Lens Perspective
Millbrook Tempest 2015 Art and Literary Magazine
Table of Contents
Cover art by Caitlin Rathvon 3.Thought Process- Dalton Estep 4.Starry Night- Mia Ram; Self Portrait- Joshua Master 5.Heaven- Aubrey Strickling 6.Zebra Print- Emiliano Maltrana Colin; Dog Print- Kaley Saaranen 7-8. Slam Poem- Connor Wilcoxen 9.Self portrait- Lurae Rubenstein; Gumball Machine- Cassidy Nye 10.Nothing- Mia Ram; Art- Oliver Ficker 11.Echo’s Dream- Mia Ram; Art- Caitlin Rathvon 12.You Left Me- Delaney Nufer; Art- Megan Alvey 13.Judith Slaying Holofernes- Jess Lane; Art- Alec Duncan 14.Guernica- Jess Lane; Jail Cell- Karen Milla; Art- Edith Galvin Lopez 15.Crescendo- Meghan Curtin; Photo- Margaret Smith 16-17. A Yellow Sonnet- Lauren Murphy; Photo- Anhkhoa Nguyen 18-19. Found Poem- Samara Tena; Lost Compass- Maya Robinson; ArtRachel Navarro 20.Wire Skull- Alec Duncan; Men in the Machine- Sam Goodrich 21.6th Avenue- Carly Burnette; Skeleton- Elizabeth Trefney 22.A Monologue- Jasmine Kirk; Art- Eric Block 23.Camera- Alec Duncan; Mitt and Portrait - Emiley Burriss 24-27. Regurgitated Wine- Lilian E. Maxwell; Dripping Skull- Jake Weddle; Deer Skull- Elizabeth Trefney 28.Mediocrity- Molly Lowder; Art- Joshua Masters 29.Found Poem- Kristen Rivas 30.Rondeaux- Samara Tena; Self Portrait- Cassidy Nye 31.Senior Fears Sonnet- Hannah Slater; Art- Cassidy Nye 32-34. Monologue of a Deaf Girl- Abigail Davis; Art- Hunter Jameson; Handfiction (QR code)- Cameron Townsend 35.Being Deaf- Jessica Barber 36.Portrait- Anna Rinderer; Cure us- Delaney Nufer 37.What Makes You Whole- Sam Goodrich 38.Don’t Call Me Juliet- Carly Burnette; Art- Caitlin Rathvon 39.The Color Blue- Hailey Glick; Art- Mitra Norowzi (Model- Jess Lane) 40.Self Portrait- Samara Tena 41-44. To: Public School, From: Me- Lauren Murphy; Found Poem- Eva Arevalo; Don’t Shoot- Edith Galvin Lopez 45.Short Film (QR code)- Ben Fisk; Art- Samara Tena 46.Loitering in the Backstreets & Mysterious Device- Cameron Townsend 47. Letter to the Reader- Hannah Slater Back Cover art by Samara Tena
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Starry Night Mia Ram If every sky shone like this I would faint dead every night. If the moon beamed gold, And spun it’s own halo, If every star loomed enormous, Blinding in it’s alabaster light, If the winds stretched and curled Like wisps of cigarette smoke, If all the celestial bodies Were wrapped in dark blue, If the mountains streaked With glittering threads, If window lamps called back To stars with their own light, If every sky shone like this, I’d faint dead each night.
4
Joshua Masters
Heaven Aubrey Strickling Our Father who art in heaven Tonight I find my grave Among the stars and swirling clouds. Hallowed be thy name I cling to the wisps of smoke And the jingles of fading laughter. Thy Kingdom come thy will be done I struggle pushing through the clots of dirt Searching for a way out. On earth as it is in heaven I want to live but I can’t breath Smoke and dirt filling my lungs choking me. Give us our daily bread I pray and I beg for entrance I need in! I have to get in! And forgive us our trespasses As we forgive those who trespass against us I cling onto bones and legs Crawling over the ones below me. And Lead us not into temptation but Deliver us from evil I reach the surface gasping for air As the sun pelts my face with its rays. For thine is the kingdom, the power, the glory, Forever and ever My breath clears and I fall out of the dirt Clean and glowing. Amen.
5
Emiliano Maltrana Colin
6
Kaley Saaranen
Slam Poem Connor Wilcoxen
Why is poetry always sad? Why is it gloomier than a thunderstorm on a summer’s night? Why do most poets write about death, or sadness, or some problem they’re having? I believe I know why. It’s because the world is a poem, And everyone is looking at it the wrong way. Everyone looks at the disasters and tragedies and the bad people. No one analyzes the blessings and successes and the heroes How can poets write elegant imagery about horrendous events that have happened in their lives? Most poems I hear or read are like a head-on-collision between two cars and there are no survivors. I want to read a poem that is like two cars that hit each other head-on, and one man was paralyzed. But instead of throwing in the towel he says, “I will walk again”. I want to read a poem that tells me that life is hard, but that doesn’t mean I should give up; It means I need to get up, And keep moving forward like a locomotive without brakes I want to read a poem that makes me feel like I can tackle any problem that I am faced with like a 300 pound lineman tackles a quarterback. I want to read a poem that says that I can be whoever I want to be. A poem that gets up from the paper and slaps me across the face whenever I feel like giving up. I want to read a poem that asks me what I really want to do with my life, and then tells me to go do it. 7
Poems shouldn’t just tell us how horrible life is, they should tell us how to maneuver through it like a car maneuvers through New York City traffic at 5 o’clock in the evening Poetry should tell us that we can become the president if we want to. It should tell us that we can be the greatest athletes of all time if we put our minds to it, As long as we work at it, As long as we give everything we have and more, As long as the earth is still spinning, And humans are still breathing, As long as the sky is blue, We need to keep moving…. Moving. Moving towards the dreams that manifested in our minds when we were just young kids. Dreams of becoming stars under a spotlight. And, sometimes, people won’t want you to stand on that stage and be flooded by the spotlight. They’ll spew venom and fire bullets of hate at you, But this is your dream. You must develop skin thicker than the venom that comes out of doubters’ mouths. Once you have a dream, you have to protect it. Because no one else will. Poetry should not be sad, talking about all the doubters we will face, But motivating, telling us to look the doubters straight in the eye, and walk right past them en route to achieving our goals. That’s what poetry should be.
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Lurae Rubenstein
Cassidy Nye
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Nothing Mia Ram
She would weep whole days With Grief, Regret, Despair, And Misery. Two large tears Ran Slowly Down From the corners of her eyes to the corners of her mouth.
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He was heartbroken. He stopped, stupefied and utterly at loss. “What’s the matter with you? What’s the matter with you?” “I don’t know exactly.” He grew slightly pale. “You’ve been very odd.” “I’m utterly miserable.” “What’s the matter with you?” “Nothing.”
Oliver Ficker
Echo’s Dream Mia Ram
I dreamt I lost my voice. A pitch black gaping absence Where the tongue was cleanly sliced, Where words had been. A pitch black gaping absence, Where silence sat dull and heavy, Where words had once been. Every thought was swallowed. The silence sat dull and heavy, Making my mouth a mirror. Every thought was reflected. Their words all bounced back to them. My mouth was a mirror, Throwing calls back through the canyon. Their words all bounced back to them. I missed my own call. I threw back calls through the canyon. The tongue was cleanly sliced. I missed my own call. I dreamt I lost my voice.
Caitlin Rathvon
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You Left Me Delaney Nufer
I pick peaches from your abandoned trees, Have you cared for them up there? Eaten – black birds pecked your fruits to the core, The flesh peeled back to expose the heart. Plums line my basket from our bush That one planted together in the fertile soil of spring. Were we ever going to enjoy them together? In my mind, you’re here preparing The fruit tarts, so delicately topped with pinwheel patterns, Icebox stored aside napkins and a single fork And you, stirring up dust as your flouncy skirt twirls. Which memory is the last I have of you? You – with manmade tubes filling failing lungs, or, Were you staring into a June sky that matched your eyes, Probably loving me as much as I love you, Saving your last goodbye For our morning picnic on the first day of summer? Breakfast never came for you. Forgive my tears. Me – I’ll never be okay, They said you would be fine, Were you only playing along? Delicious will never be a word used to describe hospital food. So bitter and tasteless – unlike your lips, Sweet like after you tasted our peaches And now they lay, rotting, where I left some on your grave So shapeless and alone like your Cold, lifeless body. 12
Megan Alvey
Judith Slaying Holofernes Jess Lane
Alec Duncan
Her arms are not the bone slender delicacies of Caravaggio, and for that I am grateful. Passion is Florentine gold, ruthless in the beauty and smooth indifference of silk, and her eyes burn coldly and smoke, with fingers like silver and the brow of a vengeful goddess. Her breast is dotted with the rouge, rosy tint of blood, and I ask of you, Holofernes, to reach out; as your breath bleeds out from your neck, reach out. Try to touch her now.
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Guernica
Jail Cell
Jess Lane
Karen Milla
The woman with her baby is crying, There is a metal cave head thrown back and wailing the song Where scribbles like to of the Pietà . crawl, Her voice echoes and wanes, a siren in And dangerously slave the pitch black To cover up the walls. roll of war, but She is not Mary and They dance and sing their the Baby is not Jesus. This mourning taunts, will not cease with the passing of three Reflecting in their eyes. day’s time and the roll of the stone A hellish fire flaunts that guards the tomb. As hope and wonder die. The Bull is not the docile oxen of the Consuming prisoners Nativity, the glaring Eye not that of With unabating greed, God, Its mental game tortures. the agony not a mechanism for SalvaThe pressure makes them tion. bleed. This pain is deaf and mute and dumb to The victims writhe and gods and saints and the woman gasp with her baby is crying. No sound can voices grasp.
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Edith Galvin Lopez
Crescendo Meghan Curtin
The bass line interrupts the words of strings The breath of brisk staccato notes remove The milky sweet crescendo breath that sings. The natural response for me is: move. My instincts dictate how my joints will shift Still pulled by muscles thinking on their own Provoked by bellows of the major lift And leverage of the rhythm still has grown. My only thought the portrait painted here The story that unfolds here on this floor Words chosen now in joy or hope or fear To fill the holes my voice has left before. To move, to now create, it lets me flee The clutches of a bland reality.
Margaret Smith
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A Yellow Sonnet Lauren Murphy
A timid sunflower lifts her bright eyes, The wind dances with a sweet buttercup, And from their slumber, dandelions rise. What color is my soul as it floats up? The smiling banana hangs from a tree, Off of the corn cob’s long locks reflect light, And brightly bunched lemons call out to me. What color is my soul, through day and night? A bold ray of light breaks through the dark cloud. To my eyes, it sends only hope and joy. In golden warmth and bliss my hair is shroud. What color is my soul, so blithe and coy? There is none but yellow my soul can be, For joy is found in it, which sets me free.
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Anhkhoa Nguyen
Samara Tena
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Lost Compass Maya Robinson
Their mind is far away, another place Always having to vest their time and stress To things that do not matter in this case For they do not belong to bouts of guess. Craving adventure of some foreign stays. Utah, France, to experience Euphrates flow, Even down to California bay. They are elsewhere in real life, a shadow. A shadow of a beings, dream is lost To grades, to test, to papers and projects. Posters torn down, chucked, thrown and ideas tossed. Lost to simpler things like checks and sex. Where did the adventurer disappear? Where did they go? I can’t find them here.
Rachel Navarro
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Alec Duncan
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Sam Goodrich
6th Avenue Carly Burnette
Even the greatestscientists, engineers, painters, and astronauts walk across crowded streets, surrounded by everyday people with everyday troubles, suffocating on the smoke of their own personal inferno.
Elizabeth Trefney
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Eric Block
A Monologue
Jasmine Kirk
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(Harry Lindenburg is sitting on his jail cell bed and he is about to answer a question his cell mate asked him.) Do I like the feeling of killing innocent people? ...Well to be completely frank (long pause) I love it. The face of complete terror, followed by the begging for mercy is such a thrill my soul craves to sense. Eyes can tell so many stories just in the way that they blink. While I’d hold my victims by the neck before choosing my weapon of death, their eyes would look at me with repentance as if I was their God….as if they had done something to deserve the death they were destined to receive. But as obvious as this may seem, that’s the unknown beauty to it …killing people that is. There is a lovely but quite easy technique I use, shall you ever get out of this hell hole... you may use it yourself! Write a book on it; tell the world of my findings, so that everyone may see the beauty in killing like I do, and like you will soon my friend. It keeps me going and I’ve never felt such a thrill, and the scary thing is…I can’t stop. The smell of living flesh excites me in ways you just couldn’t understand. Ahhh (inhales strongly through his nose) but as you truly are my friend (Harry gets up and moves towards his cell mate’s bed. He moves in such a smooth calm way that his cell mate barely realizes his movement.) I hate friendships. So in other words I don’t think your acquaintance in this cell will be needed any longer. (In an instant Harry grabs the throat of his cell mate and squeezes, staring into his eyes at first with a smirk on his face. Then Harry looked up towards the ceiling with a look of replenishment. Realizing that his victim was dead he looked into his eyes.) And that’s the secret my foolish friend, always deceive the prey (puts his hand on his cheek) Never ever let them know your intentions, because the surprise on their face, is the reward.
Alec Duncan
Emiley Burriss
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Regurgitated Wine Lilian E. Maxwell
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Wires running through her long, tangled, blonde hair, she looks in the mirror, brushing out the knots. She looks at herself, just sitting there, a grim look on her face, as her mother calls for her repeatedly from a distant room in the house. “Bradley! I’ve got something for you!” She stumbles to get up from her desk as she slips her hair back into a sleek ponytail. “What is it?” she groans as she walks toward the sound of her mother’s voice. Her mother pops up out of nowhere holding up a purple dress to Bradley, and tries to pull her hair forward. “You know you should really wear your hair down more.” Her mother sternly yanks out the hair band and excitedly exclaims, “See look! It looks so pretty this way, and it would look beautiful with this dress, don’t you think?” “It’s purple. I hate purple.” She spits out with anger in every word as she glares at her mother and pushes her away, heading towards the door. “Bradley, what are you doing?!” “I’ll be home before three.” Bradley hurriedly grabs the car keys on top of a doily, sitting on the coffee table. “Where are you going?!” her mother gasps with an agitated tone in her voice. Ignoring her, Bradley speeds out of the front door and hops in her mom’s mint green Punch buggy and slams the door before her mother gets the chance to catch up to
her. She pulls out of the driveway as the wheels look as if they’re spitting out gravel. As Bradley drives down the main road she sticks her head out the window, letting her hair flow in the wind. She closes her eyes for a couple seconds. Bliss. She hasn’t felt this alive since she can remember. A couple minutes go by as she blares the car radio, her mother would never approve of this; she turns it up louder. A couple more minutes go by, and Bradley turns quickly into a shopping center and parks in front of a hair salon titled “RAGE SALON: CHOP CHOP BANG BANG”. She walks into the salon with a smirk as a lady with green and black hair and tattoos scattered all over her body approaches her. “Hello, what are ya lookin’ for today?” the lady with odd hair snickers as she looks her up and down with a puzzled look on her face. “I want to dye my hair.” Bradley says flatly. “Alright well come take a seat here.” The lady points at a chair in the back. “Lucky for you, we don’t have a lot of business today, so I’ll be doing your hair” They walk over to the designated seat and Bradley plops down and looks at herself in the mirror in front of her with a grim look on her face. “You have beautiful hair,” the lady remarks as she runs her fingers through her hair. Bradley gives a slight smile. “Here, I’ll show you some of the swatches that we have; we have a pretty decent selection.” Bradley flips through the swatches as the lady points at one of the colors. “This is Lizard Green, it’s one of my favorites.” Bradley looks up at her and realizes it’s the same color as her hair. She smirks. “Suicide pink would look really good on yo – ” Bradley cuts her off. “I want this one.” She holds up a purple swatch to her hair. “You want that one? Let me see.” The lady takes a closer look and holds it up to Bradley’s forehead. “Regurgitated Wine doesn’t look that good with your skin tone…I’m not sure, I’ve never done this one on anybody before,” the lady exclaims, but Bradley shows no
one on anybody before,” the lady exclaims, but Bradley shows no interest in her opinion. “No, this one’s perfect.” Bradley looks at herself and inhales deeply as she closes her eyes for a brief moment. “Well okay, I’ll try it! I’ll get you caped up.” As she walks away to get the cape, Bradley exhales with a look of remorse on her face, and her lip starts to quiver. The hairdresser walks back quickly and Bradley sucks it up before she can notice the grief look on her face. The sound of gravel hitting the back of the bumper on the mint green Punch buggy comes to a halt as Bradley pulls up in front of her house. She sees her mother pacing back and forth on the small porch, scowling. She quickly snaps at Bradley as soon as she reaches over to push open the passenger door. “Well, we’re going to be late,” her mother bickers. “Where have you be‐ BRADLEY! WHAT ON EARTH?!” Her mother glares at her hair as she waits for a response. “Get in and close the door, we gotta go.” She looks out the window, refusing to make eye contact with her mother. She can feel the piercing glare from her mother as she scoffs. Her mother slams the door and Bradley drives off in silence. Sitting with her arms crossed in the corner of a doctor’s office, Bradley stares at her mother, who’s fixing her makeup with a compact. Her mother glances at her and rolls her eyes. “Purple huh?” “Just get over it,” Bradley stammers and looks up as a man in a white coat walks in with a stethoscope around his neck his neck; it’s her doctor. Bradley gulps with anger in her eyes. “Hello, ladies!” the doctor chirps. Bradley blankly stares at him and her mother shrugs. “Well, well, well, Bradley. Aren’t we purple today?” “It’s called Regurgitated Wine.” Bradley looks up at him, watching her mother shake her head in the corner of her eye. She feels her throat close up, and a single tear falls down her face while she tries to manage a straight face. 26
The doctor’s smile immediately fades off of his face and he glances back at her mother to get reassurance. Her mother looks away with her nose up and frowns. He looks back at Bradley and gulps. “Bradley, we did go over some of the side effects from the chemo right...?” Her mother’s face lights up like she just had some kind of sudden realization, and she looks at her daughter. “I hate purple.” Tears pouring down her face like a waterfall, Bradley’s chest starts heaving. Her mother rushes over to her daughter and puts her arms around her. “Oh honey, you won’t mind losing it now, will you?” “No.” Bradley shakes her head and smiles slightly, wiping away her tears. Her mother lightly laughs, while tightening her grip. Bradley does the same. “We can do this, sweetie. We’ll get through this.”
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Elizabeth Trefney
Jake Weddle
Mediocrity Molly Lowder
Mediocrity What’s the point of working hard when you’re fine with being average There’s nothing worth while about what I can do I already know that I won’t succeed Don’t tell me I’m good enough because I know that “I can do this” is worthless, and I’m sure that being ordinary is much more satisfying Being passionate is overrated Normality It’s easy. (now read it backwards-bottom to top)
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Joshua Masters
Kristen Rivas
grinning at
haunted
of
figments
my inner reality
a nightmare which the sleeper tries
to
exist in anguish
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NO. 1 In a minute, he swore to me Before I barely reached his knee. No river, no mountain would pass by, Without crossing under my eye. He’d give the entire world to see. And in my mind, it was meant to be, I wandered the world from sea to sea. My arms were too short to reach the sky. Give it a minute, he said to me Each promise then spoken with less glee. Not one word would set me free, For I saw what I should have known: a lie I decided it best to let dreams die. Father, you couldn’t pick up the debris I gave you the minute you’d sworn to me.
RONDEAUX Samara Tena
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Cassidy Nye
Senior Fears Sonnet Hannah Slater
How do we make the most out of our time? How do we know our decisions are right? Finally at the peak of this long climb. And I’m reminded my future is bright. But that doesn’t make the lonely leave me. Come spring, I will still be going to school. I ask, why is this how it has to be? I miss the days of boys rule and girls drool. Life is like a box of chocolate, yes? Well I am terrified of what I’ll get. Gump could not prepare me for all this stress. But what if my only worry is debt? What if I am truly bound for success? What if my future is not in distress?
Cassidy Nye
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Monologue of a Deaf Girl
Abigail Davis
(It is the 21st Century and Taylor is a teenager of 16 years-old. We are in a dimly lit auditorium, bright lights illuminating the stage. Taylor sits on a stool, center stage, a microphone on a stand to her left. It is her “school exhibition night” and she is presenting a speech written for an English Assignment created to show-off the 11th graders for an audience. She stands in front of an auditorium ¾ of the way filled by her peers, teacher, administrators and parents, eyes darting about. The students in the auditorium are whispering, rudely, and some snicker a bit while others look sad. Taylor is obviously nervous, but hides her fear by keeping her hands flat by her side. Her teacher, holding a microphone, shares the stage with her) TAYLOR: Hello classmates, teacher, esteemed members of the audience… anyone, really. My Defining Story is called “Deaf Girl”. (She pauses, shuffles some notecards around on her lap, then begins speaking.) When Ms. Kyrto- Kyrtaw-Kyrtauwski assigned us to tell our story for the School Exposition Night, I’ll be the first to admit that I was nervous. I mean, I have to keep my hands pressed to the sides of my thighs in order to stop them from shaking, and, uh, it’s challenging for me to speak in front of a crowd anyway so… (She starts to bite her lip and looks up at the ceiling, trying to remember what she needs to say next. She collects her thoughts and continues speaking.) Well, even with my nerves, I have prepared for this and I’m going to tell you my story. The story of the poor deaf girl in your class. (Her hands begin to move incessantly. She signs some of her words as she speaks.) When I was little, I had perfect hearing. And by little, I mean little. 32
As in when I was under the age of two. At the age of three, though I was speaking fluent English and had mastered the idea of a “complete sentence”, my parents began to notice that I was less responsive than I had been in the past. For example, I’d play with my dolls and reenact the latest episode of whatever children’s television show I was obsessed with, but when my parents called for me, I would ignore them almost completely. Instead of being just a room away, to me it was as if I were an entire galaxy away from their calls. It took many attempts for them to get my attention. They thought I had some sort of attention-related disorder because I would not respond but it was not because of some kind of Autism or developmental disease, it was because what I heard were muffled sounds and a slight buzz- the sounds of going deaf. My parents took me to countless appointments with doctors, all trying to diagnose me with something I did not have. “Selective Hearing”, they’d call it, “Acute Autism”, “She’s just being an obstinate 4 year-old” (By then I’d turned four), and all of these were wrong because I had yet to learn what it meant for someone to be deaf. I was learning to read, and slowly going deaf. So, for my first year of school, I was in that “special class” at school, the class where I explained to my very confused teacher that I simply could not hear very well. Suddenly, it clicked for all of the adults in my life. I got hearing aids, many more doctors’ appointments, and an explanation for my loss of hearing-I was a preemie, this was a side-effect. Being so young, it wasn’t much of a struggle to adapt- I came to terms with it, learned to read lips and to sign, got put into the regular class, and excelled. Little did I know that the struggle wasn’t being deaf, it was keeping my individuality and preventing my disability from defining me. (She grows angry) I come here to school every day, and when you think that I can’t hear you, I do. I listen to you say things like “Oh that poor deaf girl is in your class, I feel so bad for her” and I read your lips when you say “She isn’t that pretty so no wonder she hasn’t a boyfriend- it doesn’t help that she’s deaf!” Hunter Jameson
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I hear you even when you’re thinking it to yourself, staring at me with droopy eyes, consciously preventing your wandering stare from meeting my piercing gaze- I hear you complaining about having to work with “the outcast with hearing aids” for a group project. And now that I’ve got your attention let me take the time to remind you that being deaf is not being blind or mentally handicapped. I can see you, I can, I promise! (She waves her hands in front of her face then returns them to her sides.) No, I don’t have the bright blond hair or blue eyes associated with beauty, and I don’t have ears that function properly but I am a human being! An individual proud of who I am and someone who doesn’t let her loss of hearing have power over her so please stop defining me by what some classify as a “disability” but I define as an adventure. I am not named “that poor deaf girl” nor can I be defined accurately by that moniker. I am that lucky deaf girl. And while we’re on the subject, I have a name, don’t forget it, it’s Taylor, and I hear you. Thank you.
Handfiction
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Short film by Cameron Townsend
Being Deaf Jessica Barber
Being deaf is exhausting, Constantly having to pay close attention To understand what anyone says. Sometimes it’s too hard. Sometimes it takes everything in me To catch the last two words of a lecture. I have way too many headaches for an 18 year old. Sometimes I feel like an old woman, Hobbled by my disability. I can’t experience everything I want to, Without wondering if there is a place to charge my batteries first. My whole life revolves around little tan objects That hide behind my ears and hair. I can’t hear at night, Or underwater, or on roller coasters. What happens when I’m a mom And my baby cries at night? I won’t be able to hear them. What do I do then? Don’t get me wrong, I’m happy I was born this way. But, sometimes it’s too hard, And I just want to sleep.
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Anna Rinderer
Delaney Nufer
36
They say that we are
That, somehow, our spirits were separated all born with
Half of a whole
Making us incomplete
“another half ”
We are to live our lives desperately searching for our other half .”
ey Th
But, why wait?
l tel
l u’l yo , y r or ’t w n o “D u.. yo
m he dt n fi
You have to be with another to be happy
“Two halves make a whole.”
Why do you have to meet your other half before you can
live
happily ever after?
had if you What r half ? e no oth Are you allowed to be happy? Can you really be happy?
Sam Goodrich
Can you lead a satisfying life?
Maybe this means you are
Or, maybe you were
born
complete.
broken 37
Don’t Call Me Juliet Carly Burnette
A short story, A passage from Some long lost prose That all of society Has forgotten. Ralph Ellison may have captured The invisible identity of one unknown man, But the true invisible man That walks these streets Is not formed across the pages of White paper and black ink. Books only travel as far as The reader’s empathy allows. For life is not a poem.
Life is not a poem. Any irony, Foreshadowing, Or rhyme scheme is accidental. You can’t just read out my life In neat little stanzas. You can’t glide across its surface as It rolls off your tongue. You can’t open up to a specific Chapter of my life and Point at a line And say: “Aw, Yes. See, here Even if we sometimes Is where you first meet Wish Sally AnneIt could be. That little whore.” But you don’t know until chapter three That her character is really A personification of Society’s standards for women, And The hopeless struggle they take To overcome it. Because life is not literature. There are no hidden meanings Behind the everyday struggles of men, Women, and children. It just is. And it’s broken. And it’s our job to fix it. Because life is not a poem, A novel, Caitlin Rathvon
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The Color Blue Hailey Glick
When she sings your name across the salty, open air, it’s the color of her words. It’s the color of the ocean waves as they rush to meet your ankles with an icy hello. As she turns to face you, it’s the color of her eyes, locking onto yours. It’s the color of her dress as it brushes the sand and winds around her legs in the wind. As you lie on the beach, her hand in yours, it’s the color of the endless sky above. It’s the color of her toes as she walks barefoot down the boardwalk. It’s the color of the cottage on the shoreline, reserved for a lovers’ weekend away. As you sleep, soundlessly, intertwined with one another, it’s the color painted on the backs of your eyelids, flooding all your dreams. When she strolls into the room, a warm mug of coffee in her hand, it’s the color of your shirt, draping her body. When you touch, it’s the color of the shivers that race down your spine. It’s the color of night, fading, as dawn comes to pull you apart. When she cries, it’s the color of her tears resting in the palm of your hand. It’s the color of the car that comes to take her away, back to where she belongs. As you watch her go, it’s the color your heart beats knowing it can’t follow.
Artist: Mitra Norowzi Model: Jess Lane
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Samara Tena
To: Public School, From: Me Lauren Murphy Dear public school, Thank you for taking every last scrap of construction paper from my house To decorate book reports from first to eighth grade. I still have all of them. Thank you for feeding me straight-up grease disguised as pizza and fries in the cafeteria as a freshman. Who knew that cafeteria lunches contained so much nutrition?! The “Freshman 15” came a little bit too early. Thank you for teaching me to memorize the definitions of the Greek roots “pan”, “path” and “peri”, up until the second I turn in my quiz. Thank you for giving my doctor a heart attack when I told her how little sleep I get every night. “Like I tell my daughter, honey, just scribble some numbers on a sheet of paper and go to bed. Some nights, it’s just not worth it.” Thank you for trying to force the words “croissant” and “crêpe” down my throat for three years, when the only thing that can come back out now is “Bonjour, je m’appelle Lauren.” Thank you for making me so exhausted and worn down that the force of gravity is too heavy to wear around my neck. My posture is awful. I look like a turtle. Thank you for giving me a mini workout as I sprint to class every day. Senior exemptions are a great motivator to get kids in better shape! But do you know that your average high school senior would rather skip class and write a “sick” note than lose their exemptions? Thank you for shoving “God’s not real” in my face like a retailer shrewdly trying to sell me some cheap hair styling product at the mall. Thank you for teaching me that honesty is the best policy, though if I study all night and come prepared, I’ll still be in a room full of fun house mirrors and wandering eyes. Public school, tell me how this system is honest and fair if someone can glance at a paper with my name on it and steal the answer right off of the page. You see, cheating is like slapping someone hard across the face and saying “Thanks for the help, bud.” 41 Thank you for teaching me about the important things in life.
I can now recite the Pythagorean Theorem like the Pledge of Allegiance. And yet you’ve failed to teach me: How to pay taxes. How to find a job. How to be happy. Or do you even care about that? You’ve taught me to care less About the knowledge in my head and more About the letters that line up on my report card like a firing squad aimed at my self-worth. As if the pressures of being a teenager weren’t enough. Thank you for teaching me that if I want to get anywhere in this world by playing by the rules, well, I better go ahead and pick a different world. This place is not as welcoming as Disney Channel. No one rises and belts a ballad to break the silence and status quo all at once. Public school, I don’t blame you for all of this. I blame the society that created you. I blame those who seem to think that straight A’s and a cornucopia of extra circulars are going to make us better people. I blame those who think that force-feeding us knowledge until we throw it up on a Scantron is going to make a bunch of teenagers prepared for life. Sincerely, A Student Unprepared for Life
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Eva Arevalo
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Edith Galvin Lopez
Short film by Ben Fisk
Samara Tena
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Cameron Townsend
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Letter to the Reader Perspective: a particular attitude toward a way of regarding something; a point of view. Everyone has their own perspective and it is how we express it that makes each of us unique. This year we saw expressions of perspective through the Black Lives Matter movement and the 20 beautiful women hashtag on instagram. Our magazine this year wanted to give the student body a creative outlet through which they could share their various perspectives. When selecting the submissions we were overwhelmed by the quantity we recieved. As we sifted through stories, poems, pictures, paintings, and more we were overjoyed by the response we recieved. It was a hard selection process, but through some staff voting, and multiple re-votes, we think we selected the best submissions to showcase. I invite you, the reader, to consider subliminal meanings and messages when exploring our magazine. Let each artist and writer speak to you through their piece and see if, through others’ work, you perspective isn’t changed. A million thanks to Mr. and Mrs. Davis. Mrs. Davis, the sheer amount of time and energy put into this magazine, especially during your snow days, was more than appreciated. Mr. Davis, your nitpicky flaw-finding was so good to have and your zany attitude made each meeting a blast. Sam and Cameron, I applaud you. Senior year is stressful enough, but you guys added our magazine to the stack of already overflowing work and for that I am forever grateful. You guys did an amazing job! To the rest of the Tempest staff, thank you so much for attending meetings and editing papers and most of all dealing with the bossiness of Mrs. Davis and I (sorry Mrs. Davis!). This year was a blast and the magazine would be nothing without each and every one of you. A good pat on the back I’d say is well deserved. Lastly, to the reader - thank you for taking the time to look through both our hard work and the hard work of our peers. It was our goal to give the student body a voice, but this magazine would mean nothing without you to hear them. Your grateful, teary-eyed editor, Hannah Slater 47
Artist: Samara Tena
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