LIT BY DESIGN
MISSION STATEMENT
Lit by Design, founded in 2019, is an online and in-print literary magazine run and operated by the students of New Design High School, situated in the Seward Park Campus on the Lower East Side of New York City. Lit by Design offers the school a chance to participate in the experience of writing, publishing, editing, and designing a school literary magazine that features the best student creative work in our school. The Lit Team offers it to the New Design community on slides, websites, and in magazines like this one. We hope to entertain and inspire and enlighten readers like you with the finest work submitted to us during the 2024-2025 school year by NDHS students. We thank all our contributors, and the many talented artists and writers who did submit work that, for any of a variety of reasons, could not appear in this issue. – The Lit Team
MEET THE LIT TEAM
Keren Colotl, Keshaun Diggins, Violet Gadsden, Makayla Lewis, Ashanti Pocius, Jaden Sagastume, Rodrigo Tetzopa
Cover art: “Why With Me?” by Yudemis Chisag
Art by Luz Mendoza
Surquoia
The Mini Garden Modiline Turner
Samaya Jackson
Beyond the Silence
Once there lived a little girl
Far too little to understand the world
So
She questioned it all. Why? How?
Everyone wondered what was in that little head of hers
When she wasn’t pondering about the world
She was silent weirdly silent
Shouldn’t children want to go run outside and play?
She only ever played with the same two girls
No one else was welcome to her
Or else she would be alone
Still as a tree
Just standing in the playground
With nothing but her thoughts
She often did try in school “to be the best”
But she was always 2nd
She won the silver trophy
And after being given that trophy
She would go silent,
Just sitting there holding it
the Teacher would often go check to see if
She’s alive
If she’s well
Was it sadness she felt?
Pain? Anger?
Whatever it was she just sat there.
She Was Running AP Anonymous
She was running from a guy who had heels on.
She was running from Art the Clown.
She ran to Times Square.
She ran, but he was faster.
She tried to run
the other way but saw a group of clowns who all had knives.
No no.
She ran, but he got to her and cut her hair.
She cried, but he cut her again and again but then she realized this was all a dream.
(Epic Pictures)
Habiba Salem Untitled
Mercy Josiah Baugh
Lord have mercy on me, a sinner.
A disciple lost on the road of life.
The struggle, the pain, the depression, all day. It made me lose faith in the God from which I was made.
I struggle and thrash to get on the path of the righteous.
God that awaits.
But through loss and gore, disbelief is born, separating me from my lord forevermore.
I long to be free and clean from the sin that festers within me.
Growing like a plant watered under the shine of the everlasting sun.
A sinner growing sin in a farmland full of despair.
Watered by tears and nourished by the destruction.
The shattering soul of an inferior lucifer.
A disciple who believes, yet still disobeys.
One that longs for the warmth of God, but chases the pleasure of sin.
O, Lord will I be set free from the shackles binding me
Or will I meet a fate of brimstone and flames.
Save me lord.
Xin Ping Chen
Burning for Replacement: Gentrification Odyssey
Keshaun Diggins What I Saw Today
You wouldn’t believe what I saw today. While eating my chips, I was looking at graffiti that somebody made years ago. I took out my phone to take some nice pictures of the pretty art. Out of nowhere, I see a white bright light come from the wall. A tall man with all white clothes walks out from the wall and says, “Don’t this look nice?”
I’m standing there, shocked. The angel looks at me and laughs a little and says, “I’m sorry I didn’t tell you who I am. I’m the man who died drawing this lovely art right here. That was 28 years ago. I’m surprised that it’s still here till this day.”
I’m shocked that an angel just came out of the wall. The angel said, “Hey, I know you. I been watching over you since you were a baby. How do you do, my son?”
I say to the angel, “Good. But my dad died 6 years ago.”
The angel says, “That was your stepdad.”
As the angel takes off his hoodie, I scream, “Ahhhhh. Why do you look like me?”
The angel says, “I’m your real father. Your mother never told you about me because she was scared that you might turn out like your other brother, John.”
I stand shocked at what I just heard from my father, from the dead. Then the angel said, “My time is up.” He has to go. It was nice to see me. And I close my eyes and the angel is gone.
I start to sob and sprint home to tell my mother what just happened, and she starts to sob and then she tells me the truth about my dad, how he died.
Empty Moons Yudemis Chisag
Josiah Baugh
When Your Love Found Me
It happened without my realization.
I couldn’t have fun without the thought of your smile on my mind.
Your voice became honey, and it filled me with something sweet inside.
Without your presence, my mind started to unravel, tears fell like a downpour in the summer sky.
Then, before I even realized it, I started to love you.
I knew there was no going back as soon as the thought crossed my mind.
Everything made so much sense, my entire soul was on cloud nine.
Then almost without warning, I found that you felt the same way.
We smiled, and laughed, and held hands everyday.
Your love is all I’ve ever wanted, these days I get that and more.
You were worth the wait, worth the tears, worth the heartache.
Worth admiring from a distance so close, yet so far away. You were worth holding onto, and I’ll never let you go ever again.
Mori Francis Thoughts
Where am I? Why am I here?
I’m just a lonely penguin standing in the wind
At least I hope I am. Everything is so distant.
What is life and why am I in it?
I could move my feet but why should I?
This snow is cold and I feel dead inside.
What is what and who is who?
My mind is a enigma, a space of clues.
So help me what do I do? Should I run or stay but who am I talking to?
Am I going insane I hope not. I’m standing in a wasteland filled with knots.
A empty space a clean slate
I’m burning up even in this white haze
My brain is buzzing I don’t know who I am
Am I a penguin, a man, or a slave? Is there anyone on this earth or just me?
I’m in a forest standing alone with the trees.
My, what a journey I’ve been on. I’ve walked miles with little as much as a call
Am I going to die here I don’t know Or am I already dead with my thoughts all alone.
Christmas Woman Marrow Snell
Zeinabou Traore
The Lamentable Triad
Deep inside a wounded heart,
Lies a mind that shifts and surmise
When did we go from being scared of planes to This?
When did we go from taking pleasure in the melody of birds singing
To a sound that’s no longer heard
We sat on a swing inspired to grow Was growing really what we desired?
A life filled with empty promises
An existence revolving around closed door of obstacles Fairytales were a big part in our life,
Would we have loved them if we knew that Fairytales always shown us how to fall in love
But never how to fall out
Why must I protect my heart from something so trivial
Why must I expect that I’ll forever end up heartbroken?
Why must I be expected to sleep with my mind awoken?
Why must I alway expect some sort of commotion?
Why is it that when it comes to you, I'm met with some sort of explosion?
Why can’t I be left alone in tranquility?
Why must you always revolve around calamities?
Then don’t go blaming it on your history,
Your past may shape you into who you are
But your lamentable disposition will be shown at last.
What I Dream Yudemis Chisag
Carver Baez Alone
It’s weird, so many voices and yet none responds to mine unless out of moments to tell me to quiet down or to tolerate me.
They’re there for moments but never to stay, some return and go, some stay lost.
I can’t tell if it’s me, I changed more and more and yet I’m still different, why can’t they like me, why can’t they stay with me, why do I have to be alone.
Why do they have to hate me?
Why are they so annoyed of me?
What did I do wrong?
Am I cursed with the power to bring people together, at the cost of them moving on without me.
Every city
Every town
Every street
a friend has left me, every form of treatment and abuse I’ve taken and still they can’t just stay.
I try my best to stay memorable but it never works. Is it me?
Is it my voice?
Is it my clothes?
Tell me.
How much money do I have to spend?
How much of me do I have to change?
How much do I have to give up?
I just don’t want to be alone, I’m begging and pleading
Just tell me…
why can’t you stay…
Surround in White Mori Francis
Samaya Jackson
Magic of Trains Through a Child’s Eyes
Taking a train to the train museum how ironic. But I can never remember being so excited to go on a train as when I was 7.
I scrambled on as if I had supersonic speed, nearly bumping into people although at 7 I don't know if it would have affected them.
Normally I would be standing completely still cause I wanna be safe and cause deep down 7-year-old me was scared but not this time, this time it was all different I changed and so did the trains
The A train turned into a spaceship reaching hyperspeed to travel to different planets.
The C is a underground railroad taking you back in time to the dinos.
To other people it was just the same old dusty trains but to 7 year old me the train just became a whole new universe to explore
Stops that can take you to different universes
People on the train all with different life stories
What if the guy sitting next to me was planning to steal the moon?
What if the train conductor was secretly an angel sent to spy on the humans?
Anything seemed possible.
It was full of crazy new experiences
At least it was to me at 7 maybe it can be like that for you too
Just try to change how you look at it it all can be magical if you make it.
Josiah Baugh
Syntax Error
My mind is
Like broken lines of java.
My thoughts are swirling, in an endless sea of code. Code I can’t read.
Malware Detected What? But, that’s me…
That’s my file that the anticheat is reading. I’m not malware.
I think… Come to think of it, I hold back everyone around me. I manipulate their code, To suit my own needs.
I disregard their feelings
Even when they’re drowning. But can’t you see? I may be laughing, But beneath it all.
I’m Not Happy
I’m not smiling because I’m glad. I’m using this smile, as a mask
To shroud the pain, ingrained in my soul. With a golden light,
That never ceases to glow.
Shamaralee Tocora
Carver Baez
Part 1: The Realization
The walking echo, my footsteps, footsteps that search for something. A machine. My green and black microphone bobbing as I swing it around with its string, my green bow tie crying to be redone, and my gray antennas so stiff as always.
Finally machines at last, finally the drops of the black sticky ichor. But the air feels thicker, the tube of its usual fluid is full, I thought I was playing alone, who else is here?
Footsteps, they're louder, more aggressive, not like a twisted. I try to run but my stamina, begging for a rest, my body can’t help but listen. Behind me, a figure, a creature, a monster, myself?
The realization I’m dreaming hits me hard, my flesh and skin return, I am not a character, I am myself. And myself is all I see ahead, I’m cornered and alone.
The sound of the sharp needle that is their arm, scraping against the floor, begging to be filled with blood.
My chest moves quicker, my thoughts merge as one, my throat is tight, my tears spill. I’m afraid, as I look at the dirty white lab coat, the unforgiving smile that’s on their face.
This isn’t a dream, this is a nightmare of pain and torture, and it’s by my own hands. The tip of the needle, it presses against my chest, begging for entry to feed on my blood like a sick mosquito.
My fear overcomes me, I refuse to feel the plunge of a needle to my heart. But before I can do anything, the floor falls below my feet. Freedom? Safety? Heaven? Hell? Where am I falling too?
My bed is where. I see the sun, my room, my cat. It’s over for now, but I know I’ll be back tonight.
Edward Collado
Pen & Ink
Carver Baez
Part 2: Lamb for the Slaughter
The hunt, the search, I’ve left my safety for, the beautiful green forest that surrounds me, the white birds that fly all around and sing of a god locked away at the whim of a lamb, the bloody mutilated corpses of opposing cult members who’ve tried beating me.
The sound of the golden bell on my velvet fleece jingles with every step, the wool fur that covers my body, shifts around just like leaves when the wind hits me, I can’t help but hum a cheery tone that promises pain and misery to those who dare listen.
My ears perk up at the sound of leaves shifting in a clearly odd way, my eyes narrow as I turn my head towards the disturbance. A strong feeling of deja vu hits me, the realization I've been somewhere so familiar and yet in a situation meant to haunt me hits harder than what is suddenly thrown towards me.
A butcher knife, right between my eyes. The impact of it sends me back, stumbling over a tree stump and landing on my back, I can feel the blood trickle down my face, I take shallow breaths, my eye sockets start to flood with tears.
The shock, the fear, the pain. “Just like my last dream..” I mumble, reaching up slowly to rip the knife from my skull, seeing my human skin return once more. The green forest slowly turns into a nightmare littered with corpses and dark blood, it’s all me, I can see all my other attempts to end the nightmare, and it ends with the same fate, death.
My eyes glance up to see another me, with the same horrid grin slathered on his face, just like the blood that coats his hands and cheeks, he dashes over, throwing another butcher knife. I stumble once more as I get up to run, I cannot die just like all the other times, I need to find my waking point before I die again.
Butcher knives fly past my head, moving faster than the wind current that feels almost as if it's getting stronger, trying to push me towards death. My breath gets quicker, my muscles burn pain. Before I know it, a butcher knife is plunged into my back, I fall to the ground, coughing up blood, my eyes are struggling to stay open, my back hurts.
As soon as the butcher knife was thrown into my back, it was quickly removed. The light soon fades, the sickening sound of a blade cutting through flesh and bone. I’ve been decapitated, the other me, dressed in butcher attire picks up my head and whispers the words “Try again tomorrow...’ with a sickening chuckle, my head is tossed into a familiar black void, and I wake up. I sit up and sigh, knowing tomorrow will be more painful compared to yesterday.
Luz Mendoza
Untitled
Carver Baez
Part 3: No God Can Forgive My Sins
Sleep is becoming harder, the nightmares are incredibly harder to survive. I lay on my bed staring at the ceiling. My reluctance to sleep has become strong. I’m scared I won’t wake up, I’m scared I won’t see the sun streaming through the openings of my curtains.
Suddenly everything goes dark, my eyes opening up to see a figure, an ethereal figure. Their white glowing strands of hair shift around as if underwater, the many eyes yet lack of a mouth on their face, the many hands with fingers no longer than a ruler, the deadly stare that slowly takes years off my life just by staring back.
I feel my eyes burn from the glowing figure, they’re too bright, my eyes are crying tears of blood, I can’t breathe properly anymore and I just choke on my own blood.
The figure comes closer, placing his hands on my shoulders, staring down at me like prey. “Your nightmare. They all connect. Will you kneel and let yourself be forgiven for what you’ve done?” a voice says, clearly emanating from the figure. “No. They deserved what they had done! He left us powerless and weak!” I snap, a rush of air entering my lungs as I continue, “I owe him nothing! His death made things better for us all.”
The figure looks displeased by my decision, their hands slide up to my throat, pressing hard on my Adam’s apple as if trying to dislodge the ‘apple’ Adam swallowed whole. “Then let yourself feel the same pain,” the figure says as they place another set of hands on my cheeks and they whisper, “Your nightmares. Will haunt you. Even in death.” Their fingers dig into the sides of my head, their thumbs pressing hard on the arch of my nose, as if my head was a watermelon being cut open by a knife, the creature rips my head open using another set of hands to remove the parts in my head as if some sick surgeon dissecting and studying me.
Doing the same to my arms, legs, and torso, all I can feel is pain, things getting darker, I cannot cry out anymore, I cannot beg for mercy. I blame the gods for torturing me by just protecting humanity.
I have not sinned and yet the gods have turned on me for killing their own. He threatened harm to people and I simply protected people, and yet I’m to blame, I’m not a sinner but a saint.
But my last moments I think of the past, the bond I had with him, the power that tore us apart and almost ended all of humanity. He was sweet but turned twisted, I won’t forget the tears shed by us both, the many apologies from us both. I know I should be angry. I do feel bad for what I’ve done but I had no choice. I'll never forget the person I befriended from a distant world who almost ended mine..
To that I say,
Forgive me Leo, I did what I had to.
Surquoia Paige
Abolition Journal, Part 1: Mary Elizabeth, Georgia
Oh, how my heart aches this morning, as it has every morning since that wretched day, the day I was stolen from my life, my family, and all that I once held dear. I write these words not with the hope of being read, for who could bear such a tale? But with the faint hope that, someday, in some way, they might be a testament to the love and joy I once knew, now turned to sorrow and loss.
I was happy once. I had the perfect life. I went to Dartmouth College and there I met the love of my life. Emory was charismatic, brave, and ethereal. I was also a proud mother of three girls: Amarillis, Clover, and Poppy. My girls were the most brilliant rays of sunshine. My husband and I would get besides ourselves with laughter.They would always entertain us and our customers with their silly jokes.
I miss doing what I loved. I would plant and grow flowers and my husband with hands that could both plant the most beautiful of blooms and craft the finest of leather shoes. Our life was a fairytale that sadly couldn’t last forever.
Until that day. Oh, how I looked forward to that day, the day I had planned so carefully! Emory’s birthday had arrived, and I wanted nothing more than to give him a gift beyond anything he could have imagined. My friend Rosemary told me she had a grand piano she’d gotten from her uncle and that she’d sell it to me for a great price, a treasure so magnificent I had hoped it would be the surprise of his life, the thing that would show him just how much he meant to me.
I had rehearsed the words I would say as I presented it to him, and I had dressed in my finest, my heart full of joy at the thought of his surprise. But fate, had other plans for me. I was never able to reach him with that gift, never able to see the joy in his eyes as I had imagined. For as I stood in the doorway of our home, eager to surprise him, that foul man appeared. I never saw his face, for he was swift and silent, taking me with the force of a storm and dragging me from all I knew. I was taken from my children, from my husband, from the life I had built. I do not know how many days have passed since that moment. Time has become something distant. The days are long, the nights cold, and full of fear. Yet, I cannot help but dream of them—the soft laughter of my girls amd Emory’s fragrance. I will not let go of that hope, not even in this dark place.
Until that day, I write.
Mary
Elizabeth
Abolition Journal, Part 2: Fighting the War
The war has begun. Fort Sumter has fallen, and now it seems the country is fully torn apart. I cannot help but wonder how the resources in our region will shape the outcome of this great conflict. Here in the South, the land is rich with cotton and tobacco, but what good are these crops in a war? The North has factories, railroads, and more men—things that seem more useful in a fight like this. I fear the South may not have the resources to win, but that does not mean they won’t fight fiercely to keep their way of life, to keep us enslaved. They rather us do the hard labour instead of getting their hands dirty.
I pray every night that my family and I are safe and Emory isn’t fighting in the war. As I think of the fighting, questions swirl in my mind. What will become of us if the South wins? Will slavery be forgotten, our chains tightened even further?
Until the day I write,
Mary Elizabeth
Yudemis Chisag
Why With Me?
Cold Reality Carver Baez
I cried on the train today, and not for the reason you’d think. I saw an ad for an app and realized something, something I thought wasn’t going to affect me, but here I stand on this train, crying, realizing my life has never been more pointless.
To live young and to die old knowing all my work and achievements will never matter, we spend all our lives working, letting ourselves slowly die for someone else’s cause.
We are all hard working people who are stuck slaving away for paper, paper that is taken away rather then kept, seen as dirt if you don’t become a part of the system, the pressure to fit in and to live ‘happily’ makes you choke, knowing your only form of a breath is becoming a slave.
Many say “I’m happy, I’m free, I’m living” but they’re never true with their words, only said in fleeing moments that soon become dust and forgotten.
In this world we have no matter or importance, we will all be forgotten no matter who your are, no matter the legacy and no matter the title, time will always shatter the dreams you have in your last breathing moments, and many are reluctant or overall refusing to believe something so ‘cruel’ or ‘unbelievable’ but if the dead could speak, they would say otherwise.
I shared my words, many people seem to find it to be relatable, knowing their lives are just a mere shell being used by a crab and as their lives end, the crab will just move onto the next.
It’s just a mere cycle that repeats and slowly changes over time, as if following a list or pattern to find more ways to leave the shell cracked and dirty rather than clean and perfect.
I did so much thinking and looked around, the school halls, the streets, and the subway. It was all the same, in pain or stressed, mothers and children, elders, and schoolers alike, suffer all the same.
I wonder if I’m the only one who sees this cruel reality, who sees that none of us are truly living. None of us will be able to hold our friends and family tight and truly say it’s alright when in reality we are crying and screaming for freedom.
We are trapped in a cage that’s too small, like an animal in a harsh zoo. Let it be the wealthiest and powerful to watch and laugh, our cries and pleas are mocked and disregarded. We are toys for amusement rather than a breathing person.
Over Heaven Mori Francis
Alex Lin
Chapter 5: Who is standing at your door there?
It’s almost 2AM. My friend had called an Uber for me so I could get home. I thanked him and headed outside to see my Uber driver waiting outside for me in a white Honda Civic. I got in the vehicle and took off. The highway was extremely empty. The Civic passed by a building with a logo saying, “LOVE HEART CHEAT CODE.”
Me: Ugh, this car ride is taking forever.
Uber Driver: Don't be so dramatic. It’s a 20-minute drive.
Me: Yeah, I know, but it feels like an hour already.
Uber Driver: I know but sometimes you have to get used to these long drives all the way back home.
The white Civic finally left the highway. I felt a sharp turn while my eyes are closed. My Uber driver had woken me up, telling me that we had arrived at my destination. I thanked him and was about to stumble out when he said something that froze my blood.
Uber Driver: Who’s standing at your door there?
Me: Keep driving…
My Uber Driver gave me a confused look, not knowing what’s going on. He asked me why I wanted him to keep driving.
Me: JUST GO!
But the guy just wouldn’t f***ing go and decided to ask me this question instead.
Uber Driver: What do you mean go? It’s some random guy standing at your door. What’s he even doing out there? Listen, we have to call cops if he's trespassing.
I asked him what he saw but he just slammed on the gas. I asked him again what he saw, but he still didn't want to talk. The Civic was going at such insane speeds until the car slid and crashed into a ditch. I found myself in the wrecked Civic and quickly called 911 and explained every detail about what happened. The guy still looked frozen in shock as if he saw something horrifying. Finally emergency services arrived and they took me away and shut me inside of an ambulance. And the Uber driver… well, he was taken away–to a psychiatric hospital.
Briana Navarro
Edward Collado
Mori Francis My World
People around me seem so happy
But the me that is me is one that is free to think to walk
to see what they do
I fly high and stay low avoiding where they go
With flowers at my door and scratches on my arms
The past lingers as I still move on Stars awake and I stay calm
My mind is my palace
A place I call home
Vacation
Samaya Jackson
Held by the Mattress
In the mornings, my bed is a prison, its warmth a heavy weight, holding me captive, pulling me down, suffocating the will to rise, to face the cold, unforgiving sun. The birds chatter outside, like babies just learning to speak— joyful, free, and loud, but they feel miles away, too distant for me to care.
The bed grips me tighter, a cozy cell I know all too well, tempting me to stay in my soft cage. It whispers, Don’t go. You might not come back. And sometimes, I don’t fight it. I surrender to the spell it casts, a warm, sleepy trance that clouds my mind, dulling everything else.
But deep down, the keys are always there, just within reach. I could grab them with little effort, step out, face the world, but the bed’s embrace makes me forget— its pull stronger than any reason. The moment I sink deeper, I slip into quicksand, the hours slipping away as I lose myself, not sure how long I’ve been here.
Still, I know the world awaits, and the keys beckon, though they stay just out of reach. I could leave— but the bed’s comfort whispers louder, a sweet surrender that makes the world feel like a far-off dream.
Never Thought to Love Mori Francis
My heart would break my eyes would deceive me. If I were to lose my stuff so god come help me. From Chicago to the Bay these objects make my day.
To the day that I die I hope they stay. I can’t get them back no matter how hard I try.
They’re a once in a lifetime supply. My old friends to teachers, a diamond in the grass. These are special and I’ll make them last. The misery I would feel if they were lost.
I would cry in my room knowing I couldn’t get them back. Don’t do it please.
They mean so much to me. I would hate to see them go, it will take my life of meaning.
Violet Gadsden My Angry Plate
I am tired of being in this house. I am left over where I sometimes do not get washed, mostly on the floor or inside of the sink. Y’all do not care about me I say.
My owner said, “Shut up, damn. I bought you and clean you whenever I feel like it. How dare you have any right to complain, you ungrateful brat. You have plenty of time. Just deal with it.”
I was shocked at his response so I said, “If y’all do not use me for one month and use the other plates, then I would stay. But no.
Geez, y’all are so annoying.”
Untitled Isyss Ortiz
Zeinabou Traore
Ode to Weather
because of your destructional state your telling me that when i die
Depending on the weather, Every soul that I have ever loved and cared for will decide if my death is that important or not.
if it's raining you would stay at home, Under your heavy duty blanket, enjoying the subtle warmth
While my body is being bonded to the tomb.
I sat in my free time analyzing if what I had done was enough, if it was merely delightful for you I spent all my time trying to please each and everyone of you
Just for my funeral to depend on The rain?
All the sacrifices I had made
All of my hopes and dreams
Every ounce of goodness that I had seek Every aching heart I had tried to ease
Just for my funeral
To depend on the rain.
Everything I've ever done
All that was said are now distant memories
all of the catastrophes I’ve endured
All that I stood for are to be left buried under the woods
Those memories are underneath waiting to be seen like a time capsule
Just because of the rain.
Maybe I’m finally coming to the realization,
am I really not worth a few raindrops?
Well props to the weather for being the reason why I'm left to remain someplace to rot away.
Untitled Modiline Turner
Josiah Baugh
A Single Pale Rose
There once was a rose
That no one was sure existed A rose largely disregarded Because it was different
It was pale, morose And visible underground It's beauty overshadowed By thorns that poked everyone who got close
A passerby saw the rose And determination quickly arose He wanted to add it to his menagerie Of everything he held close
At first he was nervous What if he was a burden? What if the rose didn’t want him, To be her special person
But then he got confirmation His feelings were reciprocated All he had to do Was ask her to be his maiden
The Scream Edward Collado
Jullissa Sanchez Bloody Tears
Blood all you see that night
Haunting me on my sleep
Scared to go to sleep, I look around the room
Everything is on the floor. How do I let myself go. No one not even me knew I was capable of this
Scared of myself,
Seeing my little sister afraid of me made me burst into tears
Missing my old self what had gone wrong
Trust was gone I was gone
Mom says it's okay maybe I need “help”
WRONG I think I wish I see her more That night hoping I was gone by the next
Sometimes I see my younger self in pictures wondering what had happened to that little girl
Where had she gone
I miss those times
Nothing was ever the same after that night
Mom and Dad were scared of what I was capable of doing. Strings around my head. It’s what I imagined was up there. Sometimes I still am scared of myself. I try to avoid certain things. My friends really do bring out the best in me, always having a blast.
I thank them. It's been two months were I haven’t had to see those bloody tears. I’ve gotten better but that’s not what they think.
Untitled Crystal Garcia
Josiah Baugh
Log Date 04/06/2020
Patient: Seraphina Valentine
Condition: Twinopathy
Sex: Female
Age: 17
We have come to the agreement that this new psychological disorder will be named “Twinopathy” A diagnostic description of twinopathy has been unanimously agreed upon by our country's top 10 psychologists.
“A persistent psychological state characterized by the mental presence of two opposing forces or two archetypal "twins." One twin is nurturing, kind, and empathetic but emotionally fragile, while the other one is harsh, sociopathic, and manipulative. The individual remains in full control of their actions, but the mental influence of these twins manifests as conflicting inner dialogue, emotional tension, and decision-making difficulties. Twinopathy is unique in its consistent awareness of these forces, creating a constant battle between vulnerability and ruthlessness.”
Untitled Jonathan Sanders
Mori Francis Tiny Home
We weren’t sure we’d ever get there but as the city disappeared from view and the clouds danced and twirled in the sky, we knew we were close. We may have weeped, fainted, or fell but we never stopped moving. We leaped over the hills with the stars twinkling above, and there it was. Over the grassy hill we knew we were awoken, finally home. We have returned to our tiny house and slumped inside, exhausted for our long jarring journey. Our cat rested on the floor next to the fireplace curled up like a cinnamon roll. While my brother Liam pet our cat, who purred, I lay on the couch as my eyes drooped closed, sleep taking over me. I no longer worried if we were going to make it back due to me and my Liam finding our home. I can finally rest easy.
Untitled Zeinabou Traore
Samaya Jackson
The Great Fridge Escape
FIGERATOR: I’m done! I’m DONE!
ME: What do you mean?
FIGERATOR: I can’t take it anymore! You cram me full of groceries, and then—poof!—they rot! And you never even eat them!
ME: But I don’t mean to! I promise!
FIGERATOR: And don’t even get me started on your jokes! “Is your fridge running? Well, you’d better go catch it!”
ME: Well, I can’t let you run off, can I? And besides, I know you and Mrs. Stove have something going on.
FIGERATOR: WHO TOLD YOU?!
ME: Oh, you know, I’m not dumb. If you leave, Mrs. Stove will just have to find a new man.
MRS. STOVE: I WILL get a better man! I always knew I deserved more than a dirty old fridge!
ME: See? It’s settled. Go ahead, leave. We won’t miss you one bit.
FIGERATOR: You can’t guilt-trip me!!
And so the refrigerator tried to run out, but it took him ten whole minutes to figure out how to get through the door. Then he tripped over his own feet and fell down the stairs! When he finally got out, Mrs. Stove and I just stared at each other and started crying laughing
But then—hurry, hurry—we went straight to pick a new fridge! One that wasn’t so emotional and whiny, and one that didn’t have drama.
MRS. STOVE: Never again. Never, ever again.
ME: Nope, never again.
Collage Man Ru Ha
Forgotten RUI
An oasis of truth in a desert of despair, a land of once great scholars now left to waste with nothing to bear, hath forgotten its name like it was never there.
Oscar Ortiz Ramirez You Say Run
CONTRIBUTORS’ NOTES
AP Anonymous is the pen name of a member of the class of 2027.
Carver Baez is a rising sophomore.
Josiah Baugh is a former editor of Lit by Design; he’s a rising junior.
Xin Ping Chen is a rising senior who tries their best to become an independent being. Always doing way too much to burn themself out but they would find ways (cats and Ado) to keep them motivated.
Yudemis Chisag will be a junior. “I like to write things that I invented or write things that I see or dream and sometimes I draw things that interest me and transmit new emotions to me like the drawing that I made for the cover. It represents a person that I know who stirred feelings in me.”
Edward Collado will be a sophomore in the Fall of 2025.
Keshaun Diggins is a rising junior who likes to write in his spare time and likes making songs whenever he’s free.
Mori Francis: “I go up to Massachusetts when I want to get out the city since I have a love of nature. I had never seen snow so thick one day and I took a picture to keep it in my memory while the house looked nice with it like a decoration. For the back cover photo, I was heading over to San Diego and it was a late flight that showed sundown with fluffy clouds covering the land below. It was so surreal.”
Violet Gadsden is a rising sophomore.
Crystal Garcia is a rising junior.
Man Ru Hua will be in 11th grade next year. She likes to listen to music and lives in Manhattan. Her piece “Vacation” was based on an episode of Peppa Pig.
Samaya Jackson is a thoughtful observer of the world who often explores emotion, identity, and silence through her writing. She believes even the quietest voices have powerful stories to tell. “Beyond the Silence” is a glimpse into that belief.
Alex Lin will be a sophomore next year.
Luz Mendoza is a rising junior.
Briana Navarro will be a junior in September 2025.
CONTRIBUTORS’ NOTES
Isyss Ortiz is a rising sophomore.
Oscar Ortiz Ramirez just finished his freshman year.
Surquoia Paige enters her senior year in September 2025.
Rui: “My name is Rodrigo Tetzopa but my poet’s name is Rui. I’m a junior whose joy for creative writing and poetry has had a great impact on the way I express myself, while having a positive impact on the people and community(s) around me and knowing that there are people who could learn more about this form of visual art.”
Habiba Salem will be a senior in Fall 2025.
Jullissa Sanchez is the pen name for a rising sophomore.
Jonathan Sanders is in the class of 2026.
Marrow Snell is a rising junior who enjoys the sun. Her drawing “Christmas Woman” represents the women who are at the center of the holidays.
Shamaralee Tocora just completed 10th grade.
Zeinabou Traore: “My interests include writing, drawing and volleyball. I hope to be a neurosurgeon or fashion designer in the future. I wrote “Ode to Weather” to express that my whole existence is down to something I can’t control.”
Modiline Turner: “I’m a junior, graduating in 2026, who hopes to have a career in psychology and cosmetology. This piece tells a bright story of summer in 2024.”
Thank you!
This issue of Lit by Design would not be possible without the help and support of the entire New Design High School administration and staff, with a special shout-out to ELA teachers Brett Burns, Darren Chase, Tori Chirafisi, Maria Clausen, Emmy Hammond, John Istel, Laura Madera, Mike Murphy, Rachel Posner, Ranisha Singh, with thanks to our librarian Mina Leazer; and especially the inspiration of our school’s design teachers: Charity Lord, Devin Osorio, Rachel Poccia, Peter Tresnan, and Julie Zenobi.
