Artifice Magazine (2026)

fi if ic ce ti e rt Ar A

Spring 2026 Spring 2026

McDonogh School McDonogh School

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fi if ic ce ti e rt Ar A Spring 2026

Editors-in-Chief

Editorial Staff

Brianna Mentzer '26 Sophie Winter '26

Hannah Berkowitz '26 Sage Gillespie '29 Vinny Mecca '29 Theo Scherz '27 Preston Williams '26 Lucy Zhang '27

Faculty Advisor Mrs. Whitney Schultz

Cover Art: Dining Table by Eva Schultz '26 acrylic over collage winter contest winner i

letter from the Editors Looking at the diversity and quality of contributions across multiple mediums, we are extraordinarily proud to present this year’s edition of Artifice.

Our magazine contains many personal and emotionally vulnerable pieces, and we are proud to provide a place for our peers to share both their talent and their experiences. It is important to us to highlight the power of art, not simply as an aesthetic medium, but as a way to express experiences and topics that are not easily shared.

As seniors, we look back on our experience at Artifice with gratitude. Serving among the editorial staff of Artifice has provided us the opportunity to appreciate the creative facets of our peers that we do not typically see. This serves as a reminder that art is not restricted to a certain demographic or kind of person which is a message we hope to share with our readers.

Thank you for reading, and we hope you appreciate the works contained in this magazine as much as we do!

Brianna Mentzer '26 & Sophie Winter '26 Editors-in-Chief ii

table of contents Learning to Stand Still by Ryan Palm '27 ............................................. 1 Autumn Field by Noah Vandermeer '28 .............................................. 2 The Splash by Lucy Zhang '27 ..................................................................... 3 fish by Theo Scherz '27 ..................................................................................... 4 Emetephobia by Maggie Marquez '27 .................................................. 5 Brushing Away by Catherine Zanti '26 .................................................. 6 Blue Corn Flower by Jordan Kaminski '29 .......................................... 7 One Word Four Letters by Maxine Koymen '28 .............................. 8 Not By Blood, But By Heart by Leah Randall '27 ............................ 9 Under the Lights by Brianna Mentzer '26 ........................................... 11 I Still See You by Nick Abrams '26 ............................................................. 12 In My Room by Catherine Zanti '26 ......................................................... 13 Stream of Consciousness by Caleb Gray '27 ...................................... 14 The Clay Nation by Dara Oyeleye '26 ...................................................... 15 Kowloon by Lucy Zhang '27 .......................................................................... 16 to the slow walkers in the hallway by Rithika Kasireddy '27 .... 17 Salty Swimmers by Tori Sansur '29 .......................................................... 18 The Eye of the Storm by Meheret Goshu '26 ..................................... 19 Statue of Athena by Allison Lee '29 ......................................................... 22 Mother and Daughter by Allison Lee '29 ............................................. 23 The Rape of Nanjing by Lucy Zhang '27 ............................................... 24 Neither His Nor Hers by Bri Mentzer '26 .............................................. 25 Caged Tongue by Collin Harris '26 ........................................................... 25 O Death? by Aryan Prabhakar '26 ............................................................ 27 the pomegranates by Callum Bullers '26 ............................................ 29 You Left Your Car On by Logan Walsh ’27 ........................................... 31 Winged Faith of the Unadorned by Allison Lee '29 ...................... 33 Ode to Spring by Christopher Yu '27 ...................................................... 34 Comforting Tea Leaves, Spoon 1 & 2 by Lucy Zhang '27 ............ 35

As the literary arts magazine of the McDonogh Upper School, Artifice strives to represent the creativity and diversity of the student body.

Some works contain sensitive topics that may be triggering to some readers.

These works are denoted with a hexagon.

iii

Learning to Stand Still

by Ryan Palm '27

Sometimes it’s hard to see beauty in something you cannot leave So many names, so much history, but all I feel is the grim embrace of a cold morning This place is like an oasis, one I’m not sure I deserve Sit and listen to the birds chirping, watch as the trees dance in the wind, This little slice of the world seems so tranquil Hidden away undisturbed Yet I still find myself diligently counting minutes What a strange feeling My happiness is here I know I belong here, and there's no place I’d rather be But a Sunday night still brings me dread A wife hates her husband A singer hates the spotlight A pilot hates the plane I think dull repetition is what sharpens this disdain It’s not easy to be at ease where you are The urge to climb is something ingrained in all of us But learning to stand still is much harder contentment Maybe it’s a goal Or a choice maybe it’s just a reflection of acceptance Wherever I find it, I’ll hold it tight

1

Autumn Field

oil on canvas by Noah Vandermeer '28 winter contest winner

2

The Splash

digital painting by Lucy Zhang '27

3

fish

by Theo Scherz '27

i. a fish needs to move in order to breathe. if it stops swimming it dies, so evolution will never let it rest until rest is all it can do. in other words, a fish can never stop moving. time is the same. time only exists if it’s passing. less concrete than a fish, if it stops, its entire existence simply ends. time can never stop moving, or it wouldn’t be time anymore. it wouldn’t be anything, could be anything––could even be a dead fish. ii. it’s nighttime. i’m standing on the empty football field, with nothing but grass and mist and the dark silhouettes of trees in the distance. the floodlights are off, keeping the dizzying tide of electricity dammed up in those hollow glass eyes. they are my friends, and they are not alive. neither are the goalposts, but i’ve chosen to ignore those. instead, i tilt my head back, pinching my neck to look at the stars. and there are so many. i have to strain my eyes against the darkness to see them, but they wink down at me, liquid silver spilling across a black velvet dome. one twists free and falls in a reckless burning arc. i race along the field and catch it in my mouth. it’s hot and tastes like caramel. i roll it around behind my teeth before swallowing, the cooling stone at its center catching right behind my sternum and burrowing out of my throat into my chest cavity. it burns but not unpleasantly. it’s not a falling star anymore, or even a star at all. can a star be a star if it’s not hot or gaseous or lighting up its corner of sky? before i can decide which truth is truer, i feel something else coming at me, faster than the star and twice as hot. i open my mouth again and time leaps like a fish down my throat.

4

Emetephobia

by Maggie Marquez '27 spring contest runner-up

Please don’t wait till winter to tell me you love me. When the sun sets past seven again will you remember to tell me then, or will you be so caught up in the warmth of it you won’t need the warmth of my skin?

I once told you Death was my biggest fear. Not Death himself but forgetfulness of Death. And momentarily grieving but all too much leading to forgetfulness. You will cry for it and then forgive yourself for crying. Then days will pass and it will be forgotten. Eventually you will grow up to be a mother who won’t tell her dear child how Death came and swooped up her old friend. And that poor child would not yet understand Death. One who does not yet know it exists could not understand nonexistence. Perhaps you would mention it once or twice but the child would not remember for it is too busy learning to learn itself. And when you go to die yourself your children will remember you and you too will hide with Death and I but I will be so far back and faded and the child’s memory of the one time you had told it Death came to swoop me up will have been fragmented and forgotten and then I will be gone entirely from all memories of this world.

I was laying with you on the couch in your basement when I asked you your greatest fear and you said you were afraid of throwing up. I told you I was afraid of dying and no one caring and everyone forgetting me. You wondered why it mattered if people forgot me when I was dead because I wouldn’t even be there to experience it. I tell you too simply it makes me feel like a nihilist. Perhaps you still don’t understand.

5

Brushing Away

acrylic, glitter, rhinestones on wood by Catherine Zanti '26

6

Blue Corn Flower

hand embroidery by Jordan Kaminski '29

7

One Word Four Letters

by Maxine Koymen '28

Love.

One Word. Four Letters.

Commissioned to describe the most essential part of our humanity, the root of our happiness.

One Word. Four letters.

Thrown around casually, its meaning twisted and molded, yet still revered in its dynamic form.

One Word. Four Letters.

Arguably the only thing which has saved us from ourselves, the most powerful uniting force known to mankind.

All of this, expected to fit into One Word and Four Letters.

Standard, Conventional, Accepted, yet completely impossible.

For how can one word convey the pure buoyancy that comes with laughing: the real, ugly, stomach-aching, eyes-watering kind with no ulterior motive, and not at anyone’s expense, but just for the joy of being with the ones who know you inside and out, for realizing that out of the millions of people in the word, you’re lucky enough to have found your own.

Or how can it express the moment that comes with slipping on an old sweatshirt the fuzz inside perfectly worn in, the edges molded to your every movement, the threads bursting at the seams with memories: the sweat from team warmups at champs senior year, the earthy dirt from spending a little too long gardening in the sun, the slobber from your dog’s sloppy kisses as you cried over freshman year’s heartbreak.

And how can it even attempt to encompass all the times, all the moments Of warmth and light and gratitude.

Of feeling infinitely deeply, Of feeling fully understood, Of feeling lucky to be alive, Just for the ability to experience that One Word, those Four Letters.

Love.

8

Not By Blood, But By Heart

by Leah Randall '27 spring contest winner

“At least it wasn’t your real dad,” they say.

Like the loss affects the blood in my veins, grief written all over my face, the stab in my chest feeling more and more pain.

But maybe when I give them the real story, they’ll see him for more than his name.

For more than the picture frame now resting by my bedside; for more than the daily tears that now rain.

Maybe when I start hiding the heartache, the empty condolences will drift away.

The “heaven needed more angels,” or the “God won’t give more than you can take.”

And maybe they’re right, but what about the grief that constantly causes me to break?

Why didn’t time stop?

Why did the clock keep ticking, but this time more triggering and prominent?

Even after my mom stumbled down the stairs, fumbling for words, chasing her breath, unable to utter the words that would make reality real, why didn’t time stop, just for a second, to let me think?

He may not be mine by bloodbut shouldn't the late night drives, the baking cookies on weekend nights, the sunny summer boat days, shouldn't that be enough to make my heart flood?

Not mine by bloodbut there live two who are.

Two young children who can't even understand what happened to their daddy.

Two who will grow up with questions wide, and no one to answer them, no arms to go to and hide.

Two youthful girls with no backup voice when mom says “no,” and no daddy to cheer them on from the front row.

9

He may only be a stepfather, but that doesn't make the house any less empty; like that feeling when you’re finally rich, but wake up from the dream, left with nothing but a rusted penny.

He may only be a stepfather, but do those 13 years not count?

Through every up and down, he was always there to his full amount.

Now I’m left sitting by your grave, running my fingers along the smooth letters that make up your name.

The same name I miss shouting out after a long day at school.

I now place red, white, and blue flowers next to your tombstone.

Sitting, thinking.

As my tears soak into the rocky, bare, dirt, wishing I had responded to the texts and voicemails you left on my phone.

I now wear your sweatshirts to school, your t-shirts to bed, scared to lose any more of you, and with every step I take forward, I now dread.

You can’t predict grief’s next target, when the overwhelming sense of sadness will cloud your mind.

So be ready to fight the dark, or simply just say “I love you” one more time.

10

Under the Lights

photography by Brianna Mentzer '26

11

I Still See You

by Nick Abrams '26

I still see you, Pop Pop, Standing in the backyard Under the porch lights, a whisper The football spins perfectly through the air It majestically moves every time it leaves your hand Your laugh bouncing off the trees Louder than any crowd I've played in front of You told me to keep my head up Hands ready, heart steady, As if you knew I'd need those words forever Sundays were sacred Almost like Religion Ravens flying across the TV screen Purple helmets flashing Your proud smile shining beside me You’d yell at the refs, at the coaches, and at the players.

I'd say your words too Believing we could change the outcome of the game The Lakers were a staple during the night Purple and Gold glowing in our eyes You’d fall asleep at halftime Snoring so loud I couldn't hear the TV But I didnt care, as long as you were there When you left, the air went still The house forgot how to be alive Your chair stayed exactly where you left it Like it was waiting for you to come back home The footballs gathered dust in the basement Just waiting and waiting and waiting for someone to come out and play Now I'm older, cleats are dirty.

Georgia stitched across my jersey.

Before every game I look at the sky And I swear I hear you say That’s my boy.

And I whisper back, I love you, Pop Pop.

12

In My Room

acrylic and glitter on wood by Catherine Zanti '26

13

Stream of Consciousness

by Caleb Gray '27

Lying supine under the high yellow light, A sense of water beyond the rock path With roses growing on both sides.

I could sense the river trembling.

The water ran louder and loudersilence Sharp black couldn’t see anything - awake trembling silence- louder louder louder Louder (stop) Louder (stop) -ceased nothing Again I lie under the high yellow light, I could sense the curves of the river, trembling Slow, peaceful, tranquil - asleep

14

The Clay Nation

by Dara Oyeleye '26

The nation stands like a giant, carved from clay... Tall... trembling...

Its edges cracked by hands that once swore to protect it.

In the capital, there are candles that burn at noon, their lights are dimmed by the overbearing shadows that wear the suits.

Corridors echo with whispered deals, Paper promises signed with disappearing ink, Markets murmur of bodies traded like a bag of rice, Voices just vanishing into vans. That never return empty.

The wind carries names...

No one dares to call out...

Their stories... swept into silence before the sunrise.

The roads run endlessly, but their futures do not; they fold themselves into foreign pockets, far, far from home.

The beautiful streams of oil glisten like a guilty confession.

The wealth washing over the soil but NEVER into the people.

The children will walk past riches buried beneath their bare feet. .........

Unknown potential flickers like a fragile firefly trapped in a jar...

Shaking, starving, strangled by the smoke of the broken systems in place.

But yet...

Beneath the ruin... The ground still pulses.

For even a wounded giant will remember its strength, and one day, when the clay stops cracking, It. Will. Rise.

15

Kowloon

pen on paper by Lucy Zhang '27

16

to the slow walkers in the hallway

by Rithika Kasireddy '27

you clog up the hallways, moving like sloths like your brain is asleep. every shoulder brush, “excuse me,” mumbled, and you still just float? like everyone else is racing, and you don’t know. i used to get so mad. weaving through people like obstacles but maybe you’re right. maybe it’s not about getting there fast. maybe it’s about noticing everything around you, like the conversations, the posters, and how the hallway smells like sweaty feet while everyone else sprints, you just exist. maybe that’s smarter. maybe not.

17

Salty Swimmers

hand embroidery by Tori Sansur '29

18

The Eye of the Storm

by Meheret Goshu '26 spring contest runner-up

I look nothing like my parents, but my sister does.

My sister looks like our mom, though. They’ve got the same smile, same eyes.

All I got from our mom was her fiery spirit and love for movies.

My sister doesn’t look too much like our dad, though, but neither do I. Our dad has this softness to his eyes that evens out the new wrinkles he’s sporting, thanks to work.

While my skin tone is a balance between the two, my hair actually takes after my dad’s side of the family!

My height is a gift my mom gave me.

My dad also passed on his thirst for books.

My mom taught me how to stand up for myself.

And my dad taught me how to respect workers in all fields.

But I look nothing like my parents.

They gave me all of these skills, passions, gifts, but will it be enough once they’re gone?

When I look in the mirror, will I still see the pieces of them they tried to give me in the reflection?

Will the lessons they leave behind be enough to mask the fact that I look nothing like them ?

19

My mom would laugh. Say I’m being ridiculous, because of course it will be enough.

My dad would probably make a joke out of it.

My sister would roll her eyes at me, accuse me of being a drama queen.

I think I’m just afraid that because I don’t look like my mom or my dad, I’ll forget what they look like when they’re gone.

I’ll forget what my mom’s signature “so-full-of-love-she’s-gonna-burstat-the-seams” face will look like.

What my dad’s typical “I-just-came-up-with-the-funniest-thing-ever” face looks like.

Every single thing that makes my parents who they are is rooted in their expressiveness. The lift of a brow, the slow formation of a smirk, the smile that lights up their entire face when they’re about to laugh.

But you wanna know what the worst of it all is?

I’m scared I’ll forget what my mom and dad look like when they tell me they love me.

How can I remember their love for me when I’ve got nothing to show for it?

Does that make me less of their daughter?

Am I their daughter?!

20

And in the midst of this rain cloud of fear turned storm of insecurity, panic, and self-disgust, I see the eye.

I remember the truth.

Love is about action, not looks.

All the times my mom sat down to rewatch a Marvel movie for me, or a random show I found, it was because she loves me.

All the times my dad took me to the library, it was because he loves me.

The trips to the movie theater, Yelling at the TV over a soccer game, A mini shopping spree at Barnes and Noble, Moving countries, They did it because they love me unconditionally, and nothing can change that.

The comfort of this truth stops the storm and brings me back down to earth.

Back into my parents’ arms.

21

Statue of Athena

graphite drawing by Allison Lee '29

22

Mother and Daughter

watercolor by Allison Lee '29

23

The Rape of Nanjing

by Lucy Zhang '27

I could feel my breath catching, as it only does with unthinkable tragedies and my deepest fears. The Rape of Nanjing had jumped onto the screen. I looked around at classmates’ faces, inscrutable, bathed in the anemic glow of the projector, I suddenly felt existentially alone. My teacher reached up at the map, “The Japanese invaded Manchuria eight years before we commonly think of World War Two starting.” Manchuria is my family’s old home. I clung onto the red plastic cover of my notebook, my grip slick and slipping.

With blood rushing through my ears, I breathed in and out, in and out.

The night before, I had scrolled through the slideshow and seen the pictures that would come up soon: stacks of heads and dead babies in a pit. Japanese soldiers posing next to their handiwork. Maybe, I thought, every single one of them was a rapist. “I’m not going to show you the next slide,” she intoned, “You don’t need to see it.” My imagination ran ahead anyway. What had it been like for the women?

I imagined myself alone in an alley as he grabbed my chest, ripped the seams of my dress, and started touching…

My grandmother held my hand as the two of us strolled down a small street in Manchuria. It was the summer of the same year. We serendipitously bumped into her friend, so the two waved and began to chat. “You know, I worry for my daughter, living with the Japanese demons,” I suddenly heard. I jumped a little.

“They’re not like that anymore,” I muttered. She replied with an incredulous look. Wringing my hands, I barely listened to the rest of their conversation. What did she mean? What did I mean? I observed her kind, wrinkled face, then looked down. Imagining this beautiful city drenched in crimson blood made my heart shudder. I couldn’t really blame her for hating the people who rained pure terror onto China less than a century ago. Though we didn’t explicitly talk about the Rape of Nanjing that day, I couldn’t help seeing our conversation in that historical context. It felt clear to me that we cared about the same history. Talking to another Chinese woman, though she was a stranger, I felt the emotional togetherness that had been so glaringly absent from history class.

24

Caged Tongue

by Collin Harris '26

I am forced day by day to shrink my voice, dampen by blackness, tuck slang under my tongue, like it is something dangerous.

In these shiny white hallways, Every word feels like a museum piece they narrow their eyes at before deciding if it belongs.

I am the only “colored” boy In this exhibit-labeled-institution.

It swears it doesn’t see color, but still stares like I’m something rare.

Something imported from lands unknown.

Someone they expect to behave.

Neither His Nor Hers

25

acrylic and gold

I think of the olive baboon, I saw once at the zoo.

Fangs built for grasslands, eyes that remembered something wilder than the glass in front of him.

They called him “magnificent,” but he paced the cage like he was trying not to forget himself.

From being called “monkey.” to being stared at like one, I’m learning that kind of pace too.

Every day I trade pieces of me for acceptance.

Acceptance from people who would never step into the shadows of this cage with me.

So I switch my voice, switch my look, switch from a “crook”, until I can’t tell what’s real and what’s survival.

foil on wood by Brianna Mentzer '26

26

O’ Death?

by Aryan Prabhakar '26

they seal us in metal coffins. fortify flesh, build walls around breath, call it survival. but we have always been dying, trapped in the dream of, Survival without you. we keep images of the “late”, keep statistics to manage “the departed”, bury them away at a respectful distance— It’s only manners isn’t it? but sometimes unexpectedly you come to my door and a tear begins to form a rupture large enough for you, O’ Death, My Death when we reunited everything s eemed

27

to fall apar t some may dare to dance with you again, for if you want to dance with them the stormfront with no warning, the bloom that only opens at night, when everyone sleeps a dance a strike of lightning a lover in their hands a rupture into the system but if you want to be Death you will have to walk without uncertainty live without the rituals that muffle endings in processions you will have to act knowing that we were never meant to survive.

28

the pomegranates

pencil and marker by Callum Bullers '26

29

30

You Left Your Car On

by Logan Walsh '27

You left your car on.

Headlights humming, The engine idling, anticipating your return But you never did.

You left your car on.

Abandoned on the side of the road.

Did you feel abandoned?

Did you think this would solve your struggles?

You left your car on, Speakers still softly singing.

You always loved music, So why did you step away, closer to the edge?

You left your car on, And crept to an isolated ledge, Was it peaceful so far up?

Did the noises of traffic below Block out noises in your mind?

You left your car on.

After you leapt, did you think, Even for a second, you had forgotten?

Forgotten to turn your car off?

Forgotten to turn your music down?

Forgotten to say goodbye?

Or In that moment of flight, That breath between now and never again, With the sun glaring down Like it was trying to hold you back Did you smile?

A smile not of joy, But of release?

Of surrender?

31

Were you calm?

Or did panic claw its way back in?

Did you thrash, Fight gravity’s grip, Realize the finality Far too late?

Did you wonder how your mother would scream, How I would write this?

Did you beg Even silently For your story to rewind, For solid ground to miraculously rise and meet your feet?

Did you finally accept, Somewhere in the descent, That the choice had been made for you And there would be No second chance?

And still, All I think about is how You had left your car on.

32

Winged Faith of the Unadorned acrylic painting by Allison Lee '29

33

Ode to Spring

by Christopher Yu '27

Spring doesn’t knock, It kicks down winter’s heavy door Reclaiming the earth as its own It cracks the cold with one green fist, Rising from the blacktop and blessing us with warmth It kills the frost on the grass with a fiery heat, Bare and skinny trees are revived with growth, Animals poke their heads out of the ground, Watching their home turn into a vibrant environment The world is reawakened with a jolt, shock, You smell it first, Mud rich earth is moist and rich, The rain sings down onto the pavement The airs hum with warmth erasing even the slightest trace of winter No gentle bloom, Spring is in full riot, colors streak everywhere Trees sprout with flowers and bright green leaves, Petals bloom into shape, Trees stretch their limbs, Shaking off the long months of silence Bees dart and zip past, buzzing with happiness, Searching for the fields of flowers, Streaking the earth with a yellow dust Grass grows too fast to be mowed, Dandelions appear in every crack in the cement Weeds shimmy through the grass, hiding its presence, Waiting for the moment to shoot upwards and grow The skies are colored with a beautiful blue and stretch along the horizon, The sun, is not a dimmed candle light when it has become dark, But a bright blazing ball of fire, shining its warmth onto the face of the earth, Recreating the world

34

35

Opposite:

Spoon 1, Comforting Tea Leaves, & Spoon 2 digital art by Lucy Zhang '27

dear reader: dear reader: This year’s edition is a reflection of our student body: what they prioritize, what they celebrate, what moves them or brings them peace in this chaotic world. We received an outpouring of submissions this year, each with a unique voice and perspective.

It is a privilege to celebrate and share the work of so many Upper School students, and we do not take our role as message-bearers lightly.

As you read and re-read our magazine, we hope you’ll find a piece that makes you pause. Each entry asks you to look closer, find yourself reflected, or find a perspective that differs from your own. Each story – written or visual – is important and necessary in the cacophony of our fast-paced society.

Your stories and voices matter. We’d love for you to consider joining our team next year or sharing your work with us. We review all submissions anonymously, and we take our work seriously, aiming to showcase the diversity of talent that the Upper School has to offer. We’d love for you to be part of that mission, too.

With gratitude, Mrs. Schultz Faculty Advisor 36

ph ho op on lo n ol co c Artifice

McDonogh School 8600 McDonogh Road Owings Mills, MD 21117 This issue was designed using Canva Pro. All artwork and writing is original, and the rights belong to the creators herein.

Font families include Agbalumo for titles and attributions; Montserrat Regular for body text; and Walbaum Inline for the covers and headers.

Printed by School Publications Company in Neptune, NJ. This issue is printed on offset matte paper and bound in squareback style.

We accept poetry, fiction, personal nonfiction, digital and traditional artwork, photography, and other media. All submissions are reviewed anonymously and selected by student editors. If you wish to submit your work or join our team, please reach out to: us-artifice@mcdonogh.org

Proud recipient of the 2025 REALM Award of Excellence, sponsored by the National Council of Teachers of English.

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Artifice 2026 MCDONOGH SCHOOL

8600 MCDONOGH ROAD OWINGS MILLS, MD 21117