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

Penumbra

Volume XXVI

2024

Smithtown High School West

Smithtown, NY 11787

Editor in Chief

Anabelle Kreitzman

Copy Editors

Alyssa Griesman Joey Davide Paula Araujo Parra Abigail Jung

Cover Art

Michael Raimondi

Contributors

Kayla Shaughnessy Emma Phillips Mariella Myers

Giuliana Panzini Hatim Husainy Shannon Muscolino Veronika Leshko Michael Raimondi

Arlo Merchant Tiernan O’Rourke Jessica Alexander

Gwendolyn Fitzpatrick Sydnie Vogel Hannah Ren Anabelle Daqui Aidyn Rios Bohdan Budash Eylin Lainez Sophia Rosmaninho Aren Nessler Madelyn Law Erin Kim Kate Braun Michael Struzinski Olivia Wolber

Magazine formatted using InDesign software

Printed by Smithtown Central 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

Penumbra encourages the students of Smithtown High School West to explore their minds and hearts and to develop their many talents. Herein lies the fruit of their labors as we continue to explore, following our thoughts to new horizons ... and beyond.

Submissions are solicitied both at large and through the English Department’s Creative Writing coursework. The staff of Penumbra meets weekly, as an extracurricular club, and is responsible for selection and editing of included works.

Overwhelming Darkness | Kayla Shaughnessy

Brownies | Giuliana Panzini

The Puzzle | Giuliana Panzini

Ashes | Joey Davide

Then There Was You | Arlo Merchant

Love is Tender | Arlo Merchant

Snow | Arlo Merchant

On this December Night | Arlo Merchant

I’m Picking You | Arlo Merchant

Venus | Kayla Shaughnessy

White Walls | Emma Phillips

Car Ride | Kate Braun

There...? | Joey Davide

A Ballad of Freedom | Paula Araujo Parra

Ocean’s Song | Mariella Myers

The Writing on the Wall | Aidyn Rios

Letter to the Old Me | Arlo Merchant

It’s Not What You Think | Alyssa Griesman

The Rose | Aidyn Rios

To Catch a Butterfly | Arlo Merchant

Transcending | Alyssa Griesman

Taking Risks | Alyssa Griesman

My Old Fairy Wings | Paula Araujo Parra

Why We Fast | Hatim Husainy

A Part of Me | Shannon Muscolino

Happy | Aidyn Rios

Rainy Days | Alyssa Griesman

Peace | Alyssa Griesman

I am Human | Alyssa Griesman

Twisted Reality | Alyssa Griesman

Astronomy | Paula Araujo Parra

Red | Veronika Leshko

Perturbed | Aidyn Rios

Vengeance | Alyssa Griesman

Cake | Olivia Wolber

The End | Giuliana Panzini

Deafening Silence | Alyssa Griesman

We Were Wrong | Arlo Merchant

Winter Nostalgia | Alyssa Griesman

A Hurried Hope | Alyssa Griesman

The Room for Broken Mortals | Paula Araujo Parra

Roses | Jessica Alexander

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

Our Home | Alyssa Griesman

What Was Once There | Alyssa Griesman

The Perfect Book | Paula Araujo Parra

Linger | Tiernan O’Rourke

Penguins | Joey Davide

Tulips | Jessica Alexander

String Lights | Joey Davide

Wonderland | Alyssa Griesman

Clutching Onto Hope | Alyssa Griesman

It Don’t Seem Too Scary | Arlo Merchant

White Crow | Gwendolyn Fitzpatrick

13 Moons | Paula Araujo Parra

School’s End | Aidyn Rios

Sunflower Field | Kate Braun

Chicken Noodle

| Michael Raimondi

| Paula Araujo Parra

Dissonant Safety | Aren Nessler

Running | Anabelle Kreitzman

Gateway | Sydnie Vogel

The Tunnel | Sydnie Vogel

The Beauty at Night | Bohdan Budash

A Stained Past | Paula Araujo Parra

Lost Life | Sydnie Vogel

The Dawn of Tomorrow | Hannah Ren

Aurora Ceilings | Joey Davide

On the Edge of Greatness | Aren Nessler

Sweet Honey | Eylin Lainez

A Contrasting Sky | Kate Braun

Erudition and Symmetry | Bohdan Budash

Fire | Joey Davide

The Colors of the Night | Joey Davide

Clouded Joy | Paula Araujo Parra

Poor Visibility | Joey Davide

When the Storm Rolls in | Joey Davide

Raindrops on Roses | Anabelle Kreitzman

The Sun’s Last Hour | Joey Davide

The Light of Knowledge | Bohdan Budash

Stars Below | Paula Araujo Parra

Photography(Continued)

Peeking through the Crowd | Aren Nessler

Reaching | Anabelle Kreitzman

Art

Green with Envy | Abigail Jung

Dressing for Success | Michael Struzinski

Fish | Michael Struzinski

Waiting in Line | Michael Raimondi

Mi Rim | Erin Kim

Hope | Sophia Rosmaninho

Progenitor’s Rebirth | Michael Raimondi Too Shallow, Too Deep | Erin Kim

Maternal Absorbance | Michael Raimondi

Self Portrait Without Showing My Face |

Anabelle Daqui

Solace | Michael Raimondi

Mama’s Meds | Michael Raimondi

My Father’s Loss | Michael Raimondi

The Stairway | Michael Struzinski

Little Bells | Olivia Wolber

Self Portrait | Michael Raimondi

Title Pages

New Moon, Waxing Crescent, First Quarter, Waxing Gibbous, Full Moon, Blood Moon, Waning Gibbous, Third Quarter, Waning Crescent, New Moon (end)|Anabelle Kreitzman

New Moon

Silhouette rises And wanders beneath the stars. Dies to live again.

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.

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

Dissonant Safety | Aren Nessler | Photography

Brownies

Giuliana Panzini

The vacant bowl lays staring up at you, A deep hole waiting to be filled. It needs a companion, But for now, it stands. Alone.

You begin.

Melted, the butter plummets in, Uncomfortably warm.

Coarse sugar joins, Rough, abrading.

Isolation was dreadful Before the butter and sugar came. Now, it is full— But with disdain.

The eggs are next. The worst of them all. Bowl ambushed— Striked repeatedly by shells.

Runny, slimy, Infested with bacteria.

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

And now?

The whisk.

Alienation has never tasted so sweet.

The Puzzle

Giuliana Panzini

A picture–Torn apart.

Thousands of pieces

Scatter across the ground.

It takes hours, Sometimes days, To rectify this mess, One piece at a time.

It’s slow, It’s difficult, But nothing that matters Can ever be easy.

Finally, you place your last piece In its home, Only to discover The gap.

One singular piece Near the top right corner–Gone.

Although missing, It isn’t alone.

Days of determination, Struggle, And strive–

Deceased in the same second The piece left sight.

A picture–Unique and clear; Whether immediately seen, occasionally admired, Or disdainfully observed– . These features can stand out.

Unless you take the days, months, or years, You will never see every feature— So many are hidden deep within.

But, with one part lost, Somewhere out there, The feature that stands out most: The visible mass of the floor.

By first glance, You’ll never recognise Its vibrant colors Or its thorough, Almost realistic details.

Despite it being one Out of a thousand qualities, The only part the eye will fall onto Is the one flaw.

Green with Envy | Abigail Jung | Digital

Ashes

Joey Davide

I rest in the sun’s golden radiance, In its promise of warmth and comfort. And I watch the aqueous race of blues, Breaking into piercing, perfect whites. I view from above, stagnant on my back deck,

In the path of a gentle breeze, As the stream meanders through the bright-leaved trees.

Watching its serenity, Its God-given perfection, I can’t help And want to find that beauty Within myself,

Being one of His creations, too.

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?

If it couldn’t remain idyllic, How could I compare?

Nature’s short gusts weren’t able to blow out This perpetual fire burning in my tapered brain.

That unleaving thought, Waxing in my mind, Set the world ablaze,

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

Even if I wasn’t there, They would have burnt it down anyway, And killed its serenity and its perfection and its beauty.

I, too, would have burnt anyway, right?

Dressing for Success | Michael Struzinski | Charcoal

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.

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.

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”.

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. 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.

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.

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.

Gateway | Sydnie Vogel | Photography

The Tunnel | Sydnie Vogel | Photography

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.

White Walls

Emma Phillips

I once lived in a house with white walls–Often passed by peculiar people, All inhabiting neon walls Of luminous brights.

Mine remained white.

Populated by buckets And brimmed with pale paints.

I often wished the neon artists Would splotch my white walls With the bright blobs Their brushes created.

Occasionally loaning me a rendition of their color, Pigmentation dripped down the same walls That had spoken nothing artistically, Widening my eyes peculiarly with depth.

As my eyes began to burn, I splotched over the neons. Soon, I found boredom in my

Pale.

White.

Walls.

That spoke nothing artistically, once more.

So, I sat in my house of white walls, Scrutinizing the neon artists And attempting to authentically make neon Out of Pale.

White. Paint.

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.

Beauty at Night | Bohdan Budash | Photography

There..?

Joey Davide

Holding on, Hanging off,

Trying not to drop,

Trying not to tumble into Oblivion.

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

Struggling not to be temporary, Not to fade away into the Background.

Is there truly a difference, though?

Stained Past | Paula Araujo Parra | Photography

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.

A Ballad of Freedom

Paula Araujo Parra

The sun shone brighter than ever

As the mockingbirds around us

Sang their ballad of freedom

The front one sang—rejoiced

The malicious whispers

Of an enchanting voice

And the fabricated gentleness

Of a devious mind

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

So she flew through the breeze,

As she reminisced the times

Of apparent peace that she had with him

She might still regret him

With every dusk as she reaches her nest

And every dawn as she flaps her wings again

But at least she could now fly

Without ever being caged again

Ocean’s Song

Mariella Myers

The world came from those beaten and bowed.

And these angels as they fell from grace Knew not of earthly quakes.

Softly, I search for you between the black and blue.

The Ocean roars— I hear its voice in you.

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

And held by beaten hands, our angels sing of the bright and noble king. And then they whisper, And then they warn,

“Remember what I say, for it may come in the Ocean’s song.”

Fish | Michael Struzinski | Digital

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

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

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]

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.

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

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.

The Rose

Aidyn Rios

A beauteous portrait from afar

Yet a dangerous foe if provoked.

The duality of The Rose is one of a fighter: Passionate, and Courageous, and Battle-hardened —

Abrasive with those lacking discipline, Gentle to the ones worth protecting, though…

Nobody can fight forever.

As thorns become jagged and Petals glide down to the floor, The Rose weakens, little by little. Although prepared to continue the fight, Years of protecting herself have influenced Her desire to be cared for by another.

Enter the lowly gardener, Grizzled and wise,

Knowing only his simple life on the ranch.

After gazing upon the lovely Rose, He becomes enamored by her beauty — Despite her thorns, Despite her frailty.

To him, she is the most alluring specimen In the universe’s entirety.

Caring for The Rose would certainly be The Gardener’s most difficult challenge yet.

Even so, he readily takes her in So that she can be showered with love— Such a wondrous being doesn’t deserve The desertion she’s become all too familiar with.

To him, she is worth every ounce of dedication and effort: She is still worth everything.

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.

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.

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

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

My Old Fairy Wings

Paula Araujo Parra

When I was younger, I used to fly with fairy wings

And smile with painted butterflies on my face.

I wore pink dresses, Hoping I would look like princesses And braided my hair like female warriors, Wishing to gain their same strength.

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.

Why does the world seem to be convinced We don’t deserve the same respect and love We had when we were younger?

Will I be worthy if I let go of my strength, If I become who they want me to be?

I think not.

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

Why We Fast Hatim Husainy

A son asked his father:

“Why do we fast in Ramzan?”

And the father took his son, And put him on his lap, And said,

“We fast in anticipation of Heaven, where we shall be free From Hunger.”

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.”

Much, much later, the son got to pose one question to Allah: “Why do we fast in Ramzan?” And Allah chuckled, And showed the son the world he had left, And said,

“Because you can only Appreciate what you have When you give it up On your own accord.”

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.

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

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.

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

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.

Mi Rim | Erin Kim | Acrylic

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

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.

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

Astronomy

Paula Araujo Parra

The galaxies of your eyes

Chart my most luminescent dreams

In their luster

They gleam so immensely, So undoubtedly, That not even a thousand suns

Could ever outshine them

You disproved the laws of the universe The moment you pulled me out of the black hole I had been trapped in for an eternity

More than a northern star, You are the savior of my heart

Hope | Sophia Rosmaninho | Acrylic

Blood Moon

We held on too tight To a night made of glass. It broke in Our Hands. We picked up the pieces As sharp as horizon Cutting heaven From Earth. The shards were returned To their place in the sky, A dome of Stained Glass.

Colored with passion With life and with death, The starlight Shone Red. And moon passing by, Pure, whole, and unbroken, Was tainted by Bleeding Penumbra.

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

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.

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

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.

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.

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

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.

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.

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, maybe we would be.

Clouded Joy | Paula Araujo Parra | Photography

Too Shallow, Too Deep | Erin Kim | Acrylic

Winter Nostalgia

Alyssa Griesman

Pure, little snowflakes

Fall gently from the sky, slowing with each passing second.

Time stops, 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.

Poor Visibility | Joey Davide | Photography

Maternal Absorbance | Michael Raimondi | Acrylic on Canvas

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

The Room for Broken Mortals

Paula Araujo Parra

A loud shock, Screaming voices,

Ubiquitous scarlet,

And my blood-stained fingers

That would reach for a broken phone

As countless masked humans

Would assist my lungs with oxygen, A murmur would be heard:

“Bring me to his hospital”

I would whisper with all my strength

A blur of blue clothed tired bodies

Would attempt to resuscitate my heart

You would then hurriedly enter

“The Room for Broken Mortals”, Expecting a stranger’s file

And praying I would be the one casualty

You would never encounter

As my body would be numbed with chemicals

And your anxious eyes would gaze at mine,

All I would desperately wonder

Is if you would give into

The slightest temptation

And disobey your own heart

If you would forget all our laughs

And your skillful hands

Would intentionally operate

A few centimeters too far

If you would ignore the memory of us

And cease to tirelessly skim

Through the library of your mind

All because you would remember

The words I told you on our first night:

“I won’t be worth the fight”

And realize I was right

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.

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

Caught Between Venus...And a Flytrap

Aidyn Rios

Caught Between Venus…

What is a human Without curiosity?

Without the everlasting Urge for diversity?

That yearning for learning, The aim for change Is what leads them To her majesty.

To Venus they flock, Their heads they drop, For the sake of Her loving hospitality. Try as they might For a passionate fight Against those who Dare to stop them.

Venus cares not For the poor man’s trot Towards her and her Questionable beauty.

…and a Flytrap

Two paths present themselves

Once one has met Venus: They turn back their head and flee Or succumb to her charm. Swayed or snatched, Whatever the case, Release is not for the weak. To struggle is to survive, And to resist is to emerge From her dastardly clutches.

Though Venus has long since vanished — In place of the majestic and beautiful entity Glimmering in the deceitful Sun, A predator has revealed itself.

Teeth lining its insides

To trap and contain, Venus ensures that you Never leave the same.

Now, Venus takes up a new name: The Flytrap is who she is And you are the one to blame.

Our Home

Alyssa Griesman

As soon as I stepped off the train and into the subway, I could see some musicians spread out, Playing sweet jazz and blues to their Hearts’ desires.

As I walked toward the city, I was immediately hit With the potent smell of cigarettes, hot dogs, and Pizzas coming from a multitude of pop up Food stands.

From all vantage points, I could see the city’s Ranging skyscrapers, most of them reaching high Above the sky’s infinite pan of luminous, Fluffy clouds.

As I turned left onto 5th street, the sound of car Horns and loud shouts impinged into the atmosphere With street lights flashing away in the Distant background.

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

The infinite span of books, filling up every inch Of possible space, made me feel comfortable And at ease.

Yet, despite this comfort, there was heartache And despair lingering inside of me, as I was Once again reminded of what I no longer had: My best friend.

When she left this earth, a piece of my heart Left with her, leaving me empty and Alone.

Nevertheless, the memories that we shared— The happiness, sadness, fear, and amusement we Endured together—all remain in a single place.

Deep down, I still have her in this very store That I call Home. Our Home.

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

What Was Once There

Alyssa Griesman

Today marks Vermont’s First snowfall of the year.

Usually, this is my favorite Time, yet something Feels different…

Perhaps it is the absence of The innocence I once had— The absence of that pure joy And excitement that came along With the new season, making it Extra special.

As I glance out my kitchen Window, I see children playing In the newly accumulated snow piles, Creating snowmen, igloos, and snow Angels without any worries nor cares in The world.

If only I knew how good it was— That special, magical feeling That came during the winter. Maybe then, I wonder, I would Have cherished it just a Little longer.

The Sun’s Last Hour | Joey Davide | Photography

Solace | Michael Raimondi | Acrylic

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 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

The Light of Knowledge | Bohdan Budash | Photography

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.

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.

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.

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.

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

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.

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

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

New Moon

Wisps of wishes fade. Black night crumbles in ashes. All is new again.

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.

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.

13 Moons

Paula Araujo Parra

Her tearful eyes, Her aghast glance, And her broken heart held in her hand.

His baseless logic, His painful words, And his twisted eyes staring at hers.

Thirteen moons passed by, And she was foolish enough To believe it was gone.

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

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

A handful of words scarred her skin Deeper than a dagger ever could, But my love for you survived Even the deadliest of wounds.

Imploring the stars for an answer— That is what her nights have turned to.

In spite of the hopeful forgiveness that Her heart wishes to bestow upon him, Unexpected escape is what her mind Appears to be shouting for.

Hours after the scheme, She glanced at him once again, She should have been resentful.

Reaching | Anabelle Kreitzman | Photography

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

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

Self Portrait | Michael Raimondi | Acrylic

Sunflower Field

Kate Braun

The Sunflower Field alone

Was able to elicit everlasting joy.

I could feel the graze of the petals on my calves, Smell the crisp aura of the refreshing scent, And taste the roasted seeds. I had dreamt of a sunflower bouquet at my wedding

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 my past.

But I didn’t mind. My heart is mended, My mind is at peace, I am complete without him— And soon, they will be too.

A gentle smile slowly formed as I envisioned it: This bouquet will look heavenly atop his casket.

Little Bells | Olivia Wolber | Acrylic

Memories from a Past Life

Paula Araujo Parra

waking up from your quiet slumber to glass shattered on the floor, an angry voice screaming blasphemies— ones your younger mind couldn’t comprehend

writing down your deepest thoughts in the back of an old notebook, trying to make sense of what has occurred years of swallowing back defenses, of saving your tears for later in the day and of imploring the universe for peace

but now the faces who stitched you together laugh hysterically at some trivial joke, his comforting brown eyes admire you, your nights are silent and soothing, and your lungs can 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

Morgan Wellinger