The Oak

The Oak

Seasons of Insight

The Oak

Seasons of Insight

Lake Forest Country Day School 145 South Green Bay Road Lake Forest, IL 60045

Introduction

Outside our school, in the middle of our playground, stands a glorious old oak tree. It has become a symbol of the strength of our school and the education students receive at LFCDS. We think it is also a powerful symbol of creativity and imagination, which is why we decided to name our literary magazine after this tree. Our mighty oak was once just a tiny acorn, just as the poems, short stories, micro-fictions, and pieces of artwork in our collection were once just small sparks of inspiration.

This inaugural issue of The Oak is titled Seasons of Insight to reflect its thematic structure. The issue is divided into four sections: Summer, Fall, Winter, and Spring. In our book, Summer is characterized by works that are filled with bright sunshine and bodies of water. It is a joyful time, but is not without its childhood sorrows and hints of what is to come. Fall brings imagery of crisp air and encroaching darkness. The pieces in Winter meditate on subjects related to cold, death, and fear. Finally, Spring arrives with its bright flowers, hope, and a sense of renewal.

Beginning each section of our literary magazine is Nicole Tong’s beautiful drawing of an oak leaf inside a lightbulb. The leaf inside changes with the season; and as you read, you will see how each season inspires different literary and artistic insights.

We hope you enjoy Seasons of Insight. We are incredibly proud of everyone who submitted the work that appears here, and we are grateful for this opportunity to share it with our LFCDS community.

The Editors, 2016

Contents

Cover Art Introduction Summer July The Journey William The Kangaroo Outdoors Galore The First Hit June Different Perspectives Traditions Artwork Interpretations The Water Dragon July Tessellation Fossils, Bones, and Dinosaurs The Letters The Beach Nighttime Elephant No. 18 August Beach Life Artwork Water Tribe Wild Horse Artwork Root Beer The Nadir July The Legend of the Elephant My Tribe August The Royal Lions Sunset

Nicole Tong Angelique Alexos Mia Walvoord Nicole Tong Cutler Terlato Reed Kovas Felicity Whidden Mimi Osborne Charlotte Kelliher Ben Kelliher Ben Kelliher Ellen Roloson Kate Danaher Pamela Shattock Obi Okoli Brooke Farrell Shelby Pruett Kate Danaher Maddie Sturgeon Obi Okoli Jake Putzel Mia Walvoord Brooke Farrell Max Collins Emily Hawkins AJ Lee Pamela Shattock Sophia Varones Luke Larsen Kushal Daruwala Luke Maggos Johnny Silver Asher Sklarov Obi Okoli Charlotte Kelliher Liam Stewart

Artwork Starry Night

Caroline Keil Darina Sokolova

Fall September Tessellation Where I Live You Can’t Write a Poem about a Card Game My First Real Battle September Tessellation Marine October The Donkey Recipe for Halloween October Leaves Artwork Shabit Where I Live My Room The Elegant Swan October: Wooden Candles

Anna Schilling Hannah Cobin Mia Springer Maddie Sturgeon Francesco Accogli Emma Bedward Arianna Griffiths Brendan Murphy Emilio Alvarez Aidan Murphy Libby Blodgett Eva Hanson Kaiden Britton Jack Canty Brendan Murphy Owen Bauder Rohan Gudivaka Angélique Alexos

Winter December Death is an Old Friend Endless Night Truth or Dare Repeat Forget-Me-Not My Room You Can’t Write a Poem about Netflix Remaining The Lady or the Tiger Unknown Bravery Infamous Famous Dream

Jess Vignocchi Emily Hawkins Mimi Osborne Betsy Regan Beatrix Leffingwell Nicole Tong Matt Nocella Daisy Connery Grayson Salata Emily Hawkins Beatrix Leffingwell Will Collins Gino Farrell Evalyn Lee

Helpless Metal Mimi Lonely Streets The Willow’s Heart

Naomi Fleisch Baeseman-Smith Jack Walsh Kate Danaher

Spring Wild Raspberries The Cuckoo in the Depths of the Woods Bird The Birthday Vapor Artwork Matter of Time The Rooster March Happiness is an Open Field March Tessellation You Can’t Write a Poem about Nothing The Bones Joy is a Puppy Growing Up Together Britto What if a Turtle…

Tessellation Zero The Carnival of the Animals: Fish Mrs. Bell’s Hair April Spring Flowers

Max Collins Nicole Tong Sydney Frusher Darina Sokolova Will Meyer Claire Kaplan Leo Anderson Eva Hanson Anne Seaman Brendan Murphy Rohan Gudivaka Beatrix Leffingwell Blair Flavin Katherine Schilling Abbe Shanley-Roberts Theodore Vignocchi Maggie Andrea Asher Anderson Akhil Kommala Calvin Osborne Anton Walvoord Brooks Osborne Alex Mutter Evalyn Lee

Editors

Summer

Nicole Tong July Melancholic days Lozenges and sweets Crunch a chunk of ice In between your teeth Tap piano notes Dig up memories of tunes You’ve still hours to improvise For so is the summer-noon Hypnogogic haze Languid lullabies Composed of ink across a page And steady sips of chai Flickers in wildflowers Glass jars of honey and leaves Cup the glow in your bare hands For so is the summer-eve Set the sky ablaze With lightning and storm Keep fireflies close and candles closer For both will keep you warm Blankets hung from door to post Fixed by binder clips and thread Crawl underneath and dream till dawn For so is your summer bed

William Cutler Terlato The Journey I walk on the beach And feel cold waves The slimy seaweed Nudges my feet Like it wants me To go somewhere I feel grainy sand Against my soft feet A black bucket in my hands My eyes observing the ground A piece of blue glass Rests on the sand Like a blue rocket reaching, Ready for an adventure, Its nose aimed at space A giant reaches for it, A tiny blue space ship Launching into darkness I walk on the beach And feel cold waves The slimy seaweed Nudges my feet Like it wants me To go somewhere

Reed Kovas The Kangaroo An iconic animal that everyone loves Flexible legs jump Through the vast outlands Escaping the great dingo dogs Super 6 feet high, like a trampoline.

Hopping up to 35 mph as fast as a car on a street.

In one single leap 25 feet forward, as long as our English classroom.

In their pouches, Joeys, the little baby marsupials, Ready to jump

Felicity Whidden Outdoors Galore Purple flowers blowing in the wind Rocks scattered all around the dead grass Weeds sticking out of the ground Golden rod glistening all around Flies gathering for a meeting buzzing below the trees Queens Ann’s lace in bundles Lawnmowers in the background Crickets having a loud chirping contest Enjoying the outdoors

Mimi Osborne The First Hit 4-4 2 outs, 3 balls.

Panicked What if I let the team down?

Sweat drips down my face.

I swing the hard wooden bat The ball smashes into the stadium What?!?!?! I did that?????!!!

My face burns Run as fast as I can Dust bounces off cleats Flies away Disappears into bases behind me The ump shouts HOME RUN! They scream For ME I feel woozy I push through I run into the dugout My blonde hair catches Streams of cold water As it flows down my face Because the score is now 5-4

Charlotte Kelliher June The cool spring breeze has blown away Replaced with a scorching sun And a cloudless, blue sky Children run wild through the streets Free from the clutches Of tedious tests and terrifying teachers The sun beats down On those who weave in and out of the waves Ducking under the break to the underwater worlds below There are no more burdens To weigh down the worriers For this is the time For the carefree

Ben Kelliher Different Perspectives I run forward with no fear Towards a monstrous wave And dive I meet the water Plunge in It rises around me I taste the water Salt water My tongue recoils Dig my fingers Into the sand Each grain different from the next Like snowflakes In an ocean I turn upside down Clench my nose shut Open my eyes And through the sting I see it rise over me Dark with a fringe of white Bubbles all around me The same Yet different

Like a wispy Storm cloud About to break I come up on The other side Turn around Look back And get hit By another

Ben Kelliher Traditions I step up Hear the creak Of rotting Wooden boards Different from earlier times I hold my dad’s hand Toddling along the beach I see the pier With its steps covered in seaweed Perfect wood And wish to jump off it I feel splinters Enter my feet Prickly yet They satisfy me And bring back memories Of before I fast walk Listening to my dad’s warnings Along the smooth wooden boards I reach the end And suddenly realize That it’s a long drop I see the water Sparkling

Clear The waves lapping in A continuous motion I feel the drop in my stomach Something I get whenever I feel scared Still I work up the courage I feel the push Of my cousins Urging me on The voices familiar From the countless times I think to myself Here goes nothing I fly through the air And hit the water with a splash It stings my skin From the impact The smell of salt Invades my nostrils And smells like Home And times before I celebrate On the ladder Finally doing what I wanted to do

For so long I jump And feel the rush Of air fly by I climb the ladder And pull myself up to the pier I walk to the edge Take a step back And jump again I hit And splash The water Cold, refreshing Like an ice bath On a hot Summer day I hit the water Start to swim Swim and swim To the shore I swim to The ladder The salt Swarming my pores Against the current I swim with powerful strokes

Until my feet hit the bottom I stand up Walk in Proud of myself I touch the ladder Warm from The sun Seaweed Brushes my feet I run to the pier Sprint along rotten boards Reach the end Where I jump off Laughing through the air I climb up Shiver in the hot air While my teeth chatter And wait my turn To do it again

Ellen Roloson

Kate Danaher Interpretations I look upon the boundless extent.

Parallel to and beneath the heavens, The silver lining separates heaven and earth.

It marks the beginning, not the end.

I see them crash and tumble, Rough, tough to all.

Leaving washed-up treasures behind.

I stay, waiting, for the next to come.

Consumed by devouring blue.

As a fish darts, by I see it.

One light in the dark, Brings hope to all.

I resist, but it is hopeless.

Pulled by a force in control of everything around.

A slimy, green hand wraps around, never letting go.

I swim away, far away.

Looking out at what I took away From a simple trip To the beach.

Maddie Sturgeon The Beach Four girls walked along the beach and felt the shells and sand weave in and out of their toes. One ran to the water and splashed another as they all laughed. Soon they were all soaked. They swam out and raced along the waves, happy as ever. The fish seemed to be gliding along with them as their hair floated at the surface of the glistening water. The water was cold but the sun contradicted it.

They didn't even seem to realize just how far out they were. Soon they were bobbing by the net that cut off the swimmers from going any further. They all then stopped and looked at each other.

Finally, one said that maybe they could just go out a little farther; they were all great swimmers and would turn around in a bit, to go back for lunch. They swam out farther than they knew they should have when they saw it.

The sky turned black and the waves became violent. They struggled to keep their heads above the water. Suddenly, the love they all shared for each other vanished. They pushed each other under to keep themselves afloat. They heard the sea gulls loud voices screeching above and felt the cold, vicious water on their skin and the seaweed tightening around their toes. First, the little one sunk to the bottom, dead. Three remained as they swallowed both the sea water and the fact that they had just killed one of their best friends. "Please" they cried to each other. "We can all survive" one said. Their eyes were hopeful and their minds working on convincing themselves of that. But their minds clouded as they only saw each other as another way to survive.

A dark mist came over them and overtook their minds as they pulled each other's hair and tugged arms down under the water.

They kicked and fought for life until two more sank and only one was left swirling her feet and holding herself up from under the waves that continually swallowed her. Then she stopped for just one second to rest, but in that one second the waves were unforgiving as they swallowed her as well. She felt the air she was grasping for leave her. Then the sky cleared and no one even knew what had just occurred or that those four girls were forever gone, stuck at the bottom of the sea.

But in just a bit, four more, playing on the sand and splashing in the water would join them.

Pamela Shattock The Water Dragon, The Girl, and I I once relaxed above the sea, Nestled in the clouds, safe as can be.

I cast my gaze upon the glimmering ocean, Crashing, pulsing, waves in motion.

I turned and saw something surprising, A sailboat adrift in the merciless ocean.

Its sail was ripped, its boards rotten and broken, And its single passenger seemed lost and heartbroken.

The wind and water, they battered her soul, They pushed and pulled until she was no longer whole.

She seemed on the brink of death, close to edge, Like a baby bird fallen off of a thin ledge.

I watched in silence, about to mourn her death, But she stirred and sat up, didn't take her last breath.

Drenched and cold, scared and forlorn, Yet out of that fear, courage was born.

She stood up, peered at the sea, And had an idea, for she was smart as can be.

She stood straighter, looked proud and tall, Then she parted her lips and made a strange call.

A curious noise floated through the air, It seemed to be headed to a place, and I wondered, where?

Then the water ripples, my curiosity grew, As above the water's surface, a creature's head came through.

It smiled at the girl, as she was a friend, She smiled back, her sadness coming to an end.

It swam up to the boat, gently thumping its side, And what happened next was the greatest surprise.

The girl balanced on the boat's edge, there she sat, Then she nimbly hopped onto the creature's back!

I still wondered one thing as they swam away, A nagging little thought that simply had to stay.

What was the creature the girl sat on?

It wasn't a whale, or a dolphin or shark, It was huge and scaly, with razor sharp teeth And then I had an idea of what it was, really a crazy thing, The creature was a water dragon, come up from the deep.

Mia Walvoord The Swan The swan glides Across shimmering waters A pristine figure gracing Its only audience; The weeping willows Weaving in and out Of their long shadows Starkly contrasting The pastel colors of late evening Glowing orange from the fading sun Drifting through the tall, thin reeds Black mud Kicked up from strong, webbed feet Splatter a pearly underside A soft breath of wind Ruffles his feathers The swan presses on Through the swaying Branches of the trees Disappearing into the dark Silhouettes of their leaves

Obi Okoli July The heart of summer Boiling days and warm evenings The sky brushed light blue Smiles like sunshine sharing their rays of light Swirled lollipops by the hot docks on ocean Fireworks like bombs in the sky Like a flower It’s presence is long awaited Grows and blooms, stands bold like a sparrow Appreciated and admired It briskly withdraws with distinction Its petals gracefully flapping away

Brooke Farrell

Shelby Pruett Fossils, Bones and Dinosaurs Carefully brushing the stone that originally was bone.

Of the Dinosaurs that roamed sixty-five million years ago.

From ground to sky they ruled the earth until they died They fought for their very own lives Scavenging for food beyond their sight For each time a dinosaur died the world Revolted in terror of the dinosaur cry

Kate Danaher The Letters Every day one would come Encased were the days and hours I’d missed And the love sent Scrawled on each one was remembrance Familiarity that kept me going through the weeks Sending what I ventured in: wilderness and deep blue Huddled around a flame singing songs of hope and dreams Paddling away and paddling towards A flare of excitement and competition All encased With my love sent Over hills and valleys they would travel Past great lakes until they came to the palm Of the receiver And every day one would come And the love sent meant I conquered the hours and days away.

Obi Okoli Night time Elephant Wise eyes and gargantuan ears The ground is quaked with every elephantine step It holds the others close as it tramples the sandy, parched grass beneath its feet It's enormous ears flap as the searing African breeze whispers against them The setting sun casting a blanket of vibrant shades The elephant sings its playful, trumpet-like strain as it settles down in exhaustion The dust rises from the ground as it positions itself to dose on the sandy ground congregating with the others In contentment, In protection By this time, the night had fallen low in tranquility With the sound of weaver birds and impalas The elephant lounging on the rain-cracked dirt protected by the glistening stars ignited above

Jake Putzel No. 18 I hear a voice talking About Sumerians or Egyptians Then I see my playing partner Ready to hit his shot Then he hits it, and then she screams “We’re not at a golf course!”

But we are, I know we are We are at no. 18 at Augusta This is the moment of my life I'm about to hit my last drive Of the day, then I hit it I see the Titleist One soar Down the middle like a missile Soaring through the air, then the missile drops Lower, lower and finally explodes The fans erupt but not with claps with screams “WE’RE NOT AT A GOLF COURSE!” But no I am…we are I just see it, feel it, smell it, hear it, I can see the classic yellow flagsticks With bolded green letters On top of wintry white poles I see the clear water rushing Down the rocky creeks filled With white numbered balls

I can smell the grass that has been cut Off the vivid green fairways I can smell the sticky, brown pine From the pine combs buried Like treasure in the deep green rough That has swallowed many golf balls I can feel the dense spring air pushing Against me as I walk through the fairway I can feel my steel sliver club Hitting the white ball making It shoot up again, like a missile again Dropping lower and lower But this time stopping And landing on the thin, green surface Now I can hear it The white ball rolling quickly On the thin green surface Then it hits the cup, circles around And drops in now I hear it The roar of the fans

Mia Walvoord August Twenty seven days Until banners are hung and balloons float above the kitchen table And ice-cream cake melts in the sun and candles slowly drip their wax, waiting to be blown out Glasses are raised, praise is given, and memories are relived Twenty nine days Until the joy resumes and the crinkling of wrapping paper is the soundtrack for the morning Trays are brought to the couch, accompanied by handmade cards Later on, candles are set ablaze…again and the most beautiful off pitch singing begins Thirty one days Where hot, sticky air wraps around my skin And stays, until cool winds blows it away, Along with the birthdays

Brooke Farrell Beach Life Rolling sprays of the ocean Crashes on the warm soothing sand All the slithering Sliding creatures sneak out for the night With flippers and claws and Scratches and Scars from the world elsewhere To a place that seems foreign A place people don’t want them to be They creep Crawl out into snuggling sand Welcoming The bright blazing ball of a sun rises Sunlit striking luminous colors fill the air With happiness And curiosity But great things never last forever And they have to creep Crawl back to where you came from

Max Collins

Emily Hawkins Water I scream, even though it won’t do anything to help. It pierces my lungs that are filling with water. The torrent that the ocean has made around me pulls me lower into the sea as I am flung in circles. I see the light fade away. It’s the light of day. The spark of life. Gone. I smile for the last time. Well, this is better than the world above…

15 minutes earlier…

I scream. Glass shatters around me. Store fronts are taken out in an instant. The moon is gone, and the water is alive. I won’t even bother to look for my mother. It’s the end of the world. Water laps at my heels as I run away from the beachfront. But the water is faster. It grabs my ankles and pulls me back towards the sea.

People run by hundreds of feet away, none of them my mother.

None of them are her, because she is twenty feet away, in the same position as me, dragged out onto the flooded beach. I reach for her, but wet sand and sea water just runs through my frantic fingers.

And then she is gone. And I am dragged out of sight, into the ocean…

15 minutes earlier…

I scream with everyone else. The news anchor is filled with fear, like everyone around me. My head is spinning… it’s the end of the world. The moon had been pushed off course by a meteor, and it would collide with earth anytime soon. I grab my mother’s hand.

This could possibly be the last time I would be next to her. We are at the shore front, and with the warning of the water, we need to move. Everyone runs in different directions, and the warmth of my mother’s hand leaves my grasp…

AJ Lee Tribe I belong to the tribe that laughs or screams a lot.

The tribe that loves to play video games but cannot.

The tribe full of books and writing.

And the tribe of bad French speakers.

But with the worst cheap sneakers.

I belong to the tribe of Lego slayers, And the tribe that sucks as basketball players.

I belong to the tribe of Robotic interests.

But not the ones who spend their time on Pinterest.

I belong to a family of four, Plus my dog that can score All the socks and many more!

As I reflect upon the tribes I belong to, I realize that there is more to do.

These tribes are not ever enough, These tribes are just little stuff.

Pamela Shattock Wild Horse In a field, on a rusted Fall day, a horse faces me.

He looks me straight In the eye, challenging.

I stare back, filled with awe.

I lurch forward, falling Into the fiery pools Of darkness that show me A glimpse of his wild soul.

He tosses his head, flicks His glossy mane And paws the ground.

A shrill whinny escapes His parted lips, And he rears, striking An invisible enemy Who is defeated instantly, Shattered from the blows To the head, the back, the legs.

The opponent gone, and he races off, A creature of nothing more Than part of the wind.

Sophia Varones

Luke Larsen Root Beer It opens like a cannon The explosion sends bubbles in to the air Its light brown cap twists off like a ballerina Glowing in the sun Turning it like fluid Carmel in a bottle like how the leaves change in fall The bubbles rush to the top like a dancer leaping into the air on stage As I tip it into my mouth It tastes like no liquid touched The tongue ever Then I go inside to get another

Kushal Daruwala The Nadir Shoved into a wave of despair, Sinking into the depths of the malicious words, Voice drowned by fuming shouts, Legs caught in a net of selfish lies, Hands brush seaweed of ungratefulness, Fish eats my memories I hit sand at the bottom of unknown sorrow barriers.

Cold, nomadic water crawls into my soul, Heartshivers, eyes flutter, shut, Beginning my sleep.

I wake up, Something brushes my arms, Motivation is everywhere.

I lift myself with seaweed of gratefulness, I push off the sand, I break the pleasure barriers, Remaining memories back into my mind, I squeeze through the net of truth, Listen to calm words, I climb out of the waves full of joy.

Luke Maggos July I play with the nice warm fibers against my feet I look down seeing the stains I have gotten on my shirt from the buttery corn.

I watch the sun fight to stay up until it is defeated I gaze up at the sky as I first see an explosion of light and then the booming sound that made me jump As I look closer at the bursts of light and study them I notice that they form certain objects and animals For the next five minutes I watch as popcorn kernels pop, birds fly, fish swim, but then disappear within seconds It was as if I was watching beautiful art turn into massive explosions.

As the fireworks start to get tired the mosquitos come to play They infested my legs with bites No matter how many I kill they manage to reproduce Everybody swarms to the exit pushing and shoving their way through the gate.

But as I look around, there are more parking tickets than mosquitos.

I get in my car and fall asleep within seconds.

Until next year

Johnny Silver The Legend of the Elephant The legend of the Elephant Elephant, Emperor Known from the rising sun's empire To the fertile crescent moon The creature that send fear into Roman hearts Elephant, Conqueror Creature of God-Kings The prey of only lighting and thunder The one to whom merchants pay tribute All hailed elephant Power of Ganesha The destruction of the Punic War Enslaver of evolution O creature of Earth!

In the jungles of Congo Across the deserts of Africa To the forests of India From the ashes of the rise and fall It is you, elephant Who will take it all

Asher Sklarov My Tribe I belong to the tribe of the people.

And to the tribe of football players.

And to the tribe of paintball pros And to the tribe of PC gamers And to the tribe of 12 year old boys And to the tribe of LFCDS And to the tribe of friends And to the tribe of the outdoors And to the tribe of eating lots of mac and cheese after school And not in the tribe of the drama people And to the tribe of the early birds And to the tribe of the Bell advisory And to the tribe of the little tiny pouncing puppy And I knew that all of these things made me, me.

Obi Okoli August August, a small boy Warm colors layering the atmosphere His orange tears reflecting the sky pierce the dirt below his feet And stain the birch wood His repetitive cycle of lethargy Summer’s staleness His warm breeze taunts ash flowers Humid air His orange clouds cumulating towards the painted sun an evening on a small hill His sunlight peeling away Leaving silhouettes of trees His night like a fire Warm, swaying

Charlotte Kelliher The Royal Lions As the sun rises over the savannah The lions rise from their slumber And as the morning breeze catches under birds wings They dress for the new day As their manes cast a shadow On the polished, marble tile And as their crowns are placed on their heads They sit, impatiently waiting As the crowd catches a glimpse of the lions Giraffes and cheetahs fall to their knees before them And as the trumpets fade into the distance The lions begin their march As the light fades into the horizon The lions stand proud at the edge of their kingdom And as they look back and the light disappears Their roar fills the silent night

Liam Stewart Sunset Over the sky Looking at the orange sunset I see some purple Some red And a sparkle of blue Making the day Ending the day And warming And the sun slipping under The moon coming up

Caroline Keil

Darina Sokolova Starry Night I gaze into the Dark Night Sky. Not a cloud in sight.

A perfect galaxy.

Each star filled with a Lifeless Soul.

Even better.

I look up again, Stare directly at The Vast Glowing Moon.

Its reflection on the damp, leaves in the fresh forest.

Many constellations, They look Like small children of the moon Each individual Unique.

As I sit on the wet Long grass, I wonder what the next night will bring.

Fall

Anna Schilling September A cottage sat on the edge of the ravine Yellow and gold leaves hung over the roof Swinging to the rhythm of wind A small river flowed deep in the ravine A branch let go of a firetruck red leaf—it fell—dancing down into the shallow, shimmering waters A strong deer pranced through the endless ravine The only sound from the peaceful woods Was the crunch of fallen leaves Like a drum under its hoofs On a beautiful September day The ravine echoed enchanting songs of nature.

Hannah Cobin

Mia Springer Where I Live The music blasts through the walls And the screams light up the air Motorcycles pull into driveways late And doors slam Shutting down power I hear the train roaring for miles and miles into endless space Then, birds chirp up a melody Their sweet sound fills the air Or rain pours down on our roof And then the smells of a spring day melt into fall The wind blows the branches The snow dusts the ground And forms a white blanket of dead silence when the college kids return To their studies

Maddie Sturgeon You Can’t Write a Poem about a Card Game Sunday morning we sit around a table staring down at the thin red cards both of us holding the best poker face that we can.

Her nimble fingers search through her small portion of the deck as she slips one out from the very middle with a wide, toothy grin I snatch her card from the top as I slam down a King of Hearts with fury as I know she will win.

I smell the tension as she places her final card preparing for the battle of a lifetime I jump up and shoot fire from my mouth like a dragon and flap my wings madly She hops up and uses her serpent tentacles to hold me down I scream, "CHEATER!"

She screams, "LIAR!" We throw ourselves at each other and the spell is broken as her nimble fingers shuffle the deck for another round of madness.

Francesco Accogli My First Real Battle I pick up my sword and prepare to fight, I put on my helmet, take a step back, and get into position I inhale the bitter smell of fencing gear, I hear the “en garde� from the referee, Fear runs through me, The odds of winning are low: A self-taught, scared little boy against a big, strong expert, And with a flash, the swords clang Slashing, jabbing, blocking Until one of them finds the spot And is exposed

Emma Bedward September Our life began a long time ago When the air was warm And the breeze cool On our skin, but Come September And we are aging, losing Our robust green And all our strength Children delight in us, reveling In our death.

Excitement fills the air While thoughts of it all ending Rise up We mourn, but mostly We fear we will be Next. Too soon we feel Our stems loosen From our limbs.

Arianna Griffiths

Brendan Murphy Marine Who wanted to fight For his country Since he was a kid Who travels by air and water The one who nobody knows exists The one that goes to boot camp Straight out of high school Who's seen his friends Die for our freedom Who wears his patch full of pride Who hears a loud crack Who watches the blood Spew out of his chest Thinking about his husbandless wife And fatherless kids And tries to stay strong For his last breath But breaks his last tear Who hears, "You're going to make it" Until the voice fades away And his life flashes before his eyes And guns shoot off At his funeral

Chloe Whelan Through The Eyes of a Child Frances stood in the tiny bathroom hearing the sounds of anger erupting in the kitchen of their stepdad's trailer. She looked in the slightly cracked mirror to try and distract herself from the yelling.

Ma told her that it got cracked when Bill got angry. When Bill got angry Ma always made her go into the bathroom because when Bill was angry, he just couldn’t control himself and she didn’t want her to get hurt.

Frances held her baby doll. She took off the doll’s dress and pretended to change her diaper. She kissed her baby on the cheek and whispered just like her ma said to her every night when she thought she was asleep. “We’re gonna get out of here, don’t you worry.” Then she kissed her again on the forehead. She loved to play pretend, it was her favorite.

A minute later ma burst in to the bathroom. “Frances we’re leaving right now grab your stuff.” Her lip was bleeding. Her brown hair was out of its bun and her eye was swollen. Frances knew not to argue. She picked up her backpack that she got on her last birthday when she turned 6. She picked up her 2 shirts her skirt, and her pair of jeans and shoved it all in her backpack. She slipped on her too small crocs and walked over to Ma who was shaking by the door, her eyes bloodshot. Bill was outside the trailer-pacing and screaming words that she wasn’t allowed to say.

“Put your stuff back Frances.” Ma said, “We’re not leaving today.”

Not today, I thought. Not yesterday. Not the week or month or year before. We never really leave. It’s just pretend.

Emilio Alvarez October I fall victim to the crisp breeze Seeming to diminish the warmth of the shorter sun And the bird sings with a wind-drawn tear This is a time for the red sunrises Congenial congregations And when my skin was touched by the blazing summer sun Traded for the harvest moon Now I sit in reflection

Aidan Murphy The Donkey In the vast field he will stay Through the day Till the sun decides to set And he gallops away Opening his mouth as wide as day And yells his bray Dropping his head to the ground And taking a big mouthful of hay He has bugs on his back Until they fly away Deliberately walking to the tree Eating a fallen apple that is very worthy Till he finishes the apple And walks away, freely

Libby Blodgett Recipe for Halloween One cup of tricks Ten pints of treats Fifty gallons of people going for Halloween sweets Three teaspoons of frightening jack-o-lanterns Two tablespoons of salty, oven baked, pumpkin seeds Four quarts of people hiding to boo someone around the tree One cup of creative costumes Ten pints of kids being bad When Halloween is over every one is sad

Eva Hanson October Leaves The green of the trees fades into the distance Making way for the pastel, orange autumn leaves Animals prepare for frigidness with much persistence As the lush green disappears and brings a cold winter breeze It is filled to the brim with pumpkins and puffy coats And masqueraded children collecting enough candy to feed a city People dress in down fur from their toes to their throats As a pumpkin becomes a person, a child left feeling very witty The busyness of summer is unwound And the blue of the sky is hanging from its very last string As the last reminiscence of summer floats to the ground, A Sandhill crane flies overhead, searching for spring

Kaiden Britton

Jack Canty Shabit All of the servants were away and alive Except the statues littering the ground and shelves Carved with spells, a figurine sat Awaiting its master's call to work As long as it has clear spells To awake it from its paralyzing sleep And tools to carry out its duties Working for infinity as its master's spirit Relaxes on a bed on the Nile Drinking wine and enjoying the afterlife When the figures were finished Outfitted with the proper tools And spells for the journey to the next world They were placed in the tomb alongside their owner And ready for work Just waiting for their master's call

Brendan Murphy Where I Live Turn right out of school Turn left and go to the third school Turn right on the car-filled road Taking people close and far Get off on Grand Avenue The road drenched with stores and malls Drive until the road separates farm and forest Where the shoulder high corn grows Like people in Chicago crowding the streets See old abandon farm houses Vines guarding trucks from leaving their spots And grass driveways leading to log cabins.

Lakes are scattered all around like modern art The forest is in our back yard And the Womping Willows dance While kids play soccer in front yards This is my home

Owen Bauder My Room My room Where I sleep and study Where I get my peace and quiet The green wall with many posters The blue carpet with dirty clothes on the floor The bookshelf with many books and toys The closet where I hide my money Open windows Ruffled sheets A messy desk Music blasting Its my music studio Its my hiding place Its my quiet place Its my safe haven I lie my head softly to sleep No one is even bothering me I have no troubles

Rohan Gudivaka The Elegant Swan The elegant swan Gracefully glides Across the stationary waters Cygnets following Close behind Undisturbed By the rumbling Of the car engines And the yelling Of the city folk Never straying too far From tranquility

AngĂŠlique Alexos October: Wooden Candles A match Sparks on the dewy ground Lighting a way Through the morning fog The golden match Sweeps around The wooden candles Each one ignites Flickering in the cool breeze The wooden candles burn And tiny sparks begin to fall Each one red, orange, yellow, or brown They touch the ground Without a sound And shrivel into ash

Winter

Jess Vignocchi December

The night was cold The wind skidded across the plowed porch and whipped the weighted awning around its metal skeleton The snow brushed against the wall and froze into a piece of spiraled art.

The grey sky held still a few minutes before it turning pitch black The delicate snowflakes sprinkled on the ice covering it like a thin sheet of paper. In the morning, the bright grey sky pierces the eyes of whoever is outside walking under the canopy of trees—every bare branch laced with snow, falling with swoops of wind in the wondrous winter we call December

Emily Hawkins Death is an Old Friend

Death is an old friend Who embraces you And never lets go The longer separated The more your mind thinks About him Worrying about him Awaiting the day he comes to you And welcomes you back You can trick him And deceive him Many people have And give him a better reason to come find you And use deception To get revenge on tricks Death is the old friend that will do Everything your way Until you tell him To have an opinion And his request takes Your breath away Only to be seen by the ones Who have waited patiently Or get a pleasant surprise

And walk with him Into the sunshine Beyond the eye

Mimi Osborne Endless Night I turn in a circle Frantic fear rushes through me A cold hand grabs me Removes me Takes me away Thud: I slam on the cold Hard Cement Floor He is bellowing I can’t understand I hope it will never happen again I sit up, Breathe heavily Scared, alone I become strong and Out of bed rush To Mom and Dad’s room My heart racing Through my chest It’s like I will never Reach Their Bed In

Time Finally Warm sheets Make me feel at home “What happened?” Says mom Her eyes already half asleep But I don’t hear her Because I am drifting off to sleep Turning in a circle, frantic

Betsy Regan Truth or Dare “Truth or dare?” the website read.

May and I were trying a new internet game, since we were insanely bored. This trip to Colorado was horrible! Rain everyday… Truth May clicked the button and the loading sign quickly gave her a question “If you could save one person, who would it be?” It spat out each word in a robotic voice.

“Well duh, Chelsey.” She looked at me with a broad smile, and I laughed.

“My turn!” I squeaked. Dare I click. “Turn around in a circle” it read.

“Pfft. This game is stupid. May, can we not do this”? I asked as I reluctantly completed the circle.

“Nah, let’s just click a harder level!”

“Ok” I said suddenly annoyed, trying to tell her this was super boring.

“Okay… here look at the screen, Chelsey” It had four buttons side by side Easy, Medium, Hard, Life or Death “Well, duh, life or death,” I clicked. It was just a game, right?

“Yay! Let’s do it!” May squealed in delight. “You must finish the game…5 questions per person” It said in a low voice.

I said this was a horrible idea, but May convinced me otherwise, “Okay here we go!”

The first question read a truth for May, “You are about to fall off a ledge. On the other side your best friend will, too. If you can save yourself, would you or would you save your best friend before you fell?” I saw a quick flash of fear from May which quickly turned to...

“This is so stupid this is like my first question on the easy level.”

“Well, who do you pick?” I asked nervously.

“Uhhh… would you mind turning around, for a sec?”

“Yeah, sure, I’ll get us some drinks” I walked away uneasily.

I returned and the screen again was on the Truth or Dare page. I clicked Dare which told me something was waiting on the windowsill. My stomach turned and flipped, I was going to throw up. Bravely, I told May to open all the windows in the kitchen, and I would open them in the bedroom. I hesitantly stuck my head through one of the windows, and I saw May peek through the window on the other side.

“I don’t see anything!” I shouted. My words must have been stolen by the wind since May looked at me with a confused look.

“What?� she mouthed. Before I could respond back, a huge gust of wind had thrown me through the window. My hands quickly grasped the side of the window, but the window shot down. I shouted and screamed and kicked against the side of the building. I was all alone.

Beatrix Leffingwell Repeat Two red eyes, And a bloody knife, In pitch black.

A cold, Stone, Court stands below me, Grey, Creaking with each step I take, Engravings everywhere, Pillars crash in a cloud of dust.

Never-ending trees, In a never-ending forest, In a never- ending nightmare, A loud crash, And I start to run, Run, Run, Run, I toss and turn, I moan and groan, Unaware of reality.

Wanting to escape to my safe place, Needing to escape to my safe place, But my safe place is nowhere to be found.

The horror continues, The two red eyes stare through my soul, I jump, In fear of what may become of me.

Repeat Repeat Repeat Repeat Repeat It continues to stare at me, Attack me, Over and over again.

Sweat trickles down my forehead, It rains, Pours, Hails.

Wind, Water, And ice, Blind me.

Two red eyes, And a bloody knife, Two red eyes, And a bloody knife, Two red eyes, And a bloody knife, Gone.

Nicole Tong Forget-Me-Not (Modern Prints & Drawings pg. 31 – La Toilette Mary Cassatt) She unwrapped the chocolate, discarded the garish wrapper. Pallid palms, shaky digits, healthy and strong but still trembling, as if an earthquake rumbled inside of her. Setting the sickly sugary candy to the side, she splashed water on her face, wiping it of sweat.

Picked up the chocolate. Took a bite.

How saccharine, how sweet. It burned, and melted under her tongue, and she wearily noted that the flavor was mind-numbingly familiar as she shed her black clothes and tossed them with repressed anger to the side of the room, didn’t watch as it seeped into shadow, as the shadow seeped into it.

The chocolate was gone now, and she reached instinctively to grab another piece, then stopped herself and breathed. Her jaw hung open, and perhaps she had forgotten how to speak, for she had forgotten the sound of her own voice – a bit too high pitched, a bit too honeyed, a bit too immature.

The first words cracked. “Sylva,” and she stopped herself, breathed, started again: “Sylva Myo was as energetic as a mother as she was a child.” Sounds seemed so foreign coming from her mouth. She splashed water on her face. Breathe.

The water in the bowl stilled, and she stared at herself in the reflection, pale skin framed with inky hair, no color on cheeks that

flushed with heat. Turning her head to look away, her gaze fell on the porcelain vase.

“Hey, Cassatt.” Myo pushed against the door, pocketed her spare key, guffawed as Cassatt raced to the front of the room to meet her and haphazardly kicked odds and ends to the floor in the process.

Behind Myo’s back, wildflowers, leaves, and a single white rose, and she held them out to her, until they filled her vision and invaded her senses. Pungent and sweet. “Happy twenty-first birthday,” and in her other hand, a plastic bag.

“And as a child, Sylva had many friends. She’d said she’d stand with all of them if trouble came, and I asked her what would happen if they stood against her.”

Cassatt grasped the flowers, thorns prickling her fingers and drawing blood, yelped. “God,” she muttered. Jumped around the room, flung up the vase that had fell on the ground, quickly stuffed the flora into it. “Good god, Myo, honestly.” Myo giggled, and Cassatt giggled, and they both laughed, as if the pain was anything to laugh at, as if all were right in the world – and it was.

“All she told me was that she would never let that happen, not a chance.”

“Store-bought flowers are too expensive,” Myo grinned, yellowed and toothy and far too charismatic to be believable. “Hey, hey,” she whispered and prodded her shoulder, and Cassatt sent her a glare, though they both knew she didn’t truly mean it, couldn’t.

“Hey,” she huffed impatiently, and nudged her with the plastic bag

– freezing, and wet, and numbing her clothes and her skin and her flesh. “Miss Twenty-one.”

Her knuckles were white, whiter than her skin. She grit her teeth – pearly and milky and white like her knuckles, white like sclera.

Lies.

“What’s that?” And if it were even possible, Myo’s smile grew wider, more mischievous, and perhaps Cassatt should have been worried - should have, should have, should have sent her away right then – but at that time, she could have entrusted Myo with her life.

“Come on. You can’t be that sheltered, can you?”

“She stayed true to her promise.”

It hadn’t been raining at the procession. Just humid, and cloudy – and how strange it had seemed, ashen skies and clothes charred black with memories, and all around them, flowers, ordered from a nearby store, pristine and perfect.

And perhaps she had been preparing for this day for months, perhaps since the last birthday, for Myo pulled out a can of beer, hooked her finger around the tab and tugged. Took a sip, held it out, and because even Cassatt wasn’t that dense she sipped as well. Bitter.

The flowers were fragrant, and their sugary scent had hung in the air, filled those skies with sweetness.

“Here’s a toast to Miss Twenty-One!”

“And all throughout the years, she never changed. She never needed to.”

They continued that, once, twice, three times, ten. A sip for Myo, a sip for Cassatt, back and forth between them, until the drink was gone. Habits, Myo had always said, were difficult to break – and Traditions even more so.

“Some considered her perfect. I considered her the person who came closest to achieving it, despite her flaws.”

Bit off a piece of chocolate.

They hadn’t shared the next drink Rolled it around in her mouth.

The metal had clanked, loudly, and each noise had made her head pang in pain. Myo was throwing the empty beers across the room, and Cassatt didn’t bother to ask her to stop – she couldn’t, she never was as willful as Myo was, not ever.

“When Sylva,” she struggled to force out the name. Myo. Myo, not Sylva. Tansy. Tansy, not Myo. Tansy, Tansy, because Sylva, because Myo had always been bright and glowing, and anything else would have been far too romantic.

It didn’t matter much, anyhow.

The ceramic bowl cracked. The water rippled, filtered out, and perhaps out of impulse she broke the connected pieces into disconnected shards, took two in her shaking, shaking hands.

The beer wasn’t too bitter anymore, Cassatt had realized, nearly an hour into their celebration. It was watery, fleeting, and by the

second it seemed to become less powerful, less potent. She looked over at Tansy. She was blushing, and her skin was heated, and she seemed so alive.

The edges grazed against her soft skin. Breathe.

“Hey, hey, hey.” The words were slurred. “Hey, Cassatt.”

She curled her fingers into fists, pressed down as hard as she could.

Breathe.

It had been too lavish, she realized. Too pompous for Tansy, too much flair and extravagance – and everyone had been so respectful, filled with pretense and politeness. Tansy would have wanted them to laugh, and perhaps she should have, she should have.

Jibes and jabs became more unpredictable – and Tansy had already been so very, very unpredictable. “Hey, hey, Cassatt, look at me.” She poked her, and Cassatt laughed, laughed and laughed because all seemed to be so right, and her eyes were closed because they were tearing up from laughter and happiness – for here was here was Tansy, celebrating her twenty-first birthday, just the two of them – and because she couldn’t see, because she didn’t want to see, she didn’t notice anything wrong when there was a lull, a sudden silence.

She gasped, though she knew it was coming – the blood, crimson and dripping and staining her skin. Breathe.

Cassatt kept laughing as Tansy seethed, and she didn’t see Tansy pull back her arm, didn’t see her fingers curl into fists, her white hot knuckles, her gritted teeth. She yelped, then kept laughing, even as Tansy punched her once.

Sweet flowers, pristine and perfect, and rigid attendees, respectful and polite, and there was she, wrapped in a scarf and a cloak and a jacket with pockets all filled with chocolate.

Tansy punched her again, harder, and the strength behind it all made Cassatt frown, made her worry.

The shards clattered as they fell from her bloodied grip and hit the surface, and she began to hyperventilate – or had she already been doing so, already been suffocating in the shadowy room?

“Myo?” Fifty years ago, she had celebrated her twenty-first birthday, and how jubilant they had been, for now she could be an adult as well.

“You idiot,” Tansy hiccupped. She was crying, the tears were welling up, she had been biting her lips so hard that they broke under those yellow, yellow teeth. She swung again, hit her in the gut, and Cassatt felt the pain trail up from her stomach to her wobbly legs to her tiny feet, and back up again, spreading to her arms and her spine and her head, as Tansy yelled in a whisper, or whispered a yell, “you idiot, you idiot, idiot, idiot Cassatt.”

They shook, and slowly, as if trying to deceive her eyes, melded back into a ceramic bowl, pieces clicking into place, cracks smoothing over, as if nothing had ever happened, as if nothing would ever happen.

“Myo, Myo,” she screamed back, as she was pushed into a wall, and her head hurt – hurt, hurt so badly, that maybe she imagined the next part, but it had been too real, felt too real. “Tansy, please, stop, please…”

And fifty years from then, no more birthdays had come and gone, and all that was left was a gravestone surrounded by fifty, five hundred, five thousand others.

She spread open her palms, looked at the creases and lines, felt the prints.

Her yells were incoherent now, and between breaths words tumbled out: “Don’t call me that, don’t call me Tansy, we’re not children anymore,” as if she were begging for her life, as if she weren’t the one causing the pain. “You don’t understand, you never understand, never, never, you’ve never –“ The cuts became scars, became cuts again, which melted away, white into white.

And all she could feel, all she could taste and smell was that bitter beer, filling her senses, devouring her whole. Tansy, Myo, Sylva, she was closer than ever before, salty tears and the bitterness, shoved against her lips, fingers splayed against her chest, body pushing against body.

And amongst the gravestones, there was one closest to Tansy’s – a husband’s, surely. And staring at the both of them, unaware that they were being stared at themselves, were their blood, their children. She hadn’t realized how sickening it had seemed at the time. How disgusting.

And oh God, all Cassatt could do was gag and kick her away, and how terrible, sickening, disgusting she must have been, pressed against the wall in pure terror, covered in scratches and red soonto-be-bruises, while Myo looked just as terrified, at herself, at her.

Fifty years had passed, and yet they had not, for she was still twenty-one, still twenty-one-minus-one-day.

“I’m sorry,” she choked out, and Cassatt could have very well believed her. “I’m sorry, I’m so, so sorry.” She looked weak, and that weakness seemed to cover the entire room, the apartment, spreading from one to another.

The ceramic bowl was filled with water.

“Get away,” Cassatt murmured, because that was all she could think, because it was wrong, it was depraved, she couldn’t, she couldn’t.

She splashed water on her face.

Myo was silent. She covered her face with her hands, wiped away snot and tears.

Breathe.

“I see.”

She unwrapped the chocolate.

That was all she said, before exiting the apartment, leaving a storm of cans and wildflowers and emotions behind. Not sobered, not hardly. Cassatt thought she might’ve died right there, because oh God, what else was there to do?

Took a bite.

She picked up the vase, hurled it across the room. Wildflowers were strewn across the floor. The scratches healed, the red turned to white, and she simply laid hapless, trying to catch herself, her regret.

How sweet.

Matthew Nocella My Room My room My homework dungeon Where I am the conquering hero, And journey on through the mirror maze of confusion My room My gaming paradise The router box glowing, A light through the lost lands of YouTube My room My sleeping oasis The soft bed The peaceful sounds of nothing My room My writing river Where ideas flow like the Nile through Egypt, The vast ocean where My mind swims like a fish.

My room My homework dungeon My gaming paradise

My sleeping oasis My writing chamber Reflections of me

Daisy Connery You Can’t Write a Poem about Netflix You can’t write a poem about Netflix.

You can’t write a poem about the way The bright red screen says In pixelated letters NETFLIX Strong and proud.

You can’t write a poem about the way The glassy screen Is blasted with season covers and movie posters.

The small section titled: You Might Like Has about a hundred titles From Charade to Grey’s Anatomy.

You can’t write a poem about the small robot That works the network.

How everything is neatly organized And there are thousands of options.

You can’t write a poem About watching Netflix.

Curled up under your soft duvet Piles of pillows laying underneath you.

How your wide eyes Stare at the screen in wonder.

You can’t write a poem about the joy.

Watching a family movie Of giggles erupting from your siblings

And the grease from the buttery popcorn Sticks to your fingers.

Indulging in Gossip Girl With your closest of friends.

Uproarious laughter and squealing, Spilling Perrier and jelly beans On the cozy blankets.

Or the time you had a really bad day, And nothing could cheer you up But the bright red screen And Universal’s opening music Brought you back to life.

Grayson Salata Remaining I get in bed Bear jumps on Plops down Bed bounces He takes up most of the space Licks my face I pull the blankets over my body Using all my strength Pulling Bear closer to me I rest my head Bear lies next to me Blue and black blanket Covers him His head pokes out like a turtle from his shell I hug him until we fall asleep Next morning I wake up See Bear lying next to me The blue and black blanket Covers him His head pokes out like a turtle from his shell

Emily Hawkins The Lady or the Tiger, Reimagined Blood pulsed through every inch of the man’s body. He looked back at his princess, the one he betrayed. But she wasn’t there! A sudden fear washed over him. His princess had left because she couldn’t watch him be eaten. He panicked. Could he trust her? A half barbaric princess to let him be eaten; is that what was happening? He paced back and forth. It was hard for the poor man to think with the laser rays of the king and everyone in the arena staring at him. Several times he pressed an ear against each door.

But the deafening silence was all that could be heard.

A sudden shriek filled the arena. The worst sound anyone could’ve heard. Everyone else’s screams of horror created a sweet symphony of ghost howls. And it came from the right door. The Lady behind the door was in trouble. He sprinted over to the door, his shoe held as a brave knight with a sword. He yelled with all of his anger at the guards to open the door on the right. The guards did not hesitate. Light filled a dark corridor, revealing a lady. The man gasped as he saw his princess, in a red and white gown. The bright red flowed into the white like a sea kissing the shore. The princess ran up to the confused man and embraced him like two long gone friends reunited.

“Thank goodness you are here,” she said, “Sorry about the screaming, I thought I saw a horrible beast in the back darkness” The man embraced her with all of his love, but didn’t realize the body slumped over in the depths of the room. And the silver blade the princess held in one hand behind her back.

Beatrix Leffingwell Unknown Bravery Frozen fingertips, freezing toes, I wait, For the sound of a duck, And the whimper of a dog, I wait, For a gunshot to fire, And the duck to fall like a bomb, In an explosion of feathers, And land on the ice, I wait, For thumps of a dog’s feet sprinting through snow.

But something goes wrong, Just a single crack of ice, Makes my dog fall, Water splashes, He shouts, My dad screams.

But a single runaway changes it all, Not knowing, He will save his father’s life, A dog’s life, Letting him out of the freezing water, Breaking ice, Making a pathway, By clearing the thin, frozen water out of his way,

Not knowing that to make a pathway is to make a change, Changing his image from runaway to hero, His spirited sprint saves us all, From sorrow, Like it’s a normal day, A son saving a father, And me.

Frozen fingertips, Freezing toes, I wait.

Infamous

Will Collins Infamous The shark is infamous to the fish.

The loud voice is infamous to the delicate microphone.

The hungry cat in the tree is infamous to the bird and it's precious nest.

The many tears are infamous to the computer that rests on the table below.

The bad idea and the evil man are infamous to the city and the many people who thrive in it The bare foot is infamous to the hot coals or the broken glass that causes much pain The photographed evidence is infamous to the bandit but the evidence isn't as bad as the man who committed the crime I want to be infamous to the world, They all mockingly smile back at me The victims who will never quite know what hit them My name all over the news

Gino Farrell Famous The socks are famous to the feet, these are the Hero's that save the toes from cold tile The sound is famous to the ears.

They snatch the sound and listen as a net catches a butterfly.

The tape is famous to the paper.

The rescue team that stitched up the torn corner now good as new.

The thumbtack is famous to the cork board.

The piercings show what can be held and what the corkboard will never drop.

The key is famous to the lock.

They wrestle with each other, but the key always wins.

Evalyn Lee Dream Darkness, No weight, Just floating, Is this what being on the moon feels like?

I could hear soft muted words, Calling for me, I called out, Only invisible words sat in my mouth.

A Dream is like being in a movie, With a screen blocking my existence, I pounded on that screen, Begging to wake up, Why can’t I leave this torturous movie theater?

Nothing was secure, Just transparent figures floating, Swirling around, My maze of a brain.

Not cold, Not warm, Not hot, Just there.

Suddenly, A blast of acute sounds, Shocked my ears,

And I felt gravity, Pull me like it should.

Hot and tired, Tears streaked my face, And I felt the darkness, Of Reality, And a Dream.

Naomi Fleisch Helpless German soldiers Kick me out of My own house because I am not one of Them They take over My Town because they are “Right.�

The person who Used to be my best friend is now my biggest Nightmare.

They torture my Family because we are Different.

They abandon Thinking like we abandon Hideouts

because Thoughts Serve them No More.

I hear gunshots, screams, Horror They hide the Fear inside.

They wait for Time To change Everything.

I Hide In a dark closet In a dark room In a Dark House Scared To show myself I know they are hoping for Fate To attack by their side.

But suddenly they Pause

To Think.

They try to Undo What can no longer Be Undone.

Mimi Baeseman-Smith Metal Cold, dark, hollow what we use for weapons.

Sharp cold bullets piercing your chest like an arrow hitting a bullseye Cutting your food with sharp slick hollow Chopping the meats.

Shiny metal caught by the golden reflection of the sun watching it's every move.

Metal.

Hard, good for self defense Metal pipes icy cold and burning hot water Metal with rust scaling on it like dead skin. the aroma and the color of it rubbing off onto your sweaty hands.

Jack Walsh Lonely Streets I walk the lonely streets of Chi-Raq. I think back to the glory days, the days of education and freedom. But now I shiver on these lonely streets, waiting for that somebody to come and offer me a second chance. I wait for someone to help me forget about my past, where mistakes were made and regrets developed. These lonely streets don't have much to offer, an apple here, or a McDonalds coupon there.

Here I am today thinking about all the stupid, messed up things I didn't accomplish in my regretful past. Whether it was drugs or parties I went to. I know that there is still hope in my limited years.

I walk these lonely streets knowing that summer is near and the frigid spring and winter will pass. This is the windy city; this isn't Lake Forest with puffy winter coats or Gucci shoes. It snows in the spring, and I find the nearest train station, trash bag, and soft padding on the ground. I lie here all night thinking about all the things I did in my past, all my mistakes and misfortunes. A job loss, divorce, and expulsion. I wake up and then try to find some food for my breakfast-lunch-and-dinner, one meal, everyday.

I head out of the dark alleys and head up to the big part of the city.

Big buildings and warm train stations. I ask for money, hail cabs for people, and take walks. The sun begins to set, and I do my daily search for a train station, trash bag, and soft padding. I find my needs and go under the train station. The sun sets, I begin shiver. I don't know that much, but I know what hypothermia is. I don't have enough protection from the cold; it's unbearable. My body can't take it anymore; these lonely streets just got lonelier.

Kate Danaher The Willow’s Heart

Arches of the willows blow Leaving about not any snow Here I stand looking out How they sway but still stay stout Grounded to the center While I re-enter The start The heart Of what lies before

Spring

Max Collins Wild Raspberries It doesn't get much better Wild raspberries on a brisk spring day When the winter breeze Dances them on your tongue And makes you come alive Against the emerald sky, When the fresh buds Open like eyes on the trees Look out and find just one bud Before it blossoms Then make a wish.

There is so much to ask for A thousand conical rubies A team of snowy huskies Or stairs to Mercury Yet all you'll wish for Is another spring day Just like this one And one more Handful of wild Raspberries

Nicole Tong The Cuckoo in the Depths of the Woods Out of sight Shielded by canopy From already blinded eyes And falling flat On ears deafened By brazen buzzing Easily forgotten Of the forest’s airy touch Where iridescent light sets stage For the swaying wind The promenading gale Almost saccharine sentiment Accompanied by the unseen Miniscule cuckoo bird Unbroken calls Coos and croons existing Only for innate instinct In and of itself

Sydney Frusher

Darina Sokolova The Birthday Moist batter, Yellow, Creamy, Cake batter.

Still raw.

Heat, A wonderful light.

Rising, Higher, And higher.

Memorable scent, Crisp, golden brown.

Filling with flavor.

To much heat.

Burning.

Overflowing.

A crisp.

Darkening by a mask Black.

Burned.

It’s out.

It’s ready.

Burned on the outside.

Soft, Still good?

Perfect on the inside.

The cake.

Young, Beautiful, Special, A girl.

Youngling.

Full of life, A bright sole.

Growing up, Full of joy, Standing tall.

Childhood memories, Loving.

Full of knowledge.

Pain.

Hurt.

Emptiness in her eyes.

Sadness in her soul.

The old glow covered Childhood memories, lost.

Happiness flushed out.

The old girl is gone.

Hope.

Strong.

Pulling through, A forgotten light?

A glimmer through a crack.

The girl.

Will Meyer Vapor Under a dreary skyscape, It was born From tears of the clouds Expanding slowly, Splash, Dirty, hard wheels of a car run over it Unscathed not hurt Like molten glass Can’t be broken, Smotch, smotch, splat, Rubbery feet, shielded by a brightly colored dome, Hops, splashes, hops, splashes, then bounds away, Pursing another quagmire, Burning, dying, Rays of sharp torrid sun Dries up what it once was The vapors soar upward, To wait for another downfall.

Claire Kaplan

Leo Anderson Matter of time I am three, and you are six We are in the yard playing everyday We roll in dirty mud and mucky grass in the fall We jest in snow through winter We pick sticks for baseball bats in the spring We throw ourselves in the lake in the summer I am six, and you are nine I run up to your doorstep with joy I look over the beat-up wooden fence You are with another friend No more parties or hang outs No tackling in the mud No making jokes in the snow No picking sticks out of the trees for baseball I’m alone I’m ten, and you are thirteen I go to your house once again You’re really ill You have Leukemia You are looking at me You’re like a different person I look into your soul to feel the memories again We say goodbye I have lots of questions but there are no answers

I am 12, and you are 15 You’re battling Everyday is something new Relatives give me news about you I pray for you I have repulsive dreams about you But, it comes true You’re gone I am three, and you’re six And we play in the yard Again

Eva Hanson The Rooster Dawn is when he rises, Mounting his position, Ready for his moment, To sound the daily horn.

The rooster is the leader, Of the gathering light, Expressing his truth, To those who are willing to follow.

The sound of his voice you’ll hear Jaunting its way to your radar Clogging up the system With his horse, raspy broadcast Careful fingers craft ideas And scribble them on canvases Handing out their masterpieces To everyone in sight

Anne Seaman March The air; sweet and new with the potential of spring The gray starts to melt away with each coming day Everything is accompanied by the sound of birds Nature becomes alive The flowers open up to the world The trees tall, the grass now green Everything is so serene

Brendan Murphy Happiness is an Open Field Happiness is a open field Where the grass Is always happy to see us Where the trees Are exited to surround us Where the pond in the back Feels lucky to be fished Happiness is a open field that grows taller Each time someone comes to it Coming by to play kickball Then everyone grows older The field stops getting mowed The pond stops getting fished The trees die And everything grows even older And older And older Until there is no older

Rohan Gudivaka March As the calm winds Whistle through the open lands As the dead trees Begin to come alive again As the shy sun Regains its confidence As the once cloudy skies Retreat into slumber As the neighborhood families Stepped outside Their once gloomy, sullen expressions Slowly shift into one of pure happiness

Beatrix Leffingwell

Blair Flavin You Can’t Write a Poem About Nothing You can write a poem about something But you can’t write a poem about nothing A poem about nothing would be nothing There would be no meaning You wouldn’t be reading It would be like writing a poem about feeling air When you have never felt air Or like writing a poem about Blair When you aren't aware of Blair

Katherine Schilling The Bones Fossils Many discovered Many left unknown They the story of a triceratops dancing through the night at a ball doing the tango or a waltz spinning and twisting Bones hitting the hard dirt Clinking and clacking Creating a symphony of long gone life

Abbe Shanley-Roberts Joy is a Puppy Joy is a puppy That waits for you to come home That kisses your face a million times And leaps onto your lap Joy is a puppy that bites your fingers Momentary pain giving way to laughter A puppy that chews your shoes With a guilty look on its face That barks at the squirrels And drives the cat crazy Joy is a puppy Who sleeps on its back And snores softly

Theodore Vignocchi Growing Up Together I see your tail wag clumsily As I sit in my new buzz lightyear pajamas.

You trip on the step in your kennel On one brand new day.

I see you leap into the air As I practice soccer, You run fast, Hot on the tail of a squirrel.

I push aside my homework, Just to see you watch a squirrel hop to a tree, You are too weak to chase away the intruder, The fire in your heart, Snuffed out.

I miss your tail wagging, Your eyes shining in the light, Gleaming with joy.

I miss you presence, Every time I see a squirrel.

I miss the smile your presented to me, every time I saw you.

Bosun I miss You.

Maggie Andrea Britto I walk down the dark street Graffiti sprayed on every wall Enter a black metal door Anticipating.

A short man Afro blooming like a flower in spring Walks swiftly.

A smile and warm embrace Flashes of color burst behind him Big bold lines.

Paint, sharpie, and glitter Patterns.

Stripes, hearts, and polka dots Yet every piece is simple: A lively celebrity.

An energetic animal.

A twinkling rainforest.

A vibrant soccerball.

A glowing coke can.

A vivacious car.

A cheerful cartoon character.

Am I Alice Is this Wonderland?

All I can do is smile.

Knowing I want to create art just like Britto.

Asher Anderson What if a Turtle…

What if a turtle was my math professor?

Learning algebra would take yeeeeaaars!

What if a turtle was my P.E. teacher?

I’d be in a push-up position for hours!

What if a turtle was my mentor?

It’d feel like I was on a guidance waiting list!

What if I took my turtle on a walk?

From point a to point b, I would’ve grown a beard What if I took my turtle to the waterpark?

He’d always beat me in a breath-holding competition…

What if a turtle was my boss?

I would be paid annually instead of weekly!

What if a turtle was my best friend?

We’d have a lengthy relationship!

Akhil Kommala

Calvin Osborne Zero Silver ships cut swiftly Through open waters, Filled with the treasure of centuries.

Gold, money, wild wealth, But alas, a clay mass sits atop it A beaming jewel of the collection.

Proudly, the ships make it to land And beaming men pour out of the boats.

And people stand in awe at the beautiful stone.

They give the world a zero.

Gods and kings come forth, accepting the treasure before them.

As the world grows 0's from trees and gardens, Place from tall branches from the tops of buildings.

Wonderful monuments, Shrines to hail the mighty number.

Life becomes greater, The world becomes rounder.

All because of 0

Anton Walvoord Carnival of the Animals: Fish Silhouettes, Flying, darting A single body A single mind Connected in the darkness Shining, in the depths With undoubted grace The ultimate team Shooting Down, Down, Down, Invisible to our eyes But somehow we know They come up in waves An underwater masterpiece A silent symphony Their fins, Like cutlasses, Cutting through the water Free from human plagues Money, Greed, Power, Small, but GREAT

Brooks Osborne Mrs. Bell’s Hair Like a bird Mrs. Bell’s hair flies through the sky, Soaring high.

Once the wind stops, It lands.

Like a bird grabbing A fish Until the wind picks up again The hair spastically flying On-off-on-off the wind goes The hair flying up-down-up-down Like a plane Slowly making its decent Getting closer to its destination To the ground.

Alex Mutter April The rain symphony begins.

It starts with a drizzle, A tuning note startles the audience of buds.

The rain picks up creating a crescendo, The tempest of musical notes, Clashing as the sound hits the boundaries of the ground.

The percussion of wind, Alive in the trees, Ends the stanza with the crackling of a breaking branch.

This cues the solo of the sun as it rises above the clouds, Bringing the audience to life.

The Symphony finishes with a standing ovation from the flowers which will stay standing till October.

Evalyn Lee

2016 Editors AngĂŠlique Alexos Asher Anderson Henry Bernhart Rohan Gudivaka Johanna Hielscher Charlotte Kelliher Obi Okoli Anna Schilling Anne Seaman Scott Skinner Jess Vignocchi Mia Walvoord

Faculty Advisor: Kim Bell