Lyons Township High School - Menagerie 2019-2020 - Volume 46: Spice Rack

SPICE RACK MENAGERIE

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! Lit staff will start in January of 2021, so visit www.lths.net/menagerie and follow @ltmenagerie on instagram for starting dates.

Become an editor!

Editorial applications for the 2020-2021 edition can be found at www.lths.net/menagerie and are due in the fall of 2020.

COLOPHON

Menagerie is the annual student-run literary and art magazine of Lyons Township High School, home to about 4,000 students and 400 faculty and staff. It is a juried magazine whose participants work beyond regular school hours. All students are encouraged to submit poems, prose and art by mid-January. In February, the poetry and prose staffs meet after school to read, discuss, and evaluate the pieces based on quality of writing, style, originality, emotional accessibility, and subject matter. From the literary staff’s short lists, the literary editors and advisors make the final selections and edit those pieces for grammatical and technical errors. In the following month, the art staff meets several days per week to integrate artwork with similarly themed literary pieces. Other exceptional art is selected for individual layouts. The art staff collaboratively creates digital layouts that accompany the magazine’s theme. Finally, in mid-April, the editorial staff makes the final edits on the spreads before the finished product is sent to the printer. Distribution of the magazine occurs during mid to late May.

Cover: 100# Dull cover printed 4/4

Design: Adobe Creative Cloud 2020 software to edit and create layouts on a variety of personal computers

Finance and Operation: The production of this magazine is funded through a publication fee that every student pays upon registration.

Publishing: Alphagraphics of Lagrange prints 4,500 copies of the 80 page magazine

Paperstock: Body 100# dull text printed 4/4

Photography: All photography featured in this magazine is student photography

Typography: Source code pro, dubai, century gothic regular

C O N T

POETRY

Good Mourning, Melanie Ocampo, 6

Morning Static, Aidan Hohman, 10

Buster Le Bleu, Charles Busker, 16

America’s Heartland, Julia Fischer, 18

The American Way, Mason Burns, 27

Moon Dreams, Ethan Lesner, 28

Defrogged, Jordan Cole, 29

Light Through the Window, Dylan Brunelle, 31

Fleeting Light, Leah Paliakas, 32

Bigfoot, Faith Wyant, 36

My Parents Bed, Lily Dolliff, 39

Why Can’t Girls Get Into Bar Fights, Allison Keeley, 47

Wonder, Elizabeth Huml, 49

Apex Predator, Sophia Tarasuk, 52

Hurricane, Orla Ryan, 56

By Fire I Slept, Jackson Gantt, 57

A Lesson In Sewing, Jessica Quintero, 58

Two Maidens, Jessica Quintero, 66

Lanterns Leapt, Natalie O’Brien, 68

Macaroni and Cheese, Melanie Ocampo, 70

Death in The Desert, Reagan Radwanski, 72

In a Flash, Melanie Ocampo, 74

Day Zero, Jessica Quintero, 76

Abundance, Katharine O’ Gallagher, 79

PROSE

Coming of Age, Olivia Janik, 12

Wanderer’s Inn, Maya Djurisic, 20

Valley, Erin McVady, 22

Koge Street, Maya Djurisic, 30

Cry, Charlotte Wisthuff, 38

The Kitchen, Jessica Quintero, 40

What is Time?, Jaden Fellers-Lamb, 42

Petrichor, Grace McGann, 50

All Consuming Guilt, Caroline Murray, 60

An Inquiry Into The Universe, Jessica Quintero, 63

Miami Dream (1989), Aidan Hill 75

Cruisin’ , Kendrick Hobbs, 78

SONGS

Lilac, Jackson Gantt, 8

Rock Garden, Allison Keeley, 34

PHOTO

Pink, Abby Shanley, 5

Leviticus, Sadie Madden, 7

Revelation, Bethany Carey, 18

Long Days, Grace McGann, 19

Fresh Air, Ethan Barrett, 21

Bystander, Madeleine Christensen, 23

Boy, Ella Rakvin, 37

Hesitate, Paige Haworth, 38

Coastal, Conor Cahill, 40

Flourish, Anna Pritz, 43

Old Jazz, Grace McGann, 57

Golden, Avarie Bernstein, 67

The Underground, Grace McGann, 68

Real Jardin Botanico, Erin McGovern, 71

Phosphene, Grace McGann, 79

3D ART

Blue, Lydia Vulich, 14

Sasquatch, Connor Reblin, 20

Skeleton, Emma Rout, 23

A Soft Starry Night, Aimee Rounds, 30

Dutch, Beth Lemerand, 32

Self Portrait, Beth Lemerand, 33

Flourish, Anna Pritz, 43

Comfortable, Lauren Tramontana, 55

Bug Ring, Julia Donahue, 56

Sunset Coral, Lily Mattern, 60

Wave, Zoe Buckendahl, 70

Little Earth, Sabrina Kaiser, 71

Strange, Sam Tosch, 79

E N T S

2D ART

Cat, Ryan Green, 4

Error, Eloise Driscoll, 5

Eli, Sabrina, and Evan, Ryan Green, 6

Choir Triptych, Beth Lemerand, 7

Attention in Abundance, Flynn Rachford, 8

Devolve, Caroline Calvano, 9

Happy Sadness Love and Anger, Lizzie Labuda, 9

Silence, Angela Mitevska, 10

Get Zapped, Ella Rakvin, 11

SHE’S SUPERSONIC! SHE’S SEEING STARS!, Mila Matejcek, 11

Rocketboy, Avarie Bernstein, 13

Resignation, Kalina Jasiak, 14

Rita, Ryan Green, 14

Michael, Alena Dolgner, 15

Monster Girl, Eloise Driscoll, 17

Rory and his friend, Eleanor Keelan, 22

Badminton, Ryan Green, 24

Lizzy Ann, Beth Lemerand, 25

Evan, Eleanor Keelan, 25

Fandango and the Fiery Freaks, Ella Rakvin, 26

BOO-YAH! The Party Clown, Mila Matejeck, 26

Intermission, Alena Dolgner, 27

Celestial Body, Alena Dolgner, 27

Squid, Avarie Bernstein, 28

Empty Your Pockets, Eleanor Keelan, 28

Take a Bite, Bethany Carey, 29

Still Life, Ryan Green, 29

Fashion, Alena Dolgner, 31

Reason and Passion, Angela Mitevska, 31

Hot Air Balloons, Daisy Rogel, 32

Care, Madelyn Weiland, 34

Scissors, Madelyn Weiland, 35

(Un)masked, Angela Mitevska, 35

Handscape, Katie Farley, 37

Alena, Alena Dolgner, 37

Self Portrait, Caroline Calvano, 39

Enthusiastic, Lizzie Labuda 42

Come Together, Estrella Mendoza, 44

Augury, Jordan Cole, 44

Butterfly Silhouette, Graciela Garcia, 45

Spooky, Mila Matejcek, 45

Evil Eye, Graciela Garcia, 46

Bubblegum, Madelyn Weiland, 47

Mind Readers, Beth Lemerand, 47

We Need To Talk About Your Future, Daniel Jelinek, 48

God…, Madelyn Weiland, 51

The Snails Fight Back, Madelyn Weiland, 51

Izzy, Lizzie Labuda, 52

The Golden Gates, Ameera Mirza, 53

Procreate, Estrella Mendoza, 53

Kiwi, Keely Marolt, 54

Warm and Cold, Keely Marolt, 54

Norms, Kalina Jasiak, 54

Munchkin, Aimee Rounds, 57

Kalina, Angela Mitevska, 59

Could Have Known, Anais Leon Cordero, 61

Tear Me Up, Angela Mitevska, 61

Agony, Caroline Calvano, 62

David’s Cool Guy Face, Eleanor Keelan, 64

Carmelita, Beth Lemerand, 64

My Sister’s Monsters, Estrella Mendoza, 65

Fleur, Madeleine Christensen, 66

Dog, Grace Burden, 66

It’s 10 pm. Do You Know where you kids are?, Daniel Jelinek, 68

Moon Glow, Delaney Sullivan, 69

Inferno, Angela Mitevska, 69

Quite A Pickle, Eleanor Keelan, 73

I worked my ass off for no reason, Daniel Jelinek, 74

Self Portrait, Caroline Calvano, 75

Avocado, Zoe Buckendahl, 77

EDITORS’ NOTE

This year’s magazine can be encapsulated by a simple kitchen essential-- a spice rack. Much like a spice rack, the 45th edition of Menagerie houses fun, funky, and unique works in an organized way. The spice of LT, the artistic work of students, is set in clean, sharp layouts that allow it to shine. As you peruse the magazine, notice that while the patterns on pages and even the works themselves may seem wild, everything has its place. It’s an organized chaos-- a chaos of bright colors, beautiful student work, and funky patterns made by our own art staff. We’ve even spiced things up a little more this year with our “blurbs” from artists and writers explaining the significance of their work. It’s one thing to appreciate a piece, but now you can see what inspired their artistic process.

Unique and exciting poetry and prose is showcased with intriguing works of art; together they make powerful combinations. From finding courage in “Valley” (22) to being inspired by place and memory in “The Kitchen” (40), to imagining other perspectives and points of view in “Bigfoot” (36) and celebrating new form in “Buster Le Bleu” and “America’s Heartland” (18), the works offer opportunity to relate. Look at the vivid imagery and emotion in “Miami Dream” (75), “Good Mourning “(6) and “Day Zero”(76). For even more variety, listen to songs “Lilac” and “Rock Garden” (34), from two students, who share their emotions through lyrics.

Our artists too, give a great flavor to our magazine. Through a variety of media, like, watercolor, ceramics, painting, photography, and digital art, our artists inspire, and provoke thought through their works. Take a look at SHES SUPERSONIC! SHE’S SEEING STARS (11) and Badminton (24) to see how artists play with wild colors and backgrounds. Enjoy the whimsey of Rocketboy (13) and My Sister’s Monsters (65) as LT’s digital artists add variety and playfulness to the magazine. As you take in A Soft and Sweet Starry Night (30), Wave (70), and Helmet (74), notice ordinary objects can be spiced up and become beautiful art pieces.

We see the spice rack as a metaphor for our magazine; while it has changed over time to suit the fashion, vertical, horizontal, circular, steel, bamboo, minimal, ornate, its purpose remains the same: to house the spices that contribute to the perfect dish. In our case, our writers and artists have contributed to the perfect dish, the perfect magazine.

To further the metaphor, this magazine was put together during an unconventional time for LT and for the world at large. When we started our issue we were all together, creating patterns, making selections and designs. We never would have imagined that by the end of our production, we would be creating, selecting, communicating, alone, contained, from our own spaces, at home. It made us think about “spices” and “containers” and what we all bring in a new way.

We hope that this magazine bursting with student talent can serve as a reminder that creativity and imagination are what keep us going and what hold us together as a school community. We are pleased to present the 45th edition of Menagerie: Spice Rack.

ELEANOR KEELAN & JULIETTE LOPEZ

EDITORS-IN-CHIEF

Cat | Ryan Green | Marker (left)

Pink | Abby Shanley | Photo (top) Error | Eloise Driscoll | Digital (right)

GOOD MOURNING

Melanie Ocampo

My brothers and I would visit my grandparents on early spring mornings when the last drops of snow melted around their lawn, and daisies bloomed in the empty lots over a meadow tangled with pinks and yellows and purples. We would tumble and lounge in the air with a new sun on our backs and crabgrass in our hair. It was sometimes too easy to forget.

The sun would, eventually, sink below the trees (our eyes had not yet adjusted to see that far). I’d sit next to mama, quiet as a haunting chill set in, though it might always have been just the cool air that fell around us. And when the speckles of flowers dampened with an evening hue I feared that the colors might disappear, so bouquets were plucked and arranged into pant pockets and cheap plastic even if I knew they wouldn’t last.

A cobalt sky would settle in, and we‘d pile back into the car, words still unsaid. I would whisper goodbyes to anyone listening. Of course, only few could tell. Then we exit the cemetery, rolling over bundles of field flowers left lying on the road.

Evan, Eli, and Sabrina | Ryan Green | Marker (left)

Leviticus | Sadie Madden | Photography (top right)

Choir Triptych | Beth Lemerand | Linocut (bottom right)

ARTIST’S BLURB

“This piece is of three of my best friends - they had no idea I was making this unit it was done. Sorry guys, Mr. Page made me do it.” -Beth Lemerand on Choir Triptych

LILAC

Violet love

Makes a garden so much prettier

Sunlight

Makes the garden wanna come alive

Oh the garden grows you know it does it looks better feels better

Yeah Lilac sprucing up the  brown and green you and me

Oh Lilac find me somewhere we can be peacefully

Lilac you make me happy easily

Sunrise

Painting pictures in the lonely dirt

Warm rays

Kiss the earth with blankets gently here

Oh the wind and rain

Can’t contain the sunlight’s loving view

Yeah Lilac sprucing up the  brown and green you and me

Oh Lilac find me somewhere we can be peacefully

Lilac you make me happy easily

I can see her wind blown mane on an October day

Shoving sorry stalks aside for a better view

Sun kissed apples lay in wonder as she takes her place

At the center of a portrait that she blows away

LISTEN TO THE FULL SONG HERE

Attention in Abundance | Flynn Rachford | Acrylic (bottom left)

Devolve | Caroline Calvano | Silkscreen (top right)

Happy Sadness Love and Anger | Lizzie Labuda | Drypoint (bottom right)

Jackson Gantt | An Original Song

MORNING STATIC

I am motionless

Blind in a colorless void

Wrapped in white fog I am still

Ants crawl under the thin veil of my skin

Clasping the marrow of my reality, I am numb

Six legged spiders crawl and scurry through my skull

Covering the black and white rainbow of a dream

Five legged spiders scrape and twist into my spine

Unwinding fears of a warm dark scene

Phantom splinters roll over my toes and fingers hovering on tips of hair

Iced feathers sway through me melting my senses

Cold glass fangs stretch and pull decayed skin

Jagged static hands scratch the back of my glazed eyes

Static snakes slide down my bones molding to broken tension

Static motionless runs over me

Eyeless in an endless static void

Consumed in blurry static mist

I am awake covered in spiders and splinters

Floating on brilliant static

Breathing in motion

Envisioning the color of purpose

Wrapped in nine clouds soaring to reality

ARTIST’S BLURB

“I had a concussion last year that gave me a lot of migraines and brain fog. And also I’m just a very spacey person, so I was just frustrated with having a hard time concentrating. It was sort of a vent piece. I like to use different things to employ the emotion that is part of the art, so the background has googley eyes to represent thought. The color palette is neon to represent the intensity of the feelings and kinda feeling like you are melting.”- Mila Matejcek on SHE’S SUPERSONIC! SHE’S SEEING STARS!

Silence | Angela Mitevska | Oil pastel (left)

Get Zapped | Ella Rakvin | Watercolor and digital (top right)

SHE’S SUPERSONIC! SHE’S SEEING STARS! | Mila Matejcek | Marker and watercolor (bottom right)

Aidan Hohman

COMING OF AGE

Olivia Janik

Nameshavebeenchangedtoprovide privacy.

There were knots in my stomach as I walked into Mrs. Topazian’s English class. In the dim, gray basement of Cossitt Elementary School, Mrs. Topazian’s room, full of East Asian artifacts and posters with sarcastic comments like “In this place in 1784, nothing happened,’’ was a haven for us. Us, as in the sixteen twelve-year-olds who were kicked out of our regular classrooms for 90 minutes each day because our brains moved too fast for Percy Jackson. We thought very highly of ourselves, we were the best, the brightest, most likely the smartest kids in school. In reality, we were nothing more than bored preteens with good memories.

Valentine’s Day was always special to me, as a child I was what one might call a hopeless romantic. Each year I had a different fantasy about how someone would dramatically declare their feelings for me. I had yet to learn that most elementary school boys were not thinking of romance. But this year, Valentine’s Day went in a completely different direction. Because February 14, 2014, was the day I hit Jack Smith on the head with a book.

Just one hour before the incident, I walked into room 16 and my eyes went straight to my desk: it was empty. There was no box of chocolates, no giant stuffed dog, not even a card. My stomach dropped. Once again I had been let down by my exceedingly high expectations. Some kids dated in sixth grade, why couldn’t I be one of them? Well, to put it simply, I was incredibly shy. When I was twelve, I hid books under my desk, I let my more outspoken friends speak up for me and I most certainly did not talk to the boy that I was crushing on.

After my naive heart was crushed, English seemed to proceed as usual. My best friend’s voice rang out above everyone else’s. She had been dubbed “the feisty one” earlier that

year when she threatened to punch someone in the face. We sat in the back of the room, bouncing with anticipation, all eager to finish learning and get on with the fun we had planned. Every so often my eyes stole away from the projector and landed on the pan of brownies in the front of the room.

I loved chocolate. No, I was enamored with chocolate, it was an unhealthy obsession. When I turned ten, I had a chocolate themed birthday party. My dream vacation at the time was Hershey Pennsylvania. Mrs. Topazian’s homemade brownies were a chocolate fanatic’s dream come true.

Finally, after what felt like hours, it was time for the fun part of class. All 16 of us crowded around the plate of chocolate perfection, waiting for Mrs. Topazian to cut into her famous brownies. Suddenly, Jack seized the pan and raced to the back of the room. My mind was clouded with emotions: the disappointment of yet another Valentine’s Day, the rage of losing the chocolate, the exhaustion of constantly holding myself back. In that moment I snapped. I moved to the back of the room, picked up a hardcover book, and marched to the corner where he was hiding. Smack.

I hit Jack on the back of the head. He groaned out “ow”, and my face went red. I was brought back down to reality. I had just physically attacked another student, in the presence of a teacher. The 14 bystanders burst out laughing and Mrs. Topazian mumbled something that sounded a lot like: “he deserved it.”

I wasn’t in trouble, at least for now. It wasn’t just the teacher that I had to worry about, it was my parents that would be the real problem. My hope was that I could find a way to hide it from them, but that would be impossible. Two of the witnesses, also known as my best friends, would be coming over to my house after school to hang out, and there was no way that I could convince them to keep their mouths shut.

By the time we reached our homeroom, my best friend was already exaggerating. I didn’t

hit Jack Smith with just any book, I hit him with a copy of “Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix.” A year later, the story was that I attacked him with a math textbook. I had been betrayed, my most embarrassing moment was shared with new faces, I was judged by one moment of fury rather than years of tranquility. It felt like I had no one in my corner. But I knew one thing for sure, I could not go back to being the shy girl I used to be.

My mother was livid. I would have been too if I heard that my child gave another kid a concussion and put him in the hospital (he was fine, but my friends were having too much fun fabricating a much more violent story).

My one moment of rage resulted in a four year feud with Jack Smith and whatever friends of his that decided to join in. We were downright vicious towards each other, not a day passed without us ripping at each other’s throats. The rivalry came to a climax our sophomore year when we were exiled to different corners of the Algebra classroom. I haven’t talked to him since.

February 14, 2014, was the inciting incident for my coming of age story, with Jack Smith starring as the antagonist. However, I can’t help but wonder, am I the antagonist of his story?

Looking back, I understand that I had just as much to do with our animosity as he did. I egged him on, I fought back, I said as many harmful things as he did. It was cathartic to recount this experience, I was able to better understand how hitting someone with a book changed me as a person. I started acting on my impulses more (though they were mostly less aggressive), I gained a backbone, I learned to stand up for myself. For better or for worse, I changed on that Winter day. The only thing I’m asking myself right now is: did this instant impact Jack Smith as much as it did me?

AUTHOR’S BLURB

“Coming of Age was inspired by one of the most impactful moments of my life, even though it didn’t seem that way at the time. Writing this piece helped me understand how a single moment can shape you into the person you were meant to be, whether you like it or not.”

- Olivia Janik on Coming of Age

Resignation | Kalina Jasiak | Pencil (top left)

Blue | Lydia Vulich | Ceramics (top left)

Rita | Ryan Green | Marker (bottom left)

Michael | Alena Dolgner | Linocut (right)

BUSTER LE BLEU

Charles Busker

Buster Le Bleu sits calm in the drawer

His unsaintly smell leaves the other food soar

His overarching mold spread far like disease, What could be done to put a cork in this cheese?

He watches all the new, freshly bought foods, Pay to satisfy the upper god’s mood.

They’d sacrifice limbs for that was their job, While Buster didn’t see any sense in this mob.

He’d gone through a lot to reach his state, Why did he have to become a symbol of bait?

A valid argument as it may be, It brought pain and suffering to the rest of the tree.

Because of Busters blatant buffoonery, Newcomers were coming and going so soonery. Down to the pit of darkness they’d go, Not even surviving a day in the load.

After a day of casual harassment, Treating the new with a certain resentment. Making fun of them for their simple packaging, It seemed like another day in the gathering. But then from the heavens the mighty god came, Opening the doors that were meant to contain. He opened his nostrils and took it all in,

And said “What the hell is even in that bin?”

He started to dig, dig he started to do, To find the source of this unfathaming poo. He looked for hours, looked for hours he did, To reveal what was causing this outrageous sin.

He looked through the greens, those had nothing to lose, He looked through the reds and yellows and blues. He looked through the pinks and teals and magentas, His searching caused one giant tormenta.

Buster of course, was hiding in the corner, As he usually did to avoid the scorner. The foods grew tired of his unharmed wellbeing, They vaguely pushed him without the god seeing.

Alas, the god had found the beacon, The aura of Buster began to weaken. As he was thrown away for not paying his debt, He began to feel a great wave of regret.

The rest of the foods celebrated with joy, But soon the truth began to deploy.

Buster is gone and the feeling is pleasant, But the stain left on the fridge was still present.

Monster Girl | Eloise Driscoll | Digital Art (right)

AMERICA’S HEARTLAND

After Shakespeare’s Sonnet 130

Julia Fischer

The Midwest is nothing like Hollywood; Glitter sparkles more than its dull, damp streets: If wealth’s gold, it’s a silver neighborhood; If sunshine be fame, it has no elites.

I have seen people overwhelmed with pride, But no such feeling is found in these homes; And in some states there are coastlines more wide Than next to our lakes, more brown than seafoam.

I love the peace of suburban nighttime

Yet there’s more tranquility on white sand: I grant I never saw a town sans crime, My city’s police blotter is quite grand: And yet the charm and comfort of my home, Gives me reasons to stay and not to roam.

AUTHOR’S BLURB

“I often hear people complaining about the dreariness of our region and vowing to leave as soon as they can. I sometimes feel this way too, but I also believe that the Midwest is a special place. Despite its subzero temperatures and polluted lakes, America’s Heartland will always feel like home to me.”

- Julia Fischer on America’s Heartland

Revelation | Bethany Carey | Photo (left) Long Days | Grace McGann | Photography (right)

WANDERER’S INN

A motel sits off Highway 28 in New Mexico and only ever found by those who wander. It has no address, shows up on no satellite, and its only visitors are the people that find it entirely on accident. The closest thing it has to any sort of identification is a worn, sunbleached sign that swings in still desert air and only barely reads the name of the motel anymore.

The desert is brutal and unforgiving to drifters on its best days. The Wanderers’ Inn makes it less so.

Normally, customers are young adults, floating through the Sonoran to find their place in the world. They stay for a night, maybe two, steal some water bottles and keep moving. Khalia, the woman who runs the Inn, understands their desire to drift, to leave. She knows how it pulls you, heart first, from place to place in search of something you don’t think you’ll ever find. It’s not a feeling she misses, but one she understands. One she recognizes.

Newer drifters tend to stay the longest; up to a week if they’re really green. The more experienced ones usually don’t stay the night. She isn’t sad when they leave, but not happy either. They’ll either find their way or they won’t—she misses the company all the same.

Sometimes, there will be a family that needs a room, usually led by a stubborn driver that got them very, very lost on their way to the Grand Canyon. They stay for a night and go on their way, entirely unaware of the space they stumbled into. Khalia lets them, mostly so she can see the looks on their faces when she tells them there’s no included breakfast, and that the closest restaurant is an hour and a half’s drive in the wrong direction.

(An unwritten rule of drifting is that any food in any place that keeps you a night is included breakfast. But traveling families don’t know that, and she’s so very starved for

entertainment. She thinks back to those families during the endless stretches of time when she wonders if she’ll ever see another person again. It keeps her sane.)

The third type of floater is rare. A once-ageneration type, if the Inn is lucky. Nobody that’s run the motel has ever seen one twice.

(“This is a nice place. Real homey.” They extend a hand over a counter, smile bright. “I’m Fleet, by the way. Well, Florencia, but please never call me that.”)

They’re the ones that, despite their nature to wander and roam—

(Khalia smiled. She heard those words, once, coming from her own tongue when her name was wrong and she was still running from something. Eric told her, a long time ago when she first started, that she would know when her Type Three came. He was right.)

—they’re the ones that stay.

Sasquatch | Connor Reblin | Ceramics (left) Fresh Air | Ethan Barrett | Photography (right)

Maya Djurisic

VALLEY

Erin McVady

Valley. A low area between hills or mountains. A depression, symbolizing a beginning. The beginning of the hike, the beginning of a rafting trip, or the beginning of a journey. In order to get to a mountain, one must cross a valley. I started my journey 11 years ago when I was diagnosed with Epilepsy. Even at the lowest parts of the valley, I have always admired the beauty in nature’s secret path.

One does not ask for or achieve a valley. Unexpected, it crept up on me. Landing me in places I never thought I would be in my life. Every experience has added to the river, flowing and growing in size. I have learned to love the fruit that grows in valleys. Taking a bite of the sweetness to get me through my rough days. When I had my first seizure, I woke up unsure of what happened. My mom was asking was asking me all these questions, but my head felt like fogged up glass. I couldn’t answer any of her questions but, I could hear her calming voice. I wasn’t in control of my body. Somewhere, someone had made a decision. I was now in the valley. My life had just changed. Slowly, I noticed things being pulled out of my life from under me. I lost things that shaped who I was and that I loved, I found myself lost. I was no longer this “normal” girl. It felt like item after item was building up on top of me and I couldn’t finish my journey.

My mom always tells me, “The world is your oyster.” That wide path, turned into a narrow bike lane really fast. However, I

ARTIST’S BLURB

“It’s a drawing of my brother Rory, who’s been featured in Menagerie before. He’s hugging a giant Teddy Bear, named Old Man Beefy, that he won in the Zach and Cody Danimals Sweepstakes in 2009.” — Eleanor Keelan on Rory and His Friend

wasn’t going to let myself be pulled downstream, I decided to swim upstream instead. Sure, sitting back and letting it consume me was easy, but I was not going down without a fight. That’s who I am. Why let it stop me? Why quit and throw the towel in? Why let Epilepsy win? That was never an option for me. I was not just going to be strong for myself and my family, but for the other 65 million people and their families struggling too. It was engraved in me. I was born a fighter. Each time I had a seizure, I would wake up somewhere, blurry eyed and throbbing all the way from my head to my toes. I would look into my mom’s sparkling eyes as she would graze the top of my head with her hand, and gently kiss my forehead. My dad would say something funny to make me laugh and forget it all for just two seconds. But that was enough. My sisters would peek from behind the doorway and I would give them a smile as they came to pile next to me. Their warm embrace, filled me with me with love and happiness. Lastly, Izzy. My white fur ball dog who would lick my face and wipe away the sorrow. Making me feel better without saying a word.

I learned to appreciate everything in life, as one does in a valley. Whether it was the doctors, nurses, or even the custodians cleaning out my room, I would talk to them. I was eager to learn more about why I was here, in this unseen valley. What was the good in it? Traveling through the valley started to lead me to want to go into the medical field to help kids just like others have

helped me. Paying it forward. I engage in every conversation, admiring the little details. I have learned so much about how to grow as a person, even on my worst days. I can say I had to grow up and face reality at such a young age. There was nothing I could do, so I adapted to it.

I would just roll with things. I taught myself how to admire the valley.

At the end of all my days, good or bad, I take it all in. Nature’s secret path. Walking on the green floor with so many vibrant colors. The deep green grass. The aquamarine blue of the river, reflecting the rays of sun onto my face. The sweet crisp dewie smell of the leaves and grass. The beige gravel accompanying the side of the river. The sound of the river as it folds and ripples. The trees, varying in shape and size. The bright green leaves, swaying in the breeze off the river. I look up all the way to their tops. The sun making the leaves dazzle, as my eyes are pulled straight to them.

This is my valley. The most precious gift from mother nature. Not only have I taken so many things away from my journey, but it has shaped who I am today, like it shapes the mountains. There are many words to describe a valley, and many interpretations. But to me, I have learned to love the fruit that grows in the valley.

Rory and His Friend | Eleanor Keelan | Drawing (top left)

Skeleton | Emma Rout | Ceramics (top right)

Bystander | Madeleine Christensen | Photography (bottom right)

ARTIST’S BLURB

“I didn’t know what the background was going to look like until after I had already drawn everything else. Then the thought to make the background the layout of a badminton court seemed like the most logical thing to do” — Ryan Green on Badminton

Badminton | Ryan Green | Drawing and Illustration (left)

Lizzy Ann | Beth Lemerand | Mixed Media (top right) Evan | Eleanor Keelan | Drawing and Illustration (bottom right)

THE AMERICAN WAY

American roots possess a foul kind of playRed on the tops and Red that they pray Young bodies dying the American wayWary truth lying from all the say

We’re all minorities in this country found from fear Its amendments that bind us with an ink that has smeared, Its freedom creating this mass exclusion among kinRed, white and blue- and so it begins.

Playful scenes of a blossoming institution

The emptied eyes and the bloodshed constitution, Visions of arts and crafts so cheer and bless, Than the sudden shot of a gun dust-mess

Here is an ascendant for the families to wail For the politicians to mock, For the victims to set asail, For us to run, For us to lay side by side, Here is a concealed and foul kind of pride.

Fandango of the Fiery Freaks | Ella Rakvin | Mixed media (top left)

BOO-YAH! The Party Clown | Mila Matejcek | Marker and Watercolor (bottom left)

Intermission | Alena Dolgner | Mixed Media (top right)

Celestial Body | Alena Dolgner | Mixed Media (top right)

Mason Burns

MOON DREAMS

Ethan Lesner

I woke up in my old sweats with the cold sweats and some old stress about my old self

I get no rest, do no more, no less,

So I’m just like everybody else

Bags underneath my eyes while I sit under the night sky

I look up high and I wonder why

I have dreams as big as the moon

But I sleep in the next day until noon

One foot up my ass and the other out the door

It seems I’m only criticized for wanting more

A night owl because I only look backwards

Planning for my masters but I’m called a slacker

I wish everything was simple

I want to be proud of my initials

I have dreams as big as the moon

But I sleep in the next day until noon

I’ve seen more fakes than a liquor store cashier

And came a long way from where I was last year

But I still stare blankly at the stars

Wanting to touch one but they’re too far

Dreaming of Saturday morning cartoons

As I sit alone in my dim-lit room

I have dreams as big as the moon

And I hope I get there someday soon

AUTHOR’S BLURB

“My inspiration for the piece was I guess just my feeling at that time in life. I kind of felt nostalgic and just kind of wrote about what was on my mind. I was just really stressed and tried to put that stress into words.” -Ethan Lesner on Moon Dreams

Empty Your Pockets | Eleanor Keelan | Silkscreen (bottom left)

Squid | Avarie Bernstein | Digital (bottom left)

Take a Bite | Bethany Carey | Printmaking (top right)

Still Life | Ryan Green | Colored Pencil (bottom right)

DEFROGGED

Jordan Cole

I was a fly on the wall, watching as you sat across from her in the pizza parlorso she would have to reach to gently pull the green crocheted hat off of your head exposing ears, hair, your eyes.

“You’ve been defrogged” she laughed, but the truth was your tongue still pulled from your lips As you licked the marinara off your fingers; still webbed Under the table where they interlaced hers.

Napkins on laps, you talked and teased She snatched your hat and stretched it over Her earrings, hair, and eyes before turning to face the reflective glass, as Christmas lights glowed outside like little fireflies across the bayou.

AUTHOR’S BLURB

“I was sitting in a pizza place with one of my best friends when her boyfriend pulled off her green crocheted frog hat. She exclaimed “I’ve been de-frogged!” I thought it was interesting—it made me think of old fairy tales. This got me thinking about The Frog and The Prince, and my brain thought of the colloquialism “fly on the wall.” [Third-wheeling] was sort of the underlying theme I played around with: the narrator is a fly on the wall, literally and metaphorically I guess!” - Jordan Cole on Defrogged

KOGE STREET

Maya Djurisic

There’s a street that lives behind an old folk’s home, quiet and untraveled and saturated in time. Her name is Koge, and she’s often forgotten by her neighbors, allowing her to live alone and unobserved. It’s what’s best for her, and for her people.

If one were to watch her, make their way down her winding road, she would seem normal in the dead of night. A few oddities— strange shadows and a lamp that’s been flickering for decades—but overall, normal.

As the sun rose, things would become a little clearer, a little sharper in the dawnlight. Look too close, and someone might notice that skeletons roam the beginning of the street, closest to the world of passing time. Not human skeletons, but not different enough that passerby notice. They dance at night, but pass their days plastered to the sides of homes, disappearing into the two dimensional. It’s only dawn and dusk that one would notice them simply standing, speaking with each other in a language of clacking jaws and snapping joints.

Dawn bleeds to day as one travels down her winding path, old bones dancing away on faded starlight, and you reach the houses. An eclectic group, ranging from masonry to hypermodern, with lights or torches or candle lanterns lit all day long. There’s a large Victorian house full of wandering children sat next to a quiet elderly couple who live in the stone home next door, caring for them in place of lost parents. At the end of the row of homes is a boxy, metal cage whose lights are always on and whose frosted panes sport moving shadows at any hour of the day. Nobody has gone in or out of that home in living memory. And the living memory on Koge Street is very, very long.

Past the housing block, past a second

set of skeletons, is nothing. The street simply stops, dropping off into an endless abyss. Time passes differently here; both too slow and too fast, leaving those that stay too long vulnerable to the gravity where the world drops off as well. This is where everyone ends, everything ends, eventually. Standing on the brink of oblivion, mindless, while all of time circles you, finite and forever.

AUTHOR’S BLURB

“This piece was kind of born out of this desire to create something stuck in its own little bubble of time; where everything is just a little bit off—a little bit different to an outsider. The title Koge Street was actually created using google translate. I plugged in time to the english half, and on the other I scrolled through different languages. I took two arbitrary languages, smashed them together, and Koge was born.” — Maya Djurisic on Koge Street

A Soft And Sweet Starry Night | Aimee Rounds | Mixed Media Painting (left)

Reason & Passion | Angela Mitevska | Drawing and Illustration (bottom right)

Fashion | Alena Dolgner | Mixed Media (top right)

LIGHT THROUGH THE WINDOW

Dylan Brunelle

As light breaks through the window

Clear cut spilling into the room

Spinning gusts of dust like angels

Taking the long road home out of the dark

FLEETING LIGHT

Memories, brightened by laughter shone on our faces, whitening every smile, coloring every face we were one, with sticky bike pedals rising up and down the streets. We were a game that would last (as long as the light would).

But we were foolish with our sunshine. It soon left a golden ray that proved red as it melted over the streets. Every smile wasn’t as bright, each pedal required more push. We sunk over the grounds that once were bright.

And no matter how fast we rode, we could not ride into the sun. We couldn’t save it from disappearing from our view. We knelt, and prayed for a sunset we could keep in a jar.

Yet the golden red rays poured over the streets, until it yielded a black only disrupted by glimmering of cold white stars. The fossils of time that couldn’t provide enough light to see by.

Our smiles faded; our bikes rusted.

We couldn’t pedal through memories carelessly like we once did, and we couldn’t fool an endless sunset.

Hot Air Balloons | Daisy Rogel | Watercolor (top left)

Dutch | Beth Lemerand | Stained glass (bottom left)

Self Portrait | Beth Lemerand | Stained glass (right)

Leah Paliakas

ROCK GARDEN

Allison Keeley

Adalaide was marmalade, But she looks a little thinner. I wonder how she gets away with missing family dinners.

‘Cos she’s got a boyfriend and He’s five years older

They go out for hours

And he says that he loves her.

She’d always say it’s what you pay And never what you ask for.

So came a day that Adalaide ran straight into the downpour.

Now it’s been eleven hours

Since she’s called collect And I let my own body

Go limp in my bed.

Then they found my adalaide under the bridge.

Sing for me

From rock garden

Oh I know who you are

Oh I know where your heart is

Sing for me

From rock garden

Oh I know who you are

Oh I know where your heart is

And since that day, the twelfth of May

I’ve known what I can handle.

I see her there in the kitchen chair

As I blow out twenty candles.

Could you pick me out of a lineup?

Would you know me then if I saw you?

Sing for me

From rock garden

Oh I know who you are

Oh I know where your heart is

Sing for me

From rock garden

Oh I know who you are

Oh I know where your heart is

AUTHOR’S BLURB

“The song “Rock Garden” was inspired by loss and the opioid epidemic in America. I wanted to tell the narrative of addiction though the eyes of a family member losing a loved one.” -Allison Keeley on Rock Garden

Care | Madelyn Weiland | Drawing (bottom left)

Scissors | Madelyn Weiland | Drawing (top right) (Un)masked | Angela Mitevska | Drypoint (bottom right)

BIGFOOT

With apologies to Alfred Lord Tennyson

In the dark dry woods, Bigfoot lies alone.

He minds his own business, eating birds

In his damp, dripping cave he lurks, silently

He waits. Every night. For the humans.

He knows they will come. They always do.

He hears rustling in the bushes outside.

They are here. When he least expects it.

Ready to pounce, he crouches on the damp rocks.

The flickering of the torch gives them away.

These humans could never hide from Bigfoot.

He sees their rough faces, cast in shadow.

Days without shelter have left them rugged.

Searching for years for this single moment.

They will not let their prey escape now.

Rabbit corpses are what they use to lure him out.

They have his attention. Or so they think.

He knows what they are planning to do.

He looks up at the ceiling. The spikes.

He grabs a rock, sure they can’t see.

But they see and they throw their own rocks.

He has no other choice, he throws his.

It hits the sharp spikes on the ceiling.

They wobble for just a moment, then fall.

They swiftly pierce the soft flesh of the men.

And trap Bigfoot for all of eternity.

Forced to live now in what he made his slow demise.

Faith Wyant

Handscape | Katie Farley | Mixed Media (top right)

Alena | Alena Dolgner | Linocut (top right)

Boy | Ella Rakvin | Photography (bottom right)

CRY

“Don’t cry.”

That’s what your grandma tells you when you’re four years old and you scrape your knee at the park. “Don’t cry” is what your dad says to you when you’re learning to ride a bike and you crash into your neighbor’s flower pot. You stare at the dirt and shards of terracotta littering the sidewalk, embarrassed and ashamed. Your mom says “don’t cry” when you drop your snowcone at the beach. You look down helplessly at the rainbow puddle in the sand as sticky liquid drips from your hands.

“Don’t cry. It’s okay.”

As if the pain you feel so clearly is just a figment of your imagination.

Is it okay when your 18 year old cousin is diagnosed with cancer the same day supposed to move into college? When you spend Christmas day in the hospital with him and the rest of your family, trying to keep a smile on your face. It is a holiday, after all. You’re supposed to be cheerful.

What about when you come home from school to find your dad red faced and teary-eyed? He tells you that you have to go to the hospital to say goodbye to your uncle. You’re confused because everything was fine a couple of weeks ago, but now the doctors are saying there’s nothing left that they can do for him? The car ride into the city is silent. You stare out the window, biting your lip. You don’t want your family to see you cry. and wishing that your brother could be here with you. You aren’t allowed in his hospital room because you’re too young. You don’t know whether to feel upset or relieved that you can’t say goodbye.

Weeks later, you are sitting at your aunt and uncle’s church in Indiana for his funeral. People who hardly knew your uncle drove all the way here to be with you and your parents and your brother. As you process out of the sanctuary, they cast you pitying looks. You can’t look up from the ground and see their faces. It will make sting in your eyes a little stronger.

Some days, you forget that this really happened. You only saw your uncle a couple times a year anyways. Maybe he’ll be there next Christmas.

Other days, you are hit hard with grief. The hole in your heart feels extra big. So you lay in your bed and let the sadness come. Hot, salty tears stream down your flushed cheeks. You cry. And cry some more. And it’s okay.

AUTHOR’S BLURB

“This memoir takes a deeper dive into something my aunt told me when my uncle passed away. She wanted to let family and friends know that they should feel freedom to grieve and be sad.”

-Charlotte Wisthuff on Cry

Charlotte Wisthuff

Hesitate | Paige Haworth | Photography (left)

Self Portrait | Caroline Calvano | Pencil (right)

MY PARENTS’ BED

I used to lie in my parents’ bed, while the smell of my mom’s perfume lingered And I tried desperately to picture her face. My only worry then was what time they’d come home, if they’d remember to kiss me goodnight Now they lay awake in that same bed waiting up for me, scared they gave me too much freedom, Scared that this time I won’t come home, that I won’t remember to say goodnight.

Lily Dolliff

Everything centers around the kitchen: the heart of our home. Afternoons of buttered toast and rice, cereal dinners, and late night cake theft staining the table cloth. No amount of washes allows them to fade. Next to the shaky table: the microwave. Unopened mail and take-out menus littered on top, a precarious balance that could go tumbling down at any moment. When we wrench it open, the scent of hot dogs and ramen radiates into our noses, prompting a swift transfer of food into the box to banish the scent once more. The melody of beeps as we punch in the usual minute-thirty-seconds is familiar, as is the subconscious stopping of the timer before it can hit zero. An unspoken race we refuse to lose. Across from the microwave is the coveted cookie jar, bearing a treasure trove of sweet treats ranging from chocolate chip and marshmallow to oatmeal raisin and Oreo. No matter how short the legs or small the hands, it’s a rite of passage to sneak as many as you can at least once. Directly in front of that sits a pitcher, a ring of red Kool-Aid painted three quarters of the way across. No one uses it anymore, except for us, dumping way too much sugar in our unfortunate attempts at making lemonade to

set up our first business. We have entrepreneurial spirits (at least, that’s what the adults say). Beneath the pitcher is the drawer filled with everything in the world: cutlery, lighters, bandaids, crayons, playing cards—you name it, it’s sure to be there. It overflows and is hard to close, our little fingers jamming more than once in our efforts to slam it shut.

To the right of the drawer, the fridge that refuses to dispense ice stands, all sorts of memorabilia stuck to its frame. Bottle openers and family pictures, report cards, and school IDs from second grade, all stuck on top of each other, only a tiny magnet holding each bunch together. While the fridge has its glory, the freezer is where all the real good stuff is hidden. Frozen grapes and guava, ice cream sandwiches and pizza rolls cloaked beneath the layers of cool. On rare occasions we will find a gallon of rainbow sherbet in its icy depths; it’s guaranteed that the group of us will finish it in two days or less. Crossing the orange-red tiles which are more scratches than pattern, we meet the stove. A pot or pan taking up constant residence on the front left burner, chicken or pozole or something equally as delicious still warm in its spot. The scorch mark from indoor s’mores refuses to be scrubbed away. The oven underneath holds a

Jessica Quintero

collection of tupperware and cupcake tins— boxed cake mix becomes gourmet in the beat up trays. Connecting the stove to the counter is the sink: a flow of dishes that never ends. Almost everyone has attempted to clear that threatening stack, yet all have failed and we leave it halfway filled by day’s end. The water from the tap doesn’t taste quite right, but our taste buds have become immune to the slight metallic tang. Of course, there are the customary cabinets filled with canned beans and flour, cups, plates, and bowls in the familiar spots I could navigate even if I were blind. It doesn’t have my name, but the baby blue mug with the chipped rim and thin handle is mine. The light on the ceiling casts yellow all around, just enough to cook by, but not enough to avoid that poor pup in our way as we stumble over her for the millionth time. High voices giggling sorry, Chiquita when she tries to snap back.

Everything comes back to grandma: the soul of our home. She stands in the center, powerful and poised, wooden spoon in hand ready to take aim at her latest meal or the next person to track mud onto her floor. She’s as quick to yell as she is to serve. A hearty helping of pollo con papas is set the minute we walk in, worrying about our weight as much as we worry for her cholesterol. She sits with us at the table.

¿Cómo estás? is quick to welcome us and our unchanging answer of bien gracias, grandma echoes back. She enjoys conversation, though English is not her first language, jumping in where she can and offering anecdotes and advice in her wise, unwavering tone. Her voice is my favorite in the world. Our meal comes to an end, but we stick around to mingle. Every visitor passes through to give their customary greeting, spilling gossip and raving rants as a standin for hello. When we finally leave to play basketball in the backyard, a quick call of ¡ten cuidado! leaves her thin lips as usual. Right as the sun starts to set, we walk back in, sweaty and still shouting about the game. That’s when we meet the business end of her spoon. Yelps and squeals sound out as little kids run for

their lives in an attempt to escape the fury of this five foot woman and her deadly spoon. * * *

It’s been a while since we’ve been in this kitchen, and we need a moment to take it all in: our home away from home that carries the weight of each of our childhoods. It’s smaller than we remember. The table still wobbles and the pile of mail and menus still stands. The cookie jar is cracked, the pitcher stain bright, drawer still stuffed, and fridge overall the same (albeit with more pictures). Whatever is in the pan on the front left burner is no doubt still warm, tupperware still stacked, and dishes piled higher than before. But when we check the cabinets, its contents have been moved. There are new plates and bowls, and we’re missing a few cups. We pass by the dog, who’s learned to avoid reckless feet, and sit down in our respective spots at the table. It’s a classic case of jamais vu, everything the same as we left it, but a little foreign at the same time. Have the chairs always been this short? Grandma walks a bit more slowly now, but her poised nature is the same. When she asks how we’ve been, we fall into routine, and I realize her voice is still my favorite sound in the world. We take this time to listen to her anecdotes more closely than before, our soul speaking loud and clear. We are no longer her babies, we’ve graduated to adults. Gossip and rants will become our customary greetings. Tabletop discussions come to an end when little cousins, nieces, and nephews walk in, Grandma rushing to offer them a fresh plate of arroz con gandules. They are the new sun Grandma revolves around.

AUTHOR’S BLURB

“I find that in prose I definitely tend to lean towards memories, past experiences, and the like. Growing up, Grandma’s house was like a second home to me. Grandma was always there cooking, cleaning, doing Grandma things. It was a universal truth that if there was ever a birthday, baby shower, cookout, it would be at Grandma’s house. Always in the kitchen.” - Jessica Quintero on The Kitchen

WHAT IS TIME?

Jaden Fellers-Lamb

Time is quite possibly the hardest word to pinpoint a feeling on. Time is running through the sprinklers in swimsuits stamped with cherries, late night car trips for ice cream, your first kiss. Time gives you the ability to put a smile on someone’s face, see the sun rise and set, have the perfect peanut butter to jelly ratio. In the race against it you find the love of your life, take 29,443 showers, and walk 216,262,500 beautiful steps on this very earth.

Yet with time you experience your first heartbreak, lay around tightly wrapped in blankets playing all the classic breakup songs. You have your first name calling, first experience with death, break a nail, get a pimple before a big school dance, a cold before vacation. All the best joys in life are given to you because of this word, yet it makes people feel so powerless, hopeless against all the factors large and small that come to leave your day ruined.

To different people this word can be a blessing, or a burden. But I like to think of running into friends you haven’t seen in forever, sleeping in on weekends, the smell of a home cooked meal. I choose to think of getting a parking spot right in front of the grocery store, hearing your favorite song on the radio, finding random money in the jacket you haven’t worn in forever, the first peak of a green number you happened to forget about the year before. Time is this lumpy, nonlinear mess of all the beautiful chaotic experiences in your life.

Time is all the little things in your life, that at some point or another you realize were the biggest. the best. the necessary.

AUTHOR’S BLURB

“Personally I thought it was a cool idea, no one ever asks those bigger questions so I thought why not and expanded on it.” — Jaden Fellers-Lamb on What is Time?

Enthusiastic | Lizzie Labuda | Drypoint (bottom left)

Flourish | Anna Pritz | Photography (right)

Come Together | Estrella Mendoza | Digital (top left)

Augury | Jordan Cole | Digital (bottom left)

Butterfly Silhouette | Graciela Garcia | Digital (top right)

Spooky | Mila Matejcek | Acrylic (bottom right)

WHY CAN’T GIRLS GET INTO BAR FIGHTS?

Allison Keeley

I want my friends to hold me back. Or back me up?

No, hold me back.

Getting close enough to smell their Carmel, whiskey breath, My arms constricted in straightjacket of hairless limbs.

But here we stand, crows on a phone line, thick red lips pursed, When I am called a “knockout” But I can never throw the punch to prove it.

I don’t want to be written off as “catty”, Or “feisty”, As women often are.

I want to stand, at the end of it all, Arms raised, Shaped like the chromosome I lack: The ticket to the fight.

Evil Eye | Graciela Garcia | Paint Tool (left)

Bubblegum | Madelyn Weiland | Markers (top right)

Mind Readers | Beth Lemerand | Silk Screen (bottom right)

WONDER

Elizabeth Huml

“Off with her head!”

- Queen Of Hearts, Alice in Wonderland

Your Majesty, The removal of my head?

Yeah, um, Too late.

Sorry to disappoint, Your Majesty, But it’s already gone. And I’m not sure where it is.

Perhaps

It became unhinged Along the way

And just fell off

Perhaps

It’s with the Hatter and Hare

Or at the Rabbit’s house, Or the field I was in Before I even fell down The rabbit hole.

Funny

To think just a few hours ago I was a child

Sitting in a field

Just dreaming

Anywho,

I know how much you enjoy The severing of heads

But you can’t cut off something That I don’t have.

And indeed I don’t have a head Or a brain Or sanity Anymore.

ARTIST’S BLURB

“This piece was weird. Personally I think the best way to study portraiture is to study yourself INCLUDING all of the imperfections, but I definitely didn’t expect myself to submit this piece anywhere. I never tend to dwell on the past, but I always fear the future. Not that I want to stay in high school forever, but I’m just not a big fan of change. Remind me to tape up my fingers later: I can’t stop chewing on them.” —

Daniel Jelinek on We Need to Talk About Your Future

PETRICHOR

Grace McGann

Close your eyes. Picture a quiet night in your room. There’s a soft drone of rain falling against the roof and a faint pattering against your window in the dead of night. A slight crack of thunder in the distance and a gentle flash of light through your blinds. I think rain at night is one of the most peaceful things the Earth can give us. It’s a soothing lullaby, guiding you into a slow trance, eventually leading you into sleep. It’s a loved one holding you close and caressing your arm gently as a subtle sign of showing they care about you. It’s a time to think about the ups and downs of life, why things are the way they are. It’s hard to picture anything more relaxing for me. Surrounding my life with the smell, sound, and feel of rain has given me a sense of happiness and vulnerability.

A specific moment that comes to mind when thinking about the sound of rain at night was a time in 3rd grade. It was after I had seen “Singin’ in the Rain” for the first time with my mom, dad, and sister. My parents were trying to get me and my little sibling into classic musicals they watched when they were kids. This one had been my favorite. There was just something about watching Kathy Seldon on screen that mesmerized me every time. Watching Lina and Don go back and forth was also a valid reason to watch the movie in and of itself. I found myself giggling every time Lina threw out an insult or dramatically emphasized their “love” only for Don to reply with a synonym for why he hated her so much. At the time, it was around late spring, almost summer, and the sun had just reached the line where sky meets Earth. Although, you wouldn’t be able to tell with all the gray rain clouds and their collective cluster of bubble-like appearance blocking out the view of the sky. As the world darkened, I gathered the things necessary for going outside in the rain, modeled after the famous scene I had just experienced. Boots, umbrella, jacket, and I was out the back

door. The maroon colored rain boots splashed in the puddles as I made my way across the yard. Not a thought in the world could have stopped me from enjoying that moment the way I did. Not the grade school drama, the unpracticed piano, or even the notion of having something important to do. If I had known to spend more time embracing moments like these, I would’ve spent the entirety of third grade enjoying the water droplets falling from the sky. Because eventually the time comes when you don’t have any more time. Your life is too full with the swing of activities, time fillers, and important things required from you. The necessities come before the small moments of joy. The only time you get is the time transitioning from one important thing to the next.

I had all the time in the world as I swung the umbrella, its puppy smile and dog ears gliding along as I spun in place. I let the rain cascade down my hair and face, loving the feel of the soft water droplets as they showered me with their sweet scent of petrichor. I sang out like they did in the movie, trying to remake the scene with the one line that counted: “I’m singing in the rain, just singing in the rain! What a glorious feeling, I’m happy again.” Between every outburst of song came a muttered gibberish of words, piecing together anything that sounded remotely right. As anyone does when they don’t know the words to a song, I hummed the tune with the umbrella above my head. When the main chorus arrived, I threw the umbrella away from my face and made circles in the mud, the giddish sound of my own laughter filling my ears. This truly did make me happy again, and I think this is where my love of rain blossomed. Rain has always brought me a sense of security, softness and easiness. A feeling almost like a mother holding you close and telling you it’s ok to sleep now. You can rest without worries. Her soft hum guides you away from the troubles and leads you to a soothing place. You feel reticent on whether you are willing to be vulnerable; inevitably, you recede and allow yourself the comfort of her cool embrace. You can

let go, release the stress and anxiety built up inside. Sometimes I really need that sense of security, especially at night when everything else is quiet. I’m left with my thoughts and nothing but the soft ambient sound of the rain washing over the dry Earth. It’s cleansing. The ground, and my thoughts. Night is a time for reflection and a time where silence and dark reign supreme. It gives me an opportunity to be alone and wonder about things I never have the time to wonder about anymore. A rainy night is the ideal time to ponder the meaning of life, wonder if that boy in my math class likes me back, or picture a memory that brings me into a state of peace and joy. Imagine an adventure where I’m the main character, question why rocks are hard, is water wet, and if frogs have feelings. The time is mine to spend.

As I danced in the rain, all by myself, I watched the sky fade from a slow gray into looming darkness. Breathing in the sweet scent of the petrichor air, I ran past the gate in my backyard and up to the sidewalk on 47th street; I heard the rush of cars fade quickly past, slowing only for the red. The lamp lights hanging above walkways, crossed between trees, slowly awakened as the sun fell into slumber behind the clouds. The acorns beneath my feet crunched as I made an effort to step on each one, making my way through every puddle I passed. I observed every memorized crack or dent on the sidewalk - the chips of cement that never faded and never went away. I lifted the puppy umbrella above my head and spun the handle between my fingers as to make the tiny droplets that had gathered fly out from the end of the flaps. Another jump in a puddle sent a ripple through its small lake, surely taking any ant-sized boats down with the waves. I looked back from where I had walked; it was all the same as it had always been in my eyes. Although things won’t stay the same, they never do. That’s how this works. Our neighbors would repair the sidewalk, people would move out of the neighborhood and onto new frontiers, a house would be torn down and rebuilt. But that smell of petrichor, that hum of rain on the roof, that sweet, still darkness of

the night is something that will never change and I will never stop loving every second of. It’s a reliability in a world filled with unknowns. You don’t know when it’ll come back, but when it does it is something ready with open arms waiting to embrace you again. It’s a glorious feeling in the rain. I know I’m happy again.

God... | Madelyn Weiland | Pen (top right)

The Snails Fight Back | Madelyn Weiland | Pen (bottom right)

APEX PREDATOR

Sophia Tarasuk

A beast looms over pristine prey, Its shadow devouring hopeful spirits. No remorse for cowering creatures, Forced to submit under evil eyes. Claws rip, chew, feast on collapsed limbs, Exposing steamy puddles of defeat.

Taunting, humiliating, controlling, Gaining the title, “Apex Predator”. On top of the pyramid, isolated, Lower classes do not look up to, But rather hide to survive.

If only prey were Strong enough to resist, Big enough to bite back, Loud enough to intimidate, Confident enough to rise up, A revolution could begin.

AUTHOR’S BLURB

“I was inspired to write this poem due to social situations that our world encounters. Whether it’s politics, race, income, or gender, it is hard at first for the underdog to speak their opinions. My poem ponders why this divide exists and who should ultimately have the power.” - Sophia Tarasuk on Apex Predator

Izzy | Lizzie Labuda | Drypoint (left)

The Golden Gates | Ameera Mirza | Linocut (top right)

Procreate | Estrella Mendoza | Digital Art (bottom right)

Kiwi | Keely Marolt | Watercolor (top left)

Warm and Cold | Keely Marolt | Watercolor (top left)

Norms | Kalina Jasiak | Pencil and Marker (bottom left)

Comfortable | Lauren Tramontana | Mixed Media (right)

HURRICANE

Orla Ryan

(Inspired by “Blizzard” by William Carlos Williams)

Water: crashing chaos following waves that flow endlessly forward-the hurricane spins its rage onwards and onwards for hours refusing to abandon its assault. Then the eye! a visible patch of crystalline blue and foamy white-Pummelled houses sigh resting on cracked streets in eerie peacefulness.

Fragile fronds of grass dare to raise their heads. The trees take a breath and there-a spot of reassuring silence. A moment of reflection amidst the swirling mayhem.

Old Jazz | Grace Mcgann | Photography (top right)

Bug Ring | Julia Donahue | Jewelery (left)

Munchkin | Aimee Rounds | Drawing and Illustration (bottom right)

BY FIRE I SLEPT

By fire I slept my brain a whirl

Infernos calm kissing my skin

I dreamt of pixels burning bright

I feared the void which robbed my eyes

The dancing curtains leaped with terror

Assuming cause by herrings red

Cartwheels chaos and bending thoughts

Burned ever darker brighter too

But with a sudden spark of light

My vision snapped like crackling logs

The bowl reversed and water flowed

My rogue fire quenched but light remained

Jackson Gantt

A LESSON IN SEWING

Jessica Quintero

It’s easy: thread the needle, tie the knot.  Your hands have never been steady and your aim is always off,  But I learned quickly enough, so you can too.

Threadtheneedle,tietheknot.

Make sure you flip it inside out— there must be no trace of where string meets cloth. Loose threads are but a temporary problem,  nothing a quick snip can’t fix. Each prick is a sign of effort, your blood a marker of success.

Pushthroughandpullaway.

Repeat this enough and you’ve fixed yourself. I’ve fixed every tear on me,  it’s time to fix the tears on you.

But your hands are unsteady and your patience is not enough— the threads are coming undone and your work has been for naught.

Threadtheneedle,tietheknot.

Pushthroughandpullaway.

No matter how hard you try, your stitches still come out jagged. Everyone can see the hole in you,  it gapes larger than before.

Look what you’ve done, you can’t be trusted with the simplest of tasks.

Threadtheneedle,tietheknot.

Flipitinsideout.

Pushthroughandpullaway.

It’sreallyeasy,justsnipawayallyourmistakes.

Kalina | Angela Mitevska | Drypoint

ALL CONSUMING GUILT

Lawrence Boggs stepped out of his car, and the tires visibly reinflated now free of his weight. With a throaty grunt, he pried apart two candy apple red shopping carts. He made his choice of cart and grasped the steering bar between his ham-like fists. Trudging forward, he entered the grocery store. The cart had a bad wheel. Lawrence frowned and licked the sweat off of his upper lip.

Lawrence watched a woman examine an avocado. She was pretty and looked to be in her late 30s. Lawerence kept looking until he noticed she had double pierced ears. Martha had double pierced ears too. Lawrence realized then that he had been wrong, this woman was in fact ugly. He wet his lips again and left the produce section.

Panting slightly, Lawrence wobbled slowly down the soda aisle towards his destination. The fluorescent purple bottles stared back at him. They knew. Suddenly Lawrence felt like he was going to vomit on the grape soft drinks lined up before him. Luckily, the aisle was deserted aside from him. No one was there to see Lawrence knock the two liter bottles to the cold linoleum floor.

Three tall teenage boys were clustered around the hot chips. At 297 pounds, Lawrence knew he was big but these boys were younger. He wondered if they could beat him in a fight. He wondered if they’d scream. Lawrence stopped to adjust the bad wheel. No. Lawrence promised himself no kids. His knees hurt from walking and he wanted to throw the cart to the ground. That stupid earring woman had ruined his entire day.

God it was sweltering. Lawrence felt like he was inhaling straight fog as he trudged forward. Lawrence thought of Bugsy, Martha’s bulldog with the smashed in snout. Always drooling, always wheezing. Poor little guy could barely breathe. Then he thought of Martha, and realized that technically she couldn’t breathe now either. That was dumb. That was a dumb joke. Lawerence knew he’d made a mistake.

Lawrence shouldn’t try to be funny.

In aisle 13, the urge to vomit had returned. Lawrence could feel eyes on his back, everyone was watching him. Everyone knew. “Where’s Martha?” they would ask. “Do you regret it?” they pry. Bile crept up his throat. Lawrence gagged and dropped the loaf of Wonder Bread he was holding. “How did she taste, Lawrence?”

Good. She had tasted good.

Lawrence left the grocery store pale faced and empty handed.

Could Have Known | Digital | Anais Leon Cordero (top

Tear Me Up | Mixed Media | Angela Mitevska (bottom

Sunset Coral | Ceramics | Lily Mattern (left)

right)

right)

Caroline Murray

AN INQUIRY INTO THE UNIVERSE

Jessica Quintero

I wonder, not for the first time, if you’re talking to a god or a ghost. Whatever the case, neither seems to care; your sanctity falls on impassive ears. You’ve always been devout, a true believer in the great beyond, arms open to the wandering and aimless. I wish I could see it too. Not God or Allah or anyone in particular, just proof of a higher power. We can’t be it. How could the shaping of the world be left to ants? But as you speak soft words to an empty room so ardent and true… It’s admirable—in a tragic hero sort of way. You smile at me as if you know my misunderstanding, and clasp my hand.

“Do you want to say a prayer too?”

I don’t know why I agree, a lie in the face of angels. What do I even say? I think for a moment, fumbling hands not quite sure how to pray. The silence is eerie, the warmth of your devotion a phantom now. I shift as I count down the seconds. Five, four, three, two… I stand up too quickly, stumbling away.

“Thanks for coming, really. I know you’re not used to this sort of stuff, but it means a lot to me.”

An awkward smile and a playful nudge is the only response I can give. We make our way out of the building, the stained glass painting you in shades of brilliant. You miss the final step, and before I can catch you, soft hands meet uneven cement. But pulling away, there’s not a scrape or smear to be seen. A kiss from karma. The universe has said, “I love you.”

I’ve never been one for religion, but in that moment I could see why people put so much faith in gods.

Agony | Caroline Calvano | Colored Pencil (left)

David’s Cool Guy Face | Eleanor Keelan | colored pencil (top left)

Carmelita | Beth Lemerand | Silkscreen (left)

My Sister’s Monsters | Estrella Mendoza | digital (right)

TWO MAIDENS

They call us the lovers of Pompeii, hands entwined and running through streets of cobbled grey

Fearing no reaper or power above we live young and wretched each day Up the mountain we go, dismissing tales of fae To the heavens we hike, we bathe in its brilliant rays

Vesuvius is ours, we’ve conquered and plan to stay to live as we please,                             sleeping with stars ‘til our decay; We’ve defied all odds, but fate is not one to be played

Mother Nature rumbles we stumble and sway Vesuvius is not humble he heeds no word we say

Down to earth we tremble with fear To Gods uncaring we pray and warn the village

We must astray lest Vesuvius consume us all as he may and rose petals meet tulips for the last time

They call us the lovers of Pompeii tears stream hot as we run through streets of cobbled grey

Jessica Quintero

Fleur | Madeline Christensen | linocut (top left)

Dog | Grace Burden | Drypoint ( bottom left) Golden | Avarie Bernstein | Photography (right)

The Underground | Grace Mcgann | Photography (top left)

It’s 10PM. Do You Know Where Your Children Are? | Daniel Jelinek | Mixed Media (bottom left)

ARTIST’S BLURB

“I typically mock up art pieces by starting with a title that I’m really interested in and working off of it. Relistening to the old 80’s slogan: “It’s 10pm. Do you know where your children are?” gave me a large inspiration pool. It stayed on the bulletin-board until finding the subject on an amatuer photographer’s instagram page—@shotbyesmeralda.” — Daniel Jelinek on It’s 10PM. Do You Know Where Your Children Are?.

LANTERNS LEAPT

Natalie O’Brien

In the stretch of time when your grandmother’s grandmother had soft cherry cheeks and ribboned ringlets, the lanterns leapt on cue from their streetlamp cages to the whale-oil dish beside the quilted beds of young children who feared the lurking dark in bedroom corners, and thus slept by light.

Those flames were fragile without their urban smudged glass armor and high-iron roost, for who should nightly approach the wisps of fire, but the fluttering feet of an imp–a fiendish little thing, conniving black dart, born of bad dreams and old soot. Creeping up father’s alabaster, it would scuttle ravenous across nightstands like a moth to a flame, to engorge itself on greedy-drinking light fat with wax. In half a moment blinking, humble resplendence crashed into ash when the candle snuffed, winked out, plunging boudoirs into darkness, and tiny culprit claws holding a still-smoking wick, to pick at waxy drippings between wickedly-grinning daemon-teeth hid behind the armoires, the shadowy spaces where such creatures belong.

Would the old young-eyes still have fluttered shut at sundown, comforted by the knowledge of the bright-burning guardian of their rooms, if they had known what their kiddish fears

were feeding?

That’s what those mothers meant when they said lights-out, to starve away the gluttonous, mischievous little monsters under the bed.

Moon Glow | Delaney Sullivan | Painting (top right) Inferno | Angela Mitevska | Printmaking (bottom right)

MACARONI AND CHEESE

Melanie Ocampo

A family of four gathers ‘round a kitchen table, as the last bit of sunset is swallowed up by the horizon. Stars twinkle with the same gleam in their eyes, as they settle in for a meal, krafted with communion and warmth.

In a different house across town, a pair of sisters rekindle a friendship over bowls of velveeta.

Just like the ones they remember so fondly. Days of ignorance (innocence) and late night slumber parties, far behind them.

As the city meanders outside a lone bachelor sits at his island while an empty apartment squats around him. People in groups and bunches seize the night, he thinks about love in a familiar light, how it’s just sitting down with a cup of golden noodles, garnished with parsley and a quiet night in.

And the deli five floors down is open late a boy and girl eat softly in comfort. Both the boy and his macaroni smile when they hear the girl is pregnant and the boy will be a father.

As for me, I wait in a cafe line many grain fields away for a simple lunch that is more meaningful than I’ll ever know.

Wave | Zoe Buckendahl | Painting (top left)

Little Earth | Sabrina Kaiser | Mixed Media (top right)

Real Jardín Botánico | Erin McGovern

|Photography (bottom right)

DEATH IN THE DESERT

Reagan Radwanski

A horned skull, coated in sand and dust, its lower jaw ajar—settles into the cracked Arizona dirt as the sun shortens its shadow.

Sand dulls its once sharp horns into smooth curves— and filters down the hourglass figure of Sylvia, the gas station attendant.

In the pitch black of one Wednesday morning,  a car backing in can be viewed through the large windows of the 24/7 eaZy mart.

Sylvia bakes in the twilight of LEDs, enduring the rumble of car engines and the welcoming bell.  The brake lights shine in her eyes  with the ferocity of coals, as Henry comes in,  boots caked in the same dirt as the skull,  with dreams of easy cash and a gun.

So he demands the only green within walking distance.

His hand pulls the trigger as quickly as the lighting that strikes the only tree within a mile.  Its branches were reaching for the sky,  as a child reaching for its reproachful mother— who slaps his hands away rather than feed him.

The bark, exploding from the tree, leaves it as naked as the child.  While the tree is fattened with knots and rings,  The young child knows more about injustice than the elderly tree.  But young Henry does not remember why  he felt the hot breath of injustice on his neck.

No, he only remembers the beatings behind the house— Angry beer spat across his face.

The thunder that follows the lightning, gives as much warning to the tree, as the gun’s recoil does to Sylvia. The bullet finds her forehead like her father’s lips; Quick, unexpected and wet. Only this time her mouth does not open in a smile, as her jaw drops as quickly as her body.

Outside, God, for the first time in months, is drowning a ground that no longer thirsts.

IN A FLASH

Melanie Ocampo

I was rummaging around the bathroom  closet, only to stumble upon old  pillowcases that must’ve belonged to the people living here before me.

They smelled like someone I knew.  And in a flash I went back to knapsacks and cat naps on vanilla  leather sofas, whose imprints lingered like  a familiar song.

To air-polluted convoluted cities where star-gazing was counting  the impressions in the alabaster ceiling tiles trying to fall asleep to the rhythm of a snoring love.

And back to picture frames shapes of memories, sweet archeologies  of the soul. They were dug up and hung  like ancient mobiles while you slept away  the sweet dreams.

Almost resembling the smiling visitors  and generations before.

I placed the linens back in the closet and added a couple of my own. To keep someone company, with an odd sentiment.

AUTHOR’S BLURB

“I love journaling in my free time. Though the idea sat in my mind for a while, the first two stanzas are practically verbatim from one of those journal pages. I remember I was writing about my late grandmother, and how little things I owned reminded me of her. I wrote the poem with that feeling in mind: how very mundane moments bring on the most vivid nostalgia. The ending is my personal take on the connection between people. Perhaps not everyone will find comfort in my childhood blanket, but then again, maybe it jogs a pleasant memory in someone else’s mind.” -Melanie Ocampo on In A Flash

MIAMI DREAM (1989)

Aidan Nill

Downwards he continued to drive, not knowing from whence he came nor where he was going, but merely advancing towards a goal off in the distance. Neon lights decorated his vision, from the deep sea green of his dashboard monitors to the yellow of the city to the bright pink of the sky; the bright colors of the late afternoon danced across his brain in a harmonious, gentle tingle.

The station he found himself tuned in on was ambiently silent, a ghost or an echo or a reflection, perhaps the goal he was advancing towards, or perhaps the thing he was driving from. In any case, he continued onwards, his hands wrapped gently around the leather cushioning of the wheel.

The highway exit continued to move downwards, circling in a way that he had long since realized was impossible, when he finally reached a ramp, leading out to a street in the heart of the very city he had pondered eternity so many miles away from.

He held the steering wheel, unwavering of his path as he continued towards the incomprehensible salvation he had sought within. Though he was nowhere near, and though he knew he would never become closer, he felt the gentle warmth of neon and snuggled into his seat, comforted.

He felt a familiar tingle across his scalp as he smiled, turning up the silence on his radio dial as he barreled down the empty road.

The silence on his radio was deafening now, but in his stubbornness he refused to turn it down, finally understanding the emptiness of the glowing, star-like city about him. He looked towards the green signs that stood outward of the horizon, and took a left towards the exit, circling slowly down a corkscrew road.

Self Portrait | Caroline Calvano | Drawing Illustration (right) i worked my ass off for no reason | Daniel Jelinek | Mixed Media

DAY ZERO

Never had I seen  so much blonde hair in one place. It was blinding, too much sun and not enough shade.

I had seen them in TV and movies, the rare few in my school or neighborhood.

But where’s another person like me?

My jokes fell flat  and my shoes didn’t match, I didn’t wear LuluLemon or have much spare cash; they could tell I didn’t belong.

“We can still be the same,” I thought.

But looking at them, and then looking at myself,  I see only differences…

Where’s another person like me?

I had never felt like a minority, had only ever seen faces like mine.

I felt so brown in their sea of bright: alien, foreign, an invading species. It became a game I grew accustomed to losing:  Where’s another person like me?

Hope makes way for desperation, loneliness and isolation. My homesickness grew and I realized why people hate school.

Gone were the hoops, Takis,  and the language of my mom. Bachata, banda, and cumbia  were missing at the dances  and on the bus.

My tias became aunts, carne was just meat, and I wore sandals instead of chanclas.

Where’s another person like me?

I had never worried about labels before, but suddenly it was the only thing that mattered.

I wasn’t quite Mexican anymore, nor was I fully American. I was a hybrid, not enough for anyone.

I just wasn’t one of them— with my colors, I never would be.

There was only pale skin and pale eyes. There was only me.

AUTHOR’S BLURB

“Day Zero is about my freshman year as a Latino kid coming from a majority Latino middle school to LT which is... definitely not Latino. It was a huge culture shock that was pretty alienating. I struggled to find my place in LT, and though I eventually came to accept the new environment, the thing that helped most with my transition was the National Hispanic Institute as it gave me a place where I could stay connected with my roots.”- Jessica Quintero on Day Zero

Avocado | Zoe Buckendahl | Mixed Media

Jessica Quintero

CRUISIN’

Hobbs

The year is 1996: Hip-Hop is on the rise and the memory of the racial tensions caused by the ‘92 riots is simmering through my ‘hood of Inglewood, California, in the Darby Dixon neighborhood known as The Bottoms, along every other hood throughout the country. The story that I am about to tell is no different than the hundreds if not thousands of similar prejudiced interactions inner city black youth throughout America go through every day. But this one was personal.

It was just another day with me and the boys cruisin’ down Crenshaw, in the hot California sun. As we pulled into pump six in my ruby red El Camino at the Mobil gas station that had the cheapest gas around, I put her in park and went inside to pay in cash for the gas. I left Dre, Ren, and Yella in the car because I assumed that I would just be in and out. When I walked in, I didn’t go to the register right away because I wanted to look at the chips and candy. I never walk into a gas station without looking in either aisle. As I was browsing the aisles, I heard the door of the station attendants ring open, along with the angry smacking of his sandals as he approached me, my back turned. His raspy voice spewed:

“Gonna buy anything?”

“I don’t know yet I’m thinking about it. Is there some sort of rush” I calmly said back to him,

“Yea, I don’t like your kind of people in my store for too long” he snarled back.

“Well shoot, I guess I should be going then. Just let me pay for my gas”.

The clerk sighs and brings me back to the register so I can pay. In most cases, I would have gone off on this guy, but it wouldn’t have been worth the argument and the possibility of being banned from yet another store around here. As I walk to the counter at the front of the store I see him ringing up the gas.

“Let me get 10 on 6” I said hoping the situation wouldn’t escalate anymore.

“Ok. That’s $15, 50 cents extra for taking too long to decide,” he said with an evil grin.

“How does that even wor…”

At that very second a hooded tall white guy runs into the store with a glock handgun and fired two warning shots Into the air yelling.

“EMPTY THE REGISTER!”

“Okay”, the cashier says in a shaky voice

He gave him all the money, and he didn’t even acknowledge my presence. As the cashier calls the police he asks if I can stay after as a witness for the police report. I said that was fine and so he and I waited. The police were taking forever so I looked out the window to see if the boys were still in the car. To my surprise, the car wasn’t even there. I had no way to call them or look for them because I had to stay here and help this guy.

Finally the police came, and as soon as they walked in I heard that familiar raspy voice say “It’s him, that’s the thief.” The cashier pointed his crooked white finger at me. Without even asking me if it was true, they yelled, “GET ON THE GROUND NOW!” As they yanked out their police issued Sig Sauer handguns.

There is no arguing with the police when you are a young black male, whether it be over murder or stealing a candy bar. We always have targets on our backs. They read me my Miranda rights, and shoved me into the back of their squad car. The ride to the station was the most quiet car ride that I had ever had, well besides the radio chatter. When we got to the station I was fingerprinted, and my mugshot was taken per usual.

I never got to hire a lawyer, so when my trial came around I was charged with strong arm felony robbery and I was sentenced to 10 years in prison. This is where I am today and it’s the year 2000. I have a chance for parole in two years.

Kendrick

Strange | Sam Tosch | Mixed Media (top right)

Phosphene | Grace McGann | Photography (bottom right)

ABUNDANCE

Katharine O’Gallagher

I like the feeling of eating too much like an ancient king; Pretty young women at each my sides vines with fruit bearing to fill.

Sadness is a thing to drown in: a bottomless pool and I am anointed then smeared with balms and smoothed with quilting. Comforts must be overwhelming.

So hold me tight and tighter still thick comforts, enough to choke on enough to kill

SPECIAL THANKS

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

The talented writers and artists for producing incredible content. This magazine would not be possible without your talent.

Mr. Maffey for getting lit(erary) with us, eating his oranges with the peel on, and for always patiently listening to our crazy ideas before helping us to refine them.

Mrs. Rohlicek for providing much needed snacks when we inevitably forget, and for always staying calm and having faith that we’ll push through the quarantine.

Ms. Gutierrez for asking the important questions that helped us figure out our vision, and for wearing chic patterned clothes that inspired some of our own patterns in the magazine.

Daniel Jelinek for joining the team when things got tough, and for making unique and creative spreads that added life and color into the magazine.

Allison Keeley and Kaitlyn Easterday for getting through over a hundred poems and doing so with enthusiasm and excitement that inspired the whole lit staff.

Isabella Sorice and Jillian Brunner for getting our message out there and helping to round up the amazing staff we had this year.

Charlotte Wisthuff for offering to make 1000 homemade fortune cookies to advertise our magazine, and for bringing a sweet and positive attitude to every lit staff meeting.

Erin McGovern for having vibes that are off the charts, for working hard to keep us organized over quarantine, and for making more pages than anyone thought was humanly possible.

Paige Haworth for always being on board with fun and funky ideas, for bringing positivity and creativity to every meeting, and for #SAVINGMENAGERIE2020 by allowing us to bring the magazine home.

Juliette Lopez for bringing constant enthusiasm and joy to the table always, thinking of spunky and spicy visions that sparked creative ideas. Your laugh and upbeat attitude during school and Houseparty calls always helped make the quiet, hard working group of Menagerants, animated and inspired.

Eleanor Keelan for your constant dedication over the past four years, from designing pages with animal print to pages with your own work, your artistic drive and devotion to the magazine to make sure it was the best it could be. Though it didn’t end ideally, your organized chaos turned into an amazing reality.

Literary staff for your commitment to reading whatever the editors threw at you, from 120 poems to handfuls of songs your collaboration and commitment to choosing the best work was out of this world.

Art staff for your dedication with the short time we had together. Your creativity and sick patterns helped enhance our magazine even through the quarantine. Though we didn’t have as much time as we originally hoped, we hope to see many of you next year so that we can finish our playlist.

ELEANOR KEELAN: EDITOR IN CHIEF

DANIEL JELINEK: LAYOUT EDITOR

JULIETTE LOPEZ: EDITOR IN CHIEF

KAITLYN EASTERDAY: POETRY EDITOR

ISABELLA SORICE: SOCIAL MEDIA EDITOR

ERIN MCGOVERN: ART EDITOR

ALLISON KEELEY: POETRY EDITOR

MARY ROHLICEK: ART ADVISOR

PAIGE HAWORTH: ART EDITOR

CHARLOTTE WISTHUFF: PROSE EDITOR

JOSEPH MAFFEY: PROSE ADVISOR

STAFF

Sameerah Abu Arab

Maya Albores

Ethan Barrett

Nora Blake

Caroline Calvano

Karla De La Cerda

Tess Dillon

Melissa Farias

Catherine Fisher

Grace Flores

Lulu Griffin

Delfina Grozdanoska

Ella Grush

Persephone Herman

Zion Husmann

Kalina Jasiak

Zoey Knipstein

Gwen Konatarevic

Sarah Korpolinski

Monika Krueger

Victoria Lozano

Sophia Lucina

Hannah McGovern

Audrey McNally

Angela Mitevska

Grace Morrissey

Jhenrye Kernyll Nabo

Melanie Ocampo

Ana Ortiz

Julisa Porcayo

Kaitlin Preussner

Anna Pritz

Jessica Quintero

Aamina Qureshi

Ella Rakvin

Duska Richert

Caroline Rice

Grace Roberts

Daisy Rogel

Mariana Rogel

JILLIAN BRUNNER: SOCIAL MEDIA EDITOR

ANGELA GUTIERREZ: POETRY ADVISOR

Orla Ryan

Gabi Sanchez

Sophia Silva