Lyons Township High School - Menagerie 2022-2023 - Volume 48: Once Upon A Time

Mission Statement

Menagerie is the student-run literary and art magazine of Lyons Township High School. Our goal is to showcase and synthesize the works of our talented students in a professional publication. By honoring the writers and artists of our school, we hope to encourage their future work and inspire innovation within our student community.

How To Get Involved

Submit your work: send in your stories, artwork, poetry, plays or anything else you’d like considered to menagerie@lths.net

Join the staff: our staff is divided into literary staff and art staff, so join one or both to help create the magazine! All students are welcome. Visit www.lths.net/menagerie and follow @ltmenagerie on instagram for dates.

once upon a cover | digital Lindsey Wilson

Editors’ Note

child lays tucked beneath warm covers, their ears itching for a bedtime story. As they absorb the classic tale being read to them, they crane their neck to catch a glimpse of magical illustrations. Night after night, they look forward to the comforting tradition, eager to be coaxed into sleep by exciting stories of places new and intimate. Times recent and long ago. Casts of heroes and villains.

Once upon a time, storytelling was the heart of every community. It was the way that people passed down their traditions and values, the way that they connected with one another, and the way that they made sense of the world around them. Stories continue to be an integral part of many people’s childhoods, from bedtime traditions to spooky ghost stories around a campfire.

“Once upon a time…” is the familiar phrase that opens many of our cherished fairytales. Behind the phrase is a promise of emotion and adventure. It brings comfort and reassurance to listeners, as it has for generations prior. In this edition of Menagerie, we honor this timeless art of storytelling. We celebrate the way some stories make us weep with sorrow, while others coax tears of joy or laughter from the corners of our eyes.

As you journey through this treasury, we invite you to delight in the ways

the pages transport you back to the important stories in your life. Just as those tales relied on the magic of an illustration to tell a story, we too decorated the pages, taking inspiration from our own school’s architecture. Notice the delicate borders and drop caps that pay homage to our staff’s cherished fairytale books. Explore the way our talented designers carefully paired beautiful art with meaningful poems and prose as you enjoy reminiscing in comforting colors and patterns while wandering through new tales imagined by LT’s own student community. Over time, our stories and art have evolved, but our love for a good story has remained, and will remain, constant.

This enduring appreciation is the heart of our inspiration for this year’s theme. You’ll find it in ideas of love and memory in heartfelt poems, or in thought-provoking art exploring social norms and mental health. Perhaps prose spotlighting relationships and identity strike a special chord in your heart.

With great pleasure, we welcome you to find the magic woven into these pages, from “once upon a time” to “the end,” enjoying a touch of whimsy along the way.

snow white’s apple | digital

Clay Healy

Prose

Once Upon A Time

Vidalia – Peter Mikulski – 08

Change – Inula Crist – 19

Why Girls Tan: An Ode to Orange – Peter Mikulski – 24

War Has Come – Ian Enselman – 26

Mama (IV) – Ashlin Kwong – 28

Local Area Man Takes Sit Down Shower – Tye Abbott – 38

Free Will vs Destiny - Siegne Cooper – 40

It All Still Exists – Josiah Husmann – 47

Andromeda’s Ways – Ashlin Kwong – 48

Rumblin’ – Kat Farley - 66

Poetry

Where Despair Strikes Pure Otherness – Julia Alvarado - 06

Place of Privilege: A Collection of Chapter Openers – Sabrina Nelson – 10

The Wraith – Emilija Bozovic – 14

Mirrors – Jeanne Mardegan – 16

Still Awake – Lucy Odelson - 20

Wilted – Leah Mini – 23

Charades – Emily Spelson – 33

Dear John, Dear Jane – Bea Balde – 34

House of Glass – London Shannon-Muscolino – 37

Fairytale Incantation Lullaby For My Mom – Peter Mikulski – 43

Dust – Lucy Dillenbeck – 44

Ode to the Frogs Named Kenver – Madelyn Ciampaglia – 52

Why Are You So Quiet? – Lucy Odelson – 54

The Whale at the End of the Universe – Julia Alvarado – 57

What It’s Like to Be Trans – Sparrow Fuller – 65

Walk to School (All Is My Own) – Emma White – 69

If Art is How You Decorate Space – Catherine Crousore – 70

Requiem of a Love – Brooke Simmons – 73

The Viola – Jeanne Padgett – 75

Night – Alenka Rus - 77

Play

The Barefooted Moon – Abigail Quinn - 58

There Was A Table Of Contents

2D Art

Snow White’s Apple - Clay Healy - 03

Still Alive – Lindsey Wilson – 06

Self-Portrait – Katie Geisert – 07

Bug – Natalie Kash – 09

Dragon – Lola Podolner – 11

Lunchroom Tattoo – Annie Price – 12

Universe – Alisha Momusse – 14

Trip to the Aquarium – Aleck Fagan – 15

Overgrown – Bry Julian – 17

Queen of Hearts – Clay Healy – 18

Lucia – Natasha Bertovic – 21

Faceless – Molly Scheib – 22

Misfortunate – Taylor Fergon - 22

I love Cats and Feminism – Grace Padilla – 25

IMG_3787 – Ava Marolt – 25

Are We There Yet? – Ashlin Kwong – 27

Self-Portrait (Hands) – Ellen Rife – 27

Frank – Cam Schimmel - 31

The Future – Ellen Rife – 32

Orbit - Jessica Stoddard – 36

Life Cycle – Lindsey Wilson – 38

Collage, Collage – Lola Podolner – 39

All Tuckered Out – Alyssa Iovinelli – 42

Drawing of the Best Person on Earth – Stella

Kostovski – 45

Caged – Kelsey Murdoch – 46

Discovery – Evelyn Riordan – 46

Eros – Nina Issel – 51

Bonding – Katie Geisert – 53

Self Portrait – Fritz Frech – 54

Connection – Annie Price – 55

Attention to Detail – Evelyn Riordan – 56

Julius – Kat Farley – 56

There is Still Light – Lindsey Wilson – 63

Euphoria – Teagan Arndt – 64

Bubble – Cam Schimmel – 65

It’s Life Time – Teagan Arndt – 67

Bed Bug – Katie Geisert – 68

The Nature In Us – Kelsey Murdoch – 70

Class of 85 – Taylor Fergon – 71

Beethoven – Annie Price – 72

Peaceful Corner - Aleck Fagan – 72

Depth – Francesca Cooper – 73

Birthday Cake With Too Many Candles –Lola Podolner – 76

Metamorph – Cora Maggin - 76

3D Art

Hair Trellis – Anna Zierdt – 07

Sgrafitto Owl – Taylor Fergon – 08

Face – Anna Zierdt - 12

Altar Piece - Alyssa Iovinelli - 13

Eye Pot – Emilie Albores – 16

Rooted Hair Comb – Anna Zierdt - 19

Flower – Aubrey Hosey – 23

Metamorphisis – Aubrey Hosey - 30

Mended Heart Pendant – Aubrey Hosey – 33

Blooming Bones – Emilie Albores - 35

Ignorance is Bliss – Charlotte Schultz – 43

Sea Monster – Genevieve Hart – 52

Cicada Ring – Elle Komar-Landl – 68

Kenneth – Trevor Klein – 74

Patrick – Elizabeth Rus – 74

Where Despair Strikes Pure Otherness

Julia Alvarado

Sitting in a lonely parking lot beneath an almost full moon, colourful neon flashes through the windows of the bowling alley. It was too loud inside, but out here I think it might be too quiet.

I am a cynic at the best of times, but sometimes, when I’m alone, and the moment is right, I cry at the simplest of things—the moon, the stars, a squirrel jumping between the trees, a birdsong carried by the wind. I am a cynic, but sometimes the painful loveliness of this world strikes me and breaks my heart in the sweetest of ways.

Still Alive | Acrylic Lindsey Wilson

Vidalia

Peter Mikulski

Jane takes a deep breath, a big gulp of belief. That’s always the first step.

A big gulp of belief is all it takes for her to see energy, green and purple, radiating off of a lump of quartz. A big gulp of belief affirms the affirmations and makes the manifestations manifest. A big gulp of belief turns her essential oils into melatonin and opium, into Advil and Lexapro, into whatever she needs.

Jane takes a deep breath and stares at the onion sitting across from her on the yoga mat.

The other day, Jane had had an original thought – a rare occurrence, she didn’t know whether to chalk it up to the peppermint or the obsidian or the planets. As she pushed her cart through the produce section, she received a message.

“The onion is a crystal. It’s translucent. It has a regular structure. It forms in the ground. The onion is a crystal.”

Leaving her cart where she stood, she grabbed a white onion and checked out. Before she drove home, she took it out of the brown paper bag and placed it in the passenger seat.

Jane takes the onion in her palms, holds it against her solar plexus, and closes her eyes. She can sense its fragrant vitality. Through the papery skin, she feels its earthy umami power vibrating through her heart.

Her dog, an ancient Great Dane who had been her parents’ before their deaths, snatches it out of her hands, chews twice, and swallows.

At first, Jane’s shocked. Then, she begins to weep. She collapses from her lotus position into the floor. She rolls off the mat and around on the hardwood floor, wailing.

But then, her dog begins to wretch, distracting Jane from her sobbing. The dog throws up, and a smile begins to creep across her face. The dog throws up, and then rolls to the ground, dead.

Jane takes a deep breath through her nose. She smells vomit, she smells onion. Jane grins, a tear of joy rolls down her cheek. The onion is powerful enough to kill, it really must be a crystal.

Sgrafitto Owl | Ceramic Taylor Fergon

Bug | watercolor

Natalie Kash

Place Of PrivilegeA Collection Of Chapter Openers

Sabrina Nelson

The thrill of the fight lies in everything else falling behind, to a place where nothing matters.

The thrill of the fight lies in everything else falling behind, to a place where nothing matters.

That’s why no one ever wants to calm down. It’s waiting for you.

That’s why no one ever wants to calm down. It’s waiting for you.

A throbbing head is a heart beat. A ringing in the ear is a friend calling home.

A throbbing head is a heart beat. A ringing in the ear is a friend calling home.

Blood is a hero’s battle scar. A battle he could never win.

Blood is a hero’s battle scar. A battle he could never win.

Life’s just a game of “he knows” “she knows.”

Life’s just a game of “he knows” “she knows.”

Only from everything can you get the picture. But it’s harder to see things the further up you get.

Only from everything can you get the picture. But it’s harder to see things the further up you get.

The Glass Canon.

The Glass Canon.

What is the point in something that breaks when it fires?

What is the point in something that breaks when it fires?

What difference does it make?

What difference does it make?

What good can it ever do?

What good can it ever do?

When the world falls down

When the world falls down

You finish washing the dishes, grasping on to a sense of normalcy.

You finish washing the dishes, grasping on to a sense of normalcy.

Strength can heal hearts.

Strength can life boulders.

Strength can heal hearts. Strength can life boulders.

Strength can do almost anything, but be warned. Atlas now holds the world alone.

Strength can do almost anything, but be warned. Atlas now holds the world alone.

The last thing you want to say after being given the answer is “Please, let this be wrong. Please, let this be wrong.”

The last thing you want to say after being given the answer is “Please, let this be wrong. Please, let this be wrong.”

12 menagerie

It doesn’t matter what size the domino is. With enough momentum anything can topple. Watch the pieces fall into place.

The desperate are the easiest to befriend.

Life isn’t a sprint, it’s a marathon. And you wonder why you’re already tired by mile 1.

But the finish line has to be out there somewhere.

How far do we go in pursuit of something? Where is the line?

At the expense of others?

At the expense of yourself?

Maybe in another life we could have been friends.

Somebody please tell me why I even bothered to try.

Dragon | Collage Lola Podolner

The thrill of the fight lies in everything else falling behind, to a place where nothing matters.

That’s why no one ever wants to calm down. It’s waiting for you.

A throbbing head is a heart beat.

A ringing in the ear is a friend calling home. Blood is a hero’s battle scar. A battle he could never win.

Life’s just a game of “he knows” “she knows.”

Only from everything can you get the picture. But it’s harder to see things the further up you get.

The Glass Canon.

What is the point in something that breaks when it fires?

What difference does it make?

What good can it ever do?

When the world falls down

You finish washing the dishes, grasping on to a sense of normalcy.

Strength can heal hearts.

Strength can life boulders.

Strength can do almost anything, but be warned. Atlas now holds the world alone.

Face| Ceramics

Anna Zierdt

The last thing you want to say after being given the answer is “Please, let this be wrong. Please, let this be wrong.” lunchroom tattoo| Dry point Annie Price

AltAR PIECE| ColorED PENCIL Alyssa Iovinelli

The Wraith

Emilija Bozovic

When the lighting is right on an early October morning, I can see the ghost and she can see me.

She is distorted, swirling, colorless potions, composed of all things occult and petrifying. Most days, she leaves me cold and nervous. Can everyone else see her too?

Her skin is black and blue–a bruised sarcophagus of the undead phantom who possesses my reflection.

On chilly mornings, the wraithlike girl with infinite eyes crawls out of the bathroom mirror and makes a shadowy tomb out of my battered soul.

Mirrors

Jeanne Mardegan

I don’t truly remember the day that I started seeing you in a different light, but I saw it through my phone: hair expectations of Rapunzel’s gold, unable to see it for the banana yellow it was. Flammable from the bleach.

The grin of a horse was what you dawned, all teeth until your chicken-esque laugh escaped. Cheeks pudgy from the quart of chocolate malt ice cream you downed the day before. Stress tasted delectable. You thought nobody saw you do that; but, I did.

Confidence was your confidante and I envied that.

Carefree, dancing like no one was watching. Singing the tunes of Abba at the top of your lungs, I want to do that.

Skeletons never AirBNB’d in your closet; they didn’t have to. You gave them a museum display full of love, messy, childish, understanding love. I want to love.

Eye pot | Ceramic Emilie Albores

I look up from my phone and I can see you across the way.

The bleach is gone, darkness renovated the canvas.

Curls bounce where straw used to stand.

Metal sticks to your teeth, three years and counting.

I catch you looking in the mirror, not at your face, at your figure.

Satisfaction to be pleased by what you have is a craving.

I step back, you step back.

I fiddle with my necklace, you do the same.

Anxiety bites at my nails, we match.

The copycat game is what we do.

Mirrors truly are a wild invention.

OVERGROWN | Acrylic Bry Julian

QUEEN OF HEARTS | DIGITAL Clay Healy

Change

Inula Crist

changed my name thinking that’ll change what I’ve been through, who I am. I used to look in the mirror and see a little girl, but now I don’t even bother to look. I had a grandpa who wanted me to sing like the birds he spent hours watching, but I haven’t opened my mouth in four years. I wrote stories everyone wanted to listen to, and now I write things only I see. I cried when I couldn’t remember, but crying because I can’t forget feels worse. I used to read words no one else could, and now I can’t even read your face or his or hers or theirs. I wanted to love and be loved, but if that’s what it’s like, I fear it. I used to like being touched, and now I just want to be felt. I was told what happened made me a woman. I miss being a little girl.

Rooted Hair Comb | Metals Anna Zierdt

Still Awake

Lucy Odelson

I check my watch and wish I didn’t. The time’s 1:09 and I haven’t slept a minute. I should be asleep, in REM stage two, but my brain is awake and my thoughts start to stew

Some quick mental math sums up what I fear five hours and eleven minutes till an alarm’s what I hear. Mental math is no good when you’re supposed to be sleeping, but now l’ve got five hours and nine minutes till my watch starts beeping.

Come on, be tired. I tell my pesky brain but it ignores me and decides to check the time again. Five hours and five minutes, my brain informs me with glee. In twelve hours, I think, math is where l’ll be.

I’ve tried reading a book or counting those sheep, walking around and breathing real deep. I look at the green dots that are stuck on my ceiling, trying to find shapes that are somewhat appealing.

I don’t remember how, but I finally started to dream, I shut down my brain and it’s a mischievous scheme! Another night won, a battle hard fought, but I know that tomorrow it’ll all be for naught.

LUCIA | Acrylic Natasha Bertovic

faceless

| DIGITAL Molly Scheib

Misfortunate | INK Taylor Fergon

Wilted

Leah Mini

i linger in living room shadows immersed in white light between two hourglasses, best-by dates long overdue.

my stem aches. my leaves sag. my palms sweat.

i am abandoned, hidden behind antiquated china and glass ornaments. dishes and doorknobs quake at each controlling jab until a full-fledged flytrap snaps.

my color fades. my roots dry. my mouth thirsts.

i am dependent despite a faded mother whose cat’s yearning seeps away as it yowls bitter purrs alone. sunshine never dips its toes into the stained glass circle where all of us are bound.

my pot rests. my care vanishes. my life drains.

Aubrey Hosey

Why Girls Tan: An Ode To Orange

Peter Mikulski

his is an ode to orange girls.

You’ve had a class with at least one.  If not, Lyons Township High School’s honors classes have succeeded – they’ve segregated you from them, keeping you in a bubble of boys who tuck their tee shirts in their jeans, high functioning football players (future lawyers), girls in Doc Martens, etc.  This isn’t about those people.  This is about orange girls.  Orange girls tan, but that’s an innuendo.  It doesn’t come from the sun, and the color itself isn’t even a tan.  Orange girls dye themselves orange.

You’ve seen them post their pictures on their public Snapchat stories, always in front of a saturated pink sunset – one over Lake Michigan, or from a Florida vacation, or on top of that parking garage in downtown La Grange.  They love the public story.  Doc Martens girls are often calculating social engineers; they manage complex systems of overlapping private stories, each more exclusive than the last.  Orange girls can’t be bothered, so orange girls bare all.  Unlike tucked tee shirt boys, with their music stories which they constantly invite you to join, the orange girls do not try to perform refinement and they do not care if you want to join. They post everything for

everyone.  Orange girls bare all because orange girls are brave.

Boys, always searching for reasons to be cruel to girls, go nuts over the orange girls.

“Oompa loompas.”

“Burnt.”

They say it to the orange girls’ faces, but they don’t get that the orange girls don’t care.  Orange girls are the first to admit that they did their tan themselves, that they didn’t do it quite right, and that they look crazy.  And they still come to school with a fresh coat of orange once a month, every month.

In fact, they seemingly style themselves to make their orange skin even oranger – the palest jeans, the whitest crop tops, the brightest chunky sneakers (“Reeboks if she cool, Forces if she chill, Filas if she wild,” overheard on the bus ca. 2020), the longest nails in blue acrylic.  At the expense of their hair, they filter their pictures to make their orange dye-jobs even stronger.  In their editing apps of choice, they tug on the sliders and turn the orange up to the max.  In the process, they turn their bleached hair paper white or mustard yellow and turn their roots ash gray.

Their motives are unclear, but three things are certain.  It’s definitely not

about pressure from boys, because cruel boys are so cruel to them about it.  It’s not about peer pressure from other girls, because Doc Martens girls believe they’re better than the orange girls and are even crueler to them than the boys.  It’s not a race thing because no race is that color.  So why?

Orange girls just want to be orange.  That is why this essay is an ode.  Because that is a beautiful reason to be orange.  It’s a beautiful reason to be anything, to do anything: because you just want to.

I’ve spent a lot of time with orange

girls – in gym class, in the lunchroom, in the hallways.  They’re kind.  They were kind to me when I wore nothing but sweatpants and flannels because I thought it made me seem straight – it wasn’t enough.  They were kind to me when I was really into wearing ties with t-shirts, and when I wore that pair of pants with a stain that made it look like I peed.

Orange girls are universally mocked, and yet orange girls are universally accepting.  I hope a little bit of orange has rubbed off on me.

Img_3787

I LOVE CATS AND FEMINISM | Silkscreen Grace Padilla

| Media Ava Marolt

War Has Come

Ian Enselmen

dog was barking from the balcony as a tesla pulled into the garage. This was the home of Ben Wolf. With his ring of power, he was a rich man, an influential man, and soon to be a dead man. He exited the car, plugged the cable into the charging port, and entered his large estate, making his way up the platinum stairs. He haphazardly threw his keys and belongings on the pristine counter, pushed his feet towards the fridge, pulling out leftover pizza. He slumped over on his silver couch, reached over for the remote to turn on his 12 inch tv. What appeared was the local news, with giant texts practically screaming the story. BILLIONAIRES UNDER INVESTIGATION WITH ORGANIZED CRIME! Suddenly the slouched over, lazy billionaire, jumped up.

A woman was reporting the scene of different men in suits and expensive watches getting arrested or worse, murdered.

“This chilling web of conspiracies has finally been exposed as a random leak by an unknown source that has documented every illegal activity of Chicago’s 1 percent. Embezzlement, bribery, and even more violent crimes that I cannot state currently have been brought to nearly twelve corporations. More on the scene–”

Ben shut off the tv before the reporter could continue.

“I told you I’d come back, Wolf.” Suddenly, he heard a click. He turned around to see a man in a three piece suit with long hair and sunglasses appear from the shadows with a lit cigarette. “Oscar,” Ben tried to finish his sentence, “Oscar, wait, you don’t understand! You don’t need to start a war! I can get you what you want–”

BANG

Oscar Ironside, leader of the iron deck gang, looked over the shocked cold corpse taking the silver wolf ring. “War has come.”

Are We There YEt? | Mixed Media

Self-Portrait (HandS) | Charcoal

Ellen Rife

Ashlin Kwong

Mama (IV)

Ashlin Kwong

I. SUPERSTITION:

My mother is a superstitious person. She lives by the rules of hidden generations, listening to the silent whispers that brought her up. She raises us, too, in this way.

It is the nature of superstition to have uncertain roots. Some say it comes from our ancestors, others say a deity. I think it is the wind, the Shanghai countryside wind. It is the wind which tells my mother her beliefs, her superstition. The hot, humid summer wind mutters of prosperity and longevity. The cold, bitter winter wind warns of curses, of bad numbers, words, and actions. But in the West, there is no such wind. The wind blows from the city now, through skyscrapers and train tracks and metal. It blows through mechanical creations, which hold no beliefs, and comes to us filtered, clean and free. It is always cold. The air here is much clearer than that of where my mother comes from.

Still, my mother believes. She keeps her superstition close to her. And so, we follow. We wear red, carry jade, eat noodles on birthdays. We are careful to write our names in blue or black pen. In the morning, we make sure to hold our dreams in our mouths. Bad dreams come true if said before eating, she’d say. My mother would give us fruit or bread, then allow us to talk. We always accept.

II. PERSISTENCE:

At twenty-one, my mother flies to a new world: blind, eyes wide with a dream. Maybe she is on a rocketship, sent on a journey across the solar system. She chases the stars in hopes of becoming one, relentlessly, persistently...

She lands with the sunrise. My mother comes to the new world with a couple thousand dollars, hard skin, and a tough heart full of hope. The wind here blows cold, tearing through her clothes, her stuffed suitcase; these belongings are all that she has. She understands this, and knows that it also means it is all that she can lose. To her, there is no risk. She is confident in herself. She is only twentyone.

My mother is a persistent person. At the beginning, she exists in the space between job applications, English lessons, and resume workshops. She pays for the shared rental from the cash in her bag. With restless dreams, she manages to drown the voices of rejection and exclusion. The days are tiring with little progress, but my mother persists. With every application denied, she sends three more. She trains her English, translates her skill, holds her mind steady. My mother does not break under the pressure, but bends to adapt. In a month and seventeen days, she has a job.

III. LOVE:

Years later, my mother masters the new world. She has been educated by the best, holds a high corporate position, moved to an even bigger city. She has been challenged, deceived, discriminated against. For better or worse, this does not change her. My mother is still the same woman who listens to the wind of the Shanghai countryside.

My mother is a loving person. She holds her heart in her hands, and offers it generously. Within her palms, her love sits like water: it dribbles through the gaps between her fingers, spilling out even if there is no intention. It appears boundless, bottomless, much like the sea.

But even an ocean has its limits. As I grow older, I see how my mother’s heart wears, how her love grows thin. She still hasn’t learned that not everybody is like her; she does not recognize that those sharing her persistence are few and far between. Still, it pains her to see her family fail, even if they are the ones to dig themselves into the hole. She empties

her heart into the caverns they create, and rage, sorrow, hope, and forgiveness pours out. She cannot bring herself to hate. She yells, cries, and threatens, but in the end, still loves. It hurts her when her heart dries up and they still want more.

IV. STRENGTH:

My mother is a strong person. She lives in spite of a mind which tells her otherwise. Each day, she takes care of her children, manages her team at work, and tends to the house. Only recently have I understood the strength needed to do such.

This realization occurs to me in the hazy, early-morning stupor of school day mornings, as I watch my mother migrate between the study and the kitchen. She prepares breakfast for my sister and me with a phone in her apron pocket, earbuds in her ears. She does not talk as she cuts and peels the apple, or as she puts freezer waffles in the toaster. We keep quiet as well, as we know that she is constantly in work meetings, talking to people hours ahead in London and Mumbai.

I can see how tired my mother is. There are invisible weights around her core, holding her down, a byproduct of surgery and circumstance. They manifest in whitish scars, phantom pain. But this doesn’t stop her. My mother is strong: she shoulders these weights, she persists. As she fills my thermos with fried rice, she tells me that she loves me. I tell her that I love her too. And I do so once again, in the evening, when she’s asleep

on the futon in the study. She says that she’ll just lie down, but she sleeps every time, as the fatigue gets to her quicker. We are happy that she does, because we all know that tomorrow morning, when the sky is still dark but when her body can’t rest, she gets up. She starts her day, doing the same thing once again, to make sure that the rest of us can be happier, healthier.

Metamorphosis | MetalSmithing Aubrey Hosey

Frank | Drypoint Cam Schimmel

THE FUTURE | acrylic

Ellen Rife

Charades

Emily Spelson

Beyond her inscrutable countenance, which cleaves to her dangling, porous jowls, the unflinching might of her prominence renders her clipped sighs cacophonous howls.

Should the faintest of gasps escape her lips: mere vessels promising exaltation, peasants let fly a host of banal quips, a testament to the dismal nation.

Her Majesty, in a primitive rage, need not uphold the mantle of her crown. Embodying the whispers of this trite age, the creature sheds gyves so tautly wound.

Animated by waxen regalia, she serves glorified paraphernalia.

Mended heart pendant | Metals

Aubrey Hosey

Dear John, Dear Jane

Bea Balde

dear john, dear jane i have a question maybe closer to a confession, but what is it like to have a crush?

is it the feeling of euphoria, that adrenaline rush?

or is it soft blushes, light, warm touches, the security of a good friend?

does it come gradually, or all at once? the ebb and flow at a shore, a tsunami, or something more?

i’ve tried and hurt people i thought i liked because fitting in just felt so right and i felt normal, having that label on me i couldn’t see the pain caused by me

dear john and dear jane, i’m sorry for all of the pain and the things i’ve put you through, selfishly wanting to be seen as normal

i don’t even wish for forgivenessit’s not a privilege i possess all i want is to wish you all the best for surviving through this mess and finally put all of this at rest

faded into existence, not looked for something that you feel in your core but why does it feel like looking through binoculars is what i need to find something so popular?

always on the lookout for someone who stood out over the sea of crushers and crushees oh so natural for them, oh so difficult for me when all i want was just to reach out and see what’s it like, in a rose colored world? to have someone to admire, to like so deeply you jumped and twirled?

like a little kid, with a brand new dress hoping that they’ll impress the one person who means the world to them

House Of Glass

London Shannon-Muscolino

These walls are made of glass. Everyone that passes by has a clear view of everything I do. They see, but do they understand? I scream, can they hear me? Or do they choose to ignore my pleas for help?

As the intensity of my wails increase, the glass begins to break, tiny fissures marring the one crystalline images displayed for all, How long till they fall?

What then?

What will the outsiders do when their entertainment is no longer confined, when the glass shatters, piercing my skin, painting a new portrait, one made with blood,

and tears, and the ugly truth. What will they do?

Will they come find me? Will they sift through the rubble, calling my name? Will they save me from the darkness and the pain? Or will they abandon me? Move on to find another fallen angel, trapped in a cage of her own design, to watch, to taunt with their freedom, and to judge?

It is a cruel thing, my tormentors are the only ones who can save me, save me from myself, my mind, my prison, my house of glass.

Local Area man takes sit down shower

Tye Abbott

In a final blow to his self-esteem, ego, and belief in his own steadfast will, local area man Thomas Beker took a 27-minute sitdown shower this Thursday. Thomas Beker is a 38 year old claims adjuster in South Bend, Indiana. Despite having a job that leaves him sitting at a desk all day, Thomas Beker decided that standing in the shower was just too much this Thursday.

Thomas Beker spent the first 3 minutes of the shower in fact standing, but after getting a glance of himself in the mirror began to slowly slide down the shower wall. From reports we’ve been getting out of South Bend, we can ascertain that 12 minutes of the shower were spent with his mouth agape trying to drink some of the falling water, 8 minutes of the shower were spent trying to toss the soap bar back onto the dish, and 7 minutes were spent pleading with

the hazed fluorescent light why his life went this way. Thomas Beker reportedly tried to take a nap in the shower by rolling to his side, but was frustrated by the lack of a pillow and then climbed out. While one might think that Mr. Beker would dry himself off, Thomas Beker rather layed on the floor of the bathroom until he was dry enough to go to sleep.

Even worse, we’ve discovered that this is not the first time this has happened. From the secret camera we’ve installed into his upstairs bathroom, we’ve found that he sits on the floor of the shower upwards of three times a week. Once even bringing in an almond Hershey’s bar to eat.

We reached out to Thomas Beker for further comment, but he was too busy staring vacantly into the spinning of a microwave.

Lindsey

Collage, collage | Mixed Media Lola Podolner

Free Will Vs Destiny

Siegne Cooper

So what do you think of when you hear the phrase “free will?” You think of having the ability to do whatever you want? You think of having basic human rights? Well you would be right because today is all about free will, but more so freeing Will. I stand outside this courthouse, crowds of people holding signs and chanting. Their signs and shirts read “FREE WILL” in big red letters. Today is the day where a young man, freshly reaching the age of 18-years old, will be sentenced. ‘What for?’ you may you ask. Well, simply exerting his free will…ironic isn’t it. We entered the courtroom, the surplus of people were forced to wait outside.

In the courtroom, the defendant sits with his head down, twirling his thumbs. His young hands suffocated by the cold metal cuffs. His sweat-soaked jumpsuit showed his nervousness, fear, and stress. I choked on the thick silence in the air, waiting to hear the verdict that would fly through the air like a knife, killing his character. The judge clears her throat, slicing through the silent jelly that surrounds us all. Everyone sits up in their seats. The Jury of Destiny sit there as if they are the high and mighty gods of the overworld, their one purpose in life is to decide your fate. They sit there looking at what they see on the outside,

figuring out ways they can pinch and pull to manipulate the judge in their favor. You’ve already lost once it has begun because that’s the sad truth. The Jury of Destiny has already decided your fate the very moment you even thought about stepping foot into that courtroom. Playing you like the puppet that you are, using - what?- evidence that can also be so easily manipulated against you.

The judge asks for the defendant to rise, he does. “GUILTY on all counts,” echoes through the spacious courtroom. The pews full of spectators jump up in an uproar of cries and chants. “FREE WILL UNTIL IT’S BACKWARDS! HE DIDN’T DO

ANYTHING.” They continue their chants, “free will, free will,” but the sound of that becomes null and quiet in my mind of racing thoughts. I stand, clearing my throat of my, what seemed like, everlasting silence. The judge bangs her gavel, “ORDER! ORDER IN THE COURT! LISTEN!” The room settles and grows extremely quiet once again, you could hear the cars outside driving past this quiet courthouse. I look around before I begin speaking. I step up to the stand.

“I am no witness, heck I hardly know this boy anymore than any of you. But I agree. Free Will, because yes, free

this boy. He didn’t do anything besides believe he was right; believe in his rights. His right to freedom, his right to live, his right to play, his right to laugh, HELL, his right to be a kid! So why would you take that away from him.

Why? Because this is “God’s plan”? Oh...because it’s this young man’s destiny to sit in a cell for the rest of his life because he exerted his free will as an American citizen to protest peacefully. He did nothing more than any of you in this courtroom right now, holding a sign with his name on it. So should all the rest of you be locked up right along with him?! He sat in the front lines, being pelted with rubber bullets, blinded with tear gas, pummeled by big army men with big huge scary shields and batons. A little boy.

Judge, you believe in what this Jury of Destiny has to say. You believe their opinion is valid. What happens when your daughter is the one sitting in these stands, but not because she committed a crime. The case will be titled the “The state of DESTINY vs. your dearest daughter.” Where your daughter was sexually assaulted and is being forced against her WILL to keep the baby of the attacker. What will you argue then, WHAT? That it was her DESTINY?! It was her DESTINY to sit there and, not only be violated, but also be forced to live

with that constant reminder for the rest of her life. Yeah, okay, get real.

DESTINY is the limitation, is the expectation. It’s being a sheep, too afraid to step out of the herd because - the Destiny dog will come and nip at your feet.

FREE WILL is stepping out of the herd and horse-kicking the dog in his face because you’re so sick and tired of him nipping at your feet.

DESTINY is sitting inside watching TV, while it’s downpouring outside because that’s what is expected of you.

FREE WILL is running outside in the rain in your underwear just because you want to.

DESTINY is sitting there and letting your cancer slowly wilt away your body, because that’s just what it’s supposed to do.

FREE WILL is saying ‘screw that I wanna live’ and going out with a bang right before you jump out of the plane

DESTINY is sitting in your assigned section, ‘where you belong…’

FREE WILL is never taking no for an answer and even when everyone tells you to sit in the back of the bus where you belong, you’ll still be disobedient and fight for what you believe in. Because you will never be silent.

So your honor I ask you …please … reconsider.”

Alyssa Iovinelli

Fairytale Incantation Lullaby For My Mom

Peter Mikulski

Apple shaped, full of hate!

Sun damaged neck nape!

Red face when irate! Black eyes, wide agape!

(My shape, when I’m fifty. Sunscreen’s on but skin’s still iffy. Beet red color like my mother’s. Our bug eyes? Like no others’.)

Mother, mother, on the wall! Horrible woman, you appall! I despise what I see ‘cuz I am you and you are me!

Ignorance is bliss | Metal Charlotte Schultz

Dust

Lucy Dillenbeck

I am the tree that fell when no one was around and my eyes are full of stars. when I weep, no sound escapes me. I am so little made sick with lies and I ache to carve my name in the sky, to scatter pieces of me across time.

somebody once said to me “i’m nobody, who are you?” but she was lying, she lives on and I hate her for it.

I scream in an empty room the echoes form craters, my tears make rivers but no one was around to see them appear and it’s like I was never there at all.

all that’s left of me as I return to dust is knotted threads from the sweater I loved and a dull gold earring or two, my favorite. pencil scratches on crumpled paper my words, my final plea, and a name.

all I will ever be, lowly things. stupid naive children don’t get to live forever.

Drawing of the best person on Earth| CHARCOAL Stella Kostovski

CAGed | Gouache Kelsey Murdoch

Discovery | Charcoal Evelyn Riordan

It All Still Exists

Josiah Husmann

t all still exists: the love, the pain, the doubt. It takes short breaks sometimes, leaving an empty canvas speckled with questions of how life could be different. Yet it always returns. Usually somewhere in the back of your mind, occasionally it comes in acute waves of grief, envy, or heartache. Even when we think we have broken free from our emotional chains, the scars remain. Some we hide and attempt to contain their manifestation–allowing them to dictate our freedom and expression–while others we wear with pride, embracing our past struggles and learning from them. Eventually, the attempt to escape our bondage proves too much, our wounds too deep and mind too numb. We break. But until then we all have a life. Yes, one riddled with dread and loss, but also brimming with a multitude of wonders and questions. There are always new people to meet,

new friends to love, and new sights to behold, so see them: turn every corner, marvel at every beauty, and hold those you love closely.

What if it did not exist? The worry, the hatred, the struggle. We would be drinking from a poisoned chalice. For the absence of those same emotions that leave us hopeless also strands us from joy, love, and bliss. Without distress there can be no solace. We would yearn for the fuel of anger and the luxury of sadness. The birds wouldn’t sing, the gazelles wouldn’t dance, and art would be stripped of creativity. Relationships are built upon the foundations of shared emotions, good and bad. Humanity itself is the product of agony; without it we become inanimate.

So yes, it all still exists: the torment, the ecstasy, the color. And I’m ok with that.

Andromeda’s Ways

ELEVEN AND A HALF

The man in a blue hat returns when Christina is eleven and a half. He comes to her in a dream, saying many things but telling her nothing. She can’t remember a thing he said, but she knew he spoke to her kindly. Christina wakes up oddly calm.

That day, Christina has science class. It’s her favorite course, taught by an eccentric, curly-haired woman. Today, the lesson is about outer space. She learns how stars are born and how they die. She labels the solar system, sticking notes on cartoon planets. She learns that the big red spot on Jupiter is actually a massive storm. She’s taught how to find Polaris, the North Star.

When she goes home, she learns that Michael befriended Andromeda in science class. She thinks of when she watched them play on the back porch: his bruised knees, blooming like the Milky Way in the night sky, and her wispy hair, powdery like space dust. She thinks of their linked hands, of Andromeda’s solid hold, of Michael’s timid voice growing bold. She thinks of their shared smiles and laughter.

Michael once told Christina that he wishes there were 28 hours in a day

so he could see Andromeda more. Christina told him that she wished she could hold onto the Earth and make it spin slower. Michael laughed and patted her shoulder, but they both knew how much they wished it could happen.

Christina thinks about her own science classroom. Today she sat with a few other girls. They talked and talked and Christina didn’t hear a thing. No, Christina was dreaming; she was dreaming that she was in the sky with a thousand stars with kind voices. A pang of something hits her… Christina realizes that she’s never had an Andromeda. A wave of fatigue washes over her. Has she always been this alone? Will she ever meet her Andromeda? Something nasty sprouts in her chest, and she feels so, so far away.

THIRTEEN.

When Christina is thirteen, she meets Andromeda again. It isn’t where she wants to see her. Christina is waiting outside the counselor’s office, picking lint off her jeans. The wooden door creaks open, and Andromeda walks out. She’s taller now, and wears brown

eyeliner and pale eyeshadow. Her wispy, beige hair is pulled even thinner; it hangs like clouds around her narrow face. Everything about her is faint and powdery. Christina is taken aback when Andromeda quietly greets her. When Christina doesn’t move, Andromeda gently ushers her into the counselor’s office. Christina can do nothing but oblige.

Inside, the counselor tells Christina that he’s worried about her. He talks about grades, classes, breathing exercises, and emotion posters. He walks over to a colorful mood chart, and asks her to describe how she feels. She says that she feels blue, like off-kilter Uranus, like the blue hat hanging off the counselor’s coat rack. He tells her sympathetically that the transition into highschool is hard. He says things are changing. Christina says that she knows. But there’s a sinking feeling in her stomach, because she didn’t realize that everything would. Her classmates are different, her parents are different, her brother is so different, and even Andromeda is different. Universes have been pulled apart, planets smashed and scarred, and

stars have burnt out. And it was nothing like a supernova, a beautiful explosion, a fantastic ending. No, it was nothing at all.

The counselor taps on the desk. He asks about Christina’s friends. She doesn’t have anything to say.

Christina leaves the office with a slip of paper. It’s something about her sickness. Her family doesn’t like talking about it, so she crumples it up. Still, word about the paper gets to her parents. That night, Papa paces in the kitchen, laughing in bewilderment. Momma has her hands on Christina’s shoulders and tries to assure everybody that it’s okay. And Michael, now seventeen, is busy in his room, already engaged in some argumentative plea with an unknown, digital party. He shuts the door when he hears Christina return. In her little house, which is so busy, Christina feels so entirely, incredibly small. When she drags herself back into her room, a glacial numbness crawls up her sides. Is a solar system even a system if there’s nothing orbiting a once-loved sun?

Eros | Comic

Nina Issel

Ode To The Frogs Named Kenver

Madelyn Ciampaglia

A stupid name

The simplicity and naivety of a child

Narrowed down to a single name

A frog, trapped in a bright pink net

I know what to call him

Kenver

One, then two, then three and so on

I caught twelve that summer

Different in size and stature, yet

All bearing the same name

A name born from the curiosity of a child

Bestowed upon an amphibious creature, green and slick

To its sliding eyes, like an elevator

Sizing up the levels of a stout little girl

Crouching, ready to pounce like a wild cat.

Basking in the deep pink sunset

On the banks where woods meet the water

It sits back into its feet.

At the sandy basin before the lake

She catches her new friend.

Sea

Monster | ceramic Genevieve Hart

Bonding | Mixed MEDIA

Katie Geisert

Why Are You So Quiet?

Lucy Odelson

they ask. It’s true, I hide in spines of books, find safety in pages where Katniss never asks “Why are you so quiet?”

In between classes, I float through hallways that suddenly thunder with seniors and juniors. Like some private ghost, I glide by as they huddle under storms of their own noise.

While some are smothered by silence, mine never feels heavy. I carry and crawl beneath it until every storm passes. Wherever I go, I lay it down like a picnic blanket, just enough to soften the world under me.

SELF PORTRAIT | ACrylic Fritz Frech

Connection | Mixed media

Annie Price

Kat Farley

Attention to detail | Ink

Evelyn Riordan

The Whale At The End Of The Universe

Julia Alvarado

At the end of the universe, you are alone.

Singing sorrowfully in an empty ocean.

You are trying to remember the last time you saw a familiar face. Trying to remember the eyes, the smile, the sound of a voice that is happy to see you.

But, now it’s just you. You, lost in the deep, in the blue, wondering why?

Why are you what was left behind?

The absence of sound, the quiet water beneath your fins, it’s the end of the world, and maybe the silence is what gets you the most.

Don’t cry, don’t cry — we’ve already lost it all, and the stars don’t care.

The stars do not care that you are beautiful, and lonely.

You breach the water, brush the sky, and its billion uncaring stars. You crash into the waves that are hollow, and cold, and home.

You crash into the waves that are empty of all but you. You, wailing, and grieving an unnameable loss. You, at the end of everything, Holding onto anything.

The Barefooted Moon

Abigail Quinn

((Lights up. A bench wrapped in lights is stage right a little upstage, a backdrop of small lights. They glimmer a bit. A streetlamp downstage left, A woman in a blue dress “MOON” with beautiful makeup and hair done stands, melancholy and barefoot under the streetlight. She is almost like a woman wandering the street after a party, slightly distressed, but still looking exquisite. This actress might wear some kind of body glitter so the stage lights would dance a little on her skin… At this time the only light is the stars and the streetlight, spotlight the MOON. No lights on/or up on the bench. There is a man on the bench, he is not seen))

MOON: When will this endless night say farewell? Stars? Though- Is it only you who can see me in the dark of the night, why are you the only thing in the universe that finds me astonishing? I understand it is kind of you to admire me… truly I am grateful, but is it wrong to ask for more? I have a desire, Stars. For, I appreciate your admiration… But why do I lust for more? (The lights wrapped on the bench light up.)

MOON(cont.): Joy. My daily acquaintance that I am to meet once again. Stars, you shall not laugh or disrupt or suspend. We will be silent, for I prefer to pass him with no eye-contact or else his ego will infect me. (The stars giggle)

MOON(cont.): Stop that.

(The MOON walks towards the bench and the stage lights go up not as focused, they aren’t too bright, they are only to light the actors. The SUN is a man in trousers, a pale yellow button down, sleeves rolled up his forearms…a loose tie maybe as well. He wears glasses and reads a book. The MOON makes no eye contact/is trying to pass with no interaction)

SUN: (noticing the MOON) Once again you persuade me with your gaze! I understand my beauty, but there is no need to stare, it is rude. (silence) Well, It’s time to set (silence) It’s time to//

MOON: //Then, set quickly please. (pause) and I’ll do just the same. (She begins to walk toward stage left to pass him)

SUN: Oh! You speak (he takes off his glasses and sets them aside along with his book)

MOON: Only if I please.

SUN: So then, you please to speak with me. (fully attentive now) All of these days and nights and we have never spoken.

MOON: Believe that if you will, go along now! Set and leave me be.

SUN: We greet every ebb and flow, why must you now dis-satisfy me with just a few words. How I have anticipated this so.

MOON: I only chat to- to- make this go a little faster. Be satisfied with our conversation and go on with the day making. (She turns to walk)

SUN: (He gets up excitedly) How extraordinary it must feel to be admired by every ship

and sailor, by every poet and king…

MOON: What are you going on about? I know not of “poets,” nor of- of- “kings,” What is this nonsense? (pause) My admirers align here in the sky of diamonds, don’t you see? Don’t you hear them laugh? (the stars giggle)

SUN: Well, of course, I am familiar with them, they are tiny mirrors of myself which I do not mind. Yet, your admirers live their lives beyond this vast existence of navy blue.

MOON: I cannot say I understand…that would be a lie. And I do not lie.

SUN: Why you are the Moon, are you not?

MOON: Yes I am. And you are the sun, are you not?

SUN: Yes, aren’t I handsome? And they are the Admirers aren’t they?

MOON: (Pause) You are confusing, are you aware of that?

SUN: I am not confusing, you are just filled with- confusion.

MOON: Who are these poets and kings you speak so greatly of, the admirers you seem to adore…

SUN: Can you really not see them? (Pause) They live straight ahead, always. The beings of the gorgeous blue and green?

MOON: I cannot see much beyond my place here, there is always a light shining on me, I cannot see. The blinding is slightly uncomfortable always, yet being uncomfortable always does tend to become oddly comfortable.

SUN: Oh?

MOON: This shine makes me look quite pretty though, some would even say exquisite. Wouldn’t you say? (The stars giggle)

SUN: Oh.

MOON: What is it? Do you disagree? I cannot fathom this.

SUN: No, it is just that I am sorry. I believe that shine would be emitting from me… Have I really blinded you all of this time?

MOON: I suppose so…

SUN: Oh. (Pause) I- I am sorry. Truly, I cannot// begin to apologize

MOON: //No, it’s alright. I do not know any difference. If I have lived as Medusa’s useless reflection for all of this time, then I can go on all the same.

SUN: I believe you do look pretty in my glow, it is suitable. (The stars ooo and whisper amongst themselves)

MOON: (Long pause) Go on- Why don’t you teach me about the admirers, how they… are. (She walks to sit at the bench, she sits)

SUN: Why now do you entertain me in conversation? After all of this time you have failed to even meet my gaze…

MOON: I suppose- well I suppose such boredom has struck me, what else shall I entertain? These foolish stars that mock and coo? I am turning my collar to the

asteroids and meteors just to enlighten myself.

SUN: Well if you please to be enlightened-

MOON: I do- (Long pause, SUN stares) I do please.

SUN: The Admirers live straight ahead in a home of rain, ink words and window panes… The seasons soak themselves into the soil until he breathes them out to change. Those that live there rust and sing, govern and ignite.

MOON: How… lovely

SUN: Madam Moon you have not the slightest idea of how funny they are.

MOON: Funny? How hilarious!

SUN: When admirers are just born and new, they trip and fall. They are quite clumsy.

MOON: Little admirers?

SUN: The smallest of joys…(He walks toward the front of the stage and speaks as if he is speaking into the universe) They laugh much like the giggling stars out at night, and when they are in love, they touch faces and their hearts beat together… Oh the terrific things of the blue and green.

MOON: Sun, how do you see this from so far away, how do you see such things?!

SUN: (He reaches his arms out toward the universe/4th wall) I reach my arms through windows, doors, and trees to tickle tiny admirers into tussling laughter while they bare-footedly run into their mothers arms. I touch my fingers to their cheeks and draw freckles upon their skin, so when they smile the stars can rest upon their faces… big dipper, little dipper, anything you can imagine.

MOON: Oh how the admirers must love you, how they must swoon over your warm touch and your beautiful art…I wonder if I am seen by them, if when you are gone, they turn to me…(Almost snapping out of a trance, he joins MOON at the bench)

SUN: Oh Moon! That’s what I’ve been trying to tell you all along. For you are the beauty of the night.

MOON: Hm?

SUN: Yes! (He grabs her hands) The admirers swoon over you just as they do over me. We are famous!

MOON: Famous! Therefore, I can draw freckles upon their skin as well, and warm them as they play? I’ll be careful not to burn them as I imagine you must do. You are not so careful. Oh how excited I am Sun, to reach through trees, and to kiss the faces of the admirers!

SUN: Oh. Moon… Those are not things you are capable of doing…

MOON: What do you mean?

SUN: Only I can do those things…

MOON: Oh my, how terrible. (Pause) I knew you and your ego would make my dreams heighten just so you could throw them away. (She gets up to leave) It seems it is time to turn the bed down and bid adieu… goodnight.

(The stars all whisper goodnight over each other: “good//night//goodnight//”)

SUN: Moon, do not jump to conclusions so quickly.

MOON: No, I shall jump! You, continue your self loathing and I shall go on with my self deprecation as usual.

SUN: Madam, you do beautiful things for the admirers as well.

MOON: (Pause)…I do?

SUN: The most beautiful things.

MOON: (Long pause) I suppose my idleness has not fully begun, you may continue.

SUN: Madam Moon, every time you stroll past me, it is simply because I am onto a new place, while you watch and take care of the admirers that I have warmed in the day.

MOON: Watch? (Sarcastically) How extraordinary.

SUN: And take care!

MOON: Take care how?

SUN: Your glow leaves just enough moonlight to sprinkle into the hair of the admirers, making them shine like- like diamond rain!

MOON: Thats sounds-

SUN: -Beautiful! (Long pause) Yes, it’s beautiful. And Oh Moon, you make the blue dance and rush onto shores carrying sea turtles to the sea, you veil on the back of their shells to give them sanctuary in the night. Though the ocean may not appreciate your wake up call…your startling light curls them into crashing waves, letting them yawn into a call for “five more minutes!”… its blue chest will rise and fall in syncopation with the wind…

MOON: Synco….?

SUN: …pation. Yes. (Pause) Whispering to the sand is an alluring tale of fisherman. Fisherman in yellow coats, that is.

MOON: Sea? Turtles? Tales of man-fish in yellow? Why i’ve never heard of suchSUN: -Amazing things?! Yes! Moon, you toss the admirers into dreams…They rest their small bodies while they think of the most gorgeous paintings, under your gaze! Though wolves yell their hell howls at you, it is only an attempt to whisper the most loveliest homage, the most incredible bouquet! Moon, you are the waves and you are the light that dances through curly heads…the glitter that cries on Thursday night wet pavement… You, Moon, are the most admirable of all things, the most desired orchid of all.

MOON: How do you know these things? You seem to know so much about me- I don’t even know myself! Are you sure of these things…

SUN: The stars told me, and the admirers speak of you also

MOON: The stars?! They told you?! (The stars giggle) Why-why- You, stars, are only the dandruff of the milky way! You gleamers will burn out too quickly if you continue to keep secrets such as these.

SUN: They mean no harm, they shall always fester, they are simply nervous of your beauty… They are just flirtatious. (The stars “ooo”)

MOON: Quit your oo-ing, you little sparks. Keep your admiration to yourselves, I am only interested in that of the admirers now.

SUN: Of all the things the admirers bring about, there is one- one- thing they do under your glow that is just wonderful… and quite interesting… well I suppose it’s also odd…(The MOON sits in anticipation as the SUN says nothing)

MOON: Don’t spill everything at once now…

SUN: Well, I- it’s rather hard to explain.

MOON: You’re best is all I ask for

SUN: They-well- well they dance!

MOON: Hm?

SUN: I imagine you are confused. Yes. You are confused?

MOON: Absurdly… but I am still quite confused about window panes and curly heads… as well as Thursday night wet pavement… But dance- that is where most of my confusion lies

SUN: A dance is an expression of- all things (Pause) You still seem dazed…(Pause) Well, perhaps i’ll have to show you

MOON: Oh! Yes, let me see the dance!!!(She holds out her hand and closes her eyes as if he is going to give her something) I am ready for it now. (The SUN takes her hand and brings her toward the streetlamp, music quietly begins)

SUN: Under your glow…(He leaves her by the streetlamp and walks backward. Admiring her, he puts his hands up in two L shapes creating a picture frame) They look quite beautiful…(The stars giggle as well as the MOON)

MOON: Oh, I- I am flatt//ered

SUN: //and under your glow (He takes her hands) They dance. (Music swells, the sun and the moon share a dance, there is playfulness and laughter as well as elegance in this dance. This is the epitome of the play. In this dance the MOON visually feels beautiful. The two dance around the stage, one may be clumsier than the other, one might be unexpectedly graceful. This music might be something incredibly unexpected, but should carry some kind of beauty to it; thus being completely subjective… the dancing slows)

MOON: I understand. (Incredibly blissful and excited) How I love to dance, Sun! Oh how I admire the little ones below for their lovely dance! (she walks around the stage, maybe looking out towards the 4th wall, in a day dreaming stage of epitome) Not only will I thank them for their compliments by- always glowing in their hair. But I shall also thank Thursday for his magnificent pavement by giving him the stars on Friday! Oh Sun, you know nothing of what you have done for me! I am beautiful. Astonishing! I did not realize until now, but I am just exquisite in ways I never knew. Just exquisite! (She twirls with her arms up and laughs) Don’t you think? Oh that doesn’t matter anymore, Sun. (Pause) Of course I do appreciate your admiration but these days I desire

nothing other than the beings of the blue. The people of the green…(Pause) Oh goodbye to the giggles of Maia, Electra, Alcyone, Taygete, Asterope, Celaeno and Merope… I have beings to turn blue, and cement to glitter. (MOON stares in a loving gaze around her as if everything has been made clear. The SUN and MOON end up center, the bench and street light flicker)

SUN: It is time to set, and make the day-

MOON: But I want to dance again! (She grabs his hands)

SUN: (Laughs) we shall dance again tomorrow

MOON: Will the admirers be angry with us for setting so late? I would hate to upset them so quickly, now that I understand my status…

SUN: They hardly notice anything

MOON: (Long pause) Well- alright… I’m not sure how to say farewell… (The moon stars walking offstage almost as if she is being pulled)

SUN: Then don’t.

MOON: But I wan- (She keeps being pulled) scoffs Gravity, you wretched drag!

SUN: Do not say farewell, we shall dance again tomorrow.

MOON: Good Morning Sun! (She exits)

SUN: (yelling after her) You look exquisite this morning! (Pause) (To himself;) Do not cry of good mornings, for it is time for the night. (Pause) It is time for the night. (He slowly walks toward the streetlamp with his hands in his pockets)

SUN(cont.):The most desired orchid of all. (The stars giggle) Stop that. (he walks to the bench and sits down)

(End of play.)

It’s electric | Mixed Media Lindsey Wilson

Euphoria | Photography Teagan Arndt

What It’s Like To Be Trans

Sparrow Fuller

it’s being twelve and crying at how your new body looks in an Old Navy bathing suit. it’s emails and reminders and clenched teeth. it’s substitute teachers calling you the name your father only calls you when he’s mad. it’s anticipation and explanation. it’s hearing words in the hallway that aren’t meant for you, but might as well be. it’s ‘she’ and ‘her’ and cursing your mother’s womb. it’s pinning your masculinity to your shirt like a badge, saying “I am who I say I am!” it’s blood and sweat and tearing at the knots in your chest that make strangers think they know who you are. it’s flinging yourself off the roof day after day and praying the person below catches you, but they get flustered or forget, and your body goes ‘splat’ against the pavement.

BUBBLES | Ink Cam Schimmel

Rumblin’

Kat Farley

e and My Boys used to go trainhopping ‘while back. Not the type of trainhopping you’re used to, though. We were still 14, 15, 16 at the time and we knew if we ran we’d just end up back in the same place or in the dirt somewhere. Even though we couldn’t really trainhop, we still liked to pretend. We’d play a game, trainjumping. We’d sit ‘round the tracks in the woods, the one where police don’t troll ‘round so we wouldn’t be having fun and end up in the clink for th’ night. Go back to our daddy’s’ frownin’ faces. Well, Jim Bottle’d go back to his mama, he ain’t got no father to frown at him. Maybe that’s why we played trainjumping. We’d sit right next to the rails an’ wait till we hear a rumbling, and then we’d run across as fas’ as we could. Heart racin’ after a seeing death made us feel more alive than the whiskey bottles we’d pick off backs of trucks ever would. Then we’d lay in the dirt while the wind

from the train passing whipped our clothes ‘round like a twister. One day Tommy didn’t make it across. Got a rock in his shoe or something. tripped. I still remember him yellin’ out help, and me and Jim Bottle turning around and just lookin. I like to think we knew it was too late but I think I was jus’ scared. I don’t think I’ll ever forget that rumbling. The police said it weren’t our faults, we was just on a hike. Jim Bottle said we was just going to Black Hill station an’ Tommy crossed at a bad time. They didn’t know we was playing a game. They didn’t know we didn’t help. When the police told Tommy’s mama about his body parts they had to pull off the tracks an’ the trees surrounding ‘em she just started weepin’. She ain’t never did stop weepin’, an’ now she just sits in Mary’s tea parlor sippin’ on bootleg and weeps. Jim says it’s better than goin’ to jail for the rest of forever, but I still hear the rumble.

Cicada ring | Metals

Elle Komar-Landl

Bed Bug | Acrylic Katie Geisert

Walk To School (All Is My Own)

Emma White

The sun refuses her rise as I march forward to school.

Something is sprinkling, something small. No need for an umbrella, but I have one in the last compartment of my bag.

The street lights guide my path like heavenly angels guiding the dead. The headlights of your cars are my only interaction to a real world for half an hour. A thin veil of mist coats the chalky sky.

Stop at the bumper bricks on the pavement. Look both ways. Look behind and forward. Cross the street. Walk. Repeat.

The only air I breathe is my own, the only voice I hear is my own. My footsteps, my pants rubbing against my legs, The strange noises my body emits.

All is my own.

A clump of violet and smock-white flowers coat a wooden fence, but they are dark with the sky’s haze. The chalk lets in some light. Dew drips on blades of jade and sahara and chocolate.

The world is asleep, but I am awake. The earths beauties are my own. The glint of the crossing signs, the blur of the lampposts, the sights and smells of plants and trees I’m yet to recognize. Winding roads and a monarch waystation. A swift, steady breeze, a charcoal scent from the commuter trains.

All is my own.

If Art Is How You Decorate Space

Catherine Crousore

if art is how you decorate space then music is how you decorate time painting the years with delicate dictation and acoustics with every stroke a new melodious implication that time runs out and art is forgotten

The Nature In US | Gouache Kelsey Murdoch

Class of 85 | Mixed Media Taylor Fergon

PEACEFUL

Beethoven | Acrylic Annie Price

CORNER | Digital Aleck Fagan

Requiem Of A Love

Brooke Simmons

Brisk winds gliding against skin.

Sounds of long grass weaving together in perfect harmony. Warm golden rays light the area and me.

The smooth aroma of newly grown flowers.

Have I taken a glimpse of a star, which shines bright light like the sun around you and I?

Worshiping you was all I could, until we were pulled into another realm of reality.

You sent your heat onto me but left me in a cool shade until becoming so minuscule to be blind to me.

flammis acribus addictis, consigned to flames of war, for you burn my heart at the sight.

You will no longer light my area of tranquility but burn me wholly and leave nothing but ash and shade.

You will continue to be a fire simmering but never leaving my heart. Missing but never forgotten.

Depth | DIGITAL Francesca Cooper

kenneth | ceramic

Trevor Klein

patrick | ceramic

Elizabeth Rus

The Viola Jeanne Padgett

As that rosewood bow drives through the sound with focus heavy as the night, all present investigate the harmony’s independent connection until the final bar where the conductor prepares, then lurches his swaying hands, and we bow for the audience.

But what I know most are the trials, how Apollo and Euterpe stand by their techniques, how the crowd stares and the auditorium ignores the ancient unease. And the feeling of eternal conflicts rising again, the matter of passion coming, the need to hold course and instinct to experiment more, the music sheets, which I knew deserved support, restoring me, reminding me of the way I dabble in a tool with apparent potential, or hope for a future about to begin takeoff, about to force me to decide on devotion.

Metamorph | Pencil Cora Maggin

Birthday Cake With too many Candles| digital Lola Podolner

Night

Alenka Rus

The back alleys bandits  and  shadow stalkers hide  beneath me. The lurkers  hide inside me.

When the sun bows  from the sky, others lock their doors, silent  under covers, and I begin  my secluded watch  over the earth.

Sometimes I am kept  company by the moon or stars. Other times, I rain my loneliness  into oceans and front yards.

Regardless, in the countryside  the cows and pigs and chickens  settle into hay piles; they live  by sunlight.

But people are not  so constrained, so confined.

Yes, I do see lit up houses  silent except for quiet snoring. But in the house next door half a dozen kids cram  into one room, determined  to stay with me until the sun rises.

Together they rise at twilight  and make a pillow fort. One snuck a tablet  from home, and all eyes  peer at the screen  under a sky of blankets.

And the night shift workers  rhythm the night like  a patient’s heartbeat, or   deal cards to a group who carry  the scent of cheap wine at the casino. Some say “Please wait in parking spot two”  at the neon drive-thrus.

And on the city rooftop, parties send their energy out to me. There’s laughter  and voices and music and  shuffled steps to the beat.   And if I’m lucky, someone  lights a firework to join  the moon and stars  and I am no longer alone.

Special Thanks

Mr. Geddeis, the Administration, and the Board of Education for their continuous support of our endeavors.

The imaginative and talented student writers and artists of LT for creating outstanding pieces. The magazine would not exist without your extraordinary work.

Mr. Maffey for your invaluable spreadsheets, humor through tough times, and encouragement during prose staff and formatting.

Ms. Gutierrez for challenging us to know our vision inside and out and approving the first draft of our editor’s note. Menagerie will miss you greatly in your retirement.

Ms. Rohlicek for bringing exotic snacks, helping us to always see the bright side, and manning the printer every time we forgot how.

Lindsey Wilson for perfectly capturing the theme in every one of your breathtaking designs and for teaching others how to do the same. We are huge, oscillating fans of yours.

Natalie Hess for always being the light when the magazine got overwhelming. Besides all of the hard work you put in writing, you kept all of us laughing through it all.

Literary editors for your intentionality in curating excellent lit pieces. Your expertise allows us to celebrate our students’ writing to the fullest.

Art editors for being flexible and adaptive throughout art staff, embracing the theme in every stage of its evolution. You breathe the very life into the pages.

Literary staff for your insight and dedication in choosing the best prose and poetry pieces LT has to offer.

Art staff for your positivity when Lindsey and Natalie changed their minds and for every square inch of your beautiful spreads.

Staff

Lit Staff

Bea Arielle Balde

Sammy Brunet

Erin Busby

Delilah Carli

Elise Cole

Catherine Crousore

Sofia Cue

Marilyn Fagan

Daniella Feig

Sparrow Fuller

Josiah Husmann

Deena Jalilian

Grace Leavitt

Isabella McCracken

Kiley McGuire

Deanna Nikolic

William Payant

Carolyn Sendaydiego

Brooke Simmons

Jessica Stoddard

Art Staff

Sammy Brunet

Catherine Crousore

Lilly Dodge

Marilyn Fagan

Taylor Fergon

Deanna Nikolic

Evelyn Riordan

Jessica Stoddard

mary rohlicek Art advisor

joseph maffey Prose advisor

angela gutierrez poetry advisor

Mckinley huffman poetry editor sophia jiotis art/lit liaison ashlin kwong prose editor teagan arndt art editor

molly zagroba image editor

annie price layout editor

Natalie Hess Editor-in-chief

Lindsey Wilson Editor-in-chief

Creation Process

Menagerie is the annual student-run literary and art magazine of Lyons Township High School, which is home to appoximately 3,800 students and 450 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 to read, discuss, and evaluate the pieces based on quality of writing, style, originality, emotional accessibility, and subject matter. From the literary staffs’ short lists, the literary editors and advisors make the final selections and edit those pieces for grammatical errors, technical errors, and length.

In the following months, the art staff meets several days per week to integrate exceptional art pieces that are selected based on merit and quality. The pieces are then arranged on spreads to strengthen the thematic quality and connection to the literature.

The art staff collaboratively creates digital layouts that accompany the magazine’s theme. Finally, in midApril, the editorial staff makes the final edits on the spreads before the finished product is sent to the printer. Magazines are printed and distributed to every student in mid-May.

Colophon

Design: Adobe CC 2023 software to edit and create spreads; Procreate to create the cover

Publishing: Alphagraphics of La Grange, IL prints 3,800 copies of the 80 page magazine

Paperstock: 80# Dull Text

Cover: 80# White Opaque designed by Lindsey Wilson

Art/Photography/Design: All art & design featured in this magazine is student-created

Typography: Nelson Bold, Quimby Mayoral Regular, Ms Eaves OT Roman

Finance and Operations: The magazine is funded through a portion of the publications fee that students pay at registration.