Author Title Date
In this magazine, the 47th edition of Menagerie, we take a step into the mind of The Lapidarist. Lapidary, a practice spanning back to the Stone Age, involves the refinement of otherwise raw and organic cuts of stone or precious gems. A Lapidarist dedicates their efforts to illuminating the natural beauty of their pieces. In designing this magazine, we drew inspiration from the craft, as our staff and editorial team are quite like lapidarists themselves: taking the complex works of art from our high school community and displaying them for you (our reader) to ponder. As you leaf through this guide, you will find a diverse selection of pieces that reflect the value and variety found in a lapidarist’s collection.
Every single pebble and gemstone has its value in the eyes of a collector. Each one holds a story encased in its patterns and colors, ones that draw us to pick up the gleaming smooth stone on the beach and stow it in our pockets. We take them home to place them proudly atop our shelves and end tables, eager to one day share the adventure that led to its discovery. We can generate our own collections but also find joy in ambling through the grand displays found in our local museums. We can appreciate the diversity of this hobby, one that can be enjoyed in our backyards but also exemplified by the institutions able to bring the study of these formations to new heights. There are countless ways for us to enjoy these little treasures of the natural world, a fact that we have transformed into captivating designs in this very magazine. Visually, as you indulge in each page, you will find the creatively encased textures fashioned by our hardworking art staff as a compliment to each gem, from the shortest poems to the grandest paintings. With an array of colors stratified against one another, we aimed to mimic the layered patterns you might see in a carefully curated museum
display. Just as you might see in the journals of a lapidarist’s polished findings, you may find that the pages of this book are well-loved, with faded ink and worn edges ready to be shared again and again. To truly appreciate the artistic processes of our students, we found it valuable to include their voices alongside their work in the form of short notes highlighting certain details of their masterpieces.
As you delve into the wonderful details of this magazine, we hope that you will delight in exploring the thought-provoking prose and poetry pieces included in this volume. Carefully observe these pieces from every angle, turn them over in your mind and consider new points of view. The heartfelt, the magical, and the somber all shine brightly on every page. Poems like “Admission” (page 6) and “Snowflake” (page 44) appreciate the beauty of experiences both simple and striking, as a gem cutter would treasure the complexity of some stones and the uncomplicated, smooth surfaces of others. Beauty can be found in every aspect of both the organic and faceted; all it takes is a keen eye. Examine “The Reaper” (page 54), and consider the sympathies of an unlikely character. Take a closer look at a story of metamorphosis in “A World of Butterflies” (page 56), and notice how each line of the text has been carefully refined to produce a shining final message. Investigate further still with “The Whispering Woods” (page 22), and take a moment to uncover a meaning hidden beneath the surface.
We also hope that you will admire this year’s meticulously crafted art pieces by our talented artists. The medley of colors that catch our eyes in museum exhibits can not only be found in the included geologically inspired designs, but also the variety of the true works of art compiled in this magazine. The hues found in “Wonderland” (page 13) and “Sensory Overload” (page 12) demand your attention; consider all angles as you marvel at the swirling
colors. Textures and movements like those of an intricate stone can be captured expertly on a still canvas in works like “Wandering Spirit” (page 35) and “To the Places I Will Never Go” (page 35). Color isn’t the only key to a marvelous gemstone, though. You will find fascinating textures in “Mr. Nichols” (page 30), “Pedestrian” (page 43), and “Turtle” (page 7), which are all elevated by their intricacies despite the absence of color. Rocks and minerals appear in many different forms, their beauty drawing from their unique features and facets. Delve further into this idea in this year’s sculpture projects that jump off the page, in “Rib Cage Bracelet” (page 44) and “Marionette” (page 49).
As we present you with this handful of pieces to consider, we encourage you to further explore the wonderful contributions to this
volume. We guarantee that you will be charmed.
On behalf of our incredible staff, editors, and advisors, we hope that you enjoy your experience in reading “The Lapidarist”.
Cascade ............................ Julia Alvarado
Gwenivere .............................. Kat Farley
Sinner’s Guilt ..................... Gracie Burden Into the Woods ................ Carolina Deuter
Stone Avenue Station ........ Zion Husmann Corner of a Sunday Night.Evelyn Riordan
Marshmallows and Stars ......... Ellen Rife
Sun Therapy ................... Delaney Sullivan
Mr. Nickels ............................... Alec Paras
Who’s There? ..................... Rosie Martini
Roots .................................... Taylor Fergon
Wandering Spirit ................ Ellary Zhang
To the Places I Will Never Go. Larysa Krueger
I ......................................... Matthew Prock
The Dance .................................... Evie Pav
Carrie .................................. Anna Murray
Scape ......................................... Kat Farley
Pesadia ................................. Ali Guerrero
Dangerous .................. Amaree Hernandez
Gemini .................................. Keely Marolt
Pedestrian ........................... Julia Alvarado
Momentary Bliss ................ Teagan Arndt
Do You Know? ............................ Ian Hunt
Ouch ........................................... Evie Pav
Mirrorball ........................... Caroline Vear
Ivory Moon ...................... Evelyn Riordan
Morning Laughter ........... Alyssa Iovinelli
Rough Night ........................... Caitlyn Klotz
Stone Avenue .................... Lindsey Wilson
Ellen ................................. Taylor Fergon
Afghanistan ............................ Ian Hunt
In Flames ...................... Lindsey Wilson
Starbound ..................... Zion Husmann
Nostalgia .......................... Isabella Chon
Caught Midair .............. Zoey Knipstein
Stagesof the Moon............. Kayed Nofal
No Lo Digas ...................... Ali Guerrero
Angel Sticker ......................... Kat Farley
Rosé ............................... Zoey Knipstein
Growth .......................... Alyssa Iovinelli
Guys Bein’ Dudes .......... Aimee Rounds
Snoopy ........................ Delaney Sullivan
Mermaid .......................... Teagan Arndt
Flourish ........................ Lindsey Wilson
Good Morning .............. Ashlin Kwong
Gold Eyes and Bar Fights...... Ellen Rife
Michigan Bloom .......... Lindsey Wilson
Still Life ............................ Delilah Carli
Under the Sea .................... Pearl Beyer
Sky Pond ....................... Aimee Rounds
Collage ......................... Maggie Brophy
The Center ...................... Sylvia Snyder
A Mother’s Love ............... Andy Garcia
3D art
Tree Ring .................... Vivian Kittridge
Hand-Twisted Wire Trees.Lucas Barnes
Rooted .............................. Sylvia Kozub
Ribcage Bracelet ....... Marina Neskovic
Marionette ........................ Terra Payne
Organic Form ............ Abigail Saunders
Leo and Charlie ............. Lola Podolner
Treevas Goods Co. ............ Lucas Barnes
Dreamscape ............. Lauren Bohringer
Monochrome foreign arthouse film
Bleeds pretension as you sit amongst
The audience of well-dressed snobs.
The judgment harsh,
The movie long, and true, and sad
They always are,
But you come back every weekend, For midnight showings of subtitled stories
That aren’t really stories.
A whole lot of screechy strings, and placid piano,
And people solemnly smoking in grim european alleyways, You love these movies, you love these snobs,
And you’ll be damned if you don’t admit to loving a little pretension.
“So, I bet you’re all wondering why I’ve gathered you here,” Dane Trevors said as he reached over Cara’s shoulder, pressing the emergency stop button on the elevator. “I have a proposition and I knew this was the only way you’d all listen.”
“What the hell, D?” Cara said, pushing him away from her and taking a look at who else was in the elevator with them. She hadn’t taken a good look when she walked in, but now as she looked around, she noticed she’d seen everyone before. The twins were from her school and the person with the red hair buys coffee everyday at her Starbucks job. Then, of course, she knows Dane, the smartest guy she had ever met.
“I have to take a piss, dude,” one of the twins grumbled. Frankie, she thinks his name is? The other twin, Sasha (she knows) stayed silent, staring upward, as she always does.
“No, no, yeah, this won’t take this long I swear.” Dane laughed, brushing his hair back with his hand. “I’ve needed some help. For a while really. I had no idea who to turn to, who to trust, so I trust you guys a lot, obviously. Plus, what I need you guys to do is no easy task, no siree.”
He stopped and looked at them all. His eyes all bright and expectant, the same face he always had when he and Cara would argue. Or he would go off on one of his tangents. He would look so alive, though right now his face had less color than usual. It always annoyed her when Dane could do something she couldn’t. That’s why she made sure to make there be nothing he did better than her, but she spent a long time upset over how she would never accomplish her goal. She couldn’t possibly be more lively than him until the day he stopped being alive. The mere thought made Cara want to giggle; he was too
smart to die.
“Christ, get on with it Trevors I have places to be,” the impish one commanded. Cara was surprised with how rough his voice was and that his eyes were two different colors, brown and blue.
“God, don’t be so rude, Red. Your girl will still be alive when we’re done. Besides, you said you like how it takes me so long to get to the point.’
“Yeah, only when you’re talking gives me enough time to do what I need to do,” Red grumbled.
“You don’t look so good,” Sasha spoke
so softly to Dane it was like she was sighing. Everyone gave her a look of disbelief. Sasha was never one for words, usually Frankie did the talking for them. Cara supposed Sasha’s voice complimented her whole airy personality, but she also didn’t like how Sasha acted more ghost than human with her way of drifting rather than walking and head-in-the-clouds way of thinking. Mostly because she hated how she haunted people. It made Sasha always know way too much.
“Thanks, Sash. You really know how to charm a man,” Dane smiled at her, his smile that was way too much teeth. It looked like he might be snarling. Cara couldn’t be more lively than him, but she did manage to get down his snarly smile to a T, spending hours and hours as a child practicing in the mirror. Dane would say he loved her the most when she smiled because it reminded him of himself, always the narcissist he is. “Frankford Frankie, what time is it?”
“I’ve told you to stop calling me that, D, and it’s 2:54. Could you tell us what you want from us now?” Frankie (Cara was right!) shoved his watch in front of Dane’s face like it might shock him out of whatever crazy mindset he was currently in.
“Alright, alright, alright. So, I don’t know if you guys have noticed but I haven’t really been myself these days. I’ve been busy with other things and also just not feeling so well. Here’s my proposition for you: you all need to find something out for me. Consider it you paying me back for all the crap I’ve done for you all. All the secrets I’ve kept to save your sorry selves. I’m going to die in approximately 49 seconds give or take, and it’s your guys’ job to find out who did this to me, why they did this to me, and continue my legacy. Capiche?”
Of course, outcries came from them, but Dane held up a finger, silencing them all. He held so much power and could make even the stubbornest of people bend to his will.
“When they ask, Cara will explain how I died. Don’t tell them what I told you. Don’t give them anything. Trust no one but each other, but then again don’t trust anyone but yourself. Well, and me. Trust me. You guys are all the best people I’ve ever known and the ones crazy enough to find out who did this.” And with that, Daniel Fredrick Trevors collapsed on the floor, jerked a little, then stilled. The screams and cries from the three teenagers were the last things he heard. Dane died at 16 years old at 2:56 pm, Friday, December 2, 2021.
As Dane was carried off by the paramedics and Cara turned to the rest of the group, now sitting on the curb outside in front of the building, she surveyed the group Dane left to figure out the schematics of his death. Sasha was holding Frankie while he cried, and Red was staring off into space, numb. Cara put her arms around her knees and put her face down. She was crying, but the wide smile on her face conveyed more of a savage happiness than sadness. Her teeth were bared, her smile just like his, ready to bite someone else with death again if she needed to. She’d be damned if any of these people tried to actually figure out who was trying to kill him. He was dead. He was finally dead.
Cara thought she and Dane were the smartest people in the world. Though she guesses she was smarter than him actually. She had been trying to get him for weeks and after her sixth try, it finally stuck. No one would figure out it was her that did it if even Dane couldn’t figure out she was trying to off him.
At last, she was more lively than him.
Shea Winchester
There is an immediate, deep, unidentifiable sense of wrong.
Waking up in the morning, feeling two weighted lumps of dread on your chest, a permanent reminder that you are in the wrong body.
And when your body bleeds you cry.
You cry for the pain in your abdomen, the ache in your midsection.
And you cry harder for the ache in your heart.
You cry for the ache that remains long after the bleeding stopped.
You cry for the visible, painful proof that you cannot escape your body. Your body that you don’t belong in.
You watch your sister get mistaken for a boy in public. You watch your dad tell her how androgynous she is.
And you watch her have the nerve to be upset about it.
She has the right but you would give anything not to be exposed by your body. Your cage.
You still get catcalled.
You still hear their voices dripping with twisted perverse intentions
You still hear disgusting words in graphic detail what they want to do to your body.
But it’s not your body. It’s not. You’re just stuck in it.
There’s no bathroom for you at school.
There’s no locker room for you.
There’s no option but to continue to put yourself in a place where you feel in your heart and know in your soul you don’t belong.
Just to use the bathroom.
Your existence is a political opinion.
Whether or not you deserve to live is a topic of debate at Thanksgiving. Their words bite. So you bite your tongue. It bleeds.
You bleed.
The blood stains your mouth. Their venom stains your soul.
You can’t tell your extended family.
They wouldn’t love you anymore. You know as much. They don’t love you.
They love their granddaughter.
You are not their granddaughter.
They love the show you put on.
You have to keep it together for your family.
You hate your costume.
Your friends slip up.
It’s not their fault.
They don’t mean to but it kills you everytime.
They still see you as a girl.
And how can’t they? That’s what you look like.
You will never escape your body.
Your “not body.”
The worst part is that regular solutions won’t work for you. Your lungs have always been weak.
So you can’t bind your chest.
Your chest is all anyone sees.
Your shape.
Not you.
They see your body.
They see your body.
It’s all anyone ever sees.
Your body.
Your cage.
Your curse.
Your costume you can never take off.
All they will ever see is your body.
Your body, which is your body.
Hate it. Curse it. Rip at it.
You cannot free yourself of the shackles made from your very flesh.
There is an immediate, deep, unidentifiable sense of wrong.
It doesn’t go away.
i am adam, born from a watching rib;
i am made of stars and dust and the infinite, but i became life as i watched the world move on without me, as boys became elders immeasurably too young for death but who welcomed the dearly awakened with open arms, who i ran to with my own image double projected onto a world that never had enough time for me to thank them.
i exist only because god showed me mercy—
god is painted a merciful man in a book with no pictures but i may yet be his unwanted messiah, come to show his creations that he has no clemency other than randomness, because i was born of less than chance but more than accidents and i still haven’t settled into my soul like a legend, never written, not yet come to pass.
but there is danger in the human glory of ambiguity.
i am resting on the edge of the earth, cosmic oceans abound, breathing the life back into my skin sown soul stuck between leaving and arriving at my own fate, too far gone to turn back and so long to go i think i should bite the apple so i can become my own god.
I can see her from my window
She grins at me with lustrous eyes and hollow cheeks
Revealing a sliver of her pale body, what a tease
Tonight I can see her, next week in full glory
I’ll have to wait, but I don’t mind it
She’s off, hanging out with the stars without me
As I watch from afar, I miss her love, but not enough to join because she’ll be here every night performing for no one else but me
Sometimes I see her in the morning, a vague dollop of cream amongst a sea of periwinkle blue
She’s easier to miss then, rarer, but more beautiful
And sometimes she disappears, if for a night or two
And I’ll lie in bed, watching and waiting for her to premiere
And in a couple revolutions, there she is–her melancholy glow, reflecting my youth
I think I’ve fallen in love with the moon
Congratulations you’ve gone outside It’s been years hasn’t it? Have to find
Your feet again, they will have fits for sure, But hey still, CONGRATULATIONS, It’s dangerous out there, Maybe you’ll fall, Clumsy.
You know it’s true, anyways, the great outdoors! The bountiful world given to us, Filled with wonders of every kind Of every shape and nature. Think nothing of it?
Knew you wouldn’t, Foolish…
Sorry I did it again, you’re finally going out What will you do, that’s the question? Maybe watch the…
Nah, the outdoors are overrated anyway. Shit! I have done it again
Oh, wait, am I right?
You’re going… Back in…
Lazy.
Aubrey Decker
I’m in second grade. Granddaddy pushes me off on my first bike. He tells me I look beautiful in my pink and purple helmet. I pedal around the neighborhood, making sure I’m home for dinner.
I’m in fourth grade, pumping my legs, gliding on two wheels around the park next to my house. I run into classmates, a group of boys a bit older than me, who block my path. So I stop. I smile, but they do not. Patrick calls me fat. The wind on my ride home carries away my tears. They make it even harder to look at my mother. She cries too. I can’t tell if she’s angry at me or them.
I’m in sixth grade. I’m loud and happy but then the boys go ‘whale hunting.’ Then I
am silent. They no longer call me Aubrey but instead greet me with whale sounds, the ones they probably learned from Finding Nemo. I’m no longer myself but a big marine mammal. They don’t have to say it but I know what they mean.
I am in seventh grade and I no longer go to the pool. I won’t wear a swimsuit around anyone, not even my mom. She is still sad but much angrier. I hate the skin I’m in.
Last week someone called me fat for the first time in years. I’m not sad anymore.
Last night I cooked with my mom; we giggled over a pot of soup, pinching garlic and thyme, salt to taste. I eat until I’m full.
“My brain is my muse. It thought of cool things like this piece.”
- Annie Price
There is a man in my basement. Five feet and eleven inches tall. Short sharp hairs grow on the cheeks and chin of his face. The blonde hairs on the top of his head are receeding with his hairline. Barren green eyes. He has the same round face I see when I look in the mirror. A shadow, in the corner of the basement is when the man sits. From sunup to sun down. In his big office chair facing his dual moniter setup. He is tipping and typing away. Tapping away a year. Five years. Ten years. Fifteen years. Almost twenty years. Typing away his life like it’s a life sentence. My friends are afraid of the man in my basement. Sometimes my mother fears the man in our basement. Sometimes I wonder who is the man in my basement that replaced my father.
the dream i dream of you, the mare of night holds nothing in the cloud beside your face and ‘gainst the heart of blinding sun’s delight my love for noon has suffered the erase
for in my dreams is only where i’m free to love you but forever and a blink declare it over rooftops unto thee bask in your beauty and to you i drink
but falling sleepless makes withdrawal so cruel my body burns without the touch of skin i turn and kick as just a measly fool for you are fair and i am growing thin
with you away the shadow here is grown your light suffices ‘til the sun is shown
“This piece is about having a crush on someone but not being able to tell them. You find yourself dreaming of them and it hurts that you can’t show your affection.”
- Sparrow Fuller
The trees were growing louder by the day. Begging, pleading, crying, howling. I grabbed the cover of my bed sheets and heaved them over my head, screwing my eyes shut and stuffing fists to my ears as I tried to silence the never ending roar. Now I lay me down to sleep, pray the Lord my soul to keep... I repeated the same lines over and over, night after night, curling my body in on itself as if to shield me from the chaos. Maybe if I prayed hard enough, the noise would cease and the pain would be no more. As if to taunt me, the unwavering wails seemed to intensify… growing angrier at my own silence. Guide me safely through the night, wake me with the morning light.
It had been this way since the dawn of time, those whispers from the land… guiding its inhabitants to a life of peace and prosperity. All the world asked in return for its sanctuary and generosity was love. Yet what was once an alliance between mankind and nature, soon became a negotiation. Gluttony ran through the streams alongside discarded trash and waste, poisoning the oceans and rivers. Selfishness and greed lit the fuse that set creation’s home on fire. The mountain’s carefree banter slowly slipped away, and the sunlight’s rays refused to give its usual morning compliments. Humans, wearing ignorance alongside their luxurious furs, refused to see the signs and relished in their feeling of conquering victory. Little do they know, if not diffused… fires consume. And the smoke from the flame would strangle every last one of us out of pure spite before kneeling to the ones playing god. I wouldn’t call myself religious, if anything I have lost all faith.
I was 13 when the trees began to murmur, calling me ever so softly. At first I was intrigued, I thought the stories of the whispers were mere legends. Just simple fairy tales created for naive little girls and boys to frighten them. Oh, how very wrong I was. Of the trees and their whispers, of the world,
of myself. Upon answering their calls, the tree’s hushed words became louder… more urgent… more afraid. I tried to help, I really did. With every comment made, I trimmed their misshapen leaves. For every muttering word, I made sure to give water. Yet the trees refused to quiet, and within a week’s time they were screaming panicked cries. I wasn’t doing enough, I wasn’t listening. They needed help, and just like everyone else I was letting the fire burn. I couldn’t stand the noise anymore, taking up my days. Every waking moment I heard their cries, and within the night they haunted my dreams. I had to tell someone, ask if they could hear the whispers too. My mother and father were the first to learn of my secret. It’s just your imagination sweetheart, you should get some rest. No, that wasn’t enough. I couldn’t just sleep the problems away. My teacher was the next to learn of the issue. My, my, someone’s been reading one too many adventure novels.
By now, the trees had grown frustrated at my failed attempts. Their anguish scraped against my skull, and tore my heart to shreds. I needed somebody, anybody, to hear them too. That, I believe, was the night I began to pray. I told my friends next. They listened to every detail with rapt attention, my prayers finally being answered. Maybe there was a divine being after all. Only later that day my dad got a phone call from the parents at school, claiming that I had scared their children. Now their child couldn’t sleep, for they believed my ludicrous tales and heard “the whispering trees” too.
My teachers and family came to the agreement that therapy was the answer. All I needed was a bit of help, some meds, that should solve the problem. But there were bigger problems at hand! For the smell of smoke was burning my nose, and the trees’ calls only became more and more incessant.
Finally, after one episode too many, humanity deemed that I needed to be
removed and isolated for the time being. We are doing this for you, honey. Sure, whatever helps you sleep at night.
I was sent on a ship with my bags packed, out to sea all by myself. At least I had the trees to keep me company. After hours atop the churning, murky waters, I spotted it. A tiny little lighthouse, all on its lonesome. Home sweet home. It was at that moment when the willows began to weep. I wept along with them.
And so, the days went by. The trees became a blessing and a curse. Their wails became stronger and more frequent, drowning out even the wildest ocean storm… but at least I knew I wasn’t alone. You know what they say, misery loves company.
Trees of all kinds began to grow near the base of the lighthouse… wrapping themselves up and around its wall like a suffocating
embrace. From sycamores to birches, their beauty never ceased to amaze me. Some even bore the food that kept me alive, for my family had forgotten all about me long ago… and I became nothing more than an exaggerated myth made to scare the children away from trying to hear the whispers of the trees.
Nighttime was the worst of it. The woods around me sobbed in despair, disappointment, and fury. Now I lay me down to sleep, pray the Lord my soul to keep... The world continued to burn. How could humanity so easily disregard it, couldn’t they see the flames licking at their feet? Guide me safely through the night, wake me with the morning light. A guttural scream sliced through the air like a knife, continuing on and on until I became aware that I myself was making the noise. Yet no one was there to hear me.
he talks with his hands. his fingers pivot, extend, and twirl, as if they’re performing in a kindergartener’s dance recital.
he never flashes a full smile. his slim yellow teeth will peek out from behind the curtain of his mouth; they’re too timid to dance with the fingers, but too energetic to stay hidden.
words rip past his thin lips, cutting his audience with a false sense of superiority.
the thick-rimmed rectangular glasses that rest on the top of his prickly nose get relocated by his greasy fingers every time he misspeaks.
giggles echo throughout the auditorium causing his dancing fingers to retreat into fists and his bisque tusks to expose themselves completely in a strained scowl.
his dwindling hairline scrunches forward. his forehead like a canvas-painted with wrinkles, that just don’t seem to look right.
he tries too hard to please his audience, to satisfy his viewers, to enchant his crowd. but they couldn’t seem to care any less about him.
isupposeit’sdifficulttogoaboutrelationshipsthewayhedoes, constantlysearchingforcomfort inplaceswhereitisn’tmeanttobehandedout. hurtingpeopleandquicklyreplacingthem whentheyleave.
sashayingfromonesideofthestagetoanother, butsteppingonthetoesofdancemates; bruisingtheirfeetonthewayacross. stillsmilingforthecrowd, patientlyawaitingthatsweetapplause.
we’renearingtheendofhisperformance; thecurtainsareclosing andthedancecrewisbowing beforetheygracefullyscurryaway onthehandsofalonelyman.
“This piece is about a man I used to know and used to hate. I attempted shifting from hatred to empathy, trying to see what it would be like in his shoes.”
- Inula Crist
Aubrey Decker
a butterfly garden in my stomach, cherry chapstick on my nose bleeding hearts and burnt-out smarts lips bubbling over with prose
a thousand cinnamon kisses sprinkled over easy-to-redden cheeks. chocolate eyes shielding tiny lies, the secrets i’m too scared to keep
sweet nothings whispered in my ear from lovers who no longer are the nasty bite of a ginger beer a stupid car that just won’t start
ugly tears after platonic fights the game that can’t be won the stranger i see in the mirror each night all these things that i’ve done
I remember sitting in that old chair; rocking back and forth watching the rain fall. The smile of your face clashed with gray hair I watch as you grew old no thought at all
Younger memories always let me down; knowing I have stayed out of sympathy, the feeling that I have to stick around. Once said the love was for infinity.
It’s the worst that it’s been since the first time, the start of the forgetting hurt the most, I am mad you can not remember mine, a name you used to sing with joy, lost first.
People say it’s better that you are gone, but you left me long before that day dawned.
I take another step Up Up Up.
Right up the Glass of the Skyscraper.
“I bet I can beat you there.
No one can see us, So you have to be honest, ok? I saw you cheat last time, You’re garbage at hiding it. It’s practice, so I don’t get why you would, But have some respect for the honors system.
Ready, set, go!”
I run down the building, The wind threatening to blow me back. But I wasn’t going to lose, Especially not to the wind.
I look up once I reach the street, The cars phasing through me as I block their way.
My opponent is still at the top. That’s what I get for racing Pigeons I guess.
I make the much more grueling Walk back to the top.
“Alright alright, Let’s spice things up a little. One race, to decide it all. A Race To The Moon. Hey hey! No starting early! Ok, ready? GO!”
From the top of the building, I manage to get an impressive Running start Into the sky.
The clouds are low, So I snatch the edge Of one easily.
From there it’s just platforming. Left Right and
Until I get to bitter cold crystals of The Cirrus clouds.
Now, comes the hard part.
I jump onto the largest and highest cloud I can find, and launch for a running start. I remember the first time I tried to do this. The atmospheric Heat was way too strong And I fell back down.
But today, it doesn’t bother me. “Almost...almost...Got it!”
My hands cling onto the bright white tip Of the star, And I let out a sigh of relief.
The glittering print of the Night sky inks itself
Onto my misty skin
And into my hair as I bounce between the stars
“One, Two, Three!”
I float down onto the Moon’s Monochrome craters, And dig myself into one to sit down.
“Haha! Beat you here again!
Oh...right…
Birds can’t fly out here…”
I knew this, but part of me was foolishly hoping I was wrong.
The view of earth, the endless stars, And the glowing eclipse are gorgeous.
But there’s no point
If no one else can see it.
Part of me swears I can see The Doctor’s House from here.
I want him to succeed, to master His outlandish quest of Necromancy.
But, who am I kidding?
I’m selfish.
And I want him to fail at least One more time.
So there’s one more soul
Stuck between life And death
And limbo And space And Earth.
So I can have someone Real, who can hear me, See me.
Someone who can race me In the stars.
Sigh
“Come on Karl, Quit dreaming… And by god, Quit talking to yourself...”
You wish to become her?
The pale mistress
Standing at the edge of an ancient hallway
Her hands perfectly rest on her shoulder
Her hair drops to the edge of her back Perfectly.
She was touched by the hands of Aphrodite and her presence is beaming
She blinds the eyes of her suitors at her feet
She is beautiful and despondent
They flock to her like sheep
Your eyes will never break their pathetic gaze
You mourn in her pool of golden light
You wish to become her
For she is not acceptable
But most definitely astounding
Envelopes sit on my desk
Stacked neatly, piled one on top of another
Envelopes sit on my desk Widest on the bottom
Thinnest on the top
Envelopes of many different sizes
Maroon and Yellow Black and Yellow Green and Yellow Blue and Gold
YOUR FUTURE STARTS HERE
… My future … Starts … here…
Somewhere inside these paper envelopes
Everyday
I pass by my middle school as I drive to my high school
They made me start my future there
If the future starts
on hot summer afternoons, in rooms with no air conditioning making me pick a career that I would be unsatisfied with at 35-years-old
Then I guess my future started there
I can not run
The envelopes haunt my email
Like the choices haunt my dreams
Following me like an endless flood of digital envelopes that are hiding in my back pocket
7 Tips For Finding a College that Commits to Your Success
6 Things to Know About Applying for College
5 Reasons Your Application Will Stand Out
4 Empowering College Exploration Tips
3 Things to Look for in a College Campus
2 Reasons You Should Visit Our Campus
1 Ticket to My Future
But who’s to say, that my future will be found in windowless lecture halls or a 6 by 8 feet dorm room I couldn’t find my future in an unstable middle school or an old fashioned highschool so who’s to say, the future will start wherever these envelopes take me
“Instead of reading all the college letters, I wrote a poem about how being swarmed by all of those colleges made me feel.”
- Maeve Ciesla
Unfold yourself
Inch by inch, second by second
Unwind
Become more than a mangled spread of parts
But a whole
Whispering your silent power
To the wind
Your heart grows stronger every minute
As you drop away the lies
Untangle the confused lines of skin
And breathe in anew
“Mortal
was inspired by the disconnect in the way people physically present themselves and their own perception of self.”
- Sylvia Snyder
Lucas Flanagan
Dum in silva ambulabam, percepi
Segnis circum ventus arbores texet
Qui crocea et cruenta folia Spargit undique.
Cantus avium taciti erant, et Animalcula currebant huc illuc, Colligentia nuces virgulasque Ut domus pleant.
Mundus addormit dum appetit hiems. Iterum sursum arborem video.
Absorbeo naturam, pulcherrimam. Hic est autumnus.
While I was walking in the forest, I realized Slow wind around the trees’ web
Saffron and bloody leaves
He scatters on every side.
The songs of the birds were silent and Little animals ran hither and thither Gathering nuts and twigs
To please the house.
The world sleeps while winter longs. Again I see the tree above.
Absorb nature, beautiful.
This is autumn.
TCsth!
“No, it’s off center.”
TCSth!
“Ugh, too close.”
Tch-SNAP!
“I-.”
Clatter. It takes 81 matches but the inevitable has finally come washing over him. Defeat. Bitter defeat.
Toby received a lot of DIY kits as a kid. It was an easy gift that could entertain him for a while, but his uncle went another route. His uncle gave him fireworks. Was it illegal? Probably, but in good taste. Toby, like most young boys, was obsessed with explosions. But he loved it from the technical aspect, and never quite grew out of the phase where the bright crimson fireball lost its appeal. When he and his friends went to fireworks shows, he would envy the man behind the show as much as he did the spectacle itself.
It was almost ironic because Toby wasn’t a loud kid, he even said so himself. He tended to attract loud people, but was never one himself.
Good, any louder and he might have been an arsonist.
No, instead he was levelheaded, and almost too rational. Any chance he had of living carelessly was buried when he was 16, along with his closest friend. He cried, he moved on, and he honored his friend's legacy. He went to college, and decided to make a living off of crimson red fireballs and the shows that both grew up with. Now he was the man behind the fireworks, or rather, behind the scenes letting the crimson fireballs awestruck the audience.
As was courtesy, you have to check that everything is in order before you fire them. The companies that sold it never did it themselves.
Now there’s a law for that, and the way it came into being is a very famous case. A
faulty firework pack managed to make it through two rounds of ‘safety’ processing, and it blew up in the worker’s face before he even set it off, hospitalizing him. He died three days later. It’s known by two names, “No More Canary” protest, and “For Toby.” It went to the Supreme Court, thanks to the parents of his long dead friend, and the Canary Law was passed.
So now, here he is. Gunpowder falling through his hand, misty tears fraying it like acid snowflakes.
“A pyrotechnic that can’t even light a match...sniff...what happened to me?” He sighs, and sinks his head into his knees, “How am I more important in death than I was in life?”
It’s a hard truth, but a noble one just the same.
Snowflake
Sarah O’Riley
Snowflake
One floats in its rustic gentleness
Drifting freely, Falling, To join a battalion of tidy destruction.
“I wanted to write something that didn’t really fit the traditional form, something unique, like a-snowflake.”
Sarah O’Riley
Do You Know? | Ian Hunt Acrylic
If Keira Sullivan
If she hadn’t closed her eyes, she would have noticed the growing. An unshaped form, twisted and just alive enough in the way that matters.
If she had fought against the tears, she wouldn’t have closed her eyes. Sorrow couldn’t help her here, no mercy would reach her.
If she hadn’t thought of all she had left to do, the sobbing wouldn’t have clawed its way up her throat. The ambitions left scattered in the ruins of her life, too much regret and not enough abandoned.
If she had kept staggering through the pain, mortality wouldn’t have loomed so clear before her. Giving in, giving up, letting the piercing agony nestled within her stomach compel her downward in collapse.
If she had avoided the thrust that tore open her guts, no blood would’ve blossomed. Condemned in mere moments, shackled to a future, a slow demise too soon, too early.
If she hadn’t cowered at the dead end, the monster wouldn’t have caught her. No attempt to splinter the concrete at her fingertips, to turn and face instead of freeze, freezing, froze.
“Whatever happened you can’t remember, yet it still lingered near.”
- Evie Pav
If luck had graced her that evening, she wouldn’t have staggered to the path with no escape. A random chance, a split in the universe, a prayer clearly answered, but simply denied.
If she hadn’t run, it wouldn’t have given chase. Didn’t she know it loves the hunt? Didn’t she know it found pleasure in her desperation?
If she hadn’t stood out from the crowd, it wouldn’t have picked her. The target should’ve realized they were being aimed for.
If she made different choices, if she didn’t do this, if she didn’t do that, if she hadn’t been her, if she hadn’t dared exist, then maybejust maybe it would have picked someone else.
The transparent view of the problematic entity becomes the strength of longevity.
Although being shoved in the corner by reality
And in the midst of turmoil that compliments solely.
We are left with “Okay fine.”
We walk, we stumble, and run enthusiastically.
A reminder, to be something.
Great, now I’m late on the one fee.
I have three heads when I think.
I have three voices when I choose.
Sometimes I wish I’d shrink.
I’d love to be tall.
No, my height is fine, is it at all?
We aren’t doomed, there is still time.
Nothing’s consistent, and surely nothing is mine
Collapsing buildings and monsters of slime.
Just when I looked tragedy in the eyes, I said, “Okay fine.”
Christina Ho
In the vast black, Mon Chere,
Do you see the same white specks as I?
Can you see them dance and glitter as well?
I reach, they’re so close yet so far. Millions of them all at once I stare, I can see the melted honey skin, your snowflake ignited eyes,
Mon Chere,
Can you see me in them as I see you?
They were once beautiful, Hand in hand, we lay together to watch them glow.
Now, with the only presence of air, glittering emeralds poking my skin.
I find myself smiling.
As if I was a little girl, I gaze at them like a child peering through a sweet shop window.
Mon Chere,
These ivory painted dots I see, they seem to stay the same as days go by.
Life has changed, while they have not. That is why I have come to adore them. They were there when you were.
The memories in the darkness, My emotions of bliss will never fade. I’ll stare into nature’s pretty creation And wait for another day, continue my daily chores
Then sit to look at the pearly flowers in the dark midnight once again.
Mon Chere, I miss you so.
But the heavenly rays is enough.
So with crimson, plump skin, my last words are given to you.
Au Revoir, Mon Chere.
loud chirps, songs with no melody that always manage to sound the same loud, pestering, intrusive.
there are cicadas in the suburbs. they seem to ask questions.
“how are you doing?”
“where have you been?”
“what are your plans?”
“what are you going to do with your life?”
loud, pestering, intrusive.
there are no cicadas in the mountains.
no noise, no questions. but going proves otherwise.
quiet trills, tunes with no bass line that always manage to sound the same loud, pestering, intrusive.
there are crickets in the mountains. they seem to ask questions.
“who are you?”
“where are you from?”
“why are you here?”
Organic Form | Abigail Saunders Ceramic
“what are you going to do with your life?”
loud. pestering. intrusive.
there are no crickets in the suburbs.
“I wanted the reader to feel trapped in a cycle of constant questions repeated over and over again.”- Avery Plonka
Stone Avenue | Lindsey Wilson Ink and Pencil
Rough Night | Caitlyn Klotz Pencil
I sit and ponder. What is it like to live? What is there to lose? What do humans crave from life? Is it the food? Maybe the money or riches? I replied to myself, “No, no it’s more but what can it be that drives humans to want to live so much?” I wonder what it would be like to maybe be a human. Maybe even have a family of my own. Maybe I will be able to fall in love. Now I can see why humans crave love, compassion. I’ve been here for a long time. It gets lonely, maybe even depression at times. Even though I do not have a body, I feel broken. I want to feel touch and love, I wonder what I deserve to be here. Why me? I‘m stuck here full of despair wondering if I will ever leave. I have jealousy towards humans, why do they have so much and I’m here doing the same thing everyday. Nothing changes, nothing more to gain, nothing more to lose. I drown myself in sadness everyday. I guess it’ll never change. I can maybe dream for just one day to be loved.
Butterflies are one of the most beautiful animals in the world, with their colorful wings and different shapes and sizes that allow them to fly wherever they want. It has been recorded that some types of butterflies are capable of flying more than 1864 miles. They are free animals. It’s easy to admire these beautiful insects for their beauty, grace and ability to fly, but the funny thing about the life story of a butterfly is that they weren’t always like that, free and independent. First of all, they were just simple caterpillars. Wingless and with limited locomotion, caterpillars do not walk at high speed. In fact, there isn’t much interest in a caterpillar’s life before it turns into a butterfly. This change that it and some other animals go through is known as the process of metamorphosis, one of the most beautiful evolutions in nature.
I had my metamorphosis a few months ago.
When I say that, I don’t mean in the biological sense of the word, like it’s a change in my body, or something like that. It was something inside me. A metamorphosis from the inside out. That was when I realized I was leaving the old Paula, my caterpillar version, behind and becoming a butterfly. My mother told me something like this the day before my trip: “You are a butterfly about to fly for the first time.” Well, she was right.
Many people may consider the birth of a child, marriage, or a job promotion to be a turning point in their lives. As I’ve never had any of these experiences, I can’t have an opinion. But I can say with certainty that when I decided that I would do an exchange program in the United States for a year, I made a decision that would not only change my life completely but would also be the beginning of a new me. My newly metamorphosed butterfly. I had never thought much about this moment as a great
metaphor for butterflies, but I don’t think there is any other way to explain this change in my life than as a metamorphosis.
Having been born into a family that has always given me a lot of love and protection, I grew up knowing that no matter what happened, my parents and siblings would be my fortress and shield against the world. Basically, I was a caterpillar protected in its cocoon. Protected and safe. But every caterpillar needs to come out of the cocoon and assume its butterfly form. A new way to explore the world and test the new limits of locomotion. There’s no such thing as a butterfly that walks around, right? The beautiful and elegant wings must be used.
When I finally looked at my family for the last time, watching me as I swiped my ticket on the sensor and entered the airport’s departure area, I just could think I was leaving my cocoon behind. I was free to fly, but I would have to learn it by myself.
At that moment, walking alone on the plane, I felt like a little butterfly getting used to the size and shape of the new wings as I watched all the rest of the world, senior butterflies, knowing exactly what they were supposed to do and being completely comfortable with it. How far would each have already flown?
When I arrived at the airport in the other city, I felt a little more relaxed when I met other exchange students. And a few hours later, it was interesting to watch the farewells of those who were still with their families.
We all boarded together, a group of teenagers about to travel to another country in search of adventures and changes. It made me realize that just like me, they were butterflies too, about to start flying. Just like me, they had just morphed and were dealing with it.
“This is very weird. We are alone at the
airport”, said one of the girls.
“Are we going to get along well with other people?” another person asked. “Will it be difficult to make friends and fit in?”
“Think that while you don’t know anyone, no one knows you,” replied one of the boys.
“You don’t have to be afraid of what they’re going to think, you can literally create a new personality”
He was right. As much as there were host families waiting for us on the other side of the world, our world was lagging behind. And with that, we were leaving all our cocoons behind.
I remember when I first set foot in Chicago, it was a euphoric feeling. Just like butterflies in the stomach. The exchange students were separating, each going to their
new family, to start a new life. The new flight. My first moment of complete independence.
When a butterfly leaves its cocoon, it breaks. It is impossible to close it again. After metamorphosis, butterflies probably won’t even fit in the cocoon anymore. With the new beautiful wings and a different body, the caterpillar body has already been left behind. And actually, I believe that if they needed to make a decision, I don’t think any butterfly would actually want to go back inside the cocoon. Why go back to the tight, dark cocoon if the butterfly has already experienced a bright, sunny and full of possibilities world?
That’s what my mother said: “This is your first of many flights. Once you experience freedom it will be difficult for you to want to stop flying.” Again, she was right.
As I stood outside the airport, waiting for my host family to arrive and pick me up, I understood what my mother meant. The wind beating in my face, my heart racing. Are all the new flights that exciting?
I know a year is a long time to be apart from my family. I know I’m excited right now, but there are going to be days when I’m going to miss home. I bet a lot of butterflies miss the protection of the old cocoon during storms. Sometimes it’s hard to fly far when all you want is to crawl like a caterpillar.
However, the flights are worth it, otherwise the butterflies would not fly away. If it wasn’t good, the butterflies would be hidden instead of enjoying their freedom. I know it’s worth it. Because I know that when I’m not okay, I’ll know my cocoon still exists, even though I’m no longer a caterpillar version. I know I can do it, because my cocoon has formed me very well, with long, strong wings for flying.
waiting for me. A new year in a new country was starting. A newly formed butterfly entering the new butterfly life.
When I saw the car approaching and pulling over in front of me, I almost cried with emotion. I was so ready for my new life. The freedom and independence seems so perfect. I don’t know how far I will fly. I don’t know how many storms I will go through. I just know that this was my first flying experience and couldn’t be better.
Like I said, the world is full of possibilities. I can’t predict how my life will be, so let’s see where my wings will take me.
A world of freedom and possibilities was
RSarah O’Riley
Did you hear about the Rogers
A good family, all set straight And as it was their family name
Wrote an “R” upon their gate
Now the government was restless
Due to years of whispered claims
They thought the R meant “Revolution” And set the Rogers house in flames.
all my joy and all my sorrow are contained in this small space, a supernova as a vial, my shot is made of stars.
it hurts to be seen and remembered for it; i would rather be perceived, to be looked through as ghost guts splayed and dusted in a white glow, heaven sent from hell, back from the dead to feel alive because the stars woke me up today.
i want nothing more than to love myself again but i’m terrified of being terrifying and scaring you. i am the thing that i was told to be wary of, of dark shadows, of walking home with keys as claws. with the want of women in power and my duty to make change abandoned, what is left but hollow bones and a star split skull thrumming on? back from the dead to feel alive because i swallowed the stars and they told me i had come so far i ought to run a little farther, don’t you think?
we are not really that different you and i, i knock and no one’s home.
we are all running from something we don’t allow to be seen but it is feared all the same.
do you think you are star shining?
is your heart condensed into a concept you cannot describe? can you trace the shape of your body and actually feel your hands on your own skin or does it become someone else when you close your eyes?
asking for a friend; they are back from the dead to feel alive because the stars woke them up today. early morning riser; it is Eden’s reckoning. her final punishment from Creation itself, her penance and my beginning. i just need to remember to take the rib with me when the Supernova swallows me whole: after all, i finally woke up and wanted to feel alive.
“I wrote this the night before testosteronestartinghormone therapy. It encapsulates all my joy to become more myself but also the loss I was feeling.”
- Adrian Walker
October 31st, a little after 5:00, Jordan crossed over the rainbow bridge to head up to the big dog park in the sky.
Almost ten years old, prone to seizures and hotspots and ear infections and probably some other stuff I’m forgetting--Jordan’s running up the stairway to heaven with an entire loaf of Vienna bread in his mouth.
I don’t believe in heaven. I’ve been an atheist since I knew I could be. But if anyone’s ever deserved eternal paradise--it’s Jordan.
I didn’t expect it to hurt as much as it did-you never do. I don’t know why, but you just don’t.
Jordan was Drew’s, but Drew lives with Grandma, and everyone was always at Grandma’s--so Jordan became everyone’s.
Jordan was Drew’s, and he was Grandma’s, and he was Papi’s, and he was Mike’s, and he was mom’s, and Lis’, and B’s, and Crystal’s, and Sal’s, and mine. As much as he was anyone else’s, he was mine.
It was such a pretty day. It was cold and the ground was still damp because it rained all day Friday--so much that the ground stayed muddy till Sunday--but the sun was shining, and it started setting just after four, and the leaves were falling around us like the tree was crying with us. Grieving even though he was still there. And I grabbed the leaves, because I needed something to hold onto.
The sun shone on his face and made his eyes look gold and his fur look like it was glowing, and he smiled the whole time, and Crystal brought him a cheese burger and ice-cream (and chocolate, because why not?), and he licked everyone’s hands and faces
Because he always hated it when we cried. He smiled his big dumb smile and wagged his
feathery tail while all his favorite people cried and pet him and told him what a good boy he is.
Papi cried, Mike cried, Drew cried, of course, and Grandma and Lis and B and mom. Crystal cried the most, she’s known him the shortest but she cried so much, so loudly, and when she got there she asked us all our favorite things about him, and I was surprised at how glad I was to see her.
It was beautiful. It was awful, and it was hard, and by the end of it my eyes were red and my hands were numb--but it was beautiful.
Because despite it all, despite how badly it hurt--will always hurt--to say goodbye, to rub his forehead and say “good boy, good puppy” for the last time--it was worth it. The hurt was worth it for the laughter and the slobbery kisses and the mouthfuls of water dropped directly onto your socks and the entire elote stolen from the kitchen counter and the begging, the awkward staring and heavy breathing while you eat, the popcorn dance and the tails in your face and the paws on your leg while he pretends he doesn’t notice you.
Short and sweet, that’s fall in a nutshell.
Leaves turn and fall and they are beautiful, and they are gone so fast. And that’s Jordan, in a nutshell. And God knows no amount of pressed leaves from the small grassy patch where Jordan laid down for the last time will ever do him justice--but they can try.
Riddled with issues, too lanky and awkward to be cuddled, the jumpy, anxious dog that no one wanted, the dog who never barked to come inside, the dog who insisted on sitting on the stairs like people, the dog who was scared of everything but always so eager to comfort and protect--the dog who was and is and always will be--wonderful.
To Jordan, who was wonderful.
Julia Alvarado
Wistful poems on a summer afternoon
I will write and sing and cry
And feel hopelessly inferior
And dreadfully pointless
As the world moves on around me
And I sit on the front stoop and reminisce
And listen to the birds in the trees
And the cars on the street
And the wind in the leaves
I mourn who I once was
And stand, paralyzed with the fear of the messy, beautiful strangers we are all doomed to become
And you run over the driveway
Basketball echoing through these lonely suburbs
And I hope against hope that you will not cry over the boy you once were
That you will not sit, writing sad poetry at 4:31 on a cool, summer afternoon
Inhaling the scent of some stranger’s distant campfire
As you think on how you will never be the same as you were
And then a gentle breeze blows the hair from my face, and I breathe deeply
And then I stand, leave the feelings and the melancholy on the front stoop and on this page, as I go to join in on the last bit of your childhood
“‘4:31 on a cool summer afternoon’ was inspired by all the weird, bittersweet feelings of growing up.”
- Julia Alvarado
Sonnet
Shea Winchester
A dozen songbirds and two lovers
Chase me off of a cliff
I hope you think my plummet is beautiful
“If you didn’t pick up on it, this poem is about love (how original).” - Shea Winchester
The first time I fell in love was an accident. I didn’t even realize it was happening. All I could see were his eyes. Soft brown, the color of coffee. They pulled me in tight and wouldn’t let go, and I could feel my stomach tug whenever we matched gazes.
Or maybe it was his voice, low and full of zeal. When he spoke, it was like he knew just what you wanted to hear. I could listen to him for hours. And I did, sometimes. We’d stay up long past midnight just talking— about school, the universe, our friends, the nature of life. Everything. Anything. Anything to hear that voice.
It wasn’t until we were out together one Friday night, when he pulled me in and kissed me, our faces washed out by the eerie neon glow of the strip mall signs, when it hit me.
I’d fallen hard.
Love grows in little gestures, in secret glances across crowded rooms, in back alleys reeking of smoke and in the front seats of pickup trucks on empty highways. In sneaking out through cracked windows to watch the stars together at one a.m.. We told no one.
And then all of it started to wither away. It was wonderful and terrible and I was on top of the world and clawing at my insides at the same time. I couldn’t do it. I really tried.
He was what made me realize I wasn’t built for love. I’m not the type who can exist for someone else. Some jump at the chance to give away their innermost self, but it hurt to let myself be picked apart by him. It hurt to have my soul laid bare for someone to see.
And while I was blushing and sharing secret moments with him in quiet corners, I also felt like I was suffocating. I was trapped under his scrutinizing eyes, his need to be close to me. He always wanted to know what it was that made me so guarded. “Do you not trust me?” I remember him asking. “Still?”
I’ve shut myself away as long as I can remember, but that only draws people closer. Maybe they pity me. Maybe they’re just curious. They all have one thing in common. They’re determined to see beneath the surface. Desperate to peel back my shattered edges and reveal something deeper, something beautiful.
What if someone doesn’t have any lovely qualities buried deep inside? What if all they’re made of is broken pieces and shattered edges, nothing more?
What if the thing you love most is slowly destroying you from the inside out?
The second time I fell in love was also an accident, except this time I wasn’t blind to the warning signs. I saw it coming from a mile away.
I tried to distance myself from her before anything happened. I remembered how the last one ended. But she must have felt the pull
as powerfully as I did, a magnetic field neither of us were strong enough to fight against, because she kept making excuses to talk to me after class and running into me in the halls. And I didn’t say no, I didn’t try to run from her like I should have. Before I knew it we were getting coffee together, both our faces flushed bright red. Twining our fingers together when nobody could see. Then she leaned in for a kiss. This time will be different, I told myself. It wasn’t.
It started the same and it ended the same. It’s not romantic like they’ll tell you. It was horrifying. I kept trying to shutter them, but no matter what I’d do she found a way to see inside. To pick me apart again and again. No more, I told myself once it was over. Never again. People were starting to suspect things, anyway. I’d always been quiet, awkward, a little blank-eyed. I knew the whispers would
only get louder.
It’s easy to think me heartless. A monster, a sadist, cruel and detached. I’m not. There’s not a day that goes by where I don’t miss them, my two loves. That’s why I kept the knives.
They’re hidden in my closet, all the way in the back, and sometimes I’ll pull them out and look at them. I’ll trace the lines of crusted blood with my finger, the crimson etching tangled designs onto the blades. I’ll remember two different nights that both ended the same way. A kiss, their hands cupping the sides of my face, a flush creeping up the back of my neck as I reached into my pocket, almost fumbling my grip. And finally, my hand sinking the blade straight between their ribs.
I watched as blood poured down and welled in pools on the floor, watched their eyes fill first with shock, then with panic, and then go dull. I felt the tears spilling out of my own eyes and did nothing to wipe them away.
Not then, and not now.
I walk past the river every day, under the overpass marred by fading graffiti, marks of artists long gone. There’s no current here, not since they dammed it up down south. The water is unmoving, unchanging.
This is the closest thing to a grave I have. Both searches are still ongoing. The police suspect a kidnapping.
There won’t be gravestones until a body is found. And I know they might find one eventually, but with every second the murky water clears any evidence I might have left.
They both loved in secret and died in secret. Now I grieve them in secret.
I might cry, but there’s no regret in those tears. I cry for the love I might have known. If I wasn’t me. If I wasn’t so empty.
I’d be lying if I said I didn’t mean to do it. No one told me love hurt like this.
Maeve Ciesla
I’ll pick you up
In my mom’s four door sedan Flowers in hand.
We exchange floral arrangements. You chose the music, We listen to in the car.
I chose the place, Hopefully it’s not some dive-bar. It’s empty when we arrive.
Let me get the door.
Let me get your chair.
Father said, Always be a gentleman.
Mother said, Always sit like a lady.
How can I express
These pains in my chest
That comes from your voice, Your eyes,
And your smile.
Not pain of hatred, doubt, and woefulness, But pains of excitement, fear, and joyfulness, That I struggle to repress.
I’m sorry my palms are sweating. I’m sorry my eyes are staring. You are the most interesting, Most beautiful, Most intelligent, (Believe me I could go on) Entity in the room.
But I cant look at you.
Constantly contradicting myself.
Am I making a fool of myself?
Am I talking too much?
Am I laughing too much?
I am not good enough, for you. They’ve painted this picture
Of me
Inside my head. A terrible, Heartless, monster, I’ve come to dread.
A creature undeserving of love. Maybe they’re right. Maybe they’re wrong.
I want to slow dance With you, To songs I don’t Slow dance to. You make me want to be The best version of myself.
It’s just the first date. Who knows where It will go?
Who knows how far We will go?
I will go far for you. Because there is this voice That says it will be you, I love you.
Wait, Don’t go.
Damn, Too soon
Over shaky telephone connections, over five-thousand, nine-hundred miles I miss yous spoken in a language which, to your parents’ disappointment, is not your first
There are aunties whose names you cannot even hope to begin to remember, who arrive at your door with tinfoil-covered trays of syrupy sweets, with that un-American greeting of a kiss on each cheek, and the American question in our shared language – bee ayna saf surtee?
Family trees are memorized like an old favorite poem, spanning centuries, the figures in grainy black and white your grandmother’s thirteen siblings who will die or have died in foreign lands with foreign lives behind them and you, stumbling over your conversations with relatives in that second language like one would stumble over forgotten tree roots
The irony is that your grandmother, your parents and the uncles and cousins that have gradually made their way across the oceans to be here would not go back, could not go back if they wanted This is their America now – the mahshee at Thanksgiving, Their accented English, their phone calls overseas, The dying branches of an ancient olive tree
There’s an exhaling of the breath of a long-ago home, finally letting go of the refugeed leaves of loss, falling, fertilizing the lives of those who, to their parents’ dismay, choose to hyphenate: Syrian-American, with a whisper of betrayal
“Mahshee is a Middle-Eastern dish: zuchinni stuffed with rice and meat, then cooked in tomato sauce.”
-Rosie Martini
The sand scalds our feet and pebbles surround us. I look at him.
“Do you want to look for cool rocks with me?”
He nods. “Sure!” He says eagerly.
We run around, searching for different kinds of rocks. I’m looking for crystals, he’s looking for whatever a 12-year-old-boy thinks is a cool rock. After a while, we jumped into the freezing water. We shrieked and splashed each other.
I go to sit by our mom. The pile of rocks by my feet are organized by the ones I like, and the ones I do not. There must be seven or eight of them.
Then, he runs over to me. “Hannah, look at this one!” He says.
I hold the small rock in my hand, feeling its smooth edges.
“It’s so smooth,” I say.
“I know!” He says. “That’s why I picked it for you. I thought you would like it.”
I had been sitting for practically four hours at this point. I looked out of the window seeing only the dim shine of the road light and the suburb glow against the cobalt clouds. I shifted in my seat, the carpet I sat on was worn out, potent with a strange rank-mossy smell. Being at school at 10pm on a Friday night would have probably been a teen’s nightmare, but for me it was simply something that I have always wanted. Some call it a club.
Some call it an organization. Some would jokingly call it a cult. But this long Snowball meeting of ours was much more than what most would describe. We had just finished our discussion. Someone was wiping away their tears as their friend was handing over the tissues. To my right, someone was looking at the floor in a daze, daydreaming of sorts. And there were others just starting to get their last shift for comfort on the ground, when a girl energetically opened the door, bringing us back to the outside world.
She directed us back to the main meeting room. She, along with the other directors, told us to split into three groups. Two of those groups would be standing in a circle, while the other group of people were to stand randomly inside of the circle made by the other teens.
One of the other girls looked at me, her eyebrows raised in questioning as we both were directed into the middle of the circle with some others. We had no idea what was to come. Maybe a game, a team building event, it was anyone’s guess.
I took my hesitant legs over to the middle of the circle, where the girl stood close by. The directors then turned off the lights. All that was left was the glow from the hallways coming through the door window. “Ok, people in the
middle, close your eyes. And no matter what, do, not, move.” Ok? I thought. Legs stiff, back a bit achy, and eyes tired, I took the opportunity to rest my eyelids.
Now everything was truly dark. There was no girl standing near me. No awkwardly decorated carpeting on the floor. No desks and creaky chairs. Just the darkness past my eyelids, and the odd silence after everyone stopped talking.
“Hug someone that makes you smile.”
Two arms quickly wrapped around me. A kind of fierce, but affectionate embrace. The kind of physical contact that everyone needs: a hug.
I didn’t open my eyes. Well, they told us not to. My body tightened at the abrupt hug from… I didn’t know who. The person was smaller than me. I could feel their hair against my chin. I suspected it was a girl, with her silky long hair and vanilla scented shampoo. Regardless of who it was I was startled. She left as quickly as she had come in for the hug. Her warmth returned to the dark and quiet circle.
Then another person arrived in my little circle of darkness. This time they were taller, with a lengthy kind of demeanor. They easily stretched their arms around my whole body. It was a welcoming hug, comforting, like the feeling of being wrapped in a blanket next to a fire on a winter night. Then they left.
Another person came over. Then another,
and another.
I don’t remember what I was thinking. There wasn’t much to think about other than the embrace that came and went. I do know my face became wet, though. Tears streaming down from my covered eyes. I couldn’t control it, but oddly I didn’t want to.
The tears meant something. They knew what they were doing. The tears told me something that thoughts couldn’t. At that moment I felt grateful. I felt loved. I felt wanted.
This year’s edition of Menagerie is dedicated to Louie Dadan and Kylie Conklin. Both will forever be remembered as incredible peers, friends, and members of our community.
“I thought the best way to remember Louie was that no matter what dark times happen, always keep smiling because better times will fall upon you.”
- Ivan Villalobos-Tello“Kylie was so incredibly loving, full of life, passionate, and loyal. She was the kind of person who left an impact on anyone who was lucky enough to meet her.”
- Madelyn Pugliese
Mr. Geddeis, the Administration, and the Board of Education for their continuous support of our endeavors.
The imaginative and talented writers and artists of LT for creating such amazing pieces. The creation of this magazine would not be possible without you.
Mr. Maffey, for keeping prose staff entertaining, introducing us to kumquats, and taking the time to guide us through the development of this year’s magazine.
Ms. Gutierrez, for expanding our geological vocabulary, keeping us focused, and patiently working with us to refine our vision.
Mrs. Rohlicek, for stashing our Oreos between meetings, always finding a way to look on the bright side, and encouraging us to keep going when things seemed tough.
Aimee Rounds, for always bringing her A-game throughout art staff, and for providing honest commentary that truly helped tie together the theme of this edition.
Monika Krueger, for being our resident faceting expert, and for putting in many extra hours of organizing and designing to bring this magazine to life. Your uplifting energy made every staff meeting an exciting and welcoming place this year.
Molly Zagroba, our personal influencer, for bringing our staff together this year with her colorful and thematic social media posts.
Ashlin Kwong, for dedicating many afternoons to leading prose staff through the aid of her beautiful slideshows and iconic fashion moments.
Teagan Arndt and Lindsey Wilson, for taking the time to learn and teach the ins and outs of our digital programs, and for designing some of the most unique textures found on the spreads this year.
Mckinley Huffman, for taking the lead of poetry staff with her insightful commentary and organization all the while combing through dozens of poems.
Sarah Korpolinski, for coming up with excellent playlist (and magazine) titles, and always being willing to develop new ideas over long Zoom calls on school nights and weekends. Your ingenuity and enthusiasm have made the experience all the more enjoyable.
Rosie Martini, for your never-ending stash of art supplies and ceaseless dedication to the magazine this year. Your determination and kindness were a driving force behind the development of every detail found in this edition.
Art Staff for your imagination and hard work throughout the first normal design experience in almost two years. We know that you will likely never look at rocks the same way again, but we sincerely hope that you enjoyed working with us to create something that we can all treasure.
Literary Staff for your diligence and insight throughout the many weeks you worked together. No matter the piece, you always put in the extra effort to be considerate and thoughtful to select the incredible works that we are proud to feature this year.
Bea Balde
Sammy Brunet
Catherine Crousore
Marilyn Fagan
Taylor Fergon
Madison Ferrell
Morgan Ferrell
Ali Guerrero
Caroline Hart
Natalie Hess
Sophia Jiotis
Deanna Nikolic
Annie Price
Evelyn Riordan
Meraly Rubio
Jessica Stoddard
Adrian Walker
Bea Balde
Sammy Brunet
Delilah Carli
Catherine Crousore
Marilyn Fagan
Eleanor Fekrat
Delfina Grazdanoska
Caroline Hart
Natalie Hess
Sophia Jiotis
Miguel Rodriguez
Abigail Shanley
Jessica Stoddard
Adrian Walker
Maya Werab
Joseph Maffey Gneiss ProseMenagerie is the annual student-run literary and art magazine of Lyons Township High School, which is home to about 4,000 students and 500 faculty and staff. It is a juried magazine whose participants create pages after school hours.
All students are encouraged to submit poems, prose, and art by mid-January. In February, the poetry and prose staffs meet after school to read, discuss, and evaluate the pieces based on quality of writing, style, originality, emotional accessibility, and subject matter. From the literary staff’s short lists, the literary editors and advisors make the final selections and edit those pieces for grammatical and technical errors.
In the following months, the art staff meets several days per week to intergrate exceptional art pieces that are selected based on merit and quality. They are then arranged on a spread to strengthen the thematic quality and connection to the literature. Other outstanding work is chosen for individual layouts thoughout the magazine.
The art staff collaboratively creates digital layouts that accompany the magazine’s theme. Finally, in mid-April, the editorial staff makes the final edits on the spreads before the finished product is sent to the printer. Distribution of the magazine typically occurs during mid to late May.
Send in your stories, artwork poetry, plays, or anything else you’d like
Our staff is divided into Literary Staff and Art Staff, so join one or both to help create the magazine! All students are invited! Be sure to visit www.lths.net/menagerie and follow @ltmenagerie
