Soliloquy

Volume 2 Issue 2 Front Cover.indd 2

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5000 W Mequon Rd. Mequon, WI

Volume 2 Issue 2 • Spring 2019

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7 9 11 13 15 17 19 21 23 25 27 29 31 33

Know your Place by Abbey Perkins Wintress by Therse Giersch Color Series by Chip Meyers My Heart Cries Out by Dion Goodwin Tyler By Mariam Ali Hunter by Grace Rader Consumer by Ethan Leaders Butterflies by Margarthe Berger Rebirth by Anvesha Mukherjee The Depth of Silence by Jayci Scheff Viking by Ethan Leaders Roadtrip by Nesya Graupe The Man in the Moon by Mara Kleinerman Daddy’s Special Suprise by Drew Braaten When You Want to Cry by Abbey Perkins Clock and Skull by Elizabeth Khomenkov Apology by John Sellars Star by Elizaveta Familia Eternal by Gretchen Jones City of Stars by Kaylee Norris

Letter f Letter f Letter f Letter f Letter f Letter f Letter f Letter f Letter f Letter f Letter f Letter f Letter f Letter f Letter f Letter f

The Depth of Poetry by Dylan Bradley Photo by Bella Cicero Cadaver’s Gift by Bella Cicero Maybelline- Real Impact Mascara by Emma Day Amore by Dan Zinger American Poem by Reem Salah Girl Tiger by Anvesha Mukhergee Butterfly Garden by Nesya Graupe The Haunted by Emma Straszewski The Sun by Julianna Cox Sunset by Bella Milbeck

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Braaten

menkov

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My Love Is.. by Bella Gabor Zamod by Drew Braaten I Am by Timmaya Paris Three Heads are Better than One by Ethan Miller Date with Death by Mara Kleinerman Reaper by Tyler Brown My Kingdom by Karly Bartz Daily Announcements by Isabel Waszkiewicz Still Life with Skull by Aaron Tamanji Cowards by Abby West Falcon by Kat Hustedde Pool Side by Claire Looker Trio by Zach Miller Park Bench by John Sellars Curvilinear by James Valentino The Road of Lost Forgiveness by Max Kelly

The Pocket by Emma Knutson Day 60 by Drew Braaten Dear Perfection by Mara Kleinerman Portrait by Anne Ramlow Apology to my Hair by Abbey Perkins Blue Afro by Emma Como

Letter from the editor Letter from the editor Letter from the editor Letter from the editor Letter from the editor Letter from the editor Letter from the editor Letter from the editor Letter from the editor Letter from the editor Letter from the editor Letter from the editor Letter from the editor Letter from the editor Letter from the editor Letter from the editor 03-04.indd 3

Check Mate by Will Gerew

When approching the theme for this issue, many ideas flew around creative writing club before we ultimately decided on Perspectives. We are constantly bombarded by new perspectives in our daily lives, be it from media, friends, family, or your neighbor. Every one’s experiences formulate their own unique perspective on the world, creating an intricate tapestry of minute differences within humanity.

All art inherently conveys the unique point of view of the creator; thus, by apprehending one another’s written and visual art, we engage in a type of listening. The staff of Soliloquy invites you consider the nuanced themes explored by the diverse array of students who have offered their work to you upon these pages. In doing so, they open a glimpse into perspectives all their own.

Soliloquy / 4

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Drew Braaten, Junior

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Know Your Place Abbey Perkins, Senior Her ambition halted with the silencing command: “Know your place” She didn’t know she could do that She could never find it Aspirations halted by a simple phrase Thickening the confines of her spoken cage She never knew that that phrase loved her You see, her place was wherever her feet touched the ground Her place cannot constrain No, her place gives her wings The words of her foes no longer hold her hostage Rather, they pull her shoulders back Lift her chin Set her jaw And fix her eyes on the horizon that awaits her To know her place Is to alter the awareness of herself Answering to no one but the voice between her ears And above her neck Creating the culmination of her calling “Know your place” Where is it?

No one can say The place is within her The place is her

Winteress by Therese Giersch, Junior 7/ Soliloquy

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Red Rage burns with passion, And fire, To boil your frozen blood.

Let the smoke billow, Call your allies, Encased in ice, To the cause of rage.

The rage you feel, Stoked by the fire in your heart, And the coal of the soul, Stained red with blood.

Yellow Let your smile shine, Like the sun in the sky, Let it bring light to the day.

A sunflower reaching high, The fireflies in the night, Bringing a light to life, In the darkest sky.

This shine is life’s, Meant for all, But only found by the few Who will share it.

The fire inside you grows; the ice melts away.

Your soul burns as fuel And your heart will flicker and die.

Green Blue Weap, let your tears fall, Let the river flow, Let the sadness swallow you.

Chip Meyers, Senior

A calm ocean in your soul Is now a storm, A captain lost at sea Is lost to his family.

Let the sadness spread, And fall through your eyes The sky and sea have calmed But the captain’s gone forever.

It’s his But it should be yours The money, the fame, all of it.

The algae in a lake Weeds in a garden A lone four-leaf clover in a field Taking what should be yours.

This hunger is mine And no one else’s All that is, is mine, And mine alone.

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Pink

y, e day.

high, ght, e,

e few

all of it.

Feel your heart quicken, Like a drum solo in your chest, Listen to its rhythm, And find its muse.

There is no black There is no white — Just a cold, neutral, grey.

Sipping pink lemonade, In a flowery meadow, Your heart’s muse, Is sitting with you.

The static on a TV, A wall of stone, An unsaturated picture, A grey mist hanging in the air.

When its rhythm ends, The song won’t follow.

Your muse may remain, To sing it still.

The rainbow of emotions I once knew Have been swallowed, Swallowed by the grey Lost forever, colorless, I can no longer shine.

Black

White

The dark inside your soul, Let it swallow you, Take you into its abyss.

The light in your heart, Let it take you, Let it consume you, Let it become you.

A starless midnight, A wolf howling At a sky with no moon, And an inkwell left untouched.

in a field yours.

Grey

The dark is my home.

I like it here.

Keep out the light And let me be.

The brightest star, The sun in the sky, A blank page In an empty book.

The light is blinding, Let it take you, Let it consume you, Let it become you.

Soliloquy / 10

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My Heart Cries Out

Dion Goodwin, Senior My heart cries out for the mother who lost her son for the father who lost his daughter for the families pulled apart for the shootings to stop My heart cries out I want to live I want to become something in the world My heart cries out I’m important Let me live Please put the guns down My heart cries out Let kids grow up in peace Please stop shooting us My heart bleeds out My heart bleeds My heart My My heart bleeds out it’s no longer beating it’s no longer it’s no it’s

Tyler b

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Tyler by Mariam Ali, Senior

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Hunger Grace Rader, Junior Hunger burns in my stomach Like toxic waste On the side of the road.

It radiates the need for adventure Throughout my body.

It emulates a desire I have never experienced before.

Hunger burns in my stomach Like toxic waste That needs to be disposed of.

It protrudes from me Like a repulsive scab Aching to be peeled off.

Hunger burns in my stomach Like toxic waste At the bottom of a mountainous pile Of priorities and responsibilities Haphazardly thrown in all directions.

It creates an agonizing feeling In the bottom of my gut That can be relieved only by The sorcery of confrontation.

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Consumer by Ethan Leaders, senior

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senior

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Butterflies Margarethe Berger, Sophomore

My stomach is against his. I’m wrapped in his embrace, and for once, I am calm.

The butterflies that have found their permanent home in my stomach are all perched, delicately, on branches of harmony that he creates.

He’ll never know exactly what his presence does for me.

He breathes me in and exhales. His breath moves the wings of my butterflies, but they stay where they are, on the branches between us.

A mercy, but they keep us apart.

When he leaves, the branches will retreat, and I will be left with nervous wings brushing the sides of my cold, heavy stomach.

I will be alone.

The anticipation of the loneliness to come blows breath onto their wings, and they take flight, back into my body.

I look at him.

He knows.

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Rebirth by Anvesha Mukherjee, Senior

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cately,

ay

the

ight,

Senior

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The Depth of Silence

Vikings by Ethan Leaders, Senior

Jayci Scheff, Senior

The depth of silence reaches the soul.

When all is quiet, thoughts echo loudly.

The mind meditates on the desires of the heart.

If you yearn to know the longings of your heart, Escape the noise.

Find silence.

Be still.

Sit, listen.

Your heart is waiting to speak.

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Roadtrip Nesya Graupe, Senior

As I travel on the road from Budapest to Sarajevo I gaze out the window of our rented car on a multicountry road trip.

The sun has just shown a dazzling display of colors and is now being chased into the mountains by the steadily approaching darkness.

The speed limits are in kilometers, and the signs in Serbo-Croatian.

My passport picks up stamps at each border crossing, adding to my growing collection.

I realize, not for the first time, the freedom an American passport affords me.

Each cherished square of ink brings back magnificent memories and demonstrates decisive evidence of my travels.

It is difficult to believe that just 20 years ago an ethnic cleansing took place here during the Yugoslav wars, wars that I had hardly heard about until visiting this part of the world.

The world is a dark place, darker than we often realize.

It is difficult for people to feel empathy for those from a country they have never heard of and with names they cannot pronounce.

Traveling has taught me more than any history book ever could.

On a road in the middle of nowhere where nobody else speaks English, I realize just how big the world is.

I am but one person in a sea of 7.5 billion.

The sky is dark and I fall asleep to the gentle lulling of the car and humming of the engine.

I awake once we reach our destination, Sarajevo, where the next adventure will begin.

Soliloquy / 18

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Mara Kleinerman, Senior

The Man in the Moon

Let the rays of the sun blaze a splendorous gold and orange, illuminating the night sky, casting rainbows of iridescent white light upon this earth, magically transforming the world from black to blue.

I would rather be the man in the moon, always on the outside looking in.

I am a perpetual spectator camouflaged by the rays of the sun ablaze as they summon a new day.

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Daddy’s Special Surprise by Drew Braaten, Junior The rays of the sun awaken the beings of this earth, unveiling the twinge of fear and hope in their eyes as they call for the new day on the horizon.

They never meet the gaze of the man in the moon, for he is basking adjacent to solar blinding brilliance.

As the sun descends from its heavenly scaffold, I’d rather be the man in the moon, putting the the deeds of the day to bed, modestly shining in the solitude of the night sky, accompanied by the shooting stars that are zapping to align with the fate of tomorrow.

Soliloquy / 20

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Ap

John S

Before I’d just that I’m such an I could witty su Anywa

Also, th so plea

I’m sor that wa ‘a dark I’ll be s from he My bad

Clock and Skull by Elizabeth Khomenkov, Junior

Sorry, t I shoul more u

When You Want To Cry

I’ll try He’s sm Hopefu

Abbey Perkins, Senior When you want to cry, but it’s just not the right time Slow your breath to keep it from shaking When you’re met with that prickly feeling in your eyes Tell the tears to sit down and shut up

This so I wrote so it’s n

When the lump in your throat becomes ever so prominent Demand it to dissolve, to wait just a little longer When you want to cry, but it’s just not the right time Ignore everything I just said, and weep Allow yourself to unravel in a world that winds you up so tight

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Apology John Sellars, Senior Before I continue, I’d just like to say that I’m sorry for such an uncreative title; I couldn’t think of something with witty subtlety.

Anyway, I digress.

Also, this is a first draft, so please don’t be too harsh.

The night was pitch, the rain smashing against windows,

I’m sorry, that was practically ‘a dark and stormy night’.

I’ll be sure to avoid clichés from here on out.

My bad.

Sorry. a train’s ominous song sliced through the low-lying clouds.

Alex,

Sorry, that’s a really popular name; I should’ve used something more unique. engulfed in the fumes of his handheld tobacco fire,

I’ll try to open the curtain a little here.

He’s smoking.

Hopefully that makes sense now. peered into the darkness, not of the mystery of night, but something deeper, within.

This sounds awkward, I wrote it kinda late last night, so it’s not very good right now.

I’ve been messing around with formatting, so this probably isn’t my best work, I’ve written far better pieces before.

He tore into the catacombs where his dreams, aspirations, found themselves after years of being abandoned with a sigh.

The vocabulary of this piece probably isn’t very strong, I don’t know too many big words.

Proceeding through, he noticed the remnants of one of his earliest ambitions:

I probably should’ve used stronger verbs, but I couldn’t come up with better ones. an author.

I should’ve edited this more first.

Beside him lay his final work,

I’m really just not smart enough to write something good. a piece of parchment

My apologies, with a single phrase:

I shouldn’t have wasted your time.

‘I’m sorry.’

He stripped away the suffocating tethers, drawn to protect the contents buried in his conscious.

The safety of the prison cell undone.

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Star

Elizaveta Familiant, Sophomore The little sparkle in the air must be stuck inside your eye. It brings my gaze to you as a moth to light.

Could it be this sparkle isn’t a star but your beauty that I see from afar?

The kindness in your heart and the warmth of your life illuminate the atmosphere and brings my eye to your spark.

Eternal

Gretchen Jones, Senior Like a bird Its white wings take flight Drifting, floating gracefully Through the pale morning sky With wings pure as a spring day A body lighter than air, Touching down softly upon the limbs of a friendly tree Its white body painted with light brushstrokes The color of flushed cheeks From the bite of winter’s wind Eternal, everlasting beauty— An immortal plastic bag.

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City of Stars by Kaylee Norris, Senior

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The Depth of Poetry Dylan Bradley, 11

The depth of poetry is nearly infinite, A cavernous blue pool of lifeblood.

The timid may wade in and make ripples across its surface Or splash others so they may be wet with thought.

The bold may gulp down air Gripping onto the sustenance And dive downwards into the abyss, Twirling into the darkness Outstretched fingers feel for the bottom Stretching themselves Resisting the urge to breathe And escape to the surface.

They lay back onto the rough table Arms and legs spread Releasing bubbles of air And eyes opened With the spark of enlightenment.

In time, they leave this place Rising from this trench Yet gazing back longingly Wishing to fling thoughts aside And return to serenity.

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Cadaver’s Gift

Rain on Water by Bella Cicero, 11

Bella Cicero, 11

Bloodless and pale, The heart is light after life.

In a stagnant room smelling of death, Bearing no windows, The heart makes its new home.

It lies, severed from its roots, In an open cavity, Cradled by its similarly restful sisters and brothers: A tree’s trunk lacking a connection to the Earth.

The heart is firm in its shape, Yet unburdened by its former task: The life-bringer at last at rest.

Not violent, But rather cold and beautiful: A smooth stone between palms.

Exposed to sight and touch, Willingly given, And anything but useless, The heart is, still.

Soliloquy / 26

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MaybellineReal Impact Mascara Emma Day, Senior You are a bottle of mascara Perfectly designed exterior In striking neon packaging

You are my necessity To make me admirable, powerful, bold This is what I say to myself As I stain my eyes with you But you are filled with black tar A dark, sticky monstrosity That spreads like the plague to whomever it touches The more I apply The more cloudy my vision becomes Blurring your manipulation Masking me in your shadows The only way for me to break free Is to wash my face And wipe you away

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Amore by Dan Zinger, Senior

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Am I America?

Reem Salah, Senior Am I America?

My mind utters yes My soul shrieks no I am the darker sister But my skin beams light Too dark for white Too white for dark Somewhere in between I am the Middle Eastern friend Friend America doesn’t think I’m a friend Corrupted by my own culture The culture I’ve lost To America Friend Egypt doesn’t think I’m a friend Corrupted by my own culture The culture I’ve gained From America There’s nowhere to go The America I know doesn’t love me But the America I’ve found Does Am I America?

I don’t know

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Girl Tiger by Anvesha Mukherjee, Senior

5/30/19 10:25 AM

Senior

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Butterfly Garden Nesya Graupe, Senior The alluring scent of nectar taunts the butterfly, stranded on the ground.

The light illuminates its iridescent wings, its beautiful body a kaleidoscope of colors.

The image of the creature, torn yet beautiful, melts the heart of its spectator.

Its wings long to catch a glint of freedom in the sky, to see the patchwork quilt of little fields, and feel everything but pain.

The butterfly lies wounded, closer to death than to life.

I walk by and sigh in pity, knowing that the careless feet of a human trampled the creature.

My innocent heart sings of hope and healing, but I know full well that the butterfly will never fly again.

The Haunted by Emma Straszewski, Senior

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The Sun

Julianna Cox, Senior

The sun offered us praise It offered the energy of life It injected joy into our bloodstreams It melted away the worries of our mind And the anxiety of our fears The sun offered us praise It persuaded streaks of blonde into our brown hair It sent bronze love upon our skin It traced contrasting lines onto our bodies And sprinkled freckles across our shoulders The sun offered us praise It resonated in the heat of the sand It sent brightness to the soul of waves It tickled the bellies of birds And their laughs echoed through the trees The sun offered us praise It released its rays into existence And reminded us of the warmth in life The sun offered us praise

Sunset by Bella Milbeck, Junior

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My Love Is...

Bella Gabor, Senior

The Masterpiece sits in my attic.

I gaze at it frequently.

The daring brush strokes, the dynamic colors, all of it so violently beautiful one cannot help but stare.

I remember how the summer sun played with the dust as we contemplated the blank canvas before us.

You brought with you the paints, and I the brushes.

We painted together, and the colors grew with liveliness.

I remember every moment we spent before the eisel.

Hand in hand we created the masterpiece carelessly glopping liquid love onto the canvas.

Our lines blended together in perfect harmony, mixing the paints into unnamed colors of euphoria.

The masterpiece never ceased, and only grew with every stroke.

Our harsh lines created a dangerous beauty too stunning to behold.

We never planned what we would paint.

I fervently awaited for the the arrival of your alluring hues every day, until you stopped coming.

In your absence, I watched as the enchanting colors we invented dissolved into the blank canvas beneath.

The masterpiece has now faded.

The passionate brush strokes have chipped and cracked, and the vibrancy dulled.

The dancing dust of the summer sun has settled upon the surface of our forgotten beauty.

I stare at the painting now— the strokes no longer beautiful, the fractured lines revealing the flawed techniques of our work.

I pull at the chipped paint and let the memories of lost love fall upon the attic floor.

I sometimes wish you would come and rescue me with your painter’s pallette, that you would lay your hand upon mine and we would restore our once marvellous gem.

The feelings cease when I look over the molded image.

You will never come, I know.

I cover the art with a tethered tarp in defeated understanding.

The lust for your specific set of paints has abandoned me.

I bring my own paints filled with my own romance.

My new masterpiece glows brighter and more lovely with my controlled and singular caress.

I realize now that your colors would never last.

Zamod

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re.

us.

eneath.

our

Zamod by Drew Braaten, Junior

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I am...

Timmaya Paris, Sophomore I am I am liberated because of the simple fact that I say I am liberated.

What do I have to lose or even worse gain?

This is why they call the heroes the greatest, Yet my perception of power has faded.

I no longer believe in hatred.

I am vibrant because of the simple fact that I say I am vibrant.

What do I have to lose or even worse gain?

My energy was simply misplaced and mistaken.

I no longer believe in time wasted.

I am what I want to be.

The truth rings within me like an epiphany.

I heard it from my mother and my sister and the King.

Let freedom ring, let freedom ring.

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Three Heads are Better Than One by Ethan Miller, Senior

5/29/19 1:40 PM

Senior

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Date With Death Mara Kleinerman, senior

A kiss from death woke me this morning.

He romantically bellowed my name, Imploring me to rise from beneath the earth.

I bid my granite chamber farewell – for now – I take his hand as we enter the house of his nemesis – The house of life – I had to watch my great great grandchildren today, But he whispered something in my ear – Seducing my beatless heart with every word – His voice was a drug - so toxic – so alluring.

What was I supposed to do again?

We walked in step, my hand in his.

We paused at school for only a moment – I saw my great great granddaughter – Dancing at recess – oh how she’s grown – She looks just like me – I tried - but failed – to summon her – He then caressed her young, rosy cheeks – She danced right through him.

She is so beautiful, lively, and naive – Oblivious to the inevitable stroke of death – Just as I had once been – The sun had set in the sky – And death, the beguiling charmer he is, Walked me home that evening – I sunk below the earth and into my chamber My eternal place of rest Death didn’t kiss me goodnight – He was saving his kisses for the affair – I knew I wasn’t the only one – I am but one of a whole world – He is off to capture hearts – to steal breath – For he has a date with life – and life has a date With death –

Reaper by Tyler Brown, senior Soliloquy / 40

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Karly Bartz, Senior

My Kingdom

Still Life with Skull by Aaron Tamanji, Freshman

My eyes uncover a path to the depths of the ocean.

I see the radiating sun and invite the light to join me.

I come out of the shadows, Absorbing every color around me.

I carry this light in a bag upon my back.

I choose to fill my colorful days with savory sensations Sweet, like a mouthwatering cherry lollipop.

Salty, like a handful of golden potato chips.

Rich, like a dark chocolate mousse cake dripping with strawberry filling.

With each bite, I relish the explosion of flavors.

I concentrate on the beat of my vigorous heart, The beat echoes like the voices deep inside my mind.

My thoughts whirl around, Taken by the wind, blown through an endless meadow.

I pick out the sunflowers from the bed of weeds.

I follow the scent of spring, looking forward to a new day Pausing, Recognizing the beauty of the evanescent garden that surrounds me.

Be gentle, My brilliance is guarded by a golden gate.

Trespass, and my kingdom will fall.

41 / Soliloquy

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Isabel Waszkiewicz, Senior

Daily Announcements

shman

They came on the speakers that Tuesday, to announce yet another loss.

However, this one wasn’t that of the basketball team, or of the football championship game.

In fact, the way this announcement came, brought everyone around to shame.

For the girl who always walked in late to class, would no longer bare that yellow pass, no longer sit next to my desk, or take another test.

For the news that came next, brought pain to my chest, because that girl who everyone talked about, who always wore a smile, and always went the extra mile, wasn’t walking in late ever again.

Then silence fell upon the room.

Was she always hiding all this doom?

No one could even begin to assume that she was happy, because she was, wasn’t she?

Was it just something no one else could see?

Did she bear this pain everyday, and just never say?

As I sat in my first hour class, the one with the worn-down, empty desk.

Everyone sat statuesque.

Not moving a muscle, not even packing up in a hustle.

And my morals began to seem so vain, for I never saw her pain hidden under that fake joyful mask.

But I would never be able to ask for her pen ink would never again copy the notes on the board, or have another test scored.

Never drive her car, never leave home just to get far.

And so I sat near the empty desk, and pondered what could have led her to an end so grotesque, but I would never know my answer because I would never again see her, only her picture among dozens hanging in the hall.

Just ended lives written on a wall.

A deadly collection growing every year, that brought everyone to shed a tear.

For the girl who never truly felt love, finally truly smiled down with the others from above.

Soliloquy / 42

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Bella Cicero, Junior 43 / Soliloquy

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Cowards Abby West, Senior

I rocked back and forth in my bed, shivering under my thick blanket, sweat cooling my feverish skin. A war raged inside of my body— self-preservation on one side of the battlefield and self-loathing on the other. The regret that festered inside of me continued to swell until I felt it burbling in the back of my throat. I shook my head, desperately trying to swallow the bile that threatened to choke me. Suddenly, scenes floated up from the murky depths of my mind, like answers appearing in the window of a Magic 8 Ball. They depicted all of the dreams I had for my future; I saw myself dressed in a cap and robe, in a glistening white dress, in a hospital gown pulled tight over a swollen belly.

I can’t let this consume me. I still have so much to do. Besides, I can not let mom or dad find out. After all they’ve gone through, I doubt they Falcon by Kat Hustedde could survive the shock.

A rumbling sound came from outside, which was just enough to rouse me from my innermost thoughts.

I pulled myself up and slowly slid off the mattress, dragging my teal quilt along with me. Still stubbornly wrapped in the soft fabric, I shuffled to the window and peered down on our driveway. A police car rested on the cement slab, still for a moment before an officer opened the driver’s side door. My blanket dropped away, pooling about my feet like a wave breaking on the shore. I whirled, sprinting out of my room, down the stairs and into the kitchen, where my brother was peacefully preparing a sandwich. He continued to spread mayo onto the bun even as I skidded into the room, socks slipping on the hardwood floor.

“Finally emerged from your cave, huh,” he commented dryly, still refusing to look up from his food.

Warm sunlight streamed in through the window above the sink, outlining his lean body and ebony locks with gold. “Are you going to tell me what happened yesterday?”

I opened my mouth to respond, but the sharp ring of the doorbell silenced me. Daniel dropped his bread onto the island with a sigh and moved to go answer the door; I flew in front of him, planting a trembling hand onto his chest.

Pressure blossomed behind my eyes; I could feel the countless tears, all pressed up against the emotional dam I had attempted to build during the night. “Don’t get it, please I ne-,” “CPD! I’m looking for a May Evans,” the officer yelled from outside, effectively cutting me off again.

Confusion crossed Daniel’s face as he took my wrist gently — his long, delicate fingers easily encircling the slim joint. “I have to answer the door, May.” He sidestepped me and began to walk towards the front of the house, releasing me as he did so.

I reached for his arm but he shook me off. “Please don’t tell him anything!” My levee finally ruptured, allowing hot tears to cascade down my cheeks and burn my skin. “Please, Daniel!”

He looked over his shoulder at me, fear beginning to flood his usually calm and composed features.

“What did you do?” he asked quietly. The look on his face made me want to tear out the heart from my chest. I gasped for breath, struggling to inhale, to regain some semblance of control. A series of hard, impatient knocks sounded on the front door, and Daniel hurried forward to answer. Feeling faint, I sank

45 / Soliloquy

45-46.indd 2

5/29/19 1:43 PM

to the gr a torturo chair fo I hea “My “I’m “We “W-w I bro out wha to jail — “A c watering to May Ther sob.

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to the ground, my back against the cool, painted wall. The scene played over and over in my mind; it was a torturous, horrific movie, but I couldn’t leave the theater. I will be strapped to this sticky, coarse cinema chair for the rest of my life.

I heard the click of the latch, the polite greeting, the explanation.

“My name is Officer Deakin. I’m looking for a young woman named May Evans.”

“I’m her brother, Daniel. Can I ask what this is all about?”

“We believe your sister ran over a seven-year-old boy yesterday afternoon.”

“W-what?”

I brought my hands up to ears, palms pressing painfully against my head, but it wasn’t enough to block out what he said, or what I’d done. Please send him away. I’m not here, I’m long gone. I don’t need to go to jail — my existence will be punishment enough.

“A car struck the child as he was walking along the street near his home. A neighbor happened to be watering her garden when it happened, and managed to record the license plate. The vehicle is registered to May Evans.”

There was a long pause, and even though the flesh and bone of my hands I heard my brother stifle a sob.

“Is he okay,” he asked, voice wavering in the stale air of our house.

I looked over towards the kitchen window, where motes of dust danced in the sunlight. I wished I could join them. I wished to be free of my body and mind and flake away into ash until the only thing left of me was a slight whisper on the breeze.

The officer sighed. “No. He’s not.”

I knew that. Deep down, somewhere in the most wicked, cavernous part of my consciousness, I knew that nobody could survive that, let alone a child. It wasn’t like in the movies. In the movies, you hear a dull thud, followed by a clear shot of the body rolling up and over the windshield. I heard a crunch. I heard the snapping bone and tearing muscle. I heard the pitiful yelp just before impact. But I never saw that little boy, even as I drove away. I never looked back, never hesitated in my decision to run, never feared for anyone but myself.

“Have you seen your sister since last night?” the officer asked.

Silence stretched on for what seemed like hours. Why is he hesitating? What is there to think about?

He wouldn’t dare turn me in, right? I’m his best friend.

“Have you seen your sister,” the officer repeated, irritation seeping into his words.

“She’s in the hallway near the kitchen.”

My whole body seemed to freeze in place. Reality slipped into nightmare, and everything I had known or believed to be true was hurled out of a tenth story window. Suddenly rough hands gripped my shoulders, hauling me to my feet. The officer said something as he pinned my arms behind my back, probably my Miranda rights. But all I could focus on was Daniel, on his downturned face, on his slumped shoulders, on his tears. The hatred that boiled in my stomach overcame me instantly, and it erupted from my mouth like magma from a volcano.

“How could you do this to me?” I lunged for him, teeth flashing, a wolf going in for the fatal blow.

The officer yanked me back hard enough to make my shoulders ache, and quickly snapped on the handcuffs. They immediately dug into the soft skin of my wrist, and the cool metal seemed to chill my blood.

My anger melted away like snow in springtime, once again leaving my face slick with tears. “You’re my brother,” I whimpered. “You’re supposed to protect me.”

He bowed his head, his curly black hair hanging low enough to cover the top half of his face. “You couldn’t have run from this May. I’m sorry, but this is what needed to happen.” He sounded as though he was trying to convince himself as much as me.

Even as I was led out of the house and towards to squad car, Daniel couldn’t meet my eyes. He couldn’t face the destruction his actions caused. I guess, in that way, we are both cowards.

Soliloquy / 46

45-46.indd 3

5/29/19 1:43 PM

Pool Side Claire Looker, Senior

“More!”

The cashier behind the snack bar gave her a reproving glance, but nonetheless squirted even more ketchup on the hot dog.

“That’ll be two-fifty,” he said.

Rachel handed the man a crumpled dollar bill and various coins, and without saying thank you, readjusted the pink butterfly towel around her neck. The bright sun was shaded by her cateye sunglasses, fuschia and rhinestone spotted, and she walked off with her now ketchup-soaked hot dog.

The cheerful chatter and screams of kids splashing in the pool could be heard from blocks away.

Pleasant music carried through the air. Moms chased kids around with sunscreen bottles, lifeguards blew whistles periodically, kids ran from their sunscreen-wielding moms, all in a regular day at the pool.

She carried the hot dog through the maze of lawn chairs to her little brother, who was standing near the edge of the pool. Spiderman arm floaties lopsided, he looked glum.

Mason looked up at her. “You ever know the feeling of when you want to swim but the water is so cold and you know ‘cause you just stuck your toe in and if you go in you’ll be freezing for like the first ten minutes but soon enough you’ll be warm?” He paused. “I think I just need to convince myself to start running and then jump so I can’t back out but I think I’ll jump in after I go to the-” And with no warning, she shoved him in the pool.

Sputtering for air, Mason popped out of the water, goggles askew. “What’d you do that for?!”

Rachel shrugged, and took a big bite of her hot dog. “You didn’t seem like you were going in. So I helped you out.” She swallowed and examined her chipped, hot pink fingernails. “Really, you should be thanking me.”

He glared at her, water dripping from his nose. “I..” Mason’s eyes went wide. “Rachel. I just--” Another bite. “Well, go on then. Spit it out.”

He sloshed closer to her and just barely audible, he hissed, “I just pooped.”

She slid her sunglasses down her nose and let them balance on the tip while she stared at him. And promptly burst out laughing. Her cackle soon turned into a howl, and falling backward, she nearly dropped her hot dog. A mother and daughter walked past, flip flops snapping. Rachel sighed contentedly, smiling, and pushed the glasses back up her face.

“I’m telling mom.”

He grabbed her non hot dog arm, pleading.

“Please Rachel, don’t! She’s gonna get so mad at me!”

“Not my fault you went to the bathroom in the pool. I’m telling.”

She pushed his hand away and stood up. Ignoring his pleas, she ran around to the opposite side of the pool to where her mom was, suffering more than one “Walk please!” at the hands of the lifeguards on the way.

“Mom! You’ll never guess what happened. I pushed Mason in the pool after I bought a hot dog, and guess what! He pooped. In the pool. In the pool! What? No, it’s not my fault. I mean, yeah, I pushed him but-” The conversation halted as Rachel’s mom forcefully took her by the arm and dragged her to the nearest lifeguard. Mason could be seen waving frantically from his helpless spot in the pool. As they explained the situation, the lifeguard’s face filled with detached dismay and he painfully picked up the megaphone.

“Excuse me, I’m going to need everyone to clear the pool! I repeat, clear the pool!”

Trio by

47 / Soliloquy

47-48.indd 2

5/29/19 1:44 PM

re

asses,

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Trio by Zach Miller, Freshman

47-48.indd 3

Soliloquy / 48

5/29/19 1:44 PM

Par She s

“Curvilinear” by James Valentino, senior

49 / Soliloquy

49-50.indd 2

5/29/19 1:44 PM

The wat surface April oc er and f hands.

Head beeped slamme He sat o “I th sit here She l other, sh “Mo tion. I d right no grief he much as Kaia “Loo grieving never cl him for we were fidgetin about M Kaia why I al but he a never ca to unrav was alw gave up to exting diagnos Look “I am did was manage boat’s h “Kaia, c but you She spu down to She w “You Kaia beginnin lapsed u himself He crep

Park Bench John Sellars, Senior She sat rigid on the park bench, its wood planks slightly uneven, its concrete sides beginning to tip.

senior

The water always looked beautiful this time of year. Nighttime boats reflected their light off the rippling surface as soon as the sun had kissed the horizon behind her. Even in the overcast, dim light, the cool April ocean pushed, pulled the shoreline in steady syncopation. Kaia used to sit here often, her brother and father throwing a football in the grass behind her. How she had wanted to feel the leather in her hands. But that was long over now. Four decades later, and they were not kids anymore.

Headlights swept the cliffline, passing over her solid, unfaltering figure. A door opened, and the car beeped incessantly for its owner to remove the keys from the ignition. The beeping stopped; the door slammed shut. He walked over to the bench, pausing to look at Kaia’s silhouette peering over the water.

He sat on the other side of the bench, avoiding the cracked slat in the middle.

“I thought I’d find you here,” he said, looking out at the bobbing sailboats below, “You always would sit here when we were young.” He turned his head toward her, “What happened back there?”

She looked on. Silence. Her black dress flowed gently in the breeze. Her naked hands held each other, sharing their faint warmth.

“Mom was hunched over in tears after you left. Everyone was asking me where you went at the reception. I didn’t even get a chance to say a proper goodbye to the cousins, and Frank is driving Mom home right now,” he said, becoming terse. “I know funerals are hard for you, but dammit, Mom could die from grief herself. Think of how hard it is for her. She just lost her love of over sixty years, and you can’t so much as sit for one fucking hour for her.”

Kaia turned her head to hide her mascara streaming down her cheeks all over again.

“Look, Kaia, I’m sorry,” he said, inching closer. “But funerals aren’t for the dead, they’re for the grieving. The least you could have done would have been to support Mom, even if you and Dad were never close.” She hunched her figure, rubbing her finger where a ring should be. “Even if you avoided him for all those years sitting on this bench.” He closed in another inch. “Even if you avoided him since we were kids.” He was over the crack in the slat now. A pause. He looked back to the boats below, fidgeting with his wedding band. “I always knew you resented Dad, but I never thought you felt the same about Mom.” Kaia pivoted her head and stared directly into Terrance’s baggy eyes and pointed glare. “You know why I always sat on this bench all those years ago?” she asked. “I tried to have a relationship with Dad, but he always shut me out, turned me away like a begging dog in the rain, and you never noticed. You never cared. You were ‘his boy,’ and I wasn’t you.” The knot she had tied in her throat years prior began to unravel. “I tried and tried and tried to get Dad to show me a splinter of the love I had for him, but it was always, ‘another time, Kaia,’ or ‘not now, Kaia, Terrance and I are playing catch.’ After a while, I gave up on trying for him.” She rose to her feet, no longer hiding the fire her tears were desperately trying to extinguish. “But to insinuate that I, I! don’t love Mom–– Who was it who stayed home when she was diagnosed? Who gave up their education and career and life to take care of her?”

Looking up at her with injured surprise, Terrance said, “Kai, you’re blowing this up–” “I am not finished,” she retorted. “You never gave a homeward glance when Mom got sick. All you did was send a check for Dad to buy the month’s whiskey. All you ever did was praise Dad for how he managed through it. And I suffered the cruelty of a drunken sailor, holding back my desire for mutiny.” A boat’s horn sounded below. A whistle answered.

“Kaia, calm down,” he said, standing slowly, his voice beginning to rise. “I’m sorry about you and Dad, but you cannot say I haven’t been there for Mom!–” She spun towards him, her hands suddenly exerting extreme force upon his shoulders, launching him down towards the bench. His plummeting body pushed the cracked slat beyond its limit.

She wiped her wrist across her face, staining her hand black as the running inkwells of her eyes.

“You didn’t even drive Mom home,” she said.

Kaia started her car with a sputter and drove off, leaving Terrance to sit wincing under the drops of rain beginning to drizzle over the sea. When he finally got up, he was drenched and bruised. The bench collapsed under him when he rose, the leaning concrete slabs the only pieces holding steadfast. He lowered himself tenderly in his car seat, gravity pulling his breath from below, pushing his shoulders from above.

He crept away from the coastline, tapping his ring against the leather steering wheel.

Soliloquy / 50

49-50.indd 3

5/29/19 1:44 PM

The Road of Lost Forgiveness Max Kelly, Senior

“Gah dammit, why can’t… I… Just get this thing in the…” My sweat-soaked palms slipped on the cheap plastic while I struggled to clasp the frantic Frannie into her rear-facing car seat. Melissa, irritable and disappointed, took over the duty before she slid uncomfortably into the passenger-side seat.

I could tell Yvette, who was sitting in her booster seat, grew exasperated by the delay as she cried out - yet another failure of her ‘Dad of the Year’ father.

“Dad, I want to go NOW!” she said, her thin lips curling downward and her sky-blue eyes stared into my soul, clouded by the anger I had created. Her bouncing yellow curls, tied up in ponytails for the first day of second grade, shimmered as the sunlight created a halo around her. “You promised us ice cream with the extra money you got from selling the kitchen table last week! I’m not just going to sit here and WAIT for YOU…” She droned on and on; eventually, her voice became the warning siren that I continuously ignored, just like I had last week. Oh no - last week.

I remembered the blood and the screaming and the tears; even worse, that look in the eyes of my girls as I passed by them on the stretcher that fateful afternoon paralyzed me every time I thought of it.

Overwhelmed and scared, their normally twinkling eyes seemed dull and filled with oceans of tears. I brought that upon Flashes of that once thought-relieving night reverberated through my mind; my body, them, and now it was time to explain why.

The phone rang out like a baby crying for its mother’s love, yet my internal thoughts crashed into the forefront of my mind and never left. I slipped undetected into the bathroom, leaving the irate creditor screaming into an abyss. The bottle cap popped off 51 / Soliloquy

51-52.indd 2

Checkmate by Will Gerew, Senior

5/29/19 1:46 PM

Soliloquy / 52

51-52.indd 3

5/29/19 1:46 PM

as if it were a firework celebrating my life, echoing through my mind as it clattered against the white tiles covered in a layer of dust. The smattering of pills seemingly formed the image of Moses as they led me to part my darkness and venture into a new life.

Flashes of that once thought-relieving night reverberated through my mind; my body, inspired by the onslaught of memories, attempted to release its internal demons through floods of sweat.

Driving in the direction of the general store - the only ice-cream shop in my small town of Abilene, Texas - dust trapped us into the migratory sauna that was my rusted, vomit-green pickup truck. Bumps in the road shook the car as if God himself had picked it up and shook it like a small child, angered by my sinful actions.

“So, girlies, Daddy has something to tell you about,” I nervously said, as I tore down the wall containing the reservoir of emotions and memories from the previous week. With my vision blurred, my eyes darted in every direction. My soul seemed to leave my empty shell and disintegrate downwards into Hell.

“Daddy, we know - Grandma already told us that you had the stomach thingy, and that’s why Mom ran home and the flashy light guys came,” replied Yvette, with an air of confidence.

I knew the lie that my mom told them must end - I couldn’t let them believe that I simply had a stomach ulcer anymore - however, the ease of simply letting them believe overwhelmed me with thoughts of relaxation and calmness. Looking at my wife seated like a board next to me, I knew that they deserved to know the truth.

“Go ahead, tell them, amazing husband,” said Melissa, rolling her eyes and creating a forcefield as strong as diamonds between us.

Shaking in my seat, I could feel the chilling drops of sweat dripping down the small of my back. I let a cold funnel of air escape from my lungs like a whirlwind of anxiety and whispered, “Girls, last week, I tried to kill myself…”

Looking back past my sorrowful face in the rearview mirror, I saw a

53 / Soliloquy

53-54.indd 2

5/29/19 1:47 PM

look that combined pain and horror upon the face of Yvette. Frannie, not so much; I knew she wouldn’t truly understand, considering her age. I watched in agony - my chest compressing tighter and tighter like an accordion - as tears rolled down the rosy cheeks of my precious little girl. I just thought maybe Yvette wouldn’t get it, saving me from the resurgence of pain and agony that had already washed over me every second since I had been released from the soft cotton sheets of the hospital bed.

Hypnotized by the waves of sadness slamming against the face of my baby girl, my eyes focused solely on the rearview mirror before I said, “Honey, I’m so sorry - I didn’t mean to make you...”

“Mommy,” she said, purposefully shunning my eye contact, “did Daddy try to leave me?”

“Yes angel, he did,” my wife responded, with a quiver of sadness in her voice.

“Mommy,” Yvette started again, “Daddy can get ice cream on his own.

I want to go home.”

The brown, leafless trees and underbrush scattered with plastic that surrounded me slowed to a halt when my foot pushed hard against the brake. I watched as Melissa unbuckled, slipped silently out of the seat like a ghost, and walked solemnly to the backseat; snaps echoed from the car seat and Yvette’s seatbelt as my three angels were snatched away from my life. With two faces of disgust and one still smiling, unaware of the situation, they turned and walked down the dusty, snake riddled road back home.

Clutching the gear and yanking the key into the ignition, I started the car, which shook like a house in a violent storm before it collapsed and broke down completely; one tire popped, the dashboard went dark, and I held the now-separated gear shift in my calloused hand. Without a functioning car, I violently jumped out of my seat, slammed the door shut, and began to run in the opposite direction of my family.

The backs of their heads seemed to penetrate my soul as my cluttered brain emptied itself with each step. As my limbs disintegrated beneath my torso, I fell upon the burnt road and wanted to just lie there forever.

Soliloquy / 54

53-54.indd 3

5/29/19 1:47 PM

The Empty Pocket Emma Knutson, Senior

I was startled out of my thoughts by the train whistle and glanced out of my frosted windshield. On the horizon, I saw its smoke, barely illuminated by the moon, puffing towards me. I took a deep, shaky breath and stepped onto the pavement. I jumped back to avoid a ‘71 El Camino that screeched to a stop diagonally across two parking spots. The pulsing bass abruptly left the cool air still as he shut off the car. A man with a bald head, covered in tattoos and a large scar under his eye squeezed out of his door and stomped over to me.

“You pickin’ up your girl, too?” he asked while smoke from his cigarette smothered my face.

I managed a strangled “Ya” between coughs.

“You hitched yet or what?”

I debated answering, for I really wanted this conversation to end. I needed a few quiet moments before the train pulled in, but as I glanced up at his face, it was clear that remaining quiet was not an option. I tentatively reached into my coat pocket and fumbled with the little box that had consumed my thoughts for months. I snapped open the lid.

He let out a long low whistle and asked, “When’d you meet this chick?”

“Two years ago,” I replied as my shaking hand stuffed the velvet box back into my pocket.

Just then, the train pulled into the station, and the doors opened. The man patted me on the back and strode away to pick up his “chick.” I stood in the back corner of the platform sweating even though it was 20 degrees out. Every scenario of how it could go wrong was blinding me. I was ready to pass out.

Then I saw her. Every other thought left as I saw her beautiful green eyes. She was scanning the many faces until her eyes met mine. My pounding heart dragged me out from my corner of solitude and towards her. Her light brown hair flowed behind her as she tried to hurry towards me with her large suitcase slowing her down. Just before she reached me, I dropped to one knee. Everything finally felt certain and clear.

My now steady hand reached into my pocket.

“What?” I yelped as my fingers felt nothing but the material of my coat. I checked my other pocket.

Only my keys and phone.

“Oh! Oh, my!, Steven, are you proposing?” Clara whispered hoarsely.

Without answering I stood up and spun in a circle, scanning the ground.

“Steven? Steven! What is going on? Are you okay?”

I started running in all directions crashing into people, checking every spot. I could not lose this ring.

My grandmother gave it to me when she passed, and I would never be able to afford one good enough for Clara.

Then, I saw a crowd had started to form on the other side of the platform. I hurried over and pushed my way to the center.

“Babe, marry me,” said the man from the Camino as he held out a ring. My ring.

My legs become shaky. He stole my ring! I could not believe it. The edges of my vision were going black. Everything sounded far away, but her reply brought me back.

“Absolutely not!” spat the blonde woman with too much makeup on clothed in a skin-tight dress. “You disgust me, you fraud!” She ripped the ring from the box and chucked it at his face.

It bounced off his forehead and landed right at my feet. I snatched the box and ran to Clara. It took me a few minutes to realize a few members of the crowd were chasing me — apparently thinking I stole the ring.

Ignoring their protests, I ran on, weaving in and out of people until I saw Clara, my beautiful Clara. I clasped her by the hand, and we made our way to the car.

Before we drove away, Clara said one word. “Yes.”

55 / Soliloquy

55-56.indd 2

5/29/19 1:47 PM

On the breath ago. A man mped

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Day 60 by Drew Braaten, Junior

Soliloquy / 56

55-56.indd 3

5/29/19 1:47 PM

Drew Braaten, Junior 57 / Soliloquy

57-58.indd 2

5/29/19 1:48 PM

Soliloquy / 58

57-58.indd 3

5/29/19 1:48 PM

Dear Perfection Mara Kleinerman, Senior

Find video of spoken word by scanning picture to the right using HP Reveal or folow this link: https://bit.ly/2HDCoNu Dear Perfection, It’s time for me to talk, and for you to listen. Perfection, firstly, I want to thank you for so generously allowing me that one hour of sleep last night, after viciously prying my eyes open until the night sky turned light, simply so as to ensure all of my homework answers were right.

But I could never truly fall asleep as you ever so effortlessly, osmotically entered me, demonically possessing my defenseless body, unapologetically trespassing on the sleep I thought you so graciously granted me. Your malevolent, unwelcome voice boomed in my head, “You should have finished studying last night! You know I’m right! I’m always right.” My alarm-clock thankfully shut you up as I arose from yet another sleepless night.

Perfection, I must confess that I am a crippled under the stress that manifests within me as I so hopelessly try to impress you. Perfection, it’s funny, ironic actually, how you never celebrate my success, but only profess yourself when you believe I have failed you. Do you remember, Perfection, how many apologies it took for you to finally stop punishing me over that B I received due to a lack of sleep? Well, if you recall, you stayed true to your decree to so relentlessly reprimand me for disappointing you. You kept me awake for a week, hungry, exhausted, but no longer suffering from the miniscule ramifications of that one fateful B. As each day ensued, your presence grew stronger; you continued to wield an insidious power over me, piling my shoulders with eighty-pound boulders so as to slouch my back, clawing at my arms, turning them from clean to scratched, the circles under my sleepless eyes turning from pale to black. My parents have begun to worry about all of the meals I’ve missed that maybe I was slowly becoming anorexic. “Sweety, you’re getting so thin. You never eat. Come have dinner tonight,” my mom would always plead.

“Okay, I’ll be right there,” I would respond habitually. But, Perfection, you’re never hungry in that way. No, you crave an increase in my already solid GPA. But, look at me, Perfection. Is this how you want me? Famished, jaded, and so unbearably lonely? I don’t know what more I can do. I’ve surrendered everything for you. Not once have you ever said, “Way to go!” No, all I get from you is an “I told you so.”

So, Perfection, I have no more tears left to cry. I am done spending all of my time trying to please you, you evil, ungrateful, societal paradigm. I am so disgustingly naive to have ever believed that you loved me, that you wanted the best for me. But now, look at me, exhausted , starving, depressed, just how you like me. I’m sorry, Perfection, there is no easy way for me to say that I want us to go our separate ways. This thing that we have had going on is not love; it’s not healthy. I am breaking up with you, Perfection. You are a force I can no longer reckon with because, Perfection, I am most definitely not perfect; I am just human. Goodbye, Perfection.

My new love awaits me. I am sorry, but not really, because for now and forevermore, I’m over you, and I choose Happy.

59 / Soliloquy

59-60.indd 2

Portrait by Anne Ramlow, Sophomore

5/29/19 1:49 PM

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Soliloquy / 60

59-60.indd 3

5/29/19 1:49 PM

An

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Blue Afro by Emma Como, Senior 61 / Soliloquy

61-62.indd 2

5/29/19 1:50 PM

An Apology to my Hair Abbey Perkins, Senior

Find video of spoken word by scanning picture to the left using HP Reveal or folow this link:https://bit. ly/30wnUaK

I’m sorry it took me so long to love you.

The image of what you were supposed to be seeped through the cracks of my insecurities for so many years, contorting my perception of your beauty.

Forgive me for all the times I wished for you to unwind, to just relax, to straighten yourself out. Without a doubt you endured a hatred that your innocence did not deserve. But you have to understand, I was impressionable then, naive. Too blind to see the blessing above me. Hannah Montana, London Tipton, Lava girl, and Raven captivated my eyes, showing me what the perfect girl’s hair should be.

And it wasn’t you, not in the slightest, with your tight coils and awkward kinks. Your inability to flow down my back like the Niagara left me empty, hollow. Because you see I was right at the edge; I had the skin, the hips, the diction, and the lips, I was almost there. The poster-child for black girls across the world. But you kept me from falling. Falling into a never-ending longing to appease the majority, seeking validation from those who don’t even know me.

Now, I get it. It clicked. The fog is erased, and I see you for what you are: the epitome of strength, resilience, and grace.

I sacrifice my Saturday nights to you, twisting and combing until I can’t feel my elbows. I endure eight hours of pulling and tugging, and a killer headache, to bless you with braids as long as the days during summer. I actually wrote this poem under the hairdryer! With an aching back and a stiff neck. It was 11:17 pm and my bedtime is 9:30, but consider it reparations, for you were a slave to my minute self-esteem.

Held back by the reigns of standards that were not my own. Leaning only on the glimmer of hope that I may one day see. Well I do, I see you in all of your glory, and I am honored to have you here.

When I told people that I was writing about my hair, their reaction went a little something like: “?????” “Your...hair?”

They don’t understand. It’s more than just hair.

It’s the disapproving curl of my uncle’s lips whenever he sees mine.

It’s the burn of a relaxer, stripping her of the one feature she knows she shares with her ancestors. She doesn’t know much else.

It’s the birth of the term ‘wash day’.

It’s “hairstyles for short 4B hair” in YouTube’s search history.

It’s like how when the nice lady at the beauty supply store asked me how my curls were so defined, she became my sister. I have so many sisters.

It’s twist outs and wash’n’gos.

It’s sunshine and unity.

It’s bantu knots and flexi rods.

It’s satin pillow cases, edge control, and black girl brushes.

It’s Carol’s Daughter, Cantu, and Blue Magic hair grease It’s pain, it’s tears, and it’s nappy.

It’s not wanting people to touch it because what if the moisture from their fingers makes it frizz???

It’s flat twists and cornrows.

It’s mine. It’s ours, my sisters and I. And it is utterly remarkable.

I’m sorry it took me so long to love you.

They say that patience is a virtue, And I thank you for yours.

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STAFF

Frances Mackinnon Editor-in-Chief Rebecca Helmstetter Writing Editor Emma Straszewski Art Editor Staff Margarthe Berger Bella Cicero Emma Como Margaret Mackinnon Chip Meyers Manaal Nasir

Angelina Cicero Rachel Rauch

Writing Advisor Production Advisor

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ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

Mrs. Rauch for your constant support and guidance. You allowed us to make this magazine far more than 50¢ of printer paper with black and white ink. You gave this magazine a true voice and presence in the school and for that we thank you.

Mrs. Cicero for your unwavering passion and love for the creative process and everything this magazine contributes to the Homestead culture. You gave us a home in your room on Monday afternoons and allowed us to grow not only as a community of writiers, but also as human beings. Soliloquy has become a safe haven for us. Thank you.

The staff for all of your hard work and the laughs. You have worked hard, and it shows in this lovely magazine we created together. -your editors The pieces were submitted by students in the creative writing club, creative writing classes and the school at large and were selected and edited by a commitee of students on staff. Art pieces were submitted by AP Studio Art and the school at large and were selected based on the connection to the previously selected writing pieces.

COLOPHON

The type in this magazine is Times 11pt. Titles are a combination of Arial Bold Italic and Brandon Grotesque. Credits are Brandon Grotesque Light 11 pt. Varying sizes of Arial Bold Italic and Brandon Grotesque are used on the title and table of contents. The magazine was designed using Adobe InDesign CS6 and Photoshop CS6. The magazine as printed in Milwaukee, WI by American Litho with body 70# offset and 10pt C1S for the cover. The book has Stitch/ Box binding, and is printed using 4/4 ink and 4/0 on the cover. The book is 6x9 with 64 pages and a cover. This issue was printed 500 times and was distributed at no charge to the student body.

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On the cover:

Untitled by Drew Braaten, Junior

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