doing nothing drifting on the invisible currents of a mirror smooth lake spinning cobwebs in the corners of my brain while the sunlight slants through motes of dust and glints through cloudy glass It is inevitable, of course, that cleaning day will come, as surely as the storm follows the humid afternoon and I will clean frantically, frenetically, fanatically. but for now i luxuriate in my laziness and watch the green grass grow

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The Hunter

Elizabeth Chavarria ‘20

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Allergy Season

Esther Cottrell ‘21

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I Daydream of Euphoria Sarah Pyrce ‘21 True love and life awaits me in the green There’s comfort here that’s never out of sight Full of daffodils and daisies so keen Serenity and joy wash out all plight Through the birds who sing the Clair de Lune Wonder is my friend here on this road Striding hand and hand in this eternal June Barefoot I’m free, at last all time has slowed Though trials of angst and sorrow may bring me down I close my eyes for butterflies and breeze I lay searching for Leo in a constellation town While there’s a door I’m in no need of keys This place is not one which you can seek or find It is merely an escape for my mind

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1000 Words

Max Gilsenan ‘21

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Visual Idiom

Travis Manning ‘21

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Time

Gianna Say ‘21

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The Bridge

Alex Kirley ‘19

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1000 Words

Antonius Wells ‘18

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Sergio Perkovic

Connor Machado ‘21

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She Dreamed of Elegance

Victoria Olivera ‘20

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The Missing Piece Rachael Fitzgerald ‘19

Have you ever had that feeling? Sometimes we think we know what it is, even though we don’t. Hell, even I don’t. Not yet at least. I’m still a young teen who doesn’t know what to do with her life, according to my parents and their friends. In fact, I know exactly what I want to do in life, and exactly how to get there. There’s only one thing missing. I have friends, family, everything I could ever need or want. Except for the one thing many people crave on the daily. The one thing everyone is striving to find in their early life, the thing they want to have for the rest of their life. The thing not many people can find in its truest form. The thing that I hope to find.

That thing is love.

Justin-Siena Literary Magazine

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Feather

Lauren Mispagel ‘20

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Where Would You Go? Maena Yeriell Manzon ‘18 It smelled like somewhere I had been been before, But I knew it only to be a dream. I was standing still, quiet To the point where I heard nothing But the drumming pulse of my heart

I breathe As birds do fly And broken hearts do cry. But for once I had control over my lungs. Expanding in sync with the pine trees That peaked at different heights.

Trees that did not hum For there was not a single breeze In the air. I was in love For it smelled like somewhere I had been before.

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There was a mountain Covered in a blanket of white That reached so far into the depths of space, It was never to be seen Never to be in sight.

Below my feet Golden fireflies lay. They did not move nor buzz. They scattered the floor until they reached Natures flowing mirrors. Mirrors that flowed as if there was no end.

One splash across my face Did not give me chills, But thrills of resurfacing memories. For it felt like my mothers’ warm hands That she once used to cup around my face. It smelled like somewhere I had been before.

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Surrounding the neck of the mountain Splatters of the color of her lips. Varying disheveled streaks As if a child had painted a rainbow Over the entire sky.

When the sun awoke The paint was gone For only one color was left. It was the color of her eyes.

I saw her eyes. The eyes of the one who once held my heart. They were blue. They were pure. Just like the smoky cigarette clouds above.

But I knew it only To be a dream. For it smelled like somewhere I had been before.

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1000 Words

Madison Manasse ‘18

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What Do You Stand For? Erin Bolch-Saunders ‘20

I stand for honesty. I stand for freedom. I stand for kindness. I stand for safety. I stand for safer schools. I stand for this generation. I stand for equal rights. I stand for justice. I stand for religious freedom. I stand for human rights. I stand for happiness. I stand for education. I stand for respect I stand for love. I stand for my future.

What will you stand for?

All statements were given by Justin-Siena students.

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Freedom

Kennedy Heil ‘18

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The Little Dancer Gianna Say ‘21 Legs quaking muscles aching How much longer must this go He said stand still as does my will But my aching neck says no It’s for a cause My heart stay strong This ache will pass away For deep inside I know this strain Will last a many a day

If not for him then for myself a passion I most desire To be a model of strength and grace A life not easily acquired

As for now I must stand firm To prove my work’s desire To show the world the beauty of A little dancer’s true fire

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Peace and Tragedy

Grace Bouchet ‘19

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Red Rust Hills, 1930

Image by Georgia O’Keeffe

My Hands Juliette Nast ‘18 My hands. They help and hurt and hoard and hunger. Their callouses are numerous, layered like the uneven folds of mountains. Their cracks are empty river beds, vanishing into the milky banks of my skin. Dead ends. Justin-Siena Literary Magazine

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What to do next? They wonder, so I wonder. Only the faint blue of my veins, buried beneath a sand colored surface, breaks the sameness of this barren landscape.

Isn’t it the eyes that are windows to the soul? Well, my hands... they are windows into what I feel. In frustration, they clench into belligerent boulders. In embarrassment, they tear at delicate skin and leave crescent shaped burrows. In fear, They take shelter in pockets among the rocks. In sorrow, they brush away falling rain that shrouds their peaks in mist. My hands.

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Texture Hand

Sebastian Medina ‘21

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Flower Power

Jaxon Levy ‘21

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Animus Francis Rebullida ‘21 Humans like me Want to be free But poems and essays Take up all of our days Enslaving and Detaining No time’s left remaining

No homework I pleaded But sleep is not needed My mind is now breaking And an F for the taking They all wondered why And here’s my reply


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Don’t Drown

Kennedy Heil, ‘18

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Why Are We Not Right? Rachael Fitzgerald ’19 Why are people like this? Why do we have to hide it? How come people tellin me I can't do what I'm likin’? Why do people hate us? Why does the world degrade us? Why we can't be who we are without the ones that blame us? Why can't they accept it? Why do people reject it? How come we must risk our lives to save it and protect it? Why are we the freaks? Why are we so diseased? Why we gotta stand up strong so we don't seem so weak? Why is this my life? What is this kind of strife? Why my brothers sisters gotta act like we're all fine? Why they all presume? Why do they all assume? Why we gotta act like we ain't us til we conclude?

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Why do we feel weird, When ain't out to those near? Why we gotta out ourselves so we feel welcome here? Why they gotta stare, When they don't know my share? Why they gotta make me feel like I'm the one who's rare? They can't make us be different cause we love with all our heart. We love without us judging sex or race or repertoire. I was with the oppressed and I know some of us still are; They livin different now because they gave em quite a scar. I'll stand against the ones who make us feel like we ain't stars. We'll be the ones who rise again and be just who we are. We'll be a whole and get along with people near and far; I wish that life was closer than it is, we know it’s hard. Why are we different? Why is this real life? Why can’t we prosper? Why are we not right?

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someone is by your side

Kennedy Heil ‘18

Justin-Siena Literary Magazine

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Morning Light

Chorthip Ralog ‘19

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Garden of Verses Esther Cottrell ‘21 I’m walking in a poets’ field Of limericks and rhymes, Of sweet and sour lovers’ odes, Like cherry trees and limes. I walk among the beds of flow’rs, Whose smell in summer rain Brings back to me a sonnet old With morning’s sweet refrain. The rippling creek’s sweet litany, The bower’s lyric verse, The quatrains in the kitchen bedsMy metered universe. And in a clearing, ‘neath the elm, My elegy resides. For all my words and all my songs, You are not by my side.

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I've written reams of poetry, But none could stopper Death. I've tried to find the magic word: The immortals’ shibboleth. But I could not unlock the key. I could not pick the lock. Whenever I put pen to page, I hit on writer’s block. I could not save you with my words. You told me not to cry. And as I held you in my arms, You sang a lullaby. I, so obsessed with permanence Could not see what you saw In seconds spent without their trace On History’s lengthy law.

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The song you sang is not recalled By aught in that great Book, And yet in each remembered line I see your every look. I haven't penned your lullaby. My hand cannot preserve The lilting way you always sang Or how your smile curved. I've carved it, though, in every tree, In every budding flower. Your epitaph is not in stoneIt changes, hour by hour. And now I walk and think of words That time has not revealed And hum your simple lullaby As I stroll in golden fields.

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Fly Away

Kennedy Heil ‘18

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Fireflies Amina Schnebelt ‘21

One by one the Switch flicks on, And one by one the shadows fade. Higher and higher the little lights fly, Floating and drifting into the sky.

Their invisible prison melts away, As they turn to me and seem to say Goodbye, Farewell, until another day.

But once they are hidden away from sight, The Gloom returns to retaliate. It hunts and races and chases me,

And so I run, Toward the Sun, But am swallowed before I get there.

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Vanishing

Gabrielle Bon Borquez, ‘18

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A Single Spark Michael Jeramaz ‘20 A single spark is all it takes To ignite a flame that takes all away A single spark is all it takes To begin and ignite a change Although a flame must scorch the Earth It is necessary for our rebirth It seems to live amongst our fears So we try to douse it with our tears Yet for the phoenix’s wings to turn They first need to sizzle and burn And from the ashes comes once more A man who stands taller than before Through the flame he is forged stronger And works to make our lives longer Until he lights a signal flare That inspires all to help repair So we can fight against the aches A single spark is all it takes

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Elpis

Esther Cottrell ‘21

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Doll Heads

Owen Benson ‘18

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During the Great Depression Amina Schnebelt ‘21 The fog hung low over the city, coating the young man’s face with a thin mist. He pulled his coat tighter over his body, snuggling into the small warmth it gave him. His shoes sloshed through puddle after puddle, filling with water. Finally, he reached the breadline. He stepped into place at the back, preparing himself for another long day. He looked towards the newspaper stand across the street, searching for print large enough to read. He squinted his eyes until he could make out some of the writing. He read the date: September 7, 1932. He could read the headline on the front, but he didn’t understand most of the jargon about the economy. He unconsciously moved forward with the lines, the water in his shoes and socks irritating him to no end.

Her eyes scanned the shops, looking for her next target. There: a small bakery. She walked to the door, pulling it open quickly, just wide enough for her to slip through. She closed the door behind her, trying to let as little freezing air in as possible. A short, robust woman walked out from the back room. The women chatted for a minute, pleasant talk about the weather and family, as was custom. Then the young woman from the street asked about a job. Any job; she was desperate. The old baker’s wife felt sympathy for her. It was a hard time for everyone. She told the stranger standing across the counter to come back the next day; then she could meet the store’s owner, and see about a job helping to clean the bakery. She thanked the woman profusely and was off.

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A Weekend’s Necessities

Gianna Say ‘21

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A Happy Horizon

Dominic Moore ‘19

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Storm

Claire Sullivan ‘20

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The Wailing Sound of the Ocean Wave

Chorthip Ralog ‘19

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I Sail, We Sail Rachael Fitzgerald ‘19 I live

We live

I love

We love

I drive

We drive

I thrive

We thrive

I see

We see

Not believe

Not believe

I fly

We fly

I’m free

We’re free

I’m not

We caught

I’ve fought

We fought

I try

We try

I die

We thrive

I fail

We tale

Not prevail

Not to hail

I sink

We think

I sail

We sail


Justin-Siena Literary Magazine

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Common Differences Esther Cottrell ‘21 The sun rises in the east. Wharf, quay, dock, jetty, All awaken with the Atlantic.

Seagulls begin the morning squabble. The afterglow of dawn permeates stone and murky depths. The name of a boat catches the light“Freedom” in proud red.

Who owns this boat? Are they rich or poor? Black or white? Muslim or Christian? Who knows? It is a beautiful boat.

We pass on.

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Cities and cottages alike stretch their weary shoulders and yawn. It is morning.

Windows on skyscrapers all flash together, Panes of light over shadowed alleys. The buses start their long trek across the city. People are going to work.

Who are they? Do they have a husband or a wife? Daughters or sons? Menorahs or Buddha statues? Who knows? But they are all rubbing the sleep from their eyes.

We pass on.

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We are come to farmlands, Rolling green hills Touched by a thousand mornings.

Doors open on a hundred barns and pastures. The sheep flood out after their shepherds, Fluffy white disciples to prophets, Helping to clothe the world.

Who are these farmhands? Do they want to be there? Do they dream of the sea? Of the clamor of city streets? What makes them smile? Who knows? But they are all wishing for mittens.

We pass on.

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The Great Plains. An endless expanse of wheat and grasses, Gilded by the sun’s first rays.

The buffalo once ran here. They are gone, confined to borders. The Lakota and the Crow once ran here. They are gone, confined to borders.

What have we done? We, the invaders? How could we think up such atrocities? The blood on the earth cries out to us. Why can’t we turn back time? Who knows? But we will do better now.

We pass on.

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Rosy-fingered Dawn paints the mesas, Unearthly in their starkly glowing beauty. The ranchers drive out.

Up as the stars first began slipping into their Dreamless slumber, they were. When they kissed their sleeping children Good-morning, the sky was wide and dark.

What do they think about? There are hours for it. What did they eat for breakfast? A tortilla? A bagel? Did they say a prayer before they left? Our Father? The Shema? Who knows? But they are all happy the light has come.

We pass on.

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Faith Crosses the Border

Kennedy Heil ‘18

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Beaches are sleeping this side of the RockiesAll is hushed as the light touches the water, A glimmering morning road on the sea.

The visitors are here. Some of them are from other places entirely. Strange tongues are carried on the breeze, All extolling the wonders of the briny deep.

From whence do they come? And why? With such wonders in their own lands? What are the cherry blossoms of Japan to a Small rocky inlet on the edge of a little bay? What do they think? How do they feel? Who knows? But they are smiling, these foreigners.

We pass on.

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Guidance

Kennedy Heil ‘18

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To the far north and west lie wilder lands. Newer and less touched by Industry’s hand, The sun glories in their freshness.

Tundra to tropics, Boreas to Notus, These lands are the edge of our domain, Last of our children, who draw Expeditioners and vacationers alike.

Who are these travelers?

What do they seek? Are they looking for relaxation? For the sweet sharp thrill of adrenaline? Are they our country’s own, seeking a land Away from and yet near home? Or are they, like their cousins on the shore, Pilgrims from distant lands come to study us? Who knows? But they all find what they seek.

We look back.

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A nation lighted by hope and spirit stands, Wallowing in shadows of fear and injustice. Its people as one weeping and laughing In the thousand languages of joy and grief.

In this nation, differences do not melt away. In this nation, they matter. In this nation, your skin, your God, your gifts, Your family, your love, your dreams, They are the different stars in constellations, They are the blossoms in an orchard, They are the rivers leading to the sea, They are the many colors of a sunlit dawn, More beautiful for the common difference.

We pass on.

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Taking the World Hostage

Ines Keller ‘21

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Futurity Esther Cottrell ‘21

I have never professed to be much of an optimist Nor am I any Cassandra, prophesying doom in a strangled voice But when smoke trails over the water like the Devil’s own perfume And the pleas for mercy echo off the dome of the sky And all the pain of every mother’s child ricochets off the walls of the horizon And being a realist is no longer even practicable, The present too much for any logic to bear upon its rigid back I must turn idealist, And say in the voices of the saints and the prophets and the lonely children, That there is always tomorrow Always another laundry day for the vestments of the soul Always another garden tomb for the world to rise from And when the common human heart beats Beats Beats On and on Shedding tears of blood for the pieces carved out of it And the saltwater sea sighs like the angels’ tears it is made of, I can only say to myself With a tentative confidence in futurity That In all likelihood The sun will be there in the morning September 12

Justin-Siena Literary Magazine

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You’re Not Alone

Kennedy Heil ‘18

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All These Years Maena Yeriell-Manzon ‘18

You ask me if what I feel for you is genuine. If it is as pure as the gold Humans yearn for And as pure as the mind of a child.

My answer is yes. It is pure. It was pure the first time around And it remains the same.

This I am certain of For when we speak It is as if the creation of time faded And simply never existed.

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When we speak The noises outside the windows of this world we stand in Do not distract us, For they are not heard by our ears. For I only hear the tales you tell.

I only hear your mind. I hear the soft thoughts that bounce in your head As they unravel On the tip of your tongue And through your lips Which I dearly miss to kiss.

As we sit in silence There lies a tension. An invisible force that gravitates us to each other. A force that rocks back and forth. The way a mother rocks her crying child.

This is pure for when silence is only left It does not tear us apart. It is pure for when I get lost in my words My skin shivers.

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A trickling feeling crawls From my neck to the tips of my fingers As I feel your eyes gaze upon me. I catch you, but your chin points away.

It has never been physical. The touch of your strong hands Or the smooth appearance of your pink lips Did not draw me. It was the way you perceived the world.

You are a mystery and you will remain so. But yet I do not fear you. The slightest thought of you engulfs all that I am. I fear myself.

Everytime you might ask If it is merely a game I play with my own heart Or if it is purer than pure, My answer will always be yes. Because it has always been you.

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Space-Time Continuum Esther Cottrell ’21 aquí here and now. this is tugging on the timeline and shaking the places left out to dry. this is the first word out of your mouth. the robin redbreast laying the first twigs in his nest. pen touching paper. this is the seesaw tipping, the sliding down, the letting go of the swing. this is the first juice of a crisp, crisp apple on a crisp, crisp morning. hark! a baby cries and sends a ripple of sound down the clothesline into the infinite future. lo! a hand reaches along the timeline and plucks a poem from a place a hundred years ago- they are immortal. words have never been subject to the boundaries of the fourth dimension. this is the leaf wafting to the ground. this is the rock dropping off the bridge. this is the gift of the present-your indelible fingerprint on the clothesline you left twanging into infinity.

allí just there. the when. the turning point into the past, the future, the place just around the bend. this is the spinning compass, the twirling dreidel, the clickety clackety clack of the rolling dice. this is choice. fate. coincidence. this is stepping forward along the tightrope, delicately balanced, across the timestream to the place on the other side. this is the topological map. tracing your fingers along the subway lines and resting on a destination. this is not what might happen on that subway tunnel. it is boarding the train.

allá over there, back then. this is the distance. how far can your tug on the timeline go? how wide is the stream you have to cross before you're on land again? who heard that baby's cry? did the poet see the hand slipping through the fabric of space and time to pluck the poem from their fingers? this is our legacy. legacy. what is a legacy? it's the anticipation before you elbow your way through the masses to the place someone has been holding for you. it's the call of your name on the other side of the world and the whisper of it in your ear. it is the place you left vacant in the air when you let go of that swing, the pen and paper waiting for your hands. time is full of empty spaces, you know. and we, even when we have not slipped through the heavy velvet curtains of the never-ending play, we exist in all of them. this is the gift of eternity-we are never far away enough to be forgotten. Justin-Siena Literary Magazine

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Bird Reaching for the Stars

Ines Keller ‘21

Justin-Siena Literary Magazine

2017-2018 Publication 65


Semper Fortis—Student Literary Magazine  

For more than three decades, the Justin-Siena Literary Magazine has embraced the responsibility of sharing student art and writing with the...

Semper Fortis—Student Literary Magazine  

For more than three decades, the Justin-Siena Literary Magazine has embraced the responsibility of sharing student art and writing with the...

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