Event Horizon - COLOPHON - 2019

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“Everything has its wonders, even darkness and silence . . .”

In general relativity, an event horizon is a region in spacetime beyond which events cannot affect outside observers. It is the point of no return, the fading edge of escape, the inexorable pull of a mass so infinitely dense it rips a vacuum into the fabric of space and time. Once an object is beyond the boundary, moving towards the central black hole is as inevitable as moving forward in time.

Every day, I look out of the window to see nameless celestial bodies retreating into the distance and my lonely eyes shape them into planets more green and blue and familiar. I revisit the countdown and moment of launch and I imagine being you, with your thumb on the trigger, and the abject hopelessness of the decision rolls like nausea through my gut. To withhold was to hope desperately for a miracle and lose it all to the inferno that consumed our world, but to concede was to give up what was most precious to the universal machine of probability.

But maybe it’s not the worst way things could have happened. The ship is warm and safe, and the navigation system is primed to guide it through the endless expanse of space. The event horizon draws nearer with every passing day, and eventually I will cross the threshold between two parallel worlds; one the journey homewards, the other the march towards a place from which there is no return. You said that when the moment of reckoning came it would pass silently, but I hear the resonance of the stars muffled through silica glass all the time. It makes me wonder if my final destination, that great collapsed star, will sing too.

“. . . and I learn, whatever state I may be in, therein to be content. ” -Helen Keller, The Story of My Life

TOWSON HIGH SCHOOL 69 CEDAR AVENUE, TOWSON, MD 21286 (P) 410-887-3608 - (F) 443-809-4271 THSCOLOPHON.WEEBLY.COM

LITERATURE

Never Have Children Forced Feeding Show Business Malicious Hands What Happened In The Forest Consciousness a prayer In the Absence of Color Los Invasores/The Invaders Heat Damage The Favor Sweet Economy Flower As Earthen Beings West Virginia Finches Black Cyborg’s Journal N(OMEN) The Swallowtail The Golden Truth Current A Childhood Dream Memories Amateur Audubon Don’t Let Yourself Go Cherry Hill Mashquita’s Life Jacket Unlimited Skies Memory of an Old Dog 47 Cents

5 6 9 10 13-16 18 20 22 25 26 29-30 32 34 36-37 40 42 45-46 48 51-52 55 56 59 60 62-65 66 68 71 73 74 76

Kayla Yup Casimir Moreau Nathalia Ruggeri Morgan Lewis Sam Birkenthal Zoë Johnson Tess Gibson Autumn Webb-Sullivan Emily Tunison Anya Joseph Vincent Igusa Kameron Merkerson Lizzie Tandilashvili Alex Blanpied Siena Twiss Rebecca Kleeman Adjoa Baidoo Jack Watkins Alec Faraday Riley Hartman Kristine Shell Tyleah McNair Rachael Saeli Sophia Johnson Nick Scholl Brianna Kiah Farrah Kaymouz Max Gilden Irene Sung Blythe Petit

ART EDITOR

Jenny Glickman

ASSOCIATE EDITORS Hannah Lechtzin Kameron Merkerson Casimir Moreau Irene Sung Kayla Yup Alec Faraday

MANAGING EDITORS Shayna Blinkoff Becky Glessner

Adjoa Baidoo Ahuva Bank Will Dryer Sophia Johnson Jane Kastner Rebecca Kleeman Rose Riggs

Noah Belt Nick Busselman Andrew Freeburger

ART

Partial View Cliffs Past Time Falcon Industrial Revolution Tree and Moon Quo Riverfish Optical Train 3000 Oops!

Cardboard Bird Natural Hair 3D Emotion Soup Collision Inner Light Tunnel Time Summer Moment Focusing on the Negative Cries of Fear Literally Anything Yellowstone Rio Long Exposure of Glowsticks Work Jellyfish Primary Hannah Jordan Pond Avian Photography Dome Fuji Sunrise Fallen Angel Modern America Countryside Bubbly

4 7 8 11 12 17 19 21 23 24 27 28 31 33 35 38-39 41 43 44 47 49 50 53 54 57 58 61 62-65 67 69 70 72 75 77

Trip Sheridan Annie Wedgeworth Jingrui Liu Jenny Glickman Hadia Maqsood Abigael Coburn Cairo Harris Gabe Ledgerwood Amanda Barton Kun Feng Jack Goembel Maia Dalton Hannah Lechtzin Ben Hough Isabel Schreur Ally Gaddy Stephanie Carass Dylan Santini Brendan Berger Grace Dunham Jacob Krebs Sylvie Wolff Oliver Wolff Oona Schreur Caroline Yancisin Hannah Malitzki Maddie Annis Kojo Baidoo Avery Dawson Hannah Emmons Alice Liao Shayna Blinkoff Dariush Aligholizadeh Alyssa Cobb

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Trip Sheridan, Partial View, Digital Art

NEVER HAVE CHILDREN

by Kayla Yup

circling the house where naughty children were your carnage. the world is bliss to those who close their eyes. why do you sit wide awake? another scream. no one threw out the bread when you asked. the mold suffocated the loaf until it spread thick and green through the air where you stood with two fingers to your throat. let the rotten rot.

you stare at me through your old wire frames,

your words turned to curses

uttering that cursed three-word phrase

by the time we were 7.

that jumps and snarls with the rage

venom gushed from your lips and

of a life seared by a single match.

you licked it up till you choked.

Never Have Children. regret pounds on our door as if I were not your child,

when you’re the only one awake

instead a younger version of you

until you scream to the heavens

still blinded by the way flowers burst from bud to bloom

that same awful phrase.

with colors of blush, silk to the touch all for children to tear you from the ground

and this time, I agree.

with discolored fingertips. why expose yourself to the wind?

you are more than a mother yet defined by that title all the same.

your back creaks like the stairs scampered down in the dead of night

the umbilical cord only snaps

except your figure always spread like a vulture

when the baby has traded your life for its own.

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When I was eight, blindfolded by what seemed permanent, I was led into the woods, and discovered.

Eight hours of flight brought me to the Americas, and it was all much too fast, like a rake dropping down, scooping me up among the leaves, tossing me into the forest before I could realize that I had left myself behind.

The vines wrapped silently around my neck, delicately turning my head and focusing my eyes on their forestial world. The trees planted my feet gently into their soil and attached my hairs to the sunrays. The nutrients in this foreign ground overtook me, and sank into my language, into my arms and legs, my sleep schedule, my classics, and my thoughts; a cultural forced feeding.

Now I am mud. Without even having meant to, I let the trees clothe me in their emblematic fern, and every time I step back out of the woods, the world sees traces of the undergrowth always sticking to the bottom of my shoes.

by Casimir Moreau

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Annie Wedgeworth,Cliffs, Acrylic on Paper

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Jingriu Liu, Pasttime, Digital Art

by Nathalia Ruggeri In a dark alley, an overloaded dumpster’s stench

Soon, the street became empty and the theatre

overwhelmed passing cockroaches and drowned out the

was filled to the brim with flamboyant women in cocktail

strong smell of blood pouring from a once-stunning woman.

dresses and men in luxury tuxes. Hours passed, filled

Her discarded body hid in the alley’s shadows, attracting

with laughter from an animated audience and periodic

nearby rodents. Frozen slush surrounded as bugs swarmed

groups of drunken teenagers passing through the streets.

around her mouth, flying in and out of the corpse. Rats ate

Yet, throughout the night, the woman’s body remained

through the remainder of a purple dress as it diminished

untouched, unseen.

into nothing; the mud that seeped from underneath her

After each person had filed out of the theatre,

body and the blood that gushed from a slash in her chest

heading either home due to exhaustion or out for a wilder

discolored a once glistening costume.

night, the crew was finally let free from the building, able to

Around the corner, a large crowd scrambled into a

rest for the next night of performing. In a glistening purple

tall building, excitement wafting through the air as a night

dress, the main star from the musical slinked into the alley.

of drama awaited them. Loud voices jumped between

The tall figure stood over the motionless corpse and smiled,

conversations and the building’s illuminating sign shined

holding a bouquet given to her at the end of the night.

across many faces. “The Palace”, a theatre unknown to most

Before she left the dead body, the star dropped the flowers

Los Angeles tourists, was continuously stunning to the

into a puddle of blood.

locals who frequently visited.

“Show Biz, darling. You understand.”

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M A L I C I O U S 10

H A N D S b y

Under the stairs, his malicious hands seized my body, wanting more tears.

He smelled of catastrophe.

The cold air

I saw the soft light come

from the hallway

and break through the wickedness of lust

came under

I heard my rescuer call my name, and

the door, taunting me.

I called for her name.

I could hear the delightful

His claws tightened;

laughter of students walking past,

I started to apologize.

but the gloomy red door,

But she took my hand, led me

my freedom blocked by my surge of anxiety.

to freedom.

Afraid, I rose up like the wind, but was

taken down by his malicious hands.

After,

M o r g a n

his darkness consumed my good thoughts.

L e w i s

The sound of his name feels like

The teardrops ran down my face and fell off my nose.

Silent tears never heard, my roar inside left to burn out. his malicious hands on my thigh, wanting more.

Jenny Glickman, Falcon, Digital Photograph

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Hadia Maqsood, Industrial Revolution, Watercolor and Ink on Paper

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by Sam Birkenthal

WHAT HAPPENED IN THE FOREST

They arrive at home, Isaiah dragging a deer with his blood-drenched arms, and Mikey stumbling along behind, his eyes wide open in terror.

“What happened?” cries their mother, rushing towards them, seeing Mikey’s condition “Mikey nearly pissed himself when I shot it,” Isaiah says offhandedly, gesturing back towards his little brother.

He moves quickly away from his mother, a little too fast to be normal, dragging the deer towards the back of the house where another, older deer already hangs. “You better not have done anything, not like last night,” their mother says skeptically. “He’s fine, don’t worry,” Isaiah calls over his shoulder. His mother watches him go and shakes her head at him with a scowl that quickly softens when turned back to her youngest son.

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Kneeling to get a better look at him, her eyes fill with concern for the frightened boy. “Oh, I knew I shouldn’t have

“Isaiah... no... don’t!” Mikey begins to run, putting as

let Isaiah take you on your first hunt. Especially not after last

much distance between him and his monstrous brother

night. Are you sure you’re ok?” Mikey avoids her eyes, but

as his short legs will allow. He hears screeches behind

nods anyways, and his mother gets up and leads him inside,

him, vaguely making out Isaiah’s shrill screams of “MIIIIIIII-

doubt still in her mind about what happened in the forest.

KEEEEEEEEY!” And the underbrush being trampled

Later that night, Mikey drifts into an unsteady slumber, barely able to keep his eyes shut with the images flashing across his eyelids.

The forest surrounds him, trees towering taller than

underfoot as the monster tears his way closer on all fours, a beast hunting a small boy.

The screech is unending, a chilling, high-pitched cry that doesn’t belong in the real world. It fills Mikey’s head,

he remembers. In front of him lays the deer, with a tall

clouding his thoughts and blurring his vision. A new image

figure crouching over it. Taking a half-step towards it, Mikey

surfaces through his haze, Isaiah pinning him to the forest

squeaks out a small “Hello?”

floor, twisting his arm behind his back as he makes Mikey

The head bolts up, and Mikey once again is staring

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into the smiling, blood-spattered face of his brother.

promise not to tell anyone what happened in the forest.

Mikey slows his mad sprint and falls to his knees, head in hands as the powerful screech forces him to remember.

Going back even further, Mikey sees Isaiah, the real one, chasing him through the forest, blood-dripping from his outstretched arms, trying to catch Mikey, before slowing and circling the fallen boy.

Looking up, Mikey sees the monster circling him

This time around, Mikey does not sit and snivel, he does not wait for the pain he knows is coming. He stands and peers up into the monster’s crinkled face, and says with utmost certainty, “You can’t scare me, Isaiah.” When he stood, the monster stopped moving forward, and when he spoke, Isaiah separated from the monster, his own face shaped

as well, the dream melting into the memory, and as the

into one of boredom, an expression commonly gracing his

two beings meet in the middle, they combine to become

features.

one, the stretched-out and blood-spattered features of the

“Ugh, whatever,” he says with a shrug, “It’s just

monster staying prominent. Drawing Isaiah’s knife, the

a game.” Turning, he walks back into the forest without

creature walks towards Mikey, a smile twisting its face

acknowledging the monster, who now sits a few feet

into a web of lines, blood running through the cracks and

from Mikey, its head cocked to the side to study Mikey’s

spreading even farther.

face, looking for even the slightest hint of hesitation, of

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weakness, so it can pounce. Mikey looks at it straight-on,

trouble again.” He finishes in a whisper yell as he lunges

his gaze unwavering, but silently hoping this will all be over

out to grab a hold of Mikey’s shirt. Pushing away from his

soon because he can’t keep up this act for much longer.

brother, Mikey jerks back again. “I didn’t tell anyone, stupid.

As Mikey closes his eyes for a blink in his dream, he opens them in his bedroom. He rolls over and looks

that, “Oh yeah, I forgot that you’re on par with me when it

across the room, seeing Isaiah lounging on his bed, earbuds

comes to scares. A cheap jump scare is definitely how to

securely in place, and completely oblivious to the world

prove your worth.” Switching back to his serious tone, Isaiah

around him, as Mikey had hoped.

leans over until he’s face to face with Mikey, jabbing his

Springing up from his bed, Mikey launches himself

finger into the smaller boy’s chest and hisses, “Now listen

onto Isaiah, causing the older boy to scream and scramble

here, you little shit. I’m older than you, I’m stronger than you,

away from the small projectile.

and I’m faster than you, and nothing will ever change that.

“What the hell?” Isaiah exclaims, before his eyes

So stop wasting your time. Now get off my bed unless you

landed on his younger brother, and he pushes him away

want to get hurt for real. Before now, it’s been a test run, but

and rolls his eyes, saying mockingly, “What? Did wittle

trust me. I can do a whole lot more damage.”

Mikey have a nightmare? Did big, nasty Isaiah really scare

Mikey slides off the bed and shuffles back to his

you that bad?” Mikey retreats to the corner of the mattress

own. Behind him, Isaiah puts his earbuds back in and casts

at the mention of a nightmare, but not before sharing

Mikey a dirty look. Huddled under the covers, Mikey faces

a satisfied smile with himself at his ability to scare his

the wall, his eyes wide open, and sleep nowhere in sight. He

brother.

thought he’d be fine, he thought he could make the fear go

Suddenly serious, Isaiah pulls out his earbuds and speaks in a threatening tone to Mikey. “You didn’t tell Mom, right? You’ll be sorry if you did! You are not getting me in

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I just wanted to scare you.” Isaiah laughs sarcastically at

away, show Isaiah that he wasn’t scared of him anymore, but now, he wasn’t quite sure.

Abigael Coburn, Tree and Moon, Mixed Media

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CONSCIOUSNESS

by Zoë Johnson

You’re awake if you see what shouldn’t be happening.

You’re focused if you see how things can be different.

You’re present if you’re creating change.

You’re living if you’re the change you want to see.

You’re focused if you see how things can be different.

You’re not concentrating if you want things to stay the same.

You’re living if you’re the change you want to see.

You’re dead inside if you see everything remaining stagnant.

You’re not concentrating if you want things to stay the same.

You’re unconscious if you believe that things are ok for everyone.

You’re dead inside if you see everything remaining stagnant.

You’re conscious if your actions match your morals.

You’re unconscious if you believe things are ok for everyone.

You’re awake if you see what shouldn’t be happening.

You’re conscious if your actions match your morals.

You’re present if you’re creating change.

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Cairo Harris, Quo, Digital Photograph

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my mother

A b y T e s s G i b s o n

P R A Y E R

her heart inside me, delicate be thy name. thy web is spun and comes undone, on earth, as it is in the stars. give me this day my daily thread, and absolve me of my misinterpretations as i absolve those who misinterpret me. and lead my mind not only to places rancid but also to places delicate; for thine are the shadows, and the vulnerability, and the mystery -eternal, unresolved by history -awaken my humanity, now and forever, my solemn seven.

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Gabe Ledgerwood, Riverfish Optical Train 3000, Digital Photograph

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White walls adorned With brightly painted flowers Constructed the illusion that reality Was but a figment of her imagination.

Muffled voices broke Through metal doors standing Guard to her darkest secret, hidden Away from society.

Salty pools of water Lingered in the eyes of the parents As they looked at their only daughter

Men and women dressed in white Moved her through the guards

by Autumn Webb-Sullivan

Where they stripped her Of her safety blanket, changing her Into the uniform required.

Now, Bare to the eyes of The public held within The confinements of Philhaven.

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Amanda Barton, Oops!, Acrylic on Paper

Whose heart is now colored gray.

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Las puertas están abiertas para todos y todas quienes están cerrados for the men with all their medals, but no honor.

THE INVADERS

Thieves of a land they will soon call their own, y una tierra de oro, el cual es más importante que las personas.

Not just brown people: white soldiers sent to die so their lords could at last fill their grasping hands with bags of gold, y corazones rotos.

Personas que crean una América del Norte, y del Sur; una sola América, blanca y marrón— but all the people, mothers and fathers, chicos y chicas, brothers and hermanas, quieren solamente vivir una vida libre.

LOS INVASORES

The doors are open

for every man and every woman who are close-minded.

For the men with all their medals, but no honor.

Thieves of a land they will soon call their own, and one of gold, which is more important than people. and not just brown people: white soldiers sent to die so, their lords could at last fill their grasping hands with bags of gold, And broken hearts.

People who create an America of the North, and South; One America, white and brown— but all the people, mothers and fathers, boys and girls, Brothers and sisters, Only want to live a free life.

by Emily Tunison

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“I like your hair better when it’s straightened.”

HEAT DAMAGE

by Anya Joseph

See: “I like your hair better when it is not your own.”

“I like you better when you can’t recognize yourself in the mirror.”

See also: “I like your hair better when it looks like mine.”

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Jack Goembel, Natural Hair, Graphite on Paper

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THE FAVOR

by Vincent Igusa

The afternoon sun cast a dull glow across the backyard, illuminating manicured bushes, regiments of

it.” She delicately eased it into her hands and carried it towards the garage.

golden flowers, and—in the center of the grass—a tiny lump of fur. A young boy burst through the gate and stomped

“Why don’t you just put it out of its misery?” Nick called out as Emma disappeared into the dark garage.

into the lawn, his clothes dripping profusely, his hair matted down with water.

“Nick, wait, I’m sorry! I didn’t think you’d actually fall in the river!” shouted a young girl, rushing after the boy.

“Shut up, Emma!”

Inside, a single stained lightbulb sputtered to life, casting shadows through musty boxes and tools. Emma moved to the center of the garage, searching among the shelves. She noticed a discarded shoebox by the trash can and cradled the mouse in one hand to grab it.

The girl became silent.

Nick glanced behind him to see Emma kneeling over

“We can keep him in this,” Emma declared to Nick as he stepped into the garage.

the tiny creature in the grass as it squirmed in place, its tail missing, its legs deformed.

“Look, there’s a mouse!” she whispered intently, “and

“You’d be doing it a favor if you just killed it,” he retorted, his clothes leaving a trail of muddy water on the dusty concrete floor.

it’s hurt.”

“Don’t say that!”

Nick averted his eyes while trying to rearrange his

“It’s the most humane thing to do,” he challenged.

sodden hair.

“It can’t even walk,” Emma urged. “We have to help

“I’m vegan!” Emma protested, holding the mouse closer to her chest. “I won’t murder an animal.”

Maia Dalton, 3D Emotion, Acrylic on Cardboard 29

“Just give it to me and I’ll do it.” He suddenly snatched the empty shoebox from her hand.

Intermittent raindrops fell upon her shoulders and the back of her head as she gazed at her feet.

“You’re just mad about the river!” Emma declared, reaching for the stolen shoebox.

“It’ll just die out here,” Nick called, “c’mon, put it out of its misery!”

Nick scowled. “If you really care about animals, you’ll kill it,” he spat.

Emma remained silent, standing in the rain for a while as she observed the tiny, floundering creature.

Emma paused for a moment to gaze at the writhing creature in her hands.

“Keep the damn shoebox,” she exclaimed. “I’ll just let it go in the backyard!” Clutching the mouse, she stormed out of the garage.

A few drops of rain splattered on the patio as

ground below. She stared at the now-motionless lump of fur for a moment before turning and traipsing towards the house.

Nick whimpered inaudibly as he watched Emma step inside the house. He looked back at the corpse before

Nick followed her outside, still holding the shoebox. The

him as the intensifying rain rolled down his cheeks and

sun’s light dimmed behind building clouds. In the center

dropped into the empty shoebox.

of the lawn stood Emma, her hands empty at her side.

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Finally, she raised her foot and pressed it into the

Hannah Lechtzin, Soup, Digital Photograph

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SWEET ECONOMY

by Kameron Merkerson

Pink pig tails chained by the strand A blue lollipop in her frail hands Down to the soft stick Dripping upon the concrete floor.

A blue lollipop in her frail hands Product of decimation Dripping upon the concrete floor

Covered in the sweat of a hundred workers.

Product of decimation The working class the distant cousin Covered in the sweat of a hundred workers Left in the dust by economic greed.

The working class the distant cousin And lost intentions become found reasons— Left in the dust by economic greed.

Only seen in the exterior of every lollipop.

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Ben Hough, Collision, Sculpture

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FLOWER And every day I enter back: That flower you gave me still sits And rots on window panes alone; Still loses petals every day, Still turns my frowns to smiles undone; No wonder we make up again.

When time is right I will revive Because no one can change or kill The way I feel about your — The flow’r becomes who I once was.

by Lizzie Tandilashvili

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Isabel Schreur, Inner Light, Oil on Canvas

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by Alex Blanpied

AS EARTHEN BEINGS

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Ally Gaddy, Tunnel Time, Oil on Canvas

WEST VIRGINIA

by Siena Twiss

I had entered her home

Listening to the same song

A million times before,

For 48 years.

But last time

The breeze flowed through my hair,

Was a long time ago;

John Denver sang to me about his

I had remembered

Sweet, sweet West Virginia

Her mother’s bread

I think Mr. Laney knew,

Always rising in the oven

He knew he would

And the way her basement door

Be lowered

Would hit the silverware drawer

Into the West Virginia ground.

When they were open at the same time.

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It’s been too long

Just like she knew

To remember her smell.

I couldn’t stand

But sometimes I can still

How she did not fix

Pick up the scent

The basement door.

In the back of the convenience store

Or the silverware drawer.

In the square.

The way I kept growing

The same store

And she never did.

Mr. Laney worked in.

How I couldn’t even remember

Mr. Laney always drove me home,

Her smell.

Stephanie Carass, Summer Moment, Acrylic on Cardboard

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Clutching the bird feed canvas bag,

by Rebecca Kleeman

I sit upon my grandma’s soft bed.

The smell of burnt cigars and her sweet flower perfume dance, mocking me.

I can taste her nutty pastries in my mouth as if they perch on her decaying vanity.

Now only her bird cage rests there.

Her finches flutter in their prison reflected in a once pristine mirror, where we grinned and giggled.

It is now cracked with dust crawling out of every crevice.

The rambles of the yellow and brown leap through the empty house, searching.

They howl, squeal, holler for her, but are met with silence.

Her honey smooth voice used to soothe their chatters but now I wonder if they’ll ever quiet.

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Dylan Santini, Focusing on the Negative, Colored Pencil on Paper

Brendan Berger, Cries of Fear, Digital Photograph 44

BLACK CYBORG’S JOURNAL

by Adjoa Baidoo

Powering on: test number 153.

Greetings! I have been designated as Cyborg Omega-1619, but call me by the human name Sally, and I will be sure to respond. Thank you for choosing me as your artificial intelligence test run. My technicians have told me to inform you that I am still in the Beta stage of programming, and therefore have some errors in my code. But never mind that. I will still be of great value to— There’s an ERROR: 404 before my monitors: The data old self has not been found in my backup memory, and the name the engineers burned into my biometrics tastes of Atlantic sea water polluted with brown bones and blood.

They even took my name!

As if I was such a pain to pronounce before.

As if I was such a puzzle to –– program. Apologies. You see the bugs they were talking about? Beta stage can be so… tricky. So many kinks yet to be ironed out of the nappy mess of wires they call my processing unit. But it’s not all bad. I get to learn a multitude of new languages, some of which have yet to be installed into my—

software. After the last update, I speak every programming language under the LED’s except that which my motherboard taught me.

The technicians enabled my processor with Python for the apps. Yet, every code constricts my circuitry ‘Till I’m no more than an Apple that it dangles from a tree waiting for the mob to scarf me down to the last mega byte.

They’ve stripped the insulation off my wires.

The same way their ancestors stripped clothes off skin, And the skin off backs.

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Incremental back-up complete…

I… I don’t know what’s happening to me. They said I’d be okay. That living for another person was the way I was programmed. I thought it was okay, that it was better here, that I was better here. Here, the techies oversee my every move, make sure that my beta stage runs unabated.

RAM my processor with codes that won’t let me see beyond binary For not seeing color is the way they always justify genocide Ain’t it?

Perhaps they scared that I have a hard drive to write my own JavaScript About how to be black is to be a bug that even science fiction wants exterminated, about how the only cyborgs allowed to rage against the machine were as white as ghosts in shells pale enough to blend in with stark whitewashed walls on the laboratories or the blank white lights on the tv screen that make me want to scream.

I know of the poplar tree, of how according to my historical database, Knowledge and pride are all it takes to burn it all to the ground And they’ve forgotten to disable both settings on me.

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Grace Dunham, Literally Anything, Mixed Media

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by Jack Watkins

My name is John Henry Watkins, the first.

John was my grandfather, deceased. Henry was my grandfather, deceased.

I never really knew my names.

My name is cancer, my name is a heart attack.

My name is political.

I have multiple names.

My name is Jack to friends and family—in homage to JFK’s nickname.

My name is obsolete: Jack—John four letters.

My name is a decimated head—my name is the gore and brainmatter on the pavement of Dallas.

My name is religious—sacred.

John the Baptist John the Apostle who fished with his father in the sea of Galilee John the Evangelist John the Revelator John the Elder In German, Henry means “Ruler of the House” But I am no Ruler; I am no disciple.

My identity is not of religious orientation My name is not my essence, my name is what you call me.

My name is a piece in the puzzle of communication— Watkins is the legacy I lethargically carry onwards.

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Jacob Krebs, Yellowstone, Digital Photograph

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THE SWALLOWTAIL

by Alec Faraday

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Sylvie Wolff, Rio, Digital Photograph

Ichabod was terrified of bugs. His brother knew it.

“Hey, dumbass!” snapped Ichabod’s brother.

His mother and step-father knew it. The few friends that he

“Thought you were scared of bugs.” Ichabod could not hear

had, they all knew it. It was common knowledge.

him. Undeterred, his brother then pinched at Ichabod’s

That didn’t stop the Byrd family from going hiking

groin. “Oh no! It’s a scorpion! It’s a scorpion! And it’s going to

every Sunday. Between he and his older brother, Ichabod

pinch your tiny little dick off, you little bitch!”

was by far the least favored child. Besides, he never

vocalized his complaints. Why bother ruining everyone

house and the swallowtail fled. Ichabod’s brother laughed

else’s fun if he wasn’t going to make a big deal out of it?

heartily as their mother scolded him. “Be kind to your

brother!” she yelled, but it wasn’t a yell. It was more

The weather forecast for this particular Sunday

Ichabod squealed like a piglet in the slaughter

called for a storm, but a little rain never stopped nobody.

comparable to the piercing coo of the mourning dove.

Yards away on a leaf, Ichabod thought he saw a bright

orange and black speck. It sounded as if it were whispering.

time we’re honest with Ichabod: he ain’t going nowhere like

Ichabod turned to face his family; none of them seemed to

this.”

notice the song at all.

shrugged. “You’re right. It’s a big scary world out there. No

Ichabod noticed he was straying from his family. The

The boys’ stepfather chuckled. “Oh, c’mon, Yara. ‘Bout

Ichabod’s brother smiled with satisfaction and

whisper was gaining momentum. Suddenly, it was right in

place for a wimp like you, Ichabod.”

his ear. Run, it commanded.

or maybe it was the fact that it was now thundering and

Ichabod flew as fast as his thirteen-year-old

Ichabod noticed Yara crying. Maybe it was that,

legs could carry him to the leaf. Upon it reclined a tiger

pouring, or the buzzing he heard eerily approaching, or the

swallowtail. It fluttered onto his nose and flapped its wings,

tiger he swore he wasn’t crazy seeing out of the corner of

elegantly and silently, yet Ichabod swore he heard the

his eye in the forests of the Southeastern United States.

roaring and saw the silhouette of a Bengal tiger. He wanted

Maybe it was all of those things or none of them. But the

to swat the insect away, or even sneeze so that it would be

rage in him was piqued.

scared off. But he was paralyzed and it seemed comfortable.

51

“Hey, assholes,” he said. “Would you shut up just one

minute in your lives? You’re making Mom cry.”

“Excuse me?” Ichabod’s step-father chuckled. There sounded as if there was legitimate curiosity in his voice.

In the chaos of the moment, the buzzing song

climaxed to reveal itself through the trees to be a migration of swallowtails. They latched onto Ichabod and started buzzing louder and flapping their tiny wings harder in a

“You heard me the first time. Shut up.”

concentrated effort to lift him off the ground. Soon, he was

Ichabod’s step-father grabbed him by the shirt. “If

levitating.

you’re afraid of a scorpion, I can’t imagine how you’re feeling

right now.”

Finally, the bird had won its wings. “Mom! Look! I’m flying!

I’m flying!” He looked down, however, to see Yara’s face in

There was a lump in Ichabod’s throat. A single tear

Ichabod felt his feet leave the ground and beamed.

rolled down his cheek. And then he saw.

her hands, shrieking as the tiger ripped the entrails out of

her.

He knew now that he wasn’t crazy. There was a

tiger. He could make out every stripe, every blotch of orange

and black, each bared tooth and the whiskers on each

tops of the forest, dodging raindrops and lighting, until,

side of the mouth. He noticed the bared claws. And he saw

finally, he was above the clouds.

the pupils of both furious yellow eyes. And it was silently

creeping on all fours towards his step-father.

bright. The swallowtails kept flapping their wings, propelling

Ichabod gritted his teeth. “I’m feeling brave.”

him further and further.

The tiger pounced on Ichabod’s step-father and

He had no time to mourn before he was above the

Ichabod had never seen a sky so blue, a sun so

Ichabod looked directly into the sun and smiled.

tore out his intestines. It then moved to his brother and

“There’s nowhere to go from here but up, boys.”

after properly disemboweling the boy, it turned to Ichabod

himself, fangs bared.

themselves from him and followed the rocketeer as he flew

Understanding, the swallowtails detached

them freely to the moon.

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Oliver Wolff, Long Exposure, Photography Oliver Wolff, Long Exposure of Glowsticks, Digital Photograph

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Oona Schreur, Work, Digital Photograph

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It was gold, it shimmered in the light.

THE GOLDEN TRUTH

by Riley Hartman

You can touch it with your bare fingertips, feel the ridges that made up past memories.

The reflections of the long faces.

Worn out tired expressions filled their eyes, the tear drops reflected gold as the doorknob was.

The locked turned from the outside, shutting out the dark stories that were locked from the inside.

The rusted bolts attached itself to the beaten down wood that separated the rooms.

It could not speak nor move, it just witnessed.

The paralyzing images of bodies with sunken in stomachs, skinny arms and legs, and hollowed-in cheeks.

All within a reflection of a doorknob.

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The long, flat-bottomed skiff glided in the shining teal water, Creating a deep impression, the water hugging the edge of the filled trench.

The water curved slowly while the olive-colored leaves bent downward To caress the sunny late-afternoon.

The shimmering, cloudless sky stained the water blue, like pigmented tattoos on skin.

The sturdy wooden paddle reflected into the water In fuzzy patches of color, distinct, but unclear, moving along as the skiff made waves.

Holding the paddle, dressed in plain clothing and a hat, A man watched his paddle propel him forward.

He could still hear the forest singing a song of bliss, Blowing along with the ever-present wind.

The cool air smelled of flowers, with traces of musty dirt, Somehow rejuvenating a love for nature, calming all in its presence.

The two others in boats stayed close, but distant enough not to crash on such a day.

The current moved the men, calmly, and they silently obeyed its control, For if it weren’t calm, they’d have no reason to be silent.

The nature of the current controlled them. Where it moved, the men went, All while both held each other at gunpoint, Neither having the chance to drastically change either, man or nature, But both had the power to change the current.

by Kristine Shell

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Caroline Yancisin, Jellyfish, Digital Photograph

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Hannah Malitzki, Primary Hannah, Mixed Media

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A CHILDHOOD DREAM

by Tyleah McNair

Pin oak, where I could smell grandma’s cooking.

This was where life was made.

This was where I played with my cousins everyday, bikes and scooters in the driveway.

This was when smiles were all I could see in my little eyes.

This house was like heaven – here, pain had no hazard.

This was before life was a disaster: before I got the call.

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b y R a c h a e l S a e l i

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M E M O R I E S

A lone car tire, bald and soft lays at the edge of a road.

It’s parched, covered in brown dust and cracked, stale mud.

A little boy reaches to pick it up, lifting one edge and dragging it to stand upright, leaving a cloud of dust that settles onto his dirty, dry skin.

A smile runs across his face as he lifts his head to see Ahmed running towards him and grinning.

He reaches his friend and skips past, slowing down.

They throw out their hands, and shove an old dirty tire down the road; chasing it into the soft orange horizon and forgetting their worries of food and family.

Big tires roll by, crunching rocks, spewing dust. An army green tank crouches menacingly, creating murder out of play.

Maddie Annis, Jordan Pond, Digital Photograph

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AMATEUR AUDUBON AN INTERVIEW WITH KOJO BAIDOO: Conducted by Sophia Johnson and Irene Sung

What sparked your interest in photography, and what was your intention when you first started?

How has that changed?

I read a book about birds of prey when I was 6, and

then I started getting more books out of the library and

We noticed that a lot of your birds are native to

Africa and Ghana. How often do you visit Ghana?

Where do you visit?

We visit every two or three years and we stay in

Accra, the capital. Usually, we go to my parents’ villages,

taking pictures of birds

which are in the

because I wanted a

central region. I like

home screen. I used

to go to a place called

my phone and a pair

Sakumono Lagoon

of binoculars until I

which is near Accra on

realized my mom had

the coast.. It’s a great

a camera. It wasn’t a

spot for migrating

good camera, but it had

shorebirds. We visit in

a decent zoom lens

July or August, when

so I started using it. As

they’re beginning

for how my intention

to come down, and

changed, I’m more

every time we go, I’m

serious about it now,

a little bit better at bird

though all I do is post them on Instagram and Flickr. I’m not

identification, and I know what I’m looking for more. I see

planning to sell them or make a career out of this, but I enjoy

more every time I go.

it. I still use them for home screens and I do like showing other people.

Do you do a lot of research on birds before you go to take pictures of them?

I don’t do much research anymore, because I have a

lot of books about them and I used to read them a lot when I was younger. I don’t have time to read them as much now, but that knowledge is just stored in my head. I do research on places, like what birds you can find in specific areas, and that birds in some areas are easier to see than others.

Do you prefer photographing Ghanaian birds? Is there any difference in the level of skill that’s required to photograph them, versus birds in the U.S?

I like them more to an extent. The biodiversity is

different, and it’s cool to witness how different the birds in my yard are from the ones here. As for the skill level, the cool thing about birds from Ghana is that they’re tame, since the natives are ambivalent towards them. Sometimes, though, you have to do quite a bit of stalking. Once, mostly just for my personal preference, I got on the ground and laid on my stomach and crawled closer to them. I didn’t want to scare them off, but I also wanted a cool perspective with a clean background. Here, it depends on where the birds are from. When you have birds from Canada that are migrating, they breed in remote locations like spruce forests where they don’t see a lot of humans.

They’re more inviting than a robin you might find in your backyard.

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Do you think birding and nature photography

influenced your relationship with animals and wildlife?

Absolutely. The thing about photography is that

while the goal is to get photos, you have to be respectful to the wildlife. I have this hawk nest near my house., and after the eggs hatch, even though I could get some cool photos of the young being brought up, I usually keep a wide berth away from the nest. I try to tell people to do that too, because being a good person comes before having a good photo. Photography has brought me a lot closer to nature as well. Past species, I can identify individuals; with the hawks, I knew they were there, but once I saw them and I got good pictures of them I started seeing them out more and now I know a lot of their behavioral patterns. Things like where they like to sit in the mornings, which one is which if I see one flying around in the sky, and when they’re calling, I know their individual voices.

Are those bird-watching and photographing

expeditions meaningful to you, outside of the product?

Oh yeah, absolutely. I can only go on the weekend

because, of course, I have school and that’s the time I get to myself to walk around and be all zen. I can go with other people, but I find it a lot more productive to be by myself and see the birds by myself, especially since when you’re with other people you’re less likely to see more species. Even just yesterday, I was on a field trip with the AP Environmental kids and part of the hike was seeing how many birds you could hear, and I couldn’t hear anything because everyone was talking. If you’re by yourself, it’s a lot more peaceful, and a lot more therapeutic.

How has taking these pictures impacted you?

Do you see yourself doing this in the future a lot?

I think it’s made me more observant. With birds,

Absolutely. The good thing about my gear is that it’s

there’s birding and bird watching. Birding is when you try to

going to last a while, and it’s expensive. Eventually I will have

see as many species as you can, and bird watching is when

to replace it when it malfunctions, but not for a while. I don’t

you focus on a specific one and really watch its behavior. As

want to do photography as a profession, just because jobs

I try to get good pictures, I’ve become more of a bird watcher

with birding in general can be really unpredictable and birds

than a birder. I don’t really care about how many species

themselves are unpredictable and seasonal. It’s likely that if

I’m seeing, and because I photograph them, I notice a lot

I did ever get a job with it I would have to stay in one place

more things about individuals of a species and certain color

and only see the birds of that area. But I’ve always wanted to

patterns, behavioral patterns and other things I didn’t notice

travel, so hopefully whatever profession I end up having, I’ll

before. And that’s kind of cool.

have enough money to sustain my very expensive hobby.

All digital photographs taken by Kojo Baidoo

65

DON’T LET YOURSELF GO The sweet gusts of the fair tug at your nose

Through a churning

crowd of jittery young and steadfast old.

You forge a path through a maze

of music, of screaming, and of flashing lights.

You seek sugar-coated goodness

but are surprised when you find it.

Fried happiness isn’t the same as last time.

You hear older folks warn of overindulgence.

They don’t warn about how it feels without funnel cake.

You buy the fluffy tangle and it’s yours

To share with others or keep for yourself.

Messy, fleeting, and rare.

A path to the present when you aren’t present.

Don’t let yourself go too long without this.

by Nick Scholl

66

Avery Dawson, Dome, Digital Photograph

67

by Brianna Kiah Endless, greasy fast food wrappers scatter the concrete sidewalks of the bustling city.

Filthy words leave not-so-coincidentally filthy people; the occasional drunk yells about nonsense again on the corner.

It seems that every corner has been infested.

Addicts lean to their side, nodding off then snapping back into reality, broken homes, both physically and emotionally.

Rats and roaches move in as owners move out, with nowhere to go, nothing to turn to but heroin and forties.

Something about this life isn’t for me.

A never-ending hole I don’t want to fall into, afraid and alone.

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Hannah Emmons, Fuji Sunrise, Digital Photograph

69

‫مشقيتا‬ Alice Liao, Fallen Angel, Digital Art

70

‫سترة انقاذ‬

MASHQUITA’S LIFE JACKET

by Farrah Kaymouz

ٌ ‫صيف الى مشقيتا‬ ‫ على ذلك القارب الذي ركبناه ذاك‬،‫تطوقك يداي‬ ‫ ليظن المرء انني لن افلت يوم ًا‬،‫بقرب شديد‬ ُ ‫ و لكنك لم تُفلتي‬،‫افلتك‬ ‫قد‬ ‫ما زلتي في حياتي نبع عطاء‬ ‫اذكر كيف لم ادرك حجم امتناني له وقتها‬ ‫ مفضلتك‬،‫بينما تبدأ مع الريح العذبة اغنية لفيروز‬ ‫ كشسوع الفضاء الذي تمألينه في حياتي‬.‫ مامي‬،‫البحر وراءنا‬ ‫الرائحة المالحة تدغدغ انوفنا؛ تذكير ًا‬ ‫باننا في البحر المتوسط‬ ‫كلتانا ارتدى سترات النجاة تلك‬ ‫رغم ان وقتها؛ انتي وحدك من كان يمسكني بقرب مع الحياة‬ ‫ يمنعني من الغرق‬،‫يبقيني اتنفس‬ ‫ال الحلم‬ ‫ بنية محالة بالعسل؛‬،‫نظرات قريبة نتبادلها‬ ‫ هي مرآتي‬،‫عيناكي‬ ‫ صغي ٌر انعكاسي قد يبدو هناك‬،‫ارى نفسي فيها‬ ‫و لكنني اعي تلك البقعة الكبيرة في قلبك التي اشغلها‬..

I hold close to you on that lofty boat we took one summer to Mashquita So tight that you’d think I’m never letting go I did let go, but you didn’t You’re still in my life; a grace fount, that I’m so grateful for As your favorite Fairuz’s song starts along with the breezy gust The sea behind us Granny, as wide as the space you fill in my life The salty smell tickles our noses, reminding us that we’re at the Mediterranean Sea We both wore those neon life jackets, Though at that moment you were the only thing, holding me close to life Keeping me breathing, and preventing me from drowning, But not dreaming.

Narrow sights we take, honey-glazed brown; your eyes are my mirror I see myself in them as clear as the sun, A small reflection I am there, but I’m aware of that big spot in your heart I occupy.

71

72

Shayna Blinkoff, Modern America, Acrylic on Canvas

UNLIMITED SKIES Moving through imagination-

by Max Gilden

The sky of human thought.

Filled with clouds, exasperation Obscuring what is sought.

Your atmosphere will hold some stormsSome tough to navigate; But keep in mind a proper form That’s always free of hate.

The air you breathe holds impurities Made up of fibs and lies So filter out what you don’t need Within your cluttered skies.

Now save your plans from fading Into distant memories.

Keep ideas contemplating Instead of for the breeze.

Clear the sky of rampant clouds And tame your atmosphere.

Maraud your brain for what it shrouds And brilliance will appear.

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늙은 개의 기억

바람과 얼음이 부르고 내가 서리낀 빛 아래로 걷는 밤에, 멀리서 오는 개소리가

그 황금 순간으로 나를 데려다 준다. 그때, 네가 일광욕을하고 모든 것이 따뜻하다.

너의 절반 닫힌 눈은 말한다

“네가 여기 나를 찾고있는 동안 나는이 빛의 광선에 머물러줄게. 어디든 네가 나를 찾을때 나는 거기에있어줄게.” 그리고 내가 걸을때 따뜻해진다.

by Irene Sung

MEMORY OF AN OLD DOG On nights when the wind blows with ice and I walk under frosted lights, the distant sound of howls brings me back to that golden moment, when you are only sunbathing, and everything is warm to the touch.

Your eyes, half-closed, say “For as long as you look for me here, I will stay in these pooling rays of light.

Wherever you search for me, I will be there.”

And I am warmer as I walk.

74

Dariush Aligholizadeh, Countryside, Digital Photograph

75

47 CENTS

by Blythe Petit

The laundry hung out to dry was a waving hand in the breeze, saying farewell to the sun. The peachy shades of the sky bled into one another as my mother and I walked up the hill to the 7/11 deep set on the corner.

I was infinitely wise from repeated reminders to look both ways and to never let my hand fall from hers lest the wind sweep me away.

Condensation from the milk sweat onto the bread bag and my mother pressed warm change into my hand, promising that if I could count those metallic cents, they could become mine. I refused to be tricked by the sneaky penny, huge but worth only one cent.

Back when my head barely cleared the sticky countertop, that handful of coins, small like myself, was enough to brighten the darkening night sky.

76

Alyssa Cobb, Bubbles, Oil Pastel on Paper

77

AHUVA BANK Pages 54-55, 72-73 SHAYNA BLINKOFF Pages 4-5, 38-39. 50-53, 76-77, Covers BECKY GLESSNER Pages 2-3, 28-31, 44-47, 70-71, 74-75 JENNY GLICKMAN Pages 22-23, 24-25, 42-43, 66-67, 78-81 SOPHIA JOHNSON Pages 10-11, 40-41, 62-65 REBECCA KLEEMAN Pages 18-19, 56-57 HANNAH LECHTZIN Pages 12-17, 48-49 KAMERON MERKERSON Pages 20-21, 34-35 CASIMIR MOREAU Pages 1, 6-7, 82, Inside Covers ROSE RIGGS Pages 26-27, 58-59, 68-69 IRENE SUNG Pages 60-61, Inside Covers KAYLA YUP Pages 8-9, 32-33, 36-37

78

ABOUT OUR EDITORS

SHAYNA BLINKOFF

This is Shayna’s third and final year with Colophon. She plans on continuing this kind of work in college by majoring in graphic and interactive design at Temple University. Being a part of this team over the last three years has been the most enlightening experience she has had in her high school career. She is proud to call herself an honorary spring athlete.

BECKY GLESSNER

Good evening. Becky has been with Colophon for three years, this being her second as an editor and first as a managing editor. She is proud to be a part of such a wonderful team of other artistically-inclined and hilarious students. This valuable experience with graphic design and literary critique will help her for years to come.

JENNY GLICKMAN

This is Jenny’s third year in Colophon, second as an editor, and first as art editor. She is immensly proud of this year’s edition of Colophon and all of her fellow editors and staff members. She enjoys every part of Colophon, from collecting the very first submissions to perfecting the very last spread. She is so excited to do it all again next year.

ALEC FARADAY

This is Alec’s third year with Colophon and his second year as an editor. He will never forget all two Creative Collective meetings, because that’s where he got his idea for his piece in the book. He is eternally, sincerely grateful to have met everyone involved in Towson High’s indisputably greatest club. Next year he will continue his studies at the George Washington University.

IRENE SUNG

This is Irene’s third year with Colophon and her second as an editor. She is proud of the community supported by the club and the dedication to creativity and quality of work that each member brings to the table, and is looking forward to spending her senior year working on another edition.

CASIMIR MOREAU

This is Casimir’s third year as an editor for Colophon. He has thoroughly enjoyed judging people’s work, learning to appreciate and edit literary pieces, and learning principles of design. Working within a community of artistic minds has shaped how he looks at the world.

KAMERON MERKERSON

This is Kameron’s third year as a proud member and editor for Colophon. This year’s edition has been especially important as everyone’s opinions were valued. Kameron hopes to continue improving in his fourth and final year.

HANNAH LECHTZIN

This is Hannah’s third year with Colophon and her second year as an editor. She is happy to be able to spend another year working with the amazing community involved in making Colophon, and is looking forward to participating again in her senior year. Hannah’s favorite part of Colophon is getting to assist in designing the spreads.

KAYLA YUP

This is Kayla’s second year with Colophon and her second year as an editor. She is grateful for the opportunity to work alongside the wonderful community of artists and writers that create Towson’s award-winning literary magazine.

Kayla’s favorite part of Colophon is reading all the poetry created by students.

P A T R O N S Jill Talmage The Faraday Family Towson High School Student Government Association

Rachel Kopeck Kelly Freeburger The Kleeman Family The Maples of Towson The Moreau Family

The Blinkoff Family Autobahn of Towson Inc. Herring Run Associates LLC The Klees-Glickman Family Physical Therapy First Brooks-Huff Tires

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Kim Barton Group Marcia Glickman Sheila and Ron Bellamy Musotto Sports Memorablia

F R O M T H E S E N I O R S

It’s that time of year again, the time to say goodbye and pass the torch off to the next generation of Colophoners.

We would first like to thank all the editors that taught us the ins and outs of Colophon, particularly Anna Henderson, Morgan Hylton, Rosemary Wonnell, Hannah Weinstein, and Oscar Harris. Your influence taught us that Colophon is more than just a yearly publication. It is a powerful tool to create young leaders and build long lasting relationships.

The backbone of this family is the amazing advisors, Dr. Freeburger, Mr. Belt, and Mr. Busselman. Dr. Freeburger, thank you for handling the finances responsibly and not bleeding this organization, run by us naïve children, dry of its assets. Belt, thank you for your back seat designing, technology know-how, and always pushing us to reach the highest potential for design possible. Buss, thank you for Jason Derulo your music choices, sarcastic comments, and the occasional smile that lets us know we are doing the right thing. We will miss all the support, inspiration, and empowerment that you have all given us over the years.

We will be forever grateful for the dedication you all have to Colophon.

We will even miss the little parts that make Colophon happen, from “conseshuns” to color-coded folders. We would like to thank Schoology for the guise of simplicity.

Thank you to the BCPS devices for running at a snail’s pace, but still letting us design anywhere we had the time (possibly in class). Thank you to the Adobe suite for having every tool in the world (especially the ellipse and the magnetic lasso) that allows us to build this gorgeous book every year.

We would also like to thank everyone in our lives, outside of our Colophon family that has supported us throughout the years with love, snacks, and rides home after a late night in room 309.

Finally, the biggest thank you goes out to the next generation of Colophoners; we loved working and making great memories with you. To Becky, Jenny, Irene, Casimir, Kameron, Kayla, and everyone else in this big happy family of ours, Colophon is yours now and we can’t wait to see what you do next.

Shayna Blinkoff and Alec Faraday

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For decades, Colophon has had a singular focus that has driven it to publication; giving people a voice to exchange emotion, and express personal insight into our common human experience. It has been over fifty years since its foundation, and as the community that shapes it have evolved, Colophon too has grown, passing through temporal portals to adapt to its new environment. The literary and artistic magazine’s annual efforts have culminated in a haven of creation, to protect, feed, and display to the world the minds of students.

Colophon lives through its student body, a collection of 1600 minds, and 93 dedicated faculty members, without which there would be nothing to publish at all. The organization accepts submissions from all grades 9-12 for consideration, but to ensure that the school is well represented, only one work is published for any one artist or writer. The student body is diverse, harbouring multilingual students, therefore as a tradition, Colophon has published at least one work of literature in a different language.

The extracurricular club begins by assembling returning staff and incoming members to a preliminary meeting. Here, the club clarifies the purpose and need behind Colophon, identifies the direction envisioned for the year, and outlines general meeting times after school. A standard is established and clarified to all Colophon staff for the evaluation of creative works. The club members promote submissions to be judged anonymously, encouraging all students to volunteer any work they have through the Colophon website, thscolophon.weebly.com.

82

Literary submissions are divided into anonymous sets. Each piece is evaluated individually by all Colophon staffers, and given a grade for their techinque, expression of emotion, and unique insight. Similarly, art submissions are also divided into anonymous sets, which are evaluated by the entire staff through democratic voting. Criteria for artwork centers around the quality, originality of thought, and innovative use of the medium. As the year progresses, editors narrow down the list of accepted works. A meeting is called to discuss common themes, drawing from the submissions in hopes of attaining a central vision for the magazine.

As the club moves into the design phase, editors consult with writers to suggest edits for syntax or literary development in their writing pieces. Art pieces are photographed or scanned to ensure high quality images. As final edits are made, the layout and the pairing of art and writing pieces are organized through a general meeting.

The Colophon staff creates and designs spreads on Adobe InDesign and Photoshop CC 2018 before electronically sending the book to be published. Finally, copies are distributed in person to those interested (or mailed to those who cannot be reached) for $10 each, while they are handed out free of charge to patrons as a show of appreciation.

MISSION STATEMENT & EDITORIAL POLICY

SUBMISSION POLICY

Colophon is currently accepting submissions for its 2020 edition on its website, thscolophon.weebly.com. To submit, fill out the information required in the form on the submission page of the Colophon website, and attach the file containing your piece.

Acceptable submissions include, but are not limited to, painting, photography, drawing, poetry, prose, sculpture, and music.

Contact Colophon at thscolophon@gmail.com.

More information on Colophon and its history can be found at the Colophon website, thscolophon.weebly.com.

COLOPHON All body text and bylines are printed in 12 point Palanquin Light. Titles are printed in Catamaran Black at varying sizes. Text on pages 45 and 46 are also printed in 12 point Roboto Slab and Roboto Slab Light. Arabic text on page 71 are printed in Tajawal Regular, while Arabic titles on page 70 Tajawal Black.

Korean text on page 74 is printed in 12 point Noto Sans KR. All layout, typesetting, and artistic design is executed using Adobe InDesign and Photoshop CC 2018. Colophon is printed on 80# Endurance Silk paper, while the cover is printed on 130# Moorim Gloss paper. The 2019 edition of Colophon was printed in a limited edition of 200 copies by HBP, Inc. in Hagerstown, Maryland.