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Letter From the Editor Dear Reader, It has been one of the greatest honors of my high school experience to be a part of the Tempest and to celebrate in its amazing successes. We ask for greatness from the young artists at our school and they continue to exceed our expectations. This year, we asked you to think about distortion and how it applies to the world today. It takes a creative mind to successfully communicate a distorted idea, so I applaud every writer and artist who appears in this magazine for their incredible work and talent. Art is truly a medium for communication and expression of oneself. As Henry Ward Beecher says, “Every artist dips his brush in his own soul, and paints his own nature into his pictures.” This magazine is a collection of our hearts and souls that we are choosing to share with the world. This is a celebration of the challenges and successes of our generation of artists and peers. As a reader, I challenge you to take it in stride. Read the magazine with an open mind and an open heart. Find what is meaningful to you, and enjoy. This year in the Tempest has been a whirlwind. It feels like just yesterday we were picking a theme and having light-hearted meetings full of jokes and art critiques. Now here I am, getting emotional as my time in this wonderful club and at Millbrook comes to an end. This year is filled with memories of Alex’s truly unique sense of humor that brings a whole new level of joy to the club, Liz’s creative mindset that always challenges me to think beyond the surface, Kasey’s unmatched kindness that can light up a room, and Myra and Alaina’s impeccable artistic talent that makes the magazine one of the best that we’ve seen. I love the staff of this magazine with all of my heart, thank you so much for all of your hard work. I would also like to give a world of thanks to Mr. and Mrs. Davis. You two are the best and I really do not have the words to describe how special you are. You have inspired and encouraged me to push myself to my creative limits, making me a better artist and a better person. I love you all dearly and I have treasured my time in the Tempest. As you go into next year, I challenge you to continue to be creative. Continue to explore the world and give it your own voice. Make next year’s magazine the best one yet and don’t forget to send me a copy! Your editor-in-chief, Cover artist: Ashley Arensdorf Ashley Arensdorf


Table of Contents After “In a Station of the Mertro” by Ezra Pond- Tyara Mcleod .............................................................3 Art-

Connor

Mulligan...............................................................................................................................3

In Response to Jackson Pollock’s Convergence- Breiyla Austin; Art- Cameron Swan...........................4 “A Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man” By James Joyce. Pg. 232-233- Brittany Salmons...................5 Art- Ceren Onasci....................................................................................................................................5 Bleeding Sonnet- Levi Lopez; Art- Maegan Wilson.................................................................................6 Alone- Amber Dellinger............................................................................................................................7 Pins and Needles- Grace McCarthy; Art- Myra Solis...............................................................................8 Bride by Beth Lipman- Kasey Vandenboom............................................................................................9 Guarded- Kasey Vandenboom; Art- Connor Mulligan............................................................................10 Dear Brice- Kailee Storie........................................................................................................................11 Art- Virginia Keister................................................................................................................................12 Ode to Vinyl- Brittany Salmons..............................................................................................................13 Art- Julia Smith.................................................................................................................................13-14 After “In this Short Life” by Emily Dickenson- Tyara Mcleod; Art- Connor Mulligan..............................15 Land of the Free, Home of the Brave- Sarah Bailey; Art- Julie Dodsen...............................................16 Art-

John

Hodges..................................................................................................................................17

Hope- Julia Stowe; Art- Kathryn Colores..............................................................................................18 Roses for the Dead- Maya Lee.......................................................................................................19-20 Art-

Myra

Solis.................................................................................................................................19-20

Art- Alaina Bubeck ..........................................................................................................................21-22 To The Third Step- Kasey Vandenboom; Art- Myra Solis.....................................................................23 Alone?- Sarah Bailey; Art- Alaina Bubeck............................................................................................24 Art-

Alaina

Bubeck................................................................................................................................25

Dear You- Levi Lopez; Art- Crosby Wood............................................................................................26 Spectrum-

Amber

Dellinger..................................................................................................................27

Every Time- Brittany Salmons; Art- Ceren Onasci...............................................................................28 The Clouds- Lindsay Powell.................................................................................................................29 Art-

Elizabeth

Art-

Willow

Finnessy....................................................................................................................29-30

Johal...................................................................................................................................31

Cracking- Levi Lopez; Art detail- Abigail Hogan....................................................................................32 Sis- Julia Stowe; Art- Maegan Wilson...................................................................................................33 In My Wallet- Alex Hart; Art- Myra Solis..............................................................................................34 If I Were a Bucket- Trista Medlin; Art- Julia Smith................................................................................35 Blind Trust- Kasey Vandenboom..........................................................................................................36 The Persistence of Memory by Salvador Dali- Brittany Salmons; Art- Lauren Mussler.......................37 Art-

Maegan

Wilson.............................................................................................................................38

On Viewing a Wire Sculpture of a Wolf by Mat Szulik- Trista Medlin; Art- Ceren Onasci....................39 Me- Tyara Mcleod; Art Pheobe Degroot...............................................................................................40 Art-

Alaina

Bubeck................................................................................................................................41

Why Does a Volcano Erupt- Lindsay Powell........................................................................................42


After “In a station of the metro� by Ezra Pound Tyara McLeod

Underestimate the Monstrous apparition Ruler and keeper of All secrets. These Things crawl up in our faces Without our knowledge, in Theory our conscience is the Key to everything. Through the crowd; We float gently like petals Making way on The gentle breeze a God sends our way. The wet Sensation covered the black Depths known as a bough

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Connor Mulligan


In response to Jackson Pollock’s “Convergence” Breiyla Austin She need to calm down before she explode. She all over the place, she ain’t never slowed. When you turn left, she turn right. When you go up, she go down. She has to slow her life, before she drown. She is literally everywhere. She need to get her life under control. Being all over the place ain’t making her whole. Her name is yellow, orange, red, and so on. And she hate being blue, so she turn into green. She entirely too busy. She ain’t never been no queen. She never take time to slow down. I talk to her about it, try to tell her she’ll drown. I ask her why she all over the place, but she just run on. She won't listen. Now she gone. Cameron Swan

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“A portrait of the artist as a young man� By James Joyce. Pg. 232-233 Brittany Salmons His Image. The form I am trying to explain. I set myself, indeed laughing Distinguished. Even in literature forms of emotion, Cry. Feeling of emotional gravity, like a vital sea The dramatic form. The esthetic image. The mystery. The artist. Invisible. Indifferent. Beauty.

5 5 Ceren Onasci


Maegan Wilson Bleeding Sonnet Levi Lopez Can we complain about our nation in Attempt to change; kneel or place fists in air, Won’t kill a civil peace or make us sin. A titled book or fighting war won’t care. And learning from the founders words and thoughts, To learn is key to leaving legacy. Our binders have us tied up into knots, So reading and growing are enemies. The people turn and break, destroyed as one, A language laid for generations read, A stage set for a mood towards dull suns, Them shining through eyes on our history. We raise our heads and keep on moving on, By breaking dusk and bleeding rays from dawn.

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6


Alone Amber Dellinger In this world, I stand alone. This ship is being manned alone. The dust left from the footsteps of others, As I travel this unfamiliar land alone. I can hear my breathing and heart beat. I hold my own hand, alone. I yearn for company, for a fleeting moment. Life gets really bland alone. As I walk into the Great Unknown, 7I don’t know how much I can withstand Alone.

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Pins and Needles Grace McCarthy When reality is jagged And it’s impossible to see When I feel the pins and needles I know it’s happening As my body goes numb I try to just stop thinking But thoughts make their way back And yet again I’m sinking Contusions and confusions Get wrapped up in my mind Until I can barely breathe In an instant I’m confused It forces me to make-believe Terrors unimagined Irrational at best But I am convinced that they will happen This feeling isn’t fear It’s a separate identity This parasite that calls me home Is anxiety

Myra Solis

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8


Bride by Beth Lipman Kasey Vandenboom Pristine things only last for so long in a world that only ever damages. That takes perfection into its sharp and wicked teeth And grinds it into dust As if it never existed. Perfection is so easily destroyed; It only takes one move To begin the d e s c e n t deep into madness To become enthralled In a whirlwind of Chaos that d i stu r bs the soul Cuts/ thr/oug/h at odd/// ang\les Fragmenting attention And disrupting o R d e R 9


Guarded Kasey Vandenboom We live in a distorted world of flaws Women walk home with keys between fingers, A makeshift weapon of metallic claws, Nervous under male gazes that linger. Men feel entitled to female bodies They nurture rape culture and let it grow. Filling young mouths with speed that is gaudy And taught that girls “ask for it” when skin shows We live in a world where women are less And are taught not to challenge any rules, Became the voice the world loves to oppress. They see us fighting, they must think we’re fools. But still, I fight for a cause that I love. Respect the thing we’ve long been dreaming of.

Connor Mulligan

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By Kailee Storie

Dear Bryce, I never understood

the

real

mind of a man. Is it like a war zone, two sides combative, over what is right and what is wrong. The right side, in despair, trying so hard, never letting down your loved ones. The wrong side, never seeming to mind. Making reckless choices, to unworthy people. Constantly hating on, cheating on, disrespecting on; others. Is your mind like a black lung, trying so hard to breathe every raspy breath, but beginning to lack constant audacity. Is your mind like a roller coaster, filled with ups and downs, but only stopping when you are ready to terminate the madness. Love, Kathrine

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19

Art by: Virginia Keister

12 20 18 16


Ode to Vinyl Brittany Salmons The sweet and savory sound, so pure With each crackle and turn, from needle To head shell, each fiber of sound ensures The everlasting rhythm of music never feeble Each strum quickly pulsing through every vein The forceful blade which never stops turning Only a human hand can kill the flow Or restart it entirely creating a chain May music never die but keep burning Always bigger, always make it grow Music will never lose its allure Records sit timeless, like an eagle Music itself was made to insure To motivate people who are equal With the death of vinyl comes only pain

11 23 1311 Julia Smith


12 24 14


After “In this short life” by Emily Dickenson Tyara McLeod In theory we are alive This world we call home, our Short comings are what we define as just aspects of Life, yet is it true That love heals all pain we endure yet, Only kindness repeals all evil thrown at us, it’ll never Last all eternity, or An infinity. Every day of the Hour someone dies beneath our feet’s. How is it so common and easily ignored that so Much hatred in this world exist. I don’t know How people stand it. Little effort Is all we need. Within our darkest souls, is Our brightest knowledge. Power is only what we can’t handle.

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Connor Mulligan


Land of the Free, Home of the Brave Sarah Bailey Land of the free, home of the brave Isn’t this a land meant to save? Ideology shoved down our throats; In reality- we all came on boats… They say we are free, but what about them? We close our borders to those in need. Banished from our soil as if they’re weeds. We are all immigrants- how can this stand? Land of the free, home of the brave? Children drown, and never know freedom, They are turned away from America’s kingdom. Our constitution should keep us safe… Instead, refugees are met with strife! Mr. Man, who are you to keep them out of this Land of the free, home of the brave?

Julie Dodsen

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John Hodges

913 17 John Hodges 13


Hope Julia Stowe “Hope�, the word that only comes in whispers is not to be spoken of when the children are around, and thing by thing the world ends. with fangs, talons, and feathers abounding that thing we call Hope perches so demure in the seventh circle of Hell the last of its weaknesses tied down soul by soul the world ends and with the last of its curious majesty it sings like Hope is still alive the last notes following the tune of death without hearing anything the people of earth still believe in Hope words of lies they don’t know are true and unknowingly never believe that Hope stops for the Devil at the gates of Heaven all of the Hope is still there

Kathryn Colores

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Roses for the Dead Maya Lee In smiles and laughter I hide the most important elements of my identity. The brutality I have been exposed to that has my mind screaming for help and my heart craving love. Although, I speak my mind often, I feel as if I am mute, as if I am unheard. I don’t remember exactly when I learned silence. It may be a never-ending lesson, one of pain and regret. My entire life in one. I learned silence in a bathroom stall, malicious words engraved on the walls with my name attached; like tattoos on skin, I was seven. I learned silence when I lay in bed, an older friend, her unwanted hands glued to my chest and waist, I was eight. I learned silence when my voice became just noise and everything I said was greeted with the backlash of a hand, I was nine. I learned silence when my friends told me who I was based on the color of my skin and not the thoughts inside my head, I was ten. I learned silence when the black kids at school would identify me as white because “daddy had money� but to the white kids uneducated black girl maintained my name, I was eleven. 19


I learned silence when i only felt pretty when I was starving myself, all the girls began to love my illness more than they loved me, I was twelve. I learned silence at night with razor blades and sleeping pills, accompanying, as anxiety shook my pain away, I was thirteen. I learned silence when my depression held me a hostage in my own head with no assistance of freeing myself, I was fourteen. I learned silence when I had my first boyfriend, my temple body treated like a party, a party where the remaining parts of me were not welcome, I was fifteen. I learned silence when I craved being in the arms of a woman more than a man; my sexuality suddenly became a “phase”, I was sixteen. I learned silence when my mother left. She unapologetically denounced me a new in a home that doesn’t feel like home anymore, seventeen. I am seventeen and have been silenced all my life for being alive, for being human. Dead people receive more flowers than living ones; My soul’s been dead a long time. Nobody brought me flowers when I died.

Myra Solis

20


21


Alaina Bubeck

22


To the Third Step Kasey Vandenboom To the third step from the bottom that never squeaks in anger or betrayal as it carries my weight. You’re the stair that never rats me out, but rather, tunes a deaf ear and focuses a blind eye to the deception in my home. You’re honest but never kind and you never shelter me from what needs to be heard. And I’m bitterly thankful for the many times you’ve carried to me the hushed tones, barely audible voices that stay concealed beneath the electric hum of the television and dishwasher. I’ve grown attached but also weary because it’s sad when a lifeless stair can be more honest with you than your own family.

23

Myra Solis


Alaina Bubeck Alone? Sarah Bailey Our souls are filled with stars like a galaxy. Our souls are filled with stars like a galaxy. We equate ourselves to space and yet we are miniscule. We equate ourselves to space and yet we are miniscule. Equate our souls to a galaxy, Miniscule; yet like space we ourselves are filled with stars. We are nothing in this universe, ineffectual. We are nothing in this universe, ineffectual. The planets will spin, the sun will explode The planets will spin, the sun will explode ineffectual , nothing, this universe will explode We are the planets, in spin will the sun? Our existence in this universe is extraordinary, Our existence in this universe is extraordinary, But how permanent can we be, if we are ineffectual? But how permanent can we be, if we are ineffectual? Permanent in this existence, ineffectual world, How can we be extraordinary, but if we are is our? Extraordinary - yet not at all‌ a happy coincidence Extraordinary - yet not at all‌ a happy coincidence How ignorant it is for us to assume we are alone in the galaxy. How ignorant it is for us to assume we are alone in the galaxy. Extraordinary? How ignorant it is, happy we are not alone in the galaxy? Yet for us to assume a coincidence at all. 24


Alaina Bubeck

25 25 3725

Alaina Bubeck Alaina Bubeck Alaina Bubeck


Levi Lopez Dear you, I know nothing, too. We glare and dare, we fall And break, care and hope, But we tear through.

Create creeds of heavens, But greed forsakes the means. Seeming we’re all hateful, While chasing for our dreams. And I see the subtle rise Through every generation. Always going forward, With no destination. Sincerely, You P.S. I’m scared, too.

Alaina Bubeck

Crosby Wood

26 38 26


Spectrum Amber Dellinger Crow-darkness when you close your eyes. Cherries, blood, lipstick on your lip. Tangerines, pumpkins, orange butterflies. Bluebirds, whales, ice on which you slip. Cherries, blood, lipstick on your lips. Grapes, violets, bruises on your skin. Bluebirds, whales, ice on which you slip Clouds, whipped cream, wolf in sheepskin. Grapes, violets, bruises on your skin. Flamingoes, erasers to take back your mistake. Clouds, whipped cream, wolf in sheepskin. Tennis balls, turning leaves, eyes of a snake. Flamingoes, erasers to take back your mistake. Silver spoons, coins you try to spend. Tennis balls, turning leaves, eyes of a snake. Ice, fishbowl, diamond on the ring. Silver spoons, coins you try to spend. Tangerines, pumpkins, orange butterflies. Ice, fishbowl, diamond on the ring.

27


E v e r y Ti m e Brittany Salmons Every time I look up to the sky- a sea The birds don’t swim but fly by sea W h a t i s t h e d i f f e re n c e b e t w e e n t h e m ? A t m o s p h e re a n d o c e a n ? D o e s t h e o c e a n s e y e s e a ? What foul beasts lay above? Or those below? T h e o c e a n h a s d e p t h s , t h e y s k y, b u t a d r y s e a What is left between heaven and earth? T h e o c e a n . L a n d m e re l y f l a t u n l i k e t h y s e a It is possible to fly in the ocean B u t i t i s n o t i n t h e s k y ’s s e a

21 Ceren Onasci

22 28


The Clouds

Lindsay Powell “Hope” cannot survive on mere wishing. Is hope enough for wishing to survive, however? The velvet clouds are parched from a thing with dry insignificance. With it’s small wings and peaceful feathers it tries to water the clouds that are begging for a pint of hope. It perches on the weeping windowsill in that old shop that sells the watering cans that can parch the soul and feed the heart and bury the dead bodies. It sings melodies of old times when the hope we all long for was the tune of happiness and whimsical cheer. Without it, the soul begins to decay, the tune begins to die, words begin to become abhorring, and the unjust cries of those clouds never ceases to hush, never stops to think or look at the tiny drops beginning to dry. All day long the clouds continue to weep. (Now read only the first word of every line and you’ll find Emily Dickinson’s poem “314.”)

29 29

Elizabeth Finnessy


30


31

Willow Johal


Cracking Levi Lopez We’re cracking as society pushes against us. We’re cracking as society pushes against us. You say, put all the pressure on you. You say, put all the pressure on you. You cracking, society pushes, on you Against us, all the pressure put. We’re as broken as backstabbed hearts, broken as backstabbed hearts. We’re lonely, feeling just that. We’re lonely, feeling just that. Hearts feeling broken, lonely, Just that we’re as backstabbed. Isolationism forced us in our own world. Isolationism forced us in our own world. While nationalism fueled those thoughts. While nationalism fueled those thoughts. Nationalism fueled those worlds, While isolationism put us in our own thoughts. As society pushes broken nationalism against us, While we’re cracking, the pressure fueled as lonely hearts. All you forced, just that. Detail by Abigail Hogan

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Maegan Wilson

Sis Julia Stowe The family jewel, through pride through years I’ll be with you through your green and blue years I can see your light shine dashing pink With triumph over you flew years Baby your purple shines regal like mine Bursting bright like the sky on New Year’s Honeychild, when your anger cries electric yellow I’m gonna listen if it takes you years There’s no one like you, miss Ruby red A long time awaits. Enjoy the view. Years. 33


In My Wallet Alex Hart In my wallet I had three photographs. One of soldiers on land over what appeared to be the ocean in all its graininess but was really bodies, just bodies and bodies. One of a sailor on a ship under what appeared to be clouds in all their graininess but were really sunken lives, just lives and lives. One of a girl in a tree under what appeared to be a tree in all its graininess but was really dreams, just dreams and dreams. And now that my wallet has been stolen I weep for whoever sees them now, should they not look closely.

Myra Solis

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If I Were a Bucket Trista Medlin If I were a bucket I would hold more than water I would gather shells by the sea And hold them safe from the waves I would hold more than water Gathering apples from a golden tree I would shield them from birds flying high above I can carry the wishes of Gods Gathering apples from a golden tree I would bring forth song to the world I can carry the wishes of the Gods And transfer goods to colder places I would bring forth song to the world Saving humanity one piece at a time And transfer goods to colder places If I were a bucket

someone to say it w

now I’m left, tired and 27 17 35

Julia Smith


Blind Trust Kasey Vandenboom

Now I see that I have blindly trusted. I have listened to years of slanted truth that have eaten away at my youth, devoured the innocence I kept hidden away only to be ruined by a forbidden fruit. Plums, sweet fruit that tempt the eyes of the weak. If temptation were to be condensed to one item, it would be the glistening glass bottles in the trash, strategically buried to conceal the bitter scent of intoxication and to keep me unknowingly trapped in an icebox of deception. And now the truth has reared its unpleasant head, caused me pain in which I know I must remember but still long to forget. I wear a mask that you cannot see. A mask that hides the things I wish were not there. Like the anger and sadness and hurt I probably couldn’t have avoided. I can’t help but feel that I need saving from this contorted reality. I want for was a joke, that I no longer have to endure strained conversation over breakfast as he stares with light, hopeful eyes that beg for me to forgive. Because it’s hard to forgive when he never told me he was sorry. The apologies, they never came. Only lies that were “for my own good”. Told in order to keep my own delicious fantasy alive. A facade so intricately fabricated, made to look sweet innocent, and so desireable. When in reality they were eating away at me like acid. So drained, in a situation that isn’t a joke, stranded in reality, stranded in the cold. 36


The persistence of memory by Salvador Dali. Brittany Salmons As the clocks melt away In the blistering sun Time melts away Until there is none Your memory fades As do the clocks It never gains Not like the time‌ Backgrounds fade Details disappear But memory never dies Not like the clocks‌ The persistence of memory Of detail Of feeling Never quite melt Melt, melt, away.

37

Lauren Mussler


Maegan Wilson

38

32


Ceren Onasci On Viewing a Wire Sculpture of a Wolf by Mat Szulik Trista Medlin

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Steely eyed gaze Bared jaws showing piercing teeth Strong paws ripped with power Energy rising, Blood burning for the hunt Without a target to unleash upon, she waits Waits silent and contained She is no beast of nature. Nature worships her, nurtures her, supports her. Through the quiet, a rustle is heard. Turning her large head, softened with fur, She knows the hunt has begun. The race! It crashes into the silence with abundant rage! Rage ‌ not of fierce, but of longing. Longing for the race to be through Not to capture her prey, she is wise beyond this. The race of life Tides have turned, her race is nearly done. She will return to nature, to nurture, to support Stillness overcomes her She has reached the finish Peace has won.


Me Tyara McLeod Stretching bones like a tree. Still growing yet so beautifully. Hair strands tangled like the licorice you hate. My eyes big and brown like a dirty lake.

34 Pheobe Degroote 40


35 41

Alaina Bubeck


Why does a volcano erupt? Lindsay Powell Because she is feeling unconditional pain. She begins to look upon herself in vain. Her lava boils deep within her Until life becomes nothing but a blur. Her ignorance and irreparable loss Cover her soul as a soft green moss As she blossoms gorgeous blooms of pain, Her loved ones are put on intimate alert. Her soft center turns to boiling flames, But somehow she feels no sense of shame Impatiently she hurries to explode, And puts on quite the adolescent show. Her friends and loved ones collapse in distress, For she most certainly settled for less.

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Distortion Preston Hewett

Back Cover: Ashley Arensdorf

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