iris: art+lit 2025
MISSING PIECE MISSING PEACE
St. Paul Academy and Summit School
Vol. 9
June 2025
What do you do when you missing piece of a puzzle?
When it is impossible to complete? How do you move on
MISSING PIECE
DIRECTIONS: the pages of this magazine are perforated. The Iris staff invites you to take a piece: tuck a poem in your pocket, or turn a page into you own work of art.
Go to @irisartlit.spa on Instagram to follow along with our staff to make origami.
Table of Contents
Shouting
Wallowing Love Dinner For Palestine 1/100
Untitled A Miner Problem Wit
Here I stand alone
Who’s counting?
the abandoned house on Maple Street
Pancakes
us in 20 years the geese flew south on December 31
Roe v. Wade (animal) Allegory
American Dream
The Fly
poem allegory
poem short story speech
poem poem short story haiku
poem short story
poem short story short story
poem poem allegory
poem short story
Asha Peckosh
Via Campbell
Mae LaChance
Henry Kansas
Mariam Malik
Sofia Rivera
Asha Peckosh
Pete Hovan
Bayne Talbot
Kieran Ahearn Kroll
Henry Cammack
Abigail Tilton
Liam Burns
Soren Guettler
Sofia Rivera
Oakley Schonwald
Francis Conrod-Wovcha
Ivy Evans
Francis Hanna
ESSAY LITERATURE
SPEECH POETRY ESSAY LITERATURE SPEECH POETRY
PHOTOGRAPHY PHOTOGRAPHY
Lily Courtyard
Edge of Spiral Galaxy
Ghost of Jupiter
MGC488
Crab Nebula
Spindle Galaxy
Whirlpool Galaxy
Teenage Strangers
Lighthouse
Within Ice
Hallway
Icelandic Water photography
digital
Sophia Obi 018 036 079 026
MULTIMEDIA
MUSIC
Humza Jameel
Lila Montgomery
Nyx Wells
Zahra Wiedmann
Coda Wilson
Eli Sanders
June Dalton
Zimo Xie
Devyani Nelson
Devyani Nelson
Hart Waltz
Fragments
Big Bad Roman
A Different Frame of Mind
Short Film: Score Falling Investigation
Car Chase
Paloma Gomez Whitney
Nico Martin
Annika Kim
Eleanor Chung Putaski
Roman Hozalski
Leo Mosenfelder
De-An Chen
CERAMICS POTTERY SCULPTURE
Twisting Vase Fruit
POTTERY
Kesildi Odvojen
Tiered
Sub-marine
Gardenia in Bloom
Work 1
Old Ruins, New Growth
Amanita’s Mushroom Cottage
Bronze Circle Pot
Blue Teapot Set
Duck
Chips and Dip
Birds of a Feather
Starfish
Untitled
Rusted Bucket Butterfly
Adam Ebert
Dia Chaney
Baron Bailey
Naomi Glozman
Bora Mandic
Francis Hanna
Josepha Mody
Tallulah Dogwill
Marius Morse
Patrick Wall
Gwen Uhlhorn
Kai Wetternach
Evy Sachs
Andrew Sullivan
Josh Holloway
Eva Johnson
Nora Grande
Huxley Westemeier
Rowan
Franny Wagner
Griffin Roy
Asha Peckosh
Avi Coleman
Ethan He
Rowan Moore
Don’t Let It Out Rowan Moore (12.5 x 9.5”) print
shouting
fire fire
by Asha Peckosh
as soon as someone hears it, they run everyone else following not asking whether it’s true or not the play and its actors abandoned as the audience leaves for another theater, another play until it too is lost to the cry fire!
like no one’s heard of it before i’d love to think that i’m the one shouting but i’m not i’m the one who knows it’s a lie but runs anyway.
Twisting Vase Adam Ebert
ceramics
Chapter 11
by Via Campbell
Napoleon kicked back his hooves against the Manors’ table, lit cigarette, and took a long drag. Squealer would be coming in any moment to discuss some more drastic changes to the Manor farm’s policies. Smoke curled around him, casting the room in a thick shadow. A knock came on the door and Napoleon turned to it, then grunted a “come in.”
Right on time, Squealer stepped inside, silhouetted by the light of the hallway behind him and the smoke surrounding them both.
“What next?” Napoleon asked.
“What do you mean, what next?” Squealer replied. “We’ve taken everything from them and they don’t even know it. What else is there to do?”
Napoleon laughed, an odd mixture of sounds akin to highpitched squealing mixed with low, heaving grunts. His chest shook, more smoke endlessly pouring from his mouth until he finally stopped laughing, wiping a tear from his cheek.
“Oh, Squealer,” he scolded, “you’re not seeing the bigger picture.” He lit another cigarette, holding it out to his companion. “Sit.” It was a command, not a request. Squealer sat next to him, looking up at him as he took a drag from his fresh cigarette.
“The Manor farm,” Napoleon began, “Operates on old ideals. The fever dreams of an old, dying boar who failed to grasp the true concept of what he was talking about.”
What do you mean, ‘what next’?” Squealer replied. “We’ve taken everything from them and they don’t even know it. “
Some turned to those around them, supposing that was right. Others nodded to themselves.
Squealer nodded along with him.
“The true glory of a country–its profit–lies in its leaders. The animals supposedly own the means with which they produce that which makes us great. Should we not own that, comrade, if that is the provider of our profit? Our greatness?” Squealer continued to nod.
“We have private education,” Napoleon continued, “we eat the best meals on this farm, and we bathe in hot, clean water. We own the farm’s money. Should we not own that which makes the farm its money?”
“An excellent idea, leader,” Squealer praised.
The picture truly was bigger. They hadn’t yet taken everything they could from the animals. Napoleon crushed his cigarette butt on the table, leaving an ugly black scorch on the wood.
“Go tell them,” he thought aloud, “that their work is now under private ownership. The ownership of the pigs.” he paused, then, “No, tell them it always has been.” He snorted at a joke only he understood.
“How will I convince them of that?” Squealer asked, more to himself than Napoleon.
Invisible cogs and gears were turning in his head, spinning a story of ownership and profit like a spider preparing for a meal.
“You’ll figure it out,” Napoleon replied dismissively. “Just go tell them something, won’t you?”
Squealer trotted into the meeting house, assembling the animals. He wore a sharp, buttoned blazer, and their first thought was that he reeked of smoke, yet none of them had seen any fires, and they’d been warned against smoking cigarettes ages ago. Those with their suspicions kept their mouths shut and their heads down.
“Comrades,” Squealer began, “I’d like to remind you of the pigs’ ownership of the farmland, the sickles, the plows.”
There was a hushed, confused murmur among the animals, though none vocalized dissent.
“Comrades!” he continued, “do you not remember? The pigs manage the farm’s profits, do we not? Would it not be difficult to manage all that equipment and produce all on your own?”
Some animals nodded.
“The pigs take care of this for you! We manage product and profit while you all sit back and have no worries about these things.”
The animals seemed convinced. Some turned to those next to them, supposing that was right. Others nodded to themselves.
“Excellent,” Squealer said, more to himself than the others He turned and left the meetinghouse, and as he did something slipped from his pocket. Once he was gone for sure, one brave chicken approached it to see what it was. It was a cigarette.
wallowing wallowing wallowing love
by Mae LaChance
In the dark night
The trees wallowed and wept
They hung over the path that we once walked
The secrets you whispered to me engraved in the dirt
The devoted love you felt for me
Now seeps through my heart
I now walk through that path
Wondering why
Wondering how
Wondering when
Lily Courtyard Humza Jameel (digital print) image composite
DINNER
by Henry Kansas
TWO WEEKS. TWO WEEKS
he had gone without a meal. His body had become very slender. You could see every bit of his rib cage. His arms had no meat on them. His legs didn’t either. He had lost so much weight he needed to steal a new waist pelt. His spine stuck out his back. He was all bones and skin. The Marimo had gone from a fearsome cannibal to a skinny scavenger.
The Marimo had been wandering for days until he found a small village. He lurked at night waiting for any one person to come out, but everyone stayed inside. The village people knew he was there.
One day he was waiting in the bushes when he saw a man and a woman leave their hut. He had spent enough time in the village to know that that family had one more member. A little girl. The girl.
The Marimo thought. The girl could feed me just fine. That night when he was about to enter the hut, he saw the mother return and drop off bread. I know now. I know how I’ll do it, and I’ll do it tonight he thought.
Once the sun had set and the moon had risen, the Marimo approached the door. It was a tall door. Maybe seven feet tall. The Marimo bent over and pushed his thin black hair back. He spoke, “Tselane, my child, Tselane, my child. Take this bread and eat it.”
He listened carefully for a response but all he heard was the child laughing. The Marimo turned away. He thought of what to do. What would he do? He knew he needed to make his voice less gruff, but how? As he was thinking, he passed a metalsmith. I know what I have to do. The Marimo thought. I know what to do.
“ Ha. You think I’m a fool, naughty Marimo. I know you are not my mother.
The Marimo snuck past the metalsmith and grabbed a bag of iron hoes. He then lit a big fire and took a hoe out of the bag. The Marimo sat down next to the flames. He looked at the hoe in his bony hand. He was shaking. His eye went to the flames, but he wasn’t looking at them. The Marimo’s stomach tensed. He looked down at his body. He was once unstoppable. Two weeks ago he could have knocked down the door even if it was bolted down with seven metals. Though it was not raining, he still felt water roll down his cheek. The Marimo threw the hoe into the flames.
After an hour the Marimo grabbed the hoe with two sticks and lifted it high above his mouth. Three. The Marimo closed his eyes. Two. His “muscles” tensed. One. He let the hoe fall. He felt his tongue burn, and he swallowed. He then felt his throat turn so hot it felt cold. He started toward the door.
The Marimo bent over, this time not bothering to push his hair back, and said, “Teslane, child, Teslane, my child. Take this bread and eat it.”
He put his ear to the door. “Ha. You think I’m a fool, naughty Marimo. I know you are not my mother.”
By the time the girl had finished talking, the Marimo had already returned to the fire and prepared another hoe. He waited only 30 minutes. He picked the hoe up and this time there was no countdown. He raised the hoe high above his head, closed his eyes, and dropped it.
He felt an explosion of heat hit his forehead. He fell down to the ground with a shriek. The Marimo rolled around trying to shake the pain off. Eventually, he realized that he still needed to eat the hoe, so he grabbed the flaming orange metal with his hands. He felt his skin melting. He shoved the hoe down his throat. Once he was finished he curled up into the fetal position.
The Marimo stayed there for the day, for the night, and for the day again. He finally stood up after it became night once more. He looked at his hands. They were blistered along the fingers. They were charred and deformed on the palms. On the left hand, he could see the bone of his lower thumb. I can mend my hands later. First I must eat. For the first time in weeks. His mouth watered.
The Marimo, walked up to the door just as he had done two times before. He spoke,
Fruit Bowl Dia Chaney ceramic
“Tselane, my child, Tselane, my chee-ild,” He paused and put his mouth up to the door. “Take this bread and eat it,” he said through his teeth. There was a silence. The Marimo’s left part of his face was pressed up against the door. No answer, yet. He could taste the child through the door. He drooled. The Marimo’s body was fully against the door. His big body covering it. Then he heard the click of the door unlocking. He looked at the knob and smiled.
The Marimo ripped the door open and looked at the child. Luckily for him, she had some extra meat to spare. He swiftly put her into a bag and ran off. He ran and ran and ran and ran. He had run so far and so quickly that he had made himself lost. The Marimo turned around in a circle and saw smoke rising above nearby hills. He ran toward it. Once he ran over the hill,
he saw a village. The village was small. No more than 10 huts. A river ran by the left of the village. After the Marimo laid his eyes on the river, he felt his mouth run dry. I need water. He thought. I need food, but I’ll have a little to drink first.
drinking, he thought, Maybe I should tend to my hands while I am here. He then started to wash his hands in the water. Once he finished, he returned to the kids, got his sack back, and left.
“ He could taste the child through the door. He drooled.
The Marimo ran over to some kids and gave them his sack. Then he went to the river. He cupped his hands and put them into the water. He took the first sip savorly. The water made contact with his tongue and he felt his body shake with delight. He started to drink faster and faster.
After he had finished
The Marimo took a halfmile walk away from the village and put the sack down. He thought, Time to cook my dinner. His mouth watered at the thought of dinner. First, he thought, I need a fire. He collected enough wood to burn the forest down. Then I’ll need utensils. He grabbed two small sticks and craved a spoon and a fork. I need a plate. He brought over a freshly cut wooden stump.
The Marimo made sure that everything was in order. He started the fire. He even said a prayer.
Now, the Marimo thought. Now I need something to eat. The Marimo grabbed his sack and brought it over to the fire. He then opened it…
for Palestine
by Mariam Malik
We live in a world where narratives are often distorted. What we are told and shown can be misleading, and we have been deceived out of understanding the Palestinian resistance.
Throughout the last year, I have heard countless iterations of reasons why people refuse to speak out about Palestine. Whether someone says, “I’m not Palestinian, so this doesn’t concern me,” or “There’s nothing I can do, so I try not to think about Palestine,” the overall sentiment remains the same.
It would be irresponsible of me to ignore the glaring issue this ideology proposes.
It’s time we drop the excuses. Relying on ethnic or racial connections to determine whether you care about something is a juvenile way of thinking. I don’t have to stand here and explain why genocide is bad. We can all agree that ruthlessly slaughtering innocent people is wrong. But why does that change when Arab blood is being spilled?
Green Vase Baron Bailey ceramic
Palestine and its people are a treasure worth defending with every ounce of strength. From the bustling markets of Gaza, filled with laughter and the aroma of spices, to the ancient olive groves of the West Bank, the beauty of Palestine is reflected in its people.
The heart of resistance is not merely about territorial claims or the inversion of political banners. Resistance forms a living testament to the truth that peace is achieved, dignity is inherent, and the future, bolstered by devotion and conviction, is worth every hardship.
Palestinians resist for justice, and to resist is refusing to be silenced.
If nightly showers of missiles rained down on your neighborhood, killing friends, family, and eventually yourself, wouldn’t you fight back? Imagine that being your life for 76 years.
The Palestinian genocide looks like a desperate father digging through what remains of his house after a bombing, searching for a glimpse of evidence that his family survived. It looks like the streets being lined with bodies draped in white cloth because all the graveyards are full.
Resisting occupation by defending your people, safeguarding peace, and preserving culture you hold dear is not terrorism; it’s courageous. “
Resisting occupation in Palestine stems from violence. This violence is labeled as terrorism, but only when it’s committed by Muslims. That sentiment is chalked up to the Islamophobia that has plagued the United States since the attacks of 9/11. But let me be clear: resisting occupation by defending your people, safeguarding peace, and preserving the culture you hold dear is not terrorism; it’s courageous. It’s a refusal to be silenced and have your identity erased.
Genocide sounds like the cracking of a child’s ribs as doctors desperately perform CPR. It sounds like the same child’s mother wailing when doctors are forced to move on from her son after an influx of bombing victims are carried into the ER.
These are the realities of the genocide unfolding in front of us.
The Palestinian resistance is filled with heartache but also hope. It tells the story of individuals who have confronted hardship with grace, turned their pain into poetry, and whose very existence disturbs our standstill. It is a story of artists who create beauty in the face of destruc-
tion, children who crave a future where they can roam streets free of armed soldiers, and mothers who sing lullabies to mask ear-drum-shattering explosions. It looks like a family praying their sunset prayer while bombs continue to fly even after decades of violent occupation. Palestinians trust their faith to propel themselves forward. They choose to serve as martyrs rather than succumbing to the occupation.
However, Palestinians are not only resisting occupation; They are in pursuit of justice to claim their humanity. The humanity that we all have a right to, but somehow, they have to fight for. This fight is about the right to exist, to be heard, and to thrive in a world that overlooks their plight.
Palestinian children deserve to know the unconditional light of filling school halls with laughter, realizing you passed a math test you were sure you failed, and the relief felt when you hit submit on your last college application.
Palestinians have a right to live out dreams that exist beyond the confines of age-old borders.
So the next time you choose to be silent about the Palestinian genocide, remember what your ignorance allows.
one / one hundred
Life is getting shorter
Not the years, the days, or the hours themselves
It’s our perception of them
A year used to be one-fifth of your life—then it was one-eighth—then one-tenth Before you know it, your year will feel like a one-year-old’s week
It’s a punishment for getting older
You age faster; birthdays become a normality
The sunset does not last as long, the darkness taking over Summer blocks off less of your calendar, replaced by winter ever so quick
Young years felt so long
Now you are just running away from them
Forced to increase your speed every chance you get by Sofia Rivera
Kesildi Odvojen Bora Mandic
(10 x 6 x 6”) ceramics
Soldier Naomi Glozman
ceramic sculpture
fragments
Paloma Gomez Whitney video art
untitled Franny Wagner (4x6”) watercolor
untitled
by Asha Peckosh
I spin your ring around your finger
You ask me if I like it.
Of course I do
It’s flawless
Its glory out of reach
It’ll be yours someday, you say I laugh
What do you mean?
When I die it’ll be yours, you whisper
And time stops.
I’d only reach for a distant diamond star
If it were bound around your finger
I can hear your beautiful voice
A voice that could summon the gods
Softly sighing into my ear
“Whatever will be will be,
The future’s not ours to see”
I don’t want to see the future
Because I can pretend I have forever with you
I wish you’d still tuck me in I used to think I’d never see you again
If I didn’t tell you I’d see you in the morning
One morning I will wake up
And you will be gone No. No. I refuse.
I’ll be Orpheus
I’ll haul you out from beyond the grave
No matter what it costs me
And I won’t look back.
I don’t say it enough:
I’m sorry for not listening
I’m sorry for taking so long
I’m sorry for not saying this sooner
Thank you for the food, the hugs, the songs
Thank you for letting me write my own
Thank you for never leaving
Thank you for always loving me
I love you and
I’ll see you in the morning.
Tiered bowl Francis Hanna (7x6x6”) ceramic
SUBMARINE
Josepha Mody
(13.5 x 11.5”) sculpture
A Miner Problem
Pete Hovan
The small town of Goldsboro has had an interesting history. It is home to the Eirin people and is atop a vast natural deposit of gold, silver, and many other minerals. The Eirin have used this to their advantage, mining away and exporting their resources. But when the Ino people came, they used the Eirin for riches, taxing them constantly and draining them of their wealth.
The Eirin were too scared to do anything. But one day, when they were mining, they found a peculiar rock. It resembled that of a geode, but when they cracked it open, there were no gems inside. Instead, a tiny baby, about two months old, was dwelling asleep inside it. The miners named him Duaj and cared for him. Little did they know that he would change Goldsboro’s history.
Twenty years later, Duaj had grown to be a bulky, muscular man with a heart of steel. He had fit in with the other miners very well. Due to his stature, he could mine more gold and silver than anyone else. When he was done, he always had a load of minerals twice that of his companions. But when you reach the age of 20, the Ino sheriffs tax you. Duaj found out when he came home with a load of gold on his 20th birthday to see two tax officers. They told him to give
“
Little did they know that he would change Goldsboro’s history.
them almost 90% of his gold to fund the city. Duaj reluctantly agreed and handed it over. He thought this was a once-a-year thing, but it happened daily. Anytime he came home, he gave up so much of his gold. He thought he could strike it rich in Goldboro, but he was in crippling poverty.
Duaj wanted to know if this was something that had happened to other miners. He asked one of his best friends, Tao. Tao was not the strongest of miners and never seemed to strike it big. But Tao had always been kind to Duaj since the rocksplitting. Duaj trusted him.
“So, when I got home, these tax collectors took 90% of my gold. That happened to you?”
Duaj asked.
“Yeah. They take so much of my stuff daily to ‘fund the city,’ but I never see any improvements here. This year, more miners died than any other year, and we still get so little,”
Tao complained.
Duaj decided to see what the city was doing with the miner’s gold. He went to the town section where all the government officials lived. After living in the Miner district for 20 years, he thought everyone lived in a broken house that was one story, but that was not the case. The government officials lived in giant houses with extensive lawns and gorgeous fountains in front.
“ This year, more miners died than any other year, and we still get so little.
Duaj knew they could only have this much wealth from one thing: the miner’s gold. He seethed in anger. The miners would break their backs from so much work, and for what? To fund an extravagant lifestyle for the tax collectors who did nothing but take the miner’s stuff?
Duaj went home and started gathering ingredients for meat pies (a miner staple), burlap sacks, masks, and a small pocket knife. He was seething with anger, and determination for equity was clouding his cerebral cortex.
The next day at the mines, Duaj went up to Tao with a meat pie and a sack.
“I thought about what you said last night. I think we should get revenge on those wealthy pigs,” Duaj said to Tao.
“Well, I think that too. What was your plan?” Tao asked. “Well, we deserve the gold we mined. But we only keep less than 10% of our treasure.
Meanwhile, those fat cats spend all of the taxed gold they stole on these giant mansions. I’m still living in a broken-down one-story house that’s coming apart. So I think we should steal our gold back. When they take our gold after today’s mining session, we wait till night. Then, we strike.
We are taking back what is ours. We gather enough gold and flee to the nearest town,” Duaj told Tao. Tao carefully considered it, hanging on to every word.
“ So I think we should steal our gold back. When they take our gold after today’s mining session, we wait till night. Then, we strike.
“Maybe. I might need an incentive to do this, though,” Tao said.
“How about a homemade meat pie?” offered Duaj. Tao’s mouth started watering. Duaj was known not only for being a fantastic miner but also as an excellent chef.
“Yes. Yes!!! YES!!!” Tao exclaimed. He snatched the meat pie out of Duaj’s hands. Safe to say, Tao was on board. Duaj went to the remaining miners and gave them the rundown of his plan. They all said yes when promised some of his meat pies. He now had that was ready to strike when the tax collectors were vulnerable.
That night, Duaj met up with Tao and the other miners. He was ready; nothing would stop the crew from taking their gold. They went to the bank where the gold and silver were kept, ready to strike.
“You guys ready for this?” whispered Duaj. They all nodded silently. The plan was a go.
The miners crept into the bank’s hedges. Duaj carefully went up to the bank’s door and broke the hinges. He took off the door and set it aside. He motioned for the other miners to come in. They crept inside the bank. But then, they saw something move. A guard! Duaj crept up behind the guard and took out his knife. Duaj hesitated. Hurting somebody was not something that Duaj did, but this was supposed to be payback.
“
Payback for all of the deaths that the government had caused.
Payback for all of the deaths that the government had caused. This was for the miners. Duaj stabbed the guard in the back, and the guard limped to the floor. Duaj, filled with instant regret, shuffled over to the vault. Using his strength, he punched the door open. But they didn’t see any gold or silver. The vault was empty.
Suddenly, the lights turned on, and the miners saw the mayor of Goldsboro behind them, along with ten armed guards. This was a trap.
“Well, look at this. The miners thought they could just barge in here, kill a guard, and steal the gold they think is theirs,” the mayor tsked. The miners just stood in shock. “Little did you know, someone in your group was smart enough to tell me. Thank you, Tao.”
The miners looked at Tao angrily, but Duaj felt betrayal coursing through Duaj’s veins.
This was a feeling he’d never had, but he hated it.
The guards arrested every miner except Tao. The miners were put on “trial” the next day but were all sentenced to life in prison, except Duaj. He was abandoned in the desert, never to be seen again.
Duaj looked up at the desert sun. It stung his eyes, but it was nothing compared to the sting in his heart.
“ It stung his eyes, but it was nothing compared to the sting in his heart.
034 035
These are all composites of three separate 120-second images. One each with red, green, and blue filters. They were taken remotely by students in the Space Science course with the 2-meter Liverpool telescope in La Palma, Spain.
Edge of a Spiral Galaxy
Lila Montgomery space photography
Ghost of Jupiter
Nyx
Wells
space photography
Zahra Wiedmann space photography
Crab Nebula Coda Wilson space photography
Spindle Galaxy Eli Sanders space photography
Whirlpool Galaxy June Dalton space photography
Wit
The Land on decay Hence, our wit is ending us Must practice our squad
Bayne Talbot
Haiku
Neon City Block
Griffin Roy (2432 x 1368) Pixel art
Big Bad Roman Nico Martin video
Gardenia in Bloom
Tallulah Dogwill ceramic
Work 1
Marius Morse ceramic
by Kieran Ahearn Kroll
It’s here I stand in the midst of all the mistakes I’ve made
They circle me like vultures circling a carcass
A dream left to die
And they’re yelling at me too Screaming into my ears that I’m not good enough I’m not smart enough I’m not strong enough even when I know that I am
Or at least I should be
So I close my eyes Sit down
Halloween Asha Peckosh (8 1/2 x 11”) pen and ink on paper
Recede into the darkness of my mind and hide in the maze
I don’t want to feel anything I don’t want to be anything I don’t want them to see me
And yet they do They see me cry tears like diamonds because they know this only comes once in a lifetime
And I’m scared
I’m scared that whatever I say whatever I do will only make them stay longer will only make them love me more And I know they do
046
047
Old Ruins New Growth
Patrick Wall (7x5x4”) ceramic vessel
Teenage Strangers Zimo Xie
digital photgraphy
A Different Frame of Mind
animated short film by Annika Kim
Eleanor Chung Putaski “A Different Frame of Mind” music
by Henry Cammack
We were about halfway across the river, the rapids pushing against us. The water was up to my torso now, splashing my face. Arie is carrying the bow of the canoe ahead of me. The wa-
Lighthouse Devyani Nelson photography
ter was almost at his shoulders.
“Should we go back?” I yell out to him, but the roar of the rapids are louder as he keeps shuffling along.
A wind comes from behind, chilling my spine, and a sudden cold creeps up my body. I hear an eagle call from above. When I look up, there is nothing there, just a flurry of feathers falling down. When they hit the water, they make a ring with a singular feather in the middle, and a strong feeling that I’m being watched emerges from them, making me shudder.
I look up to tell Arie that I think we
should go back just to find him gone with another ring of feathers in his place.
Before I can even call out his name, the canoe makes a sudden lurch and pulls me down the river. I try to plant my feet, saving the canoe, but it keeps resisting. When I try to let go, it is as if my hand is glued to the canoe. It pulls me under. I push off the ground, gasping for air. I catch a glimpse of what looks to be a tall, dark figure. Before I can get a better look, I am pulled back under. But when I come back up, it is gone.
Again, feathers fell to the ground where I thought I saw it.
Finally, the canoe slides up into a bank, where there is a large opening. There is a small fireplace. But the rusted-away iron and the family of wilting weeds growing in the flaky ash tell me that it has not been used for many years.
To my left is a bed of daisies with a large stone in the middle. I stumble over to it, still dizzy from getting pulled down the rapids. On the rock, there are lines of dried red, as if something died here long ago.
I decide to make camp here and look for Arie in the morning. I set up my tent, which was still dry due to the waterproof bag we put it in. I fell
asleep instantly due to the exhausting day.
I wake to the snapping of twigs outside my tent. Before I can unzip the tent, a series of eagle calls come from outside, and when I look out, my tent is surrounded by the same rings of feathers as before.
I cook breakfast and grab my compass, but there seems to be something wrong with it because it won’t give a steady direction. I give up and decide to just look for Arie without it.
I see a small path on the other side of the daisy field and decide this is a good spot to start. As I approach the rock again, there is another ring of feathers, but this one is bigger, surrounding the whole rock. The feathers look to be about twice the size than usual. I approach the path, and a deer skull hangs on an arch as if marking an entrance. I keep moving, about an hour’s worth of calling out Arie’s name with only birds chirping and twigs snapping as responses. After about another hour or so of walking I decide to head back because it will be dark by the time I return.
As I reach the place where the path collides with the patch of flowers, I notice something strange about the silence in the woods. For the first time yet, there were no birds chirping, no twigs snapping, and even the river seemed scared to make a noise. It is dark now, and I head back through the field but stumble, forgetting about the rock. I look down and fall back in fear. Before I can make a sound, an eagle calls, and darkness comes over me.
The last thing I see is Arie lying beside me in a pool of blood.
Within Ice Devyani Nelson photography
Who’s counting?
by Abigail Tilton
058 059
I’m counting. I was.
I lost count when I didn’t like the points anymore, I didn’t like the attention.
I kept a list and when that list turned sour I didn’t know what to do. I got rid of it, but I see it in my head every day.
Did I really get rid of it?
I thought I was supposed to be collecting points but When they made you happy too, I was confused. Did I really get rid of it?
How do I shred a memory, How do I throw a feeling into a fire? The smoke would still reach me.
I can’t stop counting.
It’s taking up the space in my head I used to use for My favorite movies, My almost funny jokes, My so close to promising future. It’s filled with smoke, now. It’s filled with smoke and you thrive in it.
I felt so validated when I could add something to that list, When I got another point. Please send me back to home you don’t even have to say sorry. I just can’t stand it here. I can’t stop counting. How do I stop counting? How do I shred a memory, How do I throw a feeling into a fire? The smoke would still reach me.
Hallway Hart Waltz
digital photograph
the
abandoned house on Maple Street
by Liam Burns
As I climb the exterior of the abandoned house on Maple Street, I try not to look down; instead, I look towards my goal, the third-floor window and, seemingly, the only unlocked entrance to the building. My older brother climbs below me. “Speed up,” he says, but the fear of falling cautions me against any faster speed. I look down to reply to him but in doing so realize the ground looks a little further away than it should but decide I’m probably just imagining things and quickly look back up towards the sky to continue climbing. After making it to the top and pulling my brother and myself through the open window, I see a heavy fog quickly envelop the area outside and feel wind blowing through the room.
Hmm, I think to myself, It didn’t seem very foggy outside just a minute ago... and the puzzled look on my brother’s face makes me think he’s wondering something similar.
I look around the room and see a bunch of worn-down furniture and old-looking wallpaper one might see in their grandparents’ house.
“Austin,” my brother says, “look outside.”
“Why?” I reply, disinterested, wanting to explore more of the building.
“It looks like the house is flying,” he responds.
Peeking out the window seems to confirm his seemingly insane hypothesis. We were clearly flying high above what we thought to be fog (clouds) with heavy gusts of wind blowing through our house with no clear signs of stopping our upward movement.
The house has no visible means of propulsion but seems to be flying at a steady slow speed.
“What happens when we leave the atmosphere?” I ask.
“We die, I guess,” he responds.
Looking outside again, the clouds seem to be getting further away faster, the air getting thinner and the wind blowing faster until it stops, and the air ceases to exist, and we both slowly suffocate. My eyes open, and I look over at my clock. It’s still only 1:00 AM. I close my eyes again and go to sleep.
Amanita’s Mushroom Cottage
Gwen Uhlhorn
(3 x 5.5 x 5.5”) ceramic
Ratio Avi Coleman (16 x 24”) acrylic assemblage
Falling Roman
.gif of a rotating disk
Hozalski
by Soren Guettler
The house is on the farthest corner of Maple Street. The trees sway around in the breeze. The crisp autumn air hits your cheeks as you walk by, forcing you to leave. The house felt empty, almost forgotten, as we never saw anybody go in or out. It just sat there in the shade of the trees.
Distant from the world.
I slept in that morning tired from the past week even though I’d hardly done anything. I just felt exhausted. I sat up only to hit my head on the ship above my bed, putting me right back where I started. I need to move that. I thought.
“Archie, breakfast,” my mom yells.
“Coming!” I yell back as I scramble to get off my bed and zoom to my closet. I race to find a pair of pants.
“Archie NOW!!”
She sounds mad. I grab my shirt and walk down the stairs, the creak of the floorboard under my feet. As I enter the kitchen I notice a strange man sitting at the table; he’s hunched over reading a newspaper and mumbling to himself. I turn towards my mom, and see beads of sweat rolling down her face. She is holding a bright red bowl, stirring a wooden spoon.
She points towards a chair signaling me to sit. As I do the man turns.
“How are you today young man?” The words come out in a low rumble a sort of groan.
“Good.” I reply, confused about what’s happening.
He clears his throat. “You have been accepted into a class,” he says. He turns back to his newspaper and hands me a coffee-stained envelope.
I turn towards my mom as she plops three steaming hot pancakes on a plate and slides them to me.
“What do you mean, ‘a class’,” I say as I grab some syrup.
“You’ll find out if you accept. All you need to do is open the letter.”
As he says this, he picks up his newspaper and walks right out the back door.
…
After finishing my pancakes, I walk slowly upstairs to my room. When I get there
“ I move slowly to the door, taking caution as I turn the metal handle
and wander down the stairs.
I see the same coffee-stained letter on my desk. I don’t know what to do but end up opening it out of curiosity. Immediately after, I hear a loud rumble like an earthquake and then I get knocked off my feet. I look out my window. It’s all light. It blinds me till I look away. I sit there amazed.
After what feels like five minutes the shaking stops and it’s quiet. Looking at my hands, I am shaking but other than that I can’t move; it’s like I’ve been glued to the ground. I fear what will happen if I try to move. Then something sharp hits my back and I jolt up from the floor. Nothing is behind me, though, and as soon as I’m up, the pain goes away.
“Hello Archie,” says what seems like a speaker “Come downstairs.”
066 067
I look around my room and everything looks the same. So I move slowly to the door taking caution as I turn the metal handle and wander down the stairs. I hear the creak of each step echo off the walls. I walk into the kitchen to find the man from earlier sitting on the chair reading his newspaper.
“I see you’ve finally made it,” he says in the same voice from the speakers. “I’ve been waiting for you.”
“What do you mean” I stammer... worried.
“You gave up your life to help me.”
My eyes pop -- alarmed by what he just said.
“I don’t want to be here; let me go back.”
As soon as I said that I woke up on my bed realizing it was just a dream. I let out a sigh. I sit up, rubbing my eyes. Then I see it: the same letter on my desk; the same coffee stain. I freeze looking at the letter. It’s addressed to the third-floor window. How?
Blue Teapot Set Evy Sachs ceramic piece
us in years
by Sofia Rivera
At some point, you will mention me
Maybe while you are washing the dishes, Or on the drive to pick up your kids after school Maybe it was in the elevator as you left work
You mentioned me
You told a story, And for the first time in a couple weeks— Months You thought of me
I mentioned you that day too And the week prior Or maybe it was even twice
I mentioned you
Duck Andrew Sullivan ceramic sculpture
the geese flew South
on December 31
by Oakley Schonwald
The geese flew South on December 31. Snow had finally fallen last night, it looked like this would be the one that stuck.
I stood next to the grill That was laced with white, Listening to their caws and the bell From the nearby church.
I hadn’t realized they were still here nor had I payed it any mind.
But years past they’d flown South
In November, even October When we’d Trick-or-Treat in our snow pants. Will there ever be a point Where the geese don’t fly South?
If so, I’ll probably live to see it.
By that point, I’m not sure what to expect.
Years of watching them
Fly from the harsh winters of Minnesota
Before winter break, Now I see them outside With my coat unzipped.
Chips and Dip Josh Holloway
single piece of clay, ceramic wheel
Leo Mosenfelder still image video
Birds of a Feather
Eva Johnson
wire sculpture
Roe v Wade Allegory animal
Roe v Wade Allegory
by Frances Conrod-Wovcha
It was a brisk November evening, with the pale pink slowly fading from the darkening sky. The temperature had dropped dramatically throughout the past week, which meant winter was steadily approaching. The farmer, Billy Wilson, had begun winterizing his property by harvesting the crops and closing up the animal barn.
Around this time every year, the animals slowed and prepared for the long, harsh winter to come. The cows stopped eating fresh grass, the horses no longer had to plow the fields, and the chickens stopped laying eggs.
Recently though, a fuss had developed among the brood of hens. There were murmurs spreading through the flock of not wanting to lay eggs beginning this coming spring. Huddled together in the rafters of the barns stood six hens, one of which went by the name of Roe.
“I’m sick and tired of laying eggs throughout the warmer months. Those days are supposed to be filled with soaking up sunshine, running in the fields, and resting on the hay bales. Not pain and suffering,” Roe complained. “Toby the farm hound has reported to us multiple times that farmer Billy Wilson doesn’t even keep the eggs we lay in the summer!” Roe
“ “
There were murmurs spreading through the flock of not wanting to lay eggs, beginning this coming spring.
Roe and the five other hens stood frozen in shock, mortified by the scene they had just witnessed.
continued, “He’s so busy and short on time and money that he never gets around to bringing our eggs to the market.”
The other hens chirped in agreement.
Weeks passed and the situation seemed to have been forgotten about until Roe laid her last egg of the season. It was the most painful egg she had ever laid. She spent two days trying to lay it, but every time she tried to force the egg out, the pain was simply too much to bear.
After she finally laid the small, delicate egg, Farmer Wilson burst into the coop and roughly grabbed the egg, grumbling about messy chickens, too many eggs, nowhere to put them, and no time to sell them. He then rushed out of the coop as quickly as he had entered, walked a few strides towards Toby the hound, and smashed the egg on a rock. Toby, upon receiving the treat, happily licked up the egg remains and trotted after Wilson before disappearing into the farmhouse.
Roe and the five other hens stood frozen in shock, mortified at the scene they had just witnessed.
That night, the other animals on the farm could hear discussions of rebellion as they passed the chicken coop.
The sun slowly rose into the brightening sky, as the animals awakened from their sleep. During the previous night, a frost had glazed the grassy fields and the walls of the big red barn.
As the barn animals sleepily emerged from their straw beds and stretched their stiff limbs, the pack of hens scrambled into the barn. “We would like to make an announcement!” chirped Roe. “Every year, I and the five other hens beside me spend the warm summer months endlessly laying eggs. We are expected to lay five eggs every week, and yet most of our hard work ends up smashed on the garden pathways, or rotting in the farm
house cellar. Because of this, we hens would like to declare that we will no longer be laying eggs. We will not inflict pain on our bodies and use our precious warm months working away, just so that Wilson can shake his head in disappointment and waste our clutch.”
Roe paused, waiting for the rest of the farm animals to react.
At first, not a sound was made. Then, slowly but surely, a poof of silky deep red fur moved towards the flock. The fox stopped and sat down, looking disdainfully at the six hens.
“This is nonsensical. Every animal is expected to work. We all have jobs to do, whether we like it or not. Just because some animals work harder, and produce more valuable work, doesn’t mean that everyone else can sit around and contribute nothing. It is your job, as the only six hens on this farm, to contribute eggs, whether they are used or not.” the fox scolded.
This fox was not any old fox. His name was Henry, and he had appeared last spring. After a day of watching the farm work, he had declared himself the smartest, and that he, therefore, would make all decisions for the barn animals. The only other animal he ever engaged with was Toby the hound.
The hens didn’t know what to say. Sure, the other animals did work, but they never had to painfully produce something from their own body. They had to walk the fields, or peacefully give milk, all activities that were pain-free and did not require around-the-clock effort. The other animals on this farm worked for seven hours a day, while the chickens laid eggs constantly, day and night. Taken aback, the hens turned and quietly exited the barn.
During the rest of winter, the birds seldom left their coop, but when they did, it was strictly for short periods of time. Once
“
“
After many long, cold months of sitting in our coop, we hens have decided to go on strike, Roe declared confidently.
the ice thawed and the tree buds began to emerge, the other animals began to spend more and more time outside.
Finally, the laying season rolled around again, and Roe made an appearance. The animals gathered around her, eager to hear what she had to say.
“After many long, cold months of sitting in our coop, we hens have decided to go on strike,” Roe declared confidently. At that moment, Henry lunged forward, gripped Roe’s neck in his viscous teeth, and violently shook his head, leaving nothing but her limp, broken body and a pile of feathers in her place.
He declared then, that if another hen resisted laying eggs, she would be killed on the spot.
In the following years, the topic was strictly forbidden. However, over time every tired but determined hen, one by one, refused to lay her eggs. Henry stood his ground, gnashing his teeth into each brave hen, shaking the life out of each until none were left.
Icelandic Water Sophia Obi travel photography
American Dream
American Dream
by Ivy Evans
Today is a hard day.
we’re waking up to a different world.
this nation was founded by takers – thus the inherent truth is that more takers will come from it as time goes on, taking and taking and taking from people who have very little left to give.
rights, money, aspirations… what will they take next? it makes me nervous.
and there’s this chronic sense of dread taking root in the pit of my stomach.
a few people laugh while we take a moment to sit with the situation’s entirety.
is it funny?
it doesn’t feel funny.
it feels like the worst-case scenario.
Artist note:
My art piece is mixed media which consists of acrylic paint, plastic bottles, metal cans, and plastic bags.
Bioaccumulation
Ethan He mixed media
it feels like a country split clean in half, divided down the middle, like an apple, only the core that kept them together has rolled off the table and found its way into the hands of a man who is about to throw it away.
so we wonder if that’s what we’re made for: the waste bin. it’s difficult to think of that. too late. too bad.
are we meant to lay waste to this foundation?
was the breaking of his chrysalis what set this future in motion? will he take our tools away and carve for us the next stretch of road we’re meant to walk? a flap of wings and a gust of wind, then a loose screw clatters to the ground and as one beam collapses the rest come with it. a nation is caving, this system is crumbling beneath our feet and–
this is not but i see the the heavy smiles and furrowed brows and suddenly the world is flipping upside down and are my eyes falling out? no, no, just red and extra puffy. today my heart and my legs bear so many extra pounds, and i am frightened–
everyone is frightened today.
today—
we can get through today.
we can’t stop the world, but we can grieve and we can learn and we can hope and pray.
grieve the loss of the progress we made. learn from what we’ll lose. hope we can recover from the damage that will inevitably be done and pray that it is not irreparable.
i’m not by any means a believer in the divine, but today i am praying.
i pray for the people in gaza and the families that will be uprooted and the men and women and children without homes and the mothers who are waiting for a sign that they will be okay.
i pray for the athletes who will never get to play and the students who will never get to learn and the lovers who will never get to love and the people who might spend their whole lives fighting even though they never thought they would need to fight.
i pray for the people in ukraine and sudan and haiti and all the places that need a little bit of hope, for the children who will be born into this chaotic, messy country; hell, this chaotic, messy world,
“ it feels like this country split clean in half, divided down the middle, like an apple, only the core that kept them togethre has... found its way into the hands of a man who is about to throw it away.
“ so live this crazy, hopeless, reckless, timeless, star-spangled, neverending, and far too short mess of a life so we can prove we are not going away.
for the people who were hoping for change, for the earth we sleep on,
for our schools, for our workers, for our health, for love and light and life–in this life–
that’s all this is–
we’re just living. getting through.
so live this crazy, hopeless, reckless, timeless, star-spangled, neverending and far too short mess of a life so we can prove we are not going away.
today is a hard day. tomorrow will be harder. it will be a hard year.
so live. we cannot disappear.
(and then there is this doubt.)
do i want to live my life with that pit in my stomach?
last night, america saw red. the anger of half a nation, directed at refugees and children and women who wish they had more choices, boiled over and brought to life a force that we thought we wouldn’t have to know again. the red in their eyes drew the
bull back into the ring.
last night i lay in bed and cried and thought, over and over: “what are we going to do?” what are we going to do?
is there anything at all that we can do?
this morning i looked at the map on my wall and it didn’t look the same.
is this how it’s supposed to go?
i know i’m lucky, so lucky, to have what i have and to be where i am. there are people who have it a thousand times worse than i do, and it still feels like a hole has opened in my gut.
but i’m here, aren’t i? i’ve been crying and you can tell. i’m scared. i’m uncertain. i’m not even halfway through high school and it already feels like the end. but i’m here. and it might not be okay right now but someday, i hope, it will.
so i’ll let today be scary. i’ll let today be a day full of dread and fear and disappointment.
Starfish
Nora Grande ceramic dish
084 085
it’s a hard day. there will always be more hard days.
but someday soon we’ll all need to get out of bed–times like these are worse when you stay still.
someday soon when it feels alright to stand, we’ll stand.
stand up. stand up. on your feet. the weight of the world is heavy, but easier shared, so hand me a piece and we’ll carry it together.
carry it for the brown girl who smiled at you under the awning of your favorite italian place. carry it for the clerk making minimum wage who nearly fell asleep at the gas station while scanning a bottle of coke. carry it for the pregnant woman crying on the park bench. carry it for those two men gazing at each other with stars in their eyes. for your mother sitting on the front porch steps with her head in her hands. your sister saving up for college. your father saving up for surgery. your brother wishing he’d done more to help.
it feels like the end of the world. it isn’t.
life goes on.
Car Chase De-An Chen still image film audio: freesound.org
Untitled Huxley Westemeier
ceramic vessel
Rusted Bucket
Lucas Granja ceramic
by Francis Hanna
Once upon a time (in 1986) there was a swarm of flies living in a dark alley in Toronto. One morning, Veronica, a 15-day-old fly, woke up on a half-eaten crouton and decided to visit her dad. She flew all the way to the bottom of the dumpster, where the older flies in the swarm lived. As she maneuvered around spaghetti, between farfalle, and through rigatoni, she greeted all of her hundreds of identical siblings.
“Good morning Veronica!” they all said in unison. “Good morning Sawyer, Sarah, Spencer, Skylar, Susan, Scott, Scarlett, Samuel-”
“That’s enough, Veronica.” her dad interrupted. “Don’t tire yourself. Now come, listen to what I’ve been working on.”
Veronica followed her dad into his little den. “Veronica, my child. You know that I am growing old, and I don’t have much time left. Before I go, I would like to share my hypothesis with you. I think that outside of this alley, there is unrotten food. Food that hasn’t already been eaten by other animals.”
Veronica was amazed. She had never even imagined fresh food, and now that she had, she was excited.
Veronica buzzed. “How do you plan on getting this ‘fresh food’ to the colony?”
Her dad grimaced.
“Veronica, I want to leave the colony. I am nearing the end and want to experience one last adventure.” The small fly didn’t want to let her father go but knew that after all these days of her dad car-
Butterfly Dish Kavita Deo ceramic
ing for her, he deserved to have some fun. She started to speak but then she heard a droplet of water fall from the damp ceiling and hit the ground. She glanced up and roughly 60 sets of thousands of eyes were staring back at her. The flies all jumped down and began to swarm the old fly.
“You’re crazy!”
“It’s suicide to leave the colony!”
“There’s nothing out there, you old geezer!”
In panic, Veronica managed to yell to her dad, “You have to go! Now!”
Her dad flew off in a gust of stinky air.
“Hey, where’d that coot get off to?” One of the flies approached Veronica, with his proboscis out in front, aggressively.
“He is going to find better food for us. He might be a little crazy, but I believe that he can do a lot of good for us flies.”
The other fly backed away.
“Ah, whatever. He’ll get swatted in a matter of hours anyway.” The fly children sat in his moist home and mourned his loss, but not Veronica. She believed in her dad. Over the next few hours, Veronica rested on her crouton and thought about what happened, and about her dad. At some point, she fell asleep. In her dreams, she saw her father screaming in pain and being eaten by a giant spider. Veronica realized she had to save her dad. She shot up and flew as fast as she could in the direction that her father left.
Veronica soon heard her father’s cries for help.
“Sage, Sophie, Soren, Veronica! Any of my babies, please!”
She followed the sound to a corner of the alley. When she saw her dad, she was terrified. Pulvilli got sweaty, and she thought about turning back. Veronica’s dad was caught in a spider web. She swallowed her fear and flew in, tearing through the web.
Finally, she got her father free.
“Dad, I did it! You’re free! Now let’s go home.” Veronica tried to fly but her wings her stuck to the web. She struggled but she only got more trapped.
“I’ll help you get out! Just wait one moment, dear.” Veronica’s dad began to untangle her until he heard something move up ahead of them. He squinted and saw a hairy figure in the shadows.
“Veronica, I love you.” The way he saw it, it was either Veronica and him dying, or just Veronica. He flew off.
“Wait, Dad! Where are you going?”
It was too late; the spider crept closer to Veronica, bending its web with every step.
“Please, please don’t eat me!” Veronica pleaded. She couldn’t see the beast, but she could hear it.
“I do not wish to eat you my friend, but you and your father have destroyed my web in your escape attempts. For this, I will keep you here to keep me company. It gets very lonely up here, you know.”
Veronica was very scared but eventually became quite friendly towards the spider. After one full day the spider spoke of her release: “Veronica. I believe that after this time together, we have become great friends. You may return to your family.”
He started untying her. She turned around to thank him and saw a giant hulking monster in front of her. She screamed; she had forgotten that she was talking to a spider. She realized that spiders aren’t all too different from flies, and they might even be better company. She apologized and wished her friend goodbye. In the next two weeks, Veronica greeted every cockroach and centipede that she saw and visited the spider every day. On the 15th day when Veronica left to visit the spider, she didn’t return.
IRIS: ART+LIT 2025 STAFF
Editor in Chief : Roman Farley
Theme Development: Hadley Dobish
Ladder Organization: Ellie Camp, Sophie Karmaliani
Theme Copy: Iris Luther-Suhr
Designers: Via Campbell, Helen Frost, Annika Kim, Lani Ngonethong, Nime Snyder
Director of Publications: Kathryn Campbell, CJE
POLICIES
The mission of Iris: Art + Lit is to celebrate the diverse creative voices in our community and encourage engagement with the arts. Poetry, prose, and artwork are submitted via contest participation, teacher recommendation of classroom work, and individual student submission. Professional artists and authors jury the work. The art juror ranks the top 40 submitted works: drawing and painting, ceramics, and photography. Videography recommendations are made by the instructor. Iris staff remove names from the literature submissions and the judge ranks these works on a 5-star scale.
Iris: Art + Lit is an open forum for student expression. The ideas presented in the work, as well as the copyright of each piece, belong to the author or artist who created it. However, the magazine staff reserves the right to deny publication to submissions. The staff may edit pieces for length or typographical errors, with the goal of maintaining the integrity of the original work.
THANKS
To the administration: Head of School Luis Ottley, US Principal Minnie Lee, Academic Dean Tom Anderson and Dean of Students Stacy Tepp. To the visual arts, English, and science faculty. To the senior speech program coordinators. To Minnesota Center for Book Arts. To all who speak bravely through the creative arts.
COLOPHON
Iris: Art + Lit 2025 was printed by Ideal Printing in Saint Paul, MN on uncoated paper with an 80# cover with spot UV coating. Body text font is Bodoni 72 Book 12 pt. Title fonts include Avenir Next in Book and Bold.
All graphic design was completed in Adobe CC on Mac desktops with 27” monitors. Files were submitted via Google Forms.
400 copies of the magazine were printed, with one copy of the magazine distributed free of charge to each 9-12 family with the support of a publication budget for the magazine. Additional copies of the magazine can be purchased for $15, subject to availability. The digital copy of the magazine is available at ISSUU.com/rubiconarchives
AWARDS
Columbia Scholastic Press Association - Gold Crown Award (2023, 2021, 2020, 2018), Silver Crown Award (2025, 2024, 2022, 2019). National Scholastic Press AssociationPacemaker Finalist (2023, 2021) Winner (2022, 2020, 2019); All-American (2017-present). JEA/NSPA Convention Best of Show - (Spring 2024) - 4th Place; (Fall 2023) - 8th Place; (Fall 2022) - 7th Place; (Fall 2021) - 4th Place; (Spring 2021) - 2nd Place; (Spring 2020) - 1st Place; (Fall 2019) - 2nd Place. NCTE: REALM - First Class (2024, 2022-2020, 2018), Superior (2019) MN High School Press Association - Best of Show 1st Place (2017-2023), 2nd Place (2024) Journalism Educators of Minnesota - All State Gold (2017-present)
JUROR BIO
Lauren Terry is an artist, animator, and educator currently living in Lexington, Kentucky. With a BFA in Sculpture and Extended Media and an MFA in Time Based Art, she specializes in illustration, digital animation, stop motion animation, and large scale plushie construction. Lauren is also a current K-12 and university level instructor with a passion for art and media integration and accessibility in any classroom.
We reach the end; Each piece of the puzzle fitted into place. A tear in space.
MISSING PEACE
© iris: art+lit 2025
the eyes are the window to the soul
Rowan Moore (20.3 x 14.5”) mixed media