ROYCEMORE LITERARY MAGAZINE
2023-2024
The2023-2024LitmagwascreatedbyUpper SchoolStudentsduringactivityperiod.Page designbyWillowChambersusingCanva.
Prose
ThatNightonJuly28th byWillowChambers
BetweenSunsetsandDawns Anonymous
Untitled byYoungnimChoi
TheWiseWolfandtheYoungCub byLeahRosenbaum StickFamily byBriannaMoose Obsessed!!! Anonymous
TheCompendium byEleanoreWallace
TheOnceInsatiableUrgetoEatRocksHas TemporarilyGrippeditsHoldonMeOnceAgain, ICan’tLetthisHappen byKeesKeiper
That night on july 28th
Willow Chambers, 10th Grade
It was night, somewhat cold, I’m not exactly sure. I was in my car at the time you see; I didn’t really have an exact gauge on the temperature so get off my back about it. I was driving through the country, or was it a forest? Not sure, all I know is that it was tall and green. Most likely forest when I think about it enough. Now I don’t remember too much from before it happened, but I know I was driving like a maniac. I know this because when I was pulled over the cop said I was “driving like a maniac” or something similar to that. It was at least clear that he thought I was driving stupid. He was writing up a ticket on that little notepad that cops always have (how do they get that? Do they hand them out at cop training or something?) and I knew I was in trouble. If you’re wondering why I was driving weirdly, keep wondering. I don’t know either so maybe we’ll figure it out together. So he was writing up this ticket that probably had all sorts of horrible things about me written on it. I’d even bet that he was even writing about how bad I smelled; how juvinile of him. I too consider myself a childish soul, but that just completely crosses the line. They need to train them better at the precinct.
Anyway, he was just about to hand me my ticket. I was sitting in the drivers seat but I don’t quite remember whether my head was on the dashboard or in my lap, but it was definitely one of the two. I could probably come up with a reason why it would be on the dashboard if you gave me some time and well brewed coffee, but I still don’t know why I would put it on my lap. That seems like an idiotic place for it to be. Either way, I felt like garbage. I knew I was in it big time, but just as he was ready to tell me that I messed up, a massive sound came from behind my car. It was far far away in the distance. I’m not exactly sure what it was or even how it sounded like. Whenever I try to remember, I always imagine a dilapidated mall: completely depressing and harrowing in a way that I can’t quite pinpoint. Like a claustrophobic elevator, the sound seemed afraid of itself; running away in every direction. The cop immediately ran to his car and said something similar to “stay here” and then he drove away towards the sound, wherever it was coming from. I don’t exactly know where it came from; I wasn’t paying too much attention. I was really feeling something about the sound, don’t know what but it was strong, so I calmly got out of the car and started sprinting in several different directions at once, also known as running “diagonally.” I went all over the place, running towards every orientation you can imagine. I ran to the noise, I ran away from it, I ran East, I ran North, I followed the river, I jumped over the river, I hadn’t run so fast since I got a medal of a non gold material in a middle school track competition. I often ran in two directions at the same time, getting nowhere.
By the time I stopped running I had forgotten about the cop, my car, and everything else. The only thing I could remember was that sound. It couldn’t escape my mind at a time when everything else was fleeing from it as fast as possible, like a claustrophobe running away from a claustrophobic elevator running from itself. I couldn’t remember a thing, I didn’t know my name, I didn’t know why I was there, I didn’t even know about the concept of not knowing. Though what I did know was that giraffes give birth while standing up: a factoid from my youthful days. Though I forgot about that as well two minutes later.
Then, I remembered. It all came rushing back, like a strange simile washing over a reader. I had it all! My name was… Hm… Alright, I didn’t remember that, but I did remember everything else. I walked back to my car (it was only 20.359 meters away from where I was standing) and drove away. While I was driving, I felt like I was forgetting something, but then I remembered that I have a perfect memory. So I went on my way.
Between Sunsets and Dawns Anonymous
Am I fading with tonight’s sunset, or rising with tomorrow's dawn? When do we truly begin living, and when exactly are we born? Not at our heart's first beat, nor with our first breath, but perhaps when we first dare to dream. Between the embrace of sunset and dawn's first light, truly living means daring to reimagine, shape, and elevate our world. I come from a very classic Indian family; one still hoping I'll outgrow my 'limited edition' phase and revert to the traditional model they ordered. Growing up in this environment, the concept of (what I call) being a revolutionist (or what they call being an ajeeb: weirdo) was quite taboo. Yet, the flame of curiosity, forever seeking innovation, has burned within my heart for as long as I can remember. Whether it was my ambitious (yet admittedly misguided) attempt to supercharge my mom's cherished iPhone 2GS by dissecting its logic board, WiFi antennas, proximity sensor, and other vital connectors—only to be left with 'technological roadkill'—or openly challenging the culturally biased expectations of my traditional family by building a nonprofit advocating the often-muted subject of grief, I constantly strive to be a changemaker in the world around me. While my innate rebellion bloomed early, it was truly nurtured by the man I am proud to call my uncle, mentor, and best friend: Sohail.
In our Muslim community, Sohail shone brilliantly, the hummus atop our falafel. His voice, a soothing baritone, was a beacon for the youth, illuminating the teachings of our faith. My mother, in her hopeful optimism, felt he was the ideal mentor for her 'limited edition' son. On the surface, our Saturdays were labeled as a dive into the spiritual realms of Islam. Yet, in reality, our meetings unfolded with heart-pounding NBA games and TED Talk interludes. What was meant to be sacred study often shifted into philosophical basketball showdowns. With each shot taken, Sohail would seamlessly weave hoops with profound life insights. Our unconventional lessons were interspersed with laughter and whimsical banter. These weren’t just any games; they were revelations wrapped in sweat and sneakers. One day, we paused to catch our breath and admired the vast blue sky. In a stolen moment of introspection beneath that azure canvas, Sohail quoted the Islamic Hadith and said: “Remember often the destroyer of pleasures.” He referred to death (Sunan al-Tirmidhi 2307). Turning to me, beads of sweat trickling down his face, he added, "Death doesn't discriminate. It claims both the young and old, either in an instant or over time. Today, you're nailing jump shots, but tomorrow? It could be your final play on this court. Treat every day, every moment, as if it's your last. Aspire to be a beacon of change, to be revolutionary.”
A few years later, as the night's sunset faded, Sohail abruptly died of cancer, leaving behind a newborn son and a widowed wife. Although my best friend isn’t physically in this world anymore, the dawn of each day illuminates the indelible marks he left behind. Amidst each emerging dawn, Sohail's absence forces reflection: Is today my last? With each sunset, I question its finality; every dawn prompts my resolve to seize the day. In this balance between dusk's end and daybreak's promise, Sohail's legacy ignites my conviction: to dream boldly, to create passionately, and to change relentlessly. Uncertain if I’m fading with the sunset or awakening with dawn, I dance upon this clay of existence, eager to be revolutionary and reshape this world, while helping the lives within it.
Untitled Youngnim Choi, 12th Grade
In the heart of the Joseon Dynasty, nestled between rolling hills and tranquil rivers, there stood a village where time seemed to stand still. In this village lived a young woman named Haejin, whose spirit burned with the fiery passion of her ancestors.
From a young age, Haejin possessed a fierce determination to defy the expectations placed upon her by society. While other maidens dutifully embroidered delicate patterns onto silk, Haejin dreamed of wielding a sword and mastering the art of combat. Her father, a respected warrior who had served the king with unwavering loyalty, recognized the fire within his daughter and nurtured her ambitions in secret.
As Haejin grew, so too did her skill with the blade. Under the guidance of her father, she honed her technique and learned the ways of the warrior with unparalleled passion. But when tragedy struck and her father fell in battle defending the kingdom, Haejin's world shattered like fragile porcelain.
Determined to honor her father's legacy, Haejin disguised herself as a man and enlisted in the royal army. With each swing of her sword, she fought not only for her kingdom but also for the memory of her father. Despite the dangers that lurked around every corner, Haejin remained steadfast in her resolve, her courage serving as a beacon of hope for all who crossed her path.
As whispers of her bravery spread throughout the land, Haejin's legend grew, earning her the admiration of allies and the fear of enemies. But amidst the chaos of battle, Haejin never forgot the lessons instilled in her by her father – that true strength lay not in the sharpness of one's blade, but in the depth of one's honor and the purity of one's heart.
And so, in the heart of the Joseon Dynasty, amidst the turmoil of war and the echoes of a thousand battles, Haejin's name became synonymous with courage, her legacy enduring for generations to come as a testament to the indomitable spirit of the human soul.
The Wise Wolf and the Young Cub
Leah Rosenbaum, 11th Grade
The Wolf told a story to the young Cub about the Fish in the ocean.
“Wise wolf, why are the Fish in the ocean so easy to catch?”
“What do you mean?” asked the Wolf.
“Why, I mean why are they so oblivious to their environment?”
“Oh young Cub! I’ve been waiting to tell this story ever since 1988. You see, Fish are so oblivious because of the way they are brought up. It’s not their fault they are so stupid, do you follow?”
“Sort of..”
“Ever since 1988, the UN sent out a warning that the ozone layer was beginning to go away, and this was caused by mass pollution in the air, and the ocean.”
“Wise Wolf, whatever are you talking about?”
“Why young Cub, you will soon understand.”
“It’s easy to catch Fish because the ozone layer is going away?”
“The Fish usually reside in Florida, especially in more recent times. They tend to believe that there’s nothing wrong with the warm waters, because they are so oblivious. They figure that if it’s water, they will be fine! But no, they are slowly dying. Before you were born, and when I was a pup, I had access to cool water, and then, gradually, the water became warmer.”
“I noticed that in August, the water is most warm, and it’s easier to find dead Fish in the Summer.”
“Yes Cub, that’s right! This is because the waters are getting warmer due to Global Warming.”
“Oh no! That doesn’t sound good, what shall we do? What do we tell the Fish?”
“Unfortunately, the Fish are too oblivious to understand, in fact, the Fish fight and fight to prove to us that there is nothing wrong, in fact, the warm water isn’t real.”
“But, it is real! You saw it, and so did I!”
“That’s correct! We have! The Fish even have voting rights…”
“What?”
“So you see, this is why Fish are so dumb, they do not understand what is happening right in front of them!”
“And there’s nothing they can do? Can we take their voting rights away?”
“It’s not that easy a young one. In fact, it’s not fair, but I do not want to lecture you on the US Constitution right now.”
“I understand, I will just keep catching my Fish.”
“And when you catch them, make sure you give them a good talking to!”
“Yes sir! Thank you wise Wolf, for all that you have taught me.”
Stick family Brianna Moose, 12th Grade
In the dead of winter, a nomad traveled through a still forest, merely passing by in stepping to his next and more desired destination. He wandered until he could wander no longer, and decided to take a rest to mend his cold and starvation. In the white void, the nomad tied his wandering sack to an accessible branch and foraged for something to satisfy his uncomfortable state.
Under the tree were broken branches, waiting at his disposal. Many were vulnerable sticks, but there was one pile of a family of sticks. Unbeknownst to the forager, he was in luck and the sticks were not so: a singular stick, all by itself, snapped crisply, unable to debate the force fledged upon it, eventually dissipating into oblivion from what once was so, and now part of the scavenger’s manipulation. However, the group of sticks, although notably huffing and puffing, by their nature and their combined struggle, persevered. They could not bend, not even the force of a desperate traveler could crisply snap them.
Without satisfaction, and hastily disregarding anything but his desire for warmth, the traveler sighed, moved on from taking on the family, and dropped the sticks in defeat. Instead, disregarding their consent, he snapped them one by one now, with total ease and efficiency than before. That, he knew he could do.
And one by one, not more than a minute’s worth of energy spent, the traveler snapped the now separated, individual, small, and wintered sticks and threw them in a pile of “others,” who would come to realize how unforgiving a preliminary spark would be. Here, they eventually and swiftly met their end as ash—their simple recycle into new nature and form, never to be a family of sticks united again. To the traveler, he got what he wanted and went on with his journey—unbothered and untouched—after the rejuvenation brought on by the kindled and separated sticks. Simple. Simple and done. Simple and done and forgotten.
The traveler had not known what he had done, and yet knew everything he had done. Nonetheless, all that remained of the once piled and peaceful family of sticks by the big tree was the ghost of time, of what once was. A train of slim aftermath still prolonged in the morning, and by a day’s time, the courses had succumbed to the natural way of things, engulfed by a pile of new, drifted snow—recycled back into the Earth and returned to the warm embrace of nature’s arms, and without thought, forgotten entirely of what they once were. No creature that shared the forest cared to be affected at all at the loss. Why would they? This was the fate of sticks who fared alone, by their will or otherwise.
obsessed!!!
The short story for our generation Anonymous
Part One:
She creeps up on me in the middle of the night. I dream I can see her soft golden hair as I toss and turn beneath the covers, holding my breath with anticipation. Her face is staring at me from her stage in my room. She looks up at the poster of her right above my bed that shows her tall figure performing towards a crowd of thousands of screaming people like me. I swear it is almost like I know her. Everyday I wake up, and as I get ready for school I play her music, I listen to her on my way to school, I talk about her with my friends and family at any given time. I’ve never actually met her however, but somehow it feels like she knows me better than I even know myself.
Part two:
People know me as the girl who wonders. It is true; I wonder all of the time and I have been wondering ever since I was born. I wonder about the world, about my relationships, but most of all, I wonder what my life would be if I did not get that ticket, if instead of being worshiped by millions who treat me like I’m their god, I just took the normal route? What if I went to high school in a classroom, not a recording studio? What if I went to prom instead of the red carpet in Hollywood? It sounds crazy to think that in a universe not so different from ours I could be playing music at the local bar rather than having the world’s largest arenas booked for me. What if? Maybe it is not real, I mean, what do my fans even think of me? Do they really love me that much when I sometimes hate myself? Do they really think I’m perfect when I sometimes have panic attacks and drive myself crazy on a Friday night just like them? Do they?
The Once Insatiable Urge to Eat Rocks Has
Temporarily Gripped Its Hold On Me Once Again, I Can’t Let This Happen Kees Keiper, 12th grade
I’ve seen a lot of rocks while doing my time on Earth and I think I’ve always found them to be somewhat edible-looking. Not just as a thing I could crunch into and munch away at like a dried-up cookie, but something more. I’ve been imagining these rocks as a ball of cake. A capsule that contains a soft, squishy, and decadent inside. A food that if reached, could leave Gordon Ramsey bawling on the floor. I’ve never actually fallen into testing my thoughts, but I could imagine a world where this may be the case. One day someone bites into a rock and suddenly a new food source is created. The world is turned anew as everything we once thought suddenly gets flipped upside down. Sadly, I know this can’t be true. I’ve seen the inside of a rock and it’s just more rock. There’s no secrets or hidden edible surprise, just rock and disappointment. I’ve been thinking about what would’ve happened if me, pre understanding rocks, actually took a bite into one of them. If I fell into my urges, picked up a nice black rock, and tried to take a chunk out of it. I’d probably be sitting here right now, writing about the dangers of eating rocks, my mouth full of chipped, broken, and educated teeth. But I would’ve reached a conclusion. Rocks aren’t edible, and would have undeniable proof. Is that better than just wondering? Is it safer to know I can’t grab a pile of rocks and stuff them in my mouth? I don’t know! I feel like as I’ve grown, my sense of childlike wonder has deprecated. As if the more research I see, the more experiments I gain the ability to concoct, the less I wonder about the world. Microwaves aren’t magical anymore, the sky is blue because of wavelengths, and Dora isn’t real. It's a sad, sad world and we have to live in it. Holding on to that last strand of hope, the last bastion of 9 year old me, the idea that rocks are edible; is that so bad? I want to say no. My mind is screeching at me to say “No Kees, eat rocks. They could be very healthy”, but I know that just isn’t true. As much as I love the nostalgia that comes with looking around and wondering what magical secrets lie behind the most menial things, if I kept that nostalgia now I’d be silly. I’ve thought about what it would be like to go back to a time where stress was put on the backend. Where homework wasn’t real, and eating rocks was something I could just think about without having to understand that I couldn't. But I don’t want to do that. Even if I had the ability to go back to my southern, North Carolinian, Second Grade roots, I wouldn’t want to. I had problems then, and to second grade me, they were so much worse. I got bullied for having pink as my favorite color once; and it still sticks to me to this day. The problem with wondering about everything, and hoping for something amazing in places where it probably doesn’t exist, is that: when you're hit with reality, it hurts so much more. Second grade me didn’t think about sulfur or chemicals, I just wanted to eat the gravel on my driveway, and if I did, that's a scar I would’ve kept for the rest of my life. The indistinction between reality and imagination, friends and peers, staying insulted or being forgiving; was fun when I was 8 years old, but I would never go back. I want my nostalgia to stay nostalgia, and my inability to eat rocks understood. So for future Kees: if you ever see a rock and find yourself salivating over what could be, remember this 700 word essay. And maybe consider taking up a job at a cake shop, where you can create hyper-realistic rocks ‘till the end of your days, and stuff as many as you can in your satisfied mouth. Then after: make Gordon Ramsey cry or something. I still don’t like that guy.
Poetry
Love byZamirTorres
Untitled byBavariaPlunket Endings byKeesKeiper
FirstGradePoetry
Cassandra byNicoIpjian
Untitled byJackieGorski
StartOver bySamanthaBerlin
If Anonymous
Hiccups(FromLaughing) byWillowChambers
MorningandNight Anonymous
Untitled byBavariaPlunket
Stuck Anonymous
Haiku byIsabellaGoldberg
Sequences Anonymous
SeaGlass byRonanMcGuire
EmbracingtheInevitable:DeathbyLucyBirnbaum
FruitsforEverySeason bySamanthaBerlin
Love
by Zamir Torres, 2nd Grade
Your paragraph text
untitled Bavaria Plunkett, 11th Grade
Nobody knows it's the end of the world except you, shaking on a bench, soaked in the warm red-gold light of a dying sun. It feels like a terrible grievance that the sky is still beautiful.
Endings
By: Kees M. M. Keiper, 11th GradeAn old man stands on a porch, light illuminating his face
There's nothing left for him now, his relationships have reached last base I watch as his eyes slowly move from place to place
Waiting for something to happen, an end to his race He stands there everyday, but today feels different
As if he has purpose, a reason, a mission
His eyes turn to me, and I watch as they grow wide
A new emotion has entered his face, one he can't hide
His wife's been in hospice, I've helped her out a bit I've learned of his anger, his madness... his wit I watch as he looks at me with a heightened sense of fear
As if I can see right through him, his sins ever so clear I see him turn towards the door, but he stops after a moment
As if he knew, somewhere inside of him his path was already chosen He turns back around and his eyes show me something new
The face of man who knows he's bit off more than he can chew I walk to him slowly, unaware of my surroundings I hold a package in my hand, the receiver inbounding I get to his steps, reach out, but hear something confounding "Sorry darling, I just don't have the money for cookies today. You know how it is, paying for Ethel's treatment and all that."
Astounding!
This man has been sh*t talking our troop for days
Calling his wife and yelling about cookies, and a lack of change
Murphy the good ol' cash cow is what we used call him
Before he changed, stopped buying, a monument with fallen columns I looked to the Man, and told him the truth "Cookies ain't what I'm sellin', but you should know that... Shouldn't you?"
He knew was coming next, I couldn't tell him any faster
We decided we're done, taking him out to pasture
"You don't mean..."
"Yes I do"
"Please be sensible..."
"Mr Murphy, what you've done is indefensible"
"I know I said they were overpriced, but come on have you lost it!
If you let this slide I’ll buy some later, some double frosted--!"
"We're done here Murph." And with that I left Shut Murphy down, his words as heinous as theft
Girl Scouts? Overpriced? Who does he think he is?
If I was truly evil I'd hand him a bigger gift. But no, this will do, a payment for his crimes
A charge that costs more than a few nickels and dimes I watch from across the street as he opens my box with a rip. Dear Mr Murphy, you are banned from purchasing or eating any more girl scout cookies ever…
"Flip!"
First Grade Poetry
Anonymous Words and Music
Sophia Ramji
Outside
Untitled A.J. Sindel Platte
Bell
Wolfgang
Anonymous Anonymous
Anonymous
Cassandra
Nico Ipjian, 12th grade
Blood on the shores
Blood in my home
Blood that is yours
He came from above
He let me see
He is not my love
I tell them what is true
I tell what’s to come
I tell anyone within view
They do not believe
They think I am mad
They do not see why I grieve
The curse of the seer
The curse of Casandra
The curse of what’s near
I am a cursed prophet I am oracle of Troy I am not one to regret
Never once have I lied
Never once were they kind
Never once have I cried
Untitled Jacqueline Gorski, 10th Grade
Not knowing what to write is making me feel wacky
Picking a proper prompt is pretty pleasant
When you know what to write. But once one has been on the odyssey It can become an ongoing oasis
But it can also be a backbone For few have been able to go far. The ones that go short are tactful they have tasteful talent And their talent is tasteful.
start over Samantha Berlin, 9th Grade
She does not pay any close attention to the space around her.
She is too busy staring at the screen that captivates her mind. No, it is not what you think it is.
She is not scrolling through the five month old unread messages that her friends sent her, or scrolling through her playlist which is full of the same eight songs that she used to listen to when she was younger.
No, she does not do any of that, she sits on her bed, wondering when the next thing will occur. Time stays still while she glances up at the photo behind her bed. This is how she lives every day, in a dark bed room without a nightlight, in complete silence except for the occasional siren from outside.
But if you saw her, you would see that silence is all just behind her eyes. The world around her is full of color and noise, but she has to harness the courage to experience it.
If
Anonymous
If I was better
Maybe people would like me more
If
The weather was nicer
Maybe I wouldn’t be so sore
If
People were kinder
The world might not be insecure
If
I was a liar
Would I still have the same score?
If
My life was different
Would I still be here, now?
But
If
They could get a grip
On what it feels like to be alone
Would I be sitting around, Staring at my phone
Hoping that maybe one day
People will change
That they’ll notice the effect they have
On everyone else’s brain
Washed away the primer
And something else I saw
Different than before
But I am I better off?
If
You are ready
Maybe you will see
That I am not just What everyone thinks of me.
hiccups (from laughing)
Willow
Chambers,
10th Grade
My diaphragm
Beaten to and fro
To a fate of laughing, your jokes do damn
They show no signs of slow
A quake bursts within
My stomach feels an echoing din
Through my laughing and grin
A *hic* escapes from within
Hiccups from laughing, a curious scar
From our joy is who we are
Like a pearl, this irritation is formed The truth of a heart you’ve warmed
My love for you is without bound
So when you hear the ringing sound
Of hics in the air, floating It’s a young girl’s love that you’re holding
Morning and Night Anonymous
As my eyes close, the light rushes out, sliding under the lid before they both shut. In the darkest hour of the night, I make my way inside while the sun rises in the corner. Its waves paint the landscape, reflecting off the frost coating the grass. Fields were spreading as far as I could see, and there was no one in sight but a red barn right next to me. I walk across, smelling the misty air, as the cold morning breeze brushes my skin. The sun arises within. I stand there in the open space, taking it all in before the sun sets again, inevitably rising on the other side, and waking up its gaze. I spend the hours working, with my bare hands plowing the dirt. I never think it odd to see people walking in the distance. They always mind their own business. I recognize most, some faces morphed into each other, the eyes of my lover, the ears I can’t recall, the mouth I've seen somewhere before. But at this hour, I know no-one will be here. I hear noises echoing through the air, the creek of a floor echos through the distance. As I continue working, the tool I'm thinking of appears in my hand. I forgot I could do that. There are many things I forget while i'm here, almost nothing remembered in the end.
Morning and Night
CONTINUED
Tired and yawning I forget what I'm doing, or why I'm doing it. I start walking towards the rising horizon. Surrounded by blue skies, far away waters I can never reach. I keep walking, keep walking, keep forgetting. I forget about the mist in the air and the cold breeze, suddenly I'm no longer cold. I forget about the rising sun. I'm no longer walking towards the horizon, just a blank canvas. I keep walking, keep walking, keep forgetting. It never goes on for this long. I forget my eyes are open, suddenly all I see is darkness. I keep walking, keep walking, keep forgetting. I forget my legs are moving, suddenly I'm no longer walking, just floating, just floating, just forgetting. I see a spec of light in the absent space. I begin maneuvering myself towards it. With a blink of my eye the spec is gone. A part of me was in my sleep, one I can never get back.
Untitled Bavaria Plunkett, 11th grade
Falling back on what you know like honey spiraling in on itself: sweet and inescapable.
Better the devil you love, and the smoothness of all your best chances melting into you is kind enough.
Nothing is easy, not even this. But it’s quiet.
The honey driesglues the lid shutdoomed to spiral until you smooth out again, and it’s fine, or at least, it’s quiet.
Sequences Anonymous
Patterns form, dark coats the horizon, nothing but sequences. Sequences, glimpse of light can only be seen, sequences. It's too late to remember one's name, one's identity. All that’s visible are sequences. These sequences carry out for hours, and it's too late to remember your name, or the reason you see what you see, a blissful period exists, when thought is separated from sensation. The only thing that's left is the occurrence of sequences, that's all one is able to make out at this time. The little glimpses of light form a barrier between life and its absence. Thought can exist without sensation, sensation can exist without thought, but when two are absent, neither can be attained again. Suddenly light can be seen, the specs expand to something much greater. Dark as the night can be, the moon provides an illumination. The dark unending scape turned into waves, rivers reaching the doc, tiny waves glimmering from the moon's reflection, dark blue with a breeze of chlorine. In the pitch dark, the moon shines with a surreal glow. You stand there, the wooden dock under your feet. Waves that sparkle from the moon's reflection paint the surroundings. The clock strikes, the darkest hour of the night. A tiny light approaches you, expanding by the second.
Sequences
CONTINUED
Before you're able to understand what’s happening, a boat reaches the Doc. woman holding the lantern you used to use to read as a child. As you step inside, the boat heads in the opposite direction. It's not bright enough to see the woman, as the light reflects everything but her face. The doc begins to disappear from sight, the boat glows golden in the center of the universe. A fearful realization comes: you climbed a hill you can never get down from. It starts to dawn on you that you will never get off this boat, never make it back to land. You reach out to the woman and pull off her scarf. Here the older woman stares back. It's been so long that I had forgotten what she sounds and looks like, but it's all coming back to me now.
It’s only at this hour I could remember a thing like that. I remember. The forest surrounding the clear waters, the haze glow from the rising sun: the thousandth hill. I feel the water god felt. We were raised in these waters and found peace in these waters. But now the sun has set, and soon enough we will all return to these waters. I continue on this path. I focus my attention on the present. The sligh sound of crickets, the smell of water, the slightly misty breeze hitting my face, it's all come back to me now. I hear the pace of the water change. I ask her, “what will happen once the boat drops?” She sets her eyes on me, tears falling, “nothing” she says.
Sea-glass
Ronan McGuire, 12th Grade
Do you like to take long walks?
Maybe long walks on the beach?
What do you do on these walks?
Are you alone? With a dog?
With a friend or lover?
Do you walk slowly? With haste?
Is it for the destination or the journey?
What do you talk about?
Do you talk to yourself?
What do you talk to yourself about?
Are you open-minded?
Do you walk in silence?
Do you like silence?
Or do you prefer a boardwalk bustling with people and sound?
Do you walk on the path or the sand?
Is there a path to walk on at all?
How big is this beach?
Saltwater? Fresh?
Is it rocky or sandy?
Is the sand fine?
Are the rocks sharp?
Do you collect rocks?
On what basis do you choose these rocks?
Do you like the variety of colors? The strange shapes? The crystallized structures?
Do you collect sea-glass?
Would you call it sea glass even if it comes from a lake?
What would you call it otherwise?
How often do you collect sea-glass?
On what basis do you choose these pieces?
Do you like a variety of colors? Maybe those with larger shapes? Or unorthodox structures?
How smooth does sea-glass have to be for you to keep it?
Is there any sort of grading system you have? Do you just keep any fragment of glass you find?
If you don’t, what do you do with these sharp pieces?
Do you throw them away? Do you leave them where they lie?
Do you return them to their Maker?
Would you ever move to a land-locked state?
Will you miss the walks on the beach?
Embracing the Inevitable: Death
Lucy Birnbaum, 11th Grade
When you think about it, death isn't scary, the stigma is. We’ve become so disconnected from this part of our life that it's become a fear.
The truth is, thinking about death helps you live a better life. It helps you stay in the moment, and live with an open mind.
Death is a gift, a celebration. Death seems to be a ‘hidden’ topic, and when it happens, or it’s brought up… we tend to panic.
But, what if there was more education on it?
What would happen?
What if we, as humans, learned to embrace the inevitable?
Fruits for every season
Samantha Berlin, 9th Grade
Summer Blueberries delicious bursts of lightning Were all in my mouth
Red Autumn Apple
A soft center with a hard skin Reminds me of then
Holiday Vanilla Always keeps the winter warm When cold air says “home”
Lemonade in Spring
Sings to me a sour taste It rings in my ears
Photos and Art
Fred byRyyanRehman
OlympicsArtwork byFifthandSixthGrade
Untitled byXavierMontgomery
Snowscapes byJuneFink
Royce’sJoy byKeesKeiper
Podcastsbythe8thGradeSpanishClasses
Fred
Ryyan Rehman, 12th Grade
Olympics artwork
5th and 6th Grade
Untitled Xavier Montgomery, 8th Grade
Untitled
Xavier Montgomery, 8th Grade
Snowscapes
June Fink, 7th Grade
royce’s joy Kees Keiper, 11th Grade
Podcasts
Take a listen to 8th Grade Spanish Student podcasts exploring the Latinx history of Chicago through neighborhoods, art, music, food, sports, and activism.
