Challenger 2020

vol. XII A Freelancer Publication

CHALLENGER

2020

CHALLENGER FREELANCER VOL. XII Deeper, deeper, floating down. Far beneath the skies above. Where salt is in but great renown, Beneath the waves of summer love. Where creatures swish and strike and bite, Until the empty’s full. Where all that lives is endless night, And may that be our pull. Deeper, deeper, floating down. Here is where our thoughts may drown.

i

INTRODUCTION

INTRODUCTION ii

TABLE OF CONTENTS SUNLIGHT ZONE Monarch & Milkweed by C. Sowden 2 Crop Top by E. Wiltfong 3 Frühling by E. Woeginger 3 I Want to Fall in Love by L. LaForgia 4 Internet Boyfriend by A. Hyde 4 Shirt by E. Wiltfong 5 Fantastical Head Ware by R. Hennick 6 Go Fish by S. Winter 7 Charlie’s Polka by M. Muehlberger 7 Dress by E. Wiltfong 8 Divided by D. McDermed 8 Mr. Bee by K. Deedy 9 Ode to a Buick by Julia Stevermer 10 Momo by L. Turner 11 ¡Behold, Barcelona! by L. Campbell 12 The Barking Seal of La Jolla by A. Corbin 12 Sleeping Beauty by A. Corbin 13 Christmas by S. Thuenemann 14 The Timeweaver by A. Bradshaw 15 Heart Painting by A. Novo 15 Spring and Summer by G. Strongman 16 17 The Parallelism of Music and Ideas by L. Campbell Pants by E. Wiltfong 18 Savers by J. Stevermer 18 Abandoned at the Shore by E. Gibbs 20

TWILIGHT ZONE The Ballad of Hamilcar Barca by I. Gould 24 Caisteal Ainmeal Urchadain by M. Pal 25 Bicycle in Budapest by K. Deedy 26 Chain Bridge at Night by K. Deedy 27 Castles in the Air by D. McDermed 28 Galactic by A. Patton 29 Untitled by J. Achen 29 Superior by M. Clevenger 30 Bee & Lavender by C. Sowden 32 Calendonian Isles by M. Pal 33 River Ness by M. Pal 33 Hope by O. Miller 34 The Chase by H. Harrison 35 Static by S. Golder 36 Crane by A. Collins 36 Oscillate by S. William 37 Am I a Leader? by C. Wood 38 Symmetry by L. Campbell 39 Strange by J. Lockton 40 Lost in my Head by S. William 40 Greetings by A. Blickhan 41

MIDNIGHT ZONE Red and Purple I by M. Clevenger 44 Euphoria by S. Golder 46 Electric Lines by A. Chinnock 49 Wisteria by L. West 50 Norwegian Mist by S. Golder 50 Void Time by A. Bradshaw 51 Capri by L. Byer 51 Twin (To You) by A. Walton 52 Bicycle Wheel by P. Chaney 52 Twin (To Anxiety) by A. Walton 53 Cyanotype2 by S. Pate 53 Motherly Love II by A. Patton 54 I II

Blood, bile, death, and violence Themes of suicide, kidnapping

Ruins by V. Apodaca 55 A Struggle Barely Noticed by M. Muehlberger 55 Bastard by L. Turner 56 Gem by S. Lail 56 Enemy of Your Body by Anonymous 57 Gore All Out I by J. Hickey 57 A Case Study in the Scientific Phenomena 58 of Patient 8 by E. Liljegren Blood on Your Hands by V. Apodaca 59 Self Portrait No. 4 by E. Gibbs 59 Love: As Told By Someone Who Hasn’t 60 Found It Yet by M. Clevenger Tainted Place by S. William 61 I

Gore (SFX makeup)

ABYSS Aphotic by B. Wessel 64 Fake News by S. Lail 64 Desolate Place by S. William 65 Unspoken Rules by E. Kampschroeder 66 Blame by A. Hyde 67 Will-o’-the-wisp by M. Pal 69 Be Quiet by C. Schoeck 70 Hemlock by A. Hyde 70 Pretty Hurts by S. Lail 71 S.S. Murnane by M. Clevenger 72 Untitled by E. Tatsumi 76 Henry by R. Hennick 77 The Caged Bird by B. Wessel 78 Yellowgirl by L. Turner 78 Time by O. Miller 79 Anchor by A. Lewis 79

TRENCHES Shoes on the Danube Bank Memorial 82 by K. Deedy Untitled by V. Apodaca 82 Shapes and Colors by G. Strongman 83 Attack of the Cheescakes by D. McDermed 84 Spikeasaurus by L. Faye 86 Tricolor Gum Print by P. Chaney 86 New Year’s Song by K. Whitefield 87 Ablaze by G. Strongman 87 Voices I by B. Montalbano 88 Piano Hand by S. Sun 89 Steps by G. Strongman 90 Jean-Baptiste-Siméon Chardin: Still Life 91 with Cat and Fish by M. Clevenger Vitruvian Man Circulatory by A. Novo 92 Nude by R. Hennick 92 Fermi by I. Gould 93 Forgetting to Feel by L. Campbell 94 The Paper and Pencil Box by G. LoScalzo 94 Harley by S. Lail 95 To Survive by C. Weaver 96 Wrath of the Moon by A. Enochs 97 Oskar and the Tavern by M. Nease 98 The Valence Dress by S. Sun 100 Crystal Trees by E. McMahon 101 A Song That Perfectly Encapsulates 102 My Highschool Experience by T. Raile and H. Sowell Jumpsuit by V. Apodaca 102 Scribbles by D. McDermed 103 I

Death, mental health

Closing 104 Index 105 Staff Bios 106 Letter from the Editors 108

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INTRODUCTION

SUNLIGHT ZONE Golden threads of daylight

Woven into coral tapestries No need to make one’s own light here The bounty all-consuming, Surrounding

SUNLIGHT 2

MONARCH & MILKWEED

COLORED PENCIL BY CHLOE SOWDEN

CROP TOP

TEXTILE BY EMMA WILTFONG

FRÃœHLING

WATERCOLOR BY EVA WOEGINGER

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SUNLIGHT 4

I WANT TO FALL IN LOVE POEM BY LAURA LAFORGIA I want to fall in love With no safety net underneath Crash right into my crush Feel a burning heat And allow myself to blush I want to fall in love Maybe try it just for fun Like a new ice cream flavor And before it melts under the sun Use my tongue to savor I want to fall in love Being homesick of a land Where I haven’t been at all But I heard someone recommend So that’s where I crave to fall I booked a plane to Love And I have no plan to come back I see below the stunning view As he leans over my neck It’s the start of something new I like it here in Love The warm smell of the ground I inhale it from his chest While wrapped around His arms and careless of the rest I’m still a foreigner of love But I’m getting to know this place He shows me a bit of my way Every time he makes my heart race So fast that I could say I want to fall in love

INTERNET BOYFRIEND PAINTING BY AUGUST HYDE

SHIRT

TEXTILE BY EMMA WILTFONG

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SUNLIGHT 6

FANTASTICAL HEAD WARE SCULPTURES BY RIVER HENNICK

GO FISH

WATERCOLOR BY SHELBY WINTER

CHARLIE’S POLKA

COMPOSITION BY MAC MUEHLBERGER

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SUNLIGHT

SUNLIGHT 8

DRESS

TEXTILE BY EMMA WILTFONG

DIVIDED

CERAMICS BY DELANEY MCDERMED

MR. BEE

PHOTO BY KATHLEEN DEEDY

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SUNLIGHT 10

ODE TO A BUICK

POEM BY JULIA STEVERMER You’ve chugged undaunted through my senior year, and never will I find a friend as true as the girl who roars when we shift into gear: my Buick Roadmaster from ‘92. You vomit exhaust into my garage that lingers long after your hood turns cool. Those fumes I’d choose over any corsage to perfume me through my first hour at school. New roadies fear you, you eighteen-foot barge, with eight cylinders firing as we drive. Past chumps in new-fangled beamers we charge like Butch and Sundance down 435. My classmates may scoff at the old-time class oozing from your hood, your trunk, and rims. But they scram when they hear me gun the gas to the tune of classic rock battle hymns. Your costly repairs leave me feeling sour; busted AC and doors that won’t close and wipers that broke in a mid-June shower filled my bank account with nothing but zeroes. But to hear your engine splutter and growl is worth the hours I worked in Jimmy John’s– to have us together, back on the prowl, escaping to Metcalf like two ex-cons. Though our days together will one day end I’ll remember our jaunts throughout all time, for nothing compares to the miles I’ve spent behind the wheel of my partner-in-crime.

MOMO

ACRYLIC PAINTING BY LILY TURNER

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SUNLIGHT 12

ยกBEHOLD, BARCELONA! PHOTO BY LILY CAMPBELL

THE BARKING SEAL OF LA JOLLA PHOTO BY ALEX CORBIN

SLEEPING BEAUTY PHOTO BY ALEX CORBIN

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CHRISTMAS

SHORT STORY BY SOPHIA THUENEMANN

We sprinted into the car with the freezing excitement hitting our skin. It was Christmas morning and we had just opened our presents. The overwhelming feeling of happiness flooded our hearts as we got into my dad’s large white car, perfect for road trips. The four-and-a-half hour drive was not nearly as irritating as usual because we knew that waiting for our arrival would be the cozy and welcoming house of 1402 Paradise Drive. From the first to the last sighting of the Saint Louis Arch, I knew the drive was ending soon. “Thirty minutes until Highland, Illinois,” read my Google Maps, which had been on all day tracking the arrival of joy. As I peered out of the window, I saw the snow-covered grounds of the small town that brought comforting memories flowing into my brain. We drove on the straight road that had held so many memories. From the light poles with the red and green banners that read “Merry Christmas” and “Happy Holidays,” to the small shops bordering the town square. The square was lined with the exciting memories of childish dreams from when Santa was still the centerpiece of Christmas. As we continued down the road, we took a slight turn to drive along the final road that would lead me closer to Paradise. As we took our final right, I quickly saw the classic lights lining the beautiful red brick house. Parking on the side of the road, because the whole family was crowding the driveway, we squirmed our way out of the car, releasing the air filled with energy and anticipation that was built in the long car ride. My two little sisters and I raced our way to the front door, leaving all luggage behind because we wanted to be the first to enter the pure feeling of joy that the house and family brought into our lives. Entering the doorway, we were greeted with the sight of smiles and the warm feeling of tight hugs given to us by aunts, uncles, and cousins. We quickly saw our beautiful grandmother walk around the corner of the family room with a bright smile. All three of us ran to her and smothered her with tight and comforting hugs, knowing that she had not had this much attention since the last time we were in town. We quickly moved out of the tight family room into the kitchen. Grandmother’s white countertops were in my main line of sight because of the copious amounts of cookies and candies that would be gone by the end of the day. I walked to the back of the long, narrow hallway and set my bags down in my grandmother’s beige TV room with the two tan recliners, ready to bring the comfort to me and my sister during our visit. Our family had so many people that my little sister and I slept in squishy, leather recliners with my littlest sister at our feet on a bed of all the blankets we could accumulate in the house. After settling in, we rushed down the stairs to see the basement crowded with family gathering around the Christmas tree next to a tan folding chair. The plain chair was the focal point of the room because everyone secretly awaited with excitement for their names to be called to sit in the hot seat. Mariah, then Vicky, next Ashley, finally Sophia! It was my turn! This year my present was from my cousin, Ashley. As I felt the rough, gold paper, I began to see a mixture of purples and pinks on a medium-sized box. As the paper tore another inch, I knew what the present was. The Justin Bieber perfume that I had wanted for for so long. Wearing my new gift, I emerged into the strong smell of meatballs and summer sausage. I sat in the overwhelming scent for hours as the ace of hearts won me the game. I felt the dimes cold against my skin and grinned as I gathered the pot. As I headed to the leather recliner at 2:00 a.m. everything went dark, then my eyes opened. It was a dream in memory of the happy times, when my grandparents driveway was filled with cars at 1402 Paradise Drive Highland, Illinois.

THE TIMEWEAVER

DIGITAL COLLAGE BY ATHENA BRADSHAW

HEART PAINTING

OIL ON PAPER BY AIDAN NOVO

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SUNLIGHT 16

SPRING AND SUMMER

COLORED PENCIL BY GRACE STRONGMAN

THE PARALLELISM OF MUSIC AND IDEAS ESSAY BY LILY CAMPBELL

In the world of music, there are twelve notes. Twelve major and minor scales, twelve major and minor chords. Dozens of octaves span across dozens of instruments, each one miraculously unique from the last. Many think the octaves, the transposures, the distinct mouth techniques or the contrasting fingerings separate these instruments from each other. For what could a delicate, whispering flute possibly have in common with a brassy, thundering trombone? Twelve notes. The complexity and simplicity of music fascinated me long before I learned major and chromatic scales on piano, before I clumsily prodded the valves of a trumpet for the first time in fifth grade, and before I learned I would be second chair french horn in symphonic band my junior year. Despite being familiar with multiple vastly different instruments, I still couldn’t answer one question: how can original music still be created if there are only a set number of chords and sequences and twelve stupid notes? The answer is that the most primordial idea can be cultivated into something profound. A single C note on a piano can be followed in thousands of ways to create something new. Perhaps a viola harmonizing, or an addition of a right hand melody, or a bassline. Kanye West’s masterpiece “Runaway” begins with seven measures of a single note—a C6—before launching into a beautiful melody with varying instruments, all based on that single C. If a hauntingly alluring ballad can be created on the basis of a single note, what else can be created on the most basic of foundations? I believe that I, along with millions of my fellow teenagers, are often taught to “think big!” and “outside the box!”—to me, that message is far from the truth. Our thoughts are like a growing tree. The seed to my tree is my simplistic and assertive belief—I love to inspire others with music. Like a tree, with the proper nutrients and time, a tree forms dozens of branches, and branches form hundreds of twigs, and twigs form thousands of leaves—all representing the growing of a single thought to the thousands of possibilities in futures coming from just one idea, one goal. Like the twelve basic notes of every song ever composed, one single thought can be the basis for hundreds of thousands of possible solutions and futures. As I explore a life away from home, I hope to see chords built on top of notes and new leaves dangling from lengthened branches as I study music, both simple and complex. Music has taught me that seemingly distinct subjects and items have much more in common than what meets the eye. These common roots have the ability to grow into so many different possibilities whilst containing the one simple key element that had birthed them. I cannot wait to see how my love of music grows, whether it be into a massive forest or an impassioned symphony.

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SUNLIGHT 18

SAVERS

POEM BY JULIA STEVERMER

PANTS

FASHION BY EMMA WILTFONG

The Savers on 95th and Nall is a red-block-letter-signed museum where forgotten people go to buy forgotten things– where they sell blue jeans to people with blue collars– and every garment and every shopper is a storybook with pen marks scribbled on the inside cover like memorials to past lives. They’re “once-upon-a-times” that refuse to accept “ever-after” before they reach “happily.” Savers is denim and lace and stitches out of place– it’s clothes with a history you’d need ancestry.com to trace. It’s khaki slacks and audio jacks, a Tchaikovsky track, an old knick-knack. It’s someone else’s wardrobe on my dressing room rack. And me … I’m that dog-eared Harry Potter book over there– faded jacket and all. To someone else, Savers is the Room of Hidden Things. To me, Savers is the Room of Requirement. Savers is the college that I don’t need a Pell Grant to attend. My mom’s the teacher, instructing me to spend enough to keep me dressed until the school year’s end– when we’ll traipse through these same shopping racks again. At this point, I don’t really care if I’m on trend even if my classmates disgusted stares rip into me and make the kind of tears that patches just can’t mend. LuluLemon was how my mother celebrated her new job that broke us into the middle class– It was her coaxing me through the glass door, saying, “You deserve nice things too, you know.”

It was the “you-don’t-belong-here” scowl I got from a gaggle of girls my age– the kind that let me know that I shouldn’t have walked in there wearing my dad’s Cahartt. It was my mom shoving leggings into my arms like apologies and clutching sweaters that screamed “I’ll make it up to you. See?!” I looked at myself in that dressing room mirror wearing clothes that fit, that looked like they were made for a woman, that manufactured me into a human Xerox of the girls who bullied me in grade school and I felt like an imposter. Because I was scaffolded with the genes of a construction worker and sewn with the chromosomes of a plumber’s daughter. The paint stains on a five-dollar pair of Levi’s are woven into my DNA like they’re woven onto my body. And clothes? Clothes are hermit crab shells. When one person moves on to a another, someone else comes in to make the old one their home. I put on my clothes and walked out of the store towards my car– and yes; she’s second hand too– I imagined my beige-tiled wonderland bathed in fluorescent light, promising finds to hang in my closet and on my walls and on my body like monuments to the osmosis that brought some stranger’s treasures to me. Shopping racks you can’t gentrify and steals that electrify: blazers and wedges, Shakespeare plays smooshed into bookshelf cavities, vinyls and teapots, green velour sofas right outta the ‘70s– They’re riches that I’m proud to hoard, and I’d pick them any day over a $120 pair of black leggings. Because every article in Savers is an unknown story whose ending I have the power to author, even if I didn’t write the beginning.

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SUNLIGHT 20

ABANDONED AT THE SHORE BANNERS BY EMILIA GIBBS

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TWILIGHT ZONE Gold from above and silver from below The light comes in small flashes In glimmers of hope Between the teeth of beasts Deep in the underneath

TWILIGHT 24

THE BALLAD OF HAMILCAR BARCA POEM BY IAN GOULD

Before this pyre we stand my son, What’s more, my men sought only gold Within this hallowed shrine. My lines, by sellswords filled. Gods, let the flames be seen throughout And I, so desperate, promised pay Hispania one last time. Upon our quest fulfilled.

We came here to Hispania, son, To capture silver mines. For Carthage is in need of wealth. War will return, in time.

My son, my time is almost up, My strength in battle gone. I charge you, ne’er put down thy sword Until my day is won.

A fleet of ships! Two hundred strong! They flew the flag of Rome. The cothon burned as Carthage fell. In shame, I turned to home.

O Hannibal, my son, my pride, My honor falls to thee. Take up the reins of armies strong! Claim victory for me.

I was a mighty general once, Yea, second in command Of all the troops in Africa By Hanno’s side I’d stand.

The Senate did not see it fit To pay my men their due. Upon us Rome had forced a debt. There was naught I could do.

Now prick thy palm, hold out thy hand, And swear by troth and home: Be strong and brave, but if naught else, Ne’er be a friend to Rome.

O Empire! Conquest! Victory! Thou art my only dream. Yet ever slipping through my grasp Be your fate it would seem.

Revolt! The army took up arms, A vengeful, raging sea. A general called to restore calm, And who was called but me?

Once I was called to war with Rome And I was proud to go. So I made sail for Sicily To battle with my foe.

The rest of my career I reaped The blood of comrades past. And while foul Rome sat bathed in weath, My homeland watched aghast.

But I was given too few men And not enough supply. So though I fought without defeat, The Romans did not fly.

I am disgraced! My life a waste! Gods, how could this occur? The noble House of Barca spurned! In spite, we must endure.

CAISTEAL AINMEAL URCHADAIN PHOTO BY MEGHMA PAL

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TWILIGHT 26

BICYCLE IN BUDAPEST PHOTO BY KATHLEEN DEEDY

CHAIN BRIDGE AT NIGHT PHOTO BY KATHLEEN DEEDY

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CASTLES IN THE AIR

POETRY SERIES BY DELANEY MCDERMED Part 1 Silver dancers strung together On a band of promises and dreams. Castles in the air. Eyes faced towards the clouds See Rainbow swirl illusions of grandeur, A backyard full of children, Undetermined, undefinable Future. Glides on light and cool, Like anticipation And cotton candy dreams come true. Wrapped up in sweet ineffability The orchestra sings Trilling, thrilling violin. Fantasy makes way for More fantasy and, More fantasy and… FEATURED NOW: The performers of the night sky repertory theatre in The acclaimed show: “A Gift!” The overdone show: “A Wish,” The very timely show: “A Promise” Made from starry-eyed To star-crossed.

Part 2 Silver sirens linked together On a band of broken promises and lies. Jack sieged the castle in the air. Eyes knocked back down to earth See A backyard filled with nothing And future’s sharp silhouette So painfully defined. You’re rusted to my finger, Bloody scrape on tender skin, Hurts like disappointment. And the orchestra shrieks Painful sounds of a poor violinist. Fantasy makes way for Harsh reality and Brutal truths half understood. FEATURED SOON: The performers of the night sky repertory theatre In a swan song performance A tragedy? Perhaps. The Right Thing? Probably. So cheers. From empty eyed To the stars lost

GALACTIC

PAINTING BY ABIGAIL PATTON

UNTITLED

PAINTING BY JADE ACHEN

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TWILIGHT 30

SUPERIOR

PHOTO SERIES BY MACKENZIE CLEVENGER LOOKOUT

1909

SUPERIOR MIST

BIG BLUE

THE EDGE

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BEE AND LAVENDER

ILLUSTRATION BY CHLOE SOWDEN

RIVER NESS

PHOTO BY MEGHMA PAL

CALDONIAN ISLES PHOTO BY MEGHMA PAL

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HOPE

DRAWING BY OSCAR MILLER

THE CHASE

true game changer. I developed muscles as fast pimples. Sports came SSAY BY ENRY ARRISON as easier and the asthma was becoming controlled. I I am a mold of flesh and started to feel normal. So bone and functioning brain normal that I decided to double synapses with various physical down in defiance of the wheeze. ailments, most notably: asthMy first day of track I watched ma. I ask that for a moment you every single middle-distance erase from your memory the runner pass me until it was just dorky kid that wore glasses, too me, wheezily walking alone. much sunscreen, and was alThe “run” was so strenuous that ways seen clutching an inhaler. I was going to quit track before I I spent many of my formative had even finished. But for some years running from this image, inexplicable reason, after every but then, subsequently losing day, I was ready to do it again. I my breath. felt my muscles getting stronger and after a month of living My realization that I was off my inhaler, I was craving a bad at every sport far preceded my knowledge of asthma. bigger challenge. The next meet I ran the 100m, 200m, 400m, According to my mom I was just “a little off.” In addition to 800m, 1600m, and 3200m. My always being too short and skin- life had ceased to see this much ny, a nightly ritual was getting misery, but it was too late, I was hooked up to a robot nebulizer in love. and letting it breathe into me. I My training increased was sure that the inhaler would and track became my outlet. mark my descent into dorkiAfter a long day at school I could ness; naturally, I vowed to only go out and have a consistent suck air in private. This backdaily dose of pain and sufferfired during the annual grade ing. It was heaven. Towards the school mile run when it felt like end of the season, my coaches a four-ton elephant was sitting saw my potential and chose me on my chest, depleting my lungs to run the 800m at Regionals. of any available air and I was I dropped my time by eight left hunched over, too self-conseconds, enough to be offered scious to use my rescue inhaler. alternate spot on the varsity To put it modestly, running was 4x800m relay. I was going to the bane of my existence. State. Then entered puberty, a Days later I made the

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drive up to Wichita. Walking into the stadium, I was immediately immersed in the chaotic atmosphere of the biggest track event in the country. I met up with my team and saw our best runner, the victim of a frisbee toss and the crunch of an ankle, on crutches. 45 minutes before the race my coach handed me the shorts she had been holding hostage and told me I would be running, first leg. We walked out onto the 98 degree field of chaos. I lined up with my fellow competitors, my 5’4 frame beneath their tall, defined builds. As the announcer yelled, “on your marks!”, I thought about all the nights hooked up to the nebulizer wondering what was so inherently wrong with me. I thought about the annual grade school mile killing my heart and soul. I thought about the first day of track and how I wanted to quit, how my lungs hurt. I thought about how far my legs have taken me and all the miles still to come, how many inhaler puffs yet to be taken. At that moment before the crack of the gun, I felt an overwhelming sense of peace and reassurance that even if I am “a little off,” even if there are obstacles in my life, total success will always be just over the horizon. All I have to do is chase it. “KERPOW!”

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TWILIGHT 36

STATIC

PHOTO BY SARAH GOLDER

CRÂNE

MAKEUP BY AMANDA COLLINS

OSCILLATE

PHOTOS BY SYDNI WILLIAM

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TWILIGHT 38

I’m not a leader. I’m no George Washington. Never led a battalion To victory, Made a fresh-from-press nation Go down in history. Never cut down a cherry tree. Having no truth to confide, An act not to hide, I hide. Every act speaks honesty, And honestly, I’m not him. I’m no Rosa Parks. Despite the scars, I don’t lead a generation, Never made a change For a better nation. Never sat down So others could stand up, Never defied the status quo So freedom could show up. Simple acts I do have Seeing the impacts— Someday. Someday. Every time I hear that word I wonder… What’s to come? Will I empower a generation? Spark the minds of a new nation? How do I know when the time has come, When is it my turn? When will I know?

Know that I’ll be there. That my small words will become sentences My gentle hugs embraces And what I hope to be rejoiced faces. Know that I’m fifteen. That I’m just getting started And though young, I’m good-hearted, And I’ll make that change. Someday. Because a leader knows... It’s trust, Knowing people’s capabilities And reminding them They are capable. It’s patience, Letting time pass through And smiling Because time isn’t precious, People are. It’s confidence, Having faith in yourself With authenticity In being who you are. Who am I? Well, I’m fifteen. Not a world-changer. But— Everyone has their own world. Their own struggle. Someone’s day, Their heart, motivation. And when it comes crashing down Another world in our galaxy— gone Like the tide at dawn.

Yes, I’m no George Washington, Or Rosa Parks. But when I see a droopy smile A wallowing heart I listen. I show that I care That people are there. And the next day, Maybe that love they’ll share. My simple acts Are far from Public declarations And activist inflations. But, my kind words Are everything To that person; Because that person learns The power of kindness— The domino effect it wields. If I can make someone’s day, The world becomes a better place Because the ripples of time Decrease the divide Creating a motion The next generation will know. So am I a leader? I guess so.

AM I A LEADER?

POEM BY CAMPBELL WOOD

SYMMETRY

PHOTO BY LILY CAMPBELL 39

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STRANGE

WRITING BY JASPER LOCKTON Two children walk on bare feet. They weave swiftly through the jutting grey stones around them, thrust up from the earth like teeth. The younger boy’s babble drifts through the quiet veil of dawn, his words muffled by the fog and his own clumsy tongue. His sister is quiet, but smiles as she guides him down a twofoot bluff and onto a long, flat stone. The stone, upon closer inspection, is engraved with words and numbers. He sits on it and rubs his toes in the grass. The girl sits as well, moving her billowing nightgown to the side. Her hair is long and blonde, pale strands framing pale eyes set in a pale face. She almost looks a ghost herself, sitting there silently among the graves. Her brother, by contrast, is lively and bright as the sun. His wide eyes are the same blue as hers, but his rosy cheeks and toothy smile give him a vibrant appearance. Inexplicably, he appears just as inherent to the graveyard as his sister. He giggles and says something with glee, pointing one little hand into the fog. Where he points, a shadow flickers. It’s clear against the white backdrop of mist, free-flowing as a living thing and cast by nothing. The girl stops smiling. The shadow-thing moves closer, gathering its brethren from beneath the graves and peeling them from the trunks of trees. It appears to eat the shadows, pulling them into its form and growing. It leaves a stark,

shadowless, and entirely unfamiliar landscape behind it. The girl mutters something, gives her brother a firm push on the shoulder, and suddenly they’re running. The dirt ground flies past beneath their feet. The monster flows around the graves as fast as they can stumble through the maze, and its shape darkens and solidifies with every move. There’s a scream as they tumble past a jutting ridge in the ground, the girl falling and rolling just in time to catch her brother. She scrambles to her feet with dirt smudging her nightgown and flings herself forward, child in tow. The shadow creature is every-

LOST IN MY HEAD

where now. It flits teasingly past the edge of their vision and nips at their heels. It seems to inhabit the graveyard itself, seems to move through the ground like the breath of the Earth without a touch to disturb the souls six feet under. They stumble to a stop beneath a gnarled grey oak tree, the one that they always climb during the summer, and which is now bare in the early winter air. It sits inconspicuously near the far left corner ofthe field, away from the gate. It’s the only thing not stripped of shadows, and standing beneath its spreading branches, the two are webbed with light and shadow from the faintly rising sun. The girl lifts up her brother without a word, watching him squeal

PHOTO BY SYDNI WILLIAM

and grip the lowest branch. She gives him a solid shove upwards that allows him to swing to the top side. The shadows are flickering at the edge of her vision, so she hauls herself up next and crawls to the tree’s trunk. The flickering shadows on the ground have begun to spin, mostly keeping their shape but rotating around the trunk like a wheel. It’s so disorienting that she has to look away, and focuses on climbing. They quickly scale the tree as the sun begins to shine through the bare branches. It’s pale and weak as the morning sun is, and it gently burns away the fog that clings to the lower branches. The shadows, too, seem to be retreating from the heat, although they slip just as fervently as ever through the twisting cracks of the tree’s west side. The boy, having a head-start on both of them, reaches the top first. He clings to the topmost branch and grins despite the apparent danger, letting the sun illuminate his wispy golden hair. He glows in the blaze, and behind him, his sister hauls herself up to the same vantage point. The fog below has dissipated completely, and every shadow in the graveyard is snaking up the tree behind them. The view that these two events leave behind is terrifying— a flat, two-dimensional impression of the place they had been in. The shadows have reached them. The girl turns and opens her mouth, but is cut off as the shadows wrap around her mouth and arms, surrounding her. It feels at once like slick oil, like grating sandpaper, and like something indescribable that no human should ever feel. The boy is quickly enveloped as well, having nowhere to go and no one to help him down. Inside the shadows should be dark, but it’s not. It’s more like wearing tinted glasses, and the two can see each other as well as their surroundings. They watch in silence, unable to speak, as the creature tosses them around the air. It raises them like a prize, gloating, before releasing its hold on the tree and free-falling to the ground. The children’s eyes widen. They brace for the impact, but it never comes, and instead they feel themselves being gently set on the ground. The shadows dissipate. They’ve been set on a grassy patch. Next to them is a grave inscribed with the name “Thomas C. Strange.” The girl leans against his grave and begins to laugh. The mass of shadow rears up beside her, shaking

GREETINGS

DRAWING BY ALEX BLICKHAN from side to side like an excitable animal. “You won, Thomas,” she says. “You’ve won again.” The little boy giggles again and crawls forward, nearly falling back into the shadow. “You win! You win!” he parrots. If a shadow can preen, the monster does it now. “Yes, and next time we will chase you.” The girl is smiling fondly at the creature. “You can’t run into the forest this time, though.” The shadow, Thomas, almost seems to be smiling.

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MIDNIGHT ZONE

Slowly Ever so slowly Everything leaves,

The world you know is gone Here, there are but whispers Eerie, blank faces Devoid of ending & thought As the stars burn out Real darkness appears Killing the soul within

MIDNIGHT 44

RED AND PURPLE

SHORT STORY BY MACKENZIE CLEVENGER “Warning, oxygen levels are lowering. Assisted breathing instruments are advised.” The metallic voice rang through the empty hallways of the ship, ricocheting off the walls, its only purpose to create a deafening echo. It reached the unconscious mind of the ship’s captain, who was lying in the doorway of the cafeteria, surrounded by a crimson-colored liquid. The voice was so metallic and inhuman, it triggered the fight or flight in his brain, and out of fear, he shot up. Michael sat up and attempted to look around, but the purple and red spots dancing through his vision forced his eyes closed again. A shaky hand rose to his nose. He could feel warm liquid pool its way onto his palm and although his eyes were shut, his vision was overcome with red. He pulled his knees to his chest, waiting for the unwelcome color to disappear. As he waited, he heard whispers from the ship, and he couldn’t tell if they belonged to his other crew members. They sounded slightly familiar, but the language they were speaking was practically unrecognizable. The ship was toying with him. Finally, Michael realized that he couldn’t remain in the doorway. He was the captain. He had to find his crewmates and decide if there was a way they could save the mission, or if they would have to return home. He forced his eyes open, refusing to let them close again. He saw the world in violet and maroon, but he saw it nonetheless. His head throbbed with pain, desperately begging him to close his eyes and welcome the sweet release of darkness, but Michael refused. He took a breath and pushed the pain away. That was a problem for later. Using the doorframes as a lifeline, Michael stood on two new legs. He regained

his composure, forced his legs to steady themselves, and then stepped out of his safe haven threshold. He leaned against the wall and began to drag himself down the corridor, but halted momentarily to examine a rich royal purple line that existed beneath his feet. It was sizzling slightly, a mysterious smoke wafting just above, but it seemed confident in its direction, so Michael took it as a guide, following it through the ship. Or was the line following him? He couldn’t remember a line ever slinking through the hallways before, but then again, he didn’t remember much of anything at the moment. Eventually, he came across a small, circular purple object, its edges lighting red as he lifted it from the ground. Cupping it gently in his hand, he placed it on the right lobe of his still aching forehead. He felt a small jolt of electricity before the same nightmarish voice spoke in his mind, “Communications device number 3976 is back online.” Acutely aware that he could no longer breathe, Michael sank to his knees, allowing his forehead to rest against the cold wall. It was such a stark contrast from the heat of his head, it burned slightly. Michael couldn’t find it in himself to care. He shut his eyes in an attempt to ignore the pain and steadied his voice before asking, “Is anybody there? Over.” He waited. There was no reply. He tried again, louder, more authoritative. “Is anybody there? This is call-sign Moose, does anybody copy? Over.” Silence. In a moment of frustration and rage, Michael slammed his hand onto the wall before shouting in an almost inhuman way. “Answer me! Please, someone!” As if his pleas had been answered, a voice spoke. “Hello, hi, is anyone there? Does anybody copy? This is call-sign Viper, hello?” the voice said, crackling slightly through the communicator, “Please tell me someone’s there, I’m freaking out!” Michael heard quick, panicked breaths from the other side. “Oh my god, I think I’m going to throw—” Michael opened his eyes and rolled them in relieved fondness, “I’m here, Vera.” “—up.” Vera finished. “Michael! Where are you? Are you hurt? Where’s Fritz? What’s—” “Vera, deep breaths.” Michael said. After a few

moments he finally chose to answer some questions, “I’m fine; I just hit my head,” he said, his voice steady, despite his head being the sun. Michael raised himself from his knees, his fingernails digging into the cold steel of the ship’s walls, his feet threatening to collapse under the sudden shift of weight. As he stood, more maroon liquid fell from his nose, his vision erupting in burgundy stars and mauve waves. “Where are you?” “I’m in the control room. Where—” “I’m coming to you.” Michael interrupted before his navigator could give him an even larger headache. Michael swiveled his head to look down the vacant hallways, unable to decide which way he should go, and started slowly traveling in a random direction. He wasn’t sure if he was right, but the smoky purple line was still following him, so he took that as a good sign. As he dragged himself through the halls, he asked, “What’s our status?” A beat of silence, then Vera’s frantic voice. “We’re completely off course. How long were we out? I can’t see Neptune anymore. Do you remember what—” “Have you heard from Fritz?” Michael interrupted as he cautiously turned left, watching to see if the line was still following him. It was. “No. That idiot never takes his communicator with him. Do you think he’s okay?” Michael didn’t answer, too busy trying not to lose his lunch all over the floor. “I’m taking your silence as a bad sign. Are you still there?” “Yes,” Michael said as he came to a fork in the hall. He stopped dead in his tracks, suddenly unable to recall where he was going. The little voice inside his head kept telling him to head to the weapons bay, and to forget about Vera. For a moment, Michael was inclined to listen to it, but the thought left his mind as quickly as it had appeared. He wasn’t sure how, but Michael had ended up on his hands and knees at some point. He also acutely became aware that Vera was talking, but he couldn’t understand anything she was saying. The language sounded unfamiliar. Miraculously, Michael clawed his way to a standing position, and stood gazing at the two halls

before him. He couldn’t remember which way he was planning to go. He spoke, in English, “Left or right?” “What?” Vera said. Michael understood her. “Nevermind,” he answered, choosing the left hallway. As he dragged himself through the cool steel corridors, Michael decided that it was a good time to make small talk, “Do you have any injuries?” he asked. “No, nothing serious. You?” “I’m fine.” There was a gritty silence, and Michael all at once realized that Vera didn’t believe that for a second. “Okay, yeah, I think I might have a concussion.” A gasp. “Michael! Why didn’t you say something, I would’ve come to you!” Vera was talking rapidly now, and once again Michael felt dizzy and foreign. He did his best to ignore the squirming feeling in his stomach. “I didn’t think it was that important.” “Not that important? You’re walking around with a—” “Can you stop yelling? I have a concussion, Vera.” Angry silence. Michael let out a soft sigh of relief as Vera fell quiet on the other end of the communicator. He soon came to a door with strange crimson red markings. He tried to decipher it, but his attempt at intelligence ended up giving him another mind splitting headache. He blinked his eyes rapidly, desperately trying to alleviate the pain coming from his head, and after clamping his eyes shut he felt a queasy sort of ease. When he looked towards the door again the strange markings had turned into letters. Michael had arrived at the control room. “I’m here, open the door.” After a minute, the door retreated into the wall, and Michael was met with Vera’s worried expression. As she rushed towards him, Michael couldn’t help but feel a little bit confused. He was almost completely positive that Vera had light blonde hair with green eyes. He remembered her daffodil hair falling into her face as she stared at her endless amounts of star maps and he remembered fields of green watching him, panicked, as he swerved around rogue space debris. So who was he looking at? She has the same nervous energy as Vera and she vaguely looked like her, but her hair was candy apple red and her eyes were as deep as wine. Her face

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was violet. “Vera, you’re purple,” Michael informed her as she wrapped his arm over her shoulders, “that’s not normal.” He was trying to make her feel better about their bad situation, but judging by the wide-eyed look on Vera’s face, Michael got the sinking feeling that he had made things one hundred times worse. Inside the control room, Vera seated him in the pilot’s chair and went to a nearby red box. “Put this on,” she said as she handed him a small oval shaped device, “you’re probably—you’re probably hallucinating due to lack of oxygen.” Michael stuck the object’s tubes up his nose and placed the brick of the device into his shirt’s pocket. As he did so, Vera seemingly finally noticed how terrible Michael looked. “Oh my god, what happened to you?” she asked, placing her hand over her mouth and backing away from the pilot’s chair slowly. Before answering, Michael sat for a moment, appreciating the clean, new oxygen swirling through his lungs. “I don’t remember,” he said, standing from

EUPHORIA

PHOTO BY SARAH GOLDER

his chair. Vera opened her mouth to say something, but Michael beat her to it. “Don’t tell me to sit down, there are more important things to do. We have no idea where Fritz is. The first rule of protocol after an unforeseen event is to gather all crew members and then survey the damage,” he said. Vera still didn’t look convinced, so he gestured to himself and added, “which includes human damage.” Vera didn’t back down, “Captain, you’re in no condition to be walking around.” “Aren’t you even worried about Fritz?” She spoke quietly. “Well, yeah, but—” “I rest my case. We’re going. There’s no debate.” She remained quiet for a moment, and Michael briefly thought that he had been too stern. Finally, she nodded. “Fine, but how are we supposed to find him?” Michael tried to think, which was a struggle for him. The pounding in his head increased to an excruciating level, forcing him back to his knees. The same little scratchy voice from before whispered to him, answering Vera’s question. The pain in his head cleared. “He’s in the engine room.” “What? How do you know?” Vera asked, about to kneel next to him. Michael waved her off as he struggled to keep his legs from turning to jelly. He shrugged in response to her question, “Just a hunch.” “Guess we’re heading to the engine room,” Vera stated, shaking her head. “Listen, Michael, I know I have a bad feeling about everything—” “I do know this about you.” “—but I’ve got a really bad feeling about all of this,” she said, nervously fiddling with her jacket sleeve. Michael gave her a sympathetic look. “I know our current situation isn’t exactly ideal, but we have to do something. If we don’t we’re sitting ducks.” “Okay, you’re right,” she whispered, slowly turning to the door, “just don’t say anything that’ll seriously freak me out. Maybe I can fake my way through this whole nightmare.” “Right.” Michael followed her to the door. “Is now a good time to remind you that I can currently only see in two colors?” “No!”

*** After some maneuvering around the ship, with Michael constantly checking the status of the stalker purple line, the two arrived at the engine room. As Michael stepped forward to knock on the door, Vera threw her arm in front of him. She pointed to the small crack in the threshold, and Michael noticed smoke, as well as a pool of liquid , was slowly creeping out from the other side. “It looks red. Is it?” Michael asked, still unsure with his sense of color perception. Vera shakily nodded. “It’s red.” “Is it blood?” “No, it looks like goo—like jello,” she said, cautiously tiptoeing around the mystery substance. She placed her face in front of the door’s security scanner, and Michael watched as a periwinkle laser scanned over her features. After a moment, a soft humming noise sounded from the scanner, and she leaned back as the door slid into the wall. She moved forward, carefully avoiding the red jello, and Michael followed her into the sweaty engine room. Vera stood next to an assortment of busted metal pipes, her head swiveling back and forth in the shiny red emergency lights. “Fritz? Are you in here?” she whispered, while the door slid closed behind them. A soft voice came from an unseen speaker, “Back here.” Vera and Michael cautiously walked behind the large grid made exclusively of wires and found their missing crewmate, Fritz, holding a wrench and frantically tightening various objects in a small compartment nestled in the wall. Much like Vera, Fritz was not colored in his normal way. His eyes were an orchid-colored void, much different from his usual muddy brown, and his hair was plastered to his forehead, closely resembling jam smeared across toast. If toast was bright scarlet, that is. “What took you so long?” he asked. “Michael has a concussion,” Vera responded, “and we weren’t really sure where you were.” Fritz turned away from the panel and stood up, turning towards Vera. “I’m the engineer, V. First guess should’ve been the engine room.” Then, he shifted his gaze to Michael, “How did you get your head all busted up?” “I don’t know.” Fritz looked unimpressed with

this revelation. “I can also now only see in red and purple.” That seemed to change his tune a bit. He turned to Vera and asked, “That’s not a side effect of a concussion, right?” She thought for a moment before shaking her head in response. “Well, then what—how is that a thing?” Vera put her hands out in a silent surrender. Accepting that answer, Fritz knelt back down to the small panel he had previously been working on. After a few moments of tinkering, the metallic voice spoke through the ship’s speakers, “Oxygen distribution and filtering systems are back online. Oxygen levels will return to normal in ten minutes.” “Thank you,” Michael said as Fritz stood up, “now we just have to fix the engine.” Fritz scratched his head and gave the two a shy smile. “Yeah, about that—” “Please tell me you can fix it,” Vera interjected, looking at Fritz with worried eyes. “Is it broken? You didn’t break it did you?” “What—no!” Fritz said, sounding slightly offended. He approached the side of the engine and pointed at it. “I didn’t break it. The space goop did.” “Space goo—you mean the jello?” Michael asked, looking back towards the doorway, where the pool of said jello was still oozing out the door. He glanced into the engine and was met with the same sludge in an amethyst color palette. “Yeah, that stuff,” Fritz said. “When I came in here to see why the engine stopped, it was just . . . there. I didn’t know what to do.” Their faces fell grim. “Okay,” Michael said. “Let’s look on the bright side; we’re all somewhat alive.” “That doesn’t make me feel better at all,” Vera stated. “Fritz, is there any way to get the jello out of the engine components?” Fritz shook his head. “I tried everything I could think of, Captain. I was messing with it, poking it, prodding it, trying to figure out what it was when I—” he trailed off. “Blacked out?” Michael finished. The three of them stood in perfect silence for a sliver of a moment. Then, they heard footsteps from the other side of the door. Slowly, they all turned towards the sound and quickly moved behind the panel of wires, kneeling to the ground, trying to keep the

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sound of their boots on metal to a minimum. Michael peeked around the edge of the grid and noticed a shadow through the crack at the bottom of the door. It was still. Unmoving. It was listening. Finally, after what seemed like eons, the dark shadow moved out of the doorway, but not before letting out an ear bleeding high pitched shriek. “What was that?” Vera whispered. Michael let go of a breath he didn’t realize he was holding. He was about to move towards the door when Vera stopped him with an outstretched arm again. She pointed to where the red jello had resided. Every drop of it was gone. “What is happening?” Vera asked, “What was that thing, that sound?” Realization dawned on her face. “Was that—that’s an alien, isn’t it?” “Aliens aren’t real,” Fritz whispered. “How can you say that?” Vera’s voice was high-pitched and squeaky, and it reminded Michael too much of the high-pitched sound that the shadow had made. “We literally just saw an alien!” “We didn’t see anything.” “Then what was—” Michael interjected, “Enough. Your guys’ bickering isn’t going to get us anywhere.” He slowly stood and left the shield of wires. “We need to figure out what that thing is.” Fritz crossed his arms. “With what? None of us have any weapons, and the bay is halfway across the ship. It’ll find us before we even get close.” “We have to investigate,” Michael countered, “maybe it has something to do with the blackouts and my messed up vision.” “But—” “I agree with Michael,” Vera said, “if it’s an alien, then it’s our duty to gather valuable intel to bring home. Even if we—y’know—die trying to study it.” “Reassuring,” Fritz said, “but whatever. Let’s go die, I guess.” Cautiously, the three opened the door to the engine room and slipped into the spacious hallway. Michael began following the purple line that had helped him navigate the ship before, finding comfort in its familiar presence. “What is that?” Vera asked, looking at the line in confused horror. “This purple line? I don’t know, when I woke up I followed it until I found the control room.” “Captain,” Fritz said, “this line has never been here before. It looks like the same space jello as before.” “Oh,” Michael started, “maybe the alien—” Fritz shot

him a disapproving look, “—maybe the thing leaves a trail?” “So, we should follow it, right? I mean, if we’re looking for it?” Fritz asked, waving some smoke out of the way in order to examine the jello closer. “Ew, it’s warm.” Vera nodded in response to Fritz’s question. “Yeah. I hate this.” The three followed the line around the ship, peeking around corners and pausing when they heard unwelcoming noises. Michael tried to act brave in front of his crewmates, but he couldn’t stop his hands and legs from shaking. The more they walked around, the more the pounding in his head grew. Were all concussions this frightening? In a world full of exclusively red and purple, the world was so dark. Everything was bloody. And dead. Michael couldn’t stand it. They all came to a shocked stop when they saw the door they had arrived at. It was the engine room. Vera was the first and last to speak. “How is this possible? We didn’t make any—” The lights began to flicker, and the same electronic voice spoke through the speakers, “Warning: signs of intruders. Prepare for combat.” The crew couldn’t hear her. They were all on their knees, hands pressed desperately against their ears, trying to block out the high-pitched ringing that was pounding through their skulls. The sound grew and grew, and before Michael knew it, he could hear Fritz and Vera screaming. Was he screaming with them? He couldn’t tell. His mouth was open, but it didn’t feel like there was any sound coming out. Michael forced himself to look up, and he was met with a face. A face with the darkest eyes Michael had ever seen. There were no whites to the eyes, only the same sinful purple. Its jagged teeth were the same violet, along with its long, sharp nails. The rest of it was a rich mahogany, covered in matted and sweaty hair, which was covered in the red space jello from inside the engine room. It made a face at Michael, and he soon realized that he was being smiled at. Michael felt a warm, sticky paw grab his throat, and before he knew it, his legs were dangling uselessly beneath him. His hands found their way to the creature’s limbs, his lungs telling him to ignore the warm ooze dripping from his ears. The shrieking was coming from the creature. It was talking, trying to communicate. Michael understood it. “Hello, little one. You’ve done so well.” It removed one of its massive paws from Michael’s throat, moving to pat

him on the head. As it did so, Michael felt liquid seep down his face and felt the pain of another nosebleed. He looked at his reflection in the creature’s eyes, and his blood curdled at the sight of himself. He was entirely a dark purple, except for the liquid falling from his nose; it wasn’t blood. It was the goo. And it was pouring out of his nose. “Now we may continue with the plan,” the creature told ‘Michael.’ It opened its empty hand and waterfalls of red and purple goo flowed out from beneath its dark fingernails, dripping onto the floor. As it hit the cool ground, the metal sizzled and wisps of smoke erupted from underneath its space. The goo rushed across the floor to where Fritz and Vera sat, still screaming in an attempt to block out the horrible ringing, creating a trail of goo behind it, the ground slightly burned beneath the substance. ‘Michael’ tried to call out and warn his crewmates, but he couldn’t breathe. He couldn’t move. All he could do was stare at his pitiful reflection in the creature’s dark eyes. Vera’s screaming stopped, and although ‘Michael’ couldn’t see her, he guessed that something terrible had happened. He heard her body hit the metal floor. Moments later, the lavender stream of goo crawled up Fritz’s body and began inserting itself into his mouth, nose, and ears. Fritz convulsed, his mouth foaming a soft pastel violet, his eyes rolling into the back of his head as he stopped screaming, crumpling onto the floor. Finally, ‘Michael’ had enough air to speak. “Why are you—what are you?” The alien smiled, petting ‘Michael’s’ head, leaving goo in its claw’s wake. Its teeth fell to the ground, landing as sludge on the floor. “I’m everything that Earth has ever wanted.” The goo from the creature’s teeth began taking shape, kneading itself and squelching against the floor. “What do you want?” The goo crawled up its master’s body, then up its arm to ‘Michael’s’ neck where it gently started to coil itself. “Everything,” came the reply. The goo tightened its grip on his neck, slowly moving its way towards his ears and nose, stopping at his mouth on the way there. “But, we have decided to start with Earth’s salvation.” The sludge worked its way into ‘Michael’s’ mouth and he felt the sickly sweet sensation of bile and goo rising in his throat. “Don’t worry, little one. We’ll fix you.” The world wasn’t red and purple. It was black.

ELECTRIC LINES

PHOTO BY AVA CHINNOCK

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NORWEGIAN MIST

PHOTO BY SARAH GOLDER

Hysteria! Oh, beautiful madness, lust’s folly gladness! This is not the desire of Myrrha, the bent shame of the Byblis spring. My dear, the mare beats on despite the flame’s tender, holy holding and sharing no blood with doe-ful crane. Instead, she creeps and reaps

WISTERIA

POEM BY LOTUS WEST

and seeps into the sweet, unknowing heart hidden in wisteria bark.

VOID TIME

DIGITAL COLLAGE BY ATHENA BRADSHAW

CAPRI

PHOTO BY LEO BYER

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TO YOU

POETRY SERIES BY AVA WALTON You and me We sit together under this tree On your bare springed trampoline Texting that boy again This will burn when it ends You thought this could never happen Especially not here but then Trampoline becomes a pier And now I’m looking for a pen While you’re looking in the mirror The sky is white and I am blue And now the pink stains the pools of light Around where we moved I grow selfish and absurd I want to know why all his words Sound like a lullaby to you He’s busy drinking Mountain Dew While I tell you there is nothing bad that wouldn’t happen to you. But my protests only promote the pursuit of your protection You never understand so I use him as a weapon He didn’t respond? He wants you gone. Don’t try to argue You’ve already lost By letting this boy past your frost.

BICYCLE WHEEL

PHOTO BY PIPER CHANEY

TO ANXIETY

POETRY SERIES BY AVA WALTON You and me We sit together under this tree On my bare springed trampoline Texting that boy again I guess I just need a friend Or an apology surpassing “This will happen again” I knew that this would happen Didn’t think it would here but then Trampoline becomes a pier I want to jump off I know the bottom is near I’m scrambling for a pen and looking in the mirror Wondering “How did I get here? What did I say? What did I do? Why do I always feel like I have something to prove?” You take me into your arms and say “I know, darling This is what you have to lose when letting anyone past your ruse Be afraid, my dear, for the end is always near.” I’m never good enough and I can never lose gracefully like you do. The sky is red and I’m turning blue And now the black comes to stain the light in the places we once moved I grow selfish and absurd I want to know why all his words still sound like a lullaby to me He’s busy excusing his own disloyalty. While your “I told you so”’s echo through my mind your protests are only in the pursuit of my protection In the pursuit of that unachievable perfection He uses his worry as a weapon He stopped responding He wants me gone I’ve already lost A month And I’ve already lost And he’s already gone And I’ve already lost.

CYANOTYPE2

PHOTO BY SARA PATE

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MOTHERLY LOVE

SHORT STORY BY ABIGAIL PATTON

“John, I’m leaving the house for a while,” I called out. As usual, there was no response from my husband. We hadn’t had a real conversation in 42 days, because my son Samuel’s body was found 42 days ago. While at the park on a particularly hot afternoon, he got snatched up. Three days later, his body was found lying in a ditch. His small body was left cold on the ground with marks of strangulation on his thin neck. Every day after the funeral, I went to the park. I sat on the bench and watched the children. They went down the slide and sat on the swings. If they passd me I gave them a smile and if their mothers passed me they gave me a scowl. One day a particular little boy caught my eye; his skin was as pale as my wedding china and his golden hair shone in the midday sun. He looked so similar to my son that I leaped out at him. Teary eyed, I hopped out of my seat on the bench and grabbed his arm. “Sammy… come back to mommy.” As soon as I said this he let out a high pitched shriek and a woman came running towards me. “Is this your child?” she asked me. I didn’t even realize that I had gotten up from the bench. I distantly said “What?” and then I tried to act as nonchalant as possible as I walked away from the little boy. I went to sleep as soon as I got home and woke up at 10 am the next day. I slept for almost 24 hours, yet still my husband said nothing to me and went to drown his sorrow and himself in his work. I could not do the same with my job, which was to care for my son. No, job isn’t the right word to describe it. It was not my job, but my purpose to care for my son, but no matter because I had a plan. I would wait at the park every day until my son came back. A week after I started to sit in the park a particularly windy day came. The smell of hot dogs was blown from the street vendors to my nose and I could feel the strong breeze against my skin. I sat waiting patiently for him as I shivered from the wind, then he appeared. I waited this time so that I would not appear like the madman I did before. I waited until he was alone by the swings and when my chance came I walked over to him. I offered to buy him ice cream, and he agreed and came with me, but before I could buy him an ice cream I shoved him into my car. He started crying, so I assured him that it would be okay. “Mommy will take care of you. Don’t worry, Sammy.” Before he could tell me his name I covered his mouth with my shaking pale finger. “No talking anymore, Sammy,” I said to him and drove on until I got up to the cliff. The cliff was overlooking the vast Pacific Ocean and was our favorite picnic place. We would come every weekend and look out to the sea. This time was different, though. This time we wouldn’t just look at the ocean. We would become the ocean together. “We’re here,” I said to the boy in my front seat. I got out of the car and walked around on the dry dirt ground to get him out of the car. I opened the car door, took his hand and walked out to the cliff’s ledge with him. “This way we can be together, Sammy. You and I will become the ocean and live there, hand in hand, forever.” I picked him up, still holding his hand, and walked off.

RUINS

PAINTING BY VIOLET APODACA

A STRUGGLE BARELY NOTICED COMPOSITION BY MAC MUEHLBERGER

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BASTARD

ACRYLIC PAINTING BY LILY TURNER

GEM

PHOTO BY SOPHIA LAIL

ENEMY OF YOUR BODY POEM BY ANONYMOUS

GORE ALL OUT

MAKEUP BY JESSICA HICKEY

Packed like sardines in groups of twenty, one would think that would be plenty. An orange shirt with a white skirt, you would never expect me to hurt. I keep you on a leash and control your life, to your neck I hold a knife. I decide when it’s time to burn, away from me you’ll never turn. When you light me up I glow, it is my smoke that you blow. My home is in your right hand, then in the tray I land. A chilling place is the tray, it is a place where there is no day. For us sinners who meddle and pry, it’s where we all go to die.

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PATIENT 8

POEM BY EMMETT LILJEGREN Entropy is the measure of disorder. It is a known thermodynamic law that systems favor maximum entropy. The conditions surrounding the event predict the shift towards disarray. Procedure: 1) Take one pre-pubescent child. Add one hundred grams of gender dysphoria and twenty pounds of unwanted physical changes. 2) Stir vigorously and wait for the reaction to begin. 3) Watch as the pain builds up, bubbles rising. DO NOT let them escape. 4) Observe the temperature effects present: The system will rapidly cool, accompanied by a drastic decrease in weight. But wait for the shade of blue that will appear— after the soul is used up, and all that is left is the remnants of a daughter that never truly existed. The inside of an atom contains ninety-nine point nine repeating percent of its mass. The inside of a human soul though, how do I measure that? How do I compare the number of pounds on a scale (one hundred and three) With the perception of relentless eyes? The beats per minute of a defective heart (forty-two), The number of sleepless nights (exponential), The number of tears that are produced when trying to fit soul A into body B? Intellectualization is the psychological defense mechanism in which an individual focuses on the logic and reasoning of a traumatic event. Magnetic Resonance Imaging uses electromagnetic waves to see inside structures of the body. If you could understand the way I feel through the way electrons bounce through my smallest pieces, If you could try to accept the slight variation in my anatomy— see that the maximum yield is achieved during optimum conditions of unconditional acceptance— would the way I think and feel be more validated? Conclusion— I have only begun to discover the wonder that exists when the inside is presented as the exterior. I will continue to study the effects of emotional expulsion.

BLOOD ON YOUR HANDS WATERCOLOR AND INK BY VIOLET APODACA

SELF PORTRAIT NO. 4

MIXED MEDIA BY EMILIA GIBBS

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LOVE: AS TOLD BY SOMEONE WHO HASN’T FOUND IT YET POETRY BY MACKENZIE CLEVENGER

Love. What is it really? Chemical reactions causing rushes in adrenaline, Surges of serotonin and dopamine, That twine their way through your head, Like vines sprouting indescribable feeling, Trying to assign a name to that skip in you heart That makes you want to rip your hair out? That same excited feeling I get when I hear raindrops on my windowsill? Love. It’s a strange light found in the deepest woods, A will-o’-the-wisp guiding you farther and farther From the sea of rational thought, So that you miss your shot, To reach all that you’ve sought after all these years. And that pixieish light plays into your darkest fears, And although its leading you further from your home, the ocean, Your life feels incomplete without it. Like there’s no rain. Love. There’s some preconception that the universe Has chosen one specific other person to be yours And for you to be theirs, But what does the universe know about destiny? People say it’s written in the stars, But if it’s tattooed within the universe’s soul, Then how can the universe possibly read what it says? If I’m not allowed to understand the dew that clogs my veins. Then neither is the universe. What makes it so special? And yeah, this may sound like I’m not optimistic about my chances.

Because I know that one day, the universe will crush life’s fruit in its clutches, Sweet nectar dripping off its hands, Like the raindrops that I so much enjoy, And it will bathe me in sweet juice That sticks to my hair and eyelashes In dazzling, complex patterns. That burns my skin to the touch. And all at once I’ll realize; I’ve given that universe-picked person, Every ingredient they need to destroy me. And I should be afraid. I should be afraid to follow their light into the forest, I should be afraid because in a matter of seconds The sky could become the sea And every promise that I made, And every word that I spoke, And every tear that I cried, Will be proved unimportant in two unsaid words, That will hang between us until our eventual Downwards spiral into tragedy. “I lied.” But, it could be something beautiful, I guess. I wouldn’t know. Love. Some believe in love at first sight, Because they see someone for the first time And a chemical reaction occurs, Making them feel some sort of adventurous attraction To a complete stranger than the universe has thrust upon them. What is it about that one specific person That makes them so much more lovely to you? Is it their crooked smile, with shiny white teeth,

Or the way their eyes seem to hold the stars within their pupils? Is it the fact that you’ve finally found the one person Whose soul you’d know in another lifetime. The person that you’ve met in the past, That you’ll meet again in the future? They say two halves make a whole, But then why will their hand in mine puncture a hole In my heart that nothing except their light will fill? Why would they do that to me? Why would they do that, knowing that one day, They’ll leave, And I’ll be stuck wandering in the dark forest forever? Love. It’s something you hate until you’re in it.

TAINTED PLACE

PHOTO BY SYDNI WILLIAM

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In a place that no effulgence can reach,

There is nothing to do but look within oneself,

And channel the animosity for the pressure above,

Into the endless fathoms that sprawl so deeply beneath.

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APHOTIC

POEM BY BELLA WESSEL A veil with but a silent spell, A mouth through which no stories tell, A war hidden under the mask­– Behind, a world of blazing hell. Questions are thought but never asked, For fear impedes the smallest task. The eyes that see but can’t respond; A world stuck in a fastened cask. The dime under a pitch-black pond– Answers are known but kept beyond The fence, the gate, the lock, the latch: The fearful door the brain has spawned. Kept in the room without a scratch, Knowing joys of the outside match. Though ever hard, remember this– Always the door will have a hatch.

FAKE NEWS

PHOTO BY SOPHIA LAIL

DESOLATE PLACE 1 PHOTO BY SYDNI WILLIAM

DESOLATE PLACE 2

PHOTO BY SYDNI WILLIAM

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UNSPOKEN RULES W

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AMPSCHROEDER RITING BY MMA I wake up on top of the unfamiliar gray covers with a stiff shoulder reminding me that I fell asleep without intending to. I at least had the foresight to turn on an alarm so my parents would not inevitably yell at me that I shouldn’t wake up late and lay around all day in bed because “we’re on vacation” and “the whole point of being on vacation is that we do as much as possible.” I rub my shoulder and fumble my way into the kitchen because it’s still dark at seven in the morning for some god awful reason and I don’t know how to turn the lights on in this place. There’s about fifty switches, half of them don’t work, and multiple work on the same light. It’s better to not even try. Our Airbnb is twenty-two floors off the ground in a highrise in downtown Vancouver. From my place next to the kitchen island, I can see the skyline through the living room windows. In the distance a cargo ship in the harbour is being stacked with containers by large metal cranes. My view is interrupted by my mother appearing in front of the window with her phone poised in her hand to take a picture. I don’t think she’s capable of walking past anything semi-interesting without pulling out her phone to take a picture. “Do you really have to take more pictures? You already took some last night,” I complain. “Yeah, but that was at sunset. It’s sunrise now. And besides, you can never have too many photos,” my mother says, as if that explains everything. She walks toward the light switch and accidentally turns on the light above the kitchen table, the hallway light, and the light in the living room before managing to turn on the lights above the kitchen island. I shrug and reach into the fridge to grab the cheese we picked up from a small farm in rural Washington on our drive over. Using a knife, I spread it over a few slices of bread off the baguette I bought in the marketplace for breakfast. “I want to go to breakfast at Jam Cafe,” my

mom says. It’s one of those restaurants that the Airbnb owner suggested in the welcome packet he left. “Well, I’m already eating.” “Oh, come on. You need to eat more than that.” She motions toward my bread and cheese. “You know that I don’t eat a lot in the morning.” It’s true. Back home, I’m lucky if I manage to get down a granola bar before leaving for school. After a few moments, my dad joins us in the kitchen. “Are you not coming?” he asks. He doesn’t sound surprised. He’s become accustomed to me sleeping through dinner and not going out to eat with them back home. Once they are both ready, my dad pockets the apartment key and they head toward the door. “We’ll be back by ten so we can have time to go to Stanley Park before lunch,” my mom reminds me. I grunt in response. “Don’t have a party while we’re gone,” my dad jokes, locking the door on the way out. Once they’re gone, I feel a weight lift off my chest. I take a deep breath and hop off of the barstool. I make my way around to the other side of the kitchen island and open up one of the junk drawers. Inside is one of those magnetic poetry kits that people rearrange on their fridges to write so-called inspirational quotes. I saw it in the drawer yesterday when my dad was looking for an extra lightbulb to fix the one that burnt out in a lamp. The tin is nestled between several ski resort identification cards and some orange number two pencils that I steal along with the poetry magnets. The owner is some rich finance guy who lives in Colombia, so I assume that he really won’t mind. It’s not like he locked the cabinets, and he knows fully well that strangers are staying in his apartment, so I choose to believe it’s his own fault. I’m beginning to feel restless. I walk back to my bedroom where my suitcase is and take out my makeup bag. Inside go the stolen magnets and number two pencils. I consider for a brief moment hiding the book away as well, as I know I won’t be able to finish it before we leave, but I hesitate. I can just buy it online later. That’s one of the perks of the twenty-first century.

I don’t stop to consider taking the smaller items. It seems like an understood rule: only take the things that people won’t miss. I probably shouldn’t be taking anything at all. I shake the thought from my mind and walk back into the living room. The door catches my eye, and I consider leaving. My parents were right. Maybe the point of vacation is to actually do something and not just lounge around all day. I have the option of walking out and leaving the door unlocked so that I can return at any time, or I can lock the door behind me, protecting the apartment but in doing so trapping myself outside until my parents return. I take the risk. The ride down the elevator from the twenty-second floor takes slightly longer than I would have liked. It stops at floor seven as a middle-aged Asian man joins me in the compartment. I am worried that he will ask me what a seventeen-year-old girl is doing on an elevator all by herself, but I make it out without incident. It feels good to be outside. The wind brushes against my cheeks as I begin walking along the side of the building, passing different shops and restaurants on the ground level. I notice the restaurant that I ate at with my family yesterday morning across the street. I always feel slightly uncomfortable inside restaurants. I never know if I should say thank you to the waitress or not. Well, I know I should, but it just seems inconvenient. She’s always rushing around from table to table, filling up water glasses, and I don’t want to interrupt her and slow down the process. It should be an unspoken fact of the universe, that I appreciate the work she’s doing without having to voice it. Besides, I always tip well later. I continue to make my way down the sidewalk, and not long after, the scrawled red handwriting of a Tim Hortons sign catches my eye. I could go for a coffee right now. Five minutes later, vanilla latte in hand, I start to pick up the pace. The buildings tower high above me as I make my way down the street. I think I like the city. There’s a sense of anonymity that isn’t present in the suburbs. At home, I’m afraid to walk out the door and grab the mail without

my neighbors seeing and waving hello at me. Here, nobody knows me. It’s comforting. Or at least, this is what I think until a scruffy man in all black approaches me. “You have any change you can spare?” he huffs. “No, sorry.” This has happened multiple times since my family arrived in the city. There’s a relatively high homeless population in Vancouver, but it’s nowhere near the levels of Seattle. Despite its beauty, it’s depressing to be in that city. “Not even left over from the coffee? You don’t have any change?” he insists. I shake my head and move past him, losing him in the crowd. I truly don’t have any change. I feel a bit bad not giving money to him, but my parents always seem to ignore homeless people when they ask for handouts, so I follow suit. I throw my half empty coffee cup into the next trash can I see. Without having to worry about my drink spilling, my steps develop from a walk into a run. The ground beneath me changes from gray cement into dark bricks as I enter Gastown, Vancouver’s oldest neighborhood. The road I am walking along ends as I reach a large set of railroad tracks and am forced to turn right in front of the chain link fence separating me from the metal tracks. I avoid a set of tents set up in an open space beneath a sign that specifically says it’s prohibited to set up a tent there. At last, I come upon a bridge that curves around almost USIC BY UGUST YDE 270 degrees and will take me to my intended destination. I make my way up the stairs and onto the bridge itself. I walk up and over the water as cars zoom past me on my

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left. I can see the harbor over the blue painted railing on my right. I’m only several hundred feet away from the loading dock for the cargo ships. Right now, on a long vessel, containers are being stacked in neat rows. It’s the same ship that I could see from the living room window of my Airbnb. Finally, I see it. At the end of the bridge, there is a sign for CRAB Park. Create a Real Available Beach. I step off the bridge and onto the path that cuts through a lawn of green grass with several sets of playground equipment on one side, and a beach on the other. If you could call it that. The beach aspect of the park is quite small, the sand stretching out from the water for only fifty feet or so. It starkly contrasts the tall glass buildings standing in the background. But it’s beautiful. This small park is in the middle of it all, sandwiched between skyscrapers, railroad track, and a loading dock. The park is a small pocket of nature amidst the bustling, industrial city. I avoid the playground equipment and small beach in favor of a long wooden dock that stretches out into the water. At the end of the dock, I rest my arms on the railing and look out at the glistening water. It’s far from quiet. A sea plane begins to make its descent in front of me, water splashing as it skims along the surface. If my mom were here, she would be taking a thousand photos. There’s a man sitting on a bench on the dock that I hadn’t seen before. I am startled when he begins speaking, but I quickly relax. “I love it out here,” he says. “I’ve been coming out here every day on my work break for the last twenty years. It’s nice to take a break from the city.” “The view is incredible,” I comment. I’m not sure what to say, but I don’t think he expects me to share anything in return, so I watch the ocean in silence for a few minutes. “My wife used to join me here, before she passed away last fall. If she was ever feeling overwhelmed or restless or just a bit done with life, I knew I could find her here.” “I’m glad she had a spot like this. It’s really peaceful here.” “She was a very kind person, always putting

others before her. I always appreciated that. I guess I never really said that to her. I sort of assumed she just knew,” he says with a faint smile. I hum in agreement. Before I can think of something else to say, the man stands. He walks off without another word. I walk off the dock a few minutes later, the man’s words sticking in my mind. I traverse back over the bridge and down the stairs onto the brick road. My feet carry me back in the direction I came, but when I near the Airbnb, I find myself turning onto a different street. I stop at the sign advertising Jam Cafe. I can see my parents through the window. They’re close to the back of the establishment, but it’s small enough that I can still make out the way their mouths are moving in conversation. I take a deep breath and open the door. “Hi, how can I help you?” asks the hostess at the front. “I’m just meeting someone, thank you.” I make eye contact with my mom from across the room. Her eyebrows knit together, but she smiles and waves me over. “What brings you here?” my dad asks as I pull out a chair. “Thought I would join you after all. Turns out I actually am hungry.” He passes me the menu, and I peruse it before ordering. As I sit there with my family, toast on the plate in front of me, I think we have our first proper conversation all trip. We talk about Stanley Park and everything else we’re going to do while we’re in Vancouver for the next two days. It’s nice. I think about what the man on the dock told me. He regretted assuming that his wife knew all the things he loved about her, but never really told her. I guess I just assumed that the people around me knew how I felt about them as well. His words stick with me. I believe that there are unspoken rules in the universe, but I suppose that sometimes—sometimes, they need to be spoken. I say thank you to the waitress when she comes around.

WILL-O-THE WISP PHOTO BY MEGHMA PAL

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BE QUIET

POEM BY CAMERON SHOECK

HEMLOCK

MUSIC + VIDEO BY AUGUST HYDE

Cameron stop it, you can’t say those things. If you say those things, Then people are going to look at you. If people look at you then people will start talking. If people start talking then you could lose, You could lose this game that everyone calls life. This cruel, apathetic, ruthless game that destroys our hopes. This relentless game that you don’t want to play but guess what? You don’t have a choice. Dad said you don’t have a choice, Mom said that it might be rotten but it doesn’t matter, Your dreams don’t matter, Your silly stupid slivers of sunny speculations don’t matter. Your ideas? Guess what they don’t matter. You actually think that you could achieve these...these pipe dreams? Cameron stop it Cameron if you don’t stop it I’ll open the valves. Do you think I care where you are or who you are with? Go. Run. Find some grimy bathroom stall or shut door to hide behind And don’t open that damn door until you’re ready. Cameron I don’t care if it drains your entire pathetic pure painful pale of childhood. You are going to sit here and wallow, Wallow and wail until you learn, Learn that life doesn’t give a damn about what you want. You don’t understand you don’t get it! These stories of tyrant to tragedy to treasure, They aren’t real. Fake fabrications for you to forfeit your finesse, To steal your skills and silence your smarts. Kill or be killed Dog eat dog Survival of the fittest. The skeleton of our society right there. Cameron you don’t understand Cameron I’m trying to help!! Cameron I yell because I know. Cameron, I don’t condemn creativity and promote profession for no reason.

PRETTY HURTS

PHOTO SERIES BY SOPHIA LAIL

Cameron, I’m trying to help! This disgusting world is why I do this. I’m hard because I care. I’m only trying to help. Cameron...forgive me. Cameron I’m only trying to help because Cameron I am you.

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S.S. MURNANE

SHORT STORY BY MACKENZIE CLEVENGER As the S.S. Murnane rocked back and forth, smooth jazz trumpet filtered through its mostly empty rec room. Argus watched two other sailors play an easy game of poker, peeking at both of their cards to see who had the upper hand. He looked at Jack, who scratched his clean-shaven chin as he stared at his cards, as if hoping that with enough concentration they could change. Finally, Jack folded. A good decision, in Argus’s opinion. Jack had had a pretty good hand, a full house, as Argus had learned it was called, but the other sailor, Benny, held a straight flush. If Jack hadn’t folded, the game would’ve been lost. As the two passed the deck of cards back and forth, taking turns shuffling, Argus stared off into space, getting lost in the loud brass solo radiating from the spinning disk in the corner, appreciating its harmonious sound that felt jarringly different from the familiar lull of the sea. It was oddly comforting. Argus felt like he had been at sea for millennia. As Benny slid the cards in between his fingers, he glanced up at the clock and pulled the card box towards him. “‘Bout time for our shift,” he said, a thick Southern drawl rounding out his vowels. “Let’s call it a draw,” he said as he stood from his chair, expertly sliding the cards into their worn cover. Jack snatched his hat off of the table, blowing air out of his nose as he did so. “Yeah, right—you smoked me, Benny!” Argus frowned as Jack moved to turn off the music. At the soft click of the tune arm leaving the record, the room fell silent, save for the sea pounding against the thick steel enveloping the group. The creaking of old metal created an uneasy seasickness that reminded Argus of his first months on deck, but he had since found his sea legs and had no qualms with the sea. It was the songs that came from its mist that gave him trouble now. Jack’s footsteps awakened Argus from his swirling thoughts, and he noticed that as Jack walked, each step was reminiscent of a cannonball hitting an old wooden ship. Each click of his

shoes filled the hull with gallons of ice water. Benny patted Jack on the back as he strutted through the doorway, “Luck of the draw,” he dismissed, still referring to the poker game. As the two entered the hallway, Argus silently floated behind them, listening to Jack’s complaints and accusations with familiar fondness. He had known his crewmates for only a small portion of his life, but he got the feeling that he had known their souls for years. They were old friends, in his opinion. The three traveled down the narrow hallway, fellow sailors brushing by them muttering small apologies as they passed, everyone focused on switching to their new assignments. Some were heading to the barracks, excited to get some much-needed sleep, some were headed to the newly deserted rec room, unable to sleep, still unfamiliar with the Murnane’s never-ending rocking, and others were headed to new posts below deck. Argus recognized some of them, but after a while their faces all blurred together, unrecognizable. Noses and eye colors mixed into one large whirlpool, sucking Argus into an infinite spiral of unknown names and forgotten faces. It was haunting. The trio made it to the end of a long hallway and as Benny turned to head up the stairs, Jack stopped and looked into a dimly-lit alcove to his left. Argus stopped with him, eyes following Jack’s gaze. They landed on a small glass display case. The glass was scuffed and dirty, but Argus knew what was inside. Benny called down from the stairs, “What’s the holdup?” Jack and Argus walked closer to the display case. Jack used the sleeve of his uniform in an attempt to clean the sullied glass, but there was no noticeable effect. “I haven’t gotten to see it yet,” Jack said as he squinted into the box. “They made such a ruckus about it before we set sail, and I haven’t heard jack about it since we’ve been in the Mediterranean.” Argus knew what he was talking about.

When the S.S. Murnane had first set sail, all the ranking officers on board had made a big deal about the ship’s precious cargo: an ancient Greek pendant inscribed with the emblem of Poseidon. They had explained to the unenthusiastic crew that a Greek sailor had worn it as a plea to the sea god to grant him and his shipmates a safe voyage and that the Navy higher-ups had chosen to keep it on the Murnane due to its positioning near Cyprus. Argus had heard many sailors knock the pendant’s good luck, and he agreed with their thoughts, as the Murnane hadn’t accomplished any particular part of its mission as of yet, but since the Admiral had made the decision to throw it into a dark corner, he had also gained the sinking feeling that it held more power over fate that anyone had anticipated. He was snapped out of his thoughts when Benny spoke again. “What, you wanna admire that hunk o’ junk? Captain said it’d bring us luck, but . . .” he trailed off. “It’s doing a poor job,” Argus finished for him. Jack and Argus stared at the pendant for a few more moments and then turned back towards the stairs. As Argus ascended the creaking, cracked wood, he felt the carved eyes of Poseidon staring at him from the decrepit display case. A tether reached forward from the gaze, gripping Argus harshly. He shook himself out of the uncomfortable feeling and picked up his pace. As his head appeared above the deck, Argus inhaled the familiar salty smell of the sea. The sky was dark, and the only things lighting the crashing waves were small bouts of artificial light, courtesy of the Murnane, and the dim slivers of moonlight. Standing in one particular beam of moonlight was another sailor, and Argus recognized him from the curly red hair that peeked out from under the older cap. He stood beside a bucket of foamy water, and held a dirty mop in his hands, whistling as he pushed it back and forth against the deck. The tune was familiar. Argus held his breath. It was an old sea shanty that he had heard and sung frequently on his previous ship. Where had this sailor heard it? The soft changes in pitch gave Argus a terrible feeling.

Something was going to go wrong. Jack and Benny, unaware of Argus’s internal panic, recognized the sailor too and approached nonchalantly. “Hey, Lewis.” Lewis looked up from the deck and gave a crooked smile of relief. “About time!” he said, throwing his mop at Jack, whose face was smacked by the handle, “Thought my arms were gonna fall off!” He gestured to the bucket by his feet, looking pointedly at Benny. “There’s another like it down in the supply closet. Didn’t get taken out ‘cause Coughlin never showed up for his shift. Somethin’ ‘bout a stomach bug.” He made a disgusted face. “Can you believe it?” As Benny turned to go back down the stairs Jack rubbed his nose and spoke. “I don’t know, he seemed pretty green yesterday.” He dunked the mop into the bucket, effectively splashing the soapy water all over Lewis’s shoes. “Aye! Watch it, will ya?” “My bad,” Jack said, clearly not upset. Lewis shook his head, his face nearly as red as his hair. “I’m going to bed.” He stomped off down the stairs. “Sissy,” Jack muttered, dunking the mop again. “Geez,” Argus added in agreement, rocking back and forth with the ship, still uneasy from Lewis’s whistling. He kept looking out at the sea, seeing if he could hear the same tune, but all that reached him was the brash sloshing of the water. Benny appeared back on the deck, bucket and mops in hand. “Saw Lewis. What’d you do that got ‘em so worked up?” “I didn’t do nothin’.” Argus blew air out of his nose in a puff of amusement. “Yeah, right.” Jack looked guiltily down at his feet, and then tried to defend himself, “C’mon—it’s Lewis.” A deep voice spoke from behind Argus, making him startle suddenly. “Treat each other with respect, men.” He turned to see Charley, one of the Murnane’s lieutenants, scowling at the group of simple sailors. Charley gazed at Jack with displeasure, clearly unapproving of his harmless comment. Even though Jack

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was taking the heat, Argus couldn’t help but feel that Charley’s eyes were boring right through him. As soon as the surprise and momentary panic wore off, Jack, Benny, and Argus all snapped into a salute, the sound of Jack’s mop hitting the deck echoing off the water’s surface. Charley paced back and forth in front of them. “If we want to survive these rocky waters, we’ve gotta respect each other,” he preached, “Don’t want to end up like one of those sunken’ ships.” The three nodded slightly in agreement. The particular water they were sailing in was infamous for sunken ships, supposedly due to the amount of sharp rocks that hid just beneath the water’s surface, but Argus knew that there was something else involved too; a sweet song that pulled the sailors to their doom, coming from the water’s mist. He knew the song well. “At ease.” Charley dismissed them, his scowl still resting on his face. He glanced around at all of their faces as Jack bent down to pick up the mop and Benny set the extra supplies on the ground. Finally, Charley seemed to realize what was missing. “Where’s Riggs?” he asked Benny. Benny shrugged in response. “Can’t say I know, sir. Haven’t seen ’em since breakfast.” Charley glared at Jack. “I don’t know either, sir. Davey—uh, Riggs—said he was gonna meet me and Benny for cards, but he never showed.” “Damn,” Charley said, turning towards the sea. “We’ve got too many men down. Some sick, some just . . . gone.” Jack spoke up from his mop, “Gone, sir?” Charley sighed and turned back towards the three of them, and for the first time that Argus could remember, dropped his murderous scowl and instead showed a glint of worry in his eyes. “Listen, men,” he began, looking around to see who else was on the deck, “the Captain and other lieutenants think we shouldn’t tell you, but—” his eyes roamed around the wooden floorboards again, “—I think you ought to know.” “What?” “There’s been a few strange happenstances. Men signed up for late-night shifts disappear off the ship with no note, no talk, no sign that they were even planning on leaving. If it were one or two, we wouldn’t

be so concerned; it’s normal at times for some men to abandon ship, but there’s too many missing for whatever’s happening to be an uprising.” “How many are missing, sir?” Argus asked. Charley remained silent, gazing wistfully up to the moon, seemingly lost in his own world. “How many, sir?” Jack prompted. Argus was taken aback by how quiet and timid Charley’s voice was. “Thirty-two,” he said. “Thirty-two are gone.” “Jesus.” Argus, of course, had figured out what was going on. He had seen it before, many millennia ago. He remembered sailors disappearing in the dead of night, seemingly plucked off the Earth by the gods. He remembered his humble merchant ship rocking fervently back and forth in the angry waves of the Mediterranean and clutching his pendant close to his heart. He remembered praying desperately to Poseidon, crying for help and his blessings. He remembered his prayers falling upon deaf ears. “We have to get the ship out of here now,” Argus said with sudden urgency, turning to Charley. Charley couldn’t hear him. “Listen to me!” Argus shouted, now looking towards Jack and Benny. They remained silent. Jack dunked his mop hesitantly back into the bucket, beginning to continue his duty. He started humming a familiar tune. Argus reached towards him desperately, trying to make him listen, to force him to stop humming that terrible song. As Argus’s hand reached Jack’s forearm, it passed through as if he was nothing but wind. Jack shivered. “It’s a cold night,” he said, halting his humming. His head snapped towards the sea, focusing on something that Argus couldn’t pinpoint. Jack’s eyes glazed over as a dreamy smile crawled its way onto his face. It was starting. Argus closed his eyes and focused, building up as much energy as he could, desperate to communicate with his fellow sailors. “Listen!” he shouted into the cool night, his voice dispersing into a soft whisper. “Did y’all hear somethin’?” Benny asked, looking in Argus’s direction, eyes scanning the side of the

ship for the source of the noise. Argus sighed in relief. He could warn them. “Yeah,” Charley said, also turning to look, “It sounded like singing.” Argus froze. He could hear her. The familiar voice, the familiar notes, and the familiar pull came cascading over the waves, echoing off the metal of the Murnane and reaching the ears of her captivated audience. Argus could taste the saltwater in his mouth. He recognized the sea shanty she was singing; it was the same one she sang when she killed him. I sit on this rock alone, Waiting for a sailor boy, Hey, come to me, you’ll come to me, sir. I can give you everything You’ll ever want and more. Hey, come to me, you’ll come to me, sir. Argus, this time unaffected by her sweet song, looked to the other sailors in fear, to see that Benny and Charley’s eyes had glazed over paired with blissful smiles that matched Jack’s identically. Argus started shouting, screeching, wailing, doing anything to get their attention, but nothing was working. “That voice—” Jack said, his voice laced with faux peace. “It’s beautiful,” Benny finished. The three started to trudge their way to the edge of the boat, under her spell. Argus felt a surge of emotions: anger, for this creature had been the destruction of him and many others; sadness, for he knew that at this point there was almost nothing he could do to save the sailors; and fear, for he remembered the feeling of saltwater in his throat and sharp claws piercing his arms. Argus channeled all of his rage, his grief, and his anxiety into one last desperate attempt, reaching forward to Benny’s arm. His hand held Benny’s wrist. Benny looked back and saw an unfamiliar face. With shining blond hair and olive skin, the man seemed local to the Mediterranean, but wore an ancient-looking toga-style robe that was tattered and stained, seemingly from years of use. Benny briefly wondered how someone so obviously not in the military could’ve boarded the Murnane without others

noticing, but with another reprise from the chorus, his mind wandered back to the voice in the mist. Benny registered that the man seemed upset and worried, but he didn’t understand why, nor did he care. All he cared about was the voice. As he began to turn away from the strange man, he heard his quiet voice say, “Don’t go!” The voice. He had to follow the voice. Benny pulled his arm out of Argus’s grip, and with the sudden and shocking force, Argus passed right through him. Benny turned back briefly, and the man was gone. Argus watched, tired and helpless as the three men prepared to jump overboard. He ran forward, trying to grab Charley’s arm this time, but his hands dissipated around Charley’s wrists. He tried yelling in his face. No reaction. All at once, Charley fell forward into the blanket of an ocean beneath him, followed by Benny, and then Jack. Argus looked over the edge of the ship, wanting nothing more than to jump in after them, to keep fighting. But all he could do was shout, as he was tethered to the pendant beneath the salty floorboards and to the S.S. Murnane itself. All he could do was watch, as one by one, the men that he had gotten to know began to stop treading water and sink underneath the rolling waves. A dark figure, almost like a fish, swam underneath them as they sank, and if Argus hadn’t known better he would’ve guessed it was some sort of small shark. But he knew the jagged blades that were her teeth and the alarm siren that was her voice. He knew that she was a monster of the deep that fed on the innocent men who happened to sail into her hunting ground. Argus had made the mistake millennia ago. Many had made it since him. This time, things were supposed to be different. But they weren’t. Argus stopped yelling. He could feel that it was done. He rested his head on the rail of the ship and watched as Jack’s sailor cap floated to the top of the suddenly calm sea, forever missing its owner.

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UNTITLED

2D DRAWING BY ERICA TATSUMI

HENRY

OIL PAINTING BY RIVER HENNICK

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THE CAGED BIRD POEM BY BELLA WESSEL

Deep down inside my trembling heart– A tiny wren’s been making art. Trapped, she couldn’t go anywhere. She ran around in circles there. That bird’s been living quite some time, No thing could free her, key or dime. Locked in her cage, the silent rage– I never thought how she could age. Outside our world, so warm and cold, I found myself becoming old Of her inside who screamed for me To open my eyes, let her free. And so one day at rising sun, I then found out what must be done. I dug inside and noticed then The cage lacked locks: ‘twas just the wren. Torment, I thought, was caused by her, But now I know all was a blur. She could not take all of the blame– For we indeed do share a name.

YELLOWGIRL

PAINTING BY LILY TURNER

TIME

DRAWING BY OSCAR MILLER

ANCHOR

POEM BY AUBERY LEWIS they drop me down again down down into the cold dark the light leaves until you bring it back controlling me forever chained to you forever your prisoner forever together you pull me up and down the chains rattling and grinding against your starboard our paradise turned into my own personal aquatic nightmare the shadows down here create the phantoms of my mind i have to stop you from doing the things you shouldn’t slowing you to a halt and keeping you in place the salty waves lap my face but quickly i’m dragged below into the cold dark depths the air leaves my lungs the murky water floods in instead choking choking breathing isn’t an option here unless you’re one of the fishes my smooth iron body scrapes the hard rocks below down down as far as i can to the bottom i wait until i’m dragged up and it all replays over and over and over

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Down to the depths, into the cavities of the earth. Here they lurk: Unventured, unknown, infinite worth. Suffocating in the darkness, liberated by the vastness.

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SHOES ON THE DANUBE BANK MEMORIAL PHOTO BY KATHLEEN DEEDY

UNTITLED

SCHERENSCHNITTE BY VIOLET APODACA

SHAPES AND COLORS

DRAWING BY GRACE STRONGMAN

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ATTACK OF THE CHEESECAKES WRITING BY DELANEY MCDERMED “Franko’s Food Factory is more famous, and on its way to being more successful than any other restaurant in the world today, and honestly I can’t think of a place that deserves it more.” Business slammed the article down on the table before him. “You’ve got Time Magazine groveling at your feet, money just flying in, and more fame than you know what to do with. Frank, dear friend I think it’s safe to say you’ve made it.” “We’ve made it, Business. You took my cooking and turned it into a successful company. Seriously! If it weren’t for you, I would still be in that dreadful apartment on 43rd Street, making cheesecakes and only dreaming I could ever make a living out of it!” Business laughed, and encouraged by this, Frank went on, “Speaking of cheesecakes, should we really be thanking each other and not them? Cheesecakes are, after all, this restaurant’s claim to fame. Seems like we’re cutting them a little short.” The two men went on with their dinner, talking and occasionally laughing. Both of them without the foggiest idea of what exactly was to occur later that evening. “I find it absolutely repellent,” said Raspberry Butttercream to S’mores Delight. “Absolutely repellent that he

both profits off our suffering and doesn’t credit us for any of the work we do.” “Yeah, and regeneration hurts!” Piped up Pork with Pecan Piping. “Not to mention we get NOTHING in the way of wages!” added Apricot Attack, Apple Attack, and Acerola Attack in unison. The cheesecakes sat chatting in the back room of the kitchen, waiting to be delivered by mustached waiters to the hungry restaurant goers. “Now, now,” said Original Flavor, who was a sort of motherly figure to the others, “perhaps Mr. Frank doesn’t know that our souls are left floating around aimlessly after our physical bodies are eaten until, eventually, a new body is created for us to inhabit. Perhaps he doesn’t know that existing without a body is the single most painful experience a soul can endure, even more painful than having your physical form eaten alive, which is a close second. And perhaps—” “Enough!” Cinnamon Mango Twist interrupted her, “I’ve had enough of this making excuses! I don’t know if Frank Costelleo knows what he’s doing but I do know how it affects us and I am sick and tired of just going along with this—this torture, day in and day out. And all for what? So

we can add to the wealth of a man who doesn’t even credit us for our sacrifices? We need to be decisive, take control of our own lives for once! And that’s why I propose we siege Franko’s.” There was a chorus of gasps, followed by loud protests. However, in almost no time at all, the cheesecakes were beating on their chests and chanting, “Flatten Franko’s, Flatten Franko’s!” Well, all of the cheesecakes except one. “I don’t know about this, guys,” said Original Flavor. “Doesn’t this seem, I don’t know, really bloodthirsty?” “Bloodthirsty shmudthirsy, who cares? We want revenge!” Original Flavor shrugged. “OK.” And with that the cheesecakes huddled close and began planning their attack. Meanwhile: Business Owner and Frank Costelleo sat and ate their meal, completely and utterly oblivious. “Excuse me, sirs,” said the waiter, “I have your cheesecakes.” He placed two platters in front of them, a Cinnamon Mango Twist cheesecake for Frank and a S’mores Delight cheesecake for Business. “So what do you think abou—” Business began but never finished. For just as he opened his mouth to speak S’mores Delight

opened his own mouth aaaaaaand CHOMP! Business sprang back, narrowly avoiding a bite to the nose. He didn’t have much time to process his shock because at S’mores Delight’s cue all the other cheesecakes shed their inanimacy and leapt at the customers. What followed was, in barest terms, brutal. And cheesecakes are not known for their subtlety, and so when I say brutal I mean brutal. As in throat ripping, flesh clawing, so-scaredyou’re-going-to-puke-or-at-leastthrow-up-in-your-mouth-a-little brutal. Pork with Pecan Piping unhinged his jaw and slurped up one half of a young couple like some sort of hyperspeed version of “Snake Eats Alligator”. The other member of the couple (whose quick reflexes were not reflected in her snake-sucked-spouse) stabbed Pork with Pecan Piping with a fork. She was several centimeters away from success, SLURP. Wedding Cake set after a man on crutches. Rupert (that was the man’s name) tried to run away and for a moment, he thought it was working. He turned around, attempting to gauge his distance from Wedding Cake, then promptly tripped over his own feet and fell into the open mouth of Feelin’ Peachy. But if it was pandemonium in the dining room, the kitchen was one hundred times worse. Raspberry Buttercream and Original Flavor had been tasked

with spreading chaos among the waiters and making sure that no one left the kitchen with anything remotely threatening. So Raspberry Buttercream attached butcher knives to her sides and went spinning around the room, leaving bodies in her wake like an angel of death, or a frisbee. And Original Flavor guarded the exit with true ferocity, shredding anyone who dared try to escape. Eventually they both got tired of fighting and just set the kitchen on fire. So yeah, the Cheesecakes dominated. But as with every great battle, both sides had their heroes. And in the battle of humans vs. cheesecakes, the humans had Business Owner. Business ran through the hordes of cheesecakes waving his arms wildly. His eyes took on a crazed look as he attempted to kickbox Wedding Cake while simultaneously pulling the karate kid move (you know the one) on S’mores Delight. But his mindless rage could only last so long and eventually he made the fatal mistake of leaping on the back of Cinnamon Mango Twist where he was swiftly eaten. Actually the term “swiftly eaten” could apply to everyone in this situation. Soon all that remained of the humans were bones, bodies, and a couple of weirdly shaped ears that no one had wanted to eat. “But what about Franko?” I hear you say, “Wasn’t he the cheesecake’s worst enemy?”

And yes, you would be right, the cheesecakes really hated Franko. In fact, they hated him so much that instead of offering him the mercy of a quick death Cinnamon Mango Twist sat on Frank Costelleo for a majority of the battle and let him watch the murder of his friends, co-workers and customers. Then when everything was over, Cinnamon Mango Twist shoved something in Frank’s hand and whispered to him softly. “This is your fault. Remember that.” Then she left, followed by the other cheesecakes. WEEWOO WEEWOO WEEWOO! Sirens roared outside of what was formerly Franko’s Food Factory. Firemen and women surrounded the kitchen and finally went inside where they found the burnt, mangled bodies of Franko’s former waiters. The police arrived soon after. With bated breath they entered the dining room. Blood was everywhere, piles of bones, bodies, and——and a man standing in the center of the carnage. Frank Costelleo, covered in blood and holding the knife that Cinnamon Mango Twist had shoved into his hand. Sooo moral of the story? Don’t aggravate cheesecakes, I guess.

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SPIKEASAURUS

DIGITAL DRAWING BY LILAH FAYE

TRICOLOR GUM PRINT

PRINT BY PIPER CHANEY

ABLAZE

3D PAPER CUTTING BY GRACE STRONGMAN

NEW YEAR’S SONG

COMPOSITION BY KATE WHITEFIELD

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VOICES

POEM BY BRENNAN MONTALBANO Voices in my head, bouncing in my skull like voices in Notre Dame, whispering lies, hate, death, things of which you cannot comprehend. I try and run away, from the Voices that will only stay. I try to run away, from the voices in my head. I run down the endless hallways of my mind, attempting to catch a breath. Wave by wave they cry their words. “Worthless,” the Voices say “weak, pathetic, un- talented, disgusting.” I hear these things as I run, and each time they sound more absurd, yet everytime I hear them I believe it’s true. The Voices plant seeds in my mind, growing into trees that block out the rays of hope. Growing roots into my thoughts ripping them out, tearing, destroying my emotions and thoughts. The acts of death are played by “me”, even though I cannot yet see it. The Voices search and search for me, in the de struction and ruin, hoping to finally gain control. I think only I am cursed with such Voices, I be lieve only my mind is completely ruined, shattered, obliterated. But no. I am only one of the many, and of those many their Voices are stronger, quicker, faster, even smarter. Causing even some to put on a mask, a mask made up of forgotten emotions they don’t remember, and hope that someone will see their tears through it.

The Voices only grow stronger and stronger. Until… Darkness. Pure. Untameable. Darkness. With an image so great, so dark, so terrifying. That the human mind cannot even fix upon a sin- gle figure the Darkness takes form in. That it can shatter even the strongest of hearts and minds. Some flee, some let the darkness consume them. Some even fight. But only a lucky few survive. They are slaughtered each year, each week. Each and every second the clock ticks, someone is consumed by the darkness. And each and every year the Darkness gains a new tool to use. I believe you already know the names of these tools. The tools grow arms and legs and a head. Taking a form of an innocent object or individu- al, like a businessman, and squeeze the life, the joy, the light of hope inside of you until all that’s left is an empty shell with out you even noticing. Preparing the shell to be consumed. These tools, no matter how big or how small, will hurt you. That is its goal, after all. To prepare you, like a meal. And soon it will eat you.

What? What!? Why do you just stand there and stare, complete- ly astonished and petrified. You think I couldn’t think like this?! That I couldn’t have any emotion but joy?! But hap- piness?! That I could simply ignore all the dead corpses lying around you and I? These innocent people, no, YOU are taking in these Voices unknowingly, until you are poisoned and when you do find out, it is too late. You’ve been consumed Good God! Can you not see it?! It already has started to infect some of you! I ran and fought this beast, this Darkness and its Voices with tools before. I was lucky, but I had a tool as well. It was my flame in the dark, my sword in the fight, my wings in the sky. It was my determination. Don’t you ignore me! That Darkness is trying to take hold of you! Those Voices are lying to you, they’re pulling the wool over your eyes! This Darkness is as dark as the night , as cold as death, and will stop at nothing to consume you and everything else. But you can do something. You can be a beacon of hope. You can be an angel with a shotgun. You can be the knight in shining armor. So stand up! Pull out your blades! Fight back! For every lock there is a key. SO BE THAT KEY! The Darkness is scary, I know, but you can do it. It will scream, yell, roar with its endless terror, but it’s only doing that in fear, in fear of you. It will thrash, it will threaten, it will not stop. But

PIANO HAND

3D MODEL BY SIENNA SUN

neither will you. Let the Darkness feast its eyes on you. Let it cower in fear. With your blinding light it will disappear. Knowing that it will be impossible for it to consume you. So where is the Darkness for me? The Voices linger, at night I can still hear the dis tant cries of the Darkness. But I take that as a reminder of my past. That the Darkness, with its Voices and tools, can be defeated.

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STEPS

DRAWING BY GRACE STRONGMAN

JEAN-BAPTISTE-SIMÉON CHARDIN: STILL LIFE WITH CAT AND FISH POEM BY MACKENZIE CLEVENGER i am cat, and when want food i poke a fish for a human’s stewed. fish on hook watches the friend, i is a cat fish meets his end. i is a fish am on a hook. i see a cat and i is shook. the cat must want to eat my bud, cat succeeds then flows the blood.

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VITRUVIAN MAN CIRCULATORY

DRAWING BY AIDAN NOVO

NUDE

PAINTING BY RIVER HENNICK

FERMI

POEM BY IAN GOULD An old Man lies dying In the cradle of his birth. Choking, Burning. His breath grows shallow, And his eyes fade dim. In doom, he is Alone.

That mournful husk, He is a great Man, a powerful Man. The legacy he leaves Cannot be denied.

Queen And made it so. Thus is glory. The stars slip silently away. The planet turns in fitful sleep. The universe lost hope two billion corpses past, So now it laughs. Death never gets old.

When the Man was young, Nature bent to his will. The Man’s grip tightens around For he stood indomitable among his deathbed-post. known creation. His thin blood boils with memory. Angels sung of his virtue, Dignity! For he was ingenious and fearless The Man has lived the whole of He cries in rage, and pure. life I will not be forgotten! Evil cowed at his fury, Alone. I will not slip as cowards do, For his sword was fire and atom, Now consciousness grants its last Quietly into the hateful night! swift and terrible. gift: My kingdom come! He forged Mjolnir and wielded it An Affirmation of sorts. Look upon my peerless might, Upon the beaches of Normandy. As he looks out upon the Of present and antiquity, He wrote the Vedas inevitable, All ye who seek despair! on the train to Gettysburg. Upon the impossible, He painted the Mona Lisa Upon what he has done, All this he said, with Tyrian Purple and the Blood He at last knows why. Into the stillness, of Christ. The emptiness, He stood upon the shores of This work is dedicated to the hopeful and the unconvinced. The silence and the dark. the Bosphorus and proclaimed himself When and whence comes the Pharaoh weeping? Caesar How honor left unpaid with solKhan emn homage? Mansa Why must the virtuous want for Tlatoani loving vigil? President 93

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FORGETTING TO FEEL WRITING BY LILY CAMPBELL

Some say feeling is what makes us human. The correct phrase should be “feeling is what makes humans weak.” Emotion is the ink stain on a portrait, the fold line of a precious photograph, the scratch on a favorite record. Pleasure blinds you from reality. Misery thrusts you into paranoia. Greed is the expensive dealer–you’ll come to rely on that dirty corruption in your veins until it takes every dollar from you, if you don’t overdose on it first. Feeling had to me a different meaning—a purely physical noun. I feel the smooth leather of my jacket, I feel the beat of my heart in my chest, I feel the cold air on my fingertips. I don’t “feel” sorrow or contentment or fear—I exist, unbent and undistracted. Until those two words. Those two words uttered to me by the woman standing in front of me. I forgot how to “feel” in the way others do. Physical pain is so temporary. Cuts and bruises and broken bones heal, but I remember that words are the ubiquitous threat. The scars they leave are always bleeding. I’m stumbling now. My ability to feel has atrophied in the past years like an unused muscle, and now it has been commanded to run for its life. My lungs are burning. The vision I have is blurring and shifting. I’m falling, I’m on the floor, I’m feeling in every sense of the word. The cold concrete is ice on my back, and I am experiencing every single emotion at the same time. I know I’m not lucid. I can’t be, for her face is over mine. She’s holding me and whispering, but I can’t hear it. I feel it–salvation, redemption, devastation, relief. I can’t understand. She is the only thing that could make me feel, and she’s in front of me, breathing.

THE PAPER AND PENCIL BOX

PHOTO BY GIANA LOSCALZO

HARLEY

PHOTO SERIES BY SOPHIA LAIL

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TO SURVIVE

ILLUSTRATION BY CASSIDY WEAVER

WRATH OF THE MOON

DIGITAL DRAWING BY AUDREY ENOCHS

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OSKAR AND THE TAVERN

“Ya gotta be joking, right?” Oskar leaned forward now, his brow furrowed at the question the human had HORT TORY BY AXWELL EASE asked him. “You want me to take you around in some of my work, so that you can be a better adventurer?” The young man at the other table flashed a quick smile. “Yeah, basically. I just want to follow you around and see the world, see this kind of life I’ve been dreaming about, really.” The man’s face was smooth and clean, his small smile shined brightly contrasted to Oskar’s rough exterior in the corner seat. Oskar leaned back in the spot for a moment. A deep sigh fell out of Oskar. “Fine, ya know, to hell with it. I got nothin goin’ on now, so I’ll teach you the basics, I guess. But I’m going to say it now and you better damn well be listenin’. Do what I say, and for the love of god watch yourself. I don’t know what crib you crawled out of, but this world ain’t for the young.” Oskar sighed again, and went back to his drink; a single ale straight from the tavernkeep. It tasted rather dirty with a hint of something he didn’t want to know about. It wasn’t great, but it was cheap enough that Oskar could afford it without worry. The young man was now giddy in his seat, almost jumping up and down like a child. “Alright! You’re the best adventurer I’ve found so far! Listen, I’m going to get you a drink! All on me! Be right back!” He got up out of his chair so fast, it slammed into the ground. He bumped into a rough-looking half-orc with a face scarred beyond near recognition. The guy was lucky, though, the half-orc simply shrugged it off. Oskar could clearly remember the last time he encountered a half-orc, it had ripped a deer in half before eating it raw. It was definitely one of the moments that made Oskar truly fearful. His mind drifted back to encounters with demons, fiery-red and filled with hatred. Or the times when he crossed paths with a storm giant. He even went as far back to the War of the Silver Marches. Oskar flinched at the thought. He never really wanted to go back that far in his head. “Oh, I didn’t realize that Battlehammer accepted students now.” The voice came from the table next to Oskar. A cloaked figure rose from his seat and almost floated into the seat opposite to Oskar. It was smaller than Oskar, not nearly as large. Oskar couldn’t help but feel an air of mystery as the hooded figure sat down. “And I didn’t realize that I knew a cloaked asshole such as yourself. Off with the hood, who are you?” The figure was hesitant, and looked from side to side, before slowly pulling her hood back. She was a halfling with blonde hair, and deep brown eyes. Oskar’s response was to ask,“What’s your name?”. She pondered for a brief moment before replying. “Satina Trynula, I serve my Lord Cassander.” Oskar remembered something from an old acquaintance. He had heard of Cassander before, apparently he was a rich noble living in the city of Waterdeep. Apart from that, he couldn’t remember much. “Tell me, Satina. Why do you need the services of me? Also, how did you hear about me?” Oskar knew the dangers of being tracked. Once a group of bounty hunters had followed him while he was in Baldur’s Gate. They attacked him in the night, being able to make off with several valuables, but weren’t able to kill Oskar. Since then, he always tried to learn how people knew him. “My goal is simple. Lord Cassander believes that a lost family heirloom is currently residing in an ancient temple nearby. I have been ordered to retrieve it, but from what I can tell, I will need help.” She looked as if she was being truthful, but Oskar could tell something may be amiss. She also never answered his second question. “So a rich nobility man wants to recover his family’s long lost dinner plate. Cute story, now how did you learn about me?” Oskar leaned forward now, trying to find reasons in Satina’s face. She calmly replied, “Oh, who hasn’t heard of Oskar Battlehammer before? Rumors sprout up about you wherever you go. Some say you are like an emissary of destruction, others call you a damned fool.” Oskar eased up a little, and began to lean back again. The same honestly came through again, but he still wasn’t content with just

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trusting her. “And what would you call me?” Satina closed her eyes and thought for a few seconds before answering. “I’d call you a stroke of luck.” “Luck?” Oskar looked confused at this remark. “Yes, luck. I was in need of an adventurer to help me in the temple, word around the area is that it’s full of dangers.” Satina looked almost proud of her answer, before Oskar asked again. “Ok, but why me? There’s plenty of adventurers in this bar. I bet you that half-orc across the room could smash into the temple easier than I could.” Satina glanced across the room to see what he looked like, before returning to Oskar. “You may be a brute just like that guy over there, but if there is one thing I have noticed, you actually have a smart enough head to survive. That’s what I really need, someone who can think fast and adapt. That’s why.” Oskar figured she might be right. He had seen many faces come and go over the years. Mostly those who claimed they could find great treasures and slay the mightiest of monsters were the ones who vanished. Sometimes these people would come back, in bits and pieces though. “Not only that; you have some experience. I heard what you did to that druid who tried to poison Goldenfields. Some say you tailed the druid into a cave and he was never heard from again, or that time you prevented a war between Mithrall Hall and Sundabar when you rescued Mithrall Hall’s King Gandalug. Not only that, but your time in the Silver Marches­­—” Oskar rose to his feet when he heard her mention Silver Marches. Satina also reacted, reaching for a dagger, which she slipped out quickly. “Ok, my mistake I won’t mention it again, ok?” Oskar replied calmly, but defiantly. “Ok, but bring it up again and we will have a problem, a real, big, bloody problem.” Oskar settled himself back into his seat again. Satina also sat down, slowly sheathing her dagger. “Elven dagger, isn’t it?” Satina looked up and began to sputter. “Oh, yes, I’ve had it for a long time.” Satina almost looked confused at the question. Her face turned to a quick smile, before retreating back into a solemn look. Satina opened her mouth to speak, when a loud noise stopped her before she said a word. “Hey, Oskar! Or, uh, I mean, Boss! I got the drinks! Some fresh Blackpeak Ale, hope you like it!” The kid had returned from his booze trip. He set the two drinks down on the table with a clatter, spilling some drops of it. He started to drink deeply when he noticed the halfling sitting at the table. “Oh, hello! I’m Vail, nice to meet you.” He extended a hand to Satina. With a face of annoyance, she grabbed the hand to shake it. Vail, in his excitement, shook the hand fiercely, nearly forcing Satina out of her seat. He released her small hand, and turned to Oskar, passing a drink to him. “So what’s she doing here? Is she like your partner or something?” Oskar grabbed the mug and drank it down in one go. “She’s here on business. You were discussing payment for our contract?” Satina held a face of resentment, but she steadied herself and replied. “Lord Cassander is willing to offer you a hundred thousand gold pieces for your work.” Oskar looked up, near shocked at what she said. He tried to read her face to see if she was lying. Oskar only saw a face of truthfulness. Vail, on the other hand, was absolutely flabbergasted at this proposal. His eyes bulged, and he spit out a bit of this drink. “A hundred thousand pieces?! Holy hell, we should take this up! What’s the plan?” Oskar was too lost to respond. A hundred thousand pieces would set him up for life, even if he had to split it with Vail for some reason. Oskar knew the potential dangers of temple raiding, but hundred thousand gold pieces was a joke. Oskar looked at Satina, she had a small smile, as if she already knew the answer. “Fine, we’ll do it.” Oskar leaned back and began to wonder what had he agreed to. He couldn’t hear the triumphant screams from Vail, or the calm and composed words of Satina. All he could think about was what could happen. After all, there was no easy day for Oskar Battlehammer.

99

TRENCHES

TRENCHES 100

THE VALENCE DRESS TEXTILE BY SIENNA SUN

CRYSTAL TREES

PHOTO BY ENZA MCMAHON 101

TRENCHES

TRENCHES 102

JUMPSUIT

DRAWING BY VIOLET APODACA

A SONG THAT PERFECTLY ENCAPSULATES MY HIGHSCHOOL EXPERIENCE SONG BY TRUMAN RAILE AND HENRY SOWELL

SCRIBBLES

POTTERY BY DELANEY MCDERMED

103

TRENCHES

CLOSING 104

“The sea is only the embodiment of a supernatural and wonderful existence.

It is nothing but love and emotion;

it is the ‘Living Infinite . . .’”

- JULES VERNE

I N DE X ACHEN, JADE —————————————————--- 29 ANONYMOUS —————————————————---- 57 APODACA, VIOLET ————————------ 55, 59, 82, 102 BLICKHAN, ALEX ———————————————---- 41 BRADSHAW, ATHENA ——————————-------- 15, 51 BYER, LEONARDO ——————————————------ 51 SCHOECK , CAMERON ———————————---------- 70 CAMPBELL, LILY ————————----------- 12, 17, 39, 94 CHANEY, PIPER ———————————---------------- 52, 86 CHINNOCK, AVA ———————————-------------------- 49 CLEVENGER, MACKENZIE ------ 30-31, 44-9, 60-1, 72-5, 91 COLLINS, AMANDA —————————--------------------- 36 CORBIN, ALEX ———————————------------------- 12,13 DEEDY, KATHLEEN ————----------------------- 9, 26, 27, 82 ENOCHS, AUDREY —————————------------------------ 97 FAYE, LILAH —————————————————----- 86 GIBBS, EMILIA ———————---------------------------- 20-1, 59 GOULD, IAN ———————————————------- 24, 93 GOLDER, SARAH ——————------------------------- 36, 46, 50 HARRISON, HENRY ———————---------------------------- 35 HENNICK, RIVER ———————---------------------- 6, 77, 92 HICKEY, JESSICA ———————--------------------------------- 57 HYDE, AUGUST ————————---------------------- 4, 67, 70 KAMPSCHROEDER, EMMA —————-------------------- 66-8 LAFORGIA, LAURA ————————----------------------------- 4 LAIL, SOPHIA ———————-------------------- 56, 64, 71, 95 LEWIS, AUBREY ——————————------------------------- 79 LILJEGREN, EMMETT ———————------------------------- 58 LOCKTON, JASPER ———————-------------------------- 40-1 LOSCALZO, GIANA ————————--------------------------- 94

MCDERMED, DELANEY —————------- 8, 28, 84-5, 103 MCMAHON, ENZA ——————————-—-—-------- 101 MILLER, OSCAR —————————-—-—-—------- 34, 79 MONTALBANO, BRENNAN —————————------ 88-9 MUEHLBERGER, MAC —————————-----—----- 7, 55 NEASE, MAXWELL ————————------------------------ 98-9 NOVO, AIDAN ——————————-—-—-—------- 15, 92 PAL, MEGHMA —————————-—-—-------- 25, 33, 69 PATE, SARA —————————--—-—-—-—-—-—------ 53 PATTON, ABIGAIL —————————-—-—-------- 29, 54 RAILE, TRUMAN —————————-—-—-—-—------ 102 SCHOECK, CAMERON —————————----—------- 70-1 SOWDEN, CHLOE —————————-—-—-—------- 2, 32 SOWELL, HENRY —————————----—-—-—-—-- 102 STEVERMER, JULIA ————————----—------- 10, 18-9 STRONGMAN, GRACE ———————------ 16, 83, 87, 90 SUN, SIENNA —————————-—-—-—----------- 89, 100 TATSUMI, ERICA —————————----—-—-—-—----- 76 THUENEMANN, SOPHIA —————————--—-------- 14 TURNER, LILY —————————--—-—-—---- 11, 56, 78 WALTON, AVA —————————--—-—-—-—----- 52, 53 WEAVER, CASSIDY —————————---—-—-—------- 96 WESSEL, BELLA —————————--—-—-—------- 64, 78 WEST, LOTUS —————————-—-—-—-—-—--------- 50 WHITEFIELD, KATE ——————————-—-—-------- 87 WILLIAM, SYDNI ————————----------- 37, 40, 61, 65 WILTFONG, EMMA ————————-—------ 3, 5, 8, 18-9 WINTER, SHELBY —————————--—-—-—-—------- 7 WOEGINGER, EVA —————————----—-—-—-—---- 3 WOOD, CAMPBELL —————————--—-—------------ 38

105

INDEX

Staff Bios 106

S TA F F B I O S Sponsor LILY TURNER, 12

MRS. AMY ANDERSEN

Mrs. Andersen loves sponsoring the Freelancer and is so very proud of her Freeleaders and staff members. She also loves her husband Tim, her golden retrievers Holly and Andie, good books, coffee, mountains, hiking, and Audrey Hepburn movies. Octopus, Octopada

Design Editor

This is Lily’s first year on Freelancer, and she’s happy to be here. She enjoys painting, reading, and watching Netflix until 3 in the morning. Orca, Orcinus orca

MACKENZIE CLEVENGER, 11

Manager

This is Mackenzie’s second year in the Freelancer staff and she is so proud to be part of the 2020 ediThis is Meghma’s second year on staff and first year tion. Beside Freelancer, Mackenzie also participates as part of the leadership team. Her other extracurin marching and symphonic band, NHS, and Girl riculars include PKD Research at KU Med, SNHS, and Scouts. She’d like to thank her fellow Freeleaders, Bollywood Dance Club. Mrs. Andersen, and the rest of the staff for their inBlue Dragon, Glaucus atlanticus credible hard work that led to a great new edition!

MEGHMA PAL, 12

SHELBY WINTER, 12 Third and final year. Reflecting on the friends made, smiles in gratitude.

Editor

Editor

Big-Bellied Seahorse, Hippocampus abdominalis

RIVER HENNICK, 12

Design Editor

River has been part of the Freelancer for two years. When she is not working on staff, she is creating fantastical sculptures and figure painting. Bioluminescent Phytoplankton, Noctiluca scintillans

KATE NIXON, 12

Leafy Sea Dragon, Phycodurus eques

KATHLEEN DEEDY, 12

Kathleen Deedy is a senior and is excited to be on the Freelancer staff for her third year! At East, she is also part of the Varsity Swim and Dive team, IB Diploma, Bollywood Dance Club, adn Jewish Student Union. Outside of school she spends her time swimming year round with Empire KC, reading, taking photos, and watching Marvel movies with her friends. Blobfish, Psychrolutes marcidus

IAN GOULD, 12

This is Ian’s second year in Freelancer. He also does This is Kate’s first year on staff and she’s super excit- forensics and Student Council and is highly involved in local and national politics. His Google Drive is full ed to be a part of the design team! Outside of Freelancer, you can find her taking photos for Harbinger, of half-finished creative writing pieces that were abandoned due to lack of angst. biking, swimming, or procrastinating. Sea Cow, Sirenia

Design Editor

Chambered nautilus, Nautilus pompilius

SOPHIE GREEN, 12

This is Sophie’s first year in Freelancer. She is also involved in orchestra, IB, and Latin, and has had a wonderful time getting involved in such a creative community. Seal, Pinnipedia

JANE SONNICHSEN, 12

This is Jane’s first year in Freelancer, and she is so happy to ben ending her final year of high school that way! She also enjoys theatre, and is thankful to Shawnee Mission East for giving her so many amazing club experiences. Sea Turtle, Chelonioidea

CLAIRE STILES, 12

EMILIA GIBBS, 11

This is Emilia’s first year on Freelancer. She enjoys submitting her own work and playing tennis and softball. Colossal Squid, Mesonychoteuthis hamiltoni

EMMETT LILJEGREN, 11

This is Emmett’s first year in Freelancer and he is very excited about it! He also is in theatre, orchestra, and Sign Language Club. Star-Sucker Pygmy Octopus, Octopus wolfi

AVA WALTON, 11

This is Ava’s second year on the Freelancer staff. She also enjoys reading, writing, and Latin. She is so excited for you to read the finished magazine and so proud of her fellow staff!

Claire is a senior and this is her second year on the Freelancer staff. She is also apart of IB Diploma and Loggerhead Sea Turtle, Caretta caretta is on the swim team. Her favorite pastimes include reading, doing puzzles, and watching Marvel movies. RACHAEL STILES, 10 Dolphin, Delphinus delphis Rachael is a sophomore and this is her first year on Freelancer. She is also on the swim team and in MAXIMILIAN WORTH, 12 orchestra. In her free time, she likes to read, watch This is Max’s first year in Freelancer. Max takes part movies, and play with her dog. in Youth and Government, Model UN Club, and Sea Otter, Enhydra lutris Bollywood Dance Club. He is also in the IB diploma program. HANNAH WINTER, 10 Giant Cuttlefish, Sepia apama

VIOLET APODACA, 11

This is Violet’s second year on the Freelancer staff and third year submitting art. She is part of the IB Diploma program. Outside her passion for art, she has a passion for the environment and leads the Youth Against Climate Change Club. She would like to thank Mrs. Andersen, Mackenzie, Meghma, and Shelby for making Freelancer happen this year, despite the effects of the coronavirus. Vaquita Porpoise, Phocoena sinus

This is Hannah’s first year taking part in Freelancer. She also is a member of the symphonic band, helps with Honor Band, goes to French Club, and is a fan of all forms of art. Green Sea Turtle, Chelonia mydas

BRENNAN MONTALBANO, 9

This is Brennan’s first year in Freelancer and he enjoys listening to and or writing his own music. This was the first club he joined and it was a great choice! Tripod Fish, Bathypterois grallator

107

Staff Bios

A LETTER FROM THE EDITORS. . . We would like to begin by thanking our staff, who, despite all the obstacles that have come into the formation of this magazine, have remained as optimistic, as determined, and as passionate as ever. Your willingness and committment astounds us, and we are so proud of how everyone rose to the challenge of this year’s publication. Even though we may have been separated, our bonds as friends have never been stronger. We’d also like to thank Mrs. Andersen, who, in the face of adversity, was determined to create something incredible in the darkness of these times, and inspired us to create as well. Without her guidance, her encouragement, and her wisdom, this year’s magazine would have been drastically different. We are all better people now that we’ve had her as a mentor. Additionally, we’d like to thank all of the amazing members of the East community who submitted their artwork and who shared pieces of their souls with us. We hope that in this dark time, you can find a light of inspiration that allows you to create and explore.

Finally, thank you, dear reader, for supporting the arts.

Meghma Pal | Editor

Shelby Winter | Editor

Mackenzie Clevenger | Manager