Lyons Township High School - Menagerie 2024-2025 - Volume 50: Turn It Up
MENAGERIE: TURN IT UP - VOLUME 50
Lyons Township High School Presents: 0:00 80:00
Mission Statement
Menagerie is Lyons Township High School’s student-run literary and art magazine. Our goal is to highlight and celebrate our talented student artisists and writers in a professional publication. We hope to continue uplifting and encouraging each new generation of talented lions.
Getting Involved
There are many ways to get involved in Menagerie, including: Submitting your artwork, poetry, prose, plays, or anything creative to menagerie@lths.net to be featured in our next volume! Joining Art Staff, Lit Staff, or both to help put together the magazine! Everyone is welcome to hang out, create the pages and eat lots of snacks. Becoming an editor - applications for editorial positions for the 2026 edition can be found at www.lths.net/menagerie and are due in the spring of 2025. Follow @ltmenagerie on Instagram for all of our fun updates!
Colophon
Menagerie is the annual student-run literary and art magazine of Lyons Township High School, home to about 3,700 students and 450 faculty and staff. It is a juried magazine whose participants work beyond regular school hours.
All students are encouraged to submit poems, prose, and art by midJanuary. In February, the poetry and prose staff meets 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 narrowed down list, editors and advisors make the final selections and edit those pieces for grammatical and technical errors.
In the following month, the art staff meets several days per week to integrate exceptional art pieces that are selected based on merit and quality. They are then arranged on a spread to strengthen thematic quality and connection to the literature. Other outstanding work is chosen for individual layouts throughout 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 occurs during mid to late May.
Editor’s Note
Power up your JBL, plug in your headphones, and TURN IT UP for Lyons Township High School’s semi-centennial edition of Menagerie! That’s right— this is our 50th edition, and we’re cranking up the volume to celebrate.
This year’s theme is inspired by the cultural phenomenon that is Spotify Wrapped. Every December, we eagerly scroll through our most-played tracks and guilty pleasure anthems, but instead of highlighting your moststreamed songs, we’re showcasing the top-tier talent of LT’s student artists and writers: the poets, storytellers, artists, and visionaries from all grades, 9 through 12. Think of this issue as your custom-made playlist of our school’s finest work: bold, exciting, and unforgettable.
We’ve got everything from stunning visuals to lyrical masterpieces. Just to name a few standouts—check out the incredible metalwork “Suspended in Serenity” by Deena Jalilian (page 76), or the powerful poem “Ms. Fortunate” by Adailene Escobar (page 21), which had the whole staff in awe. And don’t miss Emily Master’s “Big Eyes,” (page 22) a piece that captured our staffers’ attention. These are just a few of the gems waiting to be discovered in this year’s pages.
We also took some time to reflect on where we’ve come from. The back cover of this edition features a special tribute to past Menagerie covers— each one a snapshot of the styles and voices that have defined our school’s literary and artistic legacy through the years. It’s a little blast from our past as we turn the dial toward the future.
So whether you’re a loyal reader or just picked up your first ever copy, thank you for helping us celebrate Menagerie turning “fiddy!” We hope this collection inspires you, moves you, and maybe even makes your “replay” list.
Suzanne Avakian Editor-in-Chief
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Maci
Table of Contents
Prose
The Story of Them - Andrew Shepard - 8
The View of the Saguaro - Maxwell Colomb - 12
The Redemption of Chris Westerberg - James Lysaught - 14
A Book of Stories for Seagulls - Zachary Schwarz - 32
Ossuary River - Blake Benjaminson - 37
Sea Animals - Kai Walsh - 38
Burnt Bread and Burnt Feathers - Kiley McGuire - 42
A One-Sided Window - Kai Walsh - 52
Scrutopathus - Oscar Katz - 54
A Walk to the Park - Abbie Scouffas - 60
Poetry
The Summer of Fireflies - Yadira Sepulveda - 9
Aphantasia - Payton Meller - 10
Ms. Fortunate - Adailene Escobar - 21
Overthinking - Amaya Davis - 23
Sincerely, the Changling - Molly Scheib - 24
Emergency Self-Imposed Heart Surgery - Joanna Barcelona - 27
My Poetry - Amaya Davis - 31
Home is a Stuffed Bear - River Jennison - 40
A Shark - Violet Laslie - 46
Pressure - River Jennison - 49
Dreamcatcher - Charles Ciesla - 51
Microdosing on Change - Joanna Barcelona - 57
Someday - Deena Jalilian - 59
It Could Be You - River Jennison - 64
Slam Poem - Isabella Rodriguez - 66
A Love Letter to October - Yadira Sepulveda - 68
The Sheep and the Phantom - Joanna Barcelona - 79 Play
The Runaway - Lola Podolner - 72
Duckies
Connor Stahl - Colored Pencil
2D Art
Volume L - Jay Jaffre - Cover
Celebration - River Jennison - 1
Maci “The All-Seeing Ladder Cat”- Jay
Jaffre - 3
Duckies - Connor Stahl - 4
Learning Spanish - Isabela Cazares - 7
Oddballs - Cora Maggin - 8
Gum Rot - Barcelona Lewis-Skura - 9
The Parable of the Sower -Brooke Bonniwell 11
Battle of the Giants - Ghost Schau - 13
Buried - Harris Nandan - 16
Frére - Olivia Burr-Reynaud - 17
Don’t Bite the Hand that Feeds You - Adam Grush - 19
Doorknob - Emily Masters - 20
Big Eyes - Emily Masters - 22
Abby and Cooper - Lola Podolner - 28
Treasure - Meredith Elrod - 30
Childhood Objects - Harris Nandan - 30
Tokyo Streets - Ollie Davis - 32
Fading - Meredith Elrod - 35
Flower Panda - Lola Podolner - 39
Sardines - Amelia Challacombe - 39
Stuffed Bear - River Jennison - 40
Antonino’s - Cora Maggin - 40
Circle Stairwell - Lola Podolner - 41
Envy - Adam Grush - 43
3D Art
Born - Tallulah Tolley - 15
Pollinator - Cy O’Connell - 18
Dragonfly - Lucy Dreher - 24
Mind’s Eye - Eddie Tibbs - 25
Lark - Genevieve Harmount - 26
Beautiful Twist - Natalia Ortega - 29
Vase of Flowers - Natalia Ortega - 29
Floral Pot - Laila Lorenzi - 34
Engulfed - Tallulah Tolley - 36
Monkey - Lilyan Wadda - 44
Cowboy Basset Hound Bank - Elysa Zavala - 46
Suspended in Serenity - Deena Jalilian - 76
Emma - Isabella Escarpita - 45
Kitty on Books - Sylwia Siebiesiuk - 47
Hurry - Genevieve Harmount - 48
Obscured - Julian Gawel Barden - 50
Downstairs - Audrey Shell - 53
Fish and Boy - Cora Maggin - 55
Grandma Playing Cowboy - Thea Green - 56
XVII - Molly Schieb - 56
Self Portrait - Rianna Haymes - 57
Drift - Molly Rossi - 58
Bound - Julian Gawel Barden - 58
Dreaming of Eternal Rest -Audrey Shell- 61
Ninu - Gianna Flores - 63
Six Faces - Rianna Haymes - 65
Don’t Preach to Me - Ollie Davis - 65
Mére - Olivia Burr-Reynaud - 67
Fallen Leaves - Molly Rossi - 69
Dancing in the Dark - Fendrick Markus - 69
Family - Francesca Cooper - 70
Reflections - Francesca Schultz - 71
Realization - Rianna Haymes - 71
Cleansed - Brooke Bonniwell - 73
Hello Wolrd - Molly Schieb - 75
Vinyl - Molly Rossi - 77
Perfect Smile - Xavier Gonzalez - 78
Mossy Tree - Will Bridges - 78
The Summer of the Fireflies
Yadira Sepulveda
There’s a place in my head like a bookshelf
Dusty and tea-stained like my abuela’s coffee table
Occasionally I take a book out and skim until my heart misses a beat and I am drawn into the thumb pressed page
I jolt and I am suddenly in that blue bathed room
Though it is summer the blankets are cold
Curled up like seashell, hand clawing atop my ribs
Eyes blurred making buzzing lights stars
And I apologize for my love over a glass of lemonade
Leather-bound pages are stained by that blueberry cobbler
I ache for that freedom of the lightning bugs
Calm pride as they glide through the humidity Why would they ever apologize for their nature?
I am scared that this bruise will haunt me forever
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Isabela Cazares - Acrylic
The Story of Them
Andrew Shepard
The friend who is not tall went to get their friend who was not small. As the friend who is not handsome got into the car and moved their seat back, the friend who is not pretty got ready to drive them to the place that is not boring. The friends who is not strong decided to play some of their favorite music, music that is not quiet, a dangerous thing for someone operating such a large motor vehicle, but the friend who is not weak enjoyed it nevertheless. As the friend who does not have long hair parked the car, the friend who does not have short hair remarked on the other’s driving, but meant well. As they entered the place that doesn’t sell a whopper, the friends walked pass a familiar face, but not a friendly face. The face was from someone who doesn’t like the idea of the friends, but the friends didn’t care about what the
familiar but unfriendly face thinks of them, because the friends often meet faces who don’t like them, and have grown used to similar faces. The friends made it inside the place without chicken from Kentucky, and after requesting their food to the worker who is not excited, talked a lot about not sad things and not happy things, and when what they requested was ready, they were very not sad to scarf it down. After their meal that was not horrible, the friends went back to the car. The friend who does not have good eyes decided to play their favorite music on the way back, music that is not new, and begrudgingly, the friend who does not have glasses kept it on. Finally, the friend who is not small returned to their home, and thanked the friend who is not tall for the night. Oddballs
Cora Maggin-Silkscreen
Gum Rot
Barcelona Lewis-Skura - Ink and Watercolor
Aphantasia*
Payton Meller
Imagine you’re hiking mountains
They say as their words turn into fountains
I shut my eyes tight and focus my best
They must mean metaphorically, I reason and guess
When nothing comes to mind
I try my hardest not to seem imaginatively blind
Try to visualize where the character is
My English teacher reminds us this will be on the quiz
I squeeze my fists and will my brain
The frustration leaves me in tremendous pain
Darkness is all I can see
Is this truly what it must be?
I lie awake in my bed
As all these memories fill me with dread
My eyes flutter shut
I attempt to imagine a beach but
My brain draws a blank
The sounds of waves crashing cloud my mind bank
The beach, the palm trees, the sand
My mind whispers the words as if written by hand
Still, an image is yet to appear
The black space of closed eyes is all that comes near
*Aphantasia is the inability to form mental images or “visualize” in the brain. 10
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The Parable of the Sower
Brooke Bonniwell - Color Pencil Collage
The View of the Saguaro
Maxwell Colomb
In southwest North America live the Saguaro cactuses. These plants are often considered the ‘kings of the desert,’ with adults usually the height of palm trees, or taller. They grow in people’s yards, outside gas stations, and in the expanses of open desert that are abundant in the southwest. In some areas, thousands of Saguaro cactuses stretch miles in each direction, like vast metropolises.
The most fascinating part about the Saguaros, in my opinion, is their lifespan. People often dream of living to 100; these cacti live up to twice that age.
I found a huge Saguaro at the top of a hill out in the Arizona desert. It had a pipework of arms, and reached at least twenty feet into the sky. There were burrows in it, spots where birds had long ago made homes to hatch their babies.
It was old. So old that it had probably existed when native Americans still lived freely in the desert. If it had eyes, it probably would’ve seen the many hopeful gold miners, pushing through the desert to get to California, in search of riches and glory. It might’ve seen the cowboys that used to roam, too, guns slung to their waists and hats on to block the baking sun.
More often it had surely watched the natural world change as the seasons passed. It saw the births and deaths of other creatures on a normal basis, watching the cycle of life many times over.
It saw road mice get eaten by hungry hawks, and agave cactuses plundered by thirsty coyotes. It saw hummingbirds as they pollinated the butterfly bushes, and ocelots as they hunted snakes and birds. It saw flowers slowly sprout from little saplings into vibrant plants full of color and life, taking in the sun and pollinator bees. It saw the desert grow and wane, at one moment exploding with the grandeur of life, and at the next, quiet.
The Saguaro sat on the edge of the hill, defending its keep. I stepped forward next to the cactus and saw the surrounding landscape in its entirety.
Some would have the desert as the manifestation of hell, but there was no better way I could’ve described its beauty in that moment than as the gates to heaven.
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Battle of the Giants
Ghost Schau - Acrylic
The Redemption of Chris Westerberg
James Lysaught
The bus creaked as it slowed, lilting slightly before it came to a halt beside the dingy bus stop. The doors swung open with a mechanical hiss, parting the way for a lethargic trickle of passengers to leak onto the bus. Chris gave the sad, blue-eyed old men with patchy tufts of hair combed over their scalps a sidelong glance from the driver’s seat. Then, he resumed staring out the front window, closing his eyes and listening to the pitter-patter of tiny raindrops gently slapping the exterior of the bus. When he opened them again, he turned his neck slowly to his right and saw that the last of the passengers had shuffled in. He leaned forward and pushed the button to close the door. He put his hands on the wheel and inhaled deeply, breathing in a scent that was like old leather soaked through with sweat. The bus had a tendency to smell when it rained.
He had beaten the dawn to work. By the dim light of the long, late autumn night, he could strain to read 7:00 AM on his watch. The first commuters of the day began to trickle out onto the pothole-ridden road from side streets, fluorescent headlights scouring the dingy streets, windshield wipers slogging busily. The bus rolled slowly toward a red light shining angrily a few blocks ahead. Chris turned his head slightly so that out of the corner of his eye
he could see the street signs jutting out of the ground and drooping over tar-streaked roads. A lacquer-red sports car, all smooth curves and angular headlights emerged. It came from 53rd and Maple. Chris knew the street. It was easier than anything for him to imagine that car parked in front of a sprawling house on a sunny day while a sprinkler doused the flawlessly green lawn with a shiny coating of water. Skidding loudly over the asphalt, its driver cut him off, like he always did, and came to a shrieking halt on top of the crosswalk. Waiting at the stop, tapping his fingers rhythmically on the wheel, Chris looked down through the back window of the car and soaked in the image of its driver talking animatedly on the phone, arms swinging up and down like beating wings. He watched with a vague, tired interest as the driver side window of the car rolled down and expelled a half-full blanched cup of coffee that landed on a neighboring car, the lukewarm fluid spilling out and mixing with a slurry of rain. The window of the receiving car rolled downwards and the driver stuck out a protruding rude gesture in the direction of his assailant, whose window was already well on its way back up. The green light flickered on, turning the road a shade of neon, and the shambling mass of traffic rolled forward once again.
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For the next few miles, Chris watched the car out of the corner of his eye with a gleam in his eyes that vanished when he looked in the rearview mirror at the retirement home residents staring forward with dull, zombie-like blue eyes. The houses and corner stores slowly lost ground to a monochrome jungle of concrete office buildings. Most of the lights were still off, but now and again one would flicker on, pushing back the dreary morning darkness that draped itself over everything like fog. As he pulled over to the curb next to his second stop, he turned his head fully to watch the red car glide into a small parking lot and nest in a wide space, covering bold white lettering that screamed RESERVED. His eyes followed the driver robotically as he gingerly closed his car door, straightened his blood red tie and disappeared briskly into an office building. Chris returned his eyes to the road, which the bus had ceased to swallow as it came to a halt. He closed his eyes and sighed. He pushed the button to open the door, a little harder this time, and brushed his long matted hair behind his ear. His knuckles turned white as he gripped the wheel hard, dreading what was coming. He sat up and squinted through the sea of patchy gray heads and fuzzy bowler caps shambling out the door.
On the near side of the dispersing crowd were three boys in dress shirts translucent with wetness and loose ties standing slightly hunched over, giggling and talking excitedly in low tones. Chris’ face shifted slightly as he wondered what the holdup was. After the last of the zombies had
limped off the bus, the ringleader, a tall boy with a mass of curly brown hair, jumped in front of the advancing crowd that had been waiting at the bus stop and looked Chris dead in the face. A second later, a handful of Fourth of July poppers came clattering through the door. Chris didn’t have time to watch the boys run off. Most of the little balls had fallen harmlessly onto the floor, but a half dozen or so had exploded and ripped small holes in the leather of the dash, the first 2 rows of seats, and Chris’ temple. He rubbed the side of his face and felt a swollen welt already half-formed. He tried not to focus on the boys’ loud footfalls and hyena-like laughter echoing through the empty streets. The sound made Chris’ heart feel as though it weighed a thousand pounds and was sinking gradually through his chest cavity, dragging his arteries and lungs down with it. He gazed forlornly
Born Tallulah Tolley - Ceramics
Buried Harris Nandan - Digital at the distant mountains, stabbing the melancholy gray sky defiantly with their jagged peaks, and cracked a faint smile. They would be the only good company he had today.
The rain had gone from a gentle drizzle to a torrential downpour, producing a sound like fingers tapping on sheet metal as pebble-sized drops fell violently onto the roof of the apartment lobby. Chris opened the door to the bare, industrial staircase and was hit with a muggy wall of humid air. His feet sloshed inside his wet shoes as he walked up to the door labeled with a scratched-out white 4. He took off his coat, which was heavy with water, as he walked down the hall.
He opened the door and immediately planted the hood of his coat on the hanger, letting it drip languidly onto the dull tile floor like a stuck pig with its blood drained. After drying his head with a mildewy towel, he sat down on the couch and put his head on top of his knuckles. The room was furnished with a monk-like austerity. A pullout bed was stationed perpendicular to a dusty, boxy TV set, accompanied only by a chipped pistachio-green bookshelf and a splintery nightstand whose legs were dark with water damage. On top of the nightstand were small, intricately folded pieces of origami in various positionssome stood tall and proud, others lay on their backs or faces. They varied in scale from a paperclip-sized crane made out of a coffee-stained post-it note to a brown paper grocery bag that had been converted into a towering penguin. Chris reached into his pocket and pulled out a collection of detritus gathered from the cracks between seats - napkins dark with food stains, a travel brochure for Baltimore, and a notice for a vehicle emissions test that had been torn into four roughly square pieces. The rain pounded furiously on his window as he folded the items delicately, contorting the shapes with gliding, fluid motions informed by years of muscle memory. When he had finished, he stood up and opened the single drawer of his nightstand, placing his projects gently down onto the rough wooden surface. Suddenly, the phone started to ring from across the room. He went completely still and exhaled slowly. He walked over slowly to the phone.
“Chris, you haven’t called in so long,” a
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female voice drawled slowly.
“Hi, Mom,” Chris said, wincing.
“How’s the weather out there?”
Chris looked out the window. “Great,” he replied.
“How’s work?” she asked, disapproval weighing down her voice.
“Oh, paying the bills, you know.”
“I wish you’d put that big brain of yours to work going back to school. Or finding a nice girl. That apartment is so dingey. Somebody oughta knock some sense into you.”
“Just saving up to retire, Mom” he sighed. The vacant blue eyes of the old men flashed through his mind.
“Well, give us a call if you’ve got any news.”
“I will,” he said and hung up a little too quickly. He looked at the clock. It was getting late already.
He swaddled his itchy bed sheets tightly around him and stared forlornly out the window until the rhythmic pounding of the raindrops lulled him to sleep.
Suddenly, it was a clear, sunny day, and the familiar feeling of worn leather greeted him. He was driving the bus lazily across a long, circular track. The sights and smells of spring were outside - the grass and leaves were a cool shade of green, birds were chirping, bees buzzed around blooming flowers that turned the ground into a vibrant carpet of pinks and oranges and yellows. He took a deep breath. The air smelled like roses.
He flicked an eye upward and noticed a curved red car in his rearview mirror. He was suddenly aware of a continuous,
blaring horn that made the bus vibrate and rattle like a bag of nuts and bolts in an earthquake. He pressed his foot down a little further onto the gas. He looked to his left and saw another red car. He watched with a racing heart as the window rolled down. It spat out a brick, which broke the window with a sound like a woman’s scream and hit the floor with a thud. Chris’ muscles tightened, his foot edging closer and closer to the floor. He struggled to make a turn, swerving violently and tipping the weight of the bus onto its left wheels before it fell back to its normal posture. When he looked out the window, he saw red car after red car filling each lane to the brim. He felt the sun
Frére Olivia Burr-Reynaud - Acrylic
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getting hotter, saw the morning dew drying off the grass, then the flowers wilting, the leaves turning yellow and red, and then finally brown before they started to fall to the ground in droves. The sun disappeared behind the clouds and a storm of hail pounded angrily on the roof of the bus. In his bones Chris felt a collision rock his seat and heard the clatter of screws onto the metal floor. He fell to the ground and braced himself as he felt the bus tipping over, sounds of shattered glass, metal on asphalt, and skidding wheels all mingling into one violent cacophony.
He woke up. The rain was still falling against the window. He sat up, pushing his sweat-soaked blankets off of him, and saw that the clouds were a dark blue that beckoned the arrival of dawn. In fluorescent green text, an alarm clock across the room
Pollinator Cy O’Connell - Metal
shouted 5:50. He pushed himself out of bed and made his way to the bathroom.
The bus creaked and rattled as he pulled again into his first stop. This time he paid no mind to the sad old men who lumbered onto the bus on canes or shaky, rheumatic legs. He stared out the window, slouched back into his familiar leather chair with his hands clasped loosely around the wheel. He closed the doors and hit the gas in one fluid motion and stared with sad, tender eyes at the mountains on the horizon. When 53rd and Maple came, the driver of the red car cut him off, like always, and sat complacently in the front and center of his vision. He took his left hand off the edge of the wheel and held it motionless above the horn before drawing it back. It was no use.
As the sinister red of the stoplight appeared on the misty horizon, the red car began to accelerate and shift lanes boldly, pushing away more timid drivers like fat repelling oil. As the stop drew near, Chris closed his eyes. He felt the unpleasant beginning of a cold in his stiff neck and hot nostrils, and he had woken up with a pounding headache. He sank into his seat and put his middle and ring fingers to his temple. Suddenly, he heard a screaming clamor whizz by his left side. His eyes shot wide open. A small, beetle-like black car with its rear license plate hanging off was lodged into the crumpled side of the red car, slowly pushing it forward into the middle of the intersection. The mass of metal came to a resting point right in the middle of the intersection, the engine of the smaller car
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giving out with a loud sputter. Everything went still. With bated breath the observers waited for the silence to break. The driver side front door of the red car swung open.
The driver stepped out and straightened his red tie. He was tall and well-dressed, wearing a 3-piece suit so meticulously ironed you almost feel the heat radiating off of it. He watched the door of the black car open, letting a storm of loose paint chips fall onto the wet street. A short, pudgy man wearing a fuzzy beanie stepped out. Through a hole in his hat his bald scalp was visible. The driver of the red car slowed and backed up a little when he saw him approaching. Then, in a heartbeat, the men were on each other, a sloppy, out of time slow dance of blows that spilled out away from the T-shaped wreck and wandered haphazardly around the square 4-way. Simultaneously the light turned green and sirens began to wail in the distance. A
third car slammed into the wreck, its airbags ballooning to fill the front seats in a split second. Chris stared blankly forward. He looked into the rearview mirror and was met with what seemed like a million pairs of dull blue eyes boring into him. Involuntarily, he started to giggle. It began quietly, but began to increase in volume and intensity as a boyish giddiness took hold of him. It reminded him of the feelings that Fourth of Julys and birthdays and Christmases had filled him with as a kid. His laughter crescendoed into a surge that burst out of him continuously like a mad geyser, making his sides ache and hunching him over. Tears began to leak from his muddy brown eyes and flow down his laughter-lined face. He thought about taking his retirement early. He liked the idea.
The bus lurched as it sailed over the curb and drove with an iron will toward the mountains.
Don’t Bite the Hand that Feeds You Adam Grush - Digital
Doorknob Emily Masters - Pencil
Ms. Fortunate
Adailene
Escobar
Little Ms. Fortunate was never so fortunate. She had books for hands, She had a mirror as a face, She had yarn for hair, She had the scent of bleach and glue, She had stitches for lips, But she always found a way to wail.
Little Ms. Fortunate was never so fortunate. She had pillows for feet, But the creaks still gave her away And so the monster crept And watched And stayed. She had a clock for a brain, She had bones for eyes, Her pieces seemed like they could never be put together properly.
Little Ms. Fortunate was never so fortunate. Her songs rewound her brain, Her voice cracked her face, Her hands were ripped, Her hair was tangled and shredded. Her eyes were bleeding tears, Her feet were stale, Her lips were crying, And her scent went to the winter grass. Her pieces went flying apart, And so, from there, her and the monster merged And left the room clean.
Little Ms. Fortunate was never so fortunate.
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Big Eyes
Emily Masters - Acrylic
Overthinking
Amaya Davis
My thoughts mirror popcorn kernels
Exploding
Few abruptly half-popped
Others fail to mature at all
Intensity ranges up to 3 feet high
80 decibels at max
An unclear stopping point
Pondering too hard leaves burns
Kernels transform:
Breathtaking butterfly form
Capable of surprising metamorphosis
Or the widely hated mushroom
Fueled upon decomposer
Popcorn isn’t always accepted
Too loud, too distracting, too messy
Once banned from theaters
‘Though ignored by huge pockets, Nourishment is difficult to deny
Every kernel was valued
Rapid overproduction
The noise a distraction, The taste an escape
But as the mushroom took shape, A bomb swallowed my vision
Gaining experience with kernels, Awards efficiency
Popcorn marinating into darkness
Avoided by mindfulness, As I confront the kernels:
Butterfly or mushroom?
Sincerely, the Changling
Molly Scheib
There has always been two children in this house
Before
There was a boy and a girl
But at some point
While no one was watching
The little girl had vanished
And by the time anyone had bothered to look back
The Changling was in her place
Or
Maybe
The Changling had always been there
Hiding behind the little girl the adults had wanted
Two sides of the same coin
An illusion to hide its true nature
A defense against the world
But at some point the glamor slipped and the truth was revealed
The boy didn’t hesitate to accept the Changling as a sibling
And the adults never realized that one child had been changed into another
After all
There had always been two children in this house
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Dragonfly
Lucy Dreher - Metal
Mind’s Eye
Eddie Tibbs - Ceramic
Genevieve Harmount - Ceramic
Emergency Self-Imposed Heart Surgery
Joanna Barcelona
I think I know the cause
Of this pain in my chest
A heart got trapped inside there
So can’t somebody carve me open,
And let it out for some fresh air?
If that’s too much to ask, then -
Must I expose my insides to everyone?
I’ve never been good with knives
This’ll just hurt more than it already does
It’d be so awful if I made a mistake
And bled all over myself in an embarrassing way
Just for a new stabbing pain to replace this ache
So if everyone’s going to see me do it
I just wish someone would guide my hand
Hold out their pinky for me to squeeze, maybe
But this is no doctor’s office
There’s only me - and everyone else
I take a deep breath and plunge into myself
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Abby and Cooper
Lola Podolner
Digital
Vase of Flowers
Natalia Ortega - Metals
Beautiful Twist
Natalia Ortega Metals
Childhood Objects
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Treasure
Meredith Elrod - Color Pencil
Harris Nandan - Digital
My Poetry
Amaya Davis
My poetry has become a burden racking my brain
I try to conceal my pain; a futile task
Transforming tears into fingers, I’m addicted to words
The more I can’t escape my fears, the more I strain myself of sanity
The better my poetry becomes
But when I aim for the role of the teller, my personalization runs
Fluidity throughout my brain and body dissipate
It’s simply
Not.
Mine.
My poetry is pain
My poetry is writing in the rain so my streams acclimatize
With the pouring of emotions onto a screen
Warmth exploring unknown areas of myself
To listen and comfort me
To grab my sorrows and recondition them into stories
Stories responsible for scars on my skin, yet once complete, instantly mends
Letters as washable as my senses, I emerge myself onto paper
The moment my essence evaporates out my body
The healing process
See, my poetry is lame
It’s a 12th grade shitshow of a poem
But it’s mine
And that is the punchline
It’s my vulnerability and flaws in physical, public form
When, habitually, all I live for is trying to conceal it
A Book of Stories for Seagulls
Zachary Schwarz
It started when the man walked in. Ms. Emily Kelly had been working bright and early since six in the morning, arranging the shelves and checking out books to the few souls who walked in. Yes, not many people could be sighted in downtown Chicago going to the library, no, there was always something more interesting, more important, more exciting to see than some dusty old novels. Young Emily was different in that way, believing that the knowledgeable words of authors would always trump the public news, which she thought was not a very good source of information. It wasn’t until the man walked in that she discovered she wasn’t the only one who thought such “classical” thoughts. He was an odd incarnation of flesh, a normal man from chest to toe. Yes, I say chest, as his neck and head were quite particular in design. As he approached the desk, Ms. Kelly looked up to discover this unusual man had the head of a common gull. Not a costume, not a charade, but a real-life seagull head with a beak for a nose. As Ms. Kelly looked him up and down, she noticed his suit. Now normally, a man in a suit is a common sight in modern-day Chicago, seagullhead or not. This suit, on the other hand, was a worn, tattered suit from another time. Thanks to her knowledge of oldtimey Chicago, she could decipher that this abnormally-headed man was wearing a suit common in Chicago in the 1890s, a relic of the past. This raised even more questions within her exceptional mind. How in the world did such an odd man appear here? Was he a time traveler? Did he steal that suit from a museum?
And why on earth was his head that of a seagull, a bird Ms. Kelly only saw near the lakes and coasts of Chicago? He noticed her staring and squinted back as if he had trouble seeing her form. Flustered by his beady eyes, Ms. Kelly opened the conversation with the normal welcome.
“Good morning sir, and welcome to the library. How can I help you?” she said, having trouble looking at his small, black coals of eyes due to his bright yellow beak.
“I have a number of questions regarding these books of yours ma’am,” he replied. Acting out of curiosity, Ms. Kelly responded with a rude question.
“Of course, but before this
Tokyo Streets
Ollie Davis - Watercolor 32 - Menagerie
conversation continues, may I have your name?” she asked, not realizing her nosiness.
Confused, the seagull-headed man replied, “May I ask why?”
Realizing her rude choice of words, Ms. Kelly quickly responded.
“Oh! I’m deeply sorry sir, I was just interested in your-erm- beak!”
A little taken back, most likely still confused, the man gave his name.
“Well thank you… my name is Joseph.”
“Ah yes, from the Bible!” she said, being a passionate Catholic, not remembering this odd man might not know what the Bible was.
“Yes, from the Bible…whatever that is…” he said, confused once more. “Now back to my questions.”
“Oh, of course, good sir. What would you like to know?” she asked, intrigued by what he might ask.
“Well, for one, where are the newspapers?” he questioned.
“In the shelves down that hallway, past the nonfiction section,” she responded, a little taken aback it was just a simple library question.
“No, I mean where are they outside? I saw no paper-boys, no newspaper boxes, or frankly any sign of newspapers at all,” he said, pressing the question.
“Well, newspapers aren’t how we read stories anymore Mr. Seagull” she said, sighing to herself.
“Then how are stories read now? And what is a seagull?” the man asked, puzzled by this news.
“Well, stories aren’t as truthful as they used to be. People read them on their phones and make them to earn views. And nevermind about the seagull thing, I was
just making an observation about you...” she said, not knowing if this man had any idea of what social media or phones were, and at the same time hoping she hadn’t offended him by calling him a seagull.
“Earn views? What is there to view? Stories are told, not viewed” he said, almost trying to convince himself that this was true, and to Ms. Kelly’s relief, dropping the seagull subject.
“I’m sorry sir, but that’s not how we read stories anymore,” Ms. Kelly said, once again letting out a sigh.
“Well, that’s how it should be done!” the seagull-headed man exclaimed, and he proceeded to walk off into the library, leaving Ms. Kelly stunned at his loud proclamation.
“Wait sir! Do you even know where you’re going?!?!” she spoke after him, but he was out of earshot.
Still curious about this man, Ms. Kelly decided to follow him through the maze of shelves and books. As she caught up to Joseph, she realized she had followed him all the way to the magical realism section, which happened to be her very favorite. The concept of the real world with a sprinkle of fantasy always enticed her, and she noticed the seagull-headed man had already plucked a book from the shelves. As she came closer, she recognized the title to be “A Very Old Man with Enormous Wings” which happened to be one of the first magical realistic books she had attempted to read, and was one of her favorites. As she focused on Joseph himself, she noticed that within the dark depths of his black coal eyes, a sparkle of interest seemed to form as he read the story. As she came to a stop a few feet from him, he looked up, with that
same glint of knowledge and asked her another question.
“If there are no newspapers, why are works of art such as this contained in these dusty shelves instead of being shared with the world?” he asked, wanting to know more.
“Well, as I have said before, people just don’t read, writers are far and few, and storytellers are almost ghosts now. Stories aren’t popular anymore, that’s just the truth, sir,” she responded.
“That doesn’t seem right,” he said. “I will write my own book if I have to, to give the world the stories they deserve.”
Confused but at the same time curious, Ms. Kelly asked her own question this time, “But what would you call such a book? I mean, with all the titles taken, what would be a fitting name for such an endeavor?” she asked, now interested in this book he spoke of writing.
Joseph seemed to ponder this question for a moment and then looked up with a slight grin to his beak, at least the best a beak could pull off.
“What was it you referred to me earlier when I asked you a question?” he asked.
Unsure what to say, Ms. Kelly responded with uncertainty.
“Well… I called you a seagull sir. It’s a type of seabird” she said, looking down at her feet, embarrassed.
Smiling he said, “Seagull. S-E-A-G-UL-L. I like that word. I think I finally have an idea for a title.”
Eagerly, Ms. Kelly asked him. “What will it be called then?”
“The Seagull Book of Stories, yes, that sounds like the perfect way to give the world stories again, now that they seem so lost,” he responded, nodding his seagull head slightly as if reassuring himself that it was a good title. “But I have one more question I must ask you, Ms. Kelly...”
Abashed, Ms. Emily Kelly acknowledged this final question.
“What is it sir?” she said.
“What year is it, Ms Kelly?”
Floral Pot
Laila Lorenzi - Ceramic
36 - Menagerie
Ossuary River
Blake Benjaminson
There’s no water in the river anymore, only bones.
Every winter, the air is so dry that the river completely dries out, leaving behind more and more fossils in the riverbank; hundreds of thousands of skeletons twined together in the mud, perfectly preserved in the frost.
Every spring, the melting snow and unstable soil of the land on which the town was built causes the bodies in the cemetery to slide towards the river like rainwater, coffins eventually sinking down into the mud beneath the river, and the bones always float to the top, as shiny and perfect as their skin was in life.
Every winter, the river becomes something to be avoided, in case
recent mourners come face to face with their loved ones’ perfectly crystalline ivory remains.
Every spring, it rains, and the river is re-filled with rainwater, water that comes down in sighs and whispers. No one swims in the river anymore, no one uses the water, and we are all slowly going thirsty, as we are unable to drink the tainted water, and the corpses of those who die of thirst are carted down to the cemetery.
And every winter, the corpses go down to the river to rest amongst each other. Their bones are all laid out there still, out there in the middle of winter, all dying together in their tangled mess of posthumous union.
Sea Animals
Kai Walsh
As I step into my teaching internship classroom, chaos filling the air, I can’t help but feel warmth. Children run in every direction, collapsing atop their table as their teacher gives them a scolding glare. Within the corner, Andrew sits, patiently coloring a bottlenose dolphin, ignoring the direction’s desire for a farm animal. His sea animal t-shirt wrinkles as he hunches over to get just the right angle for the dolphin’s nose. Silently, I squat down over his shoulder, mesmerized by his glorious drawing. The blues and greys blend into an exquisite shape of ocean and animal. I don’t question Andrew’s decision of specific sea animals, soundlessly providing him permission by fault. He lists off facts about the bottlenose dolphin, glitter
dancing in his eyes as he speaks. The teacher walks over, a tired frown smearing across her face. She explains the directions again and tears the paper away from him. Tsunamis fill his tears as he reaches for his paper.
A small, white picket fence traced around a herd of sheep. There’s no color, no life. I say my goodbyes, my eyes trailing over Andrew’s defeated form against my better judgment.
As I walk into my own classroom, students slouch over their desks, writing incoherent mumbles on their papers, monotone coursing through their veins. I sit down and pull out my packet. The front cover dares me to turn the page. I don’t. Instead, I tear out a blank piece of paper and draw a bottlenose dolphin.
Flower Panda
Lola Podolner - Collage
Sardines
Amelia Challacombe - Collage
Home is a Stuffed Bear
River Jennison
Home is the stuffed bear,
Handed carefully to me
Newly 13 in the quietly ending world
Where adults were reckless and pressing
And we shouldered the weight of the dying earth
Its pastel rainbow, manufactured soft
Decorative zipper, pointlessly cute
Silently, it followed me here
Announcing I would stay
Unconvincing, but familiar
Running fingers over lovingly botched stitches
That impatient hands worked to repair
The tears that surely revealed impersonal construction
In this piece of my person
And as the stained glass fell from my face
In the sun it lay, synthetic fur clumping
Antonino’s
Cora Maggin - Gouache
Stuffed Bear River Jennison - Digital
40 - Menagerie
Burnt Bread and Burnt Feathers
Kiley McGuire
The day started with rays of sunshine peeking through Apollo’s window. He should have known this would lead to a horrid day for him, no good thing was left unpunished after all. Not even something as simple as a good morning. The angel exited his home with practiced motions, his mind barely registering what his body did. It was always the same perfect, practiced schedule: get up, get dressed, grab his satchel, ensure his laurel was on proper, head out to the market for breakfast. There was a stall he frequented often for his daily treat, their pandesal the best in the kingdom. It was supposed to be a simple morning, his mind on autopilot as he flew towards the market, colorful stalls with all sorts of trinkets and treasures flashing past him in a blur. Faintly, he could smell a mix of fresh meat, fruits, and fish wafting in the air. Landing at the stall, he immediately fished out some gold and silver for his no doubtedly delicious meal. When he looked up, however, he was not greeted by the usual elderly woman whose wings were shriveled from age. No, instead he had the displeasure of coming face to face with Aurelius. His face shifted into a mischievous smirk, his messy blond hair and dirty clothes an affront to the angel’s eyes. By all means, he should throw him out of Sanctaterra right now. He’s supposed to be banished, yet here
that smug bastard stood, his stupid burnt fingers possibly contaminating his pandesal and by the gods above was Apollo starving.
“My, my~ I wasn’t aware the esteemed Apollo would mingle amongst the common folk! Oh, let me get you a carpet to stand on so you don’t soil your perfectly white robes!” Aurelius drawled, his dramatics catching the attention of a few market goers before getting glared at by Apollo.
“Cut it out. You’re lucky I’m hungry right now or you’d already find your sorry a-” a child and her mother passed behind Apollo “-behind out this kingdom and burning to a crisp back in those sunflower fields. What are you even doing here??”
Aurelius put his hands up in surrender, his black broken wings a stark contrast to Apollo’s pristine white. His charred feathers stuck out, a streak of black paint amidst a blank canvas. “Can’t a guy find himself a job? Jeez, I thought you’d be proud of me for doing something productive with my time.”
The angel was this close to reaching over the market stall and strangling the oaf when a small group of royal guards like himself passed through. Aurelius and Apollo shared a knowing glance before Apollo shoved the darkened angel under the stall. The group recognized Apollo, he was their superior after all,
42 - Menagerie
and decided to strike up conversation.
“Ah, sir Apollo! We didn’t expect to see you in the markets this morning!” said a bright-eyed angel, the shortest and youngest of their little group by the looks of it. Apollo tried to straighten up his appearance, doing his best not to peek behind him towards the pandesal stand again.
“Good morning, everyone. I am simply getting breakfast. Shouldn’t you head towards the academy? I know their classes start early for young recruits like yourselves,” he said evenly, trying to shake off this group of young guards.
“Of course! We just wanted to eat before heading to our daily training, Sir Apollo!” replied an angel with long hair and somehow even longer lashes. “Forgive
Envy
Adam Grush - Acrylic
me for being nosy, but are you waiting for this stall to open? There’s nobody there.”
Apollo glanced back towards the stall, hesitating for a moment before coughing into his hand. “That seems to be the case, yes.”
Then, a hand shot out from behind the stall, wearing a pair of gloves Apollo knew for a fact did not belong to him. The hand held out a pandesal, the young guards startling slightly from its sudden appearance. Another hand shot out, making a beckoning motion. As the guards were distracted, Apollo subtly rolled his eyes with a scoff.
“Gods above, give me strength- Ah, shopkeep! There you are! Here you are, the seven gold as promised.”
Seven gold coins fell into Aurelius’ palm. Instead of closing it and disappearing, the hand repeated its encouraging gesture. Apollo looked as if he was about to strangle the hand and succeed.
“Seven gold? Hm?”
“Ah, but times have been rough for our little shop!” replied Aurelius in the most horribly executed old man voice possible.
“Very well, I am sorry your shop has been undergoing such… hardships” Apollo managed through gritted teeth. Gods above, help this angel prevent a murder today. With all his restraint, he dropped another coin into Aurelius’ palm. The hand finally retreated and Apollo was given a burnt pandesal. If looks could kill, the fallen angel would have been reduced to ashes on the spot. Sadly, or thankfully
in Aurelius’ case, Apollo did not in fact have such an ability which left him quietly seething in place as a sore consolation prize.
The young royal guards, feeling the tension between the mysterious shopkeeper and their superior, opted to head back towards the academy.
“It’s getting a bit late in the day already, and it seems you’re a bit preoccupied with your friend there… You seem to have a deep history. Thank you for your time, Sir Apollo!”
With that, the group ran off, leaving Aurelius and Apollo alone again. Immediately, Aurelius felt his scarf being yanked upward by the angel, his feet dangling in the air as Apollo held him in place.
“You either fly out of here right now or so help me I will personally throw you across all of Sanctaterra.”
Wincing, Aurelius put his hands up in surrender, his wings fluttering with anticipation, black feathers blending with machinery that whined, sheets of metal rubbing against each other.
“Message received loud and clear, geez! Just put me down and I’ll be outta your wings.”
Sighing, Apollo dropped him, Aurelius landing with a quiet oof as his feet reconnected with the ground. The darkened angel straightened up, burnt feathers ruffling up as he adjusted the tattered scarf around his neck.
“’Til next time, my dear Apollo!” he said, a cheeky grin on his face as his wings adjusted to a flight position.
“Get out of my kingdom” replied the annoyed guard, more than done with his shenanigans.
With that, the cheeky rebel flew off, a black blur amidst the sea of bright blues and fluffy whites that settled above them. Apollo took a bite out of his pandesal, spitting a chunk out of his mouth shortly after. It was burnt. Horribly burnt.
Monkey Lilyan Wadda - Ceramic
44 - Menagerie
Emma
Isabella Escarpita - Pencil
A Shark
Violet Laslie
Pails of running ice water
Stand tall on my fingers
Pails not empty anymore
But hardly ever full
Dusty, graceless, still
Still heart in idle hands
Where do I graze idle hands?
Leathery , bitten , pale
Hands try but fail to meet the sky
Peering at the thorns beneath
Cracking lips humming prayers, mere buzzing sounds ringing back. Singing loud underneath the ice.
Dead eyes see a shark made of plastic,
Treading a pool full of molasses and fight but fail to swim away
Cowboy Basset Hound Bank
Elysa Zavala - Ceramic
46 - Menagerie
Pressure
River Jennison
Get up. Get up. Get up. Get up. There’s chanting in my head when I roll out of bed And I crawl, pitifully, to turn my alarm off And hope to gain something
From the sunlight beaming into my room
Get up. Get up. Get up. Get up. I’ve been waking so late
It’s all I can do to throw some clothes on Put on the jewelry my friends made for me Grab an apple, an orange
And hold my breath in the cold
Standing knees quaking
Get up. Get up. Get up. Get up. In my phone, the president wants me buried There’s thunderous applause when he speaks Of repeating the history we condemned Back in the innocence of elementary school He shakes the earth with oil lines Violating it like a woman
Get up. Get up. Get up. Get up. There’s ICE warnings on Instagram stories Screenshot, share, pray Shout LA MIGRA, run Wonder, hope
That the resistance happens as much as you see it talked about
Pick your cuticles till they bleed cause My people are scared
I’m walking on the bottom of the ocean Slowly suffocating, pressure on all sides And never brave enough to see what might be on the surface
Though my chest burns
Get up. Get up. Get up. Get up. There’s water in my lungs.
Obscured Julian Gawel Barden - Color Pencil
50 - Menagerie
Dreamcatcher
Charles Ciesla
My midnight favorite,
The sticky satin shine
Of your webbed interior
The frayed felt rims
Wrapped around my finger
The fisherman’s tassel
Cast below
Into the chain ridden sea
I search
Frantically
For lost dreams
The rhythm of memories
Once desperately ignored
Now dry in my ears
Coated black
By the night’s thunderstorm
A thousand roads meet
At one bend
Your pillowy eye
A sluggish quicksand
A convection oven
Of jumping colors
The ancient magic
You parade above me
Each time my eyes
Fall to sleep
When the wind blows
Through open windows
And your plastic beads
Throw themselves together
Their colliding echoes
A tap dance
Of church bell chimes
In suede shoes
Over warped floorboards
I wake
And witness your ghost
Fading
Monikered with my name
Pasted on blank walls
Jangling
Over the stale moon
Until sunlight
Scares it away
Dreams turn malleable
In bloodstreams
Growing thick
Pruning limbs
Crisp in lens
But the dreamcatcher sits
On the top ledge
Like uncut marble
A windswept statue
Modelled in idyllic pose
A One-Sided Window
Kai Walsh
I’m sitting in history class, the cold plastic chair beneath me chilling me to the core. The teacher is babbling on about another revolution, but I can’t seem to pull my eyes away from the window. Across the street, lives a small park, rickety and rusted but always filled with children. There's a girl, honey crisp curls bouncing with every step, galloping around, with the most earth shattering smile plastered on her face. She climbs up the multi-colored ladder, her gangly limbs betraying her development, unable to synchronize her motions. Making it to the top, she cheers, silent to my ears, shaking her fists in the air and jumping with triumph. I could feel the joy and confidence through the sealed window. It radiated off her, smearing a smile on anyone's face within a ten foot radius. I frown. The teacher continues talking about the past as my mind wanders to my own. I couldn’t remember the last time I felt like that. Free and undamaged. Now I’m reduced to a shriveled up orb, all consumed by the vacuum of reality. I try to think back. To when I still felt the warmth of life. But I’m met with the bitter sting of the fluorescent ceiling lights reflecting my truth. My bruised, purple veins. My sunken eyes, too painful to do anything but keep shut. I crave to have just an ounce of her spirit. “What’s the historical value of this event?” my teacher asks, ignorant to the countless eye rolls and snores. No one says
a word, too engrossed with their pencil, busy picking at the eraser or chipping the paint. This is what we have been reduced to. Mindless beings who have lost their fight for light. I watch the girl again, her image becoming distorted as she moves across the striped part of the window. She morphed into someone I almost didn't recognize. I observe as my younger self runs zigzags through the maze of a playground. There are holes in her pants from the constant tumbles and the tag from her tie-dyed shirt blows in the wind as she darts around. There's this glint in her eye, blinding me for an instant. When I look back, I am met with that same little girl, my childhood gone with the wind. She stands there, staring at me through the tinted glass. What could she be seeing? The sad excuse for an adolescent? The broken result of a shortened youth? A child forced to bend beneath regulations for the future until they are unrecognizable? I gaze at my blank paper, the absent words lingering on my pencil tip. No, she sees the colorful future. She dreams of freedom and liberation, the ability to run after the sunset. She sees visions of a princess in a castle, controlled within the end of her magical wand. Rather than observing the outline of a slumped over, burned out kid, she makes out the shape of a crown and ball gown. The tint of her window is saturated while mine is washed out. Bored, attention span running low, she turns, running back
52 - Menagerie
Downstairs
Audrey Shell - Pencil and Ink
to the swings, her ponytail swaying back and forth. I face the board, my teacher writing incoherent mumbles with a dried out marker. The glaring LEDs flicker as my body slouches. “It’s a little toasty in here,” exclaims my teacher, fanning herself and glancing towards us as if we would ever dare speak in her class. She strolls over to the window pulling it open, letting
a breeze flow through. Sunlight creeps through, crawling over my desk. A single leaf flutters atop my paper. It’s gold and burnt orange colors bounce compared to the monotone backdrop of my empty paper. The shine from the outdoors seems to seep into the blurry gray of the room. Maybe color still does exist. Maybe it’s been just past the open window.
Scrutopathus
Oscar Katz
With the world of turning gears, constant moving, cycling, the meaning of rank and intelligence depleting into a swirl of unpredictable events running almost by lottery. So I sat, for minutes, hours, days on end without food or water, the closer to death I became the more my brain realized itself and every random occurrence slowly gained pattern. Now seeing these fluctuations and movements I saw further into now visible strands strung to each other with lack of a puppeteer. Before my likely death I wrote everything, my own scrutiny leading me, only stopping when I saw a difference. It was hardly noticeable but it was a flash, hardly a second, however obvious of its content, nothing. An absence of existence only to be described as nothing, hardly oblivion. Yet somehow in a small moment my mind was broken, or perhaps it always was, but it hurt to see what it is, could be, and means. So I passed my burden, I wrote it down. Writing every way to fulfill death on mass, every string to pull, every step to take, the words evolving into equations that only got longer and longer. Eventually I found a hopefully permanent satisfaction, I wrote every calculation, every
chance and odd, but with every way even the lowest proletariat could be the cause for the beginning of the end. Every single causation being able to create an unknown state of pathos. So what did I do? I got up from my chair of aptitude and pessimism, took 11 steps all precisely timed, opened the fridge for 5 seconds, and then grabbed the sandwich from inside and consumed it in 1 minute and 26 seconds. Moving my feet precisely back to my chair, with every angle and step precisely matching tectonic lining under my cheap floorboards. Now to wait for the product of my creation, the sanity only comes at the price of precise simplicity, the only flaw in the forecast is that it didn’t carry a name. Of course it doesn’t matter if it has one or not but I am thankful enough to gift it one. So as I waited in knowing patience I mumbled quietly enough to not disturb my pendulum,”Happy birthday, Scrutopathus.”
Fish and Boy
Cora Maggin - Gouache
Thea Green - Drypoint
Grandma Playing Cowboy
XVII
Molly Scheib - Printmaking
56 - Menagerie
Microdosing on Change
Joanna Barcelona
It’s warm enough to open the windows now Has it been that long, I wonder how Sounds from outside gently float through me I’m not all that excited.
There’s always a sense that you might grow apart From your friends as things shift and restart I gaze at you fondly among caps and gowns Certain we won’t meet again.
For you, it seems May is a time of mourning Away from here, you’re to be soaring We’re not even that close, but it’s my first dose Of having to say goodbye.
Self Portrait
Rianna Haymes
Printmaking
Drift
Molly Rossi- Photography
Bound Julian Gawel Barden
Someday
Deena Jalilian
someday if it’s meant to be I want to be the rose you choose among a thousand flowers
the one you keep, the one you pursue
I’m ready to blossom in your hands revealing my colors one petal at a time until we know each other better than we know ourselves
I’m ready to blossom as your sacred rose what once was mine is eternally yours for the chasm in my soul you’ll be the cure
I’m ready to blossom softly unfolding in your palms
a rose is loved without having to ask it gets to breathe without having to gasp swaying in the breeze of reverie until I’m found by you mon cheri how your sweetness lingers on my poetry
some season if it’s meant to be I’ll find myself in the rose you’ve grown
and realize the love I sought was my own
A Walk to the Park
Abbie Scouffas
It was a sunny July afternoon in the summer of 2015, I was headed down the stairs of our small two-story blue Brookfield home with a toy kitchen in the dining room and a scary unfinished basement. Sun was coming through the windows, and the wood floors had a shine to them, almost like water had been spilt upon the ground. I had just finished getting ready for the day ahead. It was a day like any other, with a soft breeze blowing and a calmness in the air. Monika was there, like she was every day, a normalcy in a busy life. She was waiting outside on the sidewalk in front of our light blue house, with Bea, and the obnoxiously large, double stroller used to carry my baby brothers.
“Where are we going?” I asked.
“The park!” Monika responded, adjusting the many knickknacks that seemed purposeless on the side of the stroller.
“We’re walking,” Bea said, sounding annoyed, like she had been punished. I made a face.
“Can’t we drive?” I begged, “It’s hot.”
“Nope! It’s nice out and it’s only a few blocks away,” Monika replied. “And we can cool off in the splash pad.”
“Fine,” Bea and I groaned. I came down all the way down the stairs and we began walking left towards the park, me on one side of the stroller and Bea on the other.
I thought nothing of complaining, it was Monika. She’d been my nanny since the day I was born. It was me, then Bea, then Will and Teddy, and there she was every time. I didn’t think anything of it. “Monika is here!” Something I knew was coming before I went to bed the day before. My siblings and I were so used to it. She was someone who would always be around. We kept walking block after block, ever so much closer to the park. The steady roll of wheels on the stroller, little whining toddlers and too fast cars, kept us moving.
“Come on! Keep walking,” Monika said ushering us along if we would drag behind.
“Coming!” Bea and I called, slowly jogging to catch up.
“Look, it’s this house and the mailbox,” Monika pointed, “This means we’ve almost made it!”
I remember that one thing in particular, the brick house. A strangely shaped brick house, whose door faced the street and was long and very rectangular. This odd
house and blue postal box only feet away were nothing, just things, but still I wish I stopped and took a closer look at the house, or the postal box, or the street, or the trees, or the sidewalk, or the sky, or Monika, or Bea, or Will, or Teddy, or even the obnoxiously large double stroller. I just walked towards the park, my head mad at the walk. My legs, mad at the walk. My sister, mad at the walk. Neither Bea nor I noticed the beauty, the luck, the joy around us. We didn’t care to thank Monika for the food in the stroller, or the water bottles she filled, or the clothes she helped us pick. We just kept walking.
I looked up at the house. It had a white door and white windows, and was made of boring red brick. “Four blocks left!” Monika called back at me.
“Finally,” I said, still annoyed. I ran to catch up to the stroller and I snuck under her arms and onto the little ledge behind the handles.
“Come on, get off,” Monika said laughing.
“Hey! I wanna go!” Bea called from behind.
“No!” I yelled back, “It’s my turn.”
“Girls, it’s no one’s turn,” Monika said calmly. “And you two should stop fighting, you’re lucky, luckier than most.” I shrugged, and kept walking.
I’m sure we made it to the park eventually, but my mind won’t stretch
that far. But it lets me get here. The walk, the stroller, the house, the postal box, and Monika. I want to say I don’t know why, but I do. This one moment was one like many others, moments that seemed boring, normal and dull. But they were moments I’ll never get back. Moments I’ll always regret not appreciating, not enjoying, not remembering. I hate that we fought and that I didn’t care, and that I ruined many moments just caught up in things that didn’t matter. I do miss being really young when the world was simple and calm and my biggest problems were tripping and spilling. But, I’m older now. The Brookfield house has a new family, the park a new playground, the postal box is rusted, and Monika isn’t my nanny. That’s why I regret it. I’ll never get these moments back, they are gone, like a letter slipped through a blue postal box.
Monika had cancer. I understood that much. I knew she didn’t have hair and that she would wear a hat or scarf over her head, but I didn’t know it would come back. She doesn’t deserve it. No one does, but especially not Monika. She is no longer our nanny, but no less a part of our family. I see her, not every day, but not never. She is too weak now to physically take care of my siblings and me, but loves us no less. I miss her all the time, and I miss when I would come
home from school with a smiling face and enthusiastic questions, or when we would go to the zoo. This is why I think of that walk in Brookfield. It was truly just a walk, but it was a walk with Monika. If I had stopped and said thank you or just stopped and appreciated that time, maybe I would have enjoyed my childhood the way I wish I had.
I think that when we were younger we thought not of what happens next, but what is happening now. We never once pondered the after effects of something, or the future of something else. When I would walk to the park with Monika, I never thought of never walking to the park again. But now? Now, I do. I think mostly of the future, what happens next. It seems a perfect way to live, carefree. With no future problems filling your mind, it would be calm. But it’s not perfect. Though as kids we only thought of the now, we never understood that things wouldn’t always be “the now.”
So, I took every moment for granted. It never crossed my small mind that I had to enjoy these moments with Monika, because they wouldn’t always happen. That’s the negative. With a lack of worry towards the future, you forget that your future won’t be the same as your now. I know my opinion contradicts that of modern storytelling, but I have learned to appreciate the moments I live every day, even the small little things that seem insignificant, because they might not be there in my days ahead.
Ninu Gianna Flores - Scratchboard
It Could Be You
River Jennison
Your apathy stings me,
But it kills others
Children not yet thirteen
Learning to make tent covers
Mothers and fathers
Carrying their children in plastic bags, she suffers
That could be YOU.
You cannot be bothered
You would have their pleas unheard
When I first saw the severed foot
Of a child far younger than me, covered in soot
I thought of my little siblings
Of my best friends, my brothers and sisters, their killings
But you didn’t see it at all
What can I say to make you care when they fall?
Is your McDonalds Meal worth more to you than a life?
You say it’s none of your business, not your knife
But your business pays for their bombs, their strife
Your taxes pay for their death
Your apathy steals their breath
You stay remorseless
You say you just don’t know enough, you don’t impress
Couldn’t be bothered to do your own research
And find the decades of colonization, the dead march
Too much work to read an article
On how the ICJ ruled for an international embargo
Your neutrality takes the side of the oppressor
It would take one bomb on American children to end a war altogether
How can thousands on Palestinian children be lesser?
That could be YOU.
I feel like I am losing my mind
When I see the world losing its mind
When did genocide become acceptable?
When did it become something defendable?
That somehow a newborn deserved to die?
The father holding his child, headless, for the world’s weary eye?
That could be your brother. That could be your father. That could be YOU.
- Menagerie
Don’t Preach to Me
Six Faces
Rianna Haymes - Color Pencil
Ollie Davis - Pen and Ink
Slam Poem
Isabella Rodriguez
The little brown boy Strides up the school steps
To learn he is nothing but a toy
The little brown girl Goes to high school
To be in classes that don’t fit
It’s hard to keep her cool
Hands clenched as she stomps to American lit
The little brown boy his gold chain and polo tees
He is roped out of class
To learn English with ease
No matter what he’ll always be last
The little brown girl Is forced to shut her mouth
Her words will always be aggressive
The red slip sends her south
The last thing they want is her perspective
The little brown boy Loses to the world
The lack of college brings shame
As his body curled
The people on top think we’re all the same
The little brown girl Reminds herself of the twenty percent
As she walks up to AP U.S History
She’s lucky to be one in the twenty percent
As she walks away from family history
The little brown boy and the little brown girl Walk home with their hands entwined
As they navigate the world
Knowing that their last name
Means more than who they could ever be
22-Menagerie
Mére
Olivia Burr-Reynaud - Ink
A Love Letter to October
Yadira Sepulveda
At 12:01 you walk into the kitchen
Bundled in a cable knit sweater
And there are scones on the counter where some flowers used to lay
A story is told about a laptop on fire and I’ve heard it four or five times
But maybe it’s worth it to see the crinkle of your eyes
Like a bad light you flicker in and out of thought
In the middle of an early drive or late night rep
Washing over me as I try to do some normal things
The pink bubbling of your laughter snaps me back
And you are not good, I know this
But you grab my shoulders and you look at me
You tell me I am young and I am good
Maybe that’s what I loved about you
Even when all the ink was drained from you
You managed to speak seas of prose
Even when dinner was reheated leftovers or when our shirts had pasta stains
I drive by that intersection with the dandelions
I still wait for you to come home to find you by that old laundromat
But we aren’t autumn leaves, we may never change
Fallen Leaves
Molly Rossi - Photography
Dancing in the Dark
Fendrick Markus - Photography
Family Francesca Cooper - Pencil
70 - Menagerie
Reflections Francesca Schultz - Photography
Realization Rianna Haymes - Pencil
The Runaway
Lola Podolner
(Lights up on an American diner. Working at the bar of the diner is WALT, a 40-something man in a clean white uniform with a cigarette in his mouth. After a moment FRANKIE bumbles in, a boy no older than 10 wearing jeans, a large t-shirt, and a stick with a full red handkerchief tied to the end.)
WALT: Hi-ya-ho, what’s the name bud?
FRANKIE: Frankie, but I’m thinking of changing it to something a little more mature.
WALT: Change it? How’d your mom feel about that?
FRANKIE: I don’t give two dimes what my mommy thinks.
WALT: Really? Two dimes?
FRANKIE: Not even. Likely one, at most.
WALT: What grade are you in, Frankie?
FRANKIE: Not important.
WALT: 4th?
FRANKIE: I’m not immature if that’s what you’re implying. And I don’t care if you don’t believe me, no one does. You can all just be wrong together.
(A shop bell rings.)
WALT: (To offstage) Officer Herbert!
FRANKIE: Aww, rats, I gotta scram.
(FRANKIE runs off while HERBERT, a 40 something-year-old, walks on with heavy steps, dressed in a police uniform.)
HERBERT: Hey, Walt. Who was that?
WALT: Some kid. I think he’s a runaway.
HERBERT: (Sighs. Exasperated:) I’ll go get him.
WALT: No need, Bert, he’ll be coming right back.
HERBERT: You’re so sure?
WALT: He left his stash.
(WALT gestures to the stick and handkerchief left on the ground.)
72 - Menagerie
Cleansed
HERBERT: I remember when leaving the house used to be called running away, not going to work.
WALT: I remember when you were that old, Bert, when you would run around the school pretending to be a cop or a dragon…
HERBERT: I’ll be honest, I think I chose the wrong career path out of the two.
WALT: (Laughing) Please, it can’t be that bad.
HERBERT: But what’s better than having no responsibilities and sitting your ass on a pile of gold?
WALT: Oooh, looks like our runaway is coming back.
Brooke Bonniwell - Color Pencil
HERBERT: (Groans) I roll the stone up, it rolls back down, I roll it back up, it rolls back down…
WALT: Hey, take a break, Bert, I’ll handle it.
(Store bell rings, FRANKIE enters, awkwardly puffing up his chest, yet sauntering with confidence.)
FRANKIE: Hi-ya-ho, barkeep.
WALT: You want to actually buy something this time?
FRANKIE: ‘Fraid the paycheck isn’t in yet, so… I’ll pass.
(FRANKIE reaches for his stick, but is interrupted.)
WALT: Well slow down a minute, I’m sure Officer Herbert here would love to pay for something.
HERBERT: (Sarcastically) Thanks, Walt.
FRANKIE: Do you insist?
WALT: He insists.
HERBERT: (Reluctantly) I insist.
FRANKIE: Well, alright then. One black americano, on the rocks.
HERBERT: How about a milkshake for the young man.
FRANKIE: Oh, yuck. Too much sugar in those, the old ball-and-chain is against it.
HERBERT: How old are you, buddy?
FRANKIE: Old enough for a wife and several kids.
HERBERT: Several?
FRANKIE: Which means at least three. That’s something I picked up during my time in college.
HERBERT: What’s your name, kid?
FRANKIE: I pray your pardon!
HERBERT: Old man.
FRANKIE: Thank you. It’s Franklin. But you can call me Dr. Neumann. And you?
HERBERT: Just Bertie.
FRANKIE: How can you feel like an adult with that name?
HERBERT: After a while you stop feeling like an adult and realize you just are one.
FRANKIE: Better than being a kid. Now that I’ve grown I know how much it sucks in rhetoric-spect.
74 - Menagerie
HERBERT: Right, it must be awful not having to do anything all day.
FRANKIE: What’s better than having all the responsibilities and sitting your butt at the head of the table?
HERBERT: Not having everyone telling you want to do.
FRANKIE: That’s just like being a kid. I just want -ed — Wanted to do something fun with my time.
HERBERT: Same here, bud.
FRANKIE: What?! You get to be a cop and buy whatever you want without worrying about school.
Hello Wolrd Molly Schieb - Drypoint
HERBERT: You get to run around the playground doing whatever you want without worrying about work.
FRANKIE: You’d rather be at the whim of anyone older than you? Don’t you like your freedom?
HERBERT: Freedom from freedom is so much more freeing.
FRANKIE: You can drive! Surely that’s better than your mom telling you what you can and can’t eat.
HERBERT: You really want to have to pay bills?
FRANKIE: Well, no, but do you really want to have someone telling you you want to go to bed?
HERBERT: Well, no, I do like my freedom.
FRANKIE: Exactly! Your freedom as an adult!
HERBERT: And your freedom as a kid!
FRANKIE: Sure, I’m free as a kid!
HERBERT: Yeah. you are!
FRANKIE: You are too!
HERBERT: Well, yeah!
FRANKIE: Yeah!!
WALT: YEAH!!!!
FRANKIE: You know what? I’m sick of it here. I’m heading home.
HERBERT: You know what? I’ll drive you!
FRANKIE: You know what? You can!
(HERBERT and FRANKIE leave together in a huff. WALT smiles and takes the cigarette out of his mouth, revealing it to be a lollipop.)
END OF PLAY
Suspended in Serenity
Deena Jalilian - Metals
Vinyl Molly Rossi - Photography
Perfect Smile
Xavier Gonzalez - Digital
Mossy Tree
Will Bridges
Photography
78 - Menagerie
The Sheep and the Phantom
Joanna Barcelona
My vision is dotted by shiny white
All around me I see them grazing
Bounding across their idyllic meadow
Never hopping the picket white fence
Fresh and fluffy coats adorning tiny black bodies
With narrow legs and noses and darling little ears
Too little, in fact, I bet they can’t hear a thing
Surely their frivolous fluff covers their eyes, too
Yet -
If they are airy cotton, I am flaccid cobweb
I can never wrap myself into quite the same shape
Try as I might to match them, I am always translucent, ghostly
Why can’t I be as solidly fluid, as carelessly right?
How can I think them simple when no calculation
Watchfully choosing my words, studying ever-shifting numbers on a scale
Trying to make there less of me
Will ever be correct enough? Will ever resurrect me?
How can I stare endlessly into the blank white void of their bodies
Round and thin in the right places, fuzzy and pristine in the right places
And crave endlessly for them to be stained
When I would never perceive it on them? When I adore them so?
After all, who made them sheep?
Who blacked out their faces into indistinguishable dark masses?
Who reduced their figures to little white whisps?
Who?
Editorial Staff
Editor-in-Chief
Suzanne Avakian
Layout Editor
Miley McCullum
Literary Staff
Lola Babinski
Managing Editor
Delilah Carli
Art Editor Daniela Tarbajovsky
Maeve Charlton
Max Colomb
Ollie Davis
Joaquin Magpayo
Kiley McGuire
Hayden Tack
Art Staff
Lola Babinski
Lucy Bobzin
Will Bridges
Emma Carlton
Noah Carmona
Maeve Charlton
Molly Curran
Ollie Davis
Lara Ersahin
Mikaela Jones
Arete Lindo
Gemma Mear
Poetry Editor
Lara Ersahin
Image Editor Lucie Grefenstette
Prose Editor
Andrew Shepard
Art Adviser
Mrs. Rohlicek
Prose Adviser
Mr. Maffey
Poetry Adviser
Mrs. Kulat
Andrew Shepard
Devin Sisk
Helena Vadbunker
Auggie Vymyslicky
80 - Menagerie
Special Thanks
The LT Administration and the Board of Education for their continued support of the magazine throughout the years.
The amazing student artists and wonderful student writers who make our magazine possible and inspire all of us.
Mrs. Rohlicek for answering every little question and keeping us very well fed while making sure the magazine lives up to everyone’s visions and hopes.
Mr. Maffey for having the most niche Oreos and for his dedication to making sure every page looks up to standard, the magazine would be a mess without his voice of reason.
Mrs. Kulat for all the many insights and keeping us rocking on every day, her dedication and positivity is appreciated by everyone.
All editors for being incredibly open-minded, creative, and positive from the fall all the way to the last day this spring creating this year’s volume.
Lit staff for carefully discussing and picking out only the best poetry, prose, and plays to be featured in our magazine.
Art staff for bringing the whole vision together, bringing the theme to life, eating many snacks, and filling the digi lab with laughter and hard work.
To Chatgpt for making our editorial staff photos into album covers.
Finally, shout out to Jay Jaffre for creating our cover art!
Cover: 80# White Gloss, designed by Daniela Tarbajovsky
Design: Adobe InDesign, Illustrator, and Photoshop CC 2025
software to edit and create layouts
Finance and Operation: The magazine is funded through a publication fee that students pay upon registration
Publishing: AlphaGraphics of La Grange prints 3,700 copies of the 80-page magazine
Paperstock: 80# Gloss Coated
Photography: All photography featured in this magazine is student photography
Typography: Proxima Nova, Skolar PE Variable in various sizes
