The Folio: Spring 2021 Issue

THE

FOLIO

A LITERARY AND ART MAGAZINE

VO LU ME L I I I I SSU E I I CO NE STO G A HI G H SCHOOL 20 0 I R I SH R D, BE R W YN, PA 19 312

Cover photo © Olivia Wang Inside cover © Olivia Wang Copyright © 2021 Conestoga Literary Magazine Staff Internal Design © 2021 Olivia Wang, Lydia Naser, Ashka Patel, Stella Lei Copyright © of each work belongs to the respective author or artist First edition 2021 All rights reserved. All works are copyright of their respective creators as indicated herein and are reproduced herewith permission. The Folio is a public forum for student expression produced by the students of Conestoga High School.

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Another year has come and gone in the blink of an eye, and yet it feels like so much has happened at the same time. And indeed it has: from dubious online classes to almost-as, even equally dubious in-person ones, there’s been so much to learn from. (Just maybe more outside the classroom than in it…)

But in all seriousness, this time somewhere between full-on pandemic and *Normal Life* has been an opportunity for many lessons–perhaps more than bargained for, but all the more important for that. Here at The Folio, we’ve been working with those lessons and their ramifications.

I remember the struggle of coming to terms with everything just over a year ago, as we worked through the shock during the initial stages of the lockdown.

This year, thanks to the dedication of all our staff and our advisors, Mrs. Wilson and Mr. Smith, we’ve been able to make everything flow much more smoothly. Of course, things are still shaky, and to be completely honest, there’s something about speaking to computer screens for hours that doesn’t feel quite right. But the thing that’s bound us all this time hasn’t changed at all: art has anchored us, held us together through this uncertain age, made sure we had something we knew would always be there, no matter what. Does that sound sappy? All the same, I can assure you it’s completely true.

We know all too well that everything has been tough to get used to–trust me, we wish it could all just be over too. But things are starting to look up, and with that optimism we’ve worked on our Spring 2021 issue in the hopes that you, dear reader, will be comforted by knowing that you are not alone. The dedication and passion demonstrated by our incredible staff and advisors has been astounding in the face of such a disorienting time, and we’ve channeled all our truest emotions–from confusion, frustration, and loneliness to excitement, joy, and hope–into this issue.

Thinking on the past few months, I can’t help but be amazed at how all the months of work of so many talented, passionate people can be consolidated into such a small-looking thing. We think you’ll be amazed too.

Thank you so much, reader. Without you, we wouldn’t be here. Here’s to more lessons learned, and to moving forward in light of everything.

Gratefully,

ABLE OF

08 Not Oranges Angeline Ma Gomatam 09 A Moving Picture Shreeya 10 La Vie en Rose Daniel Gergeus 11 Rest Easy Darling Shreya Singh 12 The Amber Palace Shreeya Gomatam 13 At Christmas Diner Shreeya Gomatam 14 Fleeting Shreya Singh 15 Bouquet Lila Condie Jones 16 Untitled Document Zach Ma 17 Phone Banking AngelineWang 19 A Day at the Zoo Olivia 20 Bug’s Eye View Olivia WangMaterials Olivia Wang 21 Made with 100% Unnatural 22 Rift Olivia Wang 24 i am a loud crier Izzy Thornberg Dong 26 The Space in Between Vivian Gergeus Daniel Entrapment Elegant An 29 Emma Laragione Alone Me Leave Back Me Take 30 Shastry Annika Annika 32 33 The Breakfast Special Annika Shastry 34 Long Ago Annika Shastry 35 Nostalgia Annika Shastry Ma 36 The Dark Space Angeline 39 Coffee Before Phone in Morning Addi Bucher 40 Gaze Eileen Chen 41 A Day’s Eye Casey Kovarick 42 Allie Lena Pothier Kovarick 43 Waiting for You Casey 44 Idyll Anika Kotapally 45 Dawn Elina Wang Deshaun Evans 46 The President’s Palace 47 Bleeder Lila Condie 49 iWorld Alexina Hobbs Hobbs 50 Witchy Wednesday Alexina 51 Elf Alexina Hobbs 52 I Am Strong Alexina Hobbs 53 Boy Brains Alexina Hobbs 54 Fuente De Casey Kovarick Wang 54 Two is Company Emily and You’re High and Alone Angeline Ma Morning the in Four It’s 56 57 Nanna Lila Condie Tyahla 58 A Conversation MikaelaBecame Someone Else Angeline Ma 60 Guasha, or How I OnceWeil 60 Me, Myself, and I Aryn 62 Stars Izzy Thornberg 63 The Egg Jia Lin 65 Head Empty Sophia Chen 66 Frog Chef Sophia Chen 67 A Nice Date Sophia Chen 68 Worth Sophia Chen Izzy Thornberg 69 This is a Rhetorical Statement Thornberg Izzy Gone Never but Fade, Bruises 70 Jiang Lily Belladonna 71

CONTENTS

Coffee Angeline Ma Vestigial Structures Stella Lei Alive in the Shadows Christine Jung Perched Under the Moonlight Eileen Chen A Splash of Color Ashka Patel Not Meant to Stay Macormick Hunter Diane Izzy Thornberg Road to Phoenixville Ava Collin Speak Your Mind Halle Middleton Cherry Pier Halle Middleton Blue Heron Halle Middleton Illuminate Halle Middleton Water Droplets Halle Middleton Monotony Sophia Chen Sustained Investigation Emma Dutton THIRSTY Scott Hennessy Colored Ashes Katherine Lee The Ocean’s Embrace Clara Steege Waves of Remembrance Nikkita Pandey Musing Shreya Singh Endless Summer Affair Vivian Dong Stream of Consciousness Ava Poeta Beauty in the Abstract Emily Meaney Peeler Bella Rios Modern Day Incubus Peyton Harrill Kimiko Natalia Greene Clarice Natalia Greene Melting Away Ella Jenkins Broken Kids Scott Hennessy Saving a Life Kavya Patel The Miracle of Birth Clara Steege Butterfly Garden Stella Lei Mushroom Picking Evelyn Zhao Mama Izzy Thornberg Corvus Emily Wang Pica Pica Emily Wang Cyanocatta Cristata Emily Wang Syntax Lydia Naser Symbol Lydia Naser Foreshadowing Lydia Naser Allusion Lydia Naser Repetition Lydia Naser Satire Lydia Naser Diving Regulations on the Side of the Pool Stella Lei El Arbol Viejo Chloe Williams Martha Lydia Naser And They Ask Me Shreya Singh Twisted Daniel Gergeus P Stands 4 Phone Zach Jones Feeling Your Best Addi Bucher Two Skies, Two Atlases Anika Kotapally The Layered Self Akshata Shastry lost family Abby Galrao lost childhood Abby Galrao

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ANGELINE MA

OT RANGE

T

hese clementines were brighter, smaller, cool in her hand with the weight of summer. These clementines were a revelation to her; she was used to bigger fruits with peels that wrinkled and bubbled, suggesting a growth spurt, a surge of flesh that had stretched the skin out. For somebody named Lemon you sure like oranges a lot, he had said once, tousling her hair, and she had laughed even though something was stirring in her belly, a desire to disagree, to correct. That was months ago, before the fight, before the airplane, before the silence that she sometimes half-broke by typing out long, absurd messages and then deleting them. She knew he would be touched at seeing those text bubbles, filling them with his own images of her begging, full of regret.

Clementines, she should have said. Not oranges. She would be cold yet calm. She imagined it now: his quick withering, his eager agreement.

He had pronounced her name wrong, too, the Chinese rounded on his American tongue, the intonations too dragged-out instead of sharp and clear.

And who liked lemons anyway, with their stiff yellow exteriors that did not bend like peels should, but crumbled into bits. She much preferred its cousin, the lime. Limes possessed an irony that lemons did not have, a subtlety. But of course he did not pay attention to those sorts of things.

He did not notice in restaurants when everyone else had lemon slices in their water. And so, when she always asked for water with lime, please, she felt guilt, but there was a small superiority in that guilt.

Outside, the leaves were just beginning to turn and shift. Yes, she missed the place before the airplane, but not in the overwhelming way she had feared; it was only a small, American part of her that pined to come out again. It was easy to bring that part out, anyways. She only had to scroll and scroll through the photos that populated her Instagram, with their aggressive cheerfulness she had quickly learned to speak. She had always been good with words, and so picking up this new dialect became just another outfit she could slip on, one of many that made up who she really was, her closet of personalities. This one was false and boisterous, like the counterfeit jewelry that flooded the stores here.

But who was she really? Who decided on the concept of a self? She checked her phone. It was getting late, but she was still restless. The jet lag had not yet worn off; even as a child she had always been the last of her family to recover. She picked up her phone again, put it down, picked it up. She began composing a new message. She was indulging him. She would not press Send, but she knew he was on the other end, creating a her who was pathetic and subservient. She could see him now, smug, thinking himself the winner. But she would not give in so easily.

A Moving Picture Shreeya Gomatam Photography 9

La Vie en Rose Daniel Gergeus Pencil 10

Rest Easy Darling Shreya Singh

one needn’t worry. this world will turn, and our tears will fall against the asphalt– akin to rain on a stormy night. hearts will shatter as our bodies give out. on our knees, begging for mercy. like the wings of a butterfly, your eyes flutter shut. still, this world will turn. but rest easy darling knowing that no one moved on.

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The Amber Palace Shreeya Gomatam Photography

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At Christmas Diner Shreeya Gomatam Photography 13

s h reya s ingh

fleeting gone in a second yet forever ingrained in memory. suspended in existence– a moment worth a thousand words. only to fade into one infinite brush stroke. a smile and a glance seen once, twice, three times quick to come even quicker to go. a moment of warmth and light fleeting but beautiful.

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Bouquet Lila Condie Photography

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Untitled Document Zach Jones

Blank Like the mind during meditation Staring At the screen of tinted white while it fills in with black text Understanding The thoughts in my head while i write what comes to mind Creating A story of making a story Counting 44 words and even more on the screen as i type Deleting Unnecessary descriptions even in this sentence Finishing The untitled document becoming titled

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litmag

Phone Banking Angeline Ma

On Thursdays my mother makes phone calls to encourage Democratic voters to vote. She does this for two hours, from 7 PM to 9 PM, while I lounge in my chair and watch videos with too many special effects. Her room is right above mine and I can hear her, very faintly, saying the same things over and over in her peppy phone banking voice. In my chair, I sit back as far as I can until I feel like a dishcloth. I am quite useless, and I drink many cups of coffee even though I do not move an inch. At 8 PM, my mother comes downstairs and tells me in a sad voice that fewer and fewer people pick up their phones these days. She tells me that her only motivation is convincing herself that they need her help to change this country. I nod and mmhmm to everything she says without taking my eyes off my computer screen. When she goes back upstairs, I feel guilty for not saying anything, and for not being a good daughter. I drink more coffee and watch my videos, listening to my mother up there in her little station, talking to all those people who aren't listening.

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LE SENIOR ARTIST PROFILE SE-

OLIVIA WANG T SENIOR ARTIST PROFIILE

he overarching theme in my art this year has been to contrast my individual perspective with a larger one. Coming to the end of my high school career, I’ve come to a pivotal realization: my life is short when compared to eternity. The everyday inconveniences that I face are small when put into perspective with broader themes like death and time.

temper the reactivating nature of gouache, and forge through the test of patience that are colored pencils so I can properly convey variability when viewing the world.

Through this process I learned to use the most crucial art tool of all: self expression. As I discover more of myself, I become increasingly eager to translate those findings onto paper.

In my pursuit of communication, I explore different subjects to better hold a conversation with the viewer.

In an art world where artists are defined by a particular “style” they develop through their work, my art falls to the side of that spectrum.

Throughout my work, I decided to lean into this in order to portray contrasting perspectives. I learned to wield the translucent qualities of watercolor,

"I immerse myself in the artistic process and then sit back to let the art speak for itself."

ENIOR ARTIST PROFILE SENIOR ARTIST PROFILE SENIOR ARTIST PROFILE SENIOR ARTIST PROFILE 18

A Day at the Zoo Gouache

E SENIOR ARTIST

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Bug's Eye View Colored Pencil

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In keeping with the theme of shifting perspective, I'd like to think that this is what our problems appear as next to the vastness of eternity.

A tiny, black speck spiraling frantically in a great glass jar. Insignificant, ultimately harmless, and eventually, flattened under someone's shoe.

SENIOR ARTIST PROFILE

Made With 100% Unnatural Materials Oil Paint

SENIOR ARTIST PROFILE

Rift Watercolor Cutting past the trivialities of day to day living, death diminishes the impact of issues we initially thought to be insurmountable. To that end, the microcosm of actions that comprise our livelihoods are declarations of a bigger, more real decision: whether to live, or to die.

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i am a loud crier Izzy Thornberg

i hate crying, to the point i’ve adapted this skill when i fear the waterworks coming, i simply say ‘no.’ and that’s all. the problem with this skill, however, is that i have to want to cry even if i desperately need a good sob i have to will myself, as if i’m acting, to cry. i prefer to cry in my bed around 12 o’clock at night and the noise of the crickets takes over the highway. i shut off all the lights, bury my face in blankets and pillows, until the air is hot and choking. then, i cry. my face reddens, my eyes get puffy and my lips swell up, my nose is pinched with too much snot, all at once, and the blankets soak up all the wetness i don’t wish to feel. i hate when i cry, because i make so much noise when i do it. my throat closes up and my mouth feels dry my chest caves inward, my lungs forget their purpose, every sob comes out as a moan, a gasp, a wail. a senseless plea to no one. i lose myself in the emotion i hate most maybe i am so loud when i cry because i keep it in too long. it gestates and because i have this special strength this picking and choosing of birthdates, i have no true idea how big it will be but just as the head makes its way i close up for business. ‘that’s enough for me today.’ i lie in bed, amongst my sweat and tears, and try to find satisfaction with what i have done despite how my body still feels wrong and my throat feels torn and my heart is in pieces and i’m scared someone heard me and i don’t want to be happy tomorrow and to cry is to be weak, or so says my heart.

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BURY MY FACE IN BLANKETS AND PILLOWS, UNTIL THE AIR IS HOT AND CHOKING. THEN, I CRY.

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HE PA IN ET WE EN

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here once was a girl, Who lived in two worlds, One foot planted in raw dirt, The other standing on cool stone Both hands grabbing at the soft sprouts that grew from beneath.

One foot was anchored in rich red soil, Steeped in memories of shadowy relatives and old traditions that had lost their meaning.

This world was filled with classes on Sundays, her teachers teaching her words she would never speak, Her eyes welled with tears as she tried in vain to remember the intricate strokes of characters that had no meaning to her.

A world where she was considered exotic in her own country.

A place where she was a stranger in her own family, smiling hollowly at relatives she wasn’t related to.

A world where family members called her by names she never heard anymore and used nicknames that had long been forgotten.

In this world, she felt like an imposter as foreign words tumbled out of her lips, a strange feeling settling on her tongue.

A world where she spoke to her father in one language, and he responded in another, Where she and her mother read books that were never the same, and the stories they knew had different endings.

Where every Saturday they brought home red plastic bags of foreign looking fruit and plastic pouches of powders labeled in characters she couldn’t recognize.

Where her parents called their parents, confiding in them through the glaring screen of a phone, pausing when the connection went bad.

Where she took 13-hour trips across the world to strange cities, living in apartment buildings with unmaintained halls covered in advertisement stickers.

Where her relatives guarded her from food at restaurants and washed and peeled vegetables twice before serving her.

Where her parents had left their home with only two dusty suitcases, A world where every Saturday night they sat together at their rickety wooden table and ate dumplings.

The other foot was rooted deeply on cool slabs of concrete, Full of memories she held tightly in her hand, and experiences she never spoke out loud.

A world filled with footballs games every Friday, her voice hoarse from cheering loudly on the sidelines.

In this world, tears would drip from her eyes as she stared enviously at models who never looked like her.

TH SP CE BE W EN VIVIAN

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HE PA IN ET WE N

Where she hated the shape of her own eyes and lifted her eyebrows in pictures, A world where she got excited to see someone on screen who looked like her.

A world where her family lived across the planet, and Thanksgiving dinner was just another meal.

A world where people who looked like her were bruised and beaten and left to bleed in parking lots.

A world where she quietly mumbled her middle name, and she would always explain, “It’s not English.”

Yet was marveled at how apparently wonderful it was to be able to speak two languages.

A world where when she rapidly spoke in her native tongue, her mother would cup her ear and ask her to say it again.

This was a place where her father had to look up the English names for the Period Table, and her mother explained math to her in a different language.

In this world, she tried as hard as she could to blend in and act just like everyone else.

She lived in a world where every Saturday they came back brown plastic bags filled with deli meats and cartons of milk.

Where she listened to her parents in meetings speaking in accented English as they presented their work to their colleagues.

Where she rejected the food, her parents made and took turkey sandwiches for lunch instead.

Where she learned the sacrifices, her parents had made to come to America, “We work hard so you don’t have to.”

Where she worked hard so that she would be worth the sacrifice.

It was a place where four people walked through the door into their home A world where every Sunday night, they sat around their rickety wooden table and ate steak for dinner.

But it wasn’t either of these worlds that she truly lived, She lived in the beautiful in-between of these worlds.

A little space of emptiness that contained a beautiful mix of both.

A little space that was filled with exciting days that were recounted in a mix of both languages to her mother.

Where she spoke shyly to her doting grandmother through the screen of her mother’s phone, three generations laughing with each other at one story.

A world where she asked her mother to read unrecognizable characters for her, and her father asked her to pronounce English words to him.

Where her mother and her talked about the endings of books they had both read in different languages, Maybe they had read the same stories.

A world where she asked a question to her dad in

DONG

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TH SP CE BE W EN

"

She lived in the beautiful in-between of these worlds.

A little space of emptiness that contained a beautiful mix of both.

"

HE PA IN ET WE EN

English and he answered in another language, But both understood the other perfectly.

A place where she visited her cousins and they took her to bustling malls in cities that didn’t seem so different after all.

Where when her grandparents came to visit, they all ate sat together and ate the same meals, And it wasn’t just the four of them anymore.

Where her parents told her about the foreign myths over breakfast, and she read The Great Gatsby before she went to bed.

It was a place where her parents had left their home with nothing but two weathered suitcases, And now four of them walked through the door of their home with four suitcases.

In this place, they would come home with groceries in red and brown bags.

She lived in a beautiful space rich with old traditions and new memories, filled with the hope for future generations and the sacrifices made by the past, She was in a place where ideals and ideas were the same no matter what world you were in.

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TH SP CE BE W EN

HE PA E IN ET WE N An Elegant Entrapment Daniel Gergeus Pencil

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TAKE ME BACK

Emma Laragione

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LEAVE ME ALONE

You’re candy.

Your love, so sweet, so addictive; I crave more, more, more Until I’m in pain. until you’ve hurt me.

And I tell myself I’ll stop, I tell my mother I’ll stop, Because she can understand you’re bad for me.

And I know she’s right.

You drag me back in Just when I think I’ve recovered To bathe to sink in your syrupy sweet words.

Down, down, down, until I’ve drowned.

And I’m never brave enough to resurface.

senior artist profile

annika shastry I believe that a common thread connecting all my pieces featured in the Folio this year is change, and while this probably sounds obvious, I feel as though I have transformed a lot in the past year and have come to terms with a lot of parts of myself. I have said this before, but I really do believe that the solitude that the pandemic brought with it has offered everyone a lot of time for self-reflection and personal growth. Perhaps this

was not the case for everyone, but I have had so much fun by myself this past year and I think that my personality and my identity will really benefit in the long run from everything I have gone through. I have had the time to really meditate on myself, and my past, and future selves. I think that this was something so important to me that it subconsciously pervaded everything I made in the past year.

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Annika Oil Pastel

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SENIOR ARTIST PROFILE

SENIOR ARTIST PROFILE

The Breakfast Special Acrylic and Colored Pencil

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Long Ago Photography

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Nostalgia Photography

This was my favorite piece that I submitted this year. I found a super 8 film camera at Goodwill last year and used it as a lens for my phone to shoot through (I was too lazy to buy film). The photos reminded me of the memories lodged in the back of your mind, discolored and nearly forgotten. I tried to edit them accordingly.

angeline ma

It might look strange on paper, but I know the sky is looking back at me. I can tell from how the stars wink and blink, just visible through the smoke I’m exhaling into sheets of sleek gauze. “Distant planets,” my dad would say if he were here. “Venus, Sirius, Taurus, Aquarius.”

He’d take my wrist and point each one out to me as he gave them their names, all those Latin words I could never remember. But my dad is not here, my best friend and I are, and we’ve got hours to kill.

--It’s a dreamy, cool night, the kind that makes you suck in air through your teeth when your nostrils get too numb. I’m testing the waters, tentatively pushing at the rickety bench I’m perched on, gathering preliminary data. If the wood is giving me splinters, I can’t feel them.

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recognize. Right now I’m somewhere else, where all substantial thought is slipping through the folds of my brain, so every now and then when a phrase actually manages to stay inside it feels alien yet infallible.

Things are just beginning to melt, lines dissolving into each other at sharp angles, colors turning grainy where boundaries were already unstable. We brace ourselves against a lone park bench, him and I clutching at the handles to keep from falling off the edge of the world. The occasional car passes, headlights stretching through the spaces in the metal fence, interrupting. In their afterglow, his hair looks like fire.

I repeat the idiom aloud for my friend to share in its profundity. “Don’t bite off more than you can chew,” I say, and the words are harder than usual to wrap my tongue around.

I’m aware, more than ever, of the gymnastics of speech. I’m holding onto each word as if they were all sparkling gemstones, enunciating as slow and clear as I can. I’m scared they’ll disappear into the darkening clay of my throat, or worse, drift off forever into the taut autumn air that’s swiftly deadening into winter. In the air between the two of us, the words glimmer, suddenly solid in the flickering moonlight, and the space separating us relaxes.

“I think I love you,” I say suddenly to my friend. I’m not sure where this is coming from, but in this moment it feels like absolute truth, like God himself lifted the cast-iron lid of a sky and whispered it in my ear. In fact, it’s not completely false; in 8th grade I harbored a crush on my friend so powerful I spent all of study hall brainstorming lengthy answers to questions the teacher might ask in Biology, the only class we had together and the only one I was any good at. At home, in the mirror, I rehearsed phrases I thought sounded witty and cool, a weird mix I’d yanked together of African American Vernacular and Bristol and screwball. I practiced a smirk too, the kind that said I think I’m better than you but you’re cute enough so why not, the kind that made me feel like I might someday plant a seed in his brain that would grow into wanting. But then, at an end-of-year party, in a basement I thought to be empty, his soft golden hair was flopping off the edge of the couch, a soft golden hand I didn’t recognize running through it. The morning after, he texted me asking why I’d left so early, he’d wanted to introduce me to someone cool he’d met. “Obviously not as cool as you though,” he’d added, obviously lying, and I was left to deal with the hole that had suddenly opened up inside me. Years later, I’ve only just begun to feel like I’ve finally made my peace with the hole, that it will forever be there inside of me, waiting for someone to pull it back open.

“Genius,” he says, and blows exhaust into my face. I ash into the bench, leaving a tiny welt, and he lights me up.

--When I open my eyes, the buildings on the treetops are rippling. A milk carton slides in and out of the formation like a one-mole game of Whac-a-Mole. The wind kicks up soft pastel gravel.

“Careful,” I giggle to my friend. He’s shifting shapes in the dust, his pupils spreading and shrinking through the colors of the rainbow, disintegrating and reintegrating. I sway my arm and study its movement in the orange light, the infinite and identical shadows that follow. I’m still at the stage where things are shiny and harmless, flirting with the inky beyond before I get plunged into it headlong. I’m somewhere I can’t place, neither in the obsidian sky nor the rainbow dust, and it occurs to me that these are just layers, thin walls separated merely by compressed air, and here I am floating through them, the only one allowed into the dark space.

Now he’s smiling, watching me wobble through calisthenics on the grass. My jumps are liquid instead of solid, my movements warping into each other. I’m making it up as I go, twisting and folding into new shapes, feeling the blood rush in and out of my head.

---

“You’re joking,” he finally says, like it’s funny.

I don’t know how long I’ve blacked out before we have to leave. Over that unknown period something’s shifted, become sinister without my realizing it. There’s a weird funk in the air I can’t place, something acrid that makes my eyes water. My brain is slick with soup and my limbs foreign and useless, like the real ones were removed and prosthetics hastily glued back in their place. I try to push myself up and there’s a sudden knock of skull to ground, the tang of fresh grass in my mouth. Panic is rising fast, dull and warm in the base of my spine, and I think I know how I felt in my mother’s womb: completely

--Like any substance of use, this one wants to come back up as soon as we get it down. I’d gotten lucky, managed to snag the berry-flavored type, but in the end it hadn’t made much of a difference. We’d crawled through the first few minutes, emptying our guts into grocery bags I’d supplied, him holding my hair back when he finished puking before I did.

I’d done all the math weeks in advance. I made a note on my phone titled “D-Day” and filled it with music both familiar and eerie, funny videos to watch, what to do if things got out of hand. I knew I’d get philosophical high, but not out-of-mymind high.

Don’t bite off more than you can chew.

My dad says, speaking to me from a dimension I no longer

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vulnerable, frozen in a chasm so unforgiving I can barely breathe to fill my lungs.

Even as an embryo I can feel shame. There’s a pair of hands on me, and my mind’s going into overdrive, overcompensating. My shirt’s riding up, the wind whistling against my exposed skin, and I can only think of the hands on that soft part of me, hoisting me into the scent of safety, of wet dog and Glade and exhaust.

--I’m still babbling when we reach my street, where my house glows from the near future, the only one still glowing. I’m trying to explain to my friend that he’s just saved my life, but I don’t know how, not in this moment, still deep in the pitch black and already trying to yank myself out. “I’m sorry I’m sorry I’m sorry,” I say, over and over, and it’s the only thing that comes out of my mouth for minutes until he tells me to cut it out. I go through all of its variations, unsure how to make him understand. He doesn’t know it, but somewhere in there I’m also talking to my dad, my mom inside the house outside the car window, where the lights are blinking at me like they too were waiting.

Suddenly my breath is coming in short hitches. I’m not sure I was breathing at all for a while. “I’m dying,” I say.

Choking.

He pulls over. He looks at me, the dried vomit crusting my chin, me gasping and heaving. Then he reaches over and lays his head right where my heart pounds, seizing in oxygen from my labored breath. “It’s okay,” he says as he nestles. “It’s okay.”

My eyes are staring but I am barely seeing him. My hands are moving already, pressure building in my head where my thoughts should be. There’s something spiky and uncertain forming at the back of my throat, a question I’ve left in there for too long, but I swallow it before it spills. Finally my brain stutters back to life, and I am breathing again, stroking his beautiful hair. He doesn’t know it, but a part of me I’d shut off is waking up again, something I’d almost completely forgotten, something like yearning.

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Coffee Before Phone in Morning Addi Bucher Mixed Media

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Gaze Eileen Chen Digital 40

A Day’s Eye Casey Kovarick Sculpture

LENA POTHIER

A

llie do you remember when we were little?

When we would hold hands and play and giggle?

When we would smile and sing and hug?

When we would fight for a minute, and then be best buds?

We would talk out our problems, listen, and compromise.

We were united in justice and partners in crime.

I loved you then and I love you today.

But I hate you so much, and that feels weird to say.

I hate that you stopped smiling, that made me stop smiling too.

I hate that you scream and hurt me, and I just let you.

I hate that you make me afraid to speak my mind.

I hate that you choose to insult instead of be kind.

Allie, I miss you, I just want you back.

I want to talk to you without the need to attack.

I want to dance in the sunshine, and jig in the rain I want to look at you but without feeling pain I want to go back; I want to restart.

I want to be adults together, we missed out on the growing up part.

I wanted to be your maid of honor, and I wanted you to be mine.

How is it that now just an invitation would be divine?

I don’t know why every time you speak; I want to rip out my hair.

I don’t know why every time I speak; you seem to not care.

Allie, I beg of you, please come home.

Your sister misses you; she feels so alone.

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Waiting For You Casey Kovarick Animation Music: Room Song by Plums 43

Idyll

in quiet afternoons, i like to sit in the golden sunlight and close my eyes, let it wash over me. warmth touches my head, sinking deep into my bones, my heart. it strums the strings of my soul in a melody that might once have been a lullaby, pulled from the deep recesses of my mind, telling me i am safe. and as the day closes, light stretches, loose and languid, over me, the birds and grass, dandelions and dragonflies, like a song that says go home, it is time to sleep. close your eyes, and the morning will bring me to you. a promise that says tomorrow i will come again.

ANIKA KOPATALLY

Dawn Elina Wang Mixed Media

OUR PRESIDENT’S PALACE Deshaun Evans

70080 hours to build 570 gallons of paint 412 doors 147 windows

132 rooms 35 bathrooms 28 fireplaces 8 staircases 6 levels 3 elevators 1 building

580466 people

About Without a home

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Bleeder Lila Condie Digital 47

E

very piece that I create resides in the same twisted fantasy universe. Growing up as a Celtic child with superstitious mentally ill family members, I ended up learning that I love witchcraft. As most of the messages in my art, witchcraft is often misunderstood. Creatures like faeries inspire me within everything I make, so in my name “Pixie Pain” I represent them. I noticed that many people in Lit Mag didn’t understand some of my messages, and they expressed issues with some of my anatomical skills being off, so I am hoping going to grow and improve on those skills during my time at Pratt Institute. I think that I struggle a lot with anatomy and consistent lines while my strong suits are in my style, design, and application work.

This year I submitted a few digital and mixed media pieces and learning how to draw digitally feels like learning how to draw all over again. It is a large learning curve for everyone, I felt like giving up at times, but it pays off in the end. “IWorld” is a piece I

SENIOR ARTIST PROFIILE

LE SENIOR ARTIST PROFILE

ALEXINA HOBBS

made of an online influencer Bella McFadden that goes by the name of “IGirl.” She is another big inspiration for me, creating her own brand from the ground up. Another painting that was inspired by my love for women is “Boy Brains.” Cassidy Hill, or “HotelShrimp,” proudly eating the patriarchy. Much of my inspiration comes from independent women like Layla Shapiro and Courtney Love.

Almost all my messages are based around the traumatic experiences and mental health struggles I have been through, so I try to make them subtle and stylistic.

I have so many dreams about what I want to do with my art so I feel very lucky that I can pursue my dream at my first-choice school. The feedback that I got from everyone in the Folio reassured me that I have been focused on the right things to improve on. This experience was so great for me that I wanted to say thank you because I have been so inspired to start the Lit Mag at my school. Come check out Pixie Place @PixiePainArt on IG.

E N I O R A R T I S T P R O F I L E S E N I O R A R T I S T P R O F I L E48S E N I O R A R T I S T P R O F I L E S E N I O R A R T I S T P R O F I L

E SENIOR ARTIST

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iWORLD Watercolor, Ink, Marker, and Decals

SENIOR ARTIST PROFILE

Witchy Wednesday Digital

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Elf Digital

This was my first digital portrait using my iPad and Procreate. I found it really difficult to learn how to draw digitally. It felt like teaching myself how to draw again.

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I Am Strong Digital

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SENIOR ARTIST PROFILE

HotelShrimp is a fellow libra icon. We have the same birthday, and with 74K on instagram we are mutuals. Her style and attitude r too iconic to not capture.

Eat ur boys brains.

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Boy Brains Watercolor and Ink

I feel like I always draw something from my trip to Spain because the most interesting pictures I have to reference are from there. Originally, this drawing was supposed to be digital, but it didn't work out so I decided to try to do it traditionally. I really wanted to try the technique of painting an under color (orange) to brighten up the piece a bit and I also used vertical lines to add texture.

T W O I S C O M PA N Y Emily Wang

A

rden breathed in slowly through her nose. The bowstring was taught against her fingers as she focused on the target through the bow sight, the string just barely brushing her lips. The doe, unaware of the archer a mere twenty-five meters away, continued grazing. Arden checked her stance in a split second, securing her posture and anchor point.

With a quiet exhale, she relaxed her fingers and let the arrow fly. It whizzed through the trees and brush and struck true to her aim, embedding itself in the deer's upper abdomen. With a choked cry, it stammered and fell onto the soft summer grass.

"Nice shot, archer."

"It's Arden," she said with a scowl to the smug voice behind her, "not 'archer.'"

"Sure, archer."

Arden bit her tongue and spun around to face the boy perched on a low tree branch. He flicked a few strands of light brown hair from his eyes and mocked her glare. His unzipped jacket flew up at the corners as he jumped from the tree and landed softly in the grass. He bent down and retrieved a large hatchet from the side of a bag that had been dropped against the trunk, and sauntered to where Arden stood with her bow and a long, wooden stick. He looked unfairly suave with the hatchet head thrown over his shoulder.

"Time for the fun part. You sure you're not squeamish?"

They started through the trees toward the downed deer.

"What about me makes you think I'm squeamish? I've made kills before, you were there! And if I remember correctly, I saved your ass from several crawlers, Cassie."

The boy huffed, "It's Cassian to you."

"Only if you quit calling me 'archer.'"

Fuente Dé Casey Kovarick 54 Media Mixed

Cassian grinned and hummed, "I'll think on it."

When they neared the small clearing, the deer

bleated in alarm and stumbled on its ankles.

Arden knelt to pin it down and removed her arrow, eliciting a noise of pain from the doe, and tossed the arrow near where her bow and wooden stick laid in the grass. Cassian moved forward with his hatchet and swung it through the deer's heart, and as the animal stilled, Arden frowned and spat out a bit of blood that had landed on her face.

"A warning would've been nice, Cassian," she said with a grimace, wiping drops of red from her black hair.

He scoffed lightheartedly and tilted his shoulders. "Personally, I think it's a good look on you. Really adds to the whole 'I was engineered to be good at killing' thing."

"I wasn't made to kill things," Arden said, cocking her head and throwing a bundle of rope at Cassians's face, "The engineering was to make me the strongest I could be, or the strongest that my parents' genes allowed. I have the superior genes here, Mr. Natural-Born."

"God, archer, I could beat you in a fight. Actually, I already have, and I could beat your little purist, test-tube baby friends, too." He began tying together the legs of the deer and Arden followed his movements with her own length of rope.

"Well, everything about you was an accident.

You're hardly stronger than me in every way."

Cassian furrowed his eyebrows and shook his head. His hair fell in front of his face again, and when Arden looked up, she could tell through his narrowed eyes that he didn't like where the conversation had gone.

"And how does it feel to know a stranger in a white coat picked out everything about you?

The lab practically owns your biology."

Arden blinked in surprise. "No, they don't, my biology is my own."

Cassian stopped moving his hands and let the rope he was tying loosen.

"You were customized by a wacko-doctor like you were a video game character, archer. Your

parents gave away their genes for a bunch of crazies to play with."

Arden pulled her knot tight and hesitated. She hadn't remembered her parents' faces for a long time. They attended benefactor events more often than they visited Arden at training.

She never told Cassian that after the first wave of crawlers attacked, she found their bodies amongst the piles of other rich, dead strangers.

"They wanted to make me strong." With a note of finality, she stood and grabbed the wooden pole. "Finish tying. It's getting dark."

Cassian let his shoulders fall slightly and complied, finished the knot and weaving the stick through the rope while Arden picked up her bow. They hoisted the pole up, and with it the deer. Settling the weight as comfortably as they could, they trekked silently back to the campsite where their companions cheered "Nice kill!" at the sight of their meal, oblivious to the touchy exchange between the two hunters minutes earlier. They handed the deer off to their friends who began preparing it for roasting, then separated, sitting with their backs to each other, simultaneously cleaning the blood off their weapons with more effort than was necessary.

"Archer."

Arden slid her arrow back into the quiver with a quiet shick.

"Arden."

She turned to see Cassian holding his arm out to her.

"Come here."

Arden bit her cheek and moved to sit on the log by Cassian, who bumped her shoulder and leaned his head back to watch the darkening sky.

"We good?" he asked. Arden nudged her head against him and listened to the quiet clamoring of their friends behind them.

"Yeah. We're good."

IT ’S FO U R IN T H E M O RN IN G A N D YO U ’ RE H IGH A N D A LON E

you feel a little empty, and a little sick. when you walk your legs are packets of weightless sand, numb yet fluid, you incredulous and a little glazed over, moving intuitively through the space. you want to do something warm like hug a friend or tell someone that you love them, but you cannot, and you are left confused. something is missing. you can't describe this feeling as entirely pleasant or entirely unpleasant either; instead, it is a sort of soft, welcoming numbness, making you incredulous at everything, even the smallest dust specks and oil stains on your jacket. what should you do? you should not be sitting here silent and still, gaping at your computer screen; you should be with people, with friends, laughing and smiling and hugging and sharing in the mild strange euphoria. you are melancholy and desperate, reaching for warmth, for validation and trust, a soft something to hold you close. the thing about this is that it mellows you out, dulls you. that's what the chasm is, that shifting back and forth, uncertainty, getting teary-eyed and not knowing why, thinking of that one person, wondering what they’re doing. shouldn't this be something special?

ANGELINE M A 56

This photo was taken at the Of Monsters and Men concert at the Metropolitan Opera House Philadelphia on September 10, 2019

Lila Condie Photography

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LA

MI

KA

EL

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T

H YA

A CONVERSATION

T

his island is going to hell in a handbasket; not that anyone remembers what hell is, or why it would travel in a hand basket.

Geri D. Forseti’s inner monologue would have shocked the stoned face leaders standing around him. Luckily, no mind readers stood amongst them. Their discussion on this year's sacrifice continued. And Geri remained lost in his indignant rant.

These people need to STOP YELLING at each other. Be a MEDIATOR, they said. RIDICULOUS. All they do is debate. I swear I’ve never heard a conversation. This island is far too loud for no one to be listening.

A centry ago a disease ravaged the mainland.

There were too many deaths to count, and no one left to do the counting. The only survivors were the inhabitants of an island two miles off the coast. There they remained cocooned in their own little haven. That is how the island got its name. Haven. A hundred years later and still no butterfly had emerged.

On the island each man wielded his power like a sword, a weapon to slash against the words of their opponents. This clashing rang in Geri’s ears day in and day out, the religious leader and the nonbelievers CLINK. The banished and their mothers crying for their children. CLANK. Geri swore he would drop dead in astonishment if he heard silence. At 97 such a death would be less surprising than a quiet moment on Haven. But the old man’s limbs had kept him pacing this long.

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Drawing his vision back up from the dusty ground, Geri’s eyes followed hairy ape legs back up to the face of Czar. The leader was the only ape on the island, speaking in fluent English with a sharp tongue. Words distinguished themselves through Geri’s thoughts and the salty wind.

“We’ll reconvene tomorrow. For now, keep quiet and continue the sacrifice as planned.”

“But Oliver’s only three.”

“Oliver understands, he said so himself.”

There were slow nods of confirmation. Geri remained still. His disapproval would not stop the council.

Suddenly, a great bang came from the central hall. Heads snapped up towards the sound.

With a note of annoyance and a pointed look at the leaders, Czar walked off down the dusty path. The unofficial meeting dispersed.

Geri made a quick escape. Five minutes later he found himself at the broken old dock on the west jetty of Haven. Haven. A place of safety and refuge. Maybe they were safe from the mainland, riddled now with disease and death. But over a hundred years of quarantine Geri watched cruelty infiltrate the island. He witnessed eighty murders, sacrifices they called them, to a soul saving light god. The eighty-first victim would be Oliver, condemned by a lottery system. No. Geri wished this island were Haven.

Seaweed slow danced in the murky water beneath the damp boards of the dock. Geri sat with his gaze fixed to a distant silhouette. The stony island was where they sent the little kids called Badgurs. Two weeks later they would come back as adults in children’s bodies. They would speak only in orders or “yes sirs.” Geri never went. No one did in the early days when people still remembered their humanity.

Right?”

Smiling for the first time Oliver said “yes.”

“Wonderful. Let me tell you what that island’s really like.”

Fast approaching footsteps announced the presence of a small boy. Oliver.

Precious words rolled over the waves, tumbling away with the wind. An hour slipped by in this manner. The two finally parted ways as the sun dipped on the horizon. There was a ceremony to attend.

“They need you Sir, a bear’s gotten into the central hall, Marcorav’s dressed it up and declared it the island’s mascot but Serenity wants it dead.”

A solemn crowd waited in various positions under the looming lighthouse. Oliver Hill stepped onto the balcony for the last time. His hands and legs were bound in ropes.

Geri turned to face Oliver from the end of the peer, his face broken by a grin. “Really?” Geri laughed.

The splash as he hit the water split the silence.

In that CRACK were cries from the eighty others. It was the sound of regret. The sound of a thousand questions; is this faith? Why? Why? Why? Desperate tears raced down the faces of Mr. And Mrs. Hill. Their sobs ripped through the air. Their friends gathered around in reassurance, trying to convince the couple as much as themselves.

“Yes sir, they say come quick” Oliver replied straight faced and businesslike.

“Oh Olli” the old man replied “Never mind about the bear, what have they done with your humor.

Come sit, I want to tell you a story.”

“Yes sir.”

“And no ‘sir’s.’”

Only one man noticed the piece of rope bobbing where the waves broke. Facing the away from the others he risked a smile. Geri appreciated the power of conversation.

“Yes si-” “Good. Now, it’s a story about an island, one much bigger than Haven and not so far from here.”

He took a measured pause. “Actually, one could swim to it.” Geri pointed out across the water, “there. You can swim can’t you Olli?”

A nod.

“And you learned about knot trying at the dock?

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GUĀSHĀ, OR HOW I ONCE BECAME SOMEONE ELSE Angeline Ma

F

irst make your hand into a fist.

This is how you will squeeze the grey

from the narrow chamber in your skull.

This is how you will remember where your spine swells as it enters your skull: your wrist the swell, your arms a spine I crush with my palm, pushing purple sand from your veins, watching— remembering how, once, I beat my head into the eggshell wall until blood bloomed under my skin, purple and lovely. An almond grew along my brow and stayed there for weeks, the frontal lobe's way of saying Please stop when you could not, my way of saying I'm sorry when I would not.

Remembering the pain, the aliveness of it moving down my vertebrae, leaking from my brain.

But most of all, remembering you— how you'd frozen, your blood coiled, a new uncertainty in your eyes as if I were no longer your daughter.

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Me, Myself, and I Aryn Weil Acrylic

Stars

Izzy Thornberg

“Do you ever wonder what color the stars really are?”

“No, but I do wonder why you haven’t kissed me yet.”

“What?”

“You heard me.”

A friendship was measured by the twiddling of thumbs, quickly interrupted.

“Don’t you want me?”

“I’m not sure.”

“Not sure? How come?”

“Isn’t that good enough?”

“Not for me.”

An eyelash was rubbed, a wish wasted. The crickets sang.

“I think…”

“Oh, that’s new!”

Giggles spattered the cold air.

“I do, but…”

She grabbed his chin, and the hesitation spilt into warm feelings and soft lips.

The color of the stars was blue, she decided.

And he saw them all.

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Inspired by Andy Weir's short story, "The Egg," this piece symbolizes how beginnings and endings are synonymous with one another. We once were stardust just like how we once were single-celled eggs.

And in however many years it takes, we will return to the universe in those states.

The Egg Jia Lin Sculpture

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senior artist profile

SOPHIA CHEN I’ve never been amazingly talented at art, at least not in the traditional ways like painting or drawing, and that’s why I like to make collages. I think it’s so cool how you can take whole pieces and break them down and make then into other completely new and original pieces of art. I draw inspiration for my collages from a lot of other artists that I see on tik tok and Instagram. I struggle most with just sitting down and getting started,

it sometimes feels daunting to look at a blank page and know that you want to end up with something great, but don’t know where to start.

One thing that I can take away from my experience at lit mag is to never stop creating, even if I don’t feel creative or artistic that day or week.

It creates such an amazing outlet for self expression and im so appreciative of that.

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SENIOR ARTIST PROFILE

collage

head empty

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frog chef

collage

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SENIOR ARTIST PROFILE

SENIOR ARTIST PROFILE

a nice date

collage

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worth

collage

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SENIOR ARTIST PROFILE

this is a rhetorical statement.

Izzy Thornberg

are we okay here?

do we know we’re on such a limited plane

of little existences that, really

can’t add up to much more than we are? every one of these moments are stolen

star dust made tangible

fragile, cooled, uncertain, lonely

and if we saw ourselves as others do would we be just as beautiful?

do his eyes get so small when he smiles

they almost disappear?

do her hands get so red when they spend hours in cold rain

making a song no one else will hear? who am i?

who are you?

do you believe i’m real? do i? on the worst days, the hard nights

when the world slows but becomes too heavy

can we shed our sparkling tears

give in to the doubts and feed

the insecurities which plague us? because our time is so short because i don’t know what i’m saying are you okay here?

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BRUISES FADE, BUT NEVER GONE I

remember her hands. The little veins that rippled over thin tendons that moved over hard, red knuckles that led into long, spiderlike fingers that were covered by small, bitten nails. Her beautiful hands.

Her fingers fit so perfectly in the spaces between mine.

But I don’t remember her face. If her lips were round or heart shaped, if her eyes were almonds or ovals, if her jaw was soft or hard. It’s a blur, that face of hers. Her face should’ve fit in the spaces her memory occupies.

I remember her habits. The way she sucked her teeth when people pronounced her name wrong, the way her footsteps changed when she was upset, the times she was awake and the spaces she occupied. It was the perfect name for her. It could roll off your tongue like honey or burn your throat like fire.

But I don’t remember her face. How she smiled or frowned, how her skin wrinkled when she was angry, if her brow bone was slender or strong. I think it’s to protect me. Her face was so pretty, I’m sure of it.

I remember her words. How soft they were, how right they were, how they bounced off the walls and haunted my thoughts. She was so much louder than she seemed. They fit too well in the spaces where I can’t forget.

But I don’t want to remember her face. Her face, the jaw, the frown, the frown, the eyebrows, the teeth, the frown. It doesn’t fit in the spaces her memory occupies. I don’t want it to fit.

But I swear, I don’t remember her face.

IZZY THORNBERG

I remember her ideas. How they overpowered mine, they consumed mine, until I couldn’t say no, until I couldn’t call my mom on her birthday, until the bedroom became as haunted as my mind. There’s so much to remember. So much I don’t forget.

BELLADONNA Lily Jiang

She is quite a pretty, young lady, who lives in the woods, having big eyes and a gentle smile.

She wears a simple, dark lavender dress, so long, it almost touches the ground.

She carries a small, straw basket, hanging in the crook of her arm.

In it, there are dark, shiny, so attractively sweet berries.

She has a calming voice, a rather soothing tone.

She will treat you very kindly, with such grace, such elegance.

But do not be fooled.

If you approach her, she will offer you the fruit.

And the people call her deadly for a reason.

Angeline Ma Coffee never keeps me awake.

Not in the real way anyways; its energy is a false one, empty of true concentration or awareness.

Sure, it'll get me jittery enough till 2 in the morning getting tipsy with the university kids and falling back onto the bed laughing at anything and everything, or till 4 still buzzed enough to screw up my first cigarette somehow so I have to get an impromptu lesson, or till 6 crammed on a dorm sofa with the girl I like, inches from kissing her and minutes from wishing I had.

But never really, truly awake.

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Stella Lei After Amy Wang and Emma Chan each night, you drown yourself in your mother’s bathtub, soap a river on the floor, braids choking the drain, and underwater you forget to bleed. your cheek against the rubber mat, each bump the press of her fingers on your jaw. you count the beats of your heart, one two three, measure the breath curdling in your lungs. if you stay under long enough, shrivel flesh from finger, from hand, four five six you’ll resprout the gills you shed in the womb, rush oxygen into the thrum of your throat. emerge anew, blindness sluiced from your eyes as their cavities yawn wide. this time, you’ll refit your spine to your mother’s back, iron your skin smooth, open your mouth, and wait for water to come. you’ll wade through the river and feed yourself to snapping turtles, let them bite until silt streams red, while she sits on the bank. this time, you’ll wait for her to call you home.

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Alive in the Shadows Christine Jung Oil Paint 74

Perched Under the Moonlight Eileen Chen Digital

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A Splash of Color Ashka Patel Digital 76

N O T M E A N T T O S TAY Macormick Hunter

Some people aren’t meant to stay forever.

This can go one of two ways, but both leave part of you empty, Searching your brain for what you did wrong, why you’re alone yet again.

Way one. They’ll come in and show you the time of your life, Make you feel like you’ve never felt before, like you’re a goddess up in the clouds with the world at your fingertips, ready for you to rule it.

They’ll treat you the way you deserve to be treated, the way you didn’t think you were good enough for, the way that you thought only happened in the movies.

The sparkle will return to your eyes, the world will be vibrant and colorful, and you will be full of endless joy and happiness.

This, you think, is what it must feel like to be in love. To have your entire world in one person, to get butterflies every time you look at them, every time you think of them.

You stop pretending and start genuinely smiling and laughing, letting down your guard and opening up like a flower blooming in spring. The best you’ve felt in a while.

But then they leave. Leave you there alone, wondering how it all went wrong so fast. In a snap of your fingers they disappear into the wind, and there’s nothing you can do to stop it. They fell through your fingers like water returning to the sea and you can’t pull them back to shore. You shatter like a plate on pavement and your soul returns to the dark, lifeless place they pulled it out of.

Way two. You finally think you found a perfect person.

Your diamond in the rough, your light on dark days, your hope in the despair.

They tell you stories and make you believe they’re going to change your world, show you what true happiness can look like.

They wrap you around their finger and take you for a spin, and you feel like you can conquer the world together. They light a fire in your soul.

But soon after things go south.

They rip off their mask and reveal the ugly truth. They manipulate you, gaslight you, make you question your own sanity, twist your words and use them against you.

They turn apologies into pity parties for themselves,

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turn your wildest dreams into your scariest nightmares.

They drain you of the light in your soul and steal your kindness for themselves.

Yet you choose to stay.

Hoping, wishing, praying things are going to change, that they’ll return to the person you first met, the one who looked into your eyes and saw their entire universe.

That they’ll fulfill their empty promises and their apologies will soon have meaning behind them once again.

But they don’t. And they never will.

And once they rob you of your happiness, make it seem like you’re unlovable and unworthy, a problem that can’t be solved, they leave.

And even though you are no longer tied, finally free of their chains, you miss them. You miss the idea of them and the future you might’ve had. Their company and the small happy moments amongst the destruction.

But you can’t get them back. They weren’t meant to stay.

These people come in like hurricanes and shake your world to the core, take you on a rollercoaster that soon goes off the rails. You don’t think you can ever recover from the damage they’ve caused.

But slowly but surely you pick yourself up piece by piece, creating a new version of the person you once were. A stronger version. A better version.

You realize the love you deserve and the love you’ve received are not the same.

You raise your standards and believe that you are worthy of a great love story, of being treated the way you thought was only possible in your wildest fantasies.

You start to stand up for yourself, believe in yourself, start accepting only the best of best.

Stop tolerating the bare minimum and expecting a universe’s worth of effort.

Trying to find someone who’ll reciprocate the copious amounts of love and affection you give.

If they wanted to, they would.

They weren’t meant to stay forever, but to come in and dance with you and teach you how you should be treated, and how you should treat yourself.

They were a lesson that the universe sent and took away once you learned it.

Because some people aren’t meant to stay forever.

DIANE

i zzy tho rnberg

Currently, Marge was standing on the front steps of the house she rented with her best friend of forty odd years, knuckles paling with anxiety.

“Are you okay?” He asked, knowing she wasn’t.

“Okay.”

“Yes,” Marge replied, unsure if she was.

Her name was Diane.

Joyful, spirited, wonderful Diane, who smelled of honey and sprayed rose water on her wrists, whose hands were soft and thin, whose fingernails were clean and glossed. Her smile was endlessly wide, with teeth just crooked enough to feel genuine, her hair an endless brown of curls that never seemed to stop moving.

Diane, who—

She wiped her cheeks with her sleeve, patting them to give them more color than she had to spare, and straightened her back.

“She’s in bed?”

“Yes,” said Robert, letting his hand fall as he descended the steps. “I’ll put away the groceries for you.”

“Hey.”

“Okay,” said Marge, swallowing. Realization hit her.

“Wait!”

Marge blinked, startled to see not Diane in the doorway but her brother, Robert.

“What?”

“Flowers.”

“What?”

“I-I bought her flowers.”

“Before?”

“What are you doing here?” She said, as Robert gently pried groceries from her weathered hands, placing them on the floor. The two began to walk up the carpeted stairs as Robert began his explanation.

“Diane… you weren’t home and she didn’t know who else to call. She started having chest pains and—”

Marge nodded. An unspoken question passed between them.

“Okay, I’ll bring them up.”

Marge shook her head. “No, I… I’ll get them.”

She trotted down the stairs, ignoring her aching knees as she knelt to the paper bags, feeling around for the wet crinkle of plastic wrapped roses. Bracing herself on the wall, Marge stood with a grunt, her brother taking away the bags wordlessly. When she turned back to look up the stairs, another wave of nausea hit, strong enough that she could feel the bile rising in her throat.

“Heart attack?” Asked Marge, or perhaps she said as her own heart throbbed and lurched.

“No, but it seems like she has some blockages in her arteries. They could try surgery, but it doesn’t have a very high success rate. Seems like she’s got some sort of artery disease—I forget the name of it.”

They reached the upstairs, Marge clinging desperately to the bannister. Her insides felt like they were swimming—an endless cesspool of fear and nausea.

Adrenaline flooded her every pore, she couldn’t stop thinking, her brain was mush, she felt as though she might vomit, where’s Diane, where’s Diane, where’s—

Diane.

Beautiful, wonderful, joyful Diane, who always had paint flaking her fingers and elbows, who always wore handmade dresses because she liked the breeze, who

Robert’s hand squeezed her shoulder, and she suddenly felt the tears rolling down her cheeks. She was shaking.

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turned stars into shapes and people into stars.

the doorway. The roses sweat into her palms, dripping onto the carpet.

She’d never once knocked on Diane’s door in all their years of love. Today wouldn’t be the day she started.

Diane.

Who collected rain water to boil, swearing it tasted better.

Who stayed up late with a night light, fervently turning the pages of her latest book. Who always believed in the good of the world and that things would get better and everything was going to be okay was it okay would it be okay could it—

Marge was outside of Diane’s bedroom door, feeling the cool air of a fan inside the room tickle her feet beneath

Road to Phoenixville Ava Collin Pen

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H

ello I’m Halle Middleton and I’m a senior here at Conestoga. I’ve been into art my entire life and have enjoyed studying it everyday at Conestoga. I will continue to do so in college as I prepare to become an art teacher. Needless to say, art is very important to me and is the main way I express my thoughts, feelings, and ideas.

Although my pieces don’t appear to be associated with each other, there is definitely a commonality between them: they were all just created in a random spark of creativity. I think this is where my best work comes from: when I’m not thinking too hard and something just pops into my head and feels right. I get down to creating and having fun and try to kick the overthinking, stress, and pressure that can come with making art outside.

Additionally, in most of my pieces, I enjoy using color because to me, it’s a way to be bold and have my art stand

SENIOR ARTIST PROFIILE

LE SENIOR ARTIST PROFILE

HALLE MIDDLETON out. I love to grab people’s attention so they can look more closely and interpret my art.

I always strive to try new mediums and go past my comfort zone. That’s why the pieces here range from mixed media, to watercolor, and even photography. I try not to limit myself to any one medium and see what I can do and push the boundaries of everything I try. Another one of my favorite things about art: there are endless ways of expressing yourself, whether it be painting or glass blowing, and the journey to trying each and everyone of these methods is so exciting.

"I look forward to continuing to make art in college and beyond. I hope that one day, I can inspire a new generation to create their own art and share it with the world."

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Speak Your Mind Mixed Media

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Cherry Pier Photography 82

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Blue Heron Watercolor

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Illuminate Photography

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Water Droplets Photography SENIOR ARTIST PROFIILE

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monotony sophia chen I wake up next to my husband of 20 years at 6am who doesn’t kiss me good morning anymore. and walk down the stairs of our two story suburban home in the middle of a small town.

I turn on the tea kettle To heat up some water for my coffee And my two kids come downstairs to get ready for school.

After I drop them off, I drive our family minivan To my 9-5 desk job At the same office I’ve been working at for 15 years And ask the man in the cubicle next to me Who whistles the same whistle That I’ve heard every morning for the last 4 years How he’s doing He says “I’m living the life!”

And I stop And look around And realize I’ve become the woman I told myself I would never become

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EMMA DUTTON DIGITAL

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SUSTAINED INVESTIGATION

THIRSTY

Scott A. Hennessy Father says everything is going to be okay, but I heard Mom crying in the kitchen.

Our water rations are depleting faster with each day.

Today in training, my instructor told me that soldiers on the front line can have as much water as they want.

I will make my family proud.

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COLORED ASHES Katherine Lee

Red. The color of the bricks that line the palace gates.

The uniforms they wear as they walk by in straight lines, lightning in their heels click-clacking to a rhythm no one else can hear.

Orange.

The color of the warm marmalade we spread on our toast until sugar became forbidden and they crushed our crystalline hearts until our tears were bittersweet.

Yellow.

The taste of happiness that doesn’t feel so happy anymore. The touch of their metal fingers on the dying fireplace.

The color of your tears just before you disappeared.

Green.

The color of the sea when they poured their wilted souls inside as if they could ever be cleansed of how far they have come, how much they have done, and what they have ignored.

Blue.

The color of the sky when they closed the gates and the tears flooded the dirt, smelling of watered-down sunlight, and the clouds dangled their blue braids as if misery was nothing but a game.

Purple.

The color of the king as he sits on his throne made of bones and broken promises.

The touch of the lavender on their breaths when they were taken away.

The colored ashes fill the streets.

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The Ocean's Embrace Clara Steege Pen and Marker

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W AV E S O F R E M E M B R A N C E Nikkita Pandey

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he cerulean waters inch toward your feet. they climb up your legs, from your ankles to your knees. your wounds, your scars, your guilt vanish in the presence of the light in the sky, as the waves take them back. the sun’s rays hit your unprotected skin, but their burns don’t faze you. the humidity reminds you of her, you remember her absolute hatred for summer. but you avoid your train of thought. the sand sticks to your wet feet as you trudge toward the water. you trip over a shell in your carelessness, you pick it up with anger, mumbling a curse word under your breath. but the touch of its smooth surface infiltrates your mind with calmness. its serenity flows through your body. your skin is numb but the tranquility coursing through your veins is evident— you grasp your grief, pulling it out piece by piece. you remove all the memories of her; her laughs, her cries, her pleas for help. you stumble upon the last time you saw her—drenched in the rain, calling you for help. the fog blocked her body, but her pleading eyes overpowered it. yet you stayed inside, to avoid the droplets that would force you to sacrifice the energy she needed. the ocean’s waves finally reach your eyes. you find yourself submerged. she’s facing you now, looking directly into your eyes. it’s a clear reflection. she smiles as she tries to hug you. the light from above strikes her directly, an ethereal glow on her face. she fades when you push her back. you’re still afraid of the commitment she craves. you’re drowning, just like she did. you pledge to stay until you find peace. but it looks like you never did.

This piece originally published in The Young Writer’s Initiative.

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Musing Shreya Singh

she was enamored– her gaze stolen away from the painting before her. it was a smile to envy, and so she did. like china it was beautiful, but delicate. and there she stood, hoping for it to be forever. it made her believe– in happiness, in redemption, in love. but all too soon a shadow passed, and she blinked once, looking down and up again. the smile slipped, shattering as it fell to the floor. and suddenly she was back, staring at the same exact painting two minutes prior– her reflection disappearing from the glass casing just a moment before.

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endless summer affair Vivian Dong

This is an endless summer affair.

This is me, calling out your name, waiting for your answer.

This is you, shaking your head, telling me you have an obligation, a duty, You’re Achilles and she is your Troy, I am your Patroclus, telling you you can stay.

Then there is us, hiding under sycamores in the park, sunlight sneaking in, threatening to expose our secrets.

There is me, asking you if you’d run away with me.

There is you, smiling your sun-bright smile, and suddenly I forget you were ever someone else’s.

Us, taking stolen kisses and breaking fragile promises, feasting on what we can’t have.

Because isn’t forbidden fruit just that much sweeter?

Our wrinkled clothes across the dirty floor.

You, telling me I’m your addiction, swearing you’d do anything for the high.

Me, drunk on the feeling of your hands on my leg, tracing hearts on my knee.

There is you, wondering if you’re a bad person, pushing away from me, telling me you have chains, chains with blonde hair and a golden smile. and me, loosening them, link by link.

You’ll Orpheus, walking back to the Living with your head held high.

I’ll be the voices, calling at you to turn your head, to lose Eurydice to the Underworld forever.

But hey, that’s the price you pay, for endless summer love.

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STREAM OF CONCIOUSNESS Ava Poeta

D

o you ever just feel like some force of nature, whether its gravity, fate, whatever, is pulling you towards someone. You start falling, and no matter what you do, you’re falling heavier, faster, and recklessly. It’s both the best feeling in the world, and the scariest, especially for someone like me, with walls up higher & sturdier than I ever intended. It’s hard to attach to someone so deeply, become so emotionally invested, because nothing lasts forever. Nobody ever said it was so easy to fall in love, and how equally it is to fall out of it. The smallest thing could be the straw that broke the camel’s back.

The wrong string of words can do just the right amount of damage. You never intentionally try to hurt someone, and sometimes you have to walk on eggshells, unable to access the situation. So you say what you think you should, because if they loved you, they would listen to what you have to say. But that’s not always the case. Just because somebody loves you, does not mean they have to listen to every word you say and react off of it. Sometimes you’re the one who messes up, and once and awhile, you mess up too deeply, and you go too far. But you live and you learn, right?

Life is a balance. Balancing what you want to say with what you should say. What you want to feel with what you show. What you want to do with what happens. What you think with what you act upon. It’s brain versus heart, two classic enemies. But sometimes you run out of the right things to say. Sometimes you forget, and sometimes you hurt. Sometimes there’s nothing to do but sit there and listen, because you’re the one who handled the situation wrong.

Kids should get a break, though, you’ll think to yourself. You’re only 16, how could you have known any better.

But if everyone got a break, would it really be a break? Or would it be a change in societal tendencies, yielding itself to a change in the future. If everyone was taken off the hook, is there any “messing up” anymore? Is there such thing as a “hook” to be on in the first place?

Sometimes life gets hard, and its nothing you can handle. Sometimes you have to go it alone, whether you put yourself there or not.

No one knows you better than you. There are no truer words. But people can get close. And 94

Beauty in the Abstract Emily Meaney Mixed Media

sometimes you get caught up in the idea that they know you better than you know yourself.

Better than they know themselves, even. But at the end of the day, you’re the one who either hurts, or gets hurt. Not in a “kill or be killed” sense, but sometimes life happens, and people mess up.

Falling into the deep end with someone can considerably alter our worldview. It feels like there’s no going back, both in an amazing & terrifying way. Whole new experience, farther from anything than you’re used to. But you’re here anyway, and there’s no going back.

Or so you think.

There’s no rope tying you to a person, place, or thing. Those are just nouns. You can leave, run, untie yourself. There’s no such thing as “tied down”. No one puts you in a place but yourself.

No one makes you feel something other than yourself. No one else thinks your thoughts, and no one else sees what you see. But there’s always that one person, that one person who tries to prove that they do, and they do a damn good job at it.

That person that never fails to validate you.

Never fails to listen and try to see what you’re seeing. Tries thinking what you’re thinking and feeling what you’re feeling. They create a sense of security, a beacon of trust and understanding.

But life’s a balance. Balance between love and toxicity. Soon understanding turns into manipulating. Trust turns into dependence.

They still hear you; they just don’t listen. They reassure you, while also degrading you. They don’t do it on purpose (at first) they just sincerely believe that they are healing you, making you feel better. They believe that manipulation leads to healing. But soon enough, there’s that wrong string of words that strike just the right nerve and do just the right damage. You never realized what they had been doing, but your eyes open.

Been closed for longer than you knew.

But can you untie yourself from them? That’s the real question. Sure, you can leave someone.

You’re done. But the damage has been done as well. That understanding and dependence that you knew all too well has gone too deep. Strings were attached.

This piece emphasizes that there is beauty in everything no matter how odd it may appear. In order to create this interesting background I splattered paint on a canvas and then threw it at a bush a half a dozen times. 95

How do you know if something is toxic, if you’re the one messing up as well? Is it toxic or is that just a relationship? Balance. Your mistakes and theirs. Is that the true balance though? Or is it your apologetic tendencies and theirs. Your forgiveness and theirs. Your love and theirs. For not only you, but for themselves.

Peeler Bella Rios Pen 96

Modern Day Incubus

Peyton Harrill

Clarice Natalia Green Digital Art

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Kimiko Natalia Green Digital

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Clarice Natalia Green Digital

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Melting Away Ella Jenkins Digital

Broken Kids

Overheating with dead eyes Bird feeding, empty greetings And that feeling’s fleeting

Mildly freeing, like a fox from a cage Then torn apart by rabid dogs,

Dead from the chase Blood red like a flannel

Broken wires, open panels Zaps and bangs and boomerangs

Ripped and singed like fangs Poison stabbing and grabbing

At the flabs of my skin

Akin to scales, cold-blooded

Head flooded, dead again

A never-ending blend of Broken colors

Broken spirits Broken bottles Push the throttle And I grovel for a rush to let me live

Overheating Broken kids

Scott A. Hennessy

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Kavya Patel

Saving a Life Saving a Life Saving a Life Saving a Life Saving a Life Saving a Life Saving a Life I am going to be a doctor, A surgeon maybe When I see an ambulance I imagine being a doctor, Waiting at the hospital, Ready to save a life Nothing feels better than saving a life Not everyone can say they’ve saved a life I am going to be a doctor, A surgeon maybe And I will save lives.

Saving a Life Saving a Life Saving a Life Saving a Life Saving a Life 102

The Miracle of Birth

I slip out from under the covers, swaddle my feet in slippers, and prepare to meet the day.

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Clara Steege

I know, Mom, I know – I promise I’ll be out soon. I know I’m late, so what’s a little while longer? Just wait... yeah, I won’t be long.

Only a little bit longer... it’s just so warm in here and I don’t want to leave. Fine! Okay okay, just a second. I swear I’m coming. No, I’m not ready yet! I just can’t do it. Wait, you’re going to force me to come out? Woah, woah, woah! Fine, I’m coming. Yeah, right now. Okay, here we go...

B U T T E R F LY

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GARDEN

t’s six AM and you play hide and seek with yourself in a glass house, cutting your fingers on your reflection, watching sunlight unwind the walls. Above you, the sky bursts open like a freshly cracked egg. You scan the room, holding seconds under your breath, waiting for your shadow to reroot itself at your feet.

It’s nine AM and the fruit in each bowl is rotted and festering with flies. You catch them between your fingers and tear off their wings, stamp them on your tongue and fold your skin into a letter, address it to yourself and watch the mail get delayed.

It’s twelve PM and light sharpens against glass, bisecting you as butterflies burn. Tiles invert the floor in slow motion. Envelopes fold themselves into an imitation of flight as fire creases swallowtails to their wings and your eyes scorch too much to see. You crawl the perimeter of the room, searching for your shadow, just to cup in your hands.

Just to hold.

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Mushroom Picking Evelyn Zhao Oil Pastel 105

IZZY THORNBERG

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hat sits in the middle of our table. I’m not sure why—no one is supposed to touch it. ‘That’ is all Mama ever calls it. Sometimes, when I’m home alone, I think about what it would feel like, to touch that. My hands running over it, my fingers kissing it, my skin warming it, inhaling everything about that. I wonder about its texture, if it has a bump under its chin like mine, or if its smooth, a life unlived.

My teeth are better, I’m sure of it. She looks at me like she was wishing I was the shit on her shoe. Our sense of camaraderie is truly unmatched—I’d laugh if I thought I knew how anymore.

“Eat your chicken, Delilah,” demands Mama.

She has big eyebrows. They’re always touching.

Always angry. Papa puffs on his pipe, a little drool collecting around the corner of his mouth. I think about how we used to be happy. I do that a lot.

“DELILAH!” Mama screams.

I pick up my knife in the wrong hand, my fork in the other. I scrape them across the greasy porcelain plate, chewing through the chicken in a screeching slice.

“Delilah.”

I make my eyebrows touch the way Mama always does. She grimaces back. The chicken is cold, its skin jelly-like. I poke it with my finger.

“Honey, with your fork.”

I squint my eyes at her until her face is all fuzzy and I don’t have to think about her face. She’s a bunch of grayish shapes.

“MAMA!” I scream back.

Papa would’ve made a joke, I’m sure, but he doesn’t anymore. He only smokes his pipe-- the only thing he ever kissed anymore.

“DELILAHH!” Mama shouted, louder.

“MAMAAA!” I shout. My yelling is better too.

It kinda sounds like the knife, all shrill-like.

She brings both fists to the table, hard and fast. I do the same. We punch the table, angry with the world but putting it on each other’s faces cause we’re too afraid to do much else.

Mama slaps the table, rattling the plates.

I open my eyes. Papa coughs out some smoke, startled.

Thud.

It fell.

Good to know he’s still alive, I guess.

“Oh my god, stop, Delilah, stop,” Mama gasps, snapping out of it. I don’t care. I hate that.

Stupid thing. That rules our life. I’m tired of THAT. So, I don’t.

“Delilah June, you eat your goddamn chicken or go to bed hungry,” demands Mama.

Her teeth have gotten kinda yellow. I smile at her.

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“Delilah—” Mama reaches for my hands with her spidery ones, the kind worn down by tears and hard work, a man who can’t do anything but chew through her body and his tobacco, a life unlived.

It should’ve died a long time ago.

Punch.

“Hate!”

Punch.

Papa would laugh too. He’d laugh and say we’re always dramatic. We’re always making a big deal. He’d clean Mama’s hand, he’d ground me, he’d put that in its place. If he was really a Papa, he’d do all that. But he doesn’t. He smokes. He watches.

“You!” It’s my battle chant.

“I!”

“YOU!”

The plates rattle, my fork drops, her cup spills, and there it is—in the middle of the table as always. I stare at that, now.

“I HATE YOU!”

“DELILAH!” Mama.

I grab my knife.

“DELILAH!” I stand from my seat.

"

I laugh a little bit.

I suddenly realize Mama is crying. She’s holding the knife and it’s red all over, and her hands are shaking. It’s not very far in, but I guess it hurts.

Mama always said the red hurts worst.

“HATE!”

“DELILAH! Please don’t touch that!”

The knife is in her hand. There’s blood in there too, only not anymore. It’s on the table, on her chicken, on her paisley dress. The knife is really in her hand.

“I!”

“DELILAH!”

“Sorry Mama.”

She looks at me. Her eyes seem to be swimming in all those tears. I don’t really know if I’m sad. She looks at me and I only shrug.

smile.

She looks at that and she sighs. She tries to

“We should clean up,” she says softly. I wish Papa would die. I wish that would go away. I wish I wish I wish.

We punch the table, angry with the world but putting it on each other’s faces cause we’re too afraid to do much else.

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Pica Pica

Corvus Emily Wang Soft Pastels and Charcoal 108

Cyanocitta Cristata

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senior artist profile

LY D I A NASER This collection of pieces is from my sustained investigation that I created for Studio Art this year. I’ve always been extremely passionate about both art and literature, so I wanted to combine both interests and explore writing from a visual lens. In other words, I'm using an artistic perspective to investigate the effect of particular literary devices on the reader, or in this case, the viewer.

Because of the ties to English, the idea of typography and text has carried through all of my pieces, however I'm using other artistic elements to further represent each device. In each piece I've chosen certain aspects of the

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literary device to emphasize, such as the idea of layering for allusion, or embedding meaning into objects for symbol. I then try to represent these ideas visually, with the intent of the viewer both understanding the literary device but also feeling the same things a reader would. As for the art itself, I tend to enjoy more graphic designs and bright colors, so I had a lot of fun with that, too.

SENIOR ARTIST PROFILE

Syntax Pen

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SENIOR ARTIST PROFILE

This piece focuses on symbolism. I wanted to show how authors take something--in this case, the hands--and embed a symbol into it, so that the object is still recognizable, but it now has a larger meaning behind it. The hands in the background are supposed to show how symbols are often repeated, and that they often go unnoticed and are mistaken just for objects in the story.

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Symbol Acrylic and Colored Pencil

Foreshadowing Acrylic and Colored Pencil SENIOR ARTIST PROFILE

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Foreshadowing Acrylic and Colored Pencil

The literary device depicted in this piece is allusion. By cutting out text from various books and magazines, I modeled the process of using allusions in literature; referencing work from other creators to enhance the new piece. There are three different planes in this piece, the word "allusion" being the highest level, followed by several of the cut out pieces of text, and then the flat paper.

This is to indicate a layering effect, just as a piece of literature might include some references that are offhand or small, and others that are much more important or appear repeatedly. Finally, the cut out letters for the word "allusion" with the magazine letters placed inside indicate that an author may have an original message in mind, but use the work of others to help get that point across.

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SENIOR ARTIST PROFILE

This piece explores the idea of repetition. Often times, when reading stories that use repetition or motif, it can be difficult to notice at first.

However, once you get farther into the story, you start to notice it, until you can decipher exactly what the intention of the repetition is. I tried to capture that in my piece by having the words "Over and over" slowly start to take color and form a pair of eyes, which is supposed to represent seeing or understanding the repetition.

Repetition Pen and Oil Pastel

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This piece focuses on the idea of satire. I wanted to show how satire takes an original concept (in this case, the word "satire") and stretches it/emphasizes it/transforms it in order to critique or ridicule the original idea. In my piece I took the word satire, and literally stetched it, creating a more colorful and almost ridiculous version of the original word.

Satire Watercolor

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Claire goes pearl diving / in a swimming pool. Chlorinated and cold, belly-down like a whale died / wrong. Claire is pallid, is sinking, / is alone, alone, alone. Claire is halfway to drowned. Seeing through a haze / of blue, pickling her senses and watching the world / come apart. Cracks line the tiles / on the pool floor and she tries to fold herself / into them so grout can sand / her clean, fresh. Claire is knuckling / the whites from her eyes, peeling cornea from iris from pupil / until only her retinas are exposed / to the sun. Claire wants to become lens flare, wants to flash / across photographs and screens. / Wants to blind. But Claire is shriveled, fingers on the edge / of bloat, in an empty pool. Claire is pretending / the bubbles are shuttering lenses, but her eyes are red and bleary / and her surroundings are swirled in fog. The pool is not even her own—it belongs to a friend / of a friend who invited her over and is waiting for her / to leave. But Claire is bound to the promise of pearls, of light, of fluorescence / spilling over tile.

Claire is staring at her face / in the grate, watching the metal warp / her features, watching her eyes slide wide, blur / into her nose into her mouth.

Claire is rubbing her fingers / across steel, touching her reflection, trying to find her face.

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s tella lei

Diving Regulations on the Side of the Pool

El árbol viejo But you know he was THE BEST IN THE WHOLE DANG STATE

to be read aloud

CHLOE WILLIAMS

Yeah he was SCARRED, SCRATCHED,

SCRAPED And maybe he was DRY,

DROOPED, DRAPED In ivy and a TWISTED,

GNARLED

SHAPE

Martha Lydia Naser Watercolor and Ink

AND THEY ASK ME Shreya Singh

“where did that girl go?” i withhold a scream, wishing i had an answer worth a thousand words. a sigh is all that escapes me. and them? they simply lower their gaze, shaking their heads in disappointment, wondering when they lost her forever. and i stare at the wall, knowing that there was no one i could look in the eyes. because i stopped searching for hers long ago. i stopped yearning for her innocence, when i couldn’t find even a glimpse of a smile. so all i could tell them? “she left a long time ago.”

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Twisted Daniel Gergeus Pencil

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P STANDS 4

PHONE

Zach Jones

The 21st century, The time of the phone, You would even know if you lived under a stone.

The screen so bright, It blisters the eyes, Makes a craving addiction for your buys.

P is a letter, Silent in the expression, Brings generations into a depression.

Remember the good old times?

When we would go outside? play on the playground and go on bike rides?

Those days are gone, The skies are too bland, And now, P stands for pain and poison. ur lifes runnin out, everythin iz changin, brb, omg, new words rearangin. expression of words It keeps gettin simpler runnin out of battery so ur lights gettin dimmer uve wasted ur life, now ur under the stone, nd its all B cuz P stands 4 phone.

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Feeling Your Best Addi Bucher Mixed Media

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Two Skies, Two Atlases Anika Kotapally and i would lift you up so you can see the beautiful sky. and i would let you cry on my shoulder every day. and i would, i would, i would. but i never do. because i am tired. and i don’t answer your texts and don’t pick up your calls because if i did, i would have to shoulder your burden too. but my own is heavy (not as heavy as yours, never as heavy as yours). and i know they say not to compare trauma, but yours is worse. and the weight of my sky is lighter, but i crumble under it anyway. and if i had to lift yours too, it would crush me. even though you pick yours up every day, and your sky is heavier than mine. i guess you’re the better atlas, although i don’t know why either of us are being punished. and my arms are weak and yours are strong (have always been stronger). i remember that you used to hit me with them, and it always hurt but you never stopped because you never knew (because it was a joke, always a joke) and maybe that’s my fault. yes, that is my fault, because i never bothered to tell you. but i always wanted to say you should know, you should know, why don’t you know? but i can’t blame you for that because i know, i know (but i keep hurting you anyway)

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The Layered Self Akshata Shastry Mixed Media

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lost family Abby Galrao Mixed Media

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lost childhood Abby Galrao Pen

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Managing Editor: Lydia Naser

Art Editors:

Olivia Wang Stella Lei Ashka Patel Lydia Naser

Lit Editors:

Angeline Ma Izzy Thornberg

Business Managers: Nikkita Pandey Chloe Williams

Copy Editors: Shreya Singh Sophia Chen

A special thanks to our staff advisors: Ben Smith Katie Wilson

About The Folio We are a student-run literary and art magazine from Conestoga High School in Berwyn, Pennsylvania. Although we’ve only been The Folio since 2007, we have collected, compiled, designed, and published student-produced art and literature since 1967.

Our staff members are dedicated to furthering their own artistic and literary talents and promoting an interest in the humanities school-wide. The Folio welcomes submissions from all ‘Stoga students. Applications to join The Folio open during course selection in February. More information can be found on our website: stogafolio.weebly.com. You can also find us on Instagram @stogafolio.

The National Scholastic Press Assocation has rated our publication All American.

The National Council of Teachers has ranked us as a Superior magazine.

The Pennsylvania School Press Association has awarded us their Gold Rating.

@STOGAFOLIO