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Signatures 2022 Marquette University High School 3401 West Wisconsin Avenue Milwaukee, WI 53208 signatures@muhs.edu www.muhs.edu (414) 933-7220

Dedicated to Gary E. Skinner who worked with Signatures for 36 years

37th Edition

Table of Contents Terrier 4 Henry Merz Mad Jack 5 Jim Groth The Sin 6 Jack Cavanaugh Valentine, Texas 7 Max Gutierrez The One of All 8 Cooper Wood Stormy Sky 11 Liam Nicholson The American Dream 12 Advaith Nair “Do You Ever Feel” 13 Andrew McLaughlin The Bridge Over the 14 Cooper Wood River Importantin Exposing Touch 17 Dante Militello Free 18 Nathaniel Clayton Picture of Mt. Massive 20-21 Edward Mooney The Mountainside 23 Mikail Schlegel Piano Piece I Wrote 24 Ethan Brown Instead of Homework A Walk Home 26 Owen Bell The Dark “Night” 27 Erick Martin-O’Kelley Earthdillo 27 Nicholas Ertl Reach 28 Anonymous Rising Tide 28 Charlie O’Connor Wrap 29 Anonymous Invisible Checkers 29 Timothy Stuckslager An Instrument of Change 30 Jack O’Brien Market Up 31 Ben Colella Refuge 32-33 Teagan Fowler Quidquid Extra Portas 34 Nicholas Ertl Slipstream 34 Jack Regan Crees en la Muerte 35 Luis Vazquez Chavez To Shovel 36 Declan McCormick A Winter’s Walk 39 Charlie Doucette Thank You Dad 40 Jonny Adel

“Primal Age”-Thomas Karczewski ‘25 (Pencil Drawing)

The Maker of Directions Know-Ledge Someday Reaching For the Stars Surreal Transformation Or Ipporg Yelnif Perspective Cars Suffocating From Safety Masc Residential Painting With No Color Broken Glasses Gus Hilltopper Meltdown From Burdens Dream Girl Holy Heights Where the Sidewallk Begins Say Freeze Corrosive Touch Lavender Farewell Hoops The Drop of Life

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Robert Richardson Trevor Waltersdorf Charlie O’Connor Daniel Pereira Rowan McCann Anonymous Finley Groppi Tenny Okunseri Anthony DiCastri Henry Merz Nathaniel Clayton Teagan Fowler Andrew McLaughlin Owen Bell Gus Kasun Gus Kasun Francis Anggara Tristen Yang Ben Colella Caleb Yatchak Aiden Washington Dante Militello Andrew McLaughlin Declan McCormick Max Gutierrez Nicholas Ertl

“Terrier”-Henry Merz ‘23 (Digital Art)

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Mad Jack The man with the sideburn scar A half smile stretching to one ear As he slays the red band gangs on the bulging hills His knife untouched, dormant in its sheath His pistol lay behind him next to receiver of its last round His one tool to win, his mighty mechanic gun Each second adding to his massive count His scar suddenly burns with the fire of a red bullet Turning he sees his enemy A man with a sideburn scar Stretching from ear to corner of his grin As he slays the comrades of his other They stare at each others face Marvel at the sight Drop their one hope of victory Unsheathe their unruly knives Then sprint towards the other Screaming their patriot songs Meet in fiery embrace As the reinforcements roll in They spot two men Cleaning the other’s gun Tending the others wounds Respect for the other keeping their long lasting peace Two gods of war by the other’s standards The guns turn to canes of steel And helmets to hairs of gray Each visits the other on the tenth of each month At that spot they plan their next attack on the next enemy Sometimes a red band, other times one of blue But always till the day they cease breath gods of war with sideburn scar -Jim Groth ‘23

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The Sin I am not a man, but a sinner Comforted by hurt and confused by happiness Get close to me and you too will feel what I feel Come closer, I have a story to tell you There once was a place of love Two would go and sit Taking in the feelings Silence was a virtuous gift the two had They understood one another without having to speak Holding each other close, softly speaking about their hunger The need is great in this place Starved by the world, the only food given is in here They would like to be in a place called peace But are not welcome because of their never-ending love The Lord is a shepherd only to sheep, not to stray dogs People outside are cruel “That's not real” and “You don’t feel that way” is the doctrine which they follow They hurt because of this The food they could so easily give is held under a white cloth and given only to the righteous Its pure outer shell is easily broken to see darkness I want to be her I want to love like her My heart in her skin would look so incredible But, that too is a grave sin So I sin Like the coyote in the night, I silently do my damage Angry it makes you Whole it makes me -Jack Cavanaugh ‘25

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“Valentine, Texas”- Max Gutierrez ‘22 (Drawing)

The One of All I have been selected to participate in the first ever trial of time-travel technology and words fail to explain how incredibly ecstatic I am. I could not begin to explain the math or physics necessary for such an event, but I know that this may be the greatest scientific breakthrough in all of human history, perhaps even greater than the usage of a rock as a simple tool. My body will not actually be sent through time, but my mind will be. I will be reborn as a person in the past or future and I will look exactly like the person whose mind I am dwelling in. I will inherit all of their natural gifts and flaws, but I will also maintain all of my own, including memory of my present. I will be able to live the life I design for this person, even changing history. It has been explained to me that if I were to go back in time as say, James A. Garfield, then my mind would be placed into the young president’s newborn body. I would be left-handed, look exactly like Garfield, and be elected president of the United States if I emulated his campaign. Then again, if I were to go on a killing spree as James Garfield, he would be remembered as a mass murderer instead of the twentieth president. When James Garfield then died, I would return to my present-day body with almost no time having passed. For my first journey, I will not be becoming anybody important because we (myself and the scientists who designed the time machine) would not want any major changes to the timestream. Instead, I will be going into the body of a lowly English soldier in World War I. Off I go. I lived the life of a young Englishman named Ronald Turner. It was interesting having to learn how to walk and speak all over again. Naturally, I remembered how to walk and speak, but the trouble was in coercing young Ronald’s body to do these things. I experienced his short life; his childhood, his years in school, working at a tanner’s shop in Blackpool, and his death at the hands of a German machine gunner in the Battle of the Somme. The moment he died, I found myself waking in my present-day body. The scientists informed me that the transfer back into my ordinary body took essentially less than a second. 8

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I do feel a little bad that the details of poor Ronald’s life will never be known by anyone other than me, but he was chosen specifically for that reason. The only time I risked a change in the timestream was during a particularly boring grammar school lecture. In Ronald’s nine-year-old hand, I absent-mindedly scribbled something that looked like a cathode-ray tube. Thankfully, when Mrs. Robertson grabbed it, she couldn’t make any sense of it. Ronald received quite the beating for losing attention in class, but it was nothing compared to the potentially catastrophic effects of television being introduced several decades before it should have been. I quickly burned that piece of paper as soon as Ronald got home. Now, I will be going back to a different time, now with a little more freedom. The scientists are wondering what would happen if a few more variables were changed. I think of it as moving the timestream a little to the right the same way someone would move a couch a little to the right to see how the room would look. Off I go. I am ashamed to admit that on my last trip, quite a bit more was changed than I intended. I became Charles Marlowe, an Elizabethan playwright and friend of William Shakespeare that I have not heard of since some college English class. Unfortunately, my relative ignorance about Marlowe and his work proved to be my undoing. It began when a man in a bar tried to attack Marlowe with a knife, so I fought back and disarmed the assailant. As I have since learned, Marlowe was supposed to have died in that bar fight. I made matters worse by the fact that I knew truly nothing about what he had written, so I adapted some great films from my time into what passed for iambic pentameter and surpassed Shakespeare in fame and fortune. I started with films that were fairly easy to adapt towards an Elizabe than audience. One example was turning “The Godfather” into a simple family drama set in Italy. Another was making “Titanic” into a tragic romance story set on a boat. After a few years, I began to get more adventurous and before I had realized what I had done, Queen Elizabeth was quoting “Star Wars” to me. My foolish actions only seem to affect the realms of literature and popular culture, so it cannot hurt to go back and make some changes on purpose. I played guitar when I was young, so I am hoping to go back in time and maybe shake up the music business. Off I go. ||||||||||

I was Buddy Holly, the legendary singer and guitarist who, in one way or another, influenced nearly every rock and pop musician since then. I played and released countless classics of my own time, turning Buddy Holly into more than an early progenitor of rock music. Under my control, he became a living legend and hit machine. It certainly helped that I knew that the real (I mean the one I am familiar with) Buddy Holly died in a plane crash in 1958. With that knowledge, Buddy Holly survived until 2008, churning out every great song I could remember how to play. His natural aptitude with the guitar was certainly helpful, giving me an edge in some songs that I never would have been able to play with my own relatively paltry skills. Back in the present, the only notable changes are in the field of music, so I see no reason not to continue going back and experimenting. Obviously, nobody else realizes that something has changed, so it could do no harm. I killed Hitler. I became one of the first followers of Adolf Hitler’s cause in order to have the chance to shoot him. When that chance came, I took it. Now, the world is so different, I hardly recognize it. When I came back after that trip, the scientists guiding me were wearing Soviet Union military uniforms, which quite scared me. I do not know what to do now since I am afraid of causing too much damage to the timestream. What would that even look like? What would be necessary for time to unravel? My best guess for both of those answers is something that no human, myself included, could imagine. Now, I must try to fix my mistakes. I can only hope that I do not make it any worse. Off I go. My greatest fears have come true. In going back to try fixing the timestream, I learned that my actions cannot be fully undone. I was the thug who stabbed Charles Marlowe. I was the pilot who crashed Buddy Holly’s plane. I was the machine gunner who riddled Ronald Turner full of bullets without even knowing his face. I was Adolf Hitler! The pure pain I felt every day of that miserable life would have been enough to drive me insane if I did not have hope that I was saving my future. When I returned from all these expeditions to the past, still the world was changed. It was not as radically different as it once had been, yet there were still some minor fluctuations. I have to go back again. I have to save everyone. Off I go. 10

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The world has not yet been saved, and I do not know how to save it. I lived the life of every human, all in a futile attempt to change what had been irreversibly changed. I was the wealthiest of kings and the poorest of beggars. I was the first man alive at the dawn of time and the last man alive at the end of our race. I built the first tools and the first atom bomb. I was Charlemagne, Oliver Cromwell, and Carl Sagan. I was Queen Victoria, Joan of Arc, and Jane Goodall. All their lives are memories of mine, trillions of lives and all their memories floating through my head. The last time I return to my present body, which had only aged a day, I look at the scientists who invented this cursed machine. And I know that I lived their entire lives. Their memories are mine. Their minds are mine. Their minds are mine but their bodies are not. Despite all this, I still cannot change time into precisely what it was before my errant adventures. I always make one small mistake or my ignorance gets the better of me. I have been everyone in all of history except for...That could be it! The one person I have not become is myself. If I go back in time and become myself, then I could dissuade myself from ever trying to go back in time. It would be a great risk, but I do not have any other choice. I must become myself. Here I go again. -Cooper Wood ‘23 “Stormy Sky”-Liam Nicholson ‘22 (Photo)

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The American Dream Oppressors were controlling, Brothers were dividing, Foreign forces were attacking, The American Dream remains unceasing. Tumbleweeds are rolling, Winds are whistling. Lakes are freezing, The American Dream remains long-standing. Civilians were dreaming, Bells were ringing. Firecrackers were cracking, The Dream remains soaring. -Advaith Nair ‘23

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“Do You Ever Feel”-Andrew McLaughlin ‘23 |||||||||| 13 (Photo)

The Bridge Over the River Importantin The young Crown Prince Scionagon of Ignor and Ralph the Wizard had rode through the week and stopped one night at the charming village of Tree River Fields. Surely enough, there were trees, and a field in the middle of town, and the great River Importantin was just a few miles away. They marched their horses to the inn in the middle of town and took them around to the back, where a stableboy took the reins and asked what the names of the horses were. “My stallion is named Hay There,” said Scionagon, “but he answers to ‘hey’.” “And my mustang is called One-Trick Pony,” said Ralph. Scionagon and Ralph walked into the inn, The Drunken Chicken. It was a fairly well-kept inn with round tables, yet few patrons at this fairly early hour. A fat man waddled out from the kitchen, tying an apron around his giant stomach. A fat innkeeper!, Scionagon thought. That means he must be trustworthy. “May I help ye in some ways, sirs?” the innkeeper asked. “Why yes,” said Ralph, “My companion and I would like a table. And a chicken.” “A drunken chicken?” asked the innkeeper. “What’s the difference, good man?” “Well, a drunken chicken is filled with ale. The finest ale around. If you want a sober chicken, you’ll have to go across the street,” said the innkeeper with a scowl. “I think we shall do that, because my young ward is beneath the legal drinking age,” explained Ralph. As Ralph and Scionagon stood up to leave, the innkeeper proclaimed, “There is no actual alcohol here in Tree River Fields! We live in a world created by children, after all. Besides, The Sober Chicken across the street has a skinny innkeeper. The worst kind.” “Then I suppose we might as well stay,” said Ralph, sitting down. Scionagon sat down beside Ralph and they waited for a few minutes before the innkeeper brought out the drunken chicken. The companions took hold of their silverware and be14

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gan to cut up the chicken. Scionagon put a piece to his mouth as a flaming fireball flew straight through the door and right past their table, singeing Ralph’s gigantic beard, before disintegrating the wall on the far end of the room, exposing the kitchen. The innkeeper ran out wielding a warhammer and stopped at their table. “I told you. Skinny innkeepers. The worst kind.” He hefted his warhammer and ran across the street, letting out a mighty warcry. Scionagon grabbed Ralph and sprinted outside where the stableboy was sitting by the horses. “Ow!” yelled Scionagon. “Were you burned by the flames of war? What is wrong?!” asked Ralph. “No, I bit my tongue,” explained Scionagon. The stableboy ran over. He had his sleeves rolled up, and the brand of a dark sword could be clearly seen on both of his arms. “Where did you receive those markings, young man?” asked Ralph, grabbing the boy. The boy looked shocked and said, “I was born with them, sir.” “How old are you?” asked Ralph. “Thirteen,” said the boy. “There is no time,” shouted Scionagon. “The Sober Chicken is coming for us!” “Fine then,” said Ralph. “This boy must come too, though. He is very important.” The three of them jumped onto their horses and rode off into the night. Scionagon and Ralph rode their horses away from Tree River Fields towards that mighty flowing River Importantin. “What is your name?” Ralph asked the stableboy from The Drunken Chicken. “Jhon. Jhon Normal,” said the boy. “Well, Jhon,” said Ralph, “those markings on your arms seem to indicate that you are a very special boy. Like, ancient prophecy special. Those markings are of the legendary Sword Darkex, which you are fated to wield in order to destroy evil, according to prophecy.” “What does Darkex mean?” asked Jhon. “Is it Elvish?” “I have no idea what it means,” said Ralph, “but the important thing in a fantasy story is sounding cool, not making sense.” ||||||||||

The travelers rode through the night and encountered only one fellow traveler on the road, for it was getting late. He was a stout little dwarf, but what dwarves aren’t, right? He had a waraxe strapped to his back despite walking with a sturdy pony that could probably carry it. Scionagon asked him about it because he found it quite peculiar. “I like to keep my enemies close and my weapons even closer, oh ha ha ha!” said the dwarf, merrily. “But in all seriousness, I am heading to reclaim my family homeland in the Foggy Mountains, so I must keep my axe at the ready. You never know when an agent of the enemy could attack.” “Good sir, I am no geography scholar, but even I know that the Foggy Mountains are in the opposite direction,” said Scionagon. “Well, I never said I was in a hurry! Oh ho ho ho ho ho!” laughed the jolly dwarf. “Say, what brings you three travelers through this country on a night like this, hm?” “We are on a quest for the Holy Grail,” said Scionagon. The young prince proceeded to introduce themselves, describe their quest, explain that the king of Ignor had sent them, how Jhon was destined to wield the Sword Darkex, and their eventual attack on Morghathrahnd, the evil enemy to the south who could potentially destroy the whole world if he got ahold of the Holy Grail. During the whole regaling, Ralph was staring at Scionagon angrily and making a cutting motion through the air by his neck. Scionagon could not tell what it meant, but he assumed that it was some sort of magic ritual. “The quest you are on sounds worthy,” said the dwarf, “so worthy that I think I shall join you on it. I have long wanted to search for the greatest treasure of them all: the Holy Grail!” “Then come with us, sir dwarf,” said Scionagon, “besides, I was thinking that our party would need more than three people, maybe, oh I don’t know, nine? What is your name, sir dwarf?” “My name is Fili Cheese-Stake, good sir,” said the dwarf. Fili turned his pony around and rode with Scionagon, Ralph, and Jhon until they reached the flowing River Importantin. They rode through the rest of the night, through lands of fallen metal towers that once touched the sky. These were ruins of another age, mysterious and haunting. When they reached the river, a long iron bridge straddled both sides, but a man wearing leather skins and holding a greatsword that was much too big for the average person was in the party’s way. “Stop there, travelers,” the giant man said. “I am Gronan the Unyielding, and you shall not cross my bridge, for I shall not yield.” 16

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“Your bridge?” asked Scionagon. “I am the prince of the lost kingdom of Ignor, and these lands once belonged to my ancestors. If it is anybody’s bridge, then it is mine.” Gronan let out a laugh nearly as hearty as Fili’s, but with a cold touch of malice. He said, “I have stood guard at this bridge for many long years. Your ancestors may be the kings of lost Ignor, but mine are the chieftains of lost Barberos. Guarding this bridge was the best I could hope for in life ever since Morghathrhand sent his wizards into the land of my people. Now, I am a lowly bridge guardian, murdering all who cross this bridge without paying the toll and feeding them to the Snake Goddess.” “Who is this Snake Goddess?” asked Ralph. “The giant in the water,” said Gronan. Scionagon looked into the river and he saw a giant rock. “If your snake goddess is down there, she’s probably been fossilized,” said Scionagon. “Or maybe eaten by a giant fish.” “No!” yelled Gronan, “It cannot be!” “But it is,” said Scionagon. “We are going to destroy Morghathrahnd. It will be a good chance to appease your rock, I mean, Snake Goddess…” “Morghathrahnd, the evil lord of darkness, you say?!” said Gronan. “I shall come with you. A noble quest if there ever was one.” Fili said “Join the club! Oh ho ho ho.” -Cooper Wood ‘22 “Exposing Touch”-Dante Militello ‘22 (Drawing)

Free My phone wakes me up with a soothing melody. Groaning, I roll out of bed and go turn it off. Then I smile. I remember that today’s the start of Lake Weekend. Excited, I quickly go downstairs and get my breakfast ready. Cereal, a biscuit, and sausages, as always. And as always, delicious. I go upstairs and get my swimsuit. As I open my bedroom, I see the sticky note on the door. I put it there late last night for some reason. I grab it and read it.

Take off the mask today. Be free.

I sigh, remembering what that meant. Last night I was thinking about a documentary I watched in a class a while ago. I forgot most of it, probably because I slept through parts, but I remembered that there was something about a mask in it. A figurative mask, I believe. I shrug and go put my swimsuit on. I grab my towel, sunscreen, sunglasses, and my camping bag, loaded with extra clothes. The tent and sleeping bag are already in my car. I packed most of my stuff last night. I lock my dorm room door, hop in my car, and hit the road. Lake Aquene isn’t that far from my dorm, but it still takes me about a half hour to get there. Eventually I get there and pull into the parking lot. As I do, I remember what the sticky note really meant. I think about it for a little while, then I decide that I’ll do it. I’ll take the mask off. Or at least I’ll try. Saying and doing are two completely different things. I see Kasem nearby and I walk up to him. “Kasem,” I say, “Where’s our campsite?” “Naren!” He says, giving me a hug. “So good to see you. How are you doing today?” “Absolutely amazing,” I reply. “Awesome,” he says, letting go of me. “We’re in campsite 5. Come on, I’ll show you where it is.” Kasem helps me unload and carries my sleeping bag as we walk to the campsite. “So how’s your week been?” Kasem asks. “Eh,” I say. “It’s been okay.” I smile. “It’s getting better now.” “Great,” he says. “Glad to hear it.” 18

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We get to our campsite, and I see Anitelu, Angela, Liv, and Enye talking near the firepit. “Hey guys,” I say as I approach. Immediately Anitelu rushes toward me and gives me a gigantic hug. I return the favor, until Enye walks up to me. I let go of Anitelu and shake Enye’s hand, as we lean in and clap each other’s backs. Then I see Angela and we fistbump. Liv smiles and gives me a quick hug. “Alright,” I ask. “Who here’s ready to go swimming?” “I’m already in my swimsuit,” Kasem says, “and I already went to the bathroom.” “Thanks so much,” Enye says sarcastically. “Have you ever heard of TMI?” “I have no idea what you’re talking about.” “I have the floats all ready,” Angela says. Liv just smiles. “Ok,” I say. “Let me pitch my tent first please.” Everyone helps me set up the tent, and immediately afterwards we head back down to the lake to go swimming. “Well that was fun,” I say, laying face-down on a float, letting my legs drift in the refreshingly cold water. “Yeah,” Angela says. “Who knew Anitelu hates cold water?” “Heeey!” Anitelu says. “At least the sun’s nice and warm. I dried off nice and fast.” “But you’ll have to put your feet in the water in order to get off of the float,” Liv points out. “Crap.” “Does anyone have the hackysack?” Enye asks. “I do,” I say, smiling. I’ve been smiling a lot in the past few hours. It’s refreshing. “And that was a rotten trick you played on me, taking a couple steps back each time I turned around to get the ball.” “It was all Enye’s idea,” Liv says matter-of-factly. “I’m sure it was.” Liv smirks. “When do you guys want to go get ice cream?” Kasem asks. “Maybe a little later,” Enye says. “Once we’ve all had some more time to relax.” We just drift around for a while. The sun’s nice and warm on my back, and the cold water feels amazing. The lake is so beautiful and the trees are a luscious shade of green. There’s a couple fluffy white clouds in the sky, just enough to provide some shade. ||||||||||

I write my name in the water with my finger. Naren. My father named me that. He said that it meant superior man, but I was confused by what he meant. What defines a man, when you really think about it? Is it stoicism? Laughter? Being part of the male stereotype? Or is it something else? Something completely different? Maybe“So do you guys want ice cream now?” Kasem asks, jolting me out of my musing. “Yes,” Anitelu says. “You can have your ice cream now.” We all start paddling slowly towards the shore. It takes us a few minutes to get there, and Liv gets there first. No surprise there, she was a high school swimmer. When we get to shore, and after Anitelu grumpily walks through the cold water again, I offer to drive everyone. My car’s big enough. “Party in Naren’s car!” Kasem yells. “Ha ha. No,” I say. “And before anyone asks, driver picks the music.” “Oh come on,” Anitelu says. “Anitelu,” Angela says. “Everyone knows your music taste sucks.” “She’s right,” Liv says. “Fine,” Anitelu says. His eyes brighten up. “Then I call shotgun!” He runs to my car and tries to unlock the door, but it doesn’t open. “Anitelu,” I say, smiling. “Perhaps it would help if I opened the car.” Kasem starts laughing. I smile at Anitelu, unlock the doors, and he immediately hops into the car. I take my time, enjoying the fresh woodland air, and slowly get into my seat. I turn the car on, the music starts playing, and we’re on the road. “That steak was good,” I say, rubbing my stomach. “Thanks Angela.” After we went for ice cream, we went to a waterfall. It was the first waterfall I’ve seen that wasn’t on a postcard, and it was absolutely beautiful. The sound of the falling water was calming, there was a nice breeze, and there weren’t any bugs out, so we got pretty lucky. When we came back to the park, Angela made steaks for dinner, and I brought out some frensh mangoes that I packed. Combined with Kasem’s honey-and-butter rolls and Enye’s homemade lemonade, dinner was perfect. One of the best meals I’ve ever had. “No problem,” she says. “And thanks for the lemonade Enye.” Enys nods. Right now we’re sitting in front of our firepit and letting out food digest as the fire crackles softly. It’s nice 20

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and warm out so we decided to move out sleeping bags around the fire and sleep outside. “What do you guys want to do now?” Liv asks. “We could sing some songs,” Anitelu suggests. “Yeah,” Enye says. “No campfire’s complete without campfire songs.” “I’ll go get my guitar,” Kasem says, getting up and going back to his tent. “Who wants to start?” Liv asks once Kasem returns. “I’ll go,” Angela says. “What will you be singing?” Kasem asks. “Is it a song I can play?” “I don’t think so,” she says. “Sorry.” She coughs a little, then starts singing the words to “Fix You,” by Coldplay. I smile. I love this song. And I join in on the chorus. By the time she finishes, we’re all singing along at the end. We all clap afterwards, and she nods her head. “All right,” Anitelu says. “My turn. Kasem, can you play “Give Me Love?” He nods, and Anitelu starts singing. Angela starts rocking her head back and forth, listening to Anitelu’s great voice, and I do the same. I have to admit it; I really like this song. When he finishes, Liv volunteers to sing. She has the most eclectic music taste in our group other than mine, but nobody here knows the full range of my music tastes. She sings a haunting version of “i love you” and again, it’s another song I really like. In my head I’m thinking of what songs I like, and I decide on a song. “Alright,” I say after Liv finishes. “My turn.” Angela, Kasem, and Enye stare at me. “What?” I ask. “None of us have heard you sing before,” Enye says softly. “We’ve heard you sing softly to yourself in the car, but never out loud.” “Go for it,” Kasem says encouragingly. “Do you need me to strum?” He gestures to his guitar, and the tension inside me dissipates. I can open up a little now. I’m around friends. But now I have to decide what song to sing. I’ve actually written a few songs, but no one’s ever heard them. Maybe tonight, they should hear one. I feel everyone’s eyes on me, patiently waiting. I cough nervously a few times, take a few deep breaths, and begin. “Picture of Mt. Massive”-Edward Mooney (Photo)

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Life was so long, life was so cold A single dead tree, alone in a field. We couldn’t fly, so we tried to die But now here we are, failing to lie. Sing me to sleep, I was so lonely. Sing me to sleep, I’ll be your only. Sing me to sleep, We’ll be lonely together. Sing me to sleep, I’ll be at peace. Sun in the dawn, stars in the night. Different but same, similar souls Calling each other, trying to see If a fairy tale end really exists. Sing me to sleep, I was so lonely. Sing me to sleep, I’ll be your only. Sing me to sleep, We’ll be lonely together. Sing me to sleep, We’ll be our peace. Similar souls always exist. You just have to see similarity. And if you find, you find a soul Who’ll always be with you, even apart. Sing me to sleep, We were so lonely. Sing me to sleep, I’ll be your only. Sing me to sleep, We’ll be open together. Sing me to sleep, We’ll be our love. Sing me to sleep, We’ll be our love. 22

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When I finish, my friends are speechless. All I can do is try to slow my pounding heart and take a few deep breaths. “Wow,” Anitelu says breathlessly. “That was amazing.” “Thanks,” I say after I’ve caught my breath. “Was that an original song?” “That was touching,” Enye says, patting me on the back, and I nod at her in thanks. She smiles. After me, Enye sings “Humans Heart” by Coldplay, and Enye finishes us off with a soft song called “Heart,” whose artist I’ve never heard of before. Then we all go to the bathroom one last time and lay down in our sleeping bags. “Hey,” Liv whispers to me. “You look happier.” “Thanks,” I whisper back. “I feel happier.” “Are you doing better now?” “Yeah,” I say. “It’s been a long year, but I’m doing better now.” “Really?” “Yeah,” I say, smiling. “Yeah.” This is the most fun I’ve had in a long time. And it’s the happiest I’ve been in an even longer time. I felt . . . free today. Even when I was singing, I felt free. Like I don’t have to hide anything. I’ve heard being free is better for you, in the long run, than hiding. So maybe I’ll do this more often. Maybe I’ll take the mask off. -Nate Clayton ‘23 “The Mountainside”-Mikail Schlegel ‘25 (Photo)

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“Piano Piece I Wrote Instead of Homework”-Ethan Brown ‘25 (Musical Composition) ||||||||||

A Walk Home Through the woods I walk A robin I see, a rock, a tree, through the woods I walk on the street to the place I call my home a place warm like bread, a place of peace, of freedom, of comfort, of love Oh, am I there yet? -Owen Bell ‘24

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“Earthdillo”-Nicholas Ertl ‘25 (Drawing)

“The Dark ‘Night’”-Erick Martin-O’Kelley ‘25 (Drawing)

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“Reach”

Though I cannot hold out my arm Reaching far, far above my heart For too long

I will embrace the pins and the needles For as long as I can If it means that you know My hand seeks yours -Anonymous “Rising Tide”-Charlie O’Connor ‘23 (Oil Painting)

“Wrap” There is a specific pain That coils tightly around my skull It is a very rare sensation That I feel is becoming more and more common When I think of you -Anonymous “Invisible Checkers”-Timothy Stuckslager ‘22 (Painting)

An Instrument of Change Music initiates an effortless practice of reflection and expression that helps us to better understand ourselves. From the lively tones of a violin to the strums of a guitar, instruments’ sound releases human emotion. We feel love, confidence, fear, and desire. We dance, sing, jump, cry, and contemplate. Our range of emotions is multiplied and magnified. That is why we feel different when listening to music. There is great satisfaction upon the mastery of an instrument. The journey it takes to control sound through the movement of fingers or a simple breath demands profound patience with no immediate or significant reward. The learning phase begins in an unpleasant manner, especially to the ear. The music you play sounds awful, but you are pleased because you produced it. However, this initial pleasure is an obstacle in itself. Some are happy with settling to learn a few notes, others believe that the instrument has more to share. Let’s not settle. Years of practice await. These are the beginning stages of playing music. This is the outcome of mastering an instrument. You have a greater understanding of yourself and your ability to have a sincere impact on others. The journey began as an opportunity to try something new. There was no end goal or expected reward. But this instrument became one with your own identity. It made you stand apart from the crowd, but it also connected you with the audience. The instrument evolved into an agent of outreach to the community. When do you know that this stage has arrived? The instrument is now a talent employed to positively change the lives of the listeners. The Church hears the music at every liturgy, students and parents hear the national anthem before the game, and families hear the music at the farmers’ market. You see their emotions. Worshippers passionately sing the hymns, fans proudly rise for the flag, and kids energetically dance, all from your music. Playing music is not a personal reward, it is a communal gift. Even when the instrument has been mastered, the musical journey has just begun. A lifetime of memories are yet to be made. -Jack O’Brien ‘23

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“Market Up”-Ben Colella ‘22 (Photo)

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“Refuge”-Teagan Fowler ‘22 (Photo)

“Quidquid Extra Portas”-Nicholas Ertl ‘25 (Drawing)

“Slipstream”-Jack Regan ‘23 (Colored Pencil Drawing)

Crees en la Muerte Crees en la muerte Crees que puedes acabar este mundo Hacerla responsable de sus pecados Bañar en la sangre de la furia Puedes invocar la última exhalación del humano Montar el corcel negro del infierno Besar la rosa carmesí Me asombro de miedo ante tu realización Me pregunto si puedes hacer lo que dices - Translation Do you believe in death Do you believe that you can end this world Hold her accountable for her sin Bathe in the blood of fury Can you invoke the last breath of the human Ride the black steed of hell Kiss the crimson rose I awe in fear to your realization I wonder can you do as you say

- Luis Vazquez Chavez ‘23

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to shovel i hate the winter, but I love to shovel. i love to shovel. for that which is monotonous always brings solace peacefully; my mind wanders its way down from those great, gray clouds. i hate the cold. it bites and stings and cracks and wrings, my wrists and skin to bleed and freeze. they say ‘cold’ is just atoms moving oh-so-very slowly. but why must physical dictations of molecular migrations dictate an annual refrain of death and plague and hate and gray andcold. i hate the cold, but i, i i love to shovel. the scraping sound the plastic makes, upon the concrete, as it rakes, the chilliness, to respite makes, the drear and gloom, away it takesi see my breath fog up. they say the cold is some manifestation or maybe, they said it was causation 36

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the water freezing in the air, and on my lips and in my hair. if snow is just water that's so freezing cold and cold is when the atoms are slow then why can't I just be so bold to move much faster than the air for then i might try and maybe id find some sense of joy as i lie still in the cold. i put down the shovel. or no, it falls away. when i pick it back up, my fingers are dead and cold. i find i need not shovel anymore, there's no snow here. a truth so striking, no chasm-defying, neuron firing, flick, flick, flick, flick, flick, flick, flick can wrap around it. the shovel helped me move, it kept the groove, the pace at which I self-soothe, but now what? it's not cold anymore, but… there's no shovel either. now centering myself in this plight of liminality i come to the following conclusion: in the absence of the cold, i should be so luckyhowever, i must not count far-fetchéd blessings; to be so warm, ||||||||||

to shovel no more, there's no snow on the floor but the floorleft to its own devices, there's no cold and snow, but they were the prices i paid; the menial vices necessary to constrain and retain even chain the floor to the ground. the floor leaves the ground when there's no snow around with no shov'ling abound the floor falls away, into the sky and so, i find the shovel; an anchor, a monolith of regularity maintaining my sanity's capacity to acclimate to the cold. i love the shovel. and i need the cold. -Declan McCormick ‘24

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“A Winter’s Walk”-Charlie Doucette ‘23 (Painting)

“Thank You Dad”-Jonny Adel ‘22 (Drawing)

The Maker of Directions From the North to the South there is the presence of life, there, everything will never experience strife From the East to the West there is protection from the kind, there, one can always clear their mind But, in the middle of everything, there is the force that holds it all together The power that knows all and keeps together the treasure This power that distinguishes the directions, be euphoric to be included in His selection -Robert Richardson ‘23

Know-Ledge You know about the Sun, a star But cannot travel quite that far To know a place is to run its race About a place only seeing the face You do not know the Sun, a star You cannot travel quite that far To know about is not to know Meaning, buried deep, is so -Trevor Waltersdorf ‘25

“Someday”-Charlie O’Connor ‘23 (Photo)

“Reaching For the Stars”-Daniel Pereira ‘22 (Drawing)

“Surreal Transformation”-Rowan McCann ‘24 (Drawing)

“Or” It is easy for me to say and to believe that my heart has healed from the cuts you left I can’t say that I long for you You’ve shown your true colors and I’ve come to terms with the reasons why you left But when I see a car with the same color paint as yours Or when I inhale the mist of the cologne I wore on our first of many rendezvous Or when I hear a song you would excitedly sing along to Or when I see Or when I Or when Or when Or Or Or — It is then that I start to doubt my confidence in having moved on The “Ors” keep me unsure -Anonymous

“Ipporg Yelnif”-Finley Groppi ‘22 Drawing ||||||||||

Perspective When you are at the top think of those that are up When you are up think of those that are down When you are down think of those that are lower When you are low think of those that are worse Put life in perspective and Perspective into life Your bad state may be someone's good state Your smile might be someone’s frown And your frown might be someone's smile Don’t mind the bad days and things Wait for tomorrow and see what that brings -Tenny Okunseri ‘23

“Cars”-Anthony DiCastri ‘22 (Drawing)

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“Suffocating From Safety”-Henry Merz ‘23 (Digital Art)

Masc I wish that I could fly so high, Above the forests and the trees. And see the colors of the world, The hidden ones we hide and burn. I wish that I could burn so bright In the forests of the night. Burning through the vine and root, A hopeful torch for all to see. I wish that I could run so fast So no man ever could me catch. So I, a deviant glowing-boy Could slip away, to home for us. They say the lights will guide me home, But the lights, they are as harsh as bone. The darkness will be my abode Until the lights are soft and free. Give me space and give me time, A paradise of mind and soul. And when the world accepts our lights, We’ll return, with love and life. -Nathaniel Clayton ‘23 “Residential”-Teagan Fowler ‘22 (Photo)

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Painting With No Color A painter and his son lived together. They lived together in a small room that acted as their art studio. It consisted of two beds and a single canvas in the middle of the room. The son was taught everything by the painter. Whenever the son pointed to something, the painter would respond with what it was. The boy would point at the bed It is bed The boy would point at the canvas It is canvas Then the boy would point at the particular colors that dwelled upon the canvas. The son would point to the top right corner. It is red The boy would point at the top left corner It is blue Then the boy would point at the bottom left corner It is yellow The boy looked at the painter with his bright blue eyes and the painter looked at his son with his weary yellow eyes. The boy continually looked at the painter with content whenever he answered him. He knew almost everything in the studio. Sometimes the son would point at something that the painter did not know. If this ever happened, the painter would respond with the simple answer: It is it The son would never question the painter. He felt as if it was unnecessary. He understood what everything in the small world was, and he lived without worry. Although naive, he was happy. Every day they would work on the painting. The painter would paint and the son would watch with satisfaction. The painter continuously reapplied paint to the three corners. Yellow, blue, red. He saw it as true beauty. All the colors were separated and all of them in place, it was perfect to the painter, and if it was perfect to the painter, it was perfect to the son. Conformant was the beauty the painting possessed, and each of them appreciated it. They would go to bed at exactly 8 o'clock 48

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and would wake up at 5 o’clock. They would go to their blue beds and sleep until they needed to get up. Once they were up, they would continue to repaint. Never painting more, the painter would just renew the colors upon the canvas, continually painting over them. His son would watch with satisfaction. Many years passed of this until the painter died. His final words were as he pointed at his son: It is painter The painter had a son. His son was born with red eyes. The painter wondered and questioned why his son’s eyes were not the same as his own and the painter's before him. Without a tentative answer, he merely allowed it to slip from his mind, assuring himself by repeating what the previous painter’s response would be: It is it The painter would act as his son’s teacher. Whenever the son would point at something the painter would respond with an answer. The boy would point at the bed It is bed The boy would point at the canvas It is canvas Then the boy would point at the particular colors on the canvas. He would point to the top right corner. It is red The boy would point at the top left corner It is blue Then the boy would point at the bottom left corner It is yellow The son always pretended that he understood the painter whenever the painter gave a response but never found satisfaction in the answers. Of course, he never told the painter due to the vast amount of knowledge he seemed to retain. However, he felt as if there was supposed to be more. He felt this most strongly when he would ask the painter specifically about the big red door that would lurk behind them in the dark as they painted. It stood out very clearly against the yellow walls and the blue floor and ceiling, but he did not understand its purpose. Yes, it is door, but the purpose of the door was unknown. He knew the bed was for sleeping, and the canvas was for painting, but then what was the door for? Whenever the son would point to it, the painter explained that It is door Even though the son was not content with the answers the painter gave, he slowly saw it as a struggle to continue to ||||||||||

ask. He was merely a child and most likely looked like a fool in the painter’s eyes. He simply reassured himself with the words the painter had etched into his mind: It is it He slowly started to become satisfied with the answers the painter gave. They would both wake up at 5 o’clock and go to bed at 8 o'clock. Once they were up, the painter would reapply paint to each corner seeing the beauty in the separation, and his son slowly started to see the beauty in it too, even though at first, it was strange and confusing to him. They kept going on like this until one day the painter died. His final words were as he pointed at his son were: It is painter The painter had a daughter. Her eyes were dark orange. Similar to the current painter, the color of her eyes was different from every other painter’s before her. The painter simply put aside the fact and reassured himself, saying: It is it This would have been something that would have puzzled and interested the painter at a young age, but the painter before him had already instilled the principles of his small world upon him. The daughter saw the painter as an icon and revered him very much. He seemed so wise whenever she had questions pertaining to the room they occupied. The girl would point at the bed It is bed The girl would point at the canvas It is canvas Then the girl would point at the particular colors on the canvas. She would point to the top right corner. It is red The girl would point at the top left corner It is blue Then the girl would point at the bottom left corner It is yellow The daughter would listen to the painter’s answers, but as they continued the routine, the daughter felt something stirring inside her, a qualm overcoming her. She felt trapped in a repetitious cycle and as result, boredom. The girl would point at the bed It is bed The girl would point at the canvas It is canvas 50

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Then the girl would point at the particular colors on the canvas. He would point to the top right corner. It is red The girl would point at the top left corner It is blue Then the girl would point at the bottom left corner It is yellow Then the girl did something that startled both the painter and herself in simply one word, a word that neither of them had heard before. The one word she responded with was: Why? The painter did not know what this new and peculiar word was so he responded with: It is it The girl once again said the word unconsciously, unaware that the answer did not satisfy her unceasing urge for understanding. Why? The painter was perplexed. He did not understand what his daughter was saying. He believed that she was confusing the canvas with this new word. So the painter corrected her. It is canvas The daughter, confused and unaware, kept repeating and reciting with the same word. Why? The painter was fuming now, he could not comprehend why his daughter could not understand the objects and her part in this small world. The painter responded with a shout now IT IS NOT WHY The girl had never heard the painter yell and responded with confusion: Why? The painter lost his temper and smacked his daughter across the face, the girl fell to her knees, and the painter looked at her in disappointment saying: It is not why, it is it The painter decided to go to bed at this time considering it was turning 8 o'clock, but the daughter was frozen in her place and unable to move. She was unaware of what she was feeling, what she was articulating to the painter, and why it had made him grow so mad. She wanted to put it aside, but she was determined to understand. One night when the painter went to sleep, she was restless and unsettled. Something was trapped in her head and it was trying to break out. Unable to sleep she got out of bed and ||||||||||

went to the painting trying to put at rest her yearning for understanding. She looked at the painting with contemplation. That word was echoing through her head, why, why, why. Suddenly, she picked up the brush and started painting. She was like a puppet attached to strings with a greater force leading her. At first, she was hesitant to accept her unknown feeling, but as she painted more, she embraced the strings guiding her and started painting for herself. She was making something new. She was no longer painting the bland old corners of the mural, but instead, filling in the canvas with beautiful colors that had never blessed her eyesight before. Gasping for breath, she looked up at the painting she had manifested. Across the canvas, a wide array of colors, green, orange, pink, purple, brown, black, came together to form a true piece of art. As the colors were shining down at her, the excitement and vigor were put to rest, and she fell asleep. Unbeknownst to her, she had painted the gateway that would lead her out of the bland world she was living in. It was around 11:52 The painter woke up at 5 o’clock and turned toward his daughter. She was fast asleep. The painter felt somewhat distant from her because of their misunderstanding and had felt no urge to wake her up. He got up and made his way to the canvas, but as he came face to face with it, he was struck with terror. He did not understand what it was. It was new and brought over so many emotions that he could not begin to fathom. Without restraint, he threw the painting on the ground and stomped on it, kicked it, and did whatever he could to destroy this new and foreign object. He repeatedly hollered out loud: IT IS NOT IT. Little did he know that the immense racket that he was creating had woken up his daughter. She simply watched the painter, not stopping him, but observing him. She was not angry that he was destroying her work of art, and she was not disappointed with the depravity that he was displaying. Rather, she felt pity for the painter. She realized that his naiveness and arrogance had led him down a path that was frozen in time. The painter finally came to a standstill. He was out of breath. Looking down at the pieces of the painting that had been scattered around the room, he slowly said between breaths: It is no more From that point on until his death, the painter continued to wake up at 5 o’clock and go to bed at 8 o’clock. Whenever he woke up he would find his daughter asleep, and that is how he 52

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liked it. He would be quickly brought to anger when the daughter would wake up. Sometimes she would wake up at 6:32, other times 11:02. He could never predict the varying times that she would wake up. The painter refused to talk or even interact with her. He was like this till the day he died. The daughter was by the painter’s side when he died. She did love the painter, but she was aware that he could not open up to new possibilities. As she sat on her bed one morning, the urge that had taken her so many years ago took her again. It gave her a sense of peace as it started to bring her to the door. Being drawn closer to the door, the unknown presence leading her subsided and with each step more weight was added on. She realized that if she left this room, she would never be able to come back, and she was prepared to do so. She was ready to embrace what she believed. She slowly turned the handle and was blinded by a bright light. She stepped out and let it engulf her. When her eyes finally adjusted, she looked back upon the room. It was merely an orange box upon an infinitely stretching white plane. She was content. This was her world, her canvas, and she could make it anything she wanted, she had no boundaries restricting her, and she could go anywhere. She pointed to herself and said: It is artist. -Andrew McLaughlin ‘23

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Broken Glasses Society, so enormous, yet so fragile Fragile like grandma’s crystal water glasses We are dropped, we fall, we crack, we break Can we be fixed? Or are we stuck with the broken pieces, forced to sweep them away, under the rug that is our memory? -Owen Bell ‘24

“Hilltopper”-Gus Kasun ‘22 (Drawing)

“Gus”-Gus Kasun ‘22 (Drawing)

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“Meltdown From Burdens”-Francis Anggara ‘23 (Drawing)

Dream Girl I saw her watching me as I tried to follow her exact footsteps. Right foot, then left, a little hop, look over her shoulder, and a smile. I couldn’t help but blush a little bit. She turned to face me and I forced myself to stare at the ground. I closed my eyes. I turned my head slightly to the right hoping something more important would happen. I heard her approach quietly as if she was getting out of bed trying not to disturb me. I wanted to look her in the eyes and tell her I love her, but I felt too vulnerable. She stood right in front of me. I couldn’t see her, but I knew she was smiling. I started to turn my head to face her and I was rewarded. Her right hand caressed my chin toward her face, encouraging me to look into hers. It was like a scene from a movie. Time froze and I could recall every single detail. I counted every blade of grass growing between the cracks in the sidewalk. I smelled every flower along the lone sidewalk where we stood. I imagined what every cloud could be trying to say to me. And while time was frozen, I saw the future. I could see every argument we would have, every time we would recount our wedding to our children, and every conversation about our lives we would have. I desired nothing more and nothing less. Finally our eyes meet and I have to confront the truth. As I stand alone on the sidewalk, I feel the warm sensation of life course through my body. My face burns and my nails dig into my palms. I wonder why I feel so embarrassed. I don’t say anything for a while. I suddenly recognize the warmth of my blanket and the tenderness of my bed. I roll to my right to face the wall and smile. The wall stares at me and smiles back. -Tristen Yang ‘23

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“Holy Heights”-Ben Colella ‘22 (Photo)

Where the Sidewalk Begins Shel Silverstein says there is a place where the sidewalk ends, without alluding to a specific location. But I can tell you for a certain fact, it ends at the county line. And I can also confirm that the “sun burns crimson bright” in this place, as it personally beat over my head as I chugged along Janesville Road on my bicycle, retreated to the bumpy gravel shoulder as tractor trailers and SUVs whizzed by mere feet away. After passing the county line, all sidewalks and bike lanes had evaporated, as if the Cars movie had become a reality, with no person on the ground in sight. But we were on a mission - not to find where the sidewalk ends. We were already past that point. To be quite honest, I didn’t even quite know what the mission was up until this point. When we left, we had no destination in mind. At least, I didn’t. My sister did. At first, it didn’t seem like we were going far, maybe just to a park a few miles away. But then she kept going. “Let’s go this way,” my sister flatly ordered and took off in a direction, leaving no time for debate or disagreement. Where was I going to go if I didn’t follow her? Home? We were already far enough away that I really had no choice but to follow. And she knew that, so I raced to catch up in her direction. “Where are we going?” I hollered breathlessly, increasing speed to make myself parallel with her. “Somewhere” was the only response I received. With each turn, I hollered guesses of what destination she had in mind. We kept going, crossing road after road, turn after turn, as I raked my mind of what destinations could possibly lie in the direction we were headed, all while growing further and further from home. Eventually, we hit the fateful county line, and the sidewalk abruptly turned into a grassy ditch. I guess that confirms that the “grass grows soft and white” where the sidewalk ends. About this point, the destination clicked. Without revealing my revelation, we plowed on, clinging to the shoulder. Quite clearly, I remember the first time I drove somewhere on my own. Embarrassingly enough, the purpose of the 58

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trip was to find a bathroom. Our toilet had been broken; not just broken as somebody left one too large, but actually broken, as a professional plumber was needed. The trip was to Save-A-Lot Foods. I even bought a can of green beans to prove my patronage. I think the can still sits on our shelf to this day. Despite the awkward circumstances, it felt like freedom. I drove around the arterial mile block twice with the radio cranked, going exactly the speed limit of course. I didn’t need the sidewalk anymore. A few months later, it was a normal Sunday, and I was driving to my job at Southridge Mall. Cruising south on 76th street, past the generic landscape of pillars decorated with “M”s and “BK”s, is the moment the novelty of driving wore off. The next time I worked, I biked to work, because I felt like it. And I needed the sidewalk again. My sister and I eventually reached our destination of the Muskego Lake Municipal Beach. After the arduous ride through one of the hottest days of the year, I splashed back into the water; I didn’t even care that I was wearing athletic shorts. They would dry. Climbing out of the water, I was met with the stare of a hoard of soccer moms’ sunglasses. I did just throw myself into a beach swarmed with children. I didn’t care. They can stare as much as they want. The ride back was just as arduous. Eventually, the sidewalk had returned, making the last leg go by much quicker. By the time my sister and I had returned, our parents had returned from work, bringing the cars back with them, things that would have been slightly useful earlier in the day. But if we did join the race of the roads that day, we would have never known where the sidewalk ended. When we’re young, we need sidewalks. I can’t quite say that I grew up on the streets, but I can definitely say that I grew up on the sidewalks. Children are happy with the simplicity of life and make do with what they have. As we grow up, we gain freedom to live high, fast, and free, so we do. But at a certain point, our freedom can become our demise. We were left here on the earth with consequences of free will. The choices we make to live the way we do will have consequences. We can live high and fast in an industrialized society, but no one can forever. The car that was once our vehicle for freedom becomes our wage cage. Or worse, our coffin. In Shel Silverstein’s poem, the place with sidewalks is described as a negative one, “where the smoke blows black” and “the dark street winds and bends,” and one must quest to the end of the sidewalk to achieve peace, with the sidewalk representing our capitalistic society. Is the poem alluding to an end to capital||||||||||

ism? I don’t know. Poems are intentionally open for interpretation, but I disagree with what the sidewalk represents. I think the opposite is true. The sidewalk ends where it begins. The physical sidewalk begins where the metaphorical sidewalk ends. Sidewalks are freedom. The freedom to choose, to not be limited by the boots of society or the dominance of the automobile. To live our most authentic selves is to be able to use the sidewalk, not because we have to, but because we can. -Caleb Yatchak ‘23

“Say Freeze”-Aiden Washington ‘22 (Photo)

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“Corrosive Touch”-Dante Militello ‘22 (Drawing)

“Lavender”-Andrew McLaughlin ‘23 (Photo)

farewell ciao, sunset skates and big blue breezes adieu to rivers and lemon freezes au revoir, warm rains and cold lake water a goodbye to summer, youth's greatest offer -Declan McCormick ‘23

“Hoops”-Max Gutierrez ‘22 (Drawing)

“The Drop of Life”-Nicholas Ertl ‘25 (Drawing)

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“Our Blessed Mother”-Henry Ogden ‘22 (Drawing)

Credits Editors-in-Chief Charlie O’Connor ‘23 Tristen Yang ‘23 Signatures Squad Francis Anggara ‘23 Nathaniel Clayton ‘23 Jackson Czukas ‘25 Omar Frostman ‘23 Jim Groth ‘23 David Valadez Lopez ‘23 Charlie O’Connor ‘23 Mikail Schlegel ‘25 Cooper Wood ‘23 Tristen Yang ‘23 Production Team Charlie O’Connor ‘23 Tristen Yang ‘23 Mikail Schlegel ‘25

Moderator Mrs. Erica Zunac Art Consult Mrs. Stacy Kodra Art Editors Jim Groth ‘23 Charlie O’Connor ‘23 Francis Anggara ‘23 David Valadez Lopez ‘23 Writing Editors Nathaniel Clayton ‘23 Omar Frostman ‘23 Jim Groth ‘23 Cooper Wood ‘23

Community Relations Jack Czukas ‘25

Frontcover: “See You on the Next Wave”-Ben Colella ‘22 (Photo) Backcover: “American White Pelican”-Eric Schmidt ‘22 (Photo)