Lyons Township High School - Menagerie 2023-2024 - Volume 49: As If!

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 advisers 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 mid-April, 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.

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.

Colophon

Design: Adobe CC 2023 software to edit and create spreads

Publishing: Alphagraphics of La Grange, IL prints 3,700 copies of the 80 page magazine

Cover: 80# White Gloss, designed by Annie Price

Paperstock: 80# Gloss Text

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

Typography: Ruddy Black, Puffin Arcade Regular, Omnes, Calibri, Brother XL, Bungee Finance and Operations: The magazine is funded through a portion of the publications fee that students pay at registration.

W s u uu u u p? s a !

Welcome to Menagerie, where we’re taking a trip back to the early 2000s with a twist! Get ready to embrace the cringe, the clash, and the cool as we dive headfirst into a revival of the Y2K “teen mag” aesthetics.

This edition’s prose, poetry, and artwork are just as bold as our theme! Our students explore a myriad of topics and settings, from fantastical fairy tales in “The Shore” (page 26) to the La Grange Station just behind our school in “Jessie” (page 57).

Growing up in the 2010s, the artists’ pieces reflect on our coming-of-age after the 21st century’s technological and cultural revolution. Enjoy a hilarious ode to our childhood idols in “Dude Perfect: A Tribute” (page 8) or find “All the Things to Be” (page 46) for a timeless recollection of young adulthood. Alternatively, explore modern society through a teenager’s eyes in “Black Struggles” (page 33) and “Roe” (page 31).

But what makes this edition so fetch is its design! We’re resurrecting the flamboyant and fearless style of 2000s magazines, where bold fonts clashed with vibrant colors and quirky patterns, and where every layout screams for attention. It’s a celebration of the quirky, the kitschy, and the downright cringe-worthy, all packaged into a delightfully cool experience!

So buckle-up peeps and prepare to be transported back to a time when the only rule was to break them all!

Peace out! Yours in creativity and cringe

Cat Nap | Printmaking | Julian Gawel Barden

Cosmo the Dog | Printmaking | Genevieve Hart

My Heart Burns Frankincense and Myrrh

Violet Laslie

White door drew out the perfume of a fall night. What was in bloom before it was found — stays a pretty garden after I leave.

I brought a good friend called my voice We spoke slowly, she rang defunct and dull. Whispers dripping in a sweet, ancient oil. Loathed, lonely voice made a home outside those doors, revived with ease melting into yours.

Peering out your dirty window

I saw a herd of deers waiting with curious eyes I wondered if they knew God like I did and still they lingered on waiting.

A touch like death is no longer a burden when velvet gloves are a dollar a dozen.

Drip drop.

I’ll stay in this parking lot forever. We’re like fortune cookies dipped in wine. Let’s talk about nothing ’til the end of time.

Man in the Moon Metals

Allison Dudley

Ladybug Sanctuary Ceramics

Lara Ersahin

POW! | Colored Pencil | Ashlin Kwong

Light | Ink

Meredith Elrod

Dude Perfect: A Tribute

Maddox McDonald

How did they get that on the first try? These guys must be the greatest basketball players in the world. They should be in the NBA! Why aren’t they in the NBA? They’re probably too good. Are they better than my dad? Each of these questions and conclusions snake their way into my mind within seconds of each other after my watching of the newest Dude Perfect YouTube video circa 2014, followed soon after by the conclusion that when I grow up, I will be a basketball player. But not one of those bums in the NBA, no- I’m going to play on the most glamorous stage in the world: YouTube.com. I mean, what separates me from Dude Perfect? About twenty years and a couple million dollars? That’s nothing! I head to my brother with an idea. “Xavier, I propose, what if we make a trick shot video and we were called- not Dude Perfect- but Kid Perfect?” Suffice it to say, his mind is blown by my genius and, no, it’s not “original” per se but I’m eight years old, give me a break. We already have the hoop, the ball, the talent (me, obviously), and the idea; all we need is a camera. To all those who may be of an older generation, by this day in 2014, our telephones actually have included video camera capabilities. We truly are living in the future. I have Dad film my brother and

me completing insane trick shots like a “lay-up” and a “free throw” over and over until we finally get one in. A little secret for all interested parties: you don’t have to actually get it in on the first try if you use the power of acting combined with the magic of editing. Which I do. Like a boss. I open up iMovie on the family Mac and spend tedious minute after tedious minute crafting my magnum opus- learning you can seamlessly transition from one clip to another using something called a “cross-fade”. I’m practically a pro already! Without the notion of perfectionism creeping into my mind, I gather the fam around the 12-inch monitor to present to them a masterpiece. I expect nothing less than the 22-minute standing ovation granted to Pan’s Labyrinth at the 2006 Cannes Film Festival.

As the two-minute film concludes with an epic “behind-the-back nolooker,” the screen fades to black and my Mom and Dad begin clapping. It doesn’t exactly last 22 minutes, but their pride in me is contagious. A thousand-dollar smile plasters on my face and it stays. My biggest heroes are Cody, Ty, Cory, Garrett, and Coby of Dude Perfect and I have the power to be just like them.

Boy at Park | Ink | Isabela Cazares

Yadira Sepulveda

Sometimes I look in the grain, Sometimes I see you in the background.

These photos used to be so familiar, echoes of my heart, blue jay in the branches.

Couldn’t you have stayed?

I make you coffee in my dreams. The ghost of your presence, those dusted polaroids

The CD starts again, and I don’t think you’re coming home.

Still Life | Acrylic Lucia Raveling

Annie and Roz’s Bolero | Graphite Lola Podolner

Alenka Rus Moonshine

Moonshine kisses her skin while its twin sits on the rippling water. She watches the twin, distorted and wavering, before glancing up at the still source of light flanked by an army of gray. She reaches out her hand, longing to simply graze its surface. But the wind answers her silent call instead, its touch light on her fingertips. Her hand sags and falls to the Earth.

One day, she knows. One day she’ll pierce through the gray army, through the atmosphere. She’ll track a course through the stars, and her first stop will be a visit to the moon she’s always loved. One day her hand will simply graze its surface, but for now she waits and lets its light kiss her skin.

“Moonshine

was written as a timed quick write. The prompt was about last August’s blue supermoon, but I let my mind wander from there.”

- Alenka Rus

Lunch | Ceramics Jesse Rulich

Spotlight | Colored Pencil | Annie Price

Abby Grech | Collage | Lola Podolner

The Mess

Annie Price

My surroundings are perpetual. An old bed surrounded by blank walls, cluttered floors, dusty shelves, dirty clothes, and a ticking clock that is keeping time to a song I don’t know. The only thing changing is the brightness of the sun. Now, as it’s almost setting, it is beaming through my westward facing window, illuminating The Mess.

If a stranger were to peek through the small doorway, they may wonder what the occupant was thinking, leaving their space in such disarray. What kind of person would spend their time in a place like that?

What a stranger wouldn’t understand is that my mess is me. It consumes me and I consume it. My old bed, my blank walls, my cluttered floors, my dusty shelves, my dirty clothes, and my ticking clock that continues its steady beat. The Mess is me.

My mind stays messy and so my room follows.

My mind stays messy and so my life follows.

My mind stays messy and so I follow.

The Mess follows me. Sticking to my side like a chronic illness. Polluting all that makes me clean. All that makes me shine. The Mess is greedy. Snatching up my time. Lying in my old bed, listening to the ticking clock, I feel The Mess.

The song I don’t know continues. A beat with no melody. It should stop. I didn’t press play. If it would pause, maybe I could think. Remember how it was before The Mess.

The clock ticks on.

If it would pause, maybe I could remember the days where I replied. When a friend would call and I would

answer with excitement.

The clock ticks on.

If it would pause, maybe I could be her again. If I could be her again, then maybe they would call again. Maybe I would smile again.

The clock ticks on.

As long as the clock ticks, I am The Mess and The Mess is me.

The sun that once lit my room dwindles. The dark begins to creep into the corners, then the edges, and then finally enveloping my space. Enveloping The Mess. Enveloping me. I lie there in the darkness, not expecting anything to disrupt it. A sad, yet comfortable dark. I rest my eyes though I don’t drift into the sweet sleep I wish I could. I lie awake, dreaming again as if I were asleep. Then unexpectedly, a light. Shining through my closed eyelids I can see light. I cautiously open my eyes to observe.

A beam of light shoots up from my bedside table next to me. The blue tinge looks paranormal against the darkness. It holds my attention. Looking over, I find the one responsible: my phone. My screen glows bright. The words on the screen catch my eye.

It’s a text.

“Hey!! Are you free soon?” it reads. While I finally glimpse at the name, another text comes through.

“Thought I’d ask ‘cause I haven’t seen you in a minute. What’ve you been up to??”

I read it aloud in my head, imagining the sender’s voice, and the life in their face. They’re right. I haven’t seen them in a minute. Well, more than a minute. It’s felt more like a million years. What have I been up to all this time?

Absolutely nothing.

Living with The Mess; Living as The Mess. I can finally see clearly how much of a mess it’s made me. I lie engulfed in it still. My only activity is listening to the ticking clock’s song. But despite The Mess, I am still wanted. Someone misses me. A feeling of exuberance washes over me. They missed me! Me! Even when I thought I existed in not one molecule of anyone’s brain, I was missed.

Suddenly, one question dawns on me. Why didn’t I reach out? Not just to this messenger from God, but to anyone? All my time spent waiting for a call would have amounted to something. I know how it feels to be wanted. To feel an ever-consuming pain, but have someone care enough to pull me from it. Why didn’t I give that care to someone?

Every tick of the clock’s song was spent lonely. I watched each nightfall and sunrise alone. I spent all of my moments in The Mess, wishing for someone to save me.

I wasted opportunities. Not only for me, but for others, too. They deserve a moment like this. An escape from their old bed, their blank walls, their cluttered floors, their dusty shelves, their dirty clothes, and their ticking clock. An escape from their mess.

I respond to the text with a smile on my face, and a change in my mind.

“Yeah I’m free whenever!! :)) We can catch up then.”

Finny Fibbs | Mixed Media | Lola Podolner

Taja’s Room

Lucia Raveling

Nebula | Metals | Josette Garcia

Head Shaped Objects | Colored Pencil | Cora Maggin

Artist’s Eye

Lucy Dillenbeck

James liked me because I was quiet. I think I’m helping him prove some sort of point. He lights candles instead of lamps, wears threadbare flannels instead of coats, and keeps his apartment bare as a barrack. A girlfriend who kept her mouth shut was the finishing touch to his ascetic fantasy.

The sex was good, and he was an excellent model. “Let me meditate while you paint me,” he said, and I caught the condescending gleam in his eye for the split second it was there,

like he was about to explain to me what meditating was, and how it did much more for the alignment of the soul than painting ever could. Obviously he’d thought better of it, but when the portrait was finished he was frozen in that moment, brows high, smile arched up at one side, cruelly gazing at the viewer. I’d set him in blues and greens, with tiny swooping veins of red etched across his eyeballs. It didn’t mean anything. He just had really bloodshot eyes.

Fox over the Moon |Metals Anna Borgmann

Candle Smoke | Mixed Media | Evelyn Riordan

Owl | Ceramics Ashlyn Grelewicz

Moonlit Crane | Digital Izzy Pelletier

The Many Lives of Winter

Kiley McGuire

How does one know if it is winter? Is it the way the trees shed their beautiful autumn colors, leaving their branches bare to the harsh, freezing winds? Is it the water droplets collecting under every nook and cranny to create upside-down spires of ice? Is it the cold yet fluffy blanket of never-ending white that coats the earth’s surface? Perhaps it is the frost kissing the edges of our windowsills at night and in the early morning, or perhaps it is the cozy fireplace you get to light up indoors while the rest of the world is plunged into ice. It could be steaming mugs of hot cocoa, or it could be hanging mistletoe in the arches of your doorways. If not a mistletoe, maybe a tree adorned in lights of all colors, maybe a row of candles burning brightly into the night. Maybe it is the cutting of fresh bread followed by laughter and dismay at finding a plastic baby, maybe it is a family spending time together as they fast. Instead of gentle candlelight, what if it was dancing lions and lanterns, what

if it was clay oil lamps and hanging lights illuminating the night sky? Perhaps it is all of this and more wrapped together in a festive scarf. Perhaps it is none of this, and it simply just is. No holidays, no traditions, just nature in its purest form. Nature in the way you can watch silent stories just by watching different footprints in the snow, some human and some animal. Nature in the way you can watch hundreds of animals tuck away into the warmest caverns and dens for their yearly slumber, in the way you can see the skies covered with birds flying south to escape the harsh weather of the north. I suppose in the end, it is up to whatever you decide. Your lifestyle, your beliefs, your thoughts and opinions. Winter is everything you want it to be. If you wish for it to be a season of joy, then a season of joy it shall be. If you wish for it to be a season of sorrow, then sorrowful the earth shall be. In the end, it is all up to you.

Bird | Ceramics Lara Ersahin

Ocean’s Beauty | Metals Anna Secord

Good Ear

“No no, you don’t get it!” Archie yells redundantly, dragging the bright red cart behind him.

The boy’s doppelganger rushes after him through the desolate parking lot, lit only by scattered light posts. “Well I’m never going to at this rate!”

“Then use twin telepathy or something, because I’m not saying it again.”

“Archie you pretentious asshole you know I’m deaf in one ear–would you stop moving?!” He almost trips chasing after his brother, dragging his left leg behind him. “Just tell me what’s going on!”

No matter what angle his brother Toby tries to look at him from, Archie refuses to make eye contact, turning up the volume in his earbuds. Despite the right half of his brain’s urge to run him over with the carts, the left half begrudgingly pushes them into the empty bay. “It doesn’t matter, ok? Go home, please.”

“Go home?” Toby snatches the string of Archie’s red Target apron, turning him around. “You call me at nine at night from work crying, I drive an hour to get here, and now you’re telling me to go home?! Archie you’re not-!”

“It’s stupid! Please! Forget I said anything because you won’t get it!” He unconsciously runs his fingers through his messy ginger hair and rams another train of carts under his guidance into the bay, running over his own foot. His swearing echoes in the ghostly strip mall.

Foot throbbing, he yanks his earbuds out and attempts to outpace Toby down

the lot, but the 6”1 ginger soccer prodigy has him by the collar in a second. And that’s where he holds him, so Archie can see the panic paleing his face “Archibald Victoria Jones. Into my good ear. What did you say?”

Answers too heavy for his lexicon, he starts to cry. “I’m running away”

“And what about that would I not get?”

“Huh?” He looks up, stumbling over his words, “Because you’re…you. Great at soccer, great at school, already accepted into a good college-every family reunion is just-you don’t know what it’s like to constantly get compliments on behalf of someone else! And I’m done! I’m done being a disappointment to everyone a-and feeling like an asshole every time I get jealous because I-I’m a horrible brother–and every time I try to do something right it just blows up in my face and it’d be better for everyone if they didn’t know me anymore.”

After a moment, Toby lets go of his brother’s collar. The brace around his leg doubles its weight in metal. “...god you’re such a moron Archie.”

OM NOM NOM | Ink | Molly Scheib

“I get it ok!” Archie blows up “It’s a dumb plan and I’m just throwing myself a pity party, I get it! I’m probably gonna end up homeless or get lost but at this rate anything is better than-”

“Do you know where I just drove from?!”

“Yeah, physical therapy! I’m sorry that me running away is inconvenient for you, you fu-!”

“And who sat in that office with me every week for four months while I sat there sobbing because I thought my life was over?!”

The twins lock eyes. The echoes fall silent.

Toby’s hands shake, frustration not knowing where to run to. “Yeah. S-so you’re going to stop being stupid and come home, because I don’t know what I’m supposed to do without you. Believe me there are days where I would give anything to not be twins. ‘Archie got a job, why can’t you?’ ‘Of course Archie knows, he can actually think outside the box.’ ‘When Archie broke his leg he was such a good sport about it, why can’t you be patient with us?’. But you know who never compared me to you? You. And I would have driven all night if I had to. So I don’t ever want to hear you say you’re a horrible brother again, do you hear me?!”

It rings and it rings. Above the straggling cars, through the neon sign.

“...I dunno, can you say it in my good ear?”

A chuckle cracks a grin through their tear stained cheeks, bubbling into laughter. Toby futilely tries to stay mad. “You did not.”

“I’m sorry it’s just…” He breaks into a smile, “You always say it!”

“I’m over here giving sage advice and you just had to be funny-!”

“Am I wrong?!”

“Jump Zone was like eight years ago!”

“ ‘Hey I know you just admitted the biggest secret of your life but can you repeat it?’ ”

“I don’t sound like that!”

“Do too!”

“Actually yeah, you know what? I don’t think I heard you” Toby cups his hands over his mouth, shouting up into the expanse “WHAT’S THAT ABOUT YOU BEING GAY ARCHIE?”

Archie slams into him, hysterical. “Cut it out! You’re gonna get me fired!”

“WHAT? I CAN’T HEAR YOU!” Toby continues yelling between laughing fits.

“WHAT?”

“WHAT?”

“I’M SORRY WHAT?”

“WHAT?”

“WHAT?”

The twins yell until their voices completely devolve into messy hysteria. They collapse onto the pavement, both each other’s malfunctioning life savers. Eventually they give up on standing and instead lean on each other.

Toby lets the weight off of his brace, holding his brother close. “Hey, how about you call off the rest of your shift and we go to Andy’s.”

“Actually my shift is over” Archie checks the time, “And it’s not like I’m going anywhere.”

School Desk

River Jennison

curling up broken bug back itching scraping clawing at his scalp bleeding breaking pulling spilling scratched up knees alcohol and bandaids fuel up break down yellow daisy teeth quietly violent nails pressing into skin anything can be hid under a desk calm and collected barely restrained insides better outside smashed windows shattered screen tearing ripping shredding biting bruising aching muffled screaming feet pressed firmly to the ground confined within a clean cut school desk

My Sister | Printmaking | Tiffany Vu

The Shore

Djordje Negovanovic

Everyone who lived on the coastline knew to keep from the tempting beaches.

Countless stories of hypnotic melodies and voices that entrapped permeated through the dull village. Stories of magic, of deception, of disappearance. Stories that kept young, gullible minds from feeding their gluttonous curiosity.

The coastal town was a dreary, desaturated settlement, filled with tasteless loaves of bread and low stone ceilings. There was no dancing, no music.

No singing.

Not long ago, the very same village thrived in its vibrance. Shining with the light of orange lanterns and children’s smiles during its nightly festivals, the village’s magic was its activity.

But according to the stories, one night, during the melodious joviality, a young boy’s ear perked at the notice of a voice outside of the town. It was a smooth voice with a delicate vibrato, singing a lulling, magnetic tune. It was different from the boisterous harmonies of the village. This song was of melancholy, of longing, of beauty. Enchanted by the attractive melody, the boy strayed from the village to the coasts that were meant to be silent.

His first mistake.

At first, the boy stood on the soft sand in expectant silence. He listened to the fragile crashing of the waves onto the untainted shores, coating the beach with their foamy webs. He heard calls of distant gulls and watched the silhouettes of ambitious and far away fishing boats. But he heard no song.

The boy, questioning his hearing, turned

back to the safety of the bright coastal village, the view from the beach allowing the town to blaze in its humble glory.

As he heard the voice once more behind him, the confidence in his footing diminished and he stopped in his tracks.

His second mistake.

In the water laid a girl with sapphire skin and wet hair; she was clad in seashells, coiled in waiting. Behind her a fleshy tail and long fins splashed around lazily. Her eyes were locked onto the boy’s, a subtle smile decorating her beautiful face.

Why was it that sirens were always blessed with such unassailable beauty?

“Come, boy,” she lured with a golden voice, “you cannot hear my song from there. Come, let me sing to you closer.”

The boy hesitated. Who was this beckoning woman in the water? Why was she calling for a human? And why for him? But he was unable to resist. He approached her with deathly slow steps.

His third and final mistake.

His twine shoes crunched on the untouched sand as the patient predator watched him from the lapping waves. Upon reaching her, the boy crouched down, eager for her song.

The siren leaned forward toward the boy’s ear. But instead of a song leaving her throat, a low giggle escaped. She kissed his cheek as she wrapped her webbed fingers around his vulnerable ankles.

With a swift tug of her long and deceptively strong arms, the boy lost his footing as his tailbone slammed down into the sand. The boy, in shock, thrashed around

his useless limbs. The siren dipped her torso into the water and dragged her smiling head in. As soon as his feet breached the cold, inviting water, the boy screamed for help. But his pleas were cut short as the rest of his body was slithered in. Under the water, as the tide filled and violated his lungs, the boy realized how muffled the sounds were of the festival above, and how the light of warm lanterns barely penetrated the surface of the calm waters. Upon the boy’s disappearance, havoc swept its way through the musical town. Why was it that the boy was drawn from the village? Why was the last place he was seen going to the quiet beach? Stories and myths of sirens and their deadly songs circulated. Myths became truths and truths became facts. Sirens were stealing humans from shores they’d thought were safe. Surely if there was no more music, when someone heard a melody they would know it came from those dangerous beings of the depths. They would know to avoid the song. So an order was issued. There would be no more dancing, no more music. No more singing.

And so the once boisterous town decayed into somber gray. Joviality morphed into paranoia and suspicion. The people of the town would never again be manipulated and disturbed by the devious merfolk.

Until one day.

On the beach, in the dead of a colorless night, a man and a mermaid watched each other from the land and from the water.

“Why did you call out to the sea with your singing voice?” the mermaid crooned.

“Deceptive siren,” the man accused. “It was you who lured me here with yours.”

The mermaid frowned. Her tail slithered behind her in tandem with the midnight waves. “Would you like for me to sing?”

“To lure me into the water?”

“No. To lure you into the joy of music. Your silent town must reek of boredom.”

“There is a reason we are silent.”

“Very well. Then come closer so I may sing to you.”

The man laughed. “Your trickery is modest at best, siren. Do you not practice with your kind the art of manipulation?”

The mermaid frowned once more. “We

Gorgan Girl | Colored Pencil Natasha Bertovic

are not sirens,” she lilted.

“Then sing to me from there.”

And so she did. She sang with a smooth voice and delicate vibrato. She sang of melancholy, of longing, of beauty. The man listened in deferential silence, following with his ears the rise and fall of the soft melody.

When she finished, the man spoke, “I will return tomorrow. Possibly with fruit for your troubles.”

The mermaid smiled. “I am not one of your horses to be trained.”

“But you are a snake to be kept at bay.”

Yet the man returned her smile.

The next night, the man held a scarlet apple, plump with sugars and soft flesh. He sat on a rock near the edge of the water, careful to stay a good distance from the reaches of the waves.

“You summon me again with singing?” the mermaid asked.

“Do not delude me, siren,” the man returned, “we are forbidden from singing. I

will not be made a fool.”

“But you will be made an audience. Be quiet and listen.”

The mermaid began a somber tune, a wavering melody weaving through the saline air. The song was a long, persistent decrescendo, starting from a loud, filling chorus, to a melody quiet enough for the man to be compelled to lean forward.

As she finished her song, the mermaid leapt from the water toward the unsuspecting man. With a deft swing of her arm, she caught in her hand the plump red fruit the man had brought.

“Filthy siren!” the man yelped as he jumped from his seat on the seaside rock. “You meant to drag me into the water and flood the life from my lungs!”

“Then why is it I hold fruit in my hands and not your sodden body?” she hummed as she sank her teeth into the ruby flesh.

The man relaxed his tensed muscles. “You are a trickster.”

“No. Simply peckish,” she smiled. “Was this apple not a gift for me and my song?”

“Well, yes, but-”

“And did I not sing?”

“Of course you did, but-”

“Then it’s settled,” she sang with her golden voice. “People get what they deserve,” she offered after a moment of contemplative silence.

The rosy sunrise peered over the horizon as the man and the mermaid realized how much of the night they’d spent together.

The man thought for a moment. “I will return tomorrow. I will be more willing to listen to your nonsense then.”

“And you shall offer a gift,” the mermaid persuaded, “like tonight.”

“Only if you will sing.”

But what would the man bring? What could he possibly offer in exchange for the mermaid’s heavenly song?

On the third night, the man and the mermaid stood closer than ever before.

“Must we persist in the delusion that you are not singing to summon my presence?” the mermaid smiled.

“Sing for me.”

And so she did. As twice before, the mermaid sang. But this song was not just beautiful, like the others she had presented. It was woven with the beauty of the crashing tide, but also with the melancholy of the quiet bay, and with the longing for the love and passion only offered by the shoreside. Her voice echoed modestly across the sea, and wrapped the man in her song. To the deaf, they were of two entirely different worlds, of the ocean and land. But to the musical, there was no difference to be seen.

As the mermaid finished her song, she gazed up into the eyes of the man. The man presented to her his gift, diamonds and jewels and rare flowers of the land, but the mermaid raised a webbed hand and shook her head.

“All I ask for is a kiss.”

And so the man approached her. With hesitation, of course, but without ceasing. One step after the other, transitioning from the soft and dry sand to the compact and dark. He knelt in front of the mermaid, her smile innocent and pure. Her kind had never been murderous or manipulative. They hadn’t killed that boy on the shore all that time ago. They were not predators of humans.

The mermaid closed her eyes and craned her head forward. The man wrapped his large hands around her soft, scaled body.

And ripped her from the water.

Dragging the flailing girl from the waves, he avoided her desperate, thrashing tail. Her fins dug into the sand, carving the path her distressed body took from the safety of the sea to the dangers of the land. The man threw her prone onto the shore and wrapped his violent palms around her sapphire throat that had once sang so beautifully.

“Why?” the mermaid despaired. “All I longed for was a human kiss. Why must you do this to me?”

“Because,” the man crooned, smiling wildly, his hands violating and crushing her vulnerable neck, “I am the siren.”

# # #

Everyone who lives in the depths knows to keep from the tempting beaches.

Tales of a beautiful human voice lulling merfolk and humans alike to their final breath keep mermaid mothers’ arms around their children and mermen fathers’ tridents sharp. Tales of warning and threat were spread, meant to keep the merfolk from the shore, where above a siren sang songs of melancholy, of longing, and of beauty, luring the curious to their demise.

But there are always the few who can’t resist the call.

Father And Daughter | Colored Pencil | Annie Price

Roe

Emily Bruebach

June twenty fourth twenty twenty two: I watch the news.

My friend, Jane, with me “Overturned” Jane weeps I hold her hand. My mother sits next to me. She takes my other hand. She is here.

I am here by a choice. Jane’s daughter holds her other hand.

She is here because Jane had none. We weep together. I glance at the clock, the minute hand ticks from 3 to 2.

Obscure | Printmaking | Jade Pav

Black Struggles

Heavyn Washington

You are born in a Black life and for that you have to fight. People’s words can cut you like a knife, like when they say you sound too proper or that you sound hood and that to me is no good. Does my attitude upset you? Do you want to see me hurt? My shoulders falling down like raindrops. They take my kindness as weakness and my uniqueness as strange? If I stand up for myself, I’m too defensive but please come to your senses that my character is under attack and my pride makes me too Black. But Black is beauty, a powerful duty, but what is Black? Add the word facts history acts but we are the impact. Black people are the essence of art and to know that you have to be woke, but it’s hard to be that when the stereotypes say that we’re broke. I wanna be safe, I wanna be loved, I want peace. My skin is not a badge of shame but more of a global masterpiece and that you should see.

Genevieve Harmount The Cicada

He sits and waits for what seems an eternity. Seventeen is a buried life to lead crafting his face, improving. No one truly knows what lies below, a mess of those afraid to surface.

When eternity is spent he emerges, wings spread proud as the sun though he is haggard, he is not afraid to show his face.

He buzzes a harmony all his own, fading into a symphony of those like him. Change is a force for those who know how to wield it, releasing the shells of who they were in the hopes of something greater.

Those who are blind confuse enlightenment with stupidity. They will stay above ground, wishing to be buried beneath the unforgiving dirt.

Though their time in the sun is short-lived, he and his siblings will relish in the lavish reality of the open sky, and when their time comes they will look up and smile knowing their final moments were lived in the silence of their own eyes.

I wish to have that resilience, the trust that your wings will catch the air when you let go. One year left supposedly, ‘till the earth rejects my exoskeleton, and my wings are forced to unfurl.

I’m caught in limbo, feet still in the silt, but eyes open wider than ever before, reaching to the sky.

Trash Children | Digital | Jessica Stoddard

Grief

Jamie Radford

I always thought of grief as melancholic, a looming sense of longing for something that I couldn’t reach anymore. I did not know grief. Grief is not always violent. Now I reach for its gentle reminder of his presence, a sense of solace I receive in little reminders of him. I have learned that grief does not dissolve with time, you evolve around it. You only learn to live with absence, to accept its hands and invite it into who you are.

Problem with the Sun | Photography

Teagan Arndt

Beautiful Things

Adailene Escobar

In the summer I hide.

I hide in places where you can never find me. I hide from her—the girl made of glass. The ice cream truck passes, and she dances. Her skin darkens, and she’s beautiful.

Her hair glows in the sun, and every room she walks into, it lights up. Even the room where she could also—once, be nowhere to be found. That room is the one where her mother could once dry her tears, that room is the one where her mother sang her to sleep, that room is the one where her mother played dress up with her. There was children laughing in the roads, elders walking the sidewalks, the trees and grass were a clean green. It was nice while it lasted.

The trees were no longer green. The leaves were dyed with warm colors that made my insides cold and my skin crawl. The sky is gray, and the sidewalks and grass were filled with leaves of crunch. She’s pale and cold by the breeze, she steps on every crunched leaf. Realization hits her like a volleyball, everything is dying. And it’s beautiful. Dying is beautiful. But she’s scared to shatter in one hit.

Snow fills the empty branches, adding six more feet to her future grave. Red fingers, purplish fingernails, pale hands intertwine, rosy cheeks and rudolph noses, love is in the air.

Her quinceanera was this week. Her dress melted.

So did her hair and her crown. Is love inevitable for her?

There’s a day for presents and jewelry, New Year’s kisses, roses and chocolates, Love season is here.

But is she?

She never showed up to her quince. She never showed up for the presents and roses and kisses. She made snow angels and snowmen and snowballs.

Trust is something hard to gain.

Love is something rare to find. She learned that the hard way.

The warm breeze runs through her shiny hair as she glides through the blooming trees. The girl in glass has a reflection of the sun instead of a shadow. But when she’s in the shade of the big trees, her figure is finally seen. Why?

She cries with the clouds and they fill the streets and peoples roofs with their tears. This is her happiest moment yet.

She made the flowers grow and listened to the cicadas in the trees. The seatbelts burn her fingers, she runs in the rain,

She lets the sun warm her body, she lets her back feel the soft green grass. The cool breeze brings her a smile. A smile so big, it’s almost blinding.

The way she cries is so majestic, the way she smiles is so mesmerizing, the way she thinks is so calming, the way she talks is so relaxing. She’s found herself.

She found a dandelion. She took it and blew the seeds away. The seeds glide with the wind and she watches. “I wish I can turn into beautiful things.”

Screaming Color

Annaliese Dorchinecz

The color was screaming. Screaming color. Rose pink was splashed slapped splattered spilled in some areas and in others humbly dabbed splotted stroked smeared with a delicate touch.

It made the trees breathe life turn magical enchanted alive screaming And that wasn’t even the grandest part.

The sun itself was screaming shouting pleading demanding to be seen in its array of vibrance. I never thought I could see so many colors streaming out of one place.

It was impossible to miss in the gray and bleak of the winter evening. It boldly proclaimed its beauty to all and smothered the world with color. A bit boastful, even arrogant, but I don’t think it’s anyone’s place to tell the sun how to appear.

I refuse to believe our existence is accidental and that there is only a void out there rather than a knowing presence, something that loves us very much. Because a sun like that doesn’t just exist for itself.

No, it exists to be admired.

It exists for us.

If there truly was nothing that loves and longs to show Itself to us

then beautiful suns like that wouldn’t bleed into our eyes.

“I wrote this poem about a beautiful sunset I saw on a winter hike in Michigan. The colors were so vibrant and the light made everything look so magical.”

- Annaliese Dorchinecz

Me as a Kid | Colored Pencil Ashlin Kwong

Open Minded | Colored Pencil Ashlin Kwong

Growing Up

Kai Walsh

The worst part of growing up isn’t the sudden pressure to succeed or to better the world around you. It isn’t the new found responsibilities you must take on or the stress that comes with it. No, the worst part of growing up is coming to the conscious finding that the world around you isn’t perfect. That the playground you once spent hours creating made up stories in, is no better than a few rickety swings and a slide. That your parents are not these ageless, perfect beings but rather these flawed humans who are growing old and still trying to learn about the world around them. It’s realizing that your favorite celebrity is now going to prison for assault or that your favorite clothing brand would rather put children’s lives in danger than lose a few

“Whenwritingthis piece, I reallywanted to embodythe realization ofthetrue world around uswhenwe growup. How we are shown the truth but still refuse to do anything about it.”

- Kai Walsh

Little Greek Life | Watercolor Olivia Burr-Reynaud

bucks. Growing up is forcing your eyes open to discover that the once utopian world that you believed in is crumbling at your feet. That war and death plague each home more than happiness does. Hunger and debt rush through the veins of poor unsuspecting victims and enable the rich to build walls with their bodies. The flourishing wildlife that you read about in children’s books are crawling across landfills of our mistakes and disappointments. Our once perfect, goldilocks planet has become the setting of total annihilation stories and points of no return. But it truly doesn’t matter. Because I’m grown up now. I can do whatever I want and I don’t have to worry about it. I have enough things on my plate and I don’t need seconds. I’ll just let someone else handle it. Maybe someone more grown up than I am.

Guts | Acrylic and Colored Pencil | Rianna Haymes

Disasterous Dinner at Western Springs | Acrylic | Lola Podolner

GUILT

River Jennison

MY HEART IS TOO BIG FOR MY CHEST BUT MY BODY WILL NEVER BE SMALL ENOUGH FOR THE WORLD I’LL CURL UP AND PUNCTURE MY LUNGS WITH MY BROKEN RIBS AND I’M SORRY FOR THE BLOOD I’VE SPILLED I PROMISE I WILL CLEAN IT UP SOON I WOULD NEVER WANT TO GET YOUR SHOES DIRTY

All The Things To Be Naimah Arteaga

I am 17 on this December 8th night. Tomorrow I will be 18. Oh, so big 18. I am nervous to meet her. Will she welcome me with open arms? Will she take care of me? Will she hold me oh so high? Will she support me? And most importantly, will she love me?

I could swear that I was 16 last Thursday running through the restaurant making a fool of myself. Then I believe I was 17 on Sunday morning when I drove to pick up coffee. Oh and of course I am 18 on Saturday evening with my red birthday dress. But now, let’s not forget that next week I will be the girl walking to her big girl job at 26 in the big city. Sometimes I dream I am 34, and I wake up with such grief. I picture a bold house, but I feel so small. I wonder why. But some days, I think I know. I think I know. Tomorrow I will want to be a politician. Then the day after that, on some drive to work, I will stare too long at the stoplight, and start to think, and decide I am meant to be an actress. How could I not? I feel beautiful today. Beautiful enough to be on the big screen. But next week in English when we finish the last

chapter of Virigina Woolf’s book, I will feel so strongly about being an author because her words have made me feel real in a way that the world around me hasn’t.

Some days in Math class when things get too boring I wonder about the love of my life. I wonder when we will meet.

Will I be 40 and sitting on our couch staring at your face? Will I love you?

When I step on to pretty white snow after speech practice, I think of the woman I met two Septembers ago at work. I remember her. I miss her. I think of all the things I say to the people I love. When I overstep. When I overshare. When I poke fun and bother. When I love so much it hurts. I hope she can forgive me for being a teenage girl, I hope they all can, for being just that.

“I took inspiration from not only myself, but the other teenage girls around me to create this piece. We all have stories, experiences and thoughts replaying in our heads every day. I find myself wondering if I’ll feel what my piece focuses on into young-adulthood.”

- Naimah Arteaga

Rose Hairpin| Metals | Loveleen Sasan

Triptych | Photography | Teagan Arndt

Os Olhos | Digital | Maria DePierre Rodriguez

PresentAbsentFather,Daughter

Joanna Barcelona

I told Juliet to remember to return the pen I lent her. “It’s a good pen,” I said, “So don’t lose it.”

Mama always has a few of those pens in her purse. I call them “Mama-pens.” They are firm and reliable, never giving too much or too little ink.

Juliet asked to borrow my pen again the next week. “Don’t worry,” she told me “I know it’s a good pen.” It meant nothing to her, but everything to me that she remembered.

She doesn’t anymore, I’m sure, but I haven’t forgotten that she didn’t forget.

I explained to Juliet that where I live depends on the day of the week. Without hesitating, she asked “But which one is home?” Without hesitating, I answered “My mom’s.”

I still love Daddy. I wish he could get better and stay better, but I’m old enough to notice the empty vodkas in the garbage the box of beer cans in the fridge. It goes round and round. Sometimes things improve, but we always end up back at square one, eventually.

He couldn’t quit for me, so I quit on him. I went home and stayed home. I am a deadbeat daughter until I’m old enough for the court to mind its own business, that’s the way things will be.

Wishing Well | Ceramics | Aubrey Hosey

Self River Jennison

formless nameless changing thing dancing darkness and light colors and shadow cutting through foggy expanse indescribable and mourning terrible bird call ears and eyes pouring rivers red and rainbow wash my humanity away two times mind and body body and soul

i am nothing at all

Lunula | Metals | Josette Garcia

Above: 27 | Maddox McDonald Right: Untitled | Atchinson Sokolis

Portrait 1 | Acrylic | Atchinson Sokolis

Teach Me How To French Braid

Catherine Crousore

teach me how to french braid. three strands weaving together. straggled pieces remain on the nape of my neck. how sloppy.

teach me how to paint my nails without the excess pooling around my nail beds. hues of pastels dribbling down, staining the countertops. what a waste of lacquer.

teach me how to put on mascara without the bristles pricking my retinas. it runs down my cheeks for them to see. just a silly girl. it’s a painful way to keep them shut.

tell me, am i doing this wrong?

teach me how to love myself. imperfections included. to him, my femininity must be shot down, dragged across the salon’s tile before i even try. do you think so too? is it okay to try? after years of deep self-suppression, please just show me. let me love the color pink.

teach me how to french braid. if you’re one strand off, you look like you’re finally learning. smile, with lipstick smudges and frizz in your mane.

Glamorous | Acrylic Jade Pav

My Desk | Acrylic Isabela Cazares

“Hoard

- Cora Maggin

Spider Phone | Digital | Harris Nandan

Kitra | Digital |Ezra Quinn

My Mother And I

Yadira Sepulveda

In a dream I saw my mother

16, my age

Gaps of sun beamed her face

She sits on steps and smiles

Seeing her grin

Teeth sharp like mine

In my dream I saw my mother

Black hair curled

No children and free

Brown eyes

Dark hair like me

In my dream I saw my mother

She wasn’t lost

I didn’t have to tell her I was sorry

Sorry that I was here

Pink California Photography

Kayla Rodriguez

Jessie | Photography | Catherine Crousore

Color Pencil Colored Pencil Brooke Bonniwell

Kisses

Your Palms

14th

Max Trolley

life will tell you it loves you while laying a crown of thorns on your brow. you try to remember if this is what it felt like when your mother kissed you goodnight when you were a child.

you think it’s the same life looks exactly like her. but it also looks like your seventh grade crush and it looks like your sister and it looks like you.

it changes form like water in a glass, it shifts and grows around you like vines on a crimson brick house the same color as the blood that ran through you when you could still see in color.

life looks black and white like an old silent film but life is filled with so many voices it’s hard to focus on one life’s voice sounds like your best friend your brother your old babysitter your father your best friends younger sister and it also sounds like you

February

| Colored Pencil | Ezra Quinn

no amount of personification can distance the fact that life is a part of you every time you inhale that is life every time you sit in bed alone that is life every time you laugh that is life every time you sob alone that is life life will gift you with all these wonderful little moments but it will not tell you when they’re happening until they’re memories you look back fondly on it’s your job to look life in its eyes and cup its face and tell it that you accept it it will not make the choice for you if you start treating life with this terrible kindness for everything around you life will reward you will laughter and so so much joy you’ll feel like you’re exploding with it even if your kindness is through bared teeth even if your body is scarred with your past even if you think you just can’t anymore life will kiss your palms and life will tell you i love you

When the Natural and the Material World Collide Colored Pencil | Genevieve Hart

Yet Still, I Love You Aero Gartner

The greatest burden that I carry is you.

Not the pain you’ve brought me. The hatred I hold for you has strengthened me with each brick you pile on.

The love I contain is what snaps my back, is what fills my lungs and lights me ablaze.

My love for you is a poison, rotting me to my core and purging me of my defenses.

I care for you as a mother to a child; you care for me as a whetstone to a blade.

I long for who you could have become yet you seek no absolution for who you truly are. I grieve the boy

I believed you were, yet there can be no burial of an idea that had never come to fruition.

I mourn you from a safe distance, though you stand within arms reach.

I am nothing but your cemetery, a home for all that haunts you. You are nothing but my gravestone; my cemented marking of the end.

“I wrote this poem out in my head while I was at work bussing tables on a busy day and jotted it down in my notes app on a bathroom break. This is a very personal poem, so my emotions at the time were a guiding force to its creation.”

- Aero Gartner

Sanctuary | Sculpture Charlotte Schulz

All She’s Got

Ava Armstrong

The dead of winter’s day Commuters in a rush

A policeman stares her down

She’s bundled up on a corner

Imposing no threat to society

What he finds enrages him

She hears the clink of silver metal

His gear wrapped around his belt

Everything this man needs for his duties

And her? She doesn’t have much

She throws up a peace sign with her fingers

That’s all she’s got.

“This piece was inspired [by] a picture card...It was up to my own interpretation..so I let my imagination run free.”

- Ava Armstrong

Self Portrait | Charcoal | Lucia Raveling

Identity | Mixed Media | Rianna Haymes

Fritz Frech

This is the end; this is where the wood splinters. This is where the tinny carnival music fizzles out like the voice of God in your ear.

I am going in the ground. I am not dead but full of blood. I stand straight and someone pulls my teeth out and they scatter on the asphalt. Littered just like all the rest of the beautiful things are. Smudged across my windshield vision. This is the last stop; this is where the seams unstitch themselves. I do not cry.

I am giving away my vocal cords my inner workings my machinery (I am all sparks and fuses.) And metal turns to rust turns to dust.

I must remember not to live in waiting.

August | Digital | Makayla Calmeyn

Lucy Dillenbeck Vanity

I. The sun sets and the lights come on. I punctuate with slashes instead of periods—I don’t see an end anywhere. The mirror is a helping hand, a careful whisper, shaking like the cosmos. Lines underneath my eyes, in the table grooves. Strung up like a puppet, hung swaying among the rafter-bugs.

My mind’s eye blinks and clouds up, heavy with black mucus. Derealized. My mind and I see from far away. Torn fabric, canvassed image. Pucker up your lips and pose. Check the mirror before you swerve. A privilege not to be living that life, to be cutting across lanes on the highway towering over the poor neighborhoods. No better way to say it but you still feel like shit everytime you make that drive.

II.

You think of how you wanted to be a graffitist—doesn’t everyone fancy themselves crooked and colorful? Leave a scar on the landscape, leave a piece of you behind to survive where you couldn’t. A little like prayer to a god of the future whose name you will not know. I always liked the future tense. Your muscles will tense as you read this.

Who are the blinking lights for? I can almost spell it out now. There is a thief curled up inside my chest and it tells me to lie and cheat and steal. It comes so easily. You know.

I dress, I hang jewelry from my ears. Perform. Perform. The mirror calls me back at nightfall, pinching curves and clawing at shadows. None of it sudden or unexpected. I know myself best in the shivering, the shuddering, the fighting sleep.

Bunny | Ceramics | Genevieve Harmount

Portrait 2 | Acrylic | Atchinson Sokolis

Portrait of My Sister | Ink | Seb Pershey

Self Portrait | Charcoal | Fritz Frech

Benny’s Brain and Beckham’s Body Sabrina Nelson

Benny and Beckham live in the other’s corpse, but don’t worry; they’ll just kill each other and get it back in a hurry.

There is a certain lived normalcy of a body swap gone wrong and that is one of vengeance, self loathing and pity parties till dawn.

A party for one at the restaurant Italian with a 9% service fee from rampant inflation. Different Italian restaurants, of course. Benny and Beckham wouldn’t be caught dead with each other except to catch the other dead, you understand, no?

But which is Benny and which is Beckham? For the bodies and brains have been mixed so extensive

That it’s hard to attribute what to which or which to who. Is it Benny in the bell bottoms bleached baby blue, and turtleneck, tagged, department store new, Complaining to the hotel manager about the naive hiree or simply the workings of Benny’s body?

Because Benny’s brain would never have glanced had it not been Benny’s body going off on a rant,

But to be mad at Beckham’s brain is to glare at Benny’s body and question why a brain such as Beckham’s would lobby

The thought that a body like Benny’s could pull off bell bottom jeans, department store new.

But it must be Benny, angular jaw accentuating the horrible bleach blond locks stiffly waving

Along his bright blue eyes of beleaguered disappointment.

Or was the look Beckham’s now?

The question’s reappointed.

So Benny’s brain buys buttoned up boardshorts as only Benny could wear, but Benny’s brain’s buttons sit on Beckham’s brittle legs fair

And Beckham’s brain grows bitter. For that is not him, barreling through classy restaurants, moronic and dim.

Black bangs grown down to the chin barely letting his beige eyes breathe beneath the leather head dressing.

Beckham’s body does not sway like that in brilliant hues, buffed out biker boots, Benny’s brain never knew

How to hold Beckham’s jaw closed, so the silver tongue slips through its lips for a trick. And if Beckham’s brain could have his way, today there’d be a barrel brought by the bottom of Benny’s tender frame.

But wait-is that not Beckham’s?

For what is the person, the body or brain?

The bonkers brother who swapped them twenty years ago would say, “Oh I do not know, but I was hell bent on knowing

So I turned them both loose in hopes that they’d show me”.

But Benny and Beckham are philosophers not, They’d rather shoot him, then each other, and never get caught.

Mon Roi

Bea Arielle Balde

« Tout n’est pas mal »

C’est un mensonge dans mon esprit dont j’ai fait une loi

J’ai dit « Maintenant, je me sens normal »

Mais, pourquoi pleuré-je encore sur toi

Et écris-je aussi sur toi dans mon journal?

Dans mon esprit, tu es toujours mon roi

Je suis la meneuse et la dramaturge

Je t’ai largué dans la mer dans tous mes écrits

Pour remplir ton espace vide, j’aurais besoin d’un thaumaturge

Parce que tu es mon acteur principal préférée dans mon manuscrit

Mais tout le monde, je peux encore t’entrevoir

Parce que tu es toujours mon roi

Je me sens bien et je suis une conteuse

Donc j’ai effacé ton nom dans mon histoire

Je me sens heureuse et je suis une menteuse

Alors je dis à tout le monde que c’est faire croire

Tout sur moi est plus piteuse

Pourtant, tu es toujours mon roi

Sincèrement, je me sens triste maintenant

Mais bientôt, ces mensonges cesseront de faire mal

Bientôt, ce sentiment cessera d’être dominant

Bientôt, je rencontrerai quelqu’un qui est plus spécial

Bientôt, mes mensonges ne seront plus ma loi

Mais pour ce moment, tu es toujours mon roi

“Merci, Monsieur Robinson for the help and the encouragement!”

- Bea Arielle Balde ‘24

(English Translation)

“Everything wasn’t bad”

It’s a lie in my mind that I made into law

I said, “Now, I feel normal”

But, why do I still cry for you

And also write for you in my journal?

In my mind, you are still my king

I am the ringleader and the playwright

I leave you in the sea in all my writings

To fill your blank space, I would need a magician

Because you are my favorite actor in my manuscript

But everywhere, I still catch a glimpse of you

Because you are still my king

I feel well and I am a storyteller

So I erased your name in my story

I feel happy and I am a liar

So I tell the whole world that it’s make believe

All of me is pitiful

Yet, you are still my king

Truthfully, I feel sad now

But soon, my lies will stop hurting

Soon, this feeling will stop being dominant

Soon, I will meet someone more special

Soon, my lies will stop being my law

But for this moment, you are still my king

Purple Mountain | Watercolor Olivia Calmeyn

Bunny Boy | Colored Pencil Annie Price

MAYBE I AM

Maddox McDonald

(Lights up on THEO, a middle-aged man in a full, black and white tuxedo. He sits with one arm around Mr.Waddles and the other around Dr.Featherbottom, two penguins.)

THEO

Hahaha! You are too much, you are. Geez. Oh, you guys. I tell ya. I tell ya... Sometimes, man. I just wanna grab life by the collar and knock some sense into it, ya know? These days? Feels like nothing makes sense anymore. Right, Mr.Waddles? (Beat. He quacks.) Tell me about it. I was talking to a buddy of mine- Terry? He’s the guy in the band? The one I was telling you about? The bassist? Not the jazz- the big tall wood bass- an electric bass, you know? Like from The Talking Heads, like Tina Whats-Her-Name from The Talking Heads. Well, I was talking to Terry, the bassist, about something, and eventually we happen upon the subject, for whatever reason, of frozen pizza. Whether we liked it, disliked it, whatever. I check my phone a minute later, the first thing I see? An ad for frozen pizza! Can you believe that?! Crazy times. Crazy times. My daughter- Hey, how many kids you got now, Dr.Featherbottom? Seventeen? (He quacks.) Eighteen? When did this happen? Well, congrats, brother. Eighteen. And to think, I can barely take care of one, right? Isabell. Isabell, Isabell, Isabell. (He gets up and walks behind the rocks he was sitting on) You fellas want one? No?

(He grabs a bottle of Arctic Beer, opens it, and begins drinking.)

THEO

Great kid, Isabell. But I feel like things’ve been different between us. It’s like she’s distant. Does that make sense? And I know, I know: It’s natural, your daughters growing up, she doesn’t depend on you anymore, boo-hoo, but she’s only fifteen, I mean. It feels like she’s embarrassed by me. Which doesn’t feel-… I’m telling you, it’s that damn social media, that damn phone! Making them feel like celebrities, like they’ve always gotta be ‘on’. The whole generation. It’s really not good for you, I’ve done research on this, it’s proven, it’s really not good for you. But, of course, you can’t take the phone away because she’ll hate you and she’ll say you’re trying to ruin her life, which- I get. I get it, I do. My own hypocrisy is not lost on me, man, I know how I was acting when I was her age. Worse than she is, probably- hopefully. Those nights in Modecai’s Truck with Benson, Rigby, and Skips riding through cornfields, no headlights, doing donuts for hours. Mom and Dad were always: Son, you gotta stop, you gotta be safe. I didn’t get it back then. I didn’t. I miss her, tho. I hardly see the girl anymore! And when I do, we don’t talk! How was your day, hun? ‘Fine.’ ‘Fine.’ ‘Ok.’ Always fine. Never ‘Oh, it was great, Dad!’ or ‘It was horrible’ it’s always just fine. Nothings ever just fine. She’s doing okay in school- she’s doing good, real good. Grades are good. But I don’t know how she’s really doing. Ya know? She was telling me about something the other day and I just couldn’t understand a word of it, it’s like the whole generation is speaking a foreign language. Isn’t that sad, Dr.Featherbottom? … Ah, I’m sorry, guys, I digress, I digress, I’m killing the mood, I know, I know, I’m sorry. I just got a lot on my mind, man.

I come here to escape it all, not to... Got a lot on my mind these days. Look in the mirror, I see this old man, this middle aged man. I was at the airport, flying out of Toronto for a work thing, and the guy, the TSA guy, asked how old I was and I said “forty nine” and it just… hit me. Like this wave, or like a, yeah, like a wave. I’m forty nine, I’m a year away from fifty. Thirteen in penguin years. And usually, most of the time, I don’t feel old, but I’ll- Ok, there was this one time the other day. I actually caught myself thinking “those damn kids.” The neighbors, the kids, the next door neighbors, were playing and having fun and, I guess being a bit loud, and I thought “those damn kids” like a grandpa! Then I start to get it, why Isabell feels that way. I embarrass myself, man! Sneakin into the zoo after hours to hang out with penguins when I could be with people? Thank god Isabell’s the only one that knows. No offense, but it’s embarrassing, it’s objectively embarrassing.

(Mr.Waddles quacks )

THEO

No, Mr.Waddles, I didn’t mean it like that. Not you! It’s not you guys, just in general.

(Dr.Featherbottom quacks)

THEO

No, no! I’m not saying I’m embarrassed by you, I’m saying I’m embarrassed to have to do this at all. It’s not- it’s not you guys, I swear. I love you guys, cmon! We’re the 3 amigos. The terrific trio. My three stooges! You’re my boys, you know I’d never disrespect you like that. My OGs. My besties from another species. My confidants from a different continent. My birds from other

herds. My birds If only I was a penguin too. Wouldn’t that be something? Chill in here all day, looking at your sky-painted dome. You guys do know this isn’t the actual sky, right? Do you? Like are you aware this chill is the air conditioner and not the breeze of Antarctica? You’re not, are you? Not a care in the world. I assume, I mean, I don’t wanna and not the breeze of Antarctica? You’re not, are you? Not a care in the world. I assume, I mean, I don’t wanna put words in your mouth, but, and forgive me if I’m speaking out of turn, but you have got it good here! Unlimited fish, bunch of sick friends, no thinking about work or society or taxes or where your daughter is(He perks up) Where is Isabell? … Right. She’s home. Hope she locked the doors, and there’s that upstairs window which… See that’s what I’m talking about, guys! Even when I’m here with you, with my fellow unproblematic kings, I’m thinking about all these issues, I can’t help it. I just wish, here’s what I wish, I wish I could do one night where I just shut the responsibility part of my brain off and cut loose. They call ‘em shut your brain off movies, you know, those Michael Bay, big explosion, alien robot whatevers. And I was watching one, I don’t remember, it was some Fast and the Furious. It was that spin-off, Hobbs and Shaw, the Fast and the Furious spin-off with Vin Diesel and The Rock?

Not Vin Diesel but Jason Schwartzman. No, that’s that kid from Rushmore. God, what a film that was- though I prefer The Royal Tenenbaums, that’s when Wes Anderson really came into his own. Still, Rushmore’s good, Bill Murray in that movie, phew. Talk about a performance. But his name was Jason. Bald British dude. Jason Schwartzman, no. Jason Momoaw was Dune.Statham! Statham! That’s what it is, so it’s this movie with Jason Statham and the Rock, Dwayne Johnson, and it’s just the worst movie ever, ya know? Just no story, no heart, but it’s got some fun action, some set pieces, some explosions. And the whole time, I was thinking: What if that happened two Isabell? was an explosion in some office building and it was just: What if Isabell was in that building? Plus, after everything with her mother, how hard that was for her, I don’t- and I come here to-… maybe it’s wrong. Maybe it’s wrong. Is it? Is it bad for me to want to forget about my troubles for a bit? To not worry about my daughter or my job or the apartment? Not to forget about them, but just to not care? For a night? I wish I couldn’t care. People, my parents, people would say once you reach that age, it goes away. You don’t worry about everything so much, you’re supposed to be content. Is content really the best we can do? As a species? Just to be not un-happy? Not happy, necessarily, just not sad? And I can’t even be that, so that’s gotta say something.

I feel like I gotta be at that age by now, right? You’d think. I don’t know, man. I don’t know. You don’t know, but you don’t care that you don’t know! That’s where I’m trying to get to. … I got a joke for you, Mr.Waddles. Don’t get offended, Ok, Dr.Featherbottom? Ok. Two Penguins are walking over a hill. An iceberg. So a couple of penguins walking across an iceberg. The first penguin turns to the second and says “it looks like you’re wearing a tuxedo” and the other penguin turns and says “Maybe I am.” (He waits for a laugh) Nothing?! Ah, I thought it was pretty good. Full disclosure, not my joke. I heard it on TV somewhere, but I thought it was pretty good. “Maybe I am.” You don’t get it? No, you wouldn’t. You’re penguins. Of course you don’t get it. The only English you understand is “Hey here’s your food” so I’m talking to no one. In effect. Right? Is that offensive? (Dr.Featherbottom Quacks) Well, I’m sorry, but it’s true. Man. You listen tho, and that’s good. You guys are great listeners. That’s something. I prefer a good listener to a good talker. I’m a talker, not necessarily a good one, but a talker, sure. And I can listen, with a good talker, I’ll listen. You don’t think I can? I’ll prove it. Dr.Featherbottom, Mr.Waddles: How are you doing today?

(He waits for a while for them to answer.)

THEO

I’m just gonna let you answer, just gonna listen to you. And if it takes all night and you don’t say anything? I’ll just wait. (He waits for a while) I’m just gonna listen, I’m done talking, true, I am. I’m not gonna say anything from now on. I’m silent. I’m all focused on you. Focused like a magnifying glass, like I’m a detective. Like Sherlock Holmes from that movie. The one with Robert Downey Junior. Didn’t love the sequel, not a great sequel, but the first was great, a lot of fun. Lotta fun. Or like I’m a scientist, with a microscope, that’s how focused I am. On you. I never liked chemistry, looking under those microscopes. Not a science guy necessarily, it’s all very, it’s too many questions, you know? Don’t love the questions. Isabell, when she was younger, she was sorta into science. Not too much, I guess just how much a kid would be into science. And she would ask me: How big is the sun and I’d just go: Really big. Cuz I don’t know, I’m not a science guy, ya know? But I don’t have anything against science, nothing wrong with it of course, it’s very important, of course- very important. My least favorite was Zoology. It was just a gen ed- I was a business major, so I had to take a gen-ed science class, and I took Zoology. Every day we were studying animals, watching them, seeing how they live their lives, and I was just so jealous, man. I’m telling you. Dropped it after a couple classes. Like you guys got your share of issues, I’m not discounting that, I’m not tryna make your lives out as easy. I know, I get it. Out in the wild, getting killed by polar bears or seals or whatever else. Ice caps are melting, get rid of your home, that’s gotta be not too good. Course you fellas are in this, like five star resort, all safe, unlimited food, not too bad. Five star resort that you can’t leave, wonder if you can even call that five stars, I mean who would rate that five stars, maybe two? For the perks. Is it worse for you guys? Having everything decided for you? No freedom. You can’t leave. You can’t leave! It’s simple, it’s simple, no responsibilities. It’d be nice. No job, no taxes, no worrying, no life, no taking care of kids. No Isabell. (Long beat) No Isabell. What am I doing here? I miss my daughter. I should go home and talk to her. Right? You know, maybe the best thing to be is just a guy. In a tuxedo. Because at least I can pretend. And maybe then I’ll be able to listen to her. Like you guys do. I’ll see you fools later. The three amigos.

(Play ends)

Self Portrait | Colored Pencil Julian Gawel Barden

Ballet | Digital Stella Kostovski GET

Bea Arielle Balde

Delilah Carli

Maxwell Colomb

Catherine Crousore

Juliet Dillenbeck

Lucy Dillenbeck

Lara Ersahin

Daniella Feig

Alexandra Hennessy

Kiley McGuire

Sabrina Nelson

Emily Ochab

Andrew Shepard

Suzanne Avakian

Bea Arielle Balde

Joanna Barcelona

Natasha Bertovic

Aileen Cahill

Delilah Carli

Maeve Charlton

Maxwell Colomb

Catherine Crousore

Daniella Feig

Lucie Grefenstette

Alexis Kerrigan

Molly Kudlacz

Arete Lindo

Joaquin Magpayo

Miley McCullum

Kiley McGuire

Emily Ochab

Andrew Shepard

Daniela Tarbajovsky

Helena Vadbunker

Special Thanks to...

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

The dedicated and talented student writers and artists of LT for creating outstanding pieces. Your incredible work is what makes this magazine possible.

Mrs. Rohlicek for always being there for us. You care so deeply for the staff, whether it be providing advice, stacks of printed-out spreads, or a giant cup of hot tea.

Mr. Maffey for your technical knowledge and guidance. Whether it be wrangling InDesign or getting your hands on limited-edition Space Dunk Oreos, the magazine wouldn’t have been as cringely-cool without you.

Mrs. Kulat for knocking your first Menagerie edition out of the park! Thank you for your flexibility and enthusiasm during poetry and editorial meetings.

Annie Price for being the G.O.A.T. (Greatest Of All Time)!

Ashlin Kwong for being legendary and the B.O.A.T. (Bestest Of All Time)!

Mckinley Huffman for being the Queen of Poetry! There’s nobody more deserving of your title—for the past three years, you’ve curated the best of poetry while leading the warmest, most inviting meetings.

Sophia Jiotis for leading prose meetings with the utmost passion and care. We’ll miss your beautiful slideshows and opera music dearly.

Teagan Arndt for your talent and wit. Your expertise in all things art has been invaluable— we can always count on you to fix up a spread or bust a sick move.

Marilyn Fagan for your dedication and grace. You’re always such a calming presence during our hectic meetings.

Deanna Nikolic for making us look fabulous! Whether on Instagram or InDesign, you’ve absolutely killed it with the aesthetics while being the sweetest person ever.

Catherine Crousore for always helping out. We’re so extremely grateful for the kindness, dedication, selflessness, and talent you’ve demonstrated during art staff and beyond.

Literary Staff for the hours spent reading, reviewing, and curating writing pieces. Because of your care and dedication we’re able to proudly present the best literature LT has to offer.

Art Staff for your diligence, creativity, and open-mindedness. As an exceptionally young art staff, the growth and commitment we witnessed was inspiring. Thank you for turning our vision into an exceptional magazine.

Art teachers Patrick Page, Lorena Lagis, and Jamie Rey, creative writing club sponsor Chapman, creative writing teacher Nicole Lombardi, playwriting teacher and all teachers who encouraged your students to submit work to our publication!