expressions 2025
60 th
St. Xavier High School
Literary and Fine Arts Journal
Logan Bauer EDITOR
Mr. Tim Reisert
MODERATOR
Creativity is about forging a new path, not just for whatever field one chooses to focus on, but also at the individual level. I cannot help but think back to the end of my freshman year at the annual Young Writers’ Forum Musicfest meeting where Mrs. Heile told me to “get into trouble; live recklessly” (a rough paraphrase). After a year of submitting relatively straightforward narratives to the club, she challenged me through this surprising quote to get inspired, branch out of my usual style, and try something new with my writing. Taking her up on this challenge fundamentally changed how I wrote from then on, and it changed my life.
One can see this ideal all throughout Expressions Magazine. For some, expressing creativity in any capacity is a major step outside their comfort zone. For others, honing in on specific elements of their craft and allowing them to be published is that leap. Being creative is an extension of oneself, and that can be seen in every piece of art in the coming pages.
I am incredibly grateful for the guidance I have had in growing my confidence in my creative efforts here at St. Xavier High School. Mrs. Heile, Mr. Cahill, Mr. Ahrens, Mr. Reisert, Mr. Federle, Mr. Gabriel and Mrs. Bower have all been incredible mentors in growing my creative skillset. Without them all, I would not be the creative person I am today—one whose passion to make fuels my very being. I would also like to give a very special thank you to Mr. Reisert for selecting me to be the head student editor for the milestone sixtieth volume of Expressions Magazine. Presenting my work in the magazine for four years now has aided my confidence in my passion tenfold and I am incredibly blessed to have the chance to give back to it.
I hope that the writing on the pages to come leaves a lasting impression, but that it also grants inspiration to make something new—the greatest impression of all. May this art bring about the inspiration to create that Mrs. Heile’s challenge did for me. To “live recklessly” is to get inspired. Thus, I extend this challenge to you: live recklessly.
- Logan Bauer ‘25
EDITOR
A special thank-you to Mr. Nick Kemper for delving through the St. Xavier archives and finding these treasures of past issues of Expressions! Thank you!
1989 Expressions
CHAN
UNDER THE COVERS
Where the sun sets, Where the day ends.
Where it sinks in, Where colors blend.
Where you were born, Where you first cried;
Where mother worked, Where grandma died.
Where you breathe in memories of yesteryear,
Where a girl whispers softly into your ear:
Where you’re loved, Where you’re wanted, Where you’re enough.
Where a song stops Right before it ends.
LIAM THAMANN-RAINES
MYLES CONNOCK
Her roots run deep across rocky land, A land once barren without her love, Through every hill down to beach’s sand.
Some see nature and say it’s unplanned, But look closer, there’s Someone above Her roots run deep across rocky land.
No mountain too high or canyon grand, Her grace stretches and brings life to stuff Through every hill down to beach’s sand.
Long before the industry and brands, All that existed were trees and doves, Her roots run deep across rocky land.
But now the world is concrete and bland, To keep this world’s great beauty, she’ll shove, Through every hill down to beach’s sand.
To take charge we must help and command, We, this land, as she wishes, beloved. Her roots run deep across rocky land. Through every hill down to beach’s sand.
FRANKLIN VILLING
EDDIE NOLL ONLY STARS REMAIN
The darkness of the moon, The darkness of the night. The gift of our sun’s boon, Lies solely in starlight.
A prayer goes up above, To stars that strike the earth. Simply for the flight of doves, And for quiet to give birth.
But nothing comes from wishing on some stars, Leaving us all alone in the dark. New growth cannot cover up old scars. Nothing will rid us of that mark.
Give us some strength to smile, To wake and live a while.
LOGAN BAUER SEARCH PARTY
noun, a group of people organized to look for someone or something that is lost.
How can you try to find something
That does not know it is lost?
Something so disconnected from its place in the world That it is content being unfound?
This Unfound does not know where it is, And has made no attempt to change that. It keeps to itself about its location Without a sound.
It is malleable, picking up and letting go Of all sorts of things. It never changes too much at once. Never gaining or losing even a pound.
Like the Athenians on their annual voyage, They don’t think too much of their vessel. If it is the same ship or not has no impact. So long as they’re still on solid ground.
But as soon as they board their ship, And make their journey in the name of their king, They will notice it is unrecognizable, But they will only worry where they are bound.
The Unfound changes as it wishes, Conforming to what it sees fit
To best stay adapted to the environment It finds itself wound.
LOGAN BAUER
The search party one day reaches it. Yet no one knows, Because the Unfound is completely unrecognizable, They still consider him yet to be found.
The creature cannot be caught, Because it looks completely different than how everyone expected. They left without hesitation And to itself it began to hound.
The Unfound remains lost Because nothing about it stays consistent. Like how those on the Delos-headed ship lost interest in how it had changed,
No one cares to find it so long as it is not too loud.
ANTHONY PEREZ-CARBALLO
A SNOWSLIDE
The
earliest
winter-related memory that I can recall with at least some clarity involves my father, me, and snow, so much snow. I must have been no more than seven at the time and my family and I lived in another house. It wasn’t the first snow of the winter season but it was most certainly the largest.
On that morning, a quick trip to the window exposed the magnitude of snow on our front yard. Naturally, kid me was beyond ecstatic. Half attempting to put on my jacket and half attempting to wake up my dad, I made my way downstairs. Opening the front door, I felt the chilly breeze hit me instantly. Clouds which had brought snowflakes were slowly and calmly moving elsewhere. The entirety of our yard and street, pure white. So instinctively I ran all over and ruined it with my footsteps.
At one point though my father also came outside to check on me. If he hadn’t he should have expected me to ask him to play with me, which I did. He was tired though, having come off hard work the day before. After some follow-up and incessant asking, he gave in and agreed to play in the snow with me. But what game? All this snow and I couldn’t think of any good use for it. Then it must have hit me: a slide made out of snow. Just like at parks but completely made out of snow. It sounded fantastic and like a genius idea all the way up until I asked my dad.
He was very quick to point out how much manual labor it would take to create a snowslide. Pile up the snow, compact the snow into steps, smooth out the snow into a slide. A child’s mind can’t comprehend the exhaustion of work, however. So his reasonable points made no difference in my mind. We’ll pile up the snow, we’ll compact the snow into steps, we’ll smooth out the snow into a slide. We’ll have fun.
Though my father’s protests were valiant, the inevitable came to pass and he agreed to help with the snowslide. Shovels were taken out of the shed and put to work. We moved the snow in yard into a singular large pile. By then I was more then a little tired and so not much help when it came to transforming the lump of snow. It was my dad who shifted the snow into sections then eventually sculpted the steps. He went on to add snow and carve out the slide. By the end it was not simply snow. But rather it was a throne of white, a journey to the top which transformed to
cascade toward the bottom. It was magnificent and I must have used it dozens of times until the change in temperature made it shrink slowly. Even then, the snowslide lasted a lot longer than I would have expected. It was a joy to play and slide down. I’d include making it but that wasn’t really the case. He piled up the snow, he compacted the snow into steps, he smoothed out the snow into a slide, I had fun.
JACK MURRAY
SOFT-SHELLED CRAB
Pain means nothing to me.
It’s merely a concept to process sadness and suffering. I do not need to process anything. I don’t feel pain. I have too many things to do.
Her letter may have been a dagger the way she saw it, But to me, it was but another thing to deal with. Besides, my dad and I are going golfing this evening. I also need to move a table.
And get dinner.
See? There are so many things to do.
…
…
Maybe that’s why she left. I was so focused on other things. I never really got the time to focus on her. She hurt herself.
I should have been there.
It’s my fault, really. Maybe I deserved this. … … …
I think I’m going to get some Korean soft-shelled crab for dinner. That ought to do it.
CALEB ROTHRING
EYES FIXED
DAVID MUSOLINO
Eyes fixed on a crisp bold black line immediately below
Translucent blue all around you
A bright white floor
You bring your head up—sunlight through glass brick windows
You look from on your back—white fluorescent lights, lights strobing from cuts of fan blades
Sea wave white noise all around Chopping and sloshing beside you
Punctured by interspersed yells
You’re gliding through space and time
Clear mind
Calm soul
Dynamic body movement
A faint soreness throughout your body
Cold matter slips across your skin
ANTHONY PEREZ-CARBALLO DOES IT PLEASE?
The body dropped
to the ground. Lying there lifeless as the man removed his sword from the corpse’s chest. That was the last one, he thought to himself.
Now battered and bathed with blood, he sat down on the nearest boulder available. Nearby and in the distance commands for cleanup could be heard. Footsteps on mud rushed past, heeding the shouts. More commands followed. All he wished for was rest.
Removing his iron morion helmet and placing it on the floor he let out an exhausted sigh. The tremble in his hand went away. The tension in his gut released. He took out his sword, it too was dripping red. Ripping off the sleeve of the dead man he began to clean it. Making sure to get it spotless once more. The action reminded him of how wonderful and simple his wife looked when she wiped the dishes. Though they had servants, she took great pride in helping however she could. Soon he would return to her. Soon children would run down the green pastures surrounding their home and greet him, removing all knowledge of from what they accomplished while he was gone to last week’s sermon. The blade was clean now.
Or so the man thought. There was a sliver of dried-up blood still remaining. Despite rubbing with effort it didn’t go away. Persistence didn’t help either. He just wanted a clean sword. Why’d such a stain have to persist?
The tired soldier thought of simply leaving the sword as it was. But then he thought of his children, of the chance that they might see the blade. So instead a small dagger with its own few spots of blood was pulled out. It was a gift from his father. With it the man attempted to scrape off the dried-up blood and a portion of it did, but not the entirety. He couldn’t wrap his mind around why it mattered so much to him. But he knew that if the sword wasn’t clean it’d stick with him forever. Frustrated and desperate he turned to God, the will behind his weapon. Lowering his head in prayer, he pleaded, questioned, and begged for the blood to go away. The soldier wanted it gone. Far away for him.
But the blood remained when he lifted his head. It was still on his sword. Still noticeable, yet more noticeable to him now was the pool of
ANTHONY PEREZ-CARBALLO
blood near his feet. Further still was the body of the man he had just killed. Facing straight he was met with dozens—no, was it hundreds of dead men? Forget a speck of blood, people had died here. Their lifeless bodies dormant of their souls. Picking up his sword once more, he looked at it with much more attention; it felt heavy within his grasp and it was dripping in blood.
An overwhelming sensation overcame the man. He was just—was he not? The intention behind his actions were just—were they not? He had acted for the greater glory of God—hadn’t he? Surely the men on the ground had died for a grander, more holy purpose. The blood on his sword hadn’t been for nothing, he tried to convince himself. The truth had to be spread. His love shared to all. Raising his head towards Heaven, he prayed once more.
Dear God, does this please you?
WILLIAM GEORGE VANAPRASTHA
The life cycle of a leaf is beautiful, But short. The world waits silently for spring when they will shine. Nature needs its color back before it awakes. They last awhile like this, celebrated at first, but soon they become mundane, another part of a forgotten world. As if screaming for attention they change their color, from a green to a bright red or yellow. A last flickering of a candle before it is extinguished. They shrivel and fall from the tree that nurtured them. And again, Nature goes back into hiding, waiting for its color to come back.
That winter my leaves died. And now I become cold and solitary. I pray for spring to return soon.
BMW’S SENSATIONS
In the driveway’s shadow, a figure awaits, A sleek black marvel, defying the fates. With a glossy finish that sparkles and gleams, It whispers of power, igniting wild dreams. The engine awakes, A deep rumble that makes the ground shake. Headlights snap on, cutting through dark, Twin beams, sharp, like a predator’s mark. Every line sleek, pure and obsessive. From idle to full throttle, the blur begins, Adrenaline spikes, now I’m locked in.
Zero to sixty in the blink of an eye, speedometer jumping fast as the car accelerates by.
Shift into drive, the road opens wide, The thrill hits quick, as I start to glide.
Tires grip like nothing else, Every curve is a test of myself. It holds the asphalt, tight and sure, The engine’s roar, raw and pure. Each corner, smooth and clean, The rush of speed, sharp and keen. Wind rushes past, stars up high, Each stretch of road makes me fly. In this black beast, wild and free, The ride becomes everything, just me and the machine. So here’s to the ride, the thrill and the chase, Black beauty, a touch of pure grace. With every heartbeat, we’re lost in the sound, In this BMW beast, where true freedom is found.
1971 Expressions
THOMAS FRANK III
THE POLAROID
“Ugh, this lens is so annoying,”
Bella murmured to herself, wiping her Polaroid camera with the sleeve of her white sweatshirt. The usually clean camera had fogged up, distorting the wouldbe pictures.
Once satisfied, Bella struts along the old wooden boardwalk, feeling the sand enter between her toes slowly. Finally on the soft, yellow sand, she turns around and quickly snaps a photo. The mechanical whir of the Polaroid fills the air as a small, undeveloped photo slowly reveals itself. Bella grabs the photo quickly and starts to shake, revealing the sandy boardwalk inthe picture. She examines it for a little bit and exclaims, “Perfect!”
She grabs her trusty brown satchel, filled with albums of all the photos she has taken for the day. Opening the latch, she digs for her album and carefully inserts the freshly-taken picture into a clear plastic sleeve. Photos of animals she thought were cute, places she visited, a cool mailbox, and even some people who she thought had cool outfits were in the album labeled “6/5/2025.”
Ever since her mother passed, Bella has been capturing diligently every moment she can with her polaroid. The guilt of not remembering who her mom was haunts her. Taking a deep breath in, she turns back around and walks out onto the surf, the orange and white water rushing through her feet. A distinct smell of the sea fills her nose. The sound of seagulls squawking on the sand and the light sound of waves dancing fill her mind with peace. She looks out onto the setting sun, captivated by its beauty.
“Excuse me?” A voice broke Bella out of her trance and she spun around to see a couple holding hands. “Is that a Polaroid?”
“It is!” Bella exclaimed, her voice raising in pitch.
“My boyfriend and I were wondering if you could take a picture of us next to the sunset?”
The woman asked as she looks into Bella’s eyes with an almost pleading look.
“Sure!” Suddenly, her Tourette’s starts to act up and her left eye starts to slowly twitch. To those who know her, this is a dead giveaway to when she’s jealous. Like usual, she starts to pretend to rub her eye like it’s itchy to hide the twitching.
“Is your eye, okay?” the man asks, speaking up for the first time.
“Oh, yeah, it’s fine,” Bella says, trying to sound non-chalant. Her eye starts to twitch even more so instead she brings her Polaroid up to her face to take the picture. The couple starts to pose and then a flash of white light fills the air. Once again, a fresh photo starts to emerge from the camera and Bella hands it to the couple after she shook it for a few.
“This is incredible, thank you so much!” the woman said graciously. The couple clasp their hands together and continue their walk on the beach.
Bella stares as they become smaller on the horizon and sighs, a twinge of jealousy on her breath.
“Lucky,” she murmurs under breath, the hopeless romantic in her raging. She turns back at the setting sun and smiles as the warm wind blows through her hair. She points her camera towards the sun, lining up the perfect shot, but freezes. She continues to look through the Polaroid, but won’t take the picture. The camera slowly lowers, and the scene presented captivates her. She stares off, taking in the sun, the water, and the wind. She breathes out as her eye slowly starts to return to normal. She opens her satchel and tucks her Polaroid away. She closes the latch and looks out onto the horizon and gently smiles, enjoying the present.
This is a moment she won’t forget.
LIAM THAMANN-RAINES
JOSE ZAMUDIO
A CHURCH BELL SOUNDS
A church bell sounds as the end draws near, Old, young, sick, healthy, it sounds for any. The sounds of a bell ring out.
“Is it my time to go?” all ponder and fear. Flee, fight, the bell sounds all the same. A church bell sounds as the end draws near.
The sounds of a bell ring out. For whom it tolls, there is no doubt. Heaven or hell, their sins they count. The sounds of a bell ring out.
JACK DOLLRIES
JOSE CABRERA
THE NIGHT I LEFT
The night was dark, and the streets were wet. She was standing there, looking out.
I can’t remember how light was before we met.
Her hair, blonde like a girl in a gazette, She seemed troubled and was giving a pout. The night was dark, and the streets were wet.
Walking towards her until her eyes fret. Disillusioned, I walked back as if I had just struck out. I can’t remember how life was before we met.
Goodbye, farewell, I said as I wept.
The blonde hair was gone as she bowed out. The night was dark, and the streets were wet.
For her, I had become a nympholept. I should have given up when I found out. I can’t remember how life was before we met.
Missing her I gave up and jumped with a shout. I don’t have to suffer now that I left.
The night was dark, and the streets were wet.
I can’t remember how life was before we met.
THE MAN IN THE RAIN
He looked over his shoulder fully expecting him be right there. He saw nothing though. Just his footprints in the mud and the rain, falling faster than it had all night.
He looked at his right arm for the first time since the chase. His fears were confirmed as he saw blood dripping down to his hand through the light created by the full moon through the trees.
The rain covered the rest of his body, and he quickly looked for shelter. He saw the house up ahead, and it seemed abandoned. He ran to it, hearing the sound of his footsteps hitting the puddles.
The man was running, running from his past and present to a future without worry. Yet, they were making it hard for him, doing what they could to prevent him from talking.
JACK MUETHING
He heard a twig snap. He turned, and then he heard the shot. He hit the ground shortly after, causing the birds to fly from the trees.
Then, there was nothing. Nothing except the sound of the rain hitting the trees, the leaves on the ground, and his back as he lay on the ground covered in blood, unable to escape his past.
HUNTER GEE
A NIGHT AT THE THEATRE: PEANUTS NOSTALGIA
The houselights dim
as the fluorescent glow of the spotlights illuminates the stage.
Yellow playbills with a cover page of Charlie Brown and Snoopy are placed into purses as the audience begins to experience the evening of entertainment they have been waiting for. The orchestra begins with their extravagant, welcoming overture, their instruments humming pieces of the music showcased in You’re a Good Man, Charlie Brown. The rum-pa-pa-pum of the drums works cohesively alongside the melodic tune played by the piano in support of the brass instruments. In the stage right wing, I anticipate my grand entrance from the back alcove, as the rest of the cast has already taken their place onstage from the third frame of the stage left wing. I take in my surroundings as I strain my eyes in the dark backstage area, lit only by a lightbulb with a sheet of blue gel paper over it to produce minimal light. I notice the prop table full of black and white composition notebooks, plastic baseball bats, heartshaped paper valentines, and rainbow jump-ropes on my direct right.
More distantly, I see the stage manager, wearing all black clothing from head to toe, beginning to call cues for the show, her headpiece on one ear with the attached microphone near her mouth. Stage crew members, also clothed in black pieces, prepare the scenery change for the following scene to ensure a smooth transition. Quiet whispers through the headpiece microphones loom backstage as the cast prepares for the opening number. Appreciating the surrounding scenery, I stand next to the classic yellow “Doctor is in” lemonade-like stand that Lucy uses toward the end of Act One. It acts as a shoulder to lean on as I center myself and focus on the current performance. Returning to my original stance to face my entrance, I see the large cutout hole shaped like Charlie Brown’s head and the large, flat frames of the stage painted yellow with speech bubbles to imitate the nostalgic Sunday newspaper cartoons. The thunderous applause of the audience as the pit orchestra finishes their tune ignites a passion in me that fuels my energy for the show. The vintage, flowy, red velvet curtain begins to open, splitting down the middle, revealing the stunning set as the opening number begins.
A few verses proceed my entrance, and during that time, I see the bright-colored costumes of the beloved Peanuts gang ranging from pink, to blue, to red, to purple that are so vibrantly presented under the florescent stage lights. Sally’s vibrant pink dress with black polka dots compliments the melancholy deep purple shirt with black stripes that Schroeder wears. Lucy’s deep blue dress is topped with a large bow at the rear to establish her authority, as Linus carries his silky baby blue blanket over the shoulder of his black and red striped shirt. Awakening on top of his red, wooden doghouse, Snoopy joins the rest of the cast below as they begin to dance.
Step right, cross left, kick, ball-change, pas de bourrée, three step turn upstage. The synchronization of the choreography sends a chill down my spine, like a positive form of nails on a chalkboard. I hear my cue line in the characterized music, and I exit the alcove as I enter a brand-new world that is somehow so familiar.
I enter the stage with grace as I chaîné across the floor to the front and center position of the proscenium with my fellow cast members forming a circle around me. As I complete each exhausting fouetté turn, my legs feel like green Jello with every connection to the bare stage. The sight of hundreds of audience members awakens my inner drive to excel in this performance, so I push through. I feel the harsh lights on my face from the catwalks above, glistening different hues of light as I continue with the remainder of the historical opening number. The final eight count begins with a full right leg extension into a grand jeté leap in respective directions and closes with a group presentation of the classic Peanuts final pose on the distinct musical button that leaves an enticing feeling in the audience members for the nostalgia they are about to relive.
CONOR CHILDS BIG SISTER
Hold the baby’s head
this way, be sure to give it support as his head is fragile and we don’t want him to fall. Be sure not to yell near the baby, it may wake him from his sleep. To feed the baby, take the formula and mix it with water in the bottle shaking it thoroughly. When the diaper releases a stench, check it, and then change it. As the baby begins to walk, be sure to pick up his toys as he may trip and fall. Here is how to hold his hand, don’t let it slip so he doesn’t come crashing down. Don’t let him bite, his teeth are coming in and it may hurt. The baby is learning to speak, be sure to be patient and listen thoughtfully as if you understand him. His first day of school has come so fast, be sure to give him a kiss before you leave for kindergarten. Don’t fight the baby, he is still learning his manners. You should let him play with your toys with you so he can learn to share. He is starting his first day of school at your school, be sure to show him around as you are a big third grader now. He is having his first tee ball game, be sure to cheer him on! The baby is going into junior high can you believe it? Be sure to show him the ropes, this is your last year in grade school! His first dance is coming up, teach him how to treat woman with respect and he will forever thank you. Oh, my he is graduating from high school be sure to go to his football games. Comfort him when he is down and swamped with homework, it is something a big sister should do. You are leaving for college don’t forget to let the baby know you’re leaving. Make sure to give him advice like “Stay out of trouble” and “Talk to girls.” He only listens to you. Be sure to let the baby know he is no longer a baby, but a man.
THOMAS PITSTICK
Crystal loves her tattoos.
She started her tattoos when she turned 17. Her first tattoo inscribed a blue butterfly on her wrist right over the same spots as her needle marks. Her other tattoos covered blank space on her body. The artist gave Crystal basic tattoos just like she had asked for: simple images like pictures of the American flag, flowers, names, and important dates to her.
Crystal thought of herself as basic and unremarkable just like her tattoos. She bagged groceries for a living. At her work, Crystal frequently saw people stealing, but she never did anything about it. The shoppers needed some necessities which they just couldn’t afford. Crystal got perks at her store to afford food, but that didn’t fully cover her own bills like rent. Crystal worked lane 1 at the store. Self-checkout often left her with nothing to do. Her belt barely worked to move the items, so she usually ended up scanning everything by hand on the rare occasion she got to actually work.
One night near closing a man rushed to her aisle. He wore a dark brown suit, looking to be made of expensive materials. His face was almost perfect with a big nose and brown eyes. His suit had an embroidered name, “CEO: Jon Bask,” on the front left pocket. He had a large cart filled with the expensive filet of steak and wine that’s normally locked away from customers due to its price. He slyly opened his wallet and passed Crystal ten 100-dollar bills. She accepted it and put it in the register as he retorted, “Keep the change. If you want more, give me your digits.”
The Ben Franklins looked at her passionately. She knew how far the 1000 dollars could go in her life and to this man it was nothing.
“Any other day, honey,” she said in a soft tone not wanting to burn any bridges.
“Here’s my address if you change your mind,” he said as he snuck a business card over to her.
She rang him through and then clocked out for the day. On her way out, Crystal looked back at the register and noticed no one was at the grocery store anymore. With her blue painted nails, she picked up the rug where the key labeled “register” was kept.
As she reached for the key, she heard some voice from behind her, “Aye, whatchu doin’?” It was her manager, Marvin. Marvin grew up with a speech impediment, so his speech always ended in choppy words like they were smushed together in a word sandwich. Thankfully the impediment made it embarrassing for Marvin to hit on Crystal.
“I’m just making sure the register is closed, you know,” Crystal replied. “Aight. Lock’em doors hindya. Selater,” Marvin said as he left.
Crystal relaxed and waited a few minutes. She heard the engine of Marvin’s 2011 CRV fire up and saw his headlights leave the nearly empty parking lot.
She grabbed all the money from the register, locked it back up, and left the door open. She shakenly opened up her car and fled the scene while calling her friend. On her way home she passed the rich man’s house. She turned into his driveway and parked her car next to the brand-new BMW.
Opening the door, he stood there, Jon Bask, and as she walked through his marble house, she just wanted it for her own, just one night. So, as Jon poured a glass of the expensive wine, Crystal grabbed a knife just for protection. She didn’t know this man, but this man was remarkable, and she wanted to be just like him. She started her plot. Her plot for power.
LET US PRAISE ADAN GARCIA
Let us praise the mother
Who at times gives up her dreams
Let us praise the father
Whose hands are rough as sandpaper
Let us praise the teacher Who takes care of many families
Let us praise the immigrant Who wishes more, for their family
Let us praise the child
Who sees life with a brand new lens
Let us praise the earth
As it nurtures
SAM KOEHNE
THE STRENGTH OF CURIOSITY
Plenty of students crowd around, and so much noise, hard to distinguish the maker. Papers rustle and laughter bellows.
Why do humans need to meet one another? And why do we pick and choose only a couple? Why do we surround ourselves with others just like us.
I think to myself, why are we here? I think to myself, how did I get here? I think to myself, what I can do to stay?
Red Yellow Green shirts all together yet skin and hair stay the same. Diversity in the shirts but not in the people.
Through the big glass windows light beams in, The reflection of the sun bounces from human to human. The light will soon fall beneath so curiosity fills the air. And curiosity fills my mind of what I can to do be more grateful.
I realize I should enjoy the now, rather than regret the past.
CALEB ROTHRING
SHADOWS OF MY PAST LIFE
My name is Trent Alexander Davis,
but everyone calls me Trent. By day, I’m just another businessman, blending in with the crowd, doing what I can to provide for my family. But when the sun sets, that’s when I switch gears—when the real work begins.
I’ve learned how to keep both worlds separate, how to live the double life, even if it means stepping into the shadows and keeping the past close. I’m 6’0”, biracial, and you’ll always find me in all black, the suit I wear for work, like some disguise. I’ve gotten good, maybe too good, but that’s how I survive. People don’t see the man behind the clothes. They just see the businessman.
I didn’t grow up in a world of stability. Chicago’s streets taught me early that life’s a gamble. My old man was a kingpin, head of one of the most feared gangs in the city. I was raised around drugs, guns, violence, it was all normal to me. He made sure I understood the ropes, but he also pushed me to break free. He didn’t want me to end up like him, in the gutter or worse. He made sure I got out. “Go to college, make something of yourself” is what he always told me.
And I did. I beat the odds, graduated, got my degree.
Thought I was done with all that. Thought I could walk away from the life he led, and I almost did, until the day they killed him. A rival gang gunned him down in broad daylight during my senior year. That loss, the pain, burning through me, and for a long time, I wanted revenge, and I still do.
But now I’ve got a family to protect. A wife who loves me and two little girls who depend on me. I can’t just throw my life away in some street war. So, I find a different way to strike back. A quiet one.
I deal in weapons, guns, ammo, whatever people need. People come to me because they know I can get things they can’t find anywhere else. I’ve got connections and network. It’s not the path I thought I’d walk, but it’s the one I’m on now.
I’ve got old friends who still live in that world, the one I thought I left behind. Every night, I meet them at a spot, hand them what they want, the firepower to take back what’s theirs, to settle scores. They don’t know I’m playing both sides, but that’s just how it is. I do what I have to do. For
them. For me. For my family.
And as long as I keep my family safe, as long as they never know the real cost of this life, I’ll keep walking this tightrope. Trent, businessman by day, weapon dealer by night. It’s the only way I know how to survive.
But let me tell you how this all went down.
I was always the smart kid. Teachers would tell me repeatedly that the people I surrounded myself with would affect how smart I was. In high school, I met Bud. We became close fast. We met during the summer before my freshman year, at football workouts. We did everything together. It felt real, like the bond I had with my father. We both grew up around the same stuff, so we understood each other.
The weird part? Our dads were rival gang members. But that never mattered to us. We didn’t care about the violence or the drama. We just cared about each other.
As high school went on, we grew closer. We spent every day together, but one summer, something changed. I saw that Bud had been badly beaten. He had been jumped into the gang.
When I asked him about it, he told me, “It was my only choice. I can’t go to college.” I could see the hurt in his eyes, but we still hung out. Something was off, though. I could feel it, deep down.
When I left for college, I thought I was leaving my old life behind. I was determined to start fresh. Everything was good—except for Bud. He was in and out of jail, always in trouble. I couldn’t keep up with him anymore. I wasn’t that person anymore. That life wasn’t for me.
Fast forward to the end of my senior year. My wife and I had just gotten an apartment near campus, and our daughter had just turned one. Everything was going great. Then, in the middle of a class, I got a call from an unknown number. I hung up, not recognizing it. But then it kept calling, over and over again, until I finally answered. That’s when I got the news that my dad had been shot in broad daylight.
Something inside of me changed in an instant. After graduation, I got a job, but that wasn’t the life I went home to at night. I went back to where I was raised, dealing guns, ammo, whatever was needed. All I cared about now was finding the person who killed my father. I needed them gone.
But it was hard. I was miserable. The anger, the frustration, the hurt— it all built up. But what could I do? I have a family now. My little girl was four, and my second child was on the way. Still, every night, I went back to the streets, hoping something would change. I kept asking if anyone had heard anything. But the police had dropped the case. It was on me now.
I had to take matters into my own hands. I found someone who had information. The killer… it was Bud. My childhood friend. I couldn’t believe it. I didn’t want to believe it. What could’ve made him do that? Was it because I left him behind? Was it something else? What had happened to him?
A few nights later, my wife noticed I was restless and uneasy. She asked, “Why are you pacing around so much?”
I said I was fine, but she knew I wasn’t. She could see the tension in my eyes, the way I paced around the house, unable to settle. Later that night, still uneasy, I got up and left, grabbed the gun from the safe, and drove away. Not realizing I was driving from everything I ever loved. I woke my wife up, though. Little did I know this would lead to the worst thing to ever happen. I drove to Bud’s house, speeding and angry, my mind racing with thoughts of betrayal and revenge. It was time to deal with this myself.
I banged on his door angrily until he woke up. When he answered, I pushed my way in, adrenaline pumping through my veins. I punched him in the face, the impact sending a shock through my hand, and forced him to sit on the couch. I demanded to know why. He looked at me with a mix of fear and defiance, and said he had to, explaining that my father had money on his head. He also said my father had it coming, his words like a knife twisting in my gut.
I pulled my gun out, one in the chamber, ready to blow. At this point, my wife had found a window and saw everything. Her eyes were wide with terror, but I was too far gone to notice.
Bud had a gun pointed at me too, his hand shaking. Now it was a matter of who pulled the trigger first. Two shots went off, the sound deafening in the small room. Bud lay there dead, his eyes staring blankly at the
ceiling, and I felt a sharp pain in my arm where the bullet had skimmed me.
The bullet missed me, but when I turned around, I saw where it had shattered the glass.
My heart stopped when I saw my wife, standing there, a look of shock on her face. Blood was spreading across her chest from the stray bullet. I stood there crying and shaking uncontrollably. My wife in my arms asked, “Why do you get back into this? How did this happen?” Police sirens in the distance seemed to get closer. I got my revenge, but at the cost of my best friend, my freedom, and the safety of my wife.
The realization hit me like a ton of bricks. I had lost everything that mattered in a single, reckless moment: “What in the hell happened to me?”
ROCKS BY THE POND
The breeze picks up my sweat, carrying it gently with it the whisper of leaves only breaks the silence.
My breath is warm and heavy and my sighs prove work well done. Leaning on the wooden fence, I look out towards the pond.
Bending over to pick up a rock, I see my arms are left with red marks from the wood. My rock thrown into the water plops and makes a ripple
A day full of effort is signified, Yet looking down, there’s thousands more.
I know I’ll never have a finish line as there is no finite goal. For I’m satisfied now. But I’m not finished, just an endless pursuit until no rock is left.
ANTHONY PEREZ-CARBALLO
THE SUN’S SLOW DESCENT
A few years ago
my family and I, after a long weekend, settled on heading to Wendy’s for a quick bite. Since we were in a hurry, the drive-through was our only option. We hastily made our way. We parked quickly to check our order, and the car soon became a loud, disruptive mess: my little brothers exclaiming about some nonsense and arguing, my mother trying to quiet them down, and me grieving my annoyance. Amidst all of this though, my younger sister positioned her phone toward the window in an attempt to take a picture of the setting sun.
Noticing this I found it rather funny. She’d do it often and I always wondered why. This time I decided to question her. I asked her why she was taking a photo of the sun if we saw it every day. She looked at me all embarrassed and wasn’t able to answer the question, but she took the photo anyway. As she did I looked up at the sun too, nothing out of the ordinary, I thought.
As the pace of life increased and I got older, there started to be a longing. A few of my friends began to do photography and I no longer viewed it as silly. Suddenly my TikTok’s fyp became overrun with videos and photos of nature. If I looked at the photos, it felt like for a brief second I was able to grasp at what they were trying to tell me. Vast ever-reaching mountain peaks and thick misty woods called to me in a language I was beginning to understand. If my day had been rough or I needed a break I’d look go TikTok and look at nature for that feeling. It was then that I realized the serenity nature provides. Our busy lives can’t help but long for tranquility and nature is that in its barest sense. The remaining forests and oceans are untouched by human fingertips so it’s impossible to associate them with the daily occurrences and troubles of our lives. Nature helps to ground ourselves. Its slow progression reminds us to take a step back. Just imagine how it takes an entire day for the sun to fulfill its duty to set. The change in seasons taking months simply to occur.
Though I love any excuse to be lazy and one could argue nature’s slow tendency as one, in all seriousness it’s comforting to acknowledge nature’s role in each of our lives. For me, the enjoyment of its beauty and the peace it gives me is always welcome. Even if it’s different for you, I’d encourage you to look at the setting sun too. What do you feel?
LOGAN BAUER
I WILL ALWAYS BE WITH YOU
Antiques fill me with dread.
That’s exactly why I go antiquing.
Around once a month or so, I pay a visit to the county’s antique store for hours on end. Browsing the aisles upon aisles of doodads and trinkets and knickknacks brings excitement and anxiety. In an antique store, I hope and I fear.
I wonder why these items may have ever been given away. A wellloved, baby blue toy car with still-shining tires. A specially-made commemorative wedding glass bearing the insignia of a happy couple and a date from over a decade ago. A worn bowl with a chipped edge and stained bottom. To whom did these once belong to? What’s their story? Why get rid of these beloved things? Those very questions ignite my fears whenever I step foot in this place—yet, I’m still drawn in. Every antique holds a lifetime of history.
In the jewelry section, housed behind the two-inch-thick glass wall are neat rows of gemstones, earrings, necklaces, and all sorts of other obscure accessories. Each and every thing for sale naturally has a history—good or bad, of course—and it is hard to keep the past of each and every item out of my mind upon browsing. Above all others, the jewelry section instills fear in my heart. So I make my way over there.
I squat down in front of the glass case and begin to scour the rows and rows of wearables. Huge loop earrings that look slightly rusted and have a crack beginning to form. A ring with a flamboyant pink gemstone. A bulky necklace made up of small black beads. A ring bearing engraved cursive insignia. Upon further inspection, it reads the following:
I will always be with you.
•
On a crisp autumn day, he brings her to a field with blooming flowers of all colors set atop endlessly rolling hills and an oak tree straight out of a painting as the centerpiece to it all. Says it’s just for a picnic lunch. He leads her up the dirt path—her hand in his—toward the tree. They both smile and he carries the bag holding their lunches. He lets go of her hand to unfold the blanket for them to sit under—in the shade of the oak, of course—and passes her the meal he packed for her. They begin
to eat in peace, laughing and talking over their past few days of work and leisure.
He has an air of nervousness about him that wasn’t usually present. It was in the way he moved, the way he talked, the way he chuckled at her jokes. Slightly off, but she could not quite put her finger on it.
They finished their meals, sitting comfortably full with only a slight bit of appetite left. That could easily be filled by the apple fritter—her favorite dessert—that he brought to surprise her.
They split the treat and share it together, somehow still oven-warm despite the drive and walk. Just as she scraped the last crumbs off the plate and the sun rested on the horizon ahead of them, he stood up, packed the trash from their meal, and brushed off his collared shirt.
He stands there, just beaming down at her until she notices his gaze. Once she stares back at him, his mind comes back to him and he loses all nervousness he once had. He looks quickly into the sun setting behind her then lowers himself onto one knee.
Yes! she belts out before he has time to ask the question. Yes! A thousand times yes!
I haven’t even asked you anything yet! He starts, finally fishing a ring box out from his pocket.
But I already know my answer, and it’s yes! She replies gleefully. Somehow, she didn’t see it coming.
Will you let me ask you to marry me or not? He asks jokingly.
Yes.
Will you marry me?
Yes!
She takes the ring from its container and holds it in her hand. Its exterior is gold with rigid engravings around it. The rim is thick— slightly bulky when worn—but still a perfect fit for his wife-to-be. He had it personally made for her by a blacksmith he knew. While not a traditional wedding ring by any means, he figured he wanted to give something more personal than he had seen on other rings, something much more unique to them. The golden outside shines in the red-orange sun behind her, perfectly illuminating the black cursive lettering that bound the outside of the ring: I will always be with you.
•
He had never seen her smile so big admiring it, trying it on, looking at it at all different angles on her finger. The warmth of the sun burned in her.
If you want something more traditional, I can always go get a different one instea—
No, she cut him off. I love it. She steps towards him. And I’ll always be with you. She beamed at him gleefully.
The couple embraced on the top of the hill as dusk approached and the cold night winds started to arrive. They kissed—again and again— and made love beneath the tree where they just got engaged. They talked about their plans for the happiest day of their lives soon after.
•
That day came and went with festivities, celebrations, smiles, and blurred memories as the reception went on. With their wedding day behind them, the couple looks forward to the future—the future of their family.
After a visit with the doctor, the two sit together on the couch of their newly-bought home, basking in the news. Neither can quite move, though he does get up to offer his wife something to eat. He comes back with the plate, hands it to her, and goes elsewhere. Much later, she finds him alone in their room.
What’s wrong? she asks.
Nothing, he replies, startled. He had been staring at the ground. Look, I’m sorry—
No. It’s not your fault.
I can’t help but feel like it is. I don’t want you upset with me.
I’m not upset with you.
Well why else are you sulking?
I just… he stammers and finally looks up. I don’t want our love to end with us.
I wish it didn’t have to, she quietly wishes. She sat down next to him and began to comfort him.
•
All relationships have to end eventually. Most end in a few weeks, months, maybe years. But the best of them still do seem to end—just after a long, long time. The couple reunites one last time, under bright LED lights.
He is connected to a heartrate monitor.
He does not have much time left.
Finally, she rushes into the room, pushing the attendants aside to see her husband.
Ma’am, he’s having trouble speaking and moving his facial muscles. She ignores the attendant and stares at her aching love. His eyes move to see her. His arthritic hand slowly rises, shakily turning over towards her. It shudders in the air. She puts her frail hand in his. His fingers, unsteady and slowly, fixate on the ring. He takes it off her, it slides down her finger and into his palm. With his other hand, he picks it up, showing his wife the ring’s message—the one he had inscribed years ago.
I will always be with you.
He places the ring in her hand and pushes her fingers so she holds it in hers. While nearly-paralyzed, in his heart burns a small flame—not an overly wild or uncontrollable fire—but a small, careful warmth that begins in his chest and spreads throughout as he looks into the wrinkled but still lovely green eyes of his beloved. This small warmth seeping from the heart is a feeling like no other, and yet he never felt it quite as strongly as he had here. It’s a feeling that can overcome any physical challenge, it blocks out the outside world, even if just for a moment. His face begins to quiver as his jaw struggles to form a smile.
His love beams back at him, ring in hand.
•
“Are you going to buy that ring, ma’am?” a voice calls towards me. It’s the jewelry counter clerk.
“Oh,” I respond, my senses returning to me. “Yes, what’s the price?”
“Ten big ones,”
“I’ll take it.”
I make my way out of the store, slightly dazed, and get in my car. I look at the ring more closely in my palm. I notice a small white tag attached
LOGAN BAUER
to the ring, with a handwritten message: So our love doesn’t end with us.
I drive for a little while, head empty, out into the olden country and park carefully in the lot where my love is waiting. Together, we walk hand-in-hand up the hilly dirt path toward the great oak tree, hearts ablaze.
1965 Expressions
60 th
