penumbra: volume xxvi

penumbra xxvi

Smithtown Central School District Smithtown, NY 11787 Board of Education Stacy Ann Murphy, President Karen Wontrobski-Ricciardi, Vice President Michael Saidens, Trustee Matthew Gribbin, Trustee Michael Catalanotto, Trustee John Savoretti, Trustee Kevin Craine, Trustee Superintendent of Schools Mark Secaur, Ed. D Assistant Superintendent for Instruction & Administration Kevin R. Simmons, Ed. D Assistant Superintendaent for Pupil Personnel Services Daniel J. Helmes Assistant Superintendent for Personnel Neil D. Katz Assistant Superintendent for Finance & Operations Andrew R. Tobin Assistant Superintendent for Curriculum & Assessment Paul Strader II Director of English, K-12 Raina Ingoglia Smithtown High School West Principal John Coady Smithtown High School West Assistant Principals Christopher Elsesser Michael Freiberg, Ed. D Annemarie Freund Advisor Robert J Kuletsky Special Thanks To

The English Department The Art Department The Custodial & Support Staff SHSW IT Services

i

Penumbra Volume XXVI 2024 Smithtown High School West Smithtown, NY 11787

Editor in Chief

Anabelle Kreitzman

Cop y Editors Alyssa Griesman

Joey Davide

Paula Ar aujo Par r a

Abigail Jung

Cover Ar t Michael Raimondi Contributors Kayla Shaughnessy Emma Phillips Mariella Myer s Giuliana Panzini Hatim Husainy Shannon Muscolino Veronika Leshko Michael Raimondi Arlo Merchant Tier nan O’Rourke Jessica Ale xander Gwendolyn Fitzpatrick Sydnie Vogel Hannah Ren Anabelle Daqui Aidyn Rios Bohdan Budash Eylin Laine z Sophia Rosmaninho Aren Nessler Madelyn Law Erin Kim Kate Br aun Michael Str uzinski Olivia Wolber

Magazine for matted using InDesign software Printed by Smithtown Centr al School District Printed on #8 paper with black and color ink Typefaces used: Bell MT (14, 20, 26, 30, 34, 36, 48, 72) 100 Copies Printed Edition XXVI Penumbr a encour ages the students of Smithtown High School West to e xplore their minds and hear ts and to develop their many talents.

Herein lies the fr uit of their labor s as we continue to e xplore, following our thoughts to new horizons ... and beyond.

Submissions are solicitied both at large and through the English De par tment’s Creative Writing cour sework. The staff of Penumbr a meets weekly, as an e xtr acur ricular club, and is responsible for selection and editing of included works.

ii

Literary

Literary (continued)

Overwhelming Darkness | Kayla Shaughnessy

2

I am Human | Alyssa Griesman

42

Brownies | Giuliana Panzini

3

Twisted Reality | Alyssa Griesman

43

The Puzzle | Giuliana Panzini

4

Astronomy | Paula Araujo Parra

45

Ashes | Joey Davide

6

Red | Veronika Leshko

47

Then There Was You | Arlo Merchant

8

Perturbed | Aidyn Rios

48

Love is Tender | Arlo Merchant

9

Vengeance | Alyssa Griesman

50

Snow | Arlo Merchant

11

Cake | Olivia Wolber

51

On this December Night | Arlo Merchant

12

The End | Giuliana Panzini

52

I’m Picking You | Arlo Merchant

13

Deafening Silence | Alyssa Griesman

53

Venus | Kayla Shaughnessy

14

We Were Wrong | Arlo Merchant

55

White Walls | Emma Phillips

15

Winter Nostalgia | Alyssa Griesman

57

Car Ride | Kate Braun

16

A Hurried Hope | Alyssa Griesman

59

There...? | Joey Davide

18

The Room for Broken Mortals | Paula Araujo Parra 60

A Ballad of Freedom | Paula Araujo Parra

20

Roses | Jessica Alexander

Ocean’s Song | Mariella Myers

21

Caught Between Venus...And a Flytrap | Aidyn Rios 63

The Writing on the Wall | Aidyn Rios

22

Our Home | Alyssa Griesman

64

Letter to the Old Me | Arlo Merchant

23

What Was Once There | Alyssa Griesman

66

It’s Not What You Think | Alyssa Griesman

24

The Perfect Book | Paula Araujo Parra

68

The Rose | Aidyn Rios

28

Linger | Tiernan O’Rourke

70

To Catch a Butterfly | Arlo Merchant

30

Penguins | Joey Davide

72

Transcending | Alyssa Griesman

31

Tulips | Jessica Alexander

73

Taking Risks | Alyssa Griesman

32

String Lights | Joey Davide

75

My Old Fairy Wings | Paula Araujo Parra

33

Wonderland | Alyssa Griesman

76

Why We Fast | Hatim Husainy

35

Clutching Onto Hope | Alyssa Griesman

78

A Part of Me | Shannon Muscolino

37

It Don’t Seem Too Scary | Arlo Merchant

80

Happy | Aidyn Rios

38

White Crow | Gwendolyn Fitzpatrick

81

Rainy Days | Alyssa Griesman

39

13 Moons | Paula Araujo Parra

82

Peace | Alyssa Griesman

40

School’s End | Aidyn Rios

83

iii

62

Literary (continued)

Photography(Continued)

Sunflower Field | Kate Braun

84

Peeking through the Crowd | Aren Nessler

78

Chicken Noodle Soup | Michael Raimondi

85

Reaching | Anabelle Kreitzman

82

Memories From a Past Life | Paula Araujo Parra

87

Art Photography

Green with Envy | Abigail Jung

5

Dissonant Safety | Aren Nessler

2

Dressing for Success | Michael Struzinski

7

Running | Anabelle Kreitzman

11

Fish | Michael Struzinski

21

Gateway | Sydnie Vogel

13

Waiting in Line | Michael Raimondi

34

The Tunnel | Sydnie Vogel

13

Mi Rim | Erin Kim

41

The Beauty at Night | Bohdan Budash

17

Hope | Sophia Rosmaninho

45

A Stained Past | Paula Araujo Parra

18

Progenitor’s Rebirth | Michael Raimondi

49

Lost Life | Sydnie Vogel

22

Too Shallow, Too Deep | Erin Kim

56

The Dawn of Tomorrow | Hannah Ren

26

Maternal Absorbance | Michael Raimondi

58

Aurora Ceilings | Joey Davide

31

Self Portrait Without Showing My Face |

65

On the Edge of Greatness | Aren Nessler

32

Anabelle Daqui

Sweet Honey | Eylin Lainez

37

Solace | Michael Raimondi

67

A Contrasting Sky | Kate Braun

39

Mama’s Meds | Michael Raimondi

71

Erudition and Symmetry | Bohdan Budash

43

My Father’s Loss | Michael Raimondi

77

Fire | Joey Davide

47

The Stairway | Michael Struzinski

83

The Colors of the Night | Joey Davide

52

Little Bells | Olivia Wolber

84

Clouded Joy | Paula Araujo Parra

55

Self Portrait | Michael Raimondi

86

Poor Visibility | Joey Davide

57

When the Storm Rolls in | Joey Davide

59

Raindrops on Roses | Anabelle Kreitzman

62

New Moon, Waxing Crescent, First Quarter,

The Sun’s Last Hour | Joey Davide

66

Waxing Gibbous, Full Moon, Blood Moon,

The Light of Knowledge | Bohdan Budash

68

Waning Gibbous, Third Quarter, Waning Crescent,

Stars Below | Paula Araujo Parra

75

New Moon (end)|Anabelle Kreitzman

iv

Title Pages

New Moon Silhouette rises And wanders beneath the stars.

Dies to live again.

1

Overwhelming Darkness Kayla Shaughnessy As I walk towards the bright light, I take in the warmth.

The sun reflects off the glistening lake, and I stop to stare.

Drawn closer to the lake, I see my reflection.

Dark hair, burgundy sweatshirt, and black jeans.

I feel hatred stream through my body, All it took was one look.

The world turned dark.

The lake no longer reflects the sun.

The warmth I once felt disappears.

I can no longer walk, I only sit and ponder.

Dissonant Safety | Aren Nessler | Photography

All there used to be was light, But as the days go by I can only see an overwhelming darkness.

2

Brownies Giuliana Panzini The vacant bowl lays staring up at you,

The eggs are next.

A deep hole waiting to be filled.

The worst of them all.

It needs a companion,

Bowl ambushed—

But for now, it stands.

Striked repeatedly by shells.

Alone.

Runny, slimy, Infested with bacteria.

You begin.

Desperate for an end, This was not the company that was longed for.

Melted, the butter plummets in, Uncomfortably warm.

And now?

Coarse sugar joins, Rough, abrading.

The whisk.

Isolation was dreadful

Alienation has never tasted so sweet.

Before the butter and sugar came.

Now, it is full— But with disdain.

3

The Puzzle Giuliana Panzini A picture–

A picture–

Torn apart.

Unique and clear;

Thousands of pieces Scatter across the ground.

Whether immediately seen, occasionally admired,

It takes hours,

Or disdainfully observed– .

Sometimes days,

These features can stand out.

To rectify this mess, One piece at a time.

Unless you take the days, months, or years, You will never see every feature—

It’s slow,

So many are hidden deep within.

It’s difficult, But nothing that matters

But, with one part lost,

Can ever be easy.

Somewhere out there, The feature that stands out most:

Finally, you place your last piece

The visible mass of the floor.

In its home, Only to discover

By first glance,

The gap.

You’ll never recognise Its vibrant colors

One singular piece

Or its thorough,

Near the top right corner–

Almost realistic details.

Gone.

Despite it being one Although missing,

Out of a thousand qualities,

It isn’t alone.

The only part the eye will fall onto Is the one flaw.

Days of determination, Struggle, And strive– Deceased in the same second The piece left sight.

4

Green with Envy | Abigail Jung | Digital

5

Ashes Joey Davide I rest in the sun’s golden radiance,

If it couldn’t remain idyllic,

In its promise of warmth and comfort.

How could I compare?

And I watch the aqueous race of blues, Breaking into piercing, perfect whites.

Nature’s short gusts weren’t able to blow out

I view from above, stagnant on my back

This perpetual fire burning in my tapered brain.

deck,

That unleaving thought,

In the path of a gentle breeze,

Waxing in my mind,

As the stream meanders through the

Set the world ablaze,

bright-leaved trees.

Smoking me from the inside out And from the outside in.

Watching its serenity, Its God-given perfection,

Even if I wasn’t there,

I can’t help

They would have burnt it down anyway,

And want to find that beauty

And killed its serenity and its perfection and its

Within myself,

beauty.

Being one of His creations, too.

I, too, would have burnt anyway, right?

Yearning, How could I have noticed The sapphire track starting to lose its runners, Its vibrancy muting into an unassuming ash; Or the wind becoming a whooping-cranegray that won’t subside; Or the greenery staining a hue more akin to brown?

When did they do that?

6

Dressing for Success | Michael Struzinski | Charcoal

7

Then There Was You Arlo Merchant My summer was dull until there was you. you were the light to my dark, the fire to my water, the sun to my moon.

But suddenly your fire was stolen and I had to light a new one.

I became the light to your dark, the fire to your water, the sun to your moon.

I wish, somehow, we can share the fire soon, but people are not halves of a whole.

I should be the light to my dark, the yin to my yang, the sun to my moon, And you should be too.

8

love is tender Arlo Merchant love is tender and knows no gender. it is time to be queer with no fear.

there are days when i say i’m scared and wonder if i actually care. there are days when i say, i care, but i wish i was unaware.

in this time there is so much crime— so much hate— but in my state i’ll be ahead— and hopefully won’t dread— tomorrow.

9

Waxing Crescent Sliver of light Pierces the night, A doorway to somewhere So far and so bright.

Barely a glance, Thinly lit chance, That parts darkened curtains, Unveils moonlight’s dance.

Sliver of light Pierces the night, Reminds us of someday— The hope held in “might”.

10

snow Arlo Merchant the snow fell, all around me. each snowflake a knife. i smiled ever so slightly. as snow fell, all around me, i noticed even after all this time, the snow looked the same. the snow stopped, not abruptly, but slowly. with time, the snow melted but suddenly, the snow returned, each snowflake felt like a knife. a tear ran down my cheek. i no longer craved the pain. but i missed the snow. even though snow was temporary it was pretty for a while.

11

Running | Anabelle Kreitzman | Photography

On This December Night Arlo Merchant On this December night, The frost shrouds my heart.

Seeing you makes it thaw,

just a little.

I think to myself, no, not you, not again, But the memories come flooding back, our long talks, our secret smiles; Us. On this December night my heart thaws, just a little.

Why’d you do it?

Hide me away.

I would have walked through a storm.

I would have done it barefoot.

Just to see a smile on your face.

On this December night the frost shrouds my heart.

12

I’m Picking You Arlo Merchant I was always the last picked at recess.

No one seemed to like me very much.

I wasn't as fast as pretty or as strong as the others.

I think that transferred to my teenage years Because I never seem to be good enough— I never seem to find someone who’d pick me first.

I fall so easily down the rabbit hole..

I like to think you like me back, but I see the way you look at me— more pity than preferred.

Gateway | Sydnie Vogel | Photography

I see the way you look at them— With admiration in your eyes.

I wish one day you’d wake up and see that I’ll always be there, whether day or night, rain or shine.

Why don’t you think of me?

I wish your emotions would bleed through your stoic wall.

I wish you’d see what you mean to me.

Because I’m picking you first.

The Tunnel | Sydnie Vogel | Photography

13

Venus Kayla Shaughnessy Everyday we learn about our solar system, but what about Venus?

It’s before Earth, so to us mere humans, it’s forgotten.

No one notices its true beauty.

It rotates the opposite direction of Earth, It's unique.

The atmosphere so thick and fiery, It's protective.

The layers all different, but strikingly beautiful, It's gorgeous.

She is Venus.

When she walks by everyday, I see how her appearance contrasts her personality.

Intimidating, yet she’s the one who comforts me.

She protects and loves me, as if I have no one elseOnly her.

Venus is seen as a rocky, hard planet, with no outstanding features.

Yet if you look deep into its core, you’ll see another part of it— a part no one else has ever seen.

14

White Walls Emma Phillips I once lived in a house with white walls–

As my eyes began to burn,

Often passed by peculiar people,

I splotched over the neons.

All inhabiting neon walls

Soon, I found boredom in my

Of luminous brights.

Pale.

Mine remained white.

White.

Populated by buckets

Walls.

And brimmed with pale paints.

That spoke nothing artistically, once more.

I often wished the neon artists

So, I sat in my house of white walls,

Would splotch my white walls

Scrutinizing the neon artists

With the bright blobs

And attempting to authentically make neon

Their brushes created.

Out of Pale.

Occasionally loaning me a rendition of their color,

White.

Pigmentation dripped down the same walls

Paint.

That had spoken nothing artistically, Widening my eyes peculiarly with depth.

15

Car Ride Kate Braun This is the worst car ride.

You pretend not to notice the tears racing down my face, And I pretend they aren’t there.

The silence of the car booms through my soul.

You face forward, eyes on the road, Looking anywhere but at me.

Your gaze is my worst nightmare While mine is a mockery.

My focus shifts to the window.

Outside this car The air is richer, Sun is brighter— It is empowering.

To you, my tears are my weakness.

Yet you would never know that they water Every inch of my being.

I’m the one who found peace.

This is the last car ride With you.

16

Beauty at Night | Bohdan Budash | Photography

17

There..?

Joey Davide Holding on,

Struggling not to be temporary,

Hanging off,

Not to fade away into the Background.

Trying not to drop, Trying not to tumble into Oblivion.

Is there truly a difference, though?

Holding on, Hanging off, The Periphery is better than Nowhere.

Stained Past | Paula Araujo Parra | Photography

18

First Quarter With half in white and half in black, What half possesses, half will lack.

In warmth of sadness, chill of glee, We find that life is bittersweet.

Our deepest love and deepest hate have trapped our hearts in thick debate.

The light and darkness interlock: An emblem of our paradox.

19

A Ballad of Freedom Paula Araujo Parra The sun shone brighter than ever

So she flew through the breeze,

As the mockingbirds around us

As she reminisced the times

Sang their ballad of freedom

Of apparent peace that she had with him

The front one sang—rejoiced

She might still regret him With every dusk as she reaches her nest

The malicious whispers

And every dawn as she flaps her wings again

Of an enchanting voice And the fabricated gentleness

But at least she could now fly

Of a devious mind

Without ever being caged again

No longer troubled her heart For the same wounded wings That once struggled to fly Finally let go of the conniving lure That held them back from each sky She may have failed at rescuing That long lost soul, But she salvaged herself

20

Ocean’s Song Mariella Myers The world came from those

And held by beaten hands, our angels sing

beaten and bowed.

of the bright and noble king.

And these angels as they fell from grace

And then they whisper,

Knew not of earthly quakes.

And then they warn,

Softly, I search for you

“Remember what I say,

between the black and blue.

for it may come in the

The Ocean roars—

Ocean’s song.”

I hear its voice in you.

Within the deepest black of the creatures’ cave, a cry rings out— I hear its voice in you.

Fish | Michael Struzinski | Digital

21

The Writing on the Wall Aidyn Rios The commonality among all ages Is the urge to express.

Thoughts and emotions manifesting on empty pages– So strenuous to repress.

Whether illustrative depictions Or verbal vomits of literature, Buried feelings leap from the mind’s fictions To embark on a creative venture.

Adoration and acknowledgement fuels the clamor, Though anonymity is the preferred manner.

What better way to carelessly scrawl Than by producing the writing on the wall?

Lost Lives | Sydnie Vogel | Photography

22

Letter to the Old Me Arlo Merchant Dear Priya, I wish I could go back and protect you.

Many moons ago, I hated you.

I hated that you couldn’t protect yourself.

I hated how you were so naive.

I hated your pure smiles.

Now, it’s too late.

I barely remember you, and I hate myself for forgetting you— every day.

I know I shouldn’t, ‘cause it’s not my fault.

It’s his.

He is trying now— Trying to make amends.

But in his eyes I am sick— I need to be “cured.”

You never expected to live this long Yet in some ways, you did.

I miss you,

Arlo

23

It’s Not What You Think Alyssa Griesman Scene 1 [Enter Marie, the barista, and extras.]

MARIE [She waits patiently at the bar amongst the ruckus of the atmosphere, indifferent of the night’s outcome and sure that it will continue her streak of bad first dates.]

[Enter Alex.]

ALEX: Hello Marie, [she turns to face him] you look rather dashing this evening.

MARIE: [Unfazed] Ha, so original. Am I supposed to be swayed? [Chuckles.]

ALEX: [Lifts one eyebrow] First off, a ‘hello’ would be nice. Secondly, would ‘you look absolutely stunning in that dress’ work better?

MARIE: Hm, I don’t know. [Pause] Maybe just a simple ‘hi, how are ya?’ would do the trick. Oh—and good evening.

ALEX: [Smirks slightly] Someone’s stubborn. [Sits down in the empty seat next to Marie.]

MARIE: I have my reasons. Can I have a beer please? [To the barista.]

ALEX: [Ponders] Interesting. I’ll second that [To the barista]. Have a bad day perhaps?

MARIE: I wouldn’t say that. Let’s just say that when it comes to blind dates, all that follows me is a whole bunch of bad luck. [Sighs and takes a sip of her beer.]

ALEX: [Nods] Ah, that would explain it.

MARIE: [Intrigued] What’s that supposed to mean?

ALEX: Just that I think you should keep searching. Don’t fret because you never know—someone might break that stream of bad luck, and by someone I mean me. [Smiles sincerely.]

MARIE: [Laughs and rolls her eyes] Yeah yeah, don’t get too ahead of yourself just yet. [So far, not so bad she repeats in her head. She starts to think that maybe this date wasn’t such a bad idea, as he’s not a complete eyesore to look at or a complete nuisance to be around. However, she continues to take it slow, as she’s still unsure if Alex has any other intentions in mind.]

ALEX: Oh I won’t. I’m gonna take my sweet time swaying you over. Don’t you worry. [Winks.]

MARIE: [Slightly less unfazed] Haha, we’ll see about that.

[Silence.]

ALEX: Hm, I have an idea. Wanna go karaoking? I know a place not too far from here. Just warning you though, I sing pretty well. [Smirks]

24

MARIE: [Smiles] Ha, I would love to. For your information though, I was the president of the jazz choir in high school, so I too can sing pretty well. Better watch out. [She began to feel comfortable and at ease around Alex. She wasn’t sure if this was due to the beer finally kicking in or due to the fact that Lily set her up with him, meaning that he can’t be that bad.]

ALEX: [Playfully] All right all right, you win this time. C’mon, I’ll drive.

[Curtains close.]

Scene 2 [Enter Marie and Alex in Alex’s Volvo, on their way to a karaoke place after having mingled at a local bar.]

MARIE: [Curiously] So, how did you and Lily meet?

ALEX: [Chuckles] Funny story, actually. One of my professors in college was really pissed off one day and decided to take his anger out on me, during a presentation I was giving no less. It was pretty embarrassing, and I felt pretty down about it. After class, though, Lily came up to me and asked if I’d like to grab dinner with her and some of her friends to help cheer me up. I thought ‘why not,’ so I went and ended up having a really nice time. We’ve been friends ever since.

MARIE: [Smiles] Aw, sounds like something Lily would do.

ALEX: [Smiles] Now I’m curious. How did you and Lily meet?

MARIE: Funny story too, actually. We met in kindergarten, but we absolutely despised each other at first. [Laughs] No joke, we wanted nothing to do with each other. We’d constantly fight over the stupidest things. Then, at the end of kindergarten, we decided to make a truce and become friends.

Now, we’re as close as ever.

ALEX: [Laughs] Why, that’s one heck of a story. Are you sure you guys still don’t secretly hate each other? Even just a little?

MARIE: [Chuckles] Oh don’t worry. We definitely have our disagreements. When Lily told me she didn’t like Star Wars, I had to reconsider our friendship for a hot minute. [Sarcastically] Of course, I eventually forgave her, but it took some time.

ALEX: [Sigh of relief] Oh boy, it’s a good thing I like Star Wars then. Wouldn’t want to mess this up too early. [Grins.]

MARIE: [Smiles] Haha, you got that right. [She reached for a water bottle, but Alex grabbed her arm, stopping her halfway.]

ALEX: [Chuckles] I wouldn’t drink that. Can’t trust anything that’s in here. You never know how long it’s been sitting.

25

MARIE: [Unbothered] Oh please, that doesn’t phase me. All I care about is quenching my thirst right now. The beer made me thirsty. [She tried reaching for the water once more, but Alex yet again stopped her. This time, with a more forceful grab.]

ALEX: [Pleadingly] Just please, don’t drink it.

MARIE: Alex, I appreciate that you care about me, but I’m sure the water won’t hurt me. [She turns to face him and catches a quick glimpse of worry washing over his face.] What, are there some drugs mixed into the water or something? [She laughs until she notices his expression went cold, with his entire demeanor turning stern and stiff.] Alex…?

[Silence.]

ALEX: If I said yes, would that stop you from drinking it? [He pleads once more with her, glancing intently into her eyes.]

MARIE: [Worry rushes through her body] Ok, this is not funny Alex. What is going on?

ALEX: [He looks away] I…[Pause] I can’t do this.

MARIE Alex, do what? Please, you’re scaring me.

ALEX: I’m dropping you off at the nearest bus station. I…[Pause] I’m sorry.

MARIE: What…? [Confusion overtakes her mind, making her formulate numerous conclusions. She thinks maybe he got nervous and chickened out, or maybe he was planning to drug her this entire time and had a change of heart.

She ponders if the latter is true, why that may be.]

[Curtains close.]

Sam DeMonte

Dawn of Tomorrow | Hannah Ren | Photography

26

Waxing Gibbous A tinge of sorrow touches glowing bliss.

I sought the shred of joy that twilight stole, But now I find I’m falling deep in this Confusing state of being almost full.

I walk the edge and peer into abyss; The place where light relinquishes control.

Illumination follows shadow’s kiss, And love is somehow part of almost whole.

A trillion questions twinkling in the sky Are sung inside my heart with ev’ry beat.

A gibbous bright enough to raise the tides, Is dark enough that it’s still incomplete.

Within the darkened crescent of my soul, Perplexities arise in almost full.

27

The Rose Aidyn Rios A beauteous portrait from afar

After gazing upon the lovely Rose,

Yet a dangerous foe if provoked.

He becomes enamored by her beauty —

The duality of The Rose is one of a fighter:

Despite her thorns,

Passionate, and

Despite her frailty.

Courageous, and

To him, she is the most alluring specimen

Battle-hardened —

In the universe’s entirety.

Abrasive with those lacking discipline, Caring for The Rose would certainly be

Gentle to the ones worth protecting, though…

The Gardener’s most difficult challenge yet.

Nobody can fight forever.

Even so, he readily takes her in As thorns become jagged and

So that she can be showered with love—

Petals glide down to the floor,

Such a wondrous being doesn’t deserve

The Rose weakens, little by little.

The desertion she’s become all too

Although prepared to continue the fight,

familiar with.

Years of protecting herself have influenced To him, she is worth every ounce of

Her desire to be cared for by another.

dedication and effort: She is still worth everything.

Enter the lowly gardener, Grizzled and wise, Knowing only his simple life on the ranch.

28

Feelings That Have Gone Unsaid Shannon Muscolino The sky that evening was just like lava— painted red and yellow.

You were in a room, Reading a book, Next to the table, Watching it set.

Some might prefer an ocean, Maybe a moon, Or perhaps an odd machine.

But I prefer that night, That sky, Because although it is set, I still love you.

29

to catch a butterfly Arlo Merchant to try to catch a butterfly is a fool’s job; they will always fly away. grow a stunning garden and let them come to you– that is how you catch a butterfly. however, to keep both is a difficult task: you should nourish your garden but not overwater it; take care of your butterfly but not overwhelm it. if you cannot take proper care then maybe this isn’t meant for you.

30

Transcending Alyssa Griesman I sat comfortably on a cushioned, yellow chair in my backyard, reading yet another book out of the countless ones left to go on my summer list. I could feel the sun’s vibrant, warm rays piercing through my winter kissed skin as I continued to flip endlessly, immersed in the captivating plot.

All around, I could hear the cicadas buzzing and children laughing as I continued to slowly move out of this world and into another. I could smell the distinct scents of burning wood and salty water as I continued my travel into another dimension.

Then, suddenly, it felt as if time had come to a halt. All I could feel, hear, and smell was the universe that I was holding onto, engaged fully in its infinite mysteries. I began to feel the vibrant, warm ray of light once more, yet this time, it wasn’t from the sun but rather from the moonlight.

I glanced up, snapping fully out of my transcendental state, only to see that I was left alone, with my thoughts and everlasting wonders resting forever in my soul.

Aurora Ceilings | Joey Davide | Photography

31

Taking Risks Alyssa Griesman I sat patiently on a small black bench, waiting for the next train to arrive. Although it was early September, there was a crisp breeze that roamed through the air, whispering ever so slightly. The tiny hairs on my arms started to perk up, and my teeth began to chatter. I tried warming up by putting on a sweater, but there was no hope. All I could do was continue to wait patiently for the train, thinking about the new journey that awaited me. I began to wonder if I should turn back and quit so that I could wash away my fears. But, I reminded myself that risks are necessary in order to move forward.

As the train approached the station, I lifted my eyes, head held high, embracing the cold air and the infinite mysteries that awaited me.

On The Edge of Greatness | Aren Nessler | Photography

32

My Old Fairy Wings Paula Araujo Parra When I was younger,

Why does the world seem to be convinced

I used to fly with fairy wings

We don’t deserve the same respect and love

And smile with painted butterflies on my face.

We had when we were younger?

I wore pink dresses,

Will I be worthy if I let go of my strength,

Hoping I would look like princesses

If I become who they want me to be?

And braided my hair like female warriors, Wishing to gain their same strength.

I think not.

Yet my fairy wings were cut The moment I turned thirteen— The day the world ceased to think of me Like a young dreamer And began to look at me Like a mere body.

The day society began to criticize me Due to my independent demeanor And inability to remain quiet about injustices.

The day their comments evolved From being about the ribbons in my hair To the alleged vulgarity Of my perfectly covered clothes Or the weight I ought to lose.

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Waiting in Line | Michael Raimondi | Gouache, Colored Pencil, Watercolor Marker, White Ink

34

Why We Fast Hatim Husainy A son asked his father:

Much, much later, the son got to pose one question to Allah:

“Why do we fast in Ramzan?”

“Why do we fast in Ramzan?”

And the father took his son,

And Allah chuckled,

And put him on his lap,

And showed the son the world he had left,

And said,

And said,

“We fast in anticipation of

“Because you can only

Heaven, where we shall be free

Appreciate what you have

From Hunger.”

When you give it up On your own accord.”

Later, a son asked his mother: “Why do we fast in Ramzan?”

And the mother took her son’s hand, And pulled him close, And said, “We fast in honor of those Who came before us, Who created and continue our traditions.”

Soon after, a son asked his brother: “Why do we fast in Ramzan?”

And the brother rubbed his brother’s hair, And pinched his cheeks, And said, “We fast in solidarity with Those who do not have enough In hopes that someday they will.”

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Full Moon We sail the seas of memory From crisis to tranquility.

The full moon brings to light each scar; Impressions made us who we are.

While hope is dawning in the dusk, Our shining dreams are born from dust.

Though some are bright and some are dark, Each moment leaves behind its mark.

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A Part of Me Shannon Muscolino I’m dreaming: I’m in a garden full of flowers; roses, tulips and sunflowers. The sun is warm but feels just right in my mini blue dress, the sky a bright blue, clouds go in to hug each other, only to pass each other by. Then, over my shoulder, I see her. She’s me, but younger. She’s definitely me in first grade; her bangs are dangling loosely on her forehead, her pink square glasses perched on the bridge of her nose, helping her see a far distance as she’s fixated on the flowers until she snaps her head up, realizing she’s being watched. However, she’s not scared when she sees me. Instead, she carefully gets up, one sunflower in her hand, skipping over to me. “Hi!” little me beams, pushing up her glasses. “This is for you.” She hands over the sunflower and I take it diligently, just so I don’t break it—I don’t. I tuck it in my hair and little me watches the whole time in awe and adoration. “You’re so pretty,” she says.

I crouch down to her level, admiring who I once was. Her pink square glasses, her floral dress, and her bangs that I once hated, but seeing her having them…They fit her child-like nature perfectly. “So are you. You’re beautiful.” Smiling, I say, “Can I hug you?” No answer. Her arms were already around me, saying enough.

Sweet Honey | Eylin Lainez | Photography

37

Happy Aidyn Rios Dancing around this glorious field, I feel the sunlight grazing my skin.

The wind, complimenting the glorious sun rays, does the same, Brushing my face and stroking my hair.

How soft these petals are– Kissing my hands as softly as a baby kitten’s fur.

The world may be harsh, but at least these blades of grass Provide some comfort and distraction amidst the chaos.

This gift of nature, it isn’t Exotic, or expensive, or solely bestowed upon the fortunate — It is a catalyst of happiness available to all willing to accept it.

I accept it.

I am happy.

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Rainy Days Alyssa Griesman Rainy Days, how people take you For granted, I wonder.

With your endless drumming And unique chiming I could listen forever.

Rainy Days, I get lost in your trance and everlasting wonders.

Your enchanting glow pulls On my tired soul.

Rainy Days, how I thank you For giving me comfort and Warmth during pressing times, When I felt like I would Never reach the end of the road.

Rainy Days, I will Carry you with me— Forever.

A Contrasting Sky | Kate Braun | Photography

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Peace Alyssa Griesman That lingering stress that Never seemed to disappear, That fast paced life that Never seemed to wane, That constant fatigue that Never seemed to fade— has finally vanished.

This new feeling, a new sense Of self, has granted me a Fresh life with fresh possibilities.

I am finally free— and at peace.

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Mi Rim | Erin Kim | Acrylic

41

I Am Human Alyssa Griesman Numbers don’t define me— No matter what people think.

Those mistakes that never frey, Those failures that always linger Do not define me.

What does define me, though, is What I make of these fallbacks.

I will always be learning new things And making mistakes because I Am Human.

I will never be perfect— That’s just an uncontrollable part Of each day.

Something I can control, though, is How I approach and view the world.

I possess the power to change the Way I perceive my struggles.

I could choose to view them as a never Ending cycle of feeling inferior, or I could View them in a positive light and embrace Them as a part of my road to success.

Numbers don’t define me: I am simply Human.

42

Twisted Reality Alyssa Griesman Nature’s enchanting sheathe pulled me deeper into the mystifying forest. With each gracing step, I became increasingly immersed in its effortless beauty. Sunlight pierced through the forest, illuminating everything in sight. Trees were varnished with deep emerald vines, which chased down to earth’s surface and danced effortlessly in the whispering wind. Flowers of red, blue, and pink hues blossomed in every corner with bright butterflies roaming at their delicate tips. Birds were singing their morning songs, and frogs were croaking their cheerful melodies. The surrounding air was so crisp that every inhale infused a sense of clarity, and every exhale eased any persistent perplexities. I could always count on this daily stroll to tranquilize my mind and enable me to escape from reality—even if it lasted just for a little while.

As I continued my walk, I crossed over a stone arch bridge that shimmered in the sunlight and reflected the scenery surrounding itself. When I glanced over the bridge, I spotted a water lily pond resting soundly, rippling from the swift motion of the fish that inhabited the area. The pond’s multitude of light and dark green lily pads along with its span of blue and pink flower buds held me in pure astonishment.

I’ve always pondered on how nature could be so angelic…

Before continuing on, I noticed my reflection staring back at me. Up until now, I’ve never realized how akin I am to my own mother: my strawberry blonde hair, my opal eyes, and my fair skin were entirely analogous to her own features. The memories we once shared began to stream like the ocean’s current in my mind, alluring me into a deep, mystic trance. Then, a sudden splintering sensation surpassed me, arresting my thaumaturgic trance.

With curiosity, I peered over my left shoulder, tracing where the sharp sound emerged. I could’ve sworn I observed a strange figure residing near the far side of the pond: this was quite unusual, as this part of the forest was usually regularly empty. I assumed it was just pure imagination—until the figure appeared once more. This time I was absolutely certain that it wasn’t just my so-called pure imagination but, in fact, some strange creature, roaming swiftly now through the seemingly infinite span of trees on the other side of the bridge.

Although hesitant, I cautiously creeped towards where I last saw it with each step of mine becoming more deafening than the preceding one. Once I reached the trees, I felt the neighboring air begin to drop into a brisk, frigid intensity that generated goose bumps along the lengths of my limbs; it evoked my teeth into an uncontrollable chatter and my hands into a frantic tremble. The wind blew at a sudden accelerating pace, triggering the trees to tilt towards tall, boulder-like pillars located a few feet away from where I was currently wandering.

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I wondered if I should turn back, but I physically couldn’t, even if I wanted to. It was almost as if someone or something was manipulating my motility with every progressing movement I made. Out of nowhere, an abrupt force started to shove me towards the center of the pillars, trapping me into its confinements. A terrified shriek escaped from my solicitous soul as I was suddenly lifted into the air. I felt my stomach drop as I fell into a surreal, dark hole that went on for what seemed like an eternity. In a dire effort to escape, I sealed my eyes shut, hoping for some sort of salvation. However, I continued to plummet further down this deep void with my soul slowly straying from my helpless body.

Then, all at once, the perpetual drifting came to a halt. Gradually, I re-opened my eyes, noticing that I was, once again, facing the tall, boulder-like pillars. I released a sigh of relief, as I rationalized that what had just occurred was probably a hallucination. The environment, however, seemed different. In contrast to its previous darkness, the landscape enclosing the pillars was now glistening in the radiant sunlight. The foregoing monstrous wind was now replaced with a light, airy breeze, which relaxed my racing heart. Instinctively, I began to walk back towards the stone arch bridge in hopes of heading home for the time being.

Once out of the trees, I stopped walking out of pure, utter shock. I resorted to hysteria, as I could not believe what I was witnessing: people with long, wispy hair and shimmering wings soared through the sky, including that strange figure I saw from before…

Fairies?

Impossible.

I tried to make sense of it all—the sudden atmospheric change, the abrupt force, and the aphotic void. It couldn’t possibly be an alternate dimension…right?

Erudition and Symmetry | Bohdan Budash | Photography

44

Astronomy Paula Araujo Parra The galaxies of your eyes

You disproved the laws of the universe

Chart my most luminescent dreams

The moment you pulled me out of the black hole

In their luster

I had been trapped in for an eternity

They gleam so immensely,

More than a northern star,

So undoubtedly,

You are the savior of my heart

That not even a thousand suns Could ever outshine them

Hope | Sophia Rosmaninho | Acrylic

45

Blood Moon We held on too tight To a night made of glass.

It broke in Our Hands.

Colored with passion With life and with death, The starlight Shone Red.

We picked up the pieces As sharp as horizon Cutting heaven From Earth.

And moon passing by, Pure, whole, and unbroken, Was tainted by Bleeding Penumbra.

The shards were returned To their place in the sky, A dome of Stained Glass.

46

Red Veronika Leshko Crimson, burgundy, and maroon, What do all those shades remind you of ?

Tomatoes or cherries, roses or ladybugs?

All I see is blood.

Bloody soldiers, bloody mothers and wives, Traumatized children, and a blood-soaked land, Red Rosaries in the hands of newly deceased Christians, And homes turned to nothing but rubble and dust.

Red used to symbolize love and family Now, all I see are those young men fighting in the East, For if we were not this resilient, if we were weak and puny, Europe would not be the same as it is now.

Every day is a powerful reminder.

The gates of Europe have always been red— Breathtakingly beautiful yet painful shades Shall always be reminders of my blood.

Fire | Joey Davide | Photography

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Perturbed Aidyn Rios Desires for freedom swiftly extinguished, No more wishing nor hoping was muttered.

Why shan’t my demons concede and relinquish That which renders my windows barred, shuttered?

Or would it be best to swing them open?

Burn the beasts with light — save me from the dark.

Sun, grant me this illustrious token; Damn these demons with your radiant ark!

Now wouldn’t that be grand?

No prayers or offerings have sufficed; You stand atop that falsely bright tower.

You’ve bastardized me, turned me to a feist — Sapped me of my valor, vigor, power.

The Sun has set, the stars are numerous.

Here I remain, alone, yet surrounded.

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Progenitor’s Rebirth | Michael Raimondi | Gouache, Colored Pencil, Watercolor Marker, White Ink

49

Vengeance Alyssa Griesman As I made my way down the steps, I started to feel the warm, lively air from upstairs intermixing with a cold, dead air currently residing downstairs, causing goosebumps to trickle down my limbs and a spiraling chill to sliver down my spine. When I reached the first floor, I stood frozen in my tracks: my body, mind, and soul immobilizing with each passing second.

Immediate shock and utter disbelief rippled through me, tearing me apart bit by bit. I tried to obscure the scene before me, but it was pointless. Red overtook my vision, blurring every other shade in sight. It was everywhere—splattered on the walls, engrossed in the carpet, soaked in the furniture. It was all I could see.

Maybe I’m just seeing things, I pleaded, in a desperate attempt to remove myself from this dreadful reality. But no matter how hard I tried, reality began to sink deeper, my heart following its dwindling descent.

As I was pulled further into the darkness, my body and mind and soul became one with the red color. It encapsulated me. It erased all ties to my previous life and forced a single purpose upon me: vengeance. Old sensations of fear pivoted into a roaring rage that wrapped itself around my neck like a tight noose. It latched onto my skin and lit me on fire, burning me to nothing but a mere crisp. A fierce, dire hunger for answers swallowed me up whole, sending my mind into a crazed spiral. What I need, what I want, and what I crave is revenge. I will get my vengeance.

50

Cake Olivia Wolber You made a vanilla cake. You were neither proud nor disappointed, just moderately satisfied. You shared it with a few people, and one told you they didn’t like it.

So now, you’re unsure if you like it.

You begin to hate it, so you add icing to it. To gain back your confidence, you get more people to try it, and out of all of them, just a few don’t like it.

Now, you hate that dreadful vanilla cake even more, so you add sprinkles to it. When the cycle repeats, you try adding fruit to it. When it continues on, and you almost smash the whole thing, you try neatening up the edges and putting it on fancy china.

You continue to let more and more people pick apart and critique it, and you keep adding more and more things to it until it’s just a pile of mush on a pedestal. Unrecognizable, even if put next to its former self.

Now, you certainly don’t like it at all.

You can pick apart a cake or your own flesh. You could pay a man to do it for you.

But anything you change will never satisfy you if you were never secure in the first place.

51

The End Giuliana Panzini They have taken the same path down the stairs, across the parking lot, and down the street on their way home for so long that no one recalled a time where they hadn’t. Today started out no different. School ended, and the two companions began their usual journey home until suddenly, out of nowhere, a fight broke loose between them—and it was taken to the extreme. To this day, no one knows what happened to cause it. All of a sudden, they tackled each other as if they were on the wrestling team. They yanked each other by the hoods of their sweatshirts and accidentally slammed into their unsuspecting peers who were busy texting or scrolling through social media, ignoring the world one minute and on the ground, caked in mud, the next. No one knew what to do.

They began to inch closer to one of the brick walls. The girl was significantly stronger than her compeer, which became evidently clear when she sent him flying into that wall. The glass of the window shattered and she, holding an obvious victory at this point, leapt back, avoiding major gashes.

Her victim, trapped in the chocolate-colored dirt, just layed there in affliction and exhaustion. Glass shards sliced his arms and legs, and a dark red stream poured out. His glasses had shattered as well, transparent blades falling into his eyes. His lips were turning blue and the once bright green grass was becoming permanently red. Even the once brown brick wall seemed to gain red splashes of graffiti.

Somehow the boiling rage in her intestines remained.

She began picking up the glass from the window and rapidly throwing it around. Everyone was sprinting away, until the girl was finally put to a stop, her strength and rage, as well as her ten-year friendship, dissipating into nothing.

The Colors of Night | Joey Davide | Photography

52

Defeaning Silence Alyssa Griesman “Hide here and don’t move. I’ll be right back,” my mother whispered in her calm, composed tone.

I tried desperately to make her stay, but it was no use. She held me tight and sent a reassuring look my way. She then gave me a soft, tender kiss on my forehead and headed over to my bedroom door. Her eyes, brave and fearless, met mine one last time before she gently opened the door and closed it quietly behind her.

Moments later, screams reverberated throughout the house, forever imprinting themselves into my soul. Glass and plate wear shattered as tables and chairs were knocked over left and right. A surplus of tears began to accumulate, streaming down my face, feeling as if they’d never stop. I felt a stabbing in my heart as more screams traveled through the air. They became louder and louder and louder…until they were gone.

Silence.

The silence was so loud that I could hear the inhumane rhythm of my heart throbbing in my throat. Any previous, inaudible sounds were now easily and eerily detectable, making the almost faint sound of unfamiliar footsteps infiltrate the quiet air like the roar of an engine.

Fear penetrated my body and blood as each thump became increasingly louder and closer. Clouds of darkness gathered around me, distorting my world into absolute horror. Then, the chime of the heavy footsteps stopped right outside of my bedroom door. I’m never making it out alive.

Yet, the expected click of my door knob and creak of my door never came. Instead, I was met with the expansion and contraction of the wooden floors, as those heavy footsteps retreated away.

Moments later, the click of a door knob and creak of a door came not from my bedroom door but from the front door downstairs. And then, there was that silence once more, leaving me by myself: scarred, scared, shaken up, and alone.

53

Waning Gibbous One petal falls From Midnight’s flower.

Fragrance of uncertainty, Enchanting, unnerving, Conquers the breath of dreamers Who linger in wonder, Resisting fate’s beckoning Of still darker hours.

One petal falls.

54

We Were Wrong Arlo Merchant You are too much like me.

While you don’t have my eyes, smile, hair, you have my hope, naivety, and torn heart.

You are so sweet but not meant for me.

I ask the earth, why now? but she stares in return.

I ask the moon, why here? but she is gone, resting her days away I ask the sun, how come?

But he is hiding behind clouds.

If we met at a later point, a better place, a better state,

Clouded Joy | Paula Araujo Parra | Photography

maybe we would be.

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Too Shallow, Too Deep | Erin Kim | Acrylic

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Winter Nostalgia Alyssa Griesman Pure, little snowflakes Fall gently from the sky, slowing with each passing second.

Time stops,

Poor Visibility | Joey Davide | Photography

Leaving me confined with only my thoughts And childhood memories— The cool taste of magical flakes melting on my tongue, The magical sensation from creating snowmen and angels, The potent scent of gingerbread and sugar cookies in the kitchen, The soothing sounds of Christmas tunes roaming through the air, And the sparkling sight of presents under the tree Christmas morning.

The horn of a taxi pulls me back into reality, With the memories glistening away as the snowflakes slowly disappear.

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Maternal Absorbance | Michael Raimondi | Acrylic on Canvas

58

A Hurried Hope Alyssa Griesman “Don’t look back,” I repeated. Tears streamed down, blood rushed out, and energy diminished by the second. I felt him inching closer: my pace notably abating…his pace immeasurably persisting. Vivid memories started flashing before me: my family’s love, my friends’ laughter. I sensed my soul slowly separating from my outer shell. Then, a bright, blossoming light appeared, shared with whispers turning into audible sounds, dispelling despair with a hurried hope. As if struck by adrenaline, I pulled out the dwindling stamina that remained and ran faster; my psyche progressively united as his steps and breaths slowly sank into the night.

When the Storm Rolls In | Joey Davide | Photography

59

The Room for Broken Mortals Paula Araujo Parra A loud shock,

As my body would be numbed with chemicals

Screaming voices,

And your anxious eyes would gaze at mine,

Ubiquitous scarlet,

All I would desperately wonder

And my blood-stained fingers

Is if you would give into

That would reach for a broken phone

The slightest temptation And disobey your own heart

As countless masked humans Would assist my lungs with oxygen,

If you would forget all our laughs

A murmur would be heard:

And your skillful hands

“Bring me to his hospital”

Would intentionally operate

I would whisper with all my strength

A few centimeters too far

A blur of blue clothed tired bodies

If you would ignore the memory of us

Would attempt to resuscitate my heart

And cease to tirelessly skim Through the library of your mind

You would then hurriedly enter “The Room for Broken Mortals”,

All because you would remember

Expecting a stranger’s file

The words I told you on our first night:

And praying I would be the one casualty

“I won’t be worth the fight”

You would never encounter

And realize I was right

60

Third Quarter Fleeting light is clad beneath Illusions of eternity.

Heaven flaunts its masquerade.

Below a world laments, betrayed.

Half moon hangs from barren sky And Half truths burnish lightless lies.

61

Roses Jessica Alexander When I see a rose, I have to hold it in my hands.

Petals between my fingertips, Sweet scents lingering in my breath, I am entranced by its striking red.

The prick of the thorn far outlives the life of the flower, But I don’t care; It’s beautiful now.

Raindrops on Roses | Anabelle Kreitzman | Photography

62

Caught Between Venus...And a Flytrap Aidyn Rios Caught Between Venus…

…and a Flytrap

What is a human

Two paths present themselves

Without curiosity?

Once one has met Venus:

Without the everlasting

They turn back their head and flee

Urge for diversity?

Or succumb to her charm.

That yearning for learning,

Swayed or snatched,

The aim for change

Whatever the case,

Is what leads them

Release is not for the weak.

To her majesty.

To struggle is to survive, And to resist is to emerge

To Venus they flock,

From her dastardly clutches.

Their heads they drop,

Though Venus has long since vanished —

For the sake of

In place of the majestic and beautiful entity

Her loving hospitality.

Glimmering in the deceitful Sun,

Try as they might

A predator has revealed itself.

For a passionate fight Against those who

Teeth lining its insides

Dare to stop them.

To trap and contain, Venus ensures that you

Venus cares not

Never leave the same.

For the poor man’s trot Towards her and her

Now, Venus takes up a new name:

Questionable beauty.

The Flytrap is who she is And you are the one to blame.

63

Our Home Alyssa Griesman As soon as I stepped off the train and into the subway,

The infinite span of books, filling up every inch

I could see some musicians spread out,

Of possible space, made me feel comfortable

Playing sweet jazz and blues to their

And at ease.

Hearts’ desires.

Yet, despite this comfort, there was heartache As I walked toward the city, I was immediately hit

And despair lingering inside of me, as I was

With the potent smell of cigarettes, hot dogs, and

Once again reminded of what I no longer had:

Pizzas coming from a multitude of pop up

My best friend.

Food stands.

When she left this earth, a piece of my heart From all vantage points, I could see the city’s

Left with her, leaving me empty and

Ranging skyscrapers, most of them reaching high

Alone.

Above the sky’s infinite pan of luminous, Fluffy clouds.

Nevertheless, the memories that we shared— The happiness, sadness, fear, and amusement we

As I turned left onto 5th street, the sound of car

Endured together—all remain in a single place.

Horns and loud shouts impinged into the atmosphere With street lights flashing away in the

Deep down, I still have her in this very store

Distant background.

That I call Home.

Our Home.

When I reached my destination, my soul was Overwhelmed with excitement, as this city Bookstore holds a special place In my heart.

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Self Portrait Without Showing My Face | Anabelle Daqui | Prismacolor Colored Pencils, Pen, Sharpie, White Paint Marker

65

What Was Once There Alyssa Griesman Today marks Vermont’s

As I glance out my kitchen

First snowfall of the year.

Window, I see children playing In the newly accumulated snow piles,

Usually, this is my favorite

Creating snowmen, igloos, and snow

Time, yet something

Angels without any worries nor cares in

Feels different…

The world.

Perhaps it is the absence of

If only I knew how good it was—

The innocence I once had—

That special, magical feeling

The absence of that pure joy

That came during the winter.

And excitement that came along

Maybe then, I wonder, I would

With the new season, making it

Have cherished it just a

Extra special.

Little longer.

The Sun’s Last Hour | Joey Davide | Photography

66

Solace | Michael Raimondi | Acrylic

67

The Perfect Book Paula Arauja Parra My book was my most precious possession— With the deepest levels of my soul Titled in gold on its cover And the preserved spine To which I carefully tended I used to believe that was The truest display of your loyalty To that which you love: Sustaining its perfection.

Each day the same— Never marking, damaging, or bending The structure and contents alike However, one day you showed me Your equally valuable book That possessed a myriad of Marks, damages, and bends— A book I never would have Otherwise picked for myself, Yet one I found irrevocably ethereal A few moons afterward When I reflected on mine,

The Light of Knowledge | Bohdan Budash | Photography

The flawlessness of it seemed No longer ideal nor sensible, For I had wasted all my time Believing it was essential— When in truth I had damaged it the worst By not allowing its words To be engraved in my soul

68

Waning Crescent A trace of silver clings To the sleepy eyelids Of the cosmos.

A last whisper is Breathed upon Evening’s Embrace.

Then Silence.

69

Linger Tiernan O’Rourke Linger is a funny word.

The sweet scent of candle lingered in the room.

The captivated audience lingered for a little while longer after the show ended.

I lingered at the beach, my mind grasping for something to hold on to other than the frigid breeze that slapped my face.

The pungent smell of my grandmother’s perfume lingered through the empty house as we packed it in boxes.

Your memory lingered in my aching heart, taunting the version of you I created to fit the mold of my affection.

Our song lingered in the empty hallway that we once danced through, echoing in the bare walls.

I lingered at the swings, where we would bicker over who could swing the highest, long before we fell into the harsh concrete of reality.

She lingered at the front door, staring up at her childhood home for the last time before moving away to college.

I lingered at the restaurant, heartbroken as his car skidded further from my warm embrace.

The feeling of passionate happiness lingered in my hollow, heaving heart.

Linger is a funny word.

70

71 Mama’s Meds | Michael Raimondi | Acrylic Paint

72

Tulips Jessica Alexander He smokes a cigarette every sunrise on his front porch.

He doesn’t think anything of it.

The female embodiment of sunshine brought him tulips from her garden every morning and each time he thanked her as he blew smoke into her face.

She tried to make small talk about work and weather but he always seemed bothered and she would become melancholy.

Without warning, she stopped.

He still smokes a cigarette every morning on his front porch.

He still doesn’t think anything of it.

But neighbors grow tulips just to spite him.

73

Penguins Joey Davide I watch as he patters down the stairs, Hand running along the garlanded rails— Bright smile, excited brown eyes, Wearing feety pajamas with penguins Just as happy as him.

Racing to the tinseled, rainbow-lit tree, He picks one in bright blue paper And tears it open— Not being able to deal with the suspense Of doing so slowly.

I can’t see what’s inside Because he hugs it immediately, As tightly as he can; He rocks it back and forth, And pushes his face into it.

“I love my penguin,” He cheers, “So, so much!”

And he smiles for the flash of light With a somehow wider grin than before.

“How happy are you with that penguin, Joey!”

“So, so happy, Mommy!

“I’m so happy!”

I tear, As I pause the video And shut the recorder.

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String Lights Joey Davide The orbs from the strings glow a faint yellow, Hung from the terrace beyond the door.

They shine through a layer of white Covering all surfaces within reach, But unable to contain their incandescent shimmer.

I yearn to feel their radiance with my own fingers, For them to provide me with warmth In this falling gray-sea of cold, Finding its way underneath the glass And to me.

The exit remains shut, however, And despite my best efforts, I remain in the dark, Trapped and shivering.

The lights remain tantalizingly out of reach.

Stars Below | Paula Aruajo Parra | Photography

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Wonderland Alyssa Griesman The sound of my alarm clock infiltrated the air, waking me slowly from my slumber. I cracked open my eyes slightly, peering at the buzzing clock. 7:00am. Impulsively, I dragged my drowsy arm out from under my bed sheets and turned off the alarm, stopping its relentless stabbing. Gradually, I sat up and rubbed my eyes and stretched my limbs, causing a long, awaited yawn to emerge out into the morning silence. Once out of bed, I slipped on my fluffy, pink slippers and headed over to my bathroom to wash up with some cold water, hoping it would wake me up from my half-conscious state.

When I flicked on the light switch in the bathroom and glanced at the mirror, a blood curdling shriek left my soul, snapping me out of whatever trance I previously was in. Now, I know that you’re probably thinking: I was just spooked by my terrifying morning appearance. While that may indeed be the case sometimes, it was not why I was currently startled. Staring back at me was some animated version of myself with the words ‘Level 1’ displayed above my head. I quickly turned on the sink faucet and splashed cold water on my face, hoping this time it would erase whatever absurdity I just witnessed. When I looked at the mirror again, I was bewildered, as I was still faced with the strange version of myself.

I tried to relax, rationalizing that this was probably some sort of bizarre dream—despite how real it seemed. I thought maybe if I went back to sleep, I would wake up in my normal, unanimated body.

So, I headed back to my bedroom, slipped under my bed sheets, and closed my eyes. Of course, with my luck, my dismay only worsened. When I woke up for the second time and redirected myself to the bathroom mirror, I was once again faced with the image of an animated character, labeled ‘Level 1’. My heart started to race, my hands started to tremble, and my mind started to spin. Was I stuck in a video game? How could this be?

I went back to my bedroom and searched for my iPhone, only to find a flip phone resting soundly on my night table. Confusion, fear, and shock rammed into me like a bulldozer, choking me by the second.

I could barely breathe, let alone think. I dialed my dad’s number, but there was no answer. I tried my mom’s number—silence; my sister’s—nothing.

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My Father’s Loss | Michael Raimondi | Graphite and White Chalk

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Clutching Onto Hope Alyssa Griesman I paused and took a deep breath, trying to free myself of the stress that lurked in every heartbeat. I had to be strong for my little girl, concealing the storm within. I inched the door open and peered into the room: she was lying down on her back, sleeping soundly. Tiptoeing into the room, I gently closed the door behind me, picked up a chair from the back corner, and delicately placed it beside her. As I pulled up her bed sheets, tucking her in further, I held her left hand so it interlocked with mine. Despite my best efforts, I couldn’t help but feel anxious. I tried my best to clutch onto hope, but the voice reemerged in the back of my mind, warning me that there may not be much time left…

Peeking Through the Crowd | Aren Nessler | Photography

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New Moon Wisps of wishes fade.

Black night crumbles in ashes.

All is new again.

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It Don’t Seem Too Scary Arlo Merchant My uncle coughs.

It don’t seem scary to most— only to me.

My hands begin to shake, and my mind begins to race.

I knew I’d lose him the second I heard that cough and I was right.

He blamed it on pollution but we both knew the truth.

How could we lose him?

Why didn’t he fight longer?

He had fought for years.

Why not a few more?

But you were just surviving.

I didn’t understand that ‘til recently.

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White Crow Gwendolyn Fitzpatrick The ebony corvids descended from the royal blue heavens. They chose their perch wisely, returning to it after their moonlight festivities. Dozens of gleaming gray eyes twinkle from the shadows, hidden behind the hooked branches of the claw marked tree. The dark was like a blanket of protection for the murder whom danced and sang in its shade, knowing in their souls that their volume and glee would go unnoticed by the hooked talons of predators whose sharp eyes were hindered by the smoke of the night.

The military uniformity of the sharp-eyed corvids was broken by a white crow: an anomaly.

Since hatching, the snow-colored crow had been alienated and hated by even the runtiest of its siblings.

The white crow cannot help it, but yet the murder needed to pin the festering hatred and fear on someone. Night after night, the glassy rose-colored optics of the corvid tipped up towards the sky, watching the murder dance and sing its moonlight tune in the safety of the twilight shroud. That beautiful twinkling melody of harmonious, carefree bliss became an agonizing taunt—a reminder of what the anomalous bird could not have. If they were to join the others, it would be suicide. The shroud cannot extend its reassurance to the white crow. So night after night, the agonizing crawl of time staggers forward. Again, the obsidian angels sing their jubilant song, the eyesore looking on in yearning. The days muddle into a timeless blob of existence, and the life the white crow lived became meaningless…

Then, the moon rose. The round opal of the full moon illuminated the curved backs of the black birds. The corvids rose to their twilight waltz across the sprawl of the sky. Suddenly, and without warning, the angelic ivory crow rose into the stars. Its song rattled the sky like a harmonious roar of triumph, pale wings spread wide against the contrast of black. The white crow did not fear being seen.

The white crow had nothing to hide. The white crow flew higher and higher until its wings scraped the rolling clouds of a winter night. It let out that battle cry, that uplifting sound of what was surely a victory. Then, it was over. Hooked talons dug into the pristine chest of the white crow, and its spine broke in the claws of the hawk. All of that power and life drained from the corvid, its white feathers falling to the ground like the sunken petals of a sad flower wilting in the breeze of a cold winter’s night.

Life moves on, the crows continue their dance of happiness across the night sky, the world continues as if the white crow never existed. But that doesn’t matter. A white crow dies fast and dies alone.

But a white crow dies free.

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13 Moons Paula Araujo Parra Her tearful eyes,

A handful of words scarred her skin

Her aghast glance,

Deeper than a dagger ever could,

And her broken heart held in her hand.

But my love for you survived Even the deadliest of wounds.

His baseless logic, His painful words,

Imploring the stars for an answer—

And his twisted eyes staring at hers.

That is what her nights have turned to.

Thirteen moons passed by,

In spite of the hopeful forgiveness that

And she was foolish enough

Her heart wishes to bestow upon him,

To believe it was gone.

Unexpected escape is what her mind Appears to be shouting for.

“Do not ask a question You don’t want the answer to,”

Hours after the scheme,

They say.

She glanced at him once again, She should have been resentful.

Yet she could no longer Allow patience to rule her heart.

Reaching | Anabelle Kreitzman | Photography

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School’s End Aidyn Rios The year has come to a finish, All have learned and grown.

Anxieties begin to diminish, Despite the lessons still left to hone.

Regardless of the enjoyable times, The days will be missed by few.

No more discussions of enzymes Or folders of every hue.

Now is time for frolicking, Whimsical spontaneity in the sun — A time where anything And everything can be done.

But only after relishing in Summer’s sweet ember Can he make his appearance: the villain known as September.

The Stairway | Michael struzinski | Digital

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Chicken Noodle Soup Michael Raimondi I love chicken noodle soup.

Specifically my mom’s chicken noodle soup.

It cured my sickness during those cold winter months.

It comforted me in times where I felt lost and alone.

I wrapped my arms around that bowl of love, comfort, and compassion.

She poured her heart into making me a bowl of chicken noodle soup.

Though, when I made a bowl of chicken noodle soup for her, it wouldn’t cure her sickness.

Whether or not I poured my love into it, chicken noodle soup wouldn’t heal her.

She often didn’t like the taste.

Why didn’t she like it?

Because cancer didn’t like it.

Cancer didn’t care for the love, comfort, or compassion of a home cooked meal.

Cancer couldn’t be cured with chicken noodle soup.

-Love, your bubula

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Self Portrait | Michael Raimondi | Acrylic

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Sunflower Field Kate Braun The Sunflower Field alone

But I didn’t mind.

Was able to elicit everlasting joy.

My heart is mended, My mind is at peace,

I could feel the graze of the petals on my calves,

I am complete without him—

Smell the crisp aura of the refreshing scent,

And soon, they will be too.

And taste the roasted seeds.

I had dreamt of a sunflower bouquet at my

A gentle smile slowly formed as I envisioned it:

wedding

This bouquet will look heavenly atop his casket.

Since the moment we first encountered their beauty.

When visiting one dawn, I reached down occasionally, Plucking flowers from the stem.

I placed them gently in my hair, Just like he would always do.

Although he has been gone for many suns, I can still feel him.

Everywhere.

The Sunflowers stared at me blankly, Wondering why I had come To visit them alone.

They whispered to each other anxiously; I felt their worry as I suffocated in the trauma of

Little Bells | Olivia Wolber | Acrylic

my past.

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Memories from a Past Life Paula Araujo Parra waking up from your quiet slumber

but now the faces who stitched you together

to glass shattered on the floor,

laugh hysterically at some trivial joke,

an angry voice screaming blasphemies—

his comforting brown eyes admire you,

ones your younger mind couldn’t comprehend

your nights are silent and soothing,

writing down your deepest thoughts

and

in the back of an old notebook,

your

trying to make sense of what has occurred

lungs

years of swallowing back defenses,

can

of saving your tears for later in the day and of imploring the universe for peace

finally breathe

wondering if you’ll ever make it out alive, you attempt to heal the scars, later seeing the scarlet-colored water flush down the sink of your mind the never-ending sound of clocks, the hundreds of full moons you admired, the dresses alternating with seasons in your wardrobe you know time is a privilege that you don’t have— so you run you run so fast that you leave everything behind, including that doll’s house you so deeply cherished you run so far that your knees fall to the ground in another land you run so tirelessly that your face ages decades in the journey

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Morgan Wellinger