The Ivy | #15 | May 2018

THE IVY ISSUE XV | Princeton High School

THE IVY

The Ivy began in the 1960s,

ISSUE XV

but its serialization began in 2014.

Editors’ Letter Dear Reader, We’re back with our third magazine of the year! This full-color issue features thirtysome pages of experimental design, bringing you an eclectic collection of art and writing. We’d like to thank our spread designers for creating these beautiful pages and pushing our creative boundaries.

We’d also like to thank you for sharing your work with us: we appreciate your trust.

While The Ivy is, of course, a platform for self-expression, we’re incredibly excited to expand the variety of student work to include content ranging from personal narratives to reflections on the human condition.

We hope you enjoy Issue 15. If you’d like to send us any suggestions or comments, our inbox is always open! Email us at theivy.phs@gmail.com.

Cheers, Leslie L & Maya Poptropica

Table of Contents MARSHMALLOWS, Valeria Torres-Olivares THIS VERSION, Siena Moran

6-7

NO SOCKS, Anna Lieb

8-9

UNTITLED, Isabel Kinney

10-11

I SEE THE NIGHT THROUGH MY WINDOW, Khadeeja Qureshi ROUGH SEAS, Elle Ferguson

UNTITLED, Eli Cichocki

12-13

THE RAVEN, HE SITS ABOVE, Alison Lu

QUITE POSSIBLY SELF-OBSSESSED, John Liang THE SWEET SOUND OF WATER, Lydia McGrath-Manuilskiy ONE, Nicole Ng

14-15

A REPRIEVE, Emily Becker

16-17

SATYA, Maya Pophristic

18-19

VERUM, VERI, Anonymous

UNTITLED, Michelle Wang

20-21

UNTITLED, Anonymous

FIRE AND WATER, Leda Wang

22-23

INQUISITION, Anonymous

UNTITLED, Conor Heaney

24-25

IN THE KITCHEN, Amelia Wright

26-27

SMILE, Lana Gilsic

28-29

UNTITLED, Sarah Closser & Emmanuelle Adamson I’M BOLD, Rouchka

30-31 32-33

MEGACITY, Kevin Yang

34-35

CAPTURE, Coco Mi

36-37

LEVITATE, Jane Lillard

38-39

_ |

BROOKLYN BOUND, Shane Spring _|

_ |

47 FOLDS, Anika Sonig _|

NOW, NOW III’VE FELT ERRYTHING, SON Valencia Garamond _ | |

IS BRAVERY BORN FROM FEAR? Nikol Parnett | _

NO SOCKS, Anna Lieb

Mom says put socks on .

I say no.

She says the stair’s too cold for bare feet.

I’d bette r put o

6 | THE IVY

n some

socks, she says.

I listen .

I put on socks.

ay, But once she looks aw

at a tim s p e c a e r t up, two s I

e.

No socks .

MARSHMALLOWS, Valeria Torres-Olivares

photography

XV | 7

I look at him. My breath is on his neck. I like it this way, I say. He smiles. He doesn’t know what I mean. Are you going to sleep now?

Yeah. I look out the window and lift myself off of his chest. I like it this way. What do you mean? I look down at him and smile. This version, I mean. We’re at your house.

In a different universe, we’re at mine. And after I sneak you out through my fire escape, I walk down my hallway toward my room, while you stumble down the steep flight of stairs and flinch as the automatic lights go off and I lay in my bed and fall asleep. You wait at the bus stop for the N13 and the sky is calling our names while the stars are looking down on you. They love a good night show. Love love love.

I’m dreaming sweet things by the time you reach your place, climb over the fence, sneak in through the window. Your fingers are cold and you’re smiling and wondering how it ended up this way.

8 | THE IVY

THIS VERSION,

Siena Moran

But this is this version. The version where I’m the one wandering home with the night on my shoulders while you’re consumed by dreams, swirling images of magenta and silver that will dissolve in the morning. I’m out and the stars laugh at me. The sky lays a hand on my arm as I wonder how it ended up this way. The clouds whisper that there is no use in wondering, but every step is a moment that led up to now and I wonder. I wonder how we crossed paths and let this happen, and when I finally reach my door and climb up my fire escape, I sit on the windowsill before I go to sleep. Down on the pavement the lights of the city flicker in Morse code, but I’m too tired to figure out what they’re saying.

I SEE THE NIGHT THROUGH MY WINDOW,

Khadeeja Qureshi

Moonlight refracts through the metal mesh of grid openings beyond the glass. It seems as though life is trapped within the white-coated space between the glass and the screen. It would be more agreeable to watch illuminated particles dance in a picture frame from the thermal comfort of inside, but streams of life bounce off the glazing as if knocking on wood—they summon me.

The still blackness of my room does not match the moving blackness of the night, which is only frozen in temperatures. But if unlatched and slid open, making punctured wire the sole boundary between myself and the night, my window releases a movement of sound, light, and air, woven together to briskly diffuse across the once static habitat.

Creeping up into every opening in my body, the night travels. It travels to the grey matter between my ears, through vessels down into these toes, electrifying each hair on this foreign skin on my foreign skeleton, and stirs my blood until it pumps faster and faster and faster…

The screen strives to filter each insect out, but the light carries all spine- tingling critters of this hour. It splits the shaded shape of an unlit candle wick into two disparately shaded antennas and the sheer fabric of the bed canopy into hind wings. Subtle shattered light beyond the sill and onto this wall are silky webs… spreading.

And the moon rests at the center of it all, using her rays to transform everything into night—not melancholic darkness but miraculous dynamism.

XV | 9

UNTITLED, Isabel Kinney

10 | THE IVY

photography

To reach the other side of the Earth, I asked the

ocean to part its waters,

and instead Neptune gave me a

boat to ride his waves.

ROUGH SEAS, Elle Ferguson XV | 11

UNTITLED,

Eli Cichocki

ink 12 | THE IVY

Oppressive and tasteless, We’ve seen it before— A shapeless figure watches above.

Its dark, dark body is cold and bitter: Swirling monochromatic emotions, storms in countless pitch black nights.

The feathers drip heavy ink; What a shiny finish it gives!

As if all the scratches of erosion We were sitting on horizon’s hair, Across basalt cliffs by the sea Right until it ended.

Were something beautiful, of repair; Yes, we were here, And not a cruel reminder, And he was there, harsh despair And everything was suspended. my painful, unforgiving token But he’s here now, and he’s here still of time’s unwavering path.

It simply isn’t fair!

Do you remember that one gold day, The wretched creature is still beside me, You were crying to the ivory moon?

His putrid eyes stare right inside me.

My insides scream. Where are you?

Where? You’re still gone and he’s still there!

It just needs a push, to sing, to grow.

The poetry must be shown.

Muscles tense, tighten, ready as feathers shatter his silhouette.

Wings push the beast forward, the world behind, Everything fades away as he takes flight.

THE RAVEN, HE SITS ABOVE Alison Lu

inspired by Poe’s “The Raven” XV | 13

acrylic

14 | THE IVY

John Liang,

QUITE POSSIBLY SELF-OBSESSED

A REPRIEVE, Emily Becker My legs burn as I drag myself up the stairs. I feel the slow ache of the bruise forming where Bill kicked my arm again doing breastroke. My hair feels like straw and I do not need to look in the mirror to know there are deep goggle marks under my red-rimmed eyes. Luckily, Dr. Taylor was merciful and gave us very little homework and I have no more obligations tonight.

Just as I let my backpack slide onto the floor and lurch toward my bed, Jordyn trundles up the stairs and bulldozes into my room holding her calculator. Of course she manages to knock over my water bottle and step on my book.

“Emma, please help your sister with her math,” my mom sticks her head into my room. Fifteen logarithmic equations later, Jordyn is still complaining about the upcoming test, but seems to have gotten the hang of it. I shuffle to the freezer. At least my family did not eat all the mocha chip ice cream.

My throat numb with ice cream, I trek back upstairs. I cannot resist the intense pull of my velvety purple blanket and crisp pillow. With an unceremonious thump, I collapse onto the bed without even pulling back the covers.

The smell of ethyl acetate from the lab today, Caligula’s stern expression from the Latin documentary, the comfortable feeling of a calc problem clicking, the awkward pun my friend made second period, all drift through my mind. Yellow light warms my face and I turn away from the door. The muscles in the back of my neck gradually relax. I flex one foot and a burst of syrupy pleasure courses from my toes, up through my leg, all the way to the back of my neck. Water trickles out of my ear and I faintly hear my dad talking too loudly on his phone as the soft notes from my mom’s mandolin drift up the stairs. My phone, perched on my nightstand, vibrates. I know it’s Jeanette texting about the chem homework... she will have to wait till tomorrow.

XV | 15

THE SWEET SOUND OF WATER, Lydia McGrath-Manuilskiy 16 12 || THE IVY

Curls curls and curls. There is nothing else; TITLE, Artistand Name

she is lost within her curls. There’s a joke that we say: that we have lost everything in our hearts in that hair.

She is slight and small, lost within all those missing things. I slide my eyes right, and her smile is always gleaming.

There was once, that I told her, how whenever I do not see her smile—when her face is pulled into tight lines—I worry that death has come to take us all. She brings me light to marvel at every day—when she wears yellow it seems as though the sun has swallowed her whole.

But, TITLE,

art’s medium

Artist she is dark; sheName is as if you took the earth and all its colors and molded it into a human. She is the bear cub—she is soft and warm, but with teeth bared when any boy has slighted me. She is my brother, she is more than the blood that runs beneath our skins.

She is dark where I am light, and I am dark where her light gleams.

Where I am a king, she is a queen; where I am a queen, she is a king. Where I end she begins, and where we part I do not know.

SATYA, Maya Pophristic

When she flies away from this earth a small bird, done with her time on earth as a guide, I will carry no shock.

When her body shifts to wind, a gentle breeze to carry care to another, I will bear no battle. When she becomes the colors she came from, when her wild hair becomes the swaying grass, and her body falls back into its shape of the earth after rain, I will stand in the clouds—as to not put any more on her shoulders. Her body bears thousands of souls, and her shoulders carry even more. When she dies and becomes the flowers that bloom, I hope I will be able to water them all.

When in death she becomes all living things, I wonder whether the universe will weep for a human lost, or rejoice as their own returns.

XV ||13 17

we lay on

our backs, covered by the blanket that is a lie but it will not cover our feet. we lie on our backs tearing and stretching and pulling at that blanket because it is easier to let it envelop us in our lies. the truth will seep through and consume what is left uncovered. it will run through your veins until the truth is everywhere. it is in your body, in your blood, it is flowing in and out of your life. it is an uncontrolled force. you will feel pain as it takes away the warmth of your lie. then. then you are left cold with nothing but the bitter reality we

VERUM, VERI, Anonymous

18 | THE IVY

ONE, Nicole Ng

colored pencil

XV | 19

THE END, Anonymous

U

p in the mountains, a setting sun lights the sky aflame.

Below, a lake rests, mirroring the colours that appear twice a day. Nearby, a house is set. The muffled sound of a television can barely be heard down a sloping hill, a path worn from the many feet that travelled overalong it, leading to a dock. The slanted, old, rickety dock protrudes from the bank; only half on land. The red paint peeling off in its old age. Sat on the dock is a seat, abandoned, and beside it a fishing pole, cast into the water with its line wrapped around one of the many posts on the dock to prevent it from being dragged into the lake. The bobber is rising and falling with the small currents, caused by a light breeze blowing through the trees; cattails are swaying in the wind. The occasional crunch of tires on gravel can be heard as a car drives by on a nearby road. The bustle in the house settles as the family that resides in it prepares for supper, the delicious aroma of steak wafting out of the open backdoor for all to smell.

20 | THE IVY

Night is falling, and the animals emerge from hiding, along with the moon and stars. The toads materialize from the shadows of the dock, inflating their bellies before releasing a harmony of croaks. Cicadas and crickets join in on the orchestra. A snake slithers from the trees, tongue flickering in and out of its mouth, tasting the air for its next prey.

Water spiders skitter across the surface of the water, creating minor ripples. The moist summer air encourages gnats and mosquitos on their hunt for blood. Foxes slink out from the shadows, while lithe deer prance about, stopping to regroup and nibble at plants they find.

The luminous moon reflects off of the lake that lies below, along with the old orange light of the few streetlights that are set across the water. The almost flawless top of the water claps with the movement of fish, striking at their unsuspecting prey resting on the surface. And that is how the night continues, until dawn comes and wipes the slate clean of the old day to prepare it for the new one.

UNTITLED, Michelle Wang charcoal and pastel

XV | 21

FI

RE

22 | THE IVY

AN

AT W D

ER, Leda Wa

ng

INQUISITION, LISA ADAMS, 2016, Anonymous meant to be viewed with the work mentioned in the title above

A diagnosis of excessive imagination was drawn. Without surgery, the patient would succumb to heresy. Three figures, clothed in teal, engage in a laborious task. A hand dangles. It belongs to the patient. A pair of wings lay resting. They belonged to the patient. Judging from the X-rays pinned to the view box, this is an amputation. The problem is not a fracture, but an extraneous limb. A vestige of human nature. A trace of primordial earth, when Chaos and Night stitched the world into its present form. A time when there was no civilization, perhaps no government, no language.

An era in which the mind wandered from lands to seas and back again.

ra

ph

y

His name could have been Icarus, the youth who failed to recognize the danger of flight. The doctors said the same thing; it was in his best interest. If he flew too close to the sun, it would melt his wings.

If he wandered astray, his faith would find him. If his mind rebelled, he would be in danger of foolish impertinence. He could destroy the tenets they had spent so long building. He would be an iconoclast.

og

ot ph

After all, his wings made him an anomaly, and it was their job to fix it. In a world of mortals, soaring thoughts and fantasy were not proper. They were the enforcers of the Inquisition. They were the enforcers of Truth.

XV | 23

UNTITLED, Conor Heaney

photography

24 | THE IVY

BROOKLYN BOUND (I), Shane Spring As the car exits off the Verrazano Bridge, my eyes begin to take in a new kind of atmosphere. With every mile the music gets louder, the smell of oily street food intensifies, and the rapid pace of taxis and buses becomes all too much for me to keep up with. When I turn on the radio, Caribbean pop music floods the car with lively beats.

I look around and observe the people, dark as night. They quickly walk past one another on the cramped sidewalks of Flatbush. I take in the African braids and the spray-painted graffiti on almost every street corner, along with the jaywalkers and the bright COOKIE’s clothing store on Church Avenue. The pedestrians laugh, jump, and deftly manage their way through the heavy traffic.

“Welcome back to Brooklyn, Shaaneeto1,” Papi, my grandfather, says as he greets us

1

at the door. His extended hugs, broken English, and unbroken enthusiasm feel like home. Walking in, my ears adjust as Latin rhythms blasts so loud that the walls vibrate as I lean my head against them.

Nana calls me over to the kitchen. Dough covers the countertop, and in the background,I hear the sound of a frying pan. As the rest of my family unpacks, I concentrate on the energy within the kitchen and the dough in front of me. As my hands make contact with the dough, I can feel its fluffiness.

I look at it hesitantly. What am I even making? Nana loves surprises, especially culinary ones. She always has on her Panama nightgown as she cooks relentlessly into the early hours of the afternoon. Chop, fry, taste, serve. Repeat.

Nickname given to me.

XV | 25

oil on canvas

26 | THE IVY

IN THE KITCHEN, Amelia Wright

BROOKLYN BOUND (II), Shane Spring The sound of the chopping board carries as I repeatedly knead the dough, beginning to form miniature pieces. During the time we cook, I strike up a conversation with Nana in Spanish, pretending to be fluent with my limited knowledge. We laugh as we mock each other’s accents.

Soon enough, the dough shifts from a pale white to a golden brown. The aroma of fried dough fills the air, and everyone gathers around, eager to get a taste. “¿Quieres comer los bakes?,” Nana calls as I sip on a sugary and sweet Kool-Aid, with my eyes fixated on Caso Cerrado in the living room. I jolt up and rush to the kitchen, the Kool Aid already swirling in my stomach. Served on a plate so clearly filled with a clear and sticky grease, I begin to smile at the sweet treats.

The soft dough begins to melt in my mouth, satisfying my stomach little by little. Nana insists I eat more, asking persistently. I hear the cars honk as they approach the stop sign on the corner of Veronica Place and Erasmus Street.

The night sky illuminates into the apartment.

The trees whistle through the night wind. I am home.

XV | 27

pencil on paper

SMILE, Lana Gilsic 28 | THE IVY

47 FOLDS (I), Anika Sonig

Sitting at the old, teak table, I tried not to stare at her pale wrinkled hands which trembled as she tried to construct a delicate paper crane. I glanced at her eyes which were rimmed with tears, but on her lips she wore a beautiful smile. With every difficult squash fold, she would release a soft laugh and her eyes would crinkle at the edges of her eyelids. The sun rays made her thin hair glisten and amplified the depth of the fine lines on her forehead.

She continued repeating the same actions over and over again. Squash fold. Mountain fold. Repeat. Unfold. Valley fold. Repeat. Humming quietly to herself, she continued to crease the square paper as quickly as her shaking hands would allow her. After each addition, she let out a long sigh and smiled deeply, and her dimples intensified. She would then glance at my facial expression, and I would make sure to plaster on a grin and pretend to be amazed while thanking her for teaching me how to value the art of paper-folding more. She nodded her head and smiled contently. She would then unfold the squareshaped piece of red paper and begin the process all over again.

XV | 29

47 FOLDS (II), Anika Sonig Folding, smiling, thanking, unfolding. Repeat. I watched her refold the paper for the thirty-fourth time before I glanced at the grandfather clock with a swinging pendulum in the back of the room. After staring at three hypnotizing swinging motions of the pendulum, I remembered a story that my mom told me about my grandma’s experience with a swing-set in her neighborhood. My mom explained how my grandma had gotten stitches when she fell off a swing as a child and then was determined to return to that swing set every day until high school. I also recalled the moment when she didn’t sleep for three continuous days to raise funds to construct a playground for a local orphanage. My thoughts were interrupted by a frail and shaking voice, “My dear, I had the best time of my life today.” Her cold and wrinkled hands clasped mine as she gazed into my eyes while smiling widely. “Me too, Grandma,” I replied while smiling, revealing my usually-invisible dimples.

She handed me the overly-creased, red paper crane. The result of forty-seven successful attempts at creating something beautiful. I carefully held the crane close to my chest before unfolding it. Squash fold. Mountain fold.

Repeat. Unfold. Valley fold. Repeat. She laughed and clapped her hands together while a tear streaked down her cheek.

30 | THE IVY

mixed media

UNTITLED, Sarah Closser & Emmanuelle Adamson XV | 31

I’M BOLD,

Rouchka

photography 32 | THE IVY

now…

now iii’ve felt errything,

son, Valencia Garamond

ur luv is like

the milk & ze hunnee

that wrap around my melancholié

(when im down) ur leaving is like

d c n d moon

that hug me tightly

(when i cant b found)

XV | 33

MEGACITY, Kevin Yang

photography

34 | THE IVY

IS BRAVERY BORN FROM FEAR? (I), Nicole Parnett Of the many tragedies of the twentieth century, one was especially notable. In the last year of the last millennium, one that had had two World Wars and many others as well a personal tragedy, a tragedy befell one country in particular: Serbia. In the heart of Europe, on the Balkan Peninsula, it was bombarded. A few years earlier, in its southern provinces, there were political disputes that ultimately became armed conflicts that took place between the army of the motherland and the paramilitary formations of the national minority, who quickly became the majority due to increased natality. All of this occurred within Serbia, contained within its secure borders. Propaganda, in conjunction with the inherent Serbian assertiveness, led to Serbia being seen as the “bad guys”of the Balkans by Europeans, Americans, and the whole world population alike.

This was self-proclaimed by the protector of the once national minority in Kosovo (which was once a province in Serbia). However, this led to the belief that Serbs were “ethnically cleansing” Albanians from Kosovo. The NATO organization (including America) stepped in to led a so called “peace-support operation” which was the complete opposite, an egregious abuse of power centered in hypocrisy.

Many years later, investigators would confirm this; yet, on one March day, with spring only just blossoming, NATO started bombing all military and civilian targets throughout Serbia. Seventeen countries, with incomparable militaries and being technologically superior, attacked a small country trying to preserve its territory. Seventeen countries, for seventy-eight days, attacked a small country, that had only sought to protect its own territory. Their much greater military and technological superiority made it an absolute slaughter. Incredibly ironically, and hypocritically, this action was called the “Merciful Angel,” as if such terror, deception, and crimes could be termed “angelic.” History repeats itself; this would seem very familiar to anyone who could recall the tragic events of the Salem Witch Trials several centuries ago.

In both scenarios, did these ordinary people, adults, children, and families understand why they were dying? Western officials saw them as collateral damage: they called it “mercy.” A three-year-old, Milica Rakic, who would have been twenty-one years old today, was killed by a bomb in her house, far from the barracks, soldier's, and strategic goals of the aggressor. Her parents would have surely accepted this explanation for her death.

The truth, in the form of open, vivacious defiance, struck back against fear.

XV | 35

IS BRAVERY BORN FROM FEAR? (II), Nicole Parnett Fear, as always, dominated the whole country. Every day, multiple times, cities, villages, parks, bridges, trains, columns of people fleeing, television stations, power plants, factories, and even embassies from other countries were bombarded. There seemed to be no end to the violence.

To them, it must have seemed like the apocalypse. The abusive force of the NATO powers cannot be denied: their usage of weapons outlawed under the Geneva Convention has had health consequences that are felt even today. The touch of a cold doorknob in shelters and basements is embedded in the memory of today’s young adults, who were then only children. So are improvised beds, fragrance buds, and the silent whisper of a sad children’s song that even now instills fear in the populace. Their acute fear of total collapse and disappearance is not un-

36 | THE IVY

warranted. Yet, even so, something inexplicable, magnificent, bold, and insane happened at the same time.

Thousands of people in towns came to the streets and grabbed each other’s hands as soon as they heard sirens for air hazards. People were like chains of live defense stretched across bridges, squares and main streets. The recognizable sound of the siren meant that there would be rock and pop concerts every day in town squares across the country. These innocent and self-organized defenders of their ordinary little world wore t-shirts inscribed with a “TARGET,” intentionally visible to pilots. Could something like that have been done while still fully conscious? And had fear, in its most primal form, brought forth courage, drawn from within? The truth, in the form of open, vivacious defiance, struck back against fear.

CAPTURE, Coco Mi

photography

photography XV | 37

LEVITATE, Jane Lillard oil and acrylic paint

38 | THE IVY

IS BRAVERY BORN FROM FEAR? (III) Nikol Parnett

After seventy-eight days, both sides were struck by reason, and the bombardment ceased.

Nevertheless, the consequences were incalculably horrific, even after almost twenty years.

For those who have lost their closest, this trauma is unforgettable. Whatever the political and military goals, however “constructive,” could they have justified such consequences?

At the very end of the second millennium of the new era, mankind has proven that violence, terror, injustice, and lies are all ruled by fear. Inhumani-

ty and hypocrisy is a profound legacy of human evolution. In Serbia there is a saying, for when someone does something incredible and unexpected for the other side: “Sorry, we did not know that it was invisible.”

It comes from the collapse of an F17, a so-called invisible NATO Pact aircraft that was shot down by modestly equipped Serbian air defense; the feat was remarkable. As such: if you are not afraid, if you can defeat fear with truth, then you can bring down the invisible.

XV | 39

40 | THE IVY

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This is The Ivy The art and lit magazine This is a haiku To help inform you That we are accepting ads!

Fill this space right here Wish to advertise?

Do you have a lovely ad?

This space could be yours!

Email us your ad! theivy.phs @gmail.com!

For things such as rates, Also what sizes we have, And other info!

Thank you for reading!

We hope you reach out to us, Leslie and Maya

XV | 41

STAFF LIST ADVISORS

Mr. Gonzalez Ms. Muรงa

EDITORS-IN-CHIEF

Maya Milica Pophristic Leslie Liu

MANAGING EDITORS Amelia Wright Valeria Torres-Olivares

SPREAD DESIGNERS Alice Feng John Liang Han Jiang Jane Lillard Jingyi Zhang Maja Poptropikka

PUBLIC RELATIONS

Angel Musyimi Leah Williamson Siena Moran

COPY EDITORS Ashley Wang Aileen Wu Emily Han

BUSINESS

Matt Karns Lisa Mishra

SECRETARY

Shane Spring

GENERAL STAFF

Anya Sachdev Mayowa Ayodele Pia LaPlaca Skai Reynolds Taarika Bala Ruby Wright Subha Sivakumar Nina Li

COLOPHON The artworks in this issue were accepted through standard review board voting and group discussion. During this process, the artists’ names were kept anonymous to everyone but the managing editors, who had compiled all of the submissions beforehand.

Each staff member voted anonymously either “yes”, “no”, or not at all on a Google form.

All art pieces with higher than 75% approval were published. A few others with at least 60% were also accepted based on their potential, both as complements to other pieces and their abilities to unify entire layouts.

The only exceptions were when a single artist submitted more than one piece with a rating higher than 75%. In these cases, the higher of the two was selected. For literature, the cutoff was lower, at 50%. We did this because fewer literature pieces were submitted, but we still wanted to maintain a healthy art-to-literature ratio.

Three hundred and fifty copies of the magazine were distributed to students in Princeton High School.

FONTS COVER AND TITLE PAGE| Baskerville regular 60pt, 12pt CONTENTS | Open Sans semibold 14pt, Lora italic 14pt SUBMISSION TITLES | Open Sans light 18pt SUBMISSION TEXT | Lora regular 13pt STAFF LIST | Open Sans bold 24pt, Open Sans semibold 13pt, Open Sans light 24pt COLOPHON | Open Sans bold 24pt, Open Sans semibold 13pt, Open Sans light 12pt, Lora italic 12pt PRINTING PAPER | House Laser Gloss #80, 8.5x8.5 inches Printed by Short Run Printing, 2018 regular 14pt

digital art

KRAZY KAT, Leah Williamson