The Motmot Issue 2 Volume 2

The Mot mot

CRIA’s Online Creative Magazine

Volume 2, Issue 2

Table of Contents 1. Waterloo by James Castle 2. The Gorilla by Antonio Chinchilla 3. The Predator by Charles Grubba (Image by Sienna Balecki)

4. A Summer’s Rest by Elena F. (Images by Elena F.)

5. The Wallet by Felipe San Roman 6. The Beauty of the Night by Isabella Voeltz (Image by Sienna Balecki)

13. Mixed Media Self Portrait by Melissa Rebourg 14. The Girl Down the Street by Anonymous 15. Woman in Armour by Santiago Cubillos 16. Don’t Look by Santiago Cubillos 17. Untitled Art by Melda Kinali 18. Untitled Art by Melda Kinali

7. Girl by Mikaela Odell 8. Either Wings or Fins by Kayleigh Blair Olszewski 9. Deep River by Rihanna Ruzicka (Image by Sienna Balecki)

10. Mixed Media Landscape by Valentina Calvo 11. Pug by Sean Brady (Image by Ren Owens)

12. Snowfall by Anonymous

The Motmot Team Sky Cultraro Co Editor Creative Consultant Sienna Balecki Co Editor Image Consultant Ren Owens Co Editor Creative Consultant

Rebeca Urbina Zachary Sell

*all nameless content was specifically requested to beCrabtree anonymous Chris

Lucie Gouttenoire Faculty Dunsel

Photo by Sienna balecki

Waterloo James Castle

A once virgin field now stained red with rose Steel against steel the hallowed dance flows Pawns of a game they don’t know they play The pigs safe and aloft always get their way Fetishized martyr the tale a false muse Dreams don’t matter once they light the fuse Blood like roses against sky blue This will be my Waterloo

The Gorilla Antonio Chinchilla Peaceful in nature A mystical creature He can run walk and swing Some say he is the true animal king Not like a predator Not like a prey He does not chase Neither escape

The predator Charles Grubba

I want to soar Through the skies like a hawk Without thought Of any disturbance To fly to the distant blazing fire Which is our sun, a hot furnace To travel wherever I desire And hunt The required To lay atop a mighty peak And watch down as the shadows Play hide and seek As the leaves break And the branches snap The hawk soars down and stabs

Photo by Sienna balecki

“A SUMMER’S REST” Original (By Elena F.):

The Wallet

By Felipe San Roman A lot of people care about their wallet Most because it has money But for me there is more It is a precious belonging Not for its monetary worth But for it's sentimental worth My wallet is like my safety box Where all my precious things are It has what allows me to dive It has all my money It has the document that proves who I am It knows many secrets and keeps them inside But most importantly It came from my Grandpa

Photo by Sienna Balecki

The Beauty of The Night

by Isabella Voeltz

The moon Rises in the east Walks his way over the sky All alone Followed by a few quiet stars No people to watch Only silence Jealous of his brother The sun Who is loved by the people Who has company from the humans And he: He waits all alone Until the humans wake up Until he leaves through the west Until his brother starts to shine again But, still he tries his best brightens up the sky in a beautiful gray Gives company to the few: that are awake and believe in him Every full moon: The people ignore him Every new moon: They miss him

The moon doesn’t know what he should do Should he be there now in full shape Should he be half there to find the middle peace Should he be gone so the people notice him once Questions he asks every day But there will never be an answer.

GIRL

By Mikaela

Either wings or fins?

By Kayleigh Blair Olszewski To swim anywhere To see all To hear the waves Learn the ways of life under the sea The feelings of swimming free Never to have anxiety Costa Rica, California, Croatia Greece or the Bahamas Free to swim anywhere anytime To never be alone To care for the young like they are gold to a pirate.

Deep River

by Rihanna Ruzicka

Man knows more of the profound darkness And its specks of light Than their own abyss of blue And its eternal night.

I, however, will never soar Above the clouds.

I stay in my home of starkness, Hear my fellows’ tunes too I am the traveler of the ocean, The explorer of the blue.

I pioneer the depth In only one breath With just one glimpse of me, I enchant those at sea.

Towards the bottom, when I go deeper, I’ve seen all kinds of

My movement is unceasing Never decreasing Always constant.

The hellish sounds Of the metal vessel Inching toward the bottom.

The cherished calls Of the other deep divers In my life, will I discover The sound of the core of our earth Or see what’s beyond the bottom?

I’ve been beyond the horizon I live in the land of Poseidon Your very own ocean, Is the one I arise in.

Photo by Sienna Balecki

MIXED MEDIA LANDSCAPE VALENTINA CALVO

Photo by Ren Owens

Pug

by Sean Brady

Pug A pug, slow as a slug.

Fat as a pig, furry like a wig.

Not skinny like a twig, breathes like a drilling rig.

Super cute, but I wish I could put it on mute.

Has tiny paws and a lot of flaws.

Snowfall I exhale, and it seems my words leave with that breath, and I see them disappear in the air. I put my hands in my pockets to avoid the biting cold.

Now I get what people mean when they say that, it feels like it's gnawing my fingers and making them numb. I’m pretty sure I can't feel my face anymore. The snowfall is so dense that I lost everyone, I didn’t even hear them call my name once…that’s ok. I sit down in the snow, I’m getting tired of trying to find my way when it’s clear they don’t want me to come back. I don’t remember laying down, but now I stare at the small specks of white gently falling down to their end. That's how I feel. A constant fall. And I wait for my end. It will come soon enough. I sigh and close my eyes, let this be the last time I do.

Mixe d Medi a SelfPort rait By Meli ssa Reb ourg

The Girl Down the Street Entering the summer, the sky is bright Frolicking in the grass, perfect weather The girl down the street couldn’t ask for anything better As autumn creeps in, the heat fades from sight But she pickes apples, so everything is right Everyone is bundled up, they’ll don a sweater The girl down the street waits for a love letter Now autumn leaves and winter is at its height Outside in the snow, the wind made it tremendously cold Some are ecstatic, but it makes some blue The girl down the street is now a bit more bold Slowly spring starts, the sight of flowers is new The harshness of the snow will no longer make you fold Now it’s warm, the girl down the street has much to do

Woman in Armour

by Santiago Cubillos

Don’t Look by Santiago Cubillos Those were the first words that popped into my head when I woke up two and a half weeks ago. I knew where it was too, the x-y-z coordinates plotted in my head. The windows were closed in my small ten-byten foot bedroom. I always closed my windows when I went to sleep, and I thanked myself for it because I know I would’ve seen it from my apartment on the eleventh floor.

As I’m walking to work I can feel it at seven o’ clock, blotting out the blue of the sky. I’m sure it’s staring at me, I think as I swipe my card to buy myself a coffee, two spoonfuls of sugar and one of honey. The barista hands it to me and smiles. She knows. They all know, everyone in the shop, standing in line, talking to their friends, hastily leaving to make it to their nine-to-fives.

Don’t look.

But a lot of them looked. How could they not? I almost did, three days ago when I spilled my papers on the floor of my office. I bent down to pick them up, and my head turned as if by reflex. I snapped back to my papers, but I swear, I swear it knows, I didn’t even see what it was but it knows, I know it knows, I knew it when I woke up at six fifty-three, seven minutes before my alarm rang, I knew it as I walked to the coffee shop, I know it now as I’m in the elevator with three other people, all staring down at their phones because they refuse, even in these four walls, to look.

But I’m being paranoid.

My heels click on the linoleum as I walk to my cubicle. My heels are one and a half inches tall. My cubicle is about ten feet from the exit. My boss is here, asking me, “Can ya come in tomorrow? I know it’s Saturday but we’re not meeting our quotas ‘cuz of, uh, bein’ understaffed and all.”

“Understaffed?”

“Well, it’s, well, I don’t know if it’s appropriate to talk about it in the workplace yet, due to the, um, extenuating circumstances of the situation, but yeah, we’re pretty understaffed, and the boss knows ya to be pretty hardworking.”

“I don’t know, I kind of need my weekends.”

“Listen, please, the boss doesn’t know what to do ‘round here, and frankly, neither do I, but we can’t let this affect our productivity. We all need to work together, as a team.”

“We all just need to pull a little extra weight around here.”

“Yeah yeah, exactly. Thanks for understandin’ Liz, I knew I could count on ya.”

“You always can.”

It’s six fifty-three when I clock out. I ride the elevator down by myself this time. People usually leave by five, probably to get back home to their families. Kids. I wonder how they’re stopping their kids from looking?

I would blindfold them. I laughed to myself at the idea. The door opens with a ding. Six fifty-five.

The walk home feels longer than usual. I don’t like going this way because it’s right above my head. I need to bend my neck down the entire time. It reminds me of something, but I can’t remember it right now.

Remembering…I can’t remember much actually. What was it like three weeks ago? Who was I when I wasn’t being watched?

I stop in my tracks. I am being watched, aren’t I? I have no proof of it. I’m not a criminal. I'm not a celebrity. I’m not something important. Six fifty-eight.

I'm at the door of my apartment building. I feel it at eight o’ clock,

seventy-two degrees in the sky if the ground was the x-axis. Was I always thinking about numbers? My hands shake as I put the keys in the lock. Six fiftynine.

I think I wanted children at one point.

Fifty seconds.

I think I wanted, at one point.

Thirty-five seconds.

I’m going to wake up tomorrow at six fifty-three and do this again.

Twenty-one seconds.

I’m going to go buy my coffee.

Fourteen seconds.

I’m going to ride the elevator.

Eleven seconds.

I’m going to work overtime, pull a little extra weight.

Seven seconds.

I’m going to clock out.

Five seconds.

I’m going to go back to my bed.

Four seconds.

I’m going to go to sleep.

Three seconds.

And I’m going to do this again.

Two seconds.

I take my keys out of the door. I turn around and walk into the center of the empty street, my arms gently swinging by my side. My hands have stopped shaking. The moon is illuminating the streets, gently, making the shadows soft. I used to keep my drapes open as I slept, and let the moon lull me to sleep. It’s seven o’ clock. I take a deep, deep breath.

And I look.

By: Melda Kinali

By: Melda Kinali