Trick 2022

Freelancer Volume XIV

Shawnee Mission East High School

trick

Freelancer Vol. XIV W as So T h at Or Put Your

t h e i n fa n t ry o r n a m e n ta l

t o o k yo u r cas t l e was i t j u s t m e ?

g o l d - g l as s b e f o r e

d i m e c o l o r e d e y e s a n d m ay b e

The Freelancer S h aw n e e M i s s i o n E as t H i g h S c h o o l 7500 M i s s i o n R oa d P r a i r i e V i l l ag e , KS 66208

I’ l l

cat c h yo u

As I

m a r c h by

i

Table of Contents

ii

Diamonds 2 ————————————- Barky Tree by Enza McMahon 2 ———————————- Chameleon Batik by Greta Griffin 3 ————————————— Pink Lady by Isabelle Carter 4 ————————————— Painting Poetry by M Fischer 4 ———————- Watercolor Mosaic by Rowan Divadeenam 5 —————————————————- Lips by Lola Sidie 6 ——————— Wanderlust in New York by Enza McMahon 7 ——————————- Fruit Series by Rowan Divadeenam 10 ———————— A Peaceful Existence by Kate Whitefield 10 ——————————- Stairway to Heaven by Lillie Dirks 11 ——————————————- Koi Pond by Clover Tyler 12 ———————————— Ode to Kansas by Greta Griffin 13 —————————————- My Love by Sneha Thomas 13 ————————————- Unnamed Sun by Abby Stein 14 —————————————- Nova by Savannah Moore 14 ——————————————- dinner by Lucy Hamilton 15 ———————————————— Rain by Anonymous 15 ————————————- Hannah & Flute by Tracy Fan 16 ——————————————- Newton by Clover Tyler 16 ——————————— Crochet Flowers by Anna Wurst 17 ——————— The Surprise Party by Miles Lewandowski 17 —————————————- Flower Bat by Clover Tyler 18 ——————————————- Raincoat by Jade Achen 20 —————————————— Untitled by Maddie Doyle 20 —————————— Ode to Solitude by Kate Whitefield 21 ————————————- Bear Lake by Enza McMahon 21 ——————————————— The Lake by Lillie Dirks 22 ———————————- Painted Lips by Jessica Bounds 23 ———————————— Winter Solstice by Xochitl Suh

Clubs 26 ——————————- Please Storyteller by Audra Gibbs 26 —————————- Cinema City by Miles Lewandowski 27 —————————- Collbato, Barcelona by Anna Opelka 28 ————————————— Agelenopsis by Alicia Hoch 28 ————————————- Hippo Effigy by Livia Barbre

29 ————————————- Broken System by Lillie Dirks 30 ————————— Why in God’s Name? by Liam Howey 31 ——————————————- Mith by Nicko Friedman 32 —————————— Truest Company by Mick Leinbach 34 ——————————————- Heels by Athena Pecaut 35 ———————-​​ Measure of Success by Bryson Langford 36 —————————————- Kitchenware by M Fischer 37 ——————————- Flowers 1,2,3’s by Enza McMahon 38 —————————- Fugue on a Reunion by Audra Gibbs 40 ————————— Strings Attached by Bryson Langfrod 41 ——————————— Crotched Corset by Audra Gibbs 42 —————————- Chinatown Alleyway by Alicia Hoch 42 ———————— Rustic Inflorescence by Enza McMahon 43 —————————————- Forgiveness by Ajay Lohr 44 —————————— Sun & Moon Tarot by Roslyn Carle 44 —————— Guardian of the Kelp Forest by Elise Harding 45 ——————————————- Sundays by Ayla Ozkan 45 ————————————- HFH House by Joe Ferguson 46 —————————— Under the Blue Skies by Ella Heide 46 ——————————————- Escapism by Lillie Dirks 47 ———————— Love’s Freedom by Rowan Divadeenam

Hearts 50 —————————— Butterfly Effect by Anna Borthwick 50 ——————————— Estes Sunset by Enza McMahon 51 ——————————————- Sunny by Isabelle Carter 52 ———————————————— Clay by Anonymous 52 —————————- Waterfall Dreams Audrey Morehead 53 ———————————————— Decay by Lola Sidie 53 ——————————————— First Line by M Fischer 54 —————————————- Chiara by Anna Borthwick 54 ————————- Gaining Sight by Brennan Montalbano 55 ————————— Flickering Flames by Jessica Bounds 56 ———————- Love Poem to Love by Thomas Garmon

iii 56 ——————— Pink and Red Fringe Dress by Abby Stein 57 —————————————- Untitled by Abby Crossley

Joker 88 —————————- Brightworld by Brennan Montalbano

58 —————————- Waltz of the Lonely by Tommy Marx

88 —————————————— Untitled by Henry Krause

59 ————————————- Las Vegas by Athena Pecaut

89 ————————————- Loud Whispers by Lola Sidie

60 ————————- Hopeful New Year’s by Mick Leinbach

90 ——————————— Meaning Making by Ibrahim Sufi

61 ————- Through the Dark Field by Brennan Montalbano

91 ———————————————- Reborn by Alicia Hoch

62 ——————- Attachment & Avoidance by Charlotte Ball

92 ——————————— Chronometer by Fletcher Austin

63 —————————————- Underthings by Lola Sidie

94 ——————————— Glow Show by Rachel Bingham

64 ———————————————- Mom by Anonymous

95 ———————- A Night in Dystopia by Han Mellenbruch

64 ————————————— Ocean by Savannah Moore

96 ———————————- Gregorian Chants by M Fischer

65 ————————————- Sea Goddess by Jade Achen

97 ———————— Stitched Together by Audrey Morehead

65 ——————————————— Ocean by Anonymous

98 ———————- Depth of Dreams by Rowan Divadeenam 99 ———————————- Nais Tiger Moth by Alicia Hoch

Spades

99 —————————————— Monkeys by Jade Achen 99 ——————— I Do Not Like ... On My Skin by Ayla Ozkan

68 ———————————- Body Dysmorphia by Lola Sidie

100 —————————— Infinite Street by Thomas Garmon

68 ——————————————— Dear A by Alex Shrock

100 ————————————- All Eyes on Me by Lola Sidie

69————————————— Sweet & Toxic by Tracy Fan

101 ——————————————— Face by Charlotte Ball

69 —— An Occasional Poem for Children by Abigail Swanson

102 —————————————- Untitled by Lucy Hamilton

70 ———————————————- Gaddafi by Ajay Lohr

103 ——————————- Deliv-O-Bot by Han Mellenbruch

71 —————————- Piano Sonata by Miles Lewandowski

103 ———————————————- Reach by M Fischer

71 ———————————————- Invader by Alicia Hoch

104 —————— Moonbeams at Midnight by Riley Gaikowski

72 ————————————- Coming To by Athena Pecaut

107 —————— Beyond the Abyss by Brennan Montalbano

73 ———————————- Drab Fauna by Enza McMahon

107 —————— Nighttime on Steamboat Lake by Ella Heide

74 –––—————————— Trail to Paradise by Keely Hood

108 ————————————­—————————- Index

76 ———————————- Peco’s Home by Olive Goldman

109————————————————————- Staff Bios

76 —————————————- Dreams by Max McMahon

112———————————————Letter from the Editors

77 ————————————— Hotel Opera by Alicia Hoch 77 ————————— Mushroom Print by Audrey Morehead 78 —————————————— Snowglobe by June Hyde 79 —————————————————- City by M Fisher 79 ————————————- Moving On? by Charlotte Ball 80 ———————- Do You Remember?... by Athena Pecaut 80 ——————- Glowing Through Time by Rachel Bingham 82 ———————————- Lament of a Leo by Alicia Hoch 83 —————————————- The Deep by Greta Griffin 84 —————————— Eleutheromania by Jessica Bounds 85 —————- My Lovely Overload by Brennan Montalbano

Table of Contents

58 ——————————————- Disillusion by Lillie Dirks

DIAMONDS

The G r av i t y

s k y at n i g h t , a m i l l i o n s ta r s .

m ay p u l l yo u d o w n , b u t t h r o w yo u r h a n d s u p i n t o t h e a i r ,

For

yo u a r e h u r t l i n g t h r o u g h s pa c e .

And The

l i f e m ay n e v e r b e t h e s a m e ,

r a i n m ay b e fa l l i n g , t h e t i m e s m ay c h a n g e ,

And

i s n ’ t t h at a n e xc i t i n g t h o u g h t ?

DIAMONDS

2

Barky Tree

Photography By Enza McMahon

Chameleon Batik Textile BY Greta griffin

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Pink lady

Painting BY isabelle carter

4

Painting Poetry

DIAMONDS

poetry by M Fischer

I was thinking about painting poetry

I wonder if my poems would be friends

But how scary would that be

I fear they wouldn’t get along

Because I know the end result

I have a lot going in my head

Would be a million versions of me

And some would call others wrong

Each one baring their scars

I was thinking about painting my poetry

Baring their smiles and tears

Elements of the same mirrored soul

And maybe that’s why I should do it

Many parts and pieces of me

And maybe I should conquer my fear

Never quite showing the whole

WATERCOLOR MOSAIC

mixed media BY ROWAN DIVADEENAM

5 Diamonds

Lips

Ceramics BY Lola Sidie

6

Wanderlust iN New York

DIAMONDS

SHORT STORY by Enza McMahon

It is a dark and stormy night. Lightning sets the sky aglow, and thunder follows like rumbling waves. It is also sopping wet, pouring rain outside. This makes poor Egbert ruffled because he doesn’t like the rain. He is stuck in the rain, but at least he is sheltered, sort of. He made a deal with his employer, Tony, that if he worked for the Central Park Petting Zoo, he could live there. He gets paid with a place to stay every night, and not with actual money. The Central Park Petting Zoo is right next to the actual zoo in Central Park. There are also a bunch of arches (what the park likes to call bridges) nearby where the homeless people sleep. Egbert is always jealous that they get to stay dry when it rains out while he is stuck without a roof over his head. There are statues dispersed throughout the park as well. The Balto statue scared Egbert once because he thought it was a wolf. He ran away fast from that statue, and that’s how he got his job working for the petting zoo. The one thing Egbert hates about his job, which he is certainly grateful to have, is that he has to stay there overnight. When he made that deal with Tony, he was told that if he wanted to sleep there, he had to stay in the petting zoo grounds. Since he works allday shifts there, he isn’t ever allowed to leave. Egbert missed the outside world dearly, so he found a way to escape. He didn’t take advantage of it at first, because he feared he would lose his job. Eventually, though, his cabin fever got the best of him. He wasn’t born to be cooped up his whole life. At first, he just stuck with walking around Central Park. He would walk on the road next to the petting zoo so he would never get lost. Eventually, he ventured out onto the grass, and he would hang out

with the fellow homeless buddies. They always made room for him under their bridges, and if they were in a really giving mood, they would feed Egbert some scraps of food they got. He would eat anything as long as it wasn’t meat or animal products because he is vegan. Over time, he decided he wanted to venture out of the park. After all, his dream is to have a family and live in a house. He just had to find the right chick to get married to first. Luckily, there is a crosswalk right by the petting zoo so more people can visit it. That meant Egbert could safely get across the street without getting run over by cars. Even though there weren’t people walking on the sidewalks because it was late out, there sure were a lot of cars. He got comfortable enough to go up and down 65th, 66th, and 67th streets, but he never went past Madison Avenue. On this particularly stormy night, Egbert realizes his sleeping quarters are flooding. He breaks open his escape hatch and ushers some other employees out of there. He walks to a bridge to see how his homeless buddies are handling the rain. When he gets there, he’s greeted by Jeff, his best homeless friend. “Hey, it’s Egbert, everyone!” Jeff says. “Egbert! What are you doing here? I never see you when it rains out,” Greg asks with a puzzled look on his face. “I hope all is well buddy. It’s rainin’ cats and dogs— er, a lot—out there,” Jeff pipes in again. He grabs a ripped up poncho and turns to Egbert. “Here, bud. This’ll keep ya dry.” In a few minutes, Egbert is tied up in waterresistant poncho scraps, and he’s ready to walk

fruit series

paintings BY rowan divadeenam

closed shops. There are a lot more shops around here than over where the petting zoo is. Luckily, they’re all closed. Egbert doesn’t like to be seen by many people. People either hate or love to see him. That’s just the way it is if someone is homeless like Egbert. After a few blocks of walking, Egbert sees someone. He tenses to see what she’ll do when she sees him. At first, she doesn’t seem to see him, and then she starts laughing. Egbert wonders why this lady is being so strange, and then his eyes wander to the store name on the door. This is a dentist’s office and an oral surgery center. This lady, likely, just got emergency oral surgery. Egbert and the loopy lady walk down the street for a few blocks, and they strike up a nice conversation. It’s pretty one-sided, but still nice. Eventually, she has to leave, though. They part ways, and Egbert is bittersweet about it. He is happy she won’t remember him (and if she does, no one will believe that she saw him because she was on loopy medicine), but she was very fun to be around. Egbert remembers that he needs to find his way back to the zoo. He turns down a random street with confidence that he’ll be home—well, at the petting zoo—soon. This street is different from the other streets he was on earlier. It had closed restaurants and a museum on it. The museum was an art museum called “MoMA.” It reminded Egbert of his mother, who he also called “Moma.” He will have to remember to come back someday. That is, if he can remember how to get there again. When he reaches the end of the street with the restaurants and museum on it, he notices there are lots of people. LOTS of people. What could these people possibly be doing at four in the morning (at least, that’s what the clock says)? He also sees screens. He sees oh-so-many screens. Egbert shies away from the lights and the people. He needs to calm his mind and find a way home,

7 DIAMONDS

around without getting too cranky and wet. He’s about to leave when Jeff pats him and says goodbye. The homeless men are a jolly group. They definitely make the best of their situations. Egbert finds the street that leads to his zoo so he can check and make sure everyone is okay, and the animals are fine. He walks down the road for longer than he expects. However, he loses track of how long he has been walking because he keeps getting distracted. Eventually, he wonders if he should just turn back, but then he comes upon a street with cars running along. This definitely isn’t the petting zoo... He thinks about whether he should go back or continue, and he settles on continuing. He’s in an adventurous mood today. Plus, he has his nifty makeshift rain coat to keep him dry. Egbert walks to a crosswalk, and waits for the symbol to change to the walk. After he crosses the street, he sees many unfamiliar

DIAMONDS

8

but he needs to hide first. He hastily speed walks to some boxes in hopes of hiding in their shadows. While he’s thinking, someone spots him and yells, “CHICKEN!” People stop and stare now, and Egbert is discovered. He understands why everyone stares. It’s not everyday there is a chicken running around in New York City. That doesn’t make him feel any better, though. As he looks around, he sees lots of phones. People are taking photos, taking videos, and talking to other people on those phones. He suddenly feels intimidated by that. Egbert is debating running or slowly backing away down the street he just came up when he hears sirens and sees flashing blue and red lights. A black and white car with lights pulls up, and two guys step out. One man is a taller, African-American man with a thin mustache. The other is a shorter, squatter white

man with stubble. They casually walk over to Egbert, and he tenses. “Um, sir, do you have any ID on you?” asks the squatter man. “Dude, he’s a chicken. Of course he doesn’t have any ID!” the guy with the mustache says to the first. Little do they know, Egbert understands them. He raises his wing that has his tags on it, and waits for the officers to inspect them. “Huh, Central Park Petting Zoo. Is that where you’re from, little guy?” asks the man with the mustache. Egbert chooses not to answer that question with a head shake. He knows how disappointed Tony will be in him for leaving. Sure enough, the officers call Tony, and he refuses to take Egbert back. The officers lead Egbert to their police car, and drive him to the station. Egbert waits patiently on the springy bed to be

Egbert because to him, she smells like a fire. She is so happy to see him that he relaxes a lot more. She informs him about her house, her other chickens, and his new chicken coop. As Egbert and Ivy are leaving to go to his new home, the police force gathers by the doors which surprises Egbert. They clap and say their goodbyes to him, and he realizes that they weren’t that bad. It is a nice little farewell party. Egbert and Ivy get into her little green Beetle car to drive to where he will live now. They pull up to a quaint little apartment. Ivy leads Egbert up to the roof where a spacious, artsy chicken coop sits. He spots some friendly-looking hens, and he looks up at Ivy. She returns his look with an enthusiastic smile. In that moment, he decides he will like it—no, he’ll love it—here.

9 DIAMONDS

sent home. He is worried because he has nowhere to go, but he’ll find a place once he can leave. After what seems like hours, an officer walks in to talk to Egbert about what will happen to him now. The officer says that he got a call from a nice lady who saw Egbert on the news. She called the police immediately to see if she could take Egbert home. After some convincing with permits and her coop dimensions, says the policeman, they decided she can take him home. The policeman says she’ll be there in a few minutes to pick him up. Then, the police officer leaves and mumbles to himself that he is crazy for talking to a chicken. Egbert doesn’t catch that part, thankfully. This day has been too much for him already. In 25 minutes, a woman called Ivy walks in with a wide smile on her face. She has little flowers in her red hair, and she smells like incense. This startles

DIAMONDS

10

A PEACEFUL EXISTENCE POEtry by kate whitefield

Picture a little bay window and me, Overlooking the canal just below. Maybe at some point it brushes the sea, But while secluded here, I cannot know. Picture a canoe, and picture me there, Under the sky that Van Gogh must have seen. A guitar-laden friend perched on a chair, Strums something simple and soft and serene. Picture the pasta I’ll eat everyday, And sylvan routes I will walk when I’m fraught. Picture the big bed of bread where I’ll lay, Basked in bounteous, freshly-baked thought. Plenary peace, what a sought-after sound, I yearn for the day it’s finally found.

Stairway to heaven Photography BY Lillie Dirks

11 DIAMONDS

koi pond

illustration BY clover tyler

12

An Ode to Kansas

DIAMONDS

poetry by Greta Griffin Kansas, where to start?

We’ve got Wichita, Emporia, Lawrence, Manhattan,

How about with Superman and Amelia Earhart?

Dodge City, Strong City, and Matfield Green.

Cause man look at them, oh so high,

And those are just a few of the places I’ve seen.

I think that just proves that Kansans are super fly. It’s even on our flag: “Ad Astra per Aspera,”

The people here are nice,

So tell that to whoever asked ya.

I would know considering I’ve lived here my whole life. This conversation I’ve heard often repeated:

Kansas: home to... yeah that’s right, We got the biggest ball of twine,

“Ope! Sorry” followed by “No, you’re fine!” and there you have it: that conversation completed.

And the best darn barbecued swine!

And let’s not forget our constant use of “ope,”

And wow, that view is hard to beat.

An expression that is, apparently, only a Midwestern trope.

Who needs the beach? We’ve got oceans of wheat! Now if you can’t tell, I love my state, We’re America’s breadbasket,

Even though our lack of intrigue, I used to hate.

But there’s one touchy topic that’ll put you in a casket.

So we don’t have a team, why worry?

So not one more mention of Dorothy and Toto,

We can just steal one from Missouri!

and I don’t want to hear about the yellow Brick Road!

And y’all have to admit, our BBQ’s first-rate. So there you have it, my ode to my state.

Yeah, we’re the sunflower state, and Kansas may be flat as pancakes, but at least we don’t have to deal with earthquakes. Right, California? Though I will have to warn ya We are tornado alley. Though you don’t have to worry, We’re not on every first Wednesday. Our home on the range, where the Buffalo roam, and the deer, and the antelope play. And you’re wrong if you say Arkan”saw,” Because, I don’t know if you see what I saw, But it’s clearly pronounced ArKANSAS.

Now I gotta go, Ted Lasso’s on, and I don’t want to be late!

13 ILLUSTRATION BY Sneha Thomas

Unnamed Sun Digital Art BY Abby Stein

DIAMONDS

My Love

14

NOVA

DIAMONDS

PAINTING BY SAVANNAH MOORE

Dinner

POETRY by Lucy Hamilton a dog, one much older than me, sat along my side at the dinner table. she was my only company, so i paid her back generously by tracing along her spine. i reached out to stroke the white hairs sprinkled along the blonde fur like salt. slowly but surely she decided to walk away, and as she did i whispered after her. “babushka! babushka!”

15

Rain

POETRY by anonymous

DIAMONDS

Droplets of rain, coming down Pitter, patter, the only sound Rain, rain, don’t go away Your presence always makes my day With summertime, comes the sun Its foul heat spoils the fun Clouds form in daytime heat A cooling shower, nature’s treat When it’s pouring one can’t miss The feeling of overwhelming bliss A touch of chaos within tranquility Moving peacefully with no stability Soothing sounds and erratic motion Incite within me a certain notion That living like the rain is key No direction, happy and free

Hannah & Flute

Digital Art BY Tracy FAn

16

Newton

DIAMONDS

ceramics By Clover Tyler

Crochet Flowers

Textile BY Anna wurst

Flower BAt

THe Surprise Party SCRIPT BY MILES LEwandowski

DIAMONDS

Illustration BY CLover Tyler

17

DIAMONDS

18

RAincoat

illustration BY JAde Achen

19

DIAMONDS

20

ode to solitude

DIAMONDS

Poetry BY kate whitefield Brief, thoughtless solitude Carried by the night.

Relish in ephemeral sleepiness And prolong the invasion of sight. Screaming, dreaming solitude Carried by the sun. An afternoon’s fiery diatribe May end as quickly as begun. Quiet, honest solitude Carried by my tears. Compliance with this derelict Is music to my ears. Final, restful solitude, Carried by ubiquity. To be so often alone, from womb to stone, Is not, to me, iniquity. This is my ode to solitude, For in a world wrought with calamity I make a peace within myself And choose internal amity.

Untitled

Photography BY Maddie Doyle

21 DIAMONDS

lake

photography BY lillie dirks

BEAR LAKE

PHOTOGRAPHY BY enza mcmahon

DIAMONDS

22 Painted lips poetry by jessica Bounds

Might I kiss your painted lips,

Might I kiss your painted lips,

Soothe your furrowed brow?

Touch your furrowed brow?

Might I hold your face so close

Might I grasp your hand so tight,

As our bed begins to bow?

Repeat our wedding vow?

And might I take off all your clothes,

And might I watch as your eyes grow cold,

Touch you long as you’ll allow?

As I wonder how?

Might I place your dress just so,

How I loved you,

Paint you as my muse?

How I lost.

Might I brush on your painted face,

How I kissed you,

Use colors that you choose?

How we fought.

And might I help you to your feet,

And how I let you go,

Teach you how to walk in my shoes?

How I knew the cost.

Might I ask a favor of you, Hope you please say yes? Might I cry into your shirt While you kiss away distress? And might I have you by my side Just to feel your soft caress? Might I hold you oh so close, Only for you to pull away? Might I ask you how you do As you shake throughout the day? And might I wipe away your tears, Forget your skin, turned grey?

23 DIAMONDS

Winter Solstice Illustration BY Xochitl Suh

CLUBS We

a r e m o r e t h a n w h at e v e r w i n t e r d o e s t o u s , a n d w h e n o u r

f i n g e r s s t i n g a n d b l e e d aga i n s t t h e w h i t e s n o w , w e o n ly ba l l o u r h a n d s i n t o f i s t s a n d g r o w l ay e r s o f ca l l u s e s , a n d a f t e r t h e l as t f r o s t f i n a l ly m e lt s away , t h e r e i s o n ly c o l o r , f u l ly b l o o m i n g bright, and we are reaching– reaching– forever reaching– for our future.

Winter’s

d e at h i s h a r d , b u t s o i s

Spring’s

growth.

26

PLEASE, STORYTELLER

CLUBS

POEtry by AUDRA GIBBS

Tell me a story A story of joy and fear and anger and sorrow, Of lingering laughter and missing tomorrows. Where we cling to our hope, but it’s torn from our hands— I want to jump forward, but we must walk to the end. A story where an- and pro- (tagonists), alike, Have hurts buried deep, so they won’t come to light. One character halts when a clean edge erodes, One’s mouth fills with mud­­—to lighten their loads, One wins and wonders if they’re worthy of gold, One searches for crystals, but everything’s stone, One simply wishes to see the world’s code, One scans up and down for the bumps in the road, One’s always running—whe’er the wind blows, One’s layers of armor won’t let them go, And one chokes down powder, so nothing explodes. In the end, let them learn of the strength of their hearts, Learning to love beside sorrows and scars… Tell me a story

CINEMA CITY

SCRipt BY MILES LEWANDOWSKI

27 CLUBS

COLLBATó, BARCELONA ILLUSTRATION BY ANNA OPELKA

28

agelenopsis

CLUBS

photography by Alicia hoch

HIPPO WATER EFFIGY Ceramics BY LIVIA BARBRE

29

poetry by lillie dirks

Join me beneath the crushing water, The metallic sea of tangible, illusory blood. Never partake in the kind man’s slaughter. Follow the lost-lamb daughter, She knows the way to the world beyond the bud. Join me beneath the crushing water. Justice serves only to rot her. No true equity is covered in mud. Never partake in the kind man’s slaughter. The words of wisdom reflect the author, Know the man whose voice initiated the flood. Join me beneath the crushing water. Promises mean nothing when their heart will falter Before the truth seeker; feather is lighter than dud. Never partake in the kind man’s slaughter. Life will test you, child, but remember: Only the dead fall with irrefutable thud. Join me beneath the crushing water. Never partake in the kind man’s slaughter.

CLUBS

broken system

WHy in god’s name? Performance Poetry BY Liam Howey

CLUBS

30

Ok, let’s address the elephant in the room There are too many Michaels. Michaels and Mikes, Mikey, Mickey And just about any last name. Michaels? There are simply too many of you. I’ve got nothing against Michaels, most are great I obviously mean no hate, I work with two of them But there’s more than a few of them And not to be rude to them, But there are things to be named in lieu of Michael. You might think I’m attacking Michaels, That I’ve got something against Michaels, I’m disgruntled somehow But I’ve got no intent of a row If you’ll just allow me a moment I vow, I promise I’ve got no malice But I will profess my assessment, Because I wager The implications of the nature of the nomenclature in our nation May be more major than we thought.

I really mean no harm by the point I make Because, for you, Michaels, My heart deeply aches. Objectively, statistically, There are simply too many. There are about 4.5 million Michaels Alive in the United States 9 million syllables worth of names Made from this one title And that’ll continue As we spiral down this cycle And generation after generation We generate more Michaels. Now, there are almost 330 million people in the United States Which, once we calculate Puts the American population at about a 1% rate Of being named Michael. If you were to roam the streets Each person in the front, back, or further back seats Greeting each one, One in one hundred people who you meet Will be referred to by this same sound Or whatever variation or nickname or shortening they’ve found. Because there are actually so many Michaels around That we’re oversaturated And because of this Michael crisis that we’ve created The name itself has slightly faded. There are so many people who share this title That we’ve now a tidal wave of ways to say it Or, I guess, not to. And through its popularity This name has risen to fame

From so many figures of notoriety. There’s musicians like Buble Scientists like Faraday Some rock like J. Fox Or Jackson, King of Pop. Pence to Ondaatje, Fassbender, Vick, and Stevens, A fake and real Myers, just to keep it even Athletes, like Phelps and Norman And keeping it simple, there’s not only Jordan But also B. Jordan And before this bill becomes a burden I’ll stop and hope you’ve heard enough To see that my argument is more than froth and fluff. There really are just too many Michaels. I’m a big fan of names. And, having named a thing or two Can name a thing or two about naming. Not that I’m claiming to be an expert Or proclaiming superiority in taxonomy But I do believe that my names have some meaning And aren’t all too awful And that, in them Lies some insight into our Mike debacle. A water bottle named Club It’s metal and good at hitting things. Simple. A receipt-stabbing apparatus, At my place of employment Its name is Brutus, A name now shared by two of history’s greatest impalers. These names have meanings, like all

courtesy and politeness What better to observe than the beauty of one’s being? So, you know, I may have been too harsh And we return to the start Where I will confess to my farce. For, Michaels, all millions of you out there Stay firm in your resilience For I have come to the consilience That like all names, yours is brilliant And each time you hear it, Believe that someone is so glad that you’re existent.

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names So what about Michael? Where did we figure out this name anyway? There are so many to whom this sound fundamentally defines their identity And if we seek to remedy this plague before it grows exponentially So we may save the fates of our posterity Even though it may be a lovely label We’ve got to understand the name. And as can be claimed By names of the same fame Like Joshua and Jacob and Jude and James, In just the same way, The blame of the existence of Michael Can be placed on the Bible. It’s a Hebrew name And acclaims its owner as a gift from God. And, in a way, knowing this, My state of mind on the state of Mikes begins to twist, because This argument isn’t religious but linguistic, And, principally, What is a name but a form of respect? And who am I to stand in the way of a word Which can remind so many That someone admires that they are alive? As we inspect the expectations of those select ways In which we’ve elected to project ourselves, A manifestation maliciously malused mainly out of willful neglect; A battle to be correctly distinguished, So many people with a desire for

Mith

Digital Art BY Nicko Friedman

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32

Truest company SHORT STORY by Mick LEInbach

After a lengthy expedition in the chilled forest, I’m finally just one day away from returning to civilization. It’s been lonely out here. The trees shake and rattle against each other, creating nature’s single collective sigh. As one of these comes through, I stick my finger in my mouth and hold it up. The breeze tickles against it, and a fact from my intuition bubbles up to the surface: There’s going to be a storm tonight. A big one. No matter how fast I try to travel, I won’t be able to get back to civilization in time. Icicles jut down from branches. Each of my effortful footsteps crunches the snow. All sound but the wind is muffled. My backpack’s soaked from multiple waves of melting snow. Inside, there’s little more than my axe. Everything else has been used up. I’ll need to work quickly. I spend the few hours I have chopping wood so I can survive. If I can survive this one night, I’ll be able to get back to humanity. I’ll be able to return to company. As I chop away for hours on end, the trees above me whisper and whisper and whisper. Transporting the wood is always a burdensome process. Wood is stubborn. It doesn’t like to be moved. Nevertheless, in a respectable amount of time I am able to gather all the materials I need. I certainly don’t have the time or resources needed to build a shelter, so I instead find a cave. It’s certainly not inviting, but it’s deceptively cozy. The passage twists and turns so early that you can evade the brunt of the outdoor’s cold weather by going only a twenty seconds’ walk into its passage. I spend the rest of the day piling up firewood until the sun’s setting. It’s do or die time. The wind screams outside. Despite the cave’s many turns, some wind navigates its way to where I sit. My fire roars and envelopes me in whatever warmth it has. To distract myself from the peril, I play a game with the fire. I get closer and closer... until it hurts. Once it hurts, I pull back into the cold. This careful balancing of distance is so precise and engaging that I hardly sleep.

I’m leaving it. In truth, it’s quite the shame that I won’t be spending another night here. A part of me is excited to see what the wind will do to challenge me next time. I take a few more steps East, to where I know the nearest town is. I stop and look around. The trees are there, waiting for me to harness from them all I might need. The snow clings to my feet, begging me to stay. Birds sing, adding to this land’s unique culture. I turn around again and look at the cave. I can’t see its light, but I know that the fire is still burning within. The wind’s waiting to play. I walk West. I don’t need civilization. I have all the company I could ever need.

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It’s been hours. All I’ve done is tend to the fire and play its game. And yet, the cold is wearing down upon my body. My nose is numb. There’s a pain deep within my ears. The wind’s screaming...laughing... laughing... And then something clicks. The wind stops being a scientific phenomena causedby differing heat levels on the Earth’s surface. The fire stops being a chemical reaction. The cave stops being a nature formation of rock. The cave, the fire, the wind...they’re alive, and I have a bond with all of them. The cave is my mother, keeping me safe and protected against the outside dangers. As the wind blows through, it creates a distinctive whisper, as if the structure were soothing me. The fire is my friend, keeping my living. It’s playful and erratic, constantly preventing me from becoming too complacent. Without my friend the fire, I would have succumbed to despair and apathy long ago. The wind is my rival. It howls and howls and demands for me to give up...and yet there’s something warm underneath it. Perhaps it’s challenging me. Perhaps it’s even threatening me, but there’s also an understanding there. We’re rivals, sure...but we’re also friends. We push each other to grow. The wind’s not trying to kill me. It’s trying to play a game with me, just as much as the fire is. Who am I to turn down such a game? I let out a mirthful laugh, toss another log into the fire, and play the game. Before long, the morning comes, and the wind retreats until the next round. I’m almost sad to leave behind my fire, but it’s time to return to society. I step outside the cave. Besides the occasional tree branch on the ground, there’s little sign that there was a storm last night. I turn around. The cave stands immobile, passive-aggressively asking why

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34 heels

POEtry by athena pecaut Click click click Our heels beat the floor we bleed and bleed and bleed our sorrow overflows in buckets and rushes out of everything. Because when water is poisoned it is not the only thing affected. Our tiger salamanders wading in ponds, Our fish with shimmering scales (hidden by the camouflage of the earth) are infected. This infection is a kind of poison that we willingly drink from– so taste my goblet of truth contagion to this world; drink hot blood– But never spit it out. We must remember the taste to remind ourselves Of what men do– business unthinkable in the day. And those days when bloody terror fell upon us we persevered and Click click clicked Our heels across the shiny floors. Leaving marks in the soft wood Marks that showed we were there Fair and square, Birthing new ideas, Breathing fire, viva-la-vulva, hell-on-wheels kind of fire, That burns your lungs as it comes up And faces off the sharks that circle.

35 Photography by Bryson Langford

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measure of success

36 CLUBS

Kitchenware Poetry BY M Fischer

Some cracks aren’t meant to be fixed Some kitchenware just can’t Sometimes you have to throw things away Invest in more stable pots and pans

I’m so glad I got rid of that cup Even though it was meaningful I’d rather have something I can drink out of Than something that’s brokenly beautiful

Superglue is a wonderful adhesive Until it gets stuck on your fingers Its tight and gross and you wouldn’t like it But the sensation will linger

Sometimes superglue makes messes Sometimes a mess was already there I’ve fixed a lot of broken plates And I’ve replaced a lot of kitchenware

You can use superglue to fix any crack But be careful around the edges You don’t want to spill your glue When it’s so prone to making messes Shattered plates are cracked for a reason Under too much pressure the fragile bonds split You can glue them back together all you want But that won’t fix the way it sits I had this old coffee cup I always carried it with me But every day it got cracked up And honestly I prefer tea

37

Sculpture BY Enza McMAHON

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Flower 1,2,3’s

38

Fugue on a Reunion

Clubs

Prose by audra Gibbs

A young woman stands on a beach, the gentle breeze playing through her hair like curtains by an open window. The moonlight glints off the waves, settling on her stony shoulders.

The woman concentrates on the air moving through her lungs. Her feet itch to move, to walk up and down the beach, but she only balls her hands into her grey-wool skirt. Her knuckles are white.

The only break in her composure is her periodic glances at the moon, then to her timepiece. She chuckles­—how long had she spent planning this? How much time had she put into anticipating every possibility? If their timing was off tonight, it would all be for nothing. Everything could go wrong.

With a final glance at the sky and her hand, she nods to the three other people waiting beside her. The woman to her right, in blue, commands the water to encircle the four of them. The third woman, in brown, sets a gnarled piece of driftwood in the center of the now-island, while the man in red and the grey-robed woman take their positions for the next phase.

On the woman in grey’s next signal, the man, red sleeves flashing, creates a second ring—this one of fire—within the ring of water. The brown-robed woman balances a diamond shard on top of the driftwood. The moon climbs higher in the sky, taking a pinkish hue. “We’re almost there,” the woman whispers.

A young man sits on the corner of his bed, watching the curtains framing his window dance like strands of hair in the wind. Statue-still, he squints into the moon.

The man’s breath is loud as he stands up to pace across his dark bedroom. He shoves his hands far into the pockets of his coat, clutching a green-glass pendant.

The one word in his head is relax. Relax, relax, relax, relax. Then he stops pacing. He laughs—why should he be afraid? Why would she try to bring him back if she were angry or scared? No. She would’ve spent years on this plan. He trusts her. Nothing would go wrong.

He looks one final time around the room before he closes the door and creeps down the stairs, through the house. In every room he passes, no one is there. He frowns, but continues to the garden, where he sighs with relief at the sight of the person standing there. He joins them within the moat of wildflowers.

The person turns to him as he approaches. Beneath the arc of her hood he sees only the old woman’s eyes—like splintered crystal pieced back together. “Is everyone else—” She cuts him off. “We thought you should have this.”

She tries to steady herself, she’s going to need to be calm, but sensing him now… now she truly realizes what she’s about to do. “Quick!” the brown-robed woman hisses. “We have to finish the spell.” She nods. Inhale… exhale…. She raises her arms, calling the mist. It swirls around the small pillar, to which the brown-robed woman adds a lodestone. The moon rises higher.

The moon bleeds. A ripple goes through the mist. It lurches forward to consume the little tower, while the brown-robed woman scrambles to tie a strand of red wool around a dandelion. At the last possible moment she flings the flower into the whirl. It glows white-hot. The grey-robed woman steps forward, into the light.

Nothing can be seen in the Between, but Sulien knows she and Merle stand face-to-face. Sulien, bound by her oath, unable to leave the island, keeps one foot on the sand as she speaks. “Corvidae Merle, I release you and your court from banishment.” The last words come out in a whisper. “You are free.”

39 She steps out of the circle. He nods in reply, though he still doesn’t like it. Either way he’s ready… ready… ready… but something hits him—he feels her. She’s standing so, so close, just on the other side, behind a veil of mist. His hand goes to the glass charm.

His questions flood back. What will she say to him? What if his past actions can’t be forgiven? He shakes his head, but they keep coming, in a different voice. Little King, Little King, you both have changed so much. What if you’re strangers to each other? He refuses to listen, going back to his breath, looking back at the moon.

The night bursts. It begins as a point of light, but the eclipse tears the curtain to shreds and the growing portal spits out a dandelion, ragged red wool tied around its stem. He smiles, bending down to tuck it safely in his pocket, beside the pendant. Then he walks into the Between.

Merle laughs at the sound of her voice, the banishment melting away. He reaches out a hand and grasps warm, slender fingers. Sulien’s hand curls up in surprise, but then she relaxes, and leads him back to the island. The passing from blinding white to the darkened beach stuns him­—he never believed he’d see his home again.

Merle looks at Sulien. She grins back. For the first time in nearly six hundred years, the twins embrace.

Clubs

The man in red and the woman in blue direct the fire and the water to spiral closer… closer… closer to each other. They touch in the same moment the woman in brown places obsidian on top of the diamond. For that instant, they stay separate, and then steam billows up. The grey-robed woman gasps, clutching the red scarf in her hand.

40

Strings Attached

Clubs

Photography BY Bryson Langford

41 Clubs

Crocheted Corset Textile BY Audra Gibbs

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42

chinatown alleyway PHOTOGRAPHY BY ALICIA HOCH

Rustic inflorescence

Photography BY Enza mcmahon

Performance poetry by ajay lohr

In the darkness I sit With chains around my wrists. Of only bitterness am I drinking, For I no longer know what I am thinking. All Hell broke loose when your light went away. But now I see I must have been blind to believe You’d always be here to stay. I know you did right By leaving me in the dark. I know you meant to do good, So why then Is the hurt so stark? I want to be respectful, And yet I’m still resentful. I think you meant well, But since I never knew you, It’s really hard to tell. But one thing I desperately want to know Is simply this: Did you know? Did you know that when you left me At age three In that foreign country, About the me that I could be? Did you know that as time would pass, That I would begin to ask Questions about our shared past?

But I know you won’t, Because you are part of my past, And this pain will never leave Unless I face you at last. I know it will hurt, I know it will sting, But I’m just so tired Of my past, Acting as king. But when I face you, O past of mine, I will come With grace divine. And though it feels like fire in my veins, You must hear this great refrain: I forgive you. I forgive you. I forgive you. I know you have suffered much, But would you feel God’s gracious touch? O feel this salve upon your soul, A Love which can make you whole. O my soul,

For if you do, A peace is promised, Real and true.

43 CLUBS

Forgiveness

Did you know that a time would come When this child would see you no more, Miss you no more, Hide you away in the back of his mind Where you could be heard from no more! But you always came back. Oh please just go Back to that place Where you will be no more.

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44 Guardian of the kelp forest Digital art BY Elise Harding

sun & moon

Digital art BY Roslyn Carle

45

sundays

those nights where i drive your car for the first time because you’re crying over a boy and probably shouldn’t get behind a wheel (you miss him. you thought you were doing better.) those nights where we sit outside the church and listen to mother kelly do compline because you had a panic attack (it’s the same one we do at camp. i miss camp, too.) those nights where i wait for you in our friend’s car to finish having your heart broken by the boy from new york with his head cradled in his hands those nights i put on sad music and drive you home and sit in silence and hold your hand those nights it’s just you and me and the open road and the knowledge that it will get better (are you happy? no. do you want to be? yes.)

hfh house

model BY Joe Ferguson

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poetry BY Ayla ozkan

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46

Under the blue skies photography by Ella Heide

Escapism

Photography BY lillie dirks

47

poetry by rowan divadeenam

Time and time again I was left broken. And my soul was stomped and pulverized. But now, I have found my heart has been reopened. My blunder led to the release of my bad omen. The finding of another meant I was mesmerized. Time and time again I was left broken. Never was I told that I could become chosen. Never did I know that I need not be despised. But now, I have found my heart has been reopened. Learning I was never alone, just for the moment floating. Who knew a curse may bring blessings once disguised? Time and time again I was left broken. But I have released myself to his unending devotion. Embraced what dark had brought, and now I’m revived. But now, I have found my heart has been reopened. For until now, I never truly understood this emotion. For love has the power to leave me feeling harmonized. Time and time again I was left broken. But now, I have found my heart has been reopened.

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love’s freedom

The

queen of hearts, of hearts, of hearts

The

l i tt l e q u e e n o f h e a r t s

s h e wa k e s u p i n a s t r aw b e r ry f i e l d t h e l i tt l e q u e e n o f h e a r t s

She

d r i n ks a n d d r i n ks a n d d r i n ks a l l day a n d s i n g s a s o n g o f yo u t h

s h e s l e e p s u n t i l h e r fat e i s s e a l e d t h e l i tt l e g i r l s o f h a l f - t r u t h s

The

queen and queen and queen of hearts

A l i tt l e She

g i r l o f pa r t s

wa k e s a n d d r i n ks a n d s i n g s a n d s l e e p s a n d h at e s h e r b e a u t i f u l h e a r t

HEARTS

Hearts

50

Estes Sunset

Photography BY Enza MCMahon

Butterfly Effect Painting BY Anna Borthwick

51 Painting BY Isabelle Carter

HEARTS

sunny

52

Clay

Hearts

Poetry BY Anonymous I saw you at the school one day Wearing a face made of clay Not suspect of any crime But does your face change with time? After that day, I called you a friend A relationship without a foreseeable end Yet as I look into that sea of gray I notice it’s a different face in the clay If not to change, then is it a mask? Protection of pride should not be a task You wear a different face for all Whatever seems to make you feel tall You know we are all here for you But can you say the same too? How can I know what to say When I always see a different face in the clay?

waterfall dreams mixed media BY audrey morehead

53 HEARTS

First Line Poetry BY M fischer

Decay

Ceramics BY Lola sidie

54 hearts

Gaining Sight

From the Alone Traveler Series Photography BY Brennan Montalbano

Chiara

mixed media BY anna borthwick

55

flickering flames POEtry by jessica bounds

But a single breath can put out that flame,

It was at the church where my parents were married,

A sigh of indifference,

Where my sister and I were baptized.

A final breath,

Queen of the Holy Rosary.

A ringing laugh,

My mother went to the school next door until her

The last thing you hear.

grandmother died. She said it still looked the same.

(And as the Lord saith in His name: “May peace be with you,

During the mass, I didn’t shed a tear. The priest kept reading Bible verses, And I could see my cousin wiping tears from her eyes. She probably believes in an afterlife. I wish I could too. The Father told us to look at the candle he had lit. He said it was lit for a person, And only them, Twice in their life. He said: “The Easter candle is lit when you are dipped in the waters of Christ, Baptized in the eye of the Lord, And when you die, Carried to Heaven in His arms.” He asked us to look into the candle, Asked us what we saw. I saw a flickering flame. And every time I saw it sway, I was afraid it would go out. I was afraid That my breath would extinguish that light, And I now realize how similar a flame is to a life. The smallest spark can grow into a wildfire, Destroying everything in its path.

And with your spirit.”)

HEARTS

Yesterday, I went to my grandmother’s funeral.

HEARTS

56

love poem to love poetry by thomas garmon I’d dearly like

And no it won’t

To be in love

Fit like a glove

Where hearts

No it won’t

A flutter like the dove

Won’t hurt so good Won’t flirt in earth

I barely flair

And mirth

And fairly flying

And wood

Flailing tumbling

But I still want

Softly sighing

What I have coming My heart to beat

The sailors from On every sea All rejoice and say With glee “To what to whom Do I owe this pleasure A joyous sorrow Without measure” My heart is Ripping Tearing Breaking A thousand scenes The sea’s forsaking All just to taste The endless love

Celestial drumming

Pink and red Fringe Dress Textile BY ABBy Stein

Spring

57

Painting BY ABby crossley

HEARTS

HEARTS

58 Waltz of the Lonely Musical Compostion BY Tommy Marx

Disillusion

Photography BY Lillie Dirks

Las Vegas

59

Poetry BY Athena Pecaut

Lush green grass with sweeping hills and rich life.

The people built me, marching up my hills and shrieking like banshees. Now I have seen a thousand dreams and a thousand sins, greed here turning virtues to vices.

Then everything changed. The world began to twist, dragging me along with it,

I am an arid, dry desert that sucks everything out of mankind and my main attraction is an illustory paradise.

sucking the nutrients out of my soil until I became a dry husk.

If only they could see,

I began to attract different kinds of creatures, The kind that are used to the fiber of life.

if only they could see what I used to be.

My outside started to peel away. Soon it all ripped off, a thin long strip. My essence was exposed. A rotten apple core, brown and moldy. The bugs fly there to pass the time. They lap up the sour sweetness left behind.

HEARTS

I was once beautiful, my body diverse and plentiful.

60

Hopeful New Year’s

Hearts

SHORT STORY by Mick Leinbach

It’s Near Year’s Eve, and I couldn’t be more excited. Ever since the divorce six months ago, life has been a terribly lonely slog. But not tonight. Tonight, I’ll be in the company of many, including some old friends of mine. No, I won’t be lonely tonight at all. I park two blocks away from the house—that’s how many cars there are—and trudge my way through the snow until I reach a grand house that must have cost the owner at least a million. The architecture was nothing modern, and I can’t help but recognize how warm and inviting it looks in this weather. I push my way through into the blessed heat, but I’m not fully satisfied. The house is crammed wall-towall with people shoving their way through others to get another drink or speak to a friend. After hanging my coat on a lone coat hanger idling in the corner, I creep my way into the mass. I’m surrounded by bodies radiating heat, but I still feel cold. An hour passes. I spend the time nursing (quite a few) cups of something while drifting through the crowd. There’s just under an hour ‘till midnight, and there’s not way I’m beginning the Near Year lonely. In the corner of the room there’s a bright red set of couches arranged to circle a small table. I take a seat, joining in with a group of six acquaintances of mine. From the way the three men hug the three women, it seems I’ve stumbled upon three pairs of couples. They talk and talk and talk. I try to be interested, but I’ve never heard of the people they’re gossiping about. I don’t understand their jokes. I check my watch. It’s been five minutes, but it’s felt like I’ve been here trying to be polite for an hour. I can’t observe anymore. I need to become a part of this. “Yes...uh...speaking of which, I managed to close off

that Herbert deal, you know.” They all pause for a bit, giving me polite smiles. One of them graces me with a reply. “That’s great.” There’s a euphoria. For a wonderful instant, I feel truly validated, truly present. Then they return to their original conversation. It fades. I’m left feeling more embarrassed than anything else. I excuse myself, and none of them seem to hear me. Ten minutes until Near Year’s. I drift through the crowd, more and more desperate for someone, anyone, who I can talk to and be understood by. But there’s no one. Everyone here is a stranger. I know their names. I’ve even had lunch with a few of them. But they’re strangers. I’m sitting against the wall, taking another sip of... gin? I’m pretty sure it’s gin. There’s a voice. “Marcus! Hey!” I look up to see the glistening blue eyes of Sara Days. We’ve been separated after a promotion she got, but before then, we had been an unstoppable pair of workers. We got along in a way that I have barely gotten along with anybody else, not even my wife. “Sara!” I push myself to my feet. “It’s wonderful to see you! How’ve you been?” And we talk. Finally, the loneliness slips away. I’ve escaped the confines of my own head and can engage fully, beautifully in this moment with a person I deeply respect and adore. I want to start laughing, but I shouldn’t. After all, that will end my freedom. Within what feels like a minute, a man pushes through the crowd. “Sara! There you are.” He wraps his arm around her. “They’re doing the countdown soon. We should

composure I have and collapse into the snow, crying. There’s nothing to be done about it. With others or with no one, I’m doomed to be alone.

Through the Dark Field From the ALone Traveler Series Photograph BY Brennan Montalbano

61 HEARTS

get a good view of the TV.” Sara smiles at him. “Ah, right!” She turns back to me. “Marcus, this is Hanson, my husband.” She shows me a ring. I smile. “Wonderful to meet you, Hanson.” Hanson gives me a quick nod. “Anyways, let’s get going.” “Right. It was great seeing you, Marcus!” “Yeah...you too.” Sara and Hanson disappear through the crowd. The room fills with voices. THIRTY TWENTY-NINE TWENTY-EIGHT The isolation returns. But...how could it? I was just talking to Sara! How could I already be feeling so empty? I need to get out. SEVENTEEN SIXTEEN FIFTEEN Once I’ve grabbed my coat, I push my way back outside into the winter air. Once I’ve pushed myself as far away from the house as I can, I fall to my knees. TEN NINE EIGHT It takes everything I have to choke back the sobs. I’m alone. SEVEN SIX FIVE That feeling, that wonderful feeling of being connected with somebody...it’s so fragile. THREE TWO ONE Cheering briefly floats from the house, but the rushing wind quickly drowns it out. I lose what

HEARTS

62

Attachment & Avoidance: A series of poems poetry BY charlotte ball

attachment My hands always close too soon, too firmly. When something should be fleeting I preserve it, like an unfortunate insect in a jar; Overcompensating for what I’ve already lost By holding what small things I can on a tight leash: Tabs left open for months because I’m attached To the life I lived when I first searched those words. Old voice memos take up so much memory, But I need them here In case I forget the laughter in your voice. Past birthday cards lay in reverent stacks, As if the ink you put on the page Contains a trace of your being.

avoidance

I spend half my time in a place of illusion Where the threat I’m finding refuge from Will never reach me. But I know it’s out there, Waiting to envelop me whole When I someday decide to retreat Timidly back to lucidity. But I’d rather not return, So I’ll curl my sore limbs up under myself Like a small, wounded creature And wait out eternity.

63

Sculpture BY Lola sidie

HEARTS

Underthings

HEARTS

64

MOM

Poetry BY anonymous

It’s as if you were sand, slipping through my fingers, running running running forever away. And I reach out, trying to catch all the bits before you fall apart.

Ocean

ceramics BY savannah Moore

65 poetry BY anonymous Calm and still Yet violent and rough Her eyes are gentle But you’d regret her touch Her thoughts, unknown and hidden Under the whitecaps Her storm never subsides Little is revealed in between the tides She is full of life But also death If you dive in too far You may run out of breath I guess I can understand Why we fear the unexplored But to see her enigma Makes me want to dive even more

sea goddess

illustration BY JAde Achen

HEARTS

Ocean

SPADES

Paint It

i s yo u r m e da l

Wear I

m y sy m b o l o n yo u r c h e s t

m e a n d b e wa r e

p r o t e c t m ys e l f w i t h s p e a r a n d s w o r d

Let

wav e s o f r ag e d r o w n yo u

My

s ca r s h av e n o t h e a l e d

And My I

e v e n t h o u g h t h e y w i l l fa d e h e a r t w i l l n o t f o r g e t t h e day

l e t yo u i n f i lt r at e m y d e f e n s e s

68 spades

body dysmorphia

Dear a

POEtry by Alex shrock you ruined me or at least you tried will you ever regret it? do you ever feel guilty? sincerely the person who loved you the most when you thought no one did and the person who hates you most

Sculpture BY lola sidie

An occasional poem (for children) “We won’t live to have kids,” goes our witticism “You believe in a future?” It’s a comforting lie, a bed we fall into What are we going to do when we live past 25? Us, born by the children of the hopeful The plundered generation How many more decades of oil Did our grandparents leave behind? This intergenerational malaise? It spread through blood, and semen Or from Manhattan rubble We are Reagan’s children We cringe at the older youth The arrested development is gauche They “adult,” watch children’s shows Regress, so we mock them But what are we going to do when we live past 25? No longer immune to tragedy How far can responsibility take us? How do we plan to cope? Some will give an Irish goodbye Like the smartest boy I ever knew Not insanity But a choice, rational or not But most will live Sit in office chairs for hours at a time Lovelessly copulate, lovelessly elope Get picked off by various causes

Our epitaph: This country died many times before we did All the pride was passing with the old We were the children of the American hangover

Sweet & TOxic Digital Art by Tracy Fan

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POEtry by abigail swanson

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Gaddafi

Poetry by Ajay Lohr You were loved by all for your love. They called you the leader, The brother above. You were the friend of the weak, The innocent, The poor, So why did you turn to evil, Tarnishing your name Forevermore? There was no blood upon your hands at the start, There was no violence in your heart. Your patience was rewarded with government’s power, And yet your pride brought down your tower. You made education free, You gave food to the hungry, You made an Amazonian guard To crush your country. You broadcast executions for all to see And hunted your people abroad, The ones who were free. You killed hundreds in your acts of terror, Slaughtering innocence Everywhere. And what of your own, the ones you served, You gave them things They never deserved.

You took the women you made your guard, Stealing their innocence, Leaving them scarred. Now, look and see your crimson hands, Your fingers are covered In bloody bands. You said you were loved by all, The greatest and the least. Did you know they called you The mad dog Of the Middle East? You spoke the words of kindness and love, And sang the song of the sweetest dove. But we know the truth of you, O brother above, Hate and pride, And only self-love. Mourn the man who started well, Mourn the man who so far, Fell. Beginning his days as a beacon of light, And ending them As Libya’s blight.

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Piano Sonata No. 1

Musical Composition by Miles Lewandowski

Invader

photography by Alicia Hoch

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Coming To

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Poetry BY Athena Pecaut We must be what we are

I once again feel a delicate touch,

Or we are nothing.

It seems even beasts fear My frailty.

Watch the god that made me

After the crow,

Hold me like a flower.

I traced maps on my hands

His fingers wrap around my waist.

With rivers and rocky mountains scrawled across my

I feel his delicate touch and I cry,

surface.

Because I know I am fragile.

Shaking with fear

I am beautiful now,

I told my mother and she wept.

You see my golden hair,

The crow found her years ago

Like fields of grain–

And now she dreams of him every night.

Run your hands through it,

If only people felt my fear.

And stroke my scalp, Touch me now–

You think you are strong now?

Because I will not be this way tomorrow.

Walk along the path chosen for you

Men say I am a flower, a rose.

With blisters and heavy legs

I am, And the rose god holds in his hand

(Scrape your heels along a gravel path)

Wilts as we speak.

People know they are afraid of death

Watch the petals shrivel and fall off my stem,

But in truth, they are afraid of everything and nothing,

My youth is leaving me.

Of emptiness

I am beautiful now and

Of our future and our past.

I must be what I am

A dark chasm opens in my mind,

Or I am nothing.

Threatening to swallow everything I love.

Just yesterday a crow woke me with a shriek.

Believe what you must,

The creature flew past my window,

The only thing I believe now is the clock

A black streak against a pale blue sky,

Tick tick ticking

All he has ever done is make me tremble.

Across my room.

I find him reflected in my mirror

Day after day,

But now he cries.

Its face will never change.

I am enveloped in charcoal feathers Brushing past my face.

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It mocks me as I shrivel And wither away. And day after day,

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It echoes the same sentiment I’ve heard. The sun rises and falls, shaping Inky space, Followed by golden hues. I watch the colors move past my window. And all those days I watch hands move my clock Across the room. And now I’m certain that After all this time has passed I must be what I am Or I am nothing.

Drab Fauna

Photography BY Enza McMahon

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Trail to Paradise

SPADES

SHORT STORY by Keely Hood

The rider is only young, not bright-eyed. Along the trail,

all them pretty senoritas are ‘nd I’ll stay… Lay down my pistol in the river. I’ll have nothing to do all day but love ‘er, and I’ll have the freedom to ride horses just where I please.” He stops, as sensitive to Sundance as he would be any soul. “Horse, not horses. V’course, I’ll take you, Sundance.

men like him all wear the same leathered, ageless face

We’ll have us a grand ol’ time down there like you was a

burnt into a brown complexion. At his nose and forehead,

proper horse, not a riding one. You can rest and have all

sunburn peels. Around his eyes, it draws the premature,

the hay you’d like… Roam about them wide open plains.” He

dust-collecting lines of a Wiseman. The profile of someone

pats her sun-beat side. “A man needs something to dream

without a name—someone living through passage. The

of, don’t he? ‘Nd I don’t see why a horse should be any

profile of a transient, an identity stripped down to “rider”

different.”

interchangeable with anyone who comes this way. Only upon closer look would anyone see he is not yet twenty. At his hip, there is a saddlebag, a pistol, and a canteen.

On his last ride, the first half of the route is sweaty. Every hour or so, he drags a rag down his dust-eaten face. He has not felt clean in miles, even years. When it gets to feel

The absence of a Bible, the absence of anything to believe

that way — like he can taste his own grit, he strips down

in, makes him an outlier among his fellow riders. He carried

and wades in a river, a lake, or a stream. Sundance seems

one in the beginning. It became as worn as his own skin

to watch the beating sun’s reflection ripple in the water. At

and such a burden to what he carried, he set it down a

least, the rider likes to imagine that is true. A man must do

stream as Sundance was drinking and watched it drift

so with only a horse for company. It is less lonely to think

away. A certain sacrilege but no one was there to see it but

that her animal eyes are drinking in the earth as much as

the horse. So he rode on.

anyone else.

It has been Godless and lonesome ever since. “Goin’ to Sacramento,” he says like it means going to paradise. Not that he believes so. With three years behind him in this life, the rider has been to California enough to know

Humid evenings, they ride on. Only for a couple of hours at a time do they ever stop to eat and rest. At which point, the rider will set up a fire to heat up grub and dream of steak. He will talk and believe that she listens, just to believe in anything at all.

that nothing waits for him there but a reminder to turn back

“You was a human once, I think,” he decides one night

around and relive the route again. The phrase has gone as

before the dying fire. “Like how them Cherokee believe. Old

dry in his throat as the California rivers.

spirit.” Turning onto his side, the grass is his hard cot and

An everlasting trail—St. Joseph to Sacramento and back all the way into perpetuity, the only discernable change a difference in the weight of his saddlebag. The supply of

heartless cradle. Always riding. Never staying. There is not much to do on the trail. Murmuring folk

mail has a destination; he is its carrier down this desolate

songs grew tiresome quick, worn out his first year of riding.

path. Beneath Sundance’s hooves, the land is trampled

These days, when he is most resentful, he longs to pry

from past rides by the men like him who he has never met.

open the saddlebag and read every last letter to release

If there were ever wildflowers, they were packed into the

them into the wind. He would give in to such temptations if

dry dirt long ago. Nothing remains on the trail itself but the

he could read.

prints. “One of these days, I’ll go down to the Rio Grande where

Through weary, thinning weeks, he can imagine the contents of the sealed envelopes he carries and utter

fire. His hand gropes for the earth and just barely finds it.

are released to the wind. It does some good, he thinks,

Raising his head from the stream, he chokes on air to find

to keep the vocal cords in practice. Just the same as

that he is alone. This is the greatest fear of it all — not the

stretching your legs every now and then. From beneath

storm, not the burning in his lungs, but his separation from

him, Sundance will give the occasional huff of a response

what he rode in on.

— the closest their kinship could ever come to human

What is a rider without a horse?

communication.

Her name is called into the storm, into the wind, until the

When it rains all the way from Utah to Nevada, they ride slow and fall days behind. The heat is missed as the saddlebag becomes as drenched as a bath cloth, and the

edges of his throat are rubbed raw. The earth grows stiller then, like sleep. Arms quivering from the strength it takes, he pulls

rider does not touch it for three long nights. He does not

himself onto the land. He returns to the waist-height water

do much of anything but hold his own hat to his head and

before as much as a breath. The storm quiets around him,

keep a consoling hand on Sundance.

and the sky pales to signify daybreak. Water groping at his

“Goin’ to Sacramento,” he repeats in that false paradise

legs, searching for their weakness, he treads through until

tone. When that is not enough, it becomes, “Goin’ to Rio

he discovers her on the side from where they came… Set

Grande. Ain’t too long now.”

down to rest after so many miles.

At the California border, the showers turn to wrath. God’s

He sits down beside Sundance. Pats her side just how

revenge for the Bible incident, the rider supposes, and he

he has done along the trail, knowing her brown wet coat

does what he abandoned years ago: he prays.

will be unresponsive beneath his hand. Where there was

This is for Sundance’s sake if anything. She is braver than most men, and he tells her so on a turbulent night when the rain blinds them both. “You gotta quit,” he shouts

a fire in his chest there is now an ache and a newfound understanding of what it truly means to be lonesome. “You’ll roam about them plains down there in the Rio

over the biting wind. The force of nature has run off with

Grande,” he tells his drowned horse. Turning onto his back,

his hat and left him feeling naked, clutching the saddlebag.

the rider faces the rising sun for his breaths to become

“You hear me? You quit now! You done enough!”

level with the earth. “One of us oughta have made it there.

Sundance does not let him off. As rain pelts her body and the earth around them trembles, the rider and his horse let it cover them like it were truly God’s palm. No place to go, the rider thinks. No home. Just Sundance and I, all these miles. All alone in this country. The ground, seemingly the whole of the earth, is a flood,

Gone to paradise.” As he says it, he believes it — that Sundance is in the dream he described and that it is hers now. He does what he abandoned a lifetime ago: he weeps. The sun in his vision begins to hurt his eyes. Come full daylight, he rises too. Because it is inscribed in his essence to do so, and

but it rushes more when they reach an honest body of

even without a horse, a rider must go forward, he begins to

water — a stream he would wade in at a more peaceful

walk on to Sacramento. As he did the Bible, as nature did

time. In the rain, it has become the uncrossable Pacific.

Sundance, he stops two days from then and drowns his

“Sundance!” His cry is first lost to the wind like how he has imagined the saddlebag letters. It is then drowned as they are submerged. The water assaults his body at once, sets his chest on

saddlebag. And no longer knows where he is walking.

75 Spades

stories out loud along the trail. In this way, the letters

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Peco’s home Prose by Olive goldman

The death of my grandmother left the family in shambles, even though it wasn’t surprising. It was a waiting game. In and out of the hospital, the person wilting in front of my eyes was not a beautiful flower in the winter. She was destroying herself, mind and body. Her home was not much different from her. Slowly, I started recognizing both less and less. The floors scratched up from the dog had been turned into something out of a magazine. They no longer resembled what I had laid down on through the years. Having had to say a prayer before walking up the stairs due to genuine fear of falling, now they had a nice grain to them. You could walk up them at a normal angle and go at a fast speed if you wanted to. I had learned to tie my shoes on those stairs before the grain was beautiful. I knew those stairs when they were covered in my tears because I couldn’t quite get the loops right on my shoes. The pictures of families that scattered the walls were stripped down to bare minimum. I actually started to recognize all the people on the wall. I no longer had to ask who that random woman was in the top left corner. The basement did not have that familiar smell anymore, and the weird side room didn’t have boxes of memories anymore. The structure of the home was still the same, but it was just a house now. My grandfather still lives in that hollow house. He still sleeps in their bed. And he still cooks dinner in their kitchen. But he sells her stuff. And he sorts through the memories in order to make the house ready to become a home to someone else. Her destruction reflected into that home, and now my grandfather’s destruction will too. Not a beautiful flower wilting in the snow, but home becoming a house.

Dreams

Photography BY Max McMahon

Hotel Opera

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Prose BY Alicia Hoch

And if you were in your hotel room, you would draw the curtains and put your hands against

you’d find an untouched room. The floor would

the glass because the translucent sufrace would

consist of a solid wooden board, old but sturdy.

reflect the sky. And you would feel the vastness

Layers of dust would protect your bare feet from

in your hands and know it was real.

splinters; granted, you didn’t step in the same

And if you were at the foot of this building,

place twice. Three-legged chairs and gutted

standing in its infinite shadow, you would be

sofas would be tending to their wounds, waiting

drawn in by the pastel pinks and ivory columns.

for when they’ll be used again by a thousand

You would find yourself drawn in by the promise

more people. The room would be intense brown

of a building where time never moved. You

and gold, earthy darkness accentuated by light.

would press against the wooden doors, your

It would be an underground cavern except

hand in the same place as thirty-five hundred

higher in the air than you have ever been.

others. And you would walk in, and book a room.

And if you, cushioned by dust, walked to the brown window, moved the brown window, moved the brown table slightly to the left, and opened it, you would see the world as it is. Up here, the air would be still, and your hair wouldn’t fall over your eyes so you could see the tide pool of turquoise below. Here, the buildings would be shells that people could hide under and the streets just a disruption of sand. The wind would be moving down there, rippling the water, and playing with your eyes while you stood on the top of the world. And if you were in the tidepool looking up at the pale sky, you would see me leaning out of the brown window, letting myself be surrounded by the endless blue. Behind me, you would see the ghost of the moon, and if you looked close enough, you would see the stars in my eyes. And to you, I would just be a dot hanging out of a window; and to me, you would just be a dot underwater.

mushroom Print Print By Audrey Morehead

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If you hiked up the sixty-seven stories, up the sixty-seven flights of stairs, and then one more,

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78 Snowglobe Musical Composition BY June Hyde

Never put the I/eye in love you, I can’t even stand to look Worried, but I try to love you like snowglobes bought but never shook Proof that I spent the night somewhere, somewhere vaguely nice It’d be where I choose to move myself apart from all the ice

And maybe my ambition is a pitiful display Of talent turned to skill turned into ten-year summer break Maybe by the end of this I’ll just do the right thing Go to a good college and forget that I can sing

But I don’t know myself as well as anyone I know They all give me names and gifts and words and tell me where to go So it sits with bones and rocks and perfume at home My attempts to orient myself are laughable at best on my shelf Still need mnemonic trickery for north, south, east and Only taken out just to indulge you, never for myself west And the trinkets would all pile up as I keep shrinking down It’s hard to stomach anything when you’ve got guts of I push my reason to my throat and make a different straw sound And It’s hard to stand up for yourself when you’re not very tall And when I go to sleep somewhere the trinkets take And it’s terrifying to imagine one day waking up my place Realizing I’m stranded, realizing I’m stuck They’re gorgeous to admire but I can’t give up my space And I have to try to love them, love isn’t just like stuff It’s a deluded metaphor that doesn’t mean that much But I think it’s fair to say that it’s all clutter at its core Something to fill up space and time with no function just a form And maybe I’m just broken or too young to understand The whole purpose of love, not shaking snowglobes, buying land

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Moving On?

POetry by Charlotte Ball I like to say that in a year or so I won’t need you And I’ll stitch up this tear in my soul I’ll try on new lives every day that I wake So you won’t see me when I pass you by I’ll do all the things that you hated For some reason, you never said why And if I feel those gray eyes glaring cold on my spine I’ll keep at it until the spitefulness subsides I’ll become betrothed to indifference But the match won’t work out as it should Because I know that you know you still live in my mind And all those stitches will come loose anyway

City

Digital Art BY M Fischer

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Poetry Series BY Athena Pecaut

Do You Remember?

A Confession

Do you remember? When I left my shape in your bed Pulled the covers up until I was hidden You laughed and laughed and laughed and laughed and laughed Amplifying the heat of your warm body against my side I felt like floating When you told me you loved me It was heaven. And my eyes filled a thousand rivers But you dived into the salty water Swam to my shore Told me you loved me And that you’d always be here.

You’re my closest friend My secrets became shared knowledge For you. We gave our love to each other Or so I thought. But now I’m having dreams I’m drowning in water. Salt burns my eyes Red. Puffy. Tired. The other day When I told you I was afraid of Losing you, You just looked away. And then I knew I knew You were just blowing dust in my face. You’re drifting from me, And I’m never happy when I’m around you. I regret ever telling you anything. I try to talk, My words pass through you like a chill You shiver and brush it off And so that ends.

Glowing Through Time Photography BY Rachel Bingham

Three months forward I describe you to my friends Kind Charming Intelligent.

81 Because I REmember

I hate that I know this isn’t all true It’s not all you. But even my friends and I can tell We’re holding on for dear life. Reaching over your mother’s table Holding hands Slipping and sliding I used to think your hands were strong enough to catch me, But now I’m not so sure. And this is the moment when I’m realizing that maybe we never understood each other at all.

Even now You have a fist around my heart, And every now and then You clench it I feel a sharp pain in my heart from the memory of you. No dream frames your face When I walk past A quick glance. A quick breath. You look at me calm But I know there’s a whole ocean between us You’ll never cross. Even still I do not regret. I loved you and some part of me will always love you. When we first parted My waters became treacherous I vowed to drown any body who dared cross it. But now, There’s a gentle lull hidden in the waves my laughter permeates the silence And I can see happiness rising above the river’s bank.

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They pull a confession out of me. Cold. I’ve never felt lips as cold as yours. Distant. You never listen. Finished. You forgot our anniversary.

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Lament of a Leo Performance Poetry BY Alicia Hoch

I want to be heard but I don’t want you to know it I want to be seen but I don’t want to show it I perform unwritten speeches in my own room Because if no one will hear me at least I will I won’t look in the mirror, I can’t see who I admire Because If I see myself, there goes the fire I need to be your center because I don’t have one

“Your arrogance is disgusting. Leo people are thieving and motherf**kers and spend most of their time kissing mirrors.” My dad’s words, not mine You see I Never cared about my star sign But my father sure does A double Leo, born under the brightest sun With a Chinese zodiac year of fire Vanity was inevitable, that was written and done I was born to perform, to be an outlier I am a plant that can only grow in limelight That requires you to sing praises in its ear I find it hard to determine what I want to be And what I’m supposed to be Some say that the fate string is dead That string is a noose around my head I have always been labeled, boxed, and set aside I did my best to get rid of this, I really tried I wish I could peel off the labels in my mind But the stickers leave a residue Every word I say is an advertisement for myself Every action I do is for my own personal gain If only my pride was a living thing I would grab a knife and dance over it once it was slain

I need you to like me because I can’t like myself I need you to hear me because I’ve been deafened by my own screaming It’s exhausting to be listening to this voice! I know, I’m asking for your pity again I hate it, I do this every second I’m asking to take up a corner of your mind And our mind’s storage is precious in these times I don’t deserve the little sliver of energy your brain is using to process me Why should I take some space when that space could be taken by something else? I spent hours working on this poem Because I have to be the best I have to outshine all of you Because when the sun dims that means it’s dying And if I don’t make it, I have to keep trying I spent years gaining a will to live I’m not going to let this flame be snuffed out No matter how many people it is burning! I don’t want to be a wildfire But wildfires get headlines And when you were created to measure self-worth Based on how many eyes are on you Then you’ll take any glance No matter if they despise you I am a Leo! Hate me, please! It’s my fault! Because these

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Lungs feed off of your every breath Your attention keeps me from death

But here I am! My body is freezing But the limelight so warm I know I won’t get very far But up here, I play the star It’s shocking how far chains can reach us That tiny dots in the sky have full control The distance of the Leo’s constellation is One thousand five-hundred thirty-five light-years away And yet it rules over me every day I no longer am against the city lights I’ll turn on my own in my bedroom Because if I can outshine the very same sky that forged me Then maybe it can’t control me

The Deep

digital art BY Greta Griffin

SPADES

I don’t want to perform

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Eleutheromania

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POEtry by Jessica Bounds

I was born with a layer of wax

Where is the line between

Covering my body.

Protection and control?

My mother always told me It would protect me from the world.

I had no more wax. Now I just had burns.

She told me, Like Icarus,

I asked myself

Not to fly too close to the sun.

Was it worth it?

She told me

Yes.

To stay on the ground,

Life is meant to be lived

Safety in the shade.

In pain. Life is known to be lived

I met a girl in second grade

In pain.

Who had no wax. Her body was covered in burns

How can you live if you cannot feel

From flying too close to the sun.

The wind in your hair, The grass beneath your feet,

She told me

Your heart beating in your chest,

To do what I want,

The whisper of fingers

To fly as high as I could,

tracing your skin?

Because falling was the fun part. She told me

Life is meant to be lived

It would hurt,

Feeling.

But the pain is what tells you

Life is known to be lived

That you are alive.

Feeling.

I flew so close to the sun. I felt the wax run down my skin And leave scorching burns As it passed. My mother told me That she was sorry. She said she was sorry She couldn’t protect me. But what is protecting someone?

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My Lovely Overload Illustration BY Brennan Montalbano

JOKER H o ly J o k e r , Closing You’re

cas k e t , o p e n e d t o m b

ca l p e r - c o l l a r e d ,

P u p p e t Cut

string

the lines,

I I’ l l

wa r b l e w o m b

wat ch yo u s w i n g

pa i n t a p i c t u r e , k i l l a f i s h

Time

is incense, smoking dish

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Brightworld

FROM THE ALONE TRAVELER SERIES PhotographY BY Brennan Montalbano

Untitled

Digital art BY Henry Krause

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Loud Whispers

sculpture BY Lola Sidie

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Meaning Making Scientism’s quest for knowledge, obscuring wisdom’s truth, like searching Eden’s Garden to find Forbidden Fruit, ignoring transcendental beauty from which science made its root.

Poetry BY Ibrahim Sufi

Sometimes I think, that maybe there’s a reason why we're all here, one beyond two organisms succumbing to biological urges and gaslighting themselves into thinking it provides them purpose, that maybe a mother’s love is more than just a cocktail of neurotransmitters to get her drunk enough to sacrifice everything for an obnoxious offspring, who gives little in return. Maybe the fact that we’re made of the same quarks and leptons that make up the universe is more than just a statement about particle physics. Maybe it’s a transcendent truth about the human soul: (“Remember you are dust and to dust you shall return,”) A truth that allows us to be awestruck by the vastness of a supernova and the microscopic intricacy in a single human hair. Maybe God wanted us to see the mundane beauty of sunlight when it reflects off seemingly sacred snow, even if he’s just the pretentious name

we give to a placebo effect, that brings bliss to our ignorance. Maybe those so-called "prophets" had some deep spiritual insight beyond an arrogant acid trip. Maybe those ancient texts are more than instruction manuals on enforcing a heteropatriarchy. Maybe they offer profound wisdom into timeless questions, questions like “What matters in life?” and “What do we owe to each other?” questions we ought to answer for some reason other than to pass a philosophy seminar. Maybe all of our emotions, from the most jubilant joy to the most delusive depression, from the most aggressive anxiety to the most bountiful bliss, are more than just stimulus responses to survive and reproduce. Maybe they constitute the human experience, an intrinsically important rollercoaster we should be eternally grateful to ride. But maybe this is my arrogant acid trip. Maybe the designer of this video game is laughing at the seventeen-year-old sims character, with the audacity to think the above addition absolves him, who gaslights himself into thinking something could provide purpose. Maybe there’s no meaning to find at the end of knowledge's quest. Should we still search for it? Or wait out the final rest? Either way, we’re all suckers.

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Reborn

Photography BY Alicia Hoch

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Chronometer

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SHORT STORY by Fletcher Austin It was cold. Vents pumped cool air in through ducts from cooling stations deep below the streets. Frosted breath steamed out of my mouth as I typed away on a terminal. Lights blinked and tubes pulsed. A readout appeared somewhere on a frozen LCD in the cold, cluttered mess of cables, circuitry, and vacuum tubes that filled the room. Ice grew. The chill was necessary to keep the decades old machinery running. Somewhere in the tangled web, an alarm blared. I gasped and froze upright as if every cell were alight with electric fire. “Damn it all!” I said. I was so close to breaking into the most valuable collection of data in cyberspace. I was so close to the construct, but the ICE, or Intrusion Countermeasure Electronics, was too thick to bypass. My cold, stiff hands clamored to remove a headset that projected my eyes right into cyberspace. Vision finally unobscured, my overstimulated eyes blearily looked around for a panel flashing the time. 02:32:45 02:32:46 02:32:47 Even this late in the night, a shop where I could buy an item as illegal as a powerful enough ICEPick would still be open. Most merchants of that kind aren’t even open until 8pm at least. I weakly stood up and flipped a switch on the far side of the room. The whirring sounds of fans and coolants slowly powered down and dim lights filled the darkened web of cables. The air in Berlin was thick and hard to breathe, and

every breath burned your lungs a little. Sometimes acid poured from the sky in place of the near constant rain. This night, however, I breathed clearly, as if coals had never stained the sky. To the right of me a man swore and coughed blood into his sleeve. There were no longer any trees in the city. With the exception of a few private homes, they had all been cut down to heat buildings after a collapse a few decades ago. Instead of replanting them, the parks were paved over in favor of factories and server houses to help rebuild. The time was proudly displayed on most of them. 02:45:56 02:45:57 02:45:58 I briskly walked along twisting paths lined with neon. At this hour the city was still a cacophony of people going about their day as atomized cells in a bloodstream feeding the city. Fluorescent signs screamed out advertisements in Russian, Turkish, Chinese, and German at anyone nearby who stood too long or walked too slowly. Cars sped down the street and blurred together in long exposure streaks of red and white that hung in the air eternally. Meanwhile, the Luftbahn hung far above and made its regular stops. I entered the courtyard of a large building labelled H-11 and ran into an elevator just before it closed behind me. Despite the large size of this elevator, it was filled to the brim with people standing in silence. The lifting cables whirred and metal fingers tapped nervously on each other in the back of the carriage. Somewhere

02:56:37 02:56:38 02:56:39 I had to hurry. I didn’t want them to find me. The elevator slid to a halt with a pneumatic hiss and the doors slid open to the upper levels of a city within a city. Over loudspeakers a building official read announcements in a garbled and incomprehensible tone. He said something about random searches. I shoved my hands in my pockets and quickened my pace. 02:58:42 02:58:43 02:58:44 I twisted down the alleyways to the sound of metal clanging and disposables fluttering around my feet in the wind. Eventually I came to a door and window marked with holographic advertisements. Booze, Music, Fresh Air, Open Only at Night! it read. I glanced around before passing through the door into a space no larger than a hallway. On one side of the hall was the bar stand with the barman behind it. On the other side of the hallway was a walkway leading to a door labelled Employees Only. In the middle there were seven stools and two patrons sitting on them. The bar-tender was a tanned man with a bushy, oldfashioned mustache and metal arm from the war that was always on the verge of rusting. “Hey, Dr. Arnovsky, what can I get you?” He gingerly held a glass with his metal hand and wiped

it down with the other. “Oh, I’m not here to socialize,” I said, “I’m looking for an ICEPick.” “An ICEPick, huh”—the pneumatics in his arm let out a hiss as he set his hands down on the bar— “You’ll find our guy in the back.” The backroom was small, and filled with boxes. A single lightbulb hung above a solitary metal desk and the antique computer console that sat on top of it. Behind the console was Jules the fence. He had his left eye traded out for one he could more easily adjust and inspect products with. Each finger was split into five metal spindles for typing and, if the need arose, lock picking. “What can this humble merchant get you today?” he asked, “Viruses? Dermatic injectors? Cyberware?” The fence thought of himself as a Robin Hood, and spoke as if reading from a script. “I need an ICEPick, a powerful one, too,” I said. “How thick?” “Corporate ICE thick.” “Ooh that’s gonna cost you,” An ICEPick chip was already on the desk, “6000 credits, maybe more.” The fence was also a slimy man. My eyes flashed as I transferred the money. The data was more valuable than any amount of money. Through the soundproof door of the back room I heard the knocking of a random search. The fence shoved me into a trapdoor built specifically for getting out in the event of police searches. “You can take the maintenance tunnels to an elevator out of here,” he said, “The tunnels are more than a little uncomfortable, but you won’t get caught if you hurry.” 03:00:00 03:00:01 03:00:02

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off to the side on a TV a news reporter was covering a story of another wave of strikers to be put down by corporate enforcement. I anxiously glanced at my watch.

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The maintenance tunnels were very cramped. And to call them smelly was an understatement. They had not been cleaned since the building was built, and a film enveloped every surface of the tunnels and air ducts. Clutching the ICEPick like my heart, I made my way to a rickety service elevator that smelled of urine and old engine oil. I descended the tower and made my way back the way I came. I had to hurry. The city lights flashed more intensely now. 03:25:17 03:25:18 03:25:19 I rushed back to the web of tangled cables and flipped a switch back down. Vents pumped cool air in through ducts from cooling stations deep below the streets. Frosted breath steamed out of my mouth as I typed away on a terminal. Lights blinked and tubes pulsed. A readout appeared somewhere on

a frozen LCD in the cold, cluttered mess of cables, circuitry, and vacuum tubes that filled the room. Ice grew. I slotted the ICEPick into the headset before strapping it to my face. I heard pounding on the door. My heart pulsed. They had found me. Cyberspace flashed before my eyes as the malware worked away at the ICE protecting the construct. I heard pounding once again. My heart pulsed again. An alarm sounded. But they were too late. The construct was freed and my mind was captured into the infinite expanse of cyberspace. I was face-to-face with the construct. Her. I embraced my old friend and we waltzed. We waltzed in every moment of the past, present and future. We were free at last. A readout flashed the time. ## : ## : ## ## : ## : ## ## : ## : ##

Glow show

photography BY rachel bingham

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a night in dystopia digital art BY Han Mellenbruch

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Gregorian Chants poetry by M Fischer

I haven’t written in a while.

I wish I could get away from the incessant yelling.

I feel like I have nothing to say.

I just want someone real to talk to,

Poetry prompts are nice, but when I can’t expand on their

but I don’t recognize the names in my phone.

ideas it’s not poetry. It’s just a prompt.

I haven’t written in a while because I need every piece to be good.

I got a new pen for my birthday.

But if I’m not writing at all how can I expect masterpieces?

I lost it and I’m too scared to tell anyone.

I don’t know how to end this poem.

I have all these ideas for beautiful inkings, but when I don’t have my pen it’s not art. It’s just an idea. I want to say this poetically. But, despite my thousands of written words, I never learned how to show instead of tell. I should get on that. I have work tonight. I have a test tomorrow. My next real break is infinitely far away. My last real break was a month ago. I’m going to come home smelling like coffee. I’m going to study for that test. I’m going to stay up too late doing too little. I’m going to bash my head in. I hope no one ever analyzes my poetry. I hope it never becomes another assignment some poor kid procrastinates and bashes his head over. I wonder how many artists look down on English teachers. It’s always so quiet, I’ve resorted to listening to Gregorian chants.

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Stitched Together

mixed media BY Audrey Morehead

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Depths of Dreams POETRY by Rowan Divadeenam

Oh dear day, now comes to a close.

Farewell to old plaguing failures.

And now that placid sings my soul,

My weary eyes ready to doze.

Farewell to never ending yells.

Now that my emotions seem whole—

The light begins to fade away—

Farewell to all the nasty talk.

I ought to return to the real.

As the darkness creeps near to stay.

Farewell to that bothersome clock.

Hence, fantasies don’t last that long.

The world went round and round

Greetings to beautiful glories.

Oh to open mine eyes commence,

Greetings to whispers of stories.

I wonder was it all pretence?

Oh blunders much to my dismay!

today.

Greetings to all the words of love.

The storm still moans like a banshee.

A monster roaring in my mind;

Greetings to patient smiles thereof.

Oh still sways back and forth the tree.

Magic just simply transports me.

Though all I felt may disappear,

I’m a quaint bird so light and free.

In my heart lies no fickle fear,

The wind a ferocious beast roars

My anxious soul smells like flowers.

Though all felt a mere dream may be,

And creates the slam of the doors.

Time is unknown, minutes or hours.

It taints my judgement, leaves me blind.

Trees sway and laugh at my expense. Alas, shall there be no defense!

Ultimately all is revealed. I needed this spell to be healed.

My tears fall as huge sheets of rain.

With turmoil, some tranquility—

Thunder rolls like my inner pain.

With weakness, some stability.

Lightning strikes as screams of

In this place I rest in the breeze.

defeat. Dreary clouds amass and compete.

I dance in and out among trees. I float along the serene streams, Into a world with no extremes.

Yet, all the bad I strive to end, So I turn to my one good friend.

I laugh and shall I never stop.

Among comforts of fluff I lay,

When joy sings through my soul I hop.

Slowly my mind begins to stray.

A mythical spirit am I? Oh no evil shall be nearby!

A dream is the key to be set free.

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POETRY BY AYLA OZKAN

i am the waking dream i walk and i talk and yet i do not laugh call out my name is just a bunch of sounds i do not think it is me i am the one who does not laugh i am the waking dream

Nais tiger moth PhotographY BY Alicia hoch

Monkeys

illustration BY jade achen

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I DO NOT LIKE HOW sunshine feels on my skin

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Infinite Street poetry by Thomas Garmon The infinite street

Of whales

Has come to meet

And wells

Those within its walls

Of bares and bores

The infinite street

On golden shores

Has come to meet

And in hell it hails

A man who never falls

When the morning comes all will sleep

On the infinite street

When prevails the infinite street

Dogs are playing and children barking The night inhales and regails But it is never larking And the tales he tells

All Eyes on Me

ceramics BY Lola Sidie

Face

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poetry by Charlotte Ball I sit before the mirror, trying to form an image, Unable to break my gaze. The act of looking feels less like vainly admiring, But more of examining a strange but beautiful painting — And I am just another voyeur in the gallery, Trying to piece together hidden meanings, see something recognizable, For I have never seen this painting before. I stare and watch the features become more and more ambiguous, A stranger’s face — Are these features even that of a human? They swirl in liquified blurs, Like wet paint, dripping off a canvas left abandoned in the elements. Details dissolve, lines bend, edges become warped and wave-like. Identity peels away like yellowed, crackling wallpaper in a Victorian house. Beneath it all is flat uncertainty and uncanny feelings. Barely lucid, my clammy hand reaches up to that space devoid of substance, And I feel the ridges and peaks, hollows and curves of a face. There’s a place for the eyes, the nose, the mouth — I can’t conceptualize the picture of it in totality, All forced together like a shoddy, rudimentary attempt By an amateur sculptor. For now, the gaussian blur still cloaks the mirror in questions and the fog doesn’t let up.

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Sometimes, I forget what I look like —

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Untitled

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poetry by Lucy Hamilton your lap is filled with a burning content, bordering on pain, but you smile all the same. the smell of grease tickles at your nose and you think you’ve found what happiness is. it’s not sunshine or smiles or laughter, but a bag tied into a beautifully sloppy and oily to the touch bow filled with chinese food. not traditional, but the american version, the one that’s so off base from the actual food it’s not even close enough to be considered chinese food anymore. this disgusting misappropriation brings happy thursday nights and your own little tightly unknit family together, if only for a few minutes. your mom tries her best to fight back the bubbling up laughter clawing at the back of her throat as you cram the sugary goodness that is “advice cookie”, a name she had given them when you both figured out how ill-fitting the name of fortune wore itself on the vague statements regarding improving yourself you read out to her on your drive back every time. but, by the time you both manage to slink into the abode the mood dies down and hunger nips at you once more, you find the food cold to the touch like a cadaver. as eager and naive as a whelp, you bite into it animalistically regardless. slimy mush that more so resembles writhing maggots greets your tongue and your body rejects it. paranoia and distrust tickling at your insides. maybe gluttony cannot solve all of your problems.

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Reach

Digital Art BY M Fischer

Deliv-O-Bot

Digital Art BY Han MellEnbruch

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Moonbeams at midnight

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SHORT STORY by Riley GaiKowski

Gaia was running. But not from the monster. Towards it. The world was perfect. Or at least it seemed that way. But who knew that behind the glimmering cities there was a plague. A disease to consume all of humanity. Except humanity was the disease. Gaia was only 14 when the world broke. It started slowly, but then spread like wildfire. The air became too polluted to breathe. Water was scarce. And that was before the plague. Scientists thought they had figured out how to fix the world; instead they pushed it over the edge. They unleashed the virus. They unleashed Code Red. People started to fall and those infected had mere hours before death. There was a cure, but the fate of those who’d been cured was almost worse than death. At the same time Code Red was released, that same lab had been testing patients infected with cancer to try and find a cure. The virus infected those patients and created a mutant. A species of human known only as “The Gorgons,” after Medusa and her sisters from Greek mythology. While they couldn’t turn people to stone with their eyes, their eyes did induce a hypnotic state in some people. The subjects became bloodthirsty creatures with fangs, full of nothing but vengeance. Their venom could cure Code Red, but once someone was cured, they became one of the Gorgons. This all brings us back to Gaia. She is one of the few who hasn’t been infected by Code Red. She and her sister, Fae, were camped out in what was left of Liberty Island, New York. Their parents had been infected several months ago, so now it was just Gaia and Fae, fighting for themselves.

“Gaia!” Fae scrambled back into their makeshift tent. “What?” Gaia mumbled, still half asleep from the night before. “I went outside.” That got her attention, “Why did you go outside?! You know the rules. We go together or not at all. It’s too dangerous out there.” It had been 4 years since the first infection. Gaia was now 18 and her sister was 12. Both girls had jet black hair, but Gaia’s was long and tangled whereas Fae’s was short and straight. Not that it mattered since they were always wearing gas masks and fireproof clothing. It was hard to tell what anyone looked like nowadays. “I know. But um… there’s more.” Gaia shifted to look at her sister. It was too dark to see anything except her outline. “What else could there possibly be? You already broke the number one rule.” “I– I think–” “Just spit it out! It literally cannot be worse than going outside alone!” “I took off my gas mask.” Gaia bolted upright. That mask was the only thing protecting them from Code Red. “You did what?!” She panicked. Why did Fae take off her mask? She knew not to do that! She watched her parents die! They both had! “I thought maybe the air was getting cleaner. I feel like the world’s been healing and I needed to know. I needed to know if there was any chance we could recover. If there was any chance things would get better for us. For everyone that’s left” “There are safer ways to test that! Are you okay, or–” Gaia cut off, not wanting to voice that fear.

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Gaia dropped to the ground and bit her tongue to stop from screaming. Just because her clothes were fireproof didn’t mean she couldn’t feel the sweltering heat. She had put her jacket over her head to stop her hair from burning off. The Gorgon wasn’t nearly as lucky. But the thing still wasn’t dead! And Gaia was getting frustrated. So she just screamed. At the world. At every generation before her that built a glittering city on a cracked foundation. And in a fit of rage Gaia took her knife and stabbed the Gorgon straight through the heart. The mighty beast that Code Red had created fell. Gaia was shocked at first but gathered her wits in time to grab a small glass bottle and hold it up to the fangs of the creature. Carefully, making sure she didn’t cut herself on a tooth, Gaia pressed at the base of the fang causing a blue liquid to fill the bottle. The cure. “I did it,” she whispered to herself in awe. Who knew she was strong enough to kill a monster? Fae would’ve. She always saw the best in Gaia. Now Gaia was running home. Past the ruins of tall skyscrapers and through the haze of pollution that filled the air. Down and through the dry valley that had once been part of the ocean. To the base of a ruin that had once been the Statue of Liberty. This was where she had built her makeshift tent four years ago. This was where it still stood today. Ironic that a symbol of freedom became a cage for Gaia; a cage of fear. “Fae?” Gaia called cautiously, pulling back the flaps of fabric to reveal the worn down mats they slept on. “I’m here,” Fae croaked. Her sister was even worse than when she left. Her bloodred eyes were now complemented by skin that looked as pale as the moon. That was stage two. Fae’s hair was already starting to fall out, and when the last strand fell,

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“I don’t think I am.” The sun had risen and a ray of light trickled into the tent. Fae’s eyes were bright red. The first stage of Code Red. “This can’t be happening!” Gaia shouted in frustration. She had already lost her parents. She had already watched the world end. She spent every single moment of her life surviving. There was no time for fun. She didn’t have a life. She had an existence. And now she was going to lose her sister too. Unless she did something about it. “Stay here,” she growled, “And don’t even think about leaving.” Gaia stalked out of the tent. “Where are you going?” Fae called after her sister. “To find a Gorgon.” Gaia knew what she was doing was reckless and selfish. She didn’t care. She had spent her whole life losing. For once she wanted to win. She spotted a figure in the distance. It had to be a Gorgon. A monster. And her last hope. It was a Gorgon. After all, there were no humans left anywhere near New York City. Gaia was running. But not from the monster. Towards it. Of course, this was probably the moment she should have realized she had nothing but a match, a glass bottle, and a pocket knife on her. Oh well, it was too late to turn around— the Gorgon had spotted her. Gaia didn’t know how to fight, so after a few painful moments of generally just flailing about and trying not to get hit, she decided to change tactics. She took out a match from her leather jacket. The air was filled with so many chemicals it would create a huge fireball. Gaia’s clothing should protect her; she had made sure she and Fae were prepared if a fire ever did start. They both had fire proof clothing and a box of matches for emergencies. Gaia waited until the Gorgon drew so close she could hear it breathing and see the whites of its eyes. Then she lit the match.

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106 she would die. “Fae, I did it. I brought back the cure. Now you just have to drink it and—” “And I become a Gorgon.” “That’s better than being dead.” Fae tried to sit up, but was rewarded with a fit of coughs. Gaia rushed to prop her sister up. “Gaia, listen to me.” She unclasped something from around her neck and placed it in Gaia’s hand. “Take this.” “Mom’s old locket.” Gaia opened her palm and looked at the heart shaped locket. Her father had given it to her mother on the day of their wedding. “Before they died, Mom gave me this locket, and Dad gave you his leather jacket.” Fae smiled. “But why are you giving this to me?” “Because,” Fae took the locket and lowered it over my head, “I need you to let me go.” “I can fix you. I got the venom. You’re not going to–” Gaia choked. “But that won’t save my life. That’ll make me a bloodthirsty monster. That’s not life.” “We haven’t been living since the world broke.” “I have. I’ve watched as the world slowly started to heal. Have you noticed the storms are lessening? And in the past two years we haven’t had a single Gorgon anywhere near camp. In the beginning they were everywhere!” “And because of that you’ve decided you don’t want to live!” “No. Because of you I’ve decided that I have the strength to choose what’s best for the world. Not what’s best for me.” “I can save you,” Gaia pleaded, “Just let me!” “Never take off Mom’s locket. That way we can both keep an eye on you. I’ve watched you my whole life Gaia. You don’t need me. But the world

needs you.” “You’re not dying!” “Yes, I am. And there’s nothing you can do about that. It’s what you do from here that matters. Everyone goes through hard times. It’s how you recover that separates the heroes from everyone else.” “But I’m not a hero!” “You were mine.” “I can’t do this without you.” “You can. You’re a lot stronger than you give yourself credit for.” “It’s too late to fix the world, but I can fix you!” “It’s never too late to do the right thing, and that is what’ll fix the world.” “When did you get so wise?” Fae smiled, “Goodbye, Gaia.” And as the final strand of her hair fell, she closed her eyes for the last time. Gaia wailed a bone rattling wail that came from her core. She ran out of the tent and cried. Each tear landed in the gravel beneath her, soaking the ground. Until finally, she dried her tears and opened the locket. Inside was Mom’s favorite quote. “Moonbeams shine brightest at midnight.” Gaia whispered. It was a line in a poem about overcoming challenges or something. Mom’s favorite flower was also called the Moonbeam. Months later, Gaia went out to that same spot she had cried at. She had visited it every night since her sister’s death. But this time something was different. A single flower was growing from the spot her tears had landed. A moonbeam. It was almost glowing, the edges were a pale blue and the center was silver. This was the first plant Gaia had seen in her entire lifetime. And what if that saying was more than a quote. What if it was the answer. What if…

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For the first time since Fae died, Gaia smiled. There was a cure for Code Red. It was too late to save her sister, but maybe it wasn’t too late for everyone else. Maybe she could save the world. Build a better future for whoever was left. Maybe Gaia could be the hero her sister saw her as. Could the world be fixed? Was there enough time? Maybe it’s not too late.

Beyond The Abyss

From Alone Traveler series

photography BY Brennan Montalbano

Nighttime on Steamboat Lake photopgraphy BY Ella Heide

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“W e ca n n o t c h a n g e t h e ca r d s w e a r e d e a lt , j u s t h ow w e p l ay t h e

Achen, Jade———————————18, 64, 99 1 Anonymous———————————15, 52, 65 2 Anonymous—————————————-64 Austin, Fletcher—————————————92 Ball, Charlotte————————————79, 101 Barbre, Livia——————————————28 Bingham, Rachel——————————-80, 94 Borthwick, Anna——————————-50, 54 Bounds, Jessica—————————-22, 55, 84 Carle, Roslyn—————————————-44 Carter, Isabelle————————————-3, 51 Crossley, Abby—————————————57 Dirks, Lillie—————————10, 21, 29, 46, 58 Divadeenam, Rowan—————-4, 7, 8, 9, 47, 98 Doyle, Maddie—————————————20 Fan, Tracy—————————————-15, 69 Ferguson, Joe—————————————45 Fischer, M———————-4, 36, 53, 79, 96, 103 Friedman, Nicko————————————-31 Gaikowski, Riley————————————-104 Garmon, Thomas——————————-56, 100 Gibbs, Audra———————————26, 38, 41 Goldman, Olive—————————————76 Griffin, Greta———————————-2, 12, 83 Hamilton, Lucy———————————-14, 102 Harding, Elise—————————————-44 Heide, Ella———————————————46 Howey, Liam——————————————30 Hoch, Alicia——————28, 42, 71, 77, 82, 91, 99 Hood, Keely——————————————-74 Hyde, June——————————————-78 Krause, Henry—————————————88 Langford, Bryson——————————-35, 40 Lewandowski, Miles————————-17, 26, 71 Leinbach, Mick———————————-32, 60 Lohr, Ajay—————————————-43, 70

h a n d .”

index

­- R a n dy P a u s c h

Marx, Tommy—————————————-58 McMahon, Enza—————2, 6, 21, 37, 42, 50, 73 McMahon, Max—————————————76 Mellenbruch, Han——————————95, 103 Montalbano, Brennan——————54, 61, 85, 88 Moore, Savannah——————————-14, 64 Morehead, Audrey————————-52, 77, 97 Opelka, Anna—————————————-27 Ozkan, Ayla————————————-45, 99 Pecaut, Athena————————-34, 59, 72, 80 Shrock, Alex——————————————68 Sidie, Lola—————————5, 53, 68, 89, 100 Stein, Abby—————————————13, 56 Sufi, Ibrahim——————————————-90 Suh, Xochitl——————————————-23 Swanson, Abigail————————————-69 Thomas, Sneha—————————————13 Tyler, Clover————————————11, 16, 17 Whitefield, Kate———————————-10, 20 Wurst, Anna——————————————-16

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Staff bios

Enza McMahon, Co-Editor, 12 — This is Enza’s second year on staff and first year as a coeditor! In addition to being a co-editor, she participates in track and field, and she is the proud sister of Max, one of the other staff members. She is thrilled for you to see the handiwork of the hardworking staff and artists!

Delaney McDermed, Co-Editor, 11 — This is Delaney’s first year as co-editor and her second year on the freelancer. She is also involved in theatre at East and spends most of her time

Kate Whitefield, Co-Editor, 11 — Kate is honored to have held the co-editor position during her second year of Freelancer involvement, and she would like to thank her fellow Freeleaders, Mrs. Andersen, and the staff for a wonderful year. In addition to working for the magazine, Kate is a StuCo representative, Thespian Exec, and member of the Chamber Choir.

Kate Beaulieu, Manager, 11 — Kate has been a part of Freelancer for two years, and was given the managerial position this year! She is also involved in tennis, varsity lacrosse, DECA, and is a Harbinger photographer.

Sneha Thomas, Illustrator, 11 — Sneha has been involved with Freelancer for two years and is excited to have been the illustrator for the magazine this year. She is also a SHARE chair, dancer, and an artist.

Caroline Wood, Design Editor, 11 — This is Caroline’s first year on Freelancer and she is honored to teach the staff how to use InDesign—despite how complicated it can be. Outside of the magazine, Caroline is a member of The Harbinger, Student Council and swim team.

Amy Andersen, Sponser — Mrs. Andersen loves sponsoring the Freelancer and is so proud of her creative, hardworking editors and staff! She loves coffee, Audrey Hepburn movies, hiking, Freelancer marathon pizza nights, and spending time with her husband Tim.

Athena Pecaut, 12 — Athena enjoys roller skating, reading, writing, and spending time with others. She knows how to make chocolate chip cookies by heart, and all the personalities of the animals that she takes care of at her job in a pet store.

Brennan Montalbano, 11 — Brennan has been in Freelancer for three years now. He involved with SME Marching Band, Round Table Readers, NHS, and Art Club.

Lillie Dirks, 11 — This is Lillie’s first year on Freelancer and she has had so much fun! She is an IB diploma student, Vice President of Board Game Club, and a student representative on PTSA.

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Staff bios

Harry Treml. 11 — Harry is a new member of Freelancer and is also a member the school orchestra. He is happy to be working on the Freelancer this year and hopes that you like it!

Greta Griffin, 11 — This was Greta’s first year on the Freelancer staff, and she was thoroughly amazed by the talent and creativity of the SME student body!

Joe Ferguson, 11 — This is Joe’s first year in Freelancer. He is happy with the people he has met and the new art that he’s come to love so much. He will enjoy to do this again next year.

Ayla Ozkan, 11 — This is Ayla’s first year on staff and it’s been a blast! Ayla is also in the I.B. program, theater, and leader of other clubs.

Kennedi Forsynthe, 11 — This is Kennedi’s first year in Freelancer. It is the first activity she has been involved in since COVID and she is excited to continue working with the staff next year and help bring light to SME’s many artists.

Tommy Marx. 11 — Tommy joined Freelancer for latter part of the 2022 school year & spends his time writing, composing, & relaxing in his recess of home.

Tracy Fan, 11 — Tracy has joined the Freelancer for almost a year and is grateful to be part of such an amazing team. She is also active in NAHS club and SHARE at SME.

Savannah Moore, 11 — This is Savannah’s first year being involved in Freelancer and is loving it. She is also involved in NAHS and various other art clubs at East.

Anna Borthwick, 11 — This is Anna’s second year on staff. She is also involved with National Art Honors Society, SHARE, and IB at SME.

Abigail Swanson, 11 — This is Abigail’s first year with Freelancer, and it’s been an absolute blast. In her free time, she enjoys plotting and/or scheming.

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Staff bios Abby Stein, 11 — This is Abby’s first year with the Freelancer. She is also involved with art club at SME.

Audra Gibbs, 10 — This is Audra’s first time on Freelancer staff, though she submitted work to it previously. Outside of school, she enjoys sewing and performing Shakespeare.

Roslyn Carle, 10 — This is Roslyn’s first year on staff but, she did help out last year. She is quite ecstatic to be on staff. She very strategically stays in her comfort zone called going home after school and reading; the only exception is Thursdays for Freelancer.

Alicia “Cil” Hoch. 10 — Alicia has been involved with Freelancer for two years. She is also involved in wildlife photography and character animation.

Nicko Friedman, 10 ­— This is Nicko’s first year with the Freelancer. They are also in the Fibercrafts club.

Han Mellanbruch, 9 — This is Han’s first year as a member of the Freelancer. In his free time, Han creates movies and 3D renderings.

Riley Gaikowski, 9 — This is Riley’s first year in Freelancer. She is also in theater. In her free time she likes to read, write, and write songs.

Max McMahon, 9 — This is Max’s first year in the Freelancer, and he is very glad to be a part of the team. He is also involved in band and track.

Thomas Garmon, 9 — Thomas is a first year staff member of the Freelancer. They are also involved in Plus Club, Feminist Club and Choir.

Addtional staffers: Ibrahim Sufi, Stella Stueck, Alaina Brunnell-Wright

112 LETTER FROM THE EDITORS To our dedicated staff—thank you for the passion, hard work, and creativity that you have poured into this edition of the Freelancer. The diverse artistic opinions of this group enkindled lively and thought-provoking discussion throughout this year, and we greatly appreciate all of your contributions. To our wonderful sponsor, Mrs. Andersen—thank you for your time, guidance, and devotion to the arts, us students, and the magazine. You have fostered an inviting classroom environment which we are all grateful to be a part of, and your support of this publication is invaluable. We are honored to call ourselves your students. To the artists who submitted—thank you for trusting us with your art. It is your ingenuity and brave willingness to share your work that has brought this magazine to life. We are in awe of the talent that our peers have to offer, and we feel privileged to have been witness to your creations. To the East Fund—thank you for allowing us to continue our tradition of celebrating the arts. After these trying couple of years, we would not have been able to make it without your generous support. Finally, to you, dear reader— thank you for supporting the arts.

Enza McMahon

Delaney McDermed

Kate Whitefield

Kate Beaulieu