string theory ties that bind
Liquid Paper 2021 Vol. 26
To the talented and creative students and faculty of Vanguard College Preparatory School
string theory ties that bind
Liquid Paper What is string theory? String theory, at its heart, posits the existence of strings that are responsible for a framework of physics. It suggests that everything that exists in this world and universe is connected. We found this aspect of string theory to be particularly interesting. Therefore, we made a string theory of our own - one to describe the thoughts and philosophies that we have in common, that make us who we are and shape our characters. So we began to look for all the strings, both real and metaphorical, that exist in our lives and hold us together. This query is what sparked the theme for this edition of Liquid Paper - string theory: ties that bind. We aren’t astrophysicists, but we sincerely hope that you enjoy our theory regardless.
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Liquid Paper 2021 Vol. 26
our theory Liquid Paper, a biennial literary and arts review, is written, compiled, edited, and illustrated by students at Vanguard College Preparatory School in Waco, Texas. All staff members and advisers of Liquid Paper are from Vanguard College Preparatory School and work on an entirely voluntary basis. The writing and art published in this magazine are the property of the students who created it and may not be reprinted without their expressed permission. Copies of Liquid Paper are published by Vanguard College Preparatory School with the help of private donations and are available free of charge to students, faculty, and their families and friends while supplies last. We cannot guarantee future availability. Out of 202 submissions, 64 written works by 24 writers were selected for publication. Out of 423 submissions, 61 works by 30 artists were included. Many thanks are owed to Wendy Allman and Jen Ferretter for their stewardship and vision in this literary and artistic adventure. Thank you to Tonya Shanholtz for her assistance in coordinating information for the art pieces that appear in this magazine. Special thanks to Dr. Kevin Gardner and the Baylor University English Department for their generosity in supporting Liquid Paper. Vanguard College Preparatory School 2517 Mt. Carmel Drive Waco, Texas 76712 254-772-8111 www.vanguard.org
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table of contents table of contents ii
String Theory Multiple artists Mixed media Cover (individual works
mask strings
found on 7, 8, 15, 16, 27, 28, 37, 38, 51, 52, 59, 60, 67, 68)
Self-Portrait Plaid Mask Ada Larsen Charcoal 7 Look Into My Eyes Madi Burch Charcoal 8 Reflection Arabella Rosiles Charcoal 8 Long Blonde Hair Erin Padgett Charcoal 8 Appreciation Juliette Young Narrative poem 9 As Days Pass By Theodore Miller Lyric poem 9 New Sheets Dahbin Shim Acrylic on canvas 10 BLM Protest, Waco, Texas, 31 May 2020 Nicole Robles Photograph 11 Fight the Blight Dana Burton Social justice reflection 11 ICU Nurse Naomi West Narrative poem 12 Baking Notes Sophia Serr Diary entry with sketches 13-14
heart strings Euphoria Samantha O’Flaherty Photograph 15 Daffodils Sarah Emerson Photograph 16 Companions in Isolation Sophia Serr Wheel-thrown ceramic 17 and sculpted figures Nothing Left Mingyung Ji Lyric poem 17 Scale Anonymous Object poem 18 Witching Hour Elizabeth Watson Digital art 18 Heart Elizabeth Watson Lyric poem 18 Just checking in... Annabeth Cobb Epistolary verse 19 Through the Looking Glass Elisabeth Rollins Lyric poem 20 Through the Looking Glass David Wyche Photograph 20 Anxiety Caroline Williams Digital art 20 Anxiety Caroline Williams Memoir poem 20 Silhouette of Boy AC Tillinghast Photograph 21 Every Time You Say Goodbye Haydin Davis Narrative poem 21 RBG Elisabeth Rollins Tribute poem 21 And Action Aubrey Roberts Concrete poem 22 A Love No Longer Taniya Degrate Lyric poem 23 Crimson Rose pt. iii Annabeth Cobb Lyric poem 23 Ajax Annabeth Cobb Photograph 24 Someone says Love Hao Hong “Henry” Liang Lyric poem 25 Catharsis Elizabeth Watson Free verse 25 Fishersea Elizabeth Watson Photograph 26
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apron strings Oil and Vinegar Dahbin Shim Acrylic on canvas 27 Fragility Avery Schnautz Acrylic on canvas 28 Red Roof AC Tillinghast Photograph 29 Family Photos Anonymous Narrative poem 30 Dana Madi Burch Memoir poem 30 My Girls Juliette Young Lyric poem 31 my grandmother’s rose Aubrey Roberts Memoir poem 31 A Rose by Any Other Name David Wyche Photograph 31 11:11 Dana Burton Elegy 32 Rainbow AC Tillinghast Photograph 32 Chess Aubrey Roberts Memoir poem 33 How To Remember When... Dana Burton Lyric poem 33 Above Korea Heejun “Jake” Lee Water-based oil paint 34 Sidewalk Lights Jake Willeford Photograph 34 Mom Madi Burch Lyric poem 35 Photo Strip Madi Burch Photograph 35 Grateful Juliette Young Ode 36 In Which I Look at a Photograph Anonymous Memoir poem 36 and Feel Envy
lyre strings Nike of Samothrace Aubrey Roberts Charcoal 37 Piano Guts Elizabeth Watson Photograph 38 Summer Blooms Sarah Emerson Photograph 39 an artist’s eye Sophia Serr Free verse 39 Linguaphilia Aubrey Roberts Lyric poem 39 Black and White Leaf AC Tillinghast Photograph 39 The Kite (da Vinci) Elizabeth Watson Tribute poem 40 He Says Hello Elizabeth Watson Photograph 40 Sunset Sea Sarah Emerson Photograph 40 A Constellation for the Lost Elizabeth Watson Bildungsroman short story 41-42 A Constellation for Diana Elizabeth Watson Digital art 42 Nighthawks Sophia Bawduniak Ekphrastic poem 43 Praise From God Aubrey Roberts Elegy 43 La Iglesia Elizabeth Watson Photograph 44 Honey Pot Kaylee Cooper Digital art 45 Look Aubrey Roberts Ekphrastic villanelle 46 Eve Elisabeth Rollins Biblical retelling 46 Icarus Aubrey Roberts Mythological retelling 47 Cliff AC Tillinghast Photograph 48 The Death of Ideals Dana Burton Ekphrastic poem 49 Built into Ruin by Nature Haven Hobbs Acrylic on canvas 49 Eurydice Elizabeth Watson Mythological poem 50 Natalia y José Santos Elizabeth Watson Digital art 50
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table of contents navigation strings Lizard AC Tillinghast Photograph 51 Double Stripe AC Tillinghast Photograph 52 Before the Fire Goes Out Elizabeth Watson Lyric poem 53 Morning Fog Aubrey Roberts Memoir poem 53 Love Travels GaHyun “Grace” Yoon Lyric poem 53 Mid-Flight May Day Kaylee Cooper Digital art 54 Lehua Sarah Emerson Photograph 54 Don’t Talk to the Animals Erik Knoll Horror prose 55-57 Rusted Van AC Tillinghast Photograph 57 Whiskey Benjamin Tillinghast Hand-built ceramic 58 sculpture with glaze, paint, and gold leaf, on wood panel
silk strings Finite Avery Schnautz Acrylic on recycled cardboard 59 Königssee-Winter Sunrise Aubrey Roberts Acrylic on canvas 60 Into the Woods Katylu Offill Occasional poem 61 Saucy Mossy Z. Martens Ceramic leaf relief 61 and sculpture Blue Bonnett AC Tillinghast Photograph 61 Seasons of Love Arabella Rosiles Lyric poem 62 Above the Clouds Sarah Emerson Photograph 62 Wonderland Dana Burton Free verse 63 Bildungsroman at Dead River Aubrey Roberts Memoir poem 63 Red Bridge Sophia Serr Painting 63 A Tree in the Forest Erik Knoll Free verse 64 Fog Plant AC Tillinghast Photograph 64 Love like... Terese Martens Lyric poem 65 Cat AC Tillinghast Photograph 65 Saturday, October 17th Aubrey Roberts Occasional poem 65 Everlasting Fire Hyrum Blackwelder Wooden sculpture 66 Drizzle Juliette Young Memoir poem 66
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silly strings Dropped off at the doctor Kaylee Cooper Mixed media 67 Weather Map Catastrophe Maheen Shah Collage 68 how to beefriend Juliette Young Instructional poem 69 this aint it, hun Sophia Serr Epigram 69 To The Man In The Green Car Aubrey Roberts Occasional poem 69 Stop eating the chair please Elizabeth Watson Photograph 70 Metal Compilation Ava Chavez Recycled steel parts 71 with spray paint Spineless Fool Erik Knoll Free verse 71 Preschool Picture Day Sophia Serr Occasional poem 71 Chris by CLE Sungjae “Chris” Lee Colored pencil on paper 71 Space in the Astronaut Keeton Matthews Hand-built ceramic 72 A complete list of things I hate Madi Burch Catalogue 72 I am sorry for stealing your Emily Coleman Apology poem 72 favorite sweatshirt Sharpie Dana Burton Object poem 73 Watercolor Flower Question Mark Zoe Matos Mixed media 73 Robot Dinosaur Lizzy Parsons Recycled steel parts 73 with spray paint He Wants to Be a Lapdog Emma Lowe Lyric poem 73 A Little Tipsy Abigail Civa Welded recycled steel 74 Chocolate Bella Garzonie Object poem 74 Love Is a Peanut Butter Emily Coleman Lyric poem 74 and Jelly Sandwich Sunflowers Juliet Indergard Marker drawing 74 How to Make a DIY Gift Emma Lowe Instructional poem 75 for Your Boyfriend just a little salty Sophia Serr Lyric poem 75 Eye for an eye Dahbin Shim Oil paint 76 Threads behind the theory Multiple contributors Quotes 77-84
Moon strings Elizabeth Watson ‘21
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mask strings
Self-Portrait Plaid Mask
Ada Larsen ‘23
The COVID-19 pandemic cast a dark shadow over our generation, but the ways that we reacted to its challenges have helped us to persevere and continue to grow. - E.W.
Look Into My Eyes
Reflection
Arabella Rosiles ‘24
Long Blonde Hair
Erin Padgett ‘23
Madi Burch ‘21
Appreciation
Juliette Young ‘22
I used to like the view of my home, like my desk, My lamp, my cat curled into a circle; But now all I see is what I’m missing, like the crowded hallways at school, My face with makeup, and even the people I rarely talk to. I now pass the time by opening and closing my curtains, Staring at an individual ceiling fan blade as it spins, Or by smelling various floral perfumes, Fantasizing about how good I’ll smell when I whoosh past people sitting at their desks. I look forward to when I’ll have the weight of my pencil in my hand, And tense feeling from being overwhelmed in my head, Because I always yearned for boredom, and for time to relish in the warmth of my blanket Until moving from my bed to my desk was the only thing I had the motivation to do. In this time of uncertainty, it is certain that I despise yet rely on regular crowded hallways, Getting ready in the morning, and, most importantly, a mandatory daily routine.
As Days Pass By
Theodore Miller ‘23
As days pass by, I tell myself it won’t be hard As days pass by, I tell myself it will be alright As days pass by, I work harder than I ever have As days pass by, I stand tall and wait for tomorrow As days pass by, I fall behind and struggle to keep up As days pass by, I wonder if it’s worth my time As days pass by, I begin to feel there won’t be an end As days pass by, I drag myself through each long day As days pass by, I begin to talk to her more often As days pass by, She tells me it will all be just fine As days pass by, She says she feels the way I do for her As days pass by, I remind myself it will be alright
string theory / 9
New Sheets Dahbin Shim ‘23
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BLM Protest, Waco, Texas, 31 May 2020 Nicole Robles ‘21
Fight the Blight
Dana Burton ‘21
April’s fools, forget the rules, To open the schools is just plain cruel. Black tulle, welcome the ghouls, Here’s to the mules who grasp their jewels. Ignore their crimes while we do the time, Sweet limes, new nursery rhymes. So begrimed is our social clime. We beseech on the streets, The impeached proclaims peace, Yet lapses the task of keeping a mask. Hidden beneath is a false salute To the expert group and their pursuit. “I can’t breathe,” they seethe, With his cheek beneath their knees.
string theory / 11
Instead the brutes root to shoot, Have fun with guns while someone runs. Let us address how they suppress, We shall not acquiesce. We raise our signs and lay down shrines While the swine all dine and drink grape from the vine. Gore galore, they ignore what we’re for— What is the lore? The higher score? We fall to the floor and implore to our Lord, Walk out the door, no more life-risking chores. We will fight this war, Hear us unleash our roar.
ICU Nurse
Naomi West ‘22
The ICU nurse, exhausted from the grueling 18-hour shift Collapses to her knees and Takes a moment to offer A petition for an end to the suffering she has seen Daily for the past eleven months. In the beginning, she Drew blood and Gave shots and Took blood pressure and Tested vision. Now, she holds the hands of those dying as they Gasp for a single breath that means they are still Alive for that moment. She connects them to a lifeline that Allows them to take another breath And another And another until They have no more. The stethoscope, draped around her neck Like an ever-present scarf Listens to the inner voice, The rhythmic beating, Of a living heart Or the morose silence Of a dead one. She had to make a choice today, Who to save: A 30 year old man Or an 80 year old woman A tear streaks down her face as she reflects, Knowing that the woman was a cousin A sister
A daughter A mother To an unknown soul who still breathed She is not responsible for each death and Prays for forgiveness for those whose selfish desires make them Blind to the cruel reality: That every drop they secrete could cause the death of another. Yet they still mock the mask and Taunt those who hide behind them Not for their own safety but For the safety of those whom they love. They see the statistics and know that Behind every number Is a name and behind every name is A fellow citizen, A friend, A neighbor, A relative. And they are indifferent. She prays for them. While they mock, She prays for them. While they expose, She prays for them. While they die, She prays for them. And it makes her stronger. She knows there will be an end And hopes for it. Taking a breath, she rises Ready to face another day.
string theory / 12
Baking Notes
Sophia Serr ‘23
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heart strings
Euphoria
Samantha O’Flaherty ‘21
Emotions are complicated, but they are undoubtedly the foundation of what makes us who we are. They have shaped our lives thus far - our nostalgia for childhood, our fears for the future, and our love for one another. - E.W.
Daffodils
Sarah Emerson ‘21
Companions in Isolation Sophia Serr ‘23
Nothing left
Mingyung Ji ‘21
The way I loved you, The way I showed you, was sweet like White chocolate. The way you loved me, The way you treated me, was bitter like 100% Cacao chocolate. When we tried to have some conversation like a normal couple, I felt like I put some spoiled chocolate in my mouth. When you showed me your back like nothing was left between us, I ate some Milk chocolate. The day you left me forever, I didn’t cry. So I picked some Dark chocolate.
string theory / 17
I ate, ate, ate. Like a bitter taste will fill your vacancy. I ate, ate, ate. Like a bitter taste will erase these emotions. The bitter taste of chocolate still stays on the lips. The day people shared love, I held my chocolate box. Little, tiny, unseemly box that I loved. But nothing left, like the day you left. Valentine’s Day. Without you and chocolate. Still, I need some dark chocolate.
Scale
Witching Hour Elizabeth Watson ‘21 Anonymous
There you are. Just lounging every morning, Blankly staring at the ceiling, Waiting to determine my fate once again. I timidly approach you, Sucking in my stomach, Praying that today will be better, Which is all determined by you. I step onto your cold, flat surface. Your bright light stares into my eyes, Playfully teasing me as the numbers fluctuate, But I never find it funny.
XXXXXXXXX I wait.
I weight. XXXXXXXX I wait. I weight.
Finally, you show me The blinding number that is less than last time, But not the one I want. Make it smaller! Why don’t you care about me? Don’t you want me to be happy? Just tell me what I want, And then I will be content. I hate you. Your smug face mocks me, Lies to me, Hurts me. But then your face disappears, And the worst part is That you were telling the truth. Thank you.
Heart
Elizabeth Watson ‘21
Do you ever press your hand to your chest and feel your heartbeat feathering there? That beautiful reminder that you get to exist, here and now? That you’re alive and maybe in love and filled to the brim with star-iron and dust? It’s when the universe is both dark and bright, and the sea of your mind is finally asleep or close to it but somehow awake enough to see things clearly. The world is messy and complicated, but your heart is here and so are you.
string theory / 18
Just checking in...
Annabeth Cobb ‘21
I guess apologies are due, Even though this is for my younger self I’m just checking on how things are going But I feel the need to say I’m sorry
Are you able to say what you love about yourself It can be hard but are you at that point yet Do you really know who you are I’m not sure but I have a close enough idea
I’m sorry for my actions You’ll do things you’ll regret You’ll make mistakes But things are working out
Promise me you’ll try to not get yourself hurt We’ll find a good direction for life to take us It’s okay to be imperfect, things are rough I’m sorry
Let yourself embrace your mistakes It’s not the end of the world to upset your friend I’m sorry upsetting people is your destiny But that’ll only refine who you are
I’m trying to forgive me for the things I am doing It’s something we can grow from
Speaking of that, do you know who you are Have you had that sit down talk with yourself yet You probably haven’t yet it’ll bring some clarity But I’m not sure even now if I know who I am
And to my future self, nice to meet you I’m not sure if I need to apologize But how are you I hope you’re doing well
I hope my decisions haven’t hurt you At least not too much yet Because I think we’re starting to get some answers But I am sorry
I’m sorry if my actions are causing you turmoil I don’t know what’s best for me Or if I am on the right path I hope it’s working out
I hope you can forgive me for the things you’ll do It’s something we can grow from -
I don’t know if I am making mistakes I’m young and naive I know youth does not excuse naivety I hope you can give me the benefit of the doubt
As for the present day, it’s kind of gloomy Not too much time outside of school Lacking some good self-exploration time I’m trying my best
Can you say you love yourself yet Hopefully but have you distanced yourself From who you once were is that why I hope your favorite song is one I know
I’m sorry I’m not able to face some challenges yet There’s a lot happening right now it’s not my fault The important bits have to be split up I promise I’m planning on getting to it
Have we been hurt Did you figure out what to do with your life Maybe my mistakes made you find answers I hope I can say I’m sorry
It seems easier to learn from my mistakes It’s good knowing my mistakes have made me better Still feels bad to fail but I try to embrace it I’m still learning to love myself
I hope you will forgive me for the things I’ll do It’s something we can grow from
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-
...I’m sorry
Through the Looking Glass
Through the Looking Glass David Wyche ‘22
Elisabeth Rollins ‘21
Two eyes Recognizable, yet never before seen They peer back at you with a scrutinizing concentration A yearning to recognize that which they have viewed a million times And yet never before A reflection An incessant change that almost goes unnoticed An image A picture that moves alongside you A companion that emulates your every emotion A friend that never fails to smile back
Anxiety
Anxiety Caroline Williams ‘24
Caroline Williams ‘24
Hiding away late at night Eyes are raining while i’m still with fright My thoughts hovering like a drone These stupid flashbacks won’t leave me alone Quietly breathing while i try and find All the thoughts that fill my mind The door opens and my heart drops The footsteps inching closer slowly but nonstop Faster and faster the footsteps pass by I silently say all my goodbyes In the back of my closet is where I reside Drowning in the ocean that is his self pride He caught me cold frozen in terror Justifying his actions because “the world isn’t fair” Back alone now all by myself Cowering in all of the feelings I felt Returning there again and again That monster became my only friend Returning there again and again That monster became my only friend
string theory / 20
Silhouette of Boy AC Tillinghast ‘23
Every Time You Say Goodbye
Haydin Davis ‘22
I get a call from the general. Men are needed at the front. I convince myself it will be alright Every time you say goodbye. I go walking by the river, A smile stretched across my face. I know you will be alright, Every time you go away. As we make whispered promises like children, I hold your hands and beg you to stay. They don’t need you as much as me. Why do you have to go away? I sit alone in the silence, Thinking about how we used to be. Now, you’re gone and you won’t be back. Why did you have to say goodbye?
string theory / 21
RBG
Elisabeth Rollins ‘21
Thank you. Thank you for giving a voice to those who felt voiceless Your lace collars gave me hope Your rulings brought a light to my day and to my life You allowed me opportunities I was barred from prior I am in possession of a book with your best quotes “Free to be if you were a girl - a doctor, lawyer, Indian chief. Anything you want to be. And if you’re a boy, and you like teaching, you like nursing, you would like to have a doll, that’s OK too…” That quote always makes me smile Thank you.
And Action
Aubrey Roberts ‘21
I take a hesitant step towards you - no, we are sitting, and I rest my hand on yours. The movement is still hesitant. I am you, and of course I am me. I also walk by in the background, an extra walking hand-in-hand through the park with another me again and again and actionagain. The credits are redundant, but we have to get there first. I mess up my line. Take two. I hesitantly rest my hand on yours and with equal certainty you pull your hand away. That’s nice, but is it true? I know it isn’t. The scene goes on a second longer and I let it, even though none of this footage is usable. Take three. I don’t rest my hand on yours, but I look into your eyes and wish this was a play with a curtain so I could instead soliloquize my confession. I make it anyways, delivering the line with all the aching it deserves. What’s your response? I am the writer - I should know and I do, even if I don’t want to. The scene goes on as planned or expected and I let it, the rejection, the rain, the running away. What’s my motivation for this scene? Love. What’s yours? Survival. Yours wins, obviously, and I’m left soaking and selfish on a park bench staring at someone who could maybe say something if this was a different scene in a different movie. I shake my head - me, the real me sitting at a shaky desk under flickering lamp light mentally directing this movie that will never be made. We already know the beginning and I already know The End and neither of us wants to know what’s in between. We both know, and the credits roll, my name to the right of a thousand names, one of them yours, and mine.
string theory / 22
A Love No Longer
Taniya Degrate ‘24
Love is like gum. A person will chew on it until it loses flavor. Then they will dispense of it underneath a school desk and it is no longer. Love is like a secret. A person will tell a friend who will tell a friend. Then everyone knows the secret and it is no longer. Love is like pain. A person will have it often. It comes and leaves. Once you don’t feel the pain it is no longer. Love is like medicine. When there is something wrong you need it. Eventually, after taking the medicine it will wear off and then, it is no longer. Love is like a nightmare. Scary, dark, and gloomy. That is, until you wake up. Then it is no longer. Love is dark. Dark until you find a light switch. You turn it on and it is light. Then the dark is no longer. Love is fake. It can pretend to be your friend. One day, love can hurt you and go behind your back and it is no longer. Love is temporary. It will seem as though it will last forever until you hear “I don’t love you anymore.” Then it is… A Love No Longer.
Crimson Rose pt. iii
Annabeth Cobb ‘21
Burn it rub the ash between your fingers and watch it flitter away Drop it if the thorns are stabbing into you don’t hold onto pain that serves no purpose You don’t have to forget it but you’re free to move on so those thorns don’t bite like a wild beast You don’t have to forgive it but if you want to it could help so that it doesn’t weigh on your conscious Holding onto these memories is like watering a rose covered in thorns but it will never bloom there’s no reason to keep it alive you feel guilty you feel like you owe it something you feel too much Burn it and let go
string theory / 23
Ajax Annabeth Cobb ‘21
string theory / 24
Catharsis
Elizabeth Watson ‘21
The quietness was a lie, a safer thing to hide behind than to face what it was to be perceived and seen. A tumultuous storm thundered in a vacuum, hidden tight in the quiet ache of a chest and the solemnity that floated just beyond the mirror, always waiting to be glimpsed between the panes of glass.
Someone says Love
Hao Hong “Henry” Liang ‘21
Love is a kind of missing, Like a rope holding together. I live upstream of the Yangtze River, You live downstream of the Yangtze River. I miss you day by day month by month, But we cannot meet with each other. Both of us drink the same water from the same river. When will the water run out? When will we meet each other? Time does not dilute the feelings between us.
The quietness was mine once, but still, I tear my fingers from its icy hilt and let the stone crumble from my palms. We are not statues, perpetually caught in the set of our makers. We are flesh and blood, meant for more than frozen silence and ragged hearts. I get on my knees and dig into the cold earth with my fingers. A clumsy absolution hardly worthy of her mercy, but still, she accepts my offering and I am grateful. I look into the fragmented blade a final time, my face a kaleidoscope across its interrupted plane, but my hands are no longer frozen to its hilt. And at last, I lay it to rest. I am the kaleidoscope. I am the broken blade. I am the mix of dust and earth that stains my hands. Someone I am still learning to understand. What a lovely thing it is to be seen, if only you are brave enough to seek it on your own.
string theory / 25
Fishersea Elizabeth Watson ‘21
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apron strings
Oil and Vinegar
Dahbin Shim ‘23
The ways that we grow up provide an essential part of the characters we bear going forward. Although they are things of the home and family, the origins of these influences can also be interpreted through the lens of how they change over time. - E.W.
Fragility
Avery Schnautz ‘24
Red Roof AC Tillinghast ‘23
string theory / 29
Family Photos
Anonymous
Memories pilfered from a dusty box litter my floor: a dim bowling alley and smashed birthday cake, itchy flower gardens choking with pure white daisies, slimy fish, smoky backyards, and sticky Fourth of Julys. Here is the only surviving record of Eden, where everyone was happy and loving and loved. I am a body anticipating deprivation, listless and starved as I cling to every drop of sustenance that passes by, filling my phone with trembling copies of paper pictures in the hopes that these will nourish me through the famine. That baby cradled in your arms is me - Why can you love that face and forsake the one before you, the one looking back on us now from the future? There’s no challenge in loving the unformed, the abstract. If, over time, I hoard enough seeds of memories, I can feed myself through the winter. I can feed my future family, the one you’ll refuse to know because we won’t look like you. I can feed my unconceived child’s imagination of what their family could’ve been. That was my mother, father, brother, sister, grandma, uncle, cousin. You’ll not meet them. They live just down the way. An insurmountable distance. These are the choices you will inevitably make. But for now, I gorge myself on the comforts of an outgrown childhood, wiping my dusty fingers on the carpet as the box clicks shut.
Dana
Madi Burch ‘21
I remember the smell of cornbread and vanilla as soon as I stepped through the front door after an eight hour drive with three maniacs and an annoying dog I remember being so sweaty that my long tangled hair stuck between my armpits and across my face while I sprinted around the backyard I remember watching nanny lick a cherry popsicle after Josie drooled all over it I remember feeling free I remember telling my friends I’d be back I remember being encased in the longest hug in the world I remember seeing my dad cry for the first time as I prepared to leave for what felt like forever I remember standing at the kitchen window during our daily phone calls I remember when the phone calls stopped I remember how easy things were I remember what confidence and liveliness felt like I remember living and breathing happiness as if there was nothing to worry about I remember it well.
string theory / 30
My Girls
Juliette Young ‘22
She is always the last to sit down at the table, And the last to start getting food, And the first to say, “Do you like it? Did we make enough?” Everyone always replies, “Yes, it’s good, I like it!” And everyone always means it; the edges of her mouth rise slightly And she pushes her hair out of her face, And says something like “Great! The girls did most of it.” And she doesn’t really mean it, but that’s okay. We discuss what we’re thankful for while we play with our food, Or fold our napkins Or look at the reflection in the window. And she says, “I’m thankful for my girls,” And she really means it.
A Rose by Any Other Name David Wyche ‘22
string theory / 31
my grandmother’s rose
Aubrey Roberts ‘21
a once white rose. now the only white left is mold on dried brown petals. it’s framed flattened. a resting place behind glass. its petals once a silken shroud when I stole it from your funeral.
11:11
Rainbow AC Tillinghast ‘23 Dana Burton ‘21
The clock blinks 11:11 in red. Tonight my wish Is to imagine what would have been If I had known you. I rise and shine To the smell and sizzle of bacon and eggs And your warm greeting in the kitchen. Sitting in the blue recliner, I watch The Rifleman with both you and Dad. We put on our Sunday best And you take me to Church— The church that you helped build so that I could grow up There like my father did. That black and white photo Is something to have pride in. The awesome atmosphere, The majesty of the red velvet pews and pealing bells Remind me of you. But then the clock blinks 11:12, The time fleeting like my dreams of What may have been. I realize what little I know. I imagine you were like Dad. Red was your favorite color. You share your bushy eyebrows and subtle smile. Integrity and kindness you value most. After all, you were his Superman— But cancer was the villain. I can’t imagine losing Dad like he did you, 11 years old and realizing your hero is tragic. Your honor lives on Through Dad’s stories. Your name lives on In Leah Kate, your tough yet sensitive granddaughter. Your legacy will live on As I am determined to share it. I wish I could have tasted your bacon and eggs.
string theory / 32
Chess
Aubrey Roberts ‘21
You move first my brother offers, pointing to the smooth pieces on the board he’s set up on my itchy bedroom carpet. To a seven year old, an itchy carpet is better than an empty house at night. You move now he tells me, fidgeting with captured pieces, impatient as I choose the music. At his request, we settle on Tchaikovsky. He offers a steady fountain of facts about the composer, things he’s remembered I mentioned. You move here he suggests when I don’t want to think anymore. He’s really playing against himself through me, and that’s fine, because although I taught him to play, I’m not much of a challenge anymore. You’ll move away? he asks me when I talk about college. He begs me not to, as if I’m going off to die rather than to live. He’s scared of being alone, and I’m scared he will forget me. Our parents come home and the game ends inconclusively. He tells me goodnight. I tell him I love him. I hope he remembers.
How To Remember When...
Dana Burton ‘21
Remember when… The world was your oyster and you were its pearl? Life was too simple, everything so novel Like the very first snowflake to tickle your tongue. You stared up at stars and leaned out the car, Envisioning what loomed above, below, and beyond, The wind whipping your hair without a care. Remember when… You wished your worries away and slept to dream? You blew on lucky lashes and flowers as dandy and young as you, Crossed your heart and hoped that your fire never dies. When peals of thunder and panicked pleas haunted the night, You crawled into your parents’ bed with ease. They held your hand as you crossed the street, Scared away the monster that looked an awful lot like a tree. Remember when… Time passed so lovingly at home sweet home? You bickered with sisters but soon after forgave, Your closest companions, no matter the occasional strife. You ruled your own kingdom, its coffers brimming With giggles, gilded tiaras, and glitter gloss. Mother took you to the store on trips so super. Chugged chocolate milk to flaunt a new ‘stache, Suckled on cough drops to soothe your sore sweet tooth. Swung high, high, high, As if you could touch the sky. Just let me remember.
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Above Korea Heejun “Jake” Lee ‘24
Sidewalk Lights Jake Willeford ‘23
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Mom
Photo Strip Madi Burch ‘21 Madi Burch ‘21
And so we laugh and scream and play while you teach me to be stronger than everyone else You teach me to speak my mind and push my thoughts and opinions You teach me to tie my shoes and run faster than the other kids I develop a superiority complex and hate myself for trying to be stronger than I really am I become too opinionated too assertive too angry too loud I tie my shoelaces too tight too lazy to loosen them You laugh at me like no one has ever laughed before and your laugh is so sweet You scream at me and I scream back We can’t play anymore because my jokes are mean and my teeth gnash when you tease But you love me Your love surrounds me and envelopes me and holds me Your love is taller than the Price Tower And I feel it like I feel heat or wind or jealousy Your love courses through me and I love it And I love you too You’re healing I think I’m getting angrier and louder while we gnash like my teeth do when you poke at me I’m getting sadder and quieter when its dark and everyone stays still and silent You don’t teach me anymore But I’m teaching you and I wish you would just listen
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Grateful
Juliette Young ‘22
You’ve given me more than I could ever give to you And you’ve shown me how it feels to be the luckiest person in the world, And for that I am grateful. I am grateful every day I get to wake up and think of you, And I am grateful for everything you’ve ever said to me, And I am grateful for when I can see you smile, Or wrapped up in a blanket, Or drink hot chocolate, Or look at me. I am grateful that I’m able to know you and what you’ve been through, And I am grateful that you care enough to know me and what I’ve been through. You’re like a letter from the universe, Telling me that it’s worth being patient, And that I am loved. I wish I could give you all that you’ve given me, If only to hear you say that you’re grateful for me too.
In Which I Look at a Photograph and Feel Envy
Anonymous
An infant rests soundly at a baseball game in their mother’s lap, the father by their side. Husband, wife, child. It is the parents’ idea of a perfect family, a correct family. July’s heat flushes their faces like choler, the anxious crowd behind them halted by the camera’s lens. I know the child is me, but I’m not so certain, because people are their experiences, and that sleeping child hasn’t flinched when told, “You can tell us anything,” hasn’t heard their own weeping echo in empty church halls, hasn’t spent years living like they’re playing chess and losing, calculating every word and action to delay, for even second, the Looming Inevitable. That blessed baby sleeps. At best, they know nothing. At worst, they’re loved. Perhaps if I could let the Lethe’s cold forgiving waters pass my lips I’d forget the conditions of unconditional love and regain that peace
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lyre strings
Nike of Samothrace
Aubrey Roberts ‘21
Many of us draw inspiration from the world that came before us - that which can be found in the arts of storytelling and history. We are often influenced by the humanities, letting us pose the question of what it is to exist in this world and the meanings we pursue in it. - E.W.
Piano Guts
I GAVE UP
Elizabeth Watson ‘21
Summer Blooms Sarah Emerson ‘21
an artist’s eye
Sophia Serr ‘23
the languid figure lounges on a couch, silken hair draped over one shoulder, legs stretching past the armrest a glimpse of collarbone here, a hint of calf there, a closer look reveals eyes creasing with laughter as her mouth quirks into a small grin she swings her dangling feet back and forth breezily, her dark gaze warm and imploring, an invitation to join her carefree existence
Black and White Leaf AC Tillinghast ‘23
Linguaphilia Black and white leaf
‘21Anna Caroline Tillinghast ‘23 Aubrey Roberts
Give me every language to ever cross my ancestors’ tongues. Guide me back to my great-grandfather’s Europe, guide me all the way back to our shared African cradle. Permit me time to gather each philological flower as we walk. I am greedy, I am starving give me the words of your ancestors too, words becoming our mycelium. Bleed love and loathing in every language until I am glutted on it. If I hoard every word to have dripped off every tongue, would I find the connection I seek? Would the mud washed off my eyes reveal the world, reveal me?
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The Kite (da Vinci)*
Elizabeth Watson ‘21
When you began, born in a forgotten place near Anchiano, did you ever imagine what you might become? As you searched for that perfect geometry and its perfect theories did you think of the kite that once perched on your cradle and ache for its feathers? Its song? Its agency? Did you cradle that precious ricordazione close as you delved deeper into the archives of our forefathers?
He Says Hello Elizabeth Watson ‘21
You grew and your mind began to shift, reaching for the cadences of clouds and time that mirrored the works of the masters who first taught you how to fill that ancient, human craving for something more than Anchiano. And thus the kite too, began to change. The kite who shed its red feathers to reveal wooden bones and stretched its wings into delicate constructions The kite whose form filled the pages of your sketchbooks and became the vehicle for your ambitions. Your flying machine. Did you ever imagine that another kite might bear your name? Hewn not from wood but metal, hurtling through the clouds, to the stars to find the goddess for whom your beloved Venice was named and unravel the mysteries of space and time and life itself ? Did you ever imagine what you might become? * Written after NASA’s announcement of the DAVINCI+ mission to explore Venus’ atmosphere
Sunset Sea Sarah Emerson ‘21
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A Constellation for the Lost
Elizabeth Watson ‘21
W
here are you off to?” Amara asked, squinting at her in the dark. “To fight a dragon.” Diana shrugged into her jumper and eased her battered book of poems out from beneath her Latin textbook. The bookmark, a scrap of paper she’d torn from her anatomy notes (who needed a labeled diagram of the human spine anyways?), was where she’d left it - marking one with a particularly lovely image of autumn. “To fight a dragon,” Amara repeated wryly. “Does that entail demerits? Because that’s what you’ll get if Woolly catches you out of bed.” “Oh ye of little faith. Surely you think me to be more careful than that.” Diana caught her boots by the laces and swung them jovially over her shoulder, turning to face her roommate. “She won’t know if you don’t tell.” Amara narrowed her eyes. “And I won’t tell because…?” “Who else will banter with you at midnight hours?” “The ghosts of my past.” Diana smiled a little. “Fair enough.” She and Amara had been roommates since their first year at this place, and their dynamic throughout that stretch of time could be encapsulated by the general essence of this conversation. They’d always had a grudging alliance, formed upon the similar sharpness and loneliness they’d found in one another’s characters. They weren’t the sort of people who got along particularly well or even liked each other most of the time (they rarely spoke in their day-to-day activities), but they understood one another in some sense of the word. And that was enough. Amara gave a great sigh and slumped back. “Leave the window open, will you? Perhaps if a dedicated bird flies through it and destroys my presentation notes, then I can spare the world my shoddy grasp of Shakespeare tomorrow.” Diana spread out her arms as she backed towards the window. “All academia’s a stage,” she said with a wicked grin. “And all us poor, exhausted students merely players.” Amara fixed her with a mutinous glare, and it was almost enough to make Diana feel like herself again. She offered her roommate a mock salute, which Amara returned with all the enthusiasm of a dead pigeon. Good enough, she thought. Between the two of them, Diana had
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always been the one who tended more towards swashbuckling. She took one last look at the small room they shared before pushing the window open and climbing out into the night. Or early morning, if you were the technical sort. Ordinarily, this would’ve been a terrible idea, but in addition to an unhealthy fascination with Shakespeare, the Henrietta Montfort School for Girls happened to boast a breed of architecture that was quite receptive to the moderately courageous student. It was a bit like living in an old castle, if castles were filled with chalkboards and dusty libraries and interminable lectures about various maths and humanities and sciences and questions about where you’ll go to university and who you’ll be once you get there and after you leave. For Diana, who like many teenagers before her had been caught up in the idealistic infinity of the old poets, this was precisely the sort of adventure that she craved, a crack in the mold that she feared she would settle into someday. The night air was cool against her face as she looked out over the landscape. Rolling hills, thick-trunked trees, winding paths that led to the small town a little ways off. It was perfectly isolated. Perfectly idyllic. Above all, perfectly lonely. She didn’t mind Montfort most of the time, especially on nights like this, but in all honesty, she felt a little shaky on the inside these days, more attuned to the aches and creaks of a place that felt too small. Already, it seemed tinged with a sort of nostalgia. Diana maneuvered her way up to the roof of the dormitories and swung the strap of her book bag over one of the little gargoyles that lined the edge. It was funny actually. This particular gargoyle had almost killed her the first time she’d attempted this. In return, she had christened him Raphael - her least favorite of the Renaissance painters. She hoisted herself up and settled into her usual place overlooking the great swath of nature before her. It would rain soon, she thought. The air smelled earthy and deep, the telltale mark of petrichor. Diana tugged her book bag back from the gargoyle and fished out her boots, lacing them up quickly. She was rather fond of these socks and would prefer to keep them dry if at all possible (they were striped!). But as much as she loved to watch storms unfold,
she was here for something else. It had all begun with the book of poems. She pulled her bag closer and took it out, thumbing through the pages once before coming to stop on the inner cover. Her gaze fell on the name scrawled there in neat, dark script. What a lovely thing it would be for humans to gather memories through osmosis. What had her grandmother been thinking when she’d purchased this book at age nineteen and written her name on the inside of the cover to make it well and truly hers? When she had stayed up late into the night looking through these pages during her days at university after graduating from a school much like this one? When she’d held it for the last time to write Diana’s name beneath hers, the final line of a life well-lived? Diana was a strange girl. Always hungry for thoughts and words and life in the terrifying, hallowing way that only the young and restless on the cusp of something uncertain could be. It was the feeling that countless poets had written about. It was struggling through the wild winds and rains of a furious storm in hopes of catching one glimpse of lightning amid the thunder. One chance for truth. One chance for meaning. Her grandmother had been a photojournalist, the sort who traveled all about the world with a camera against her hip and a thousand stories in her eyes. Her mother was an attorney, with starched blazers and eyes fierce enough to cut through metal if she so chose (a glare that had been fixed upon Diana a number of times in her childhood). But what would she be? How would she forge that final line when she could barely write the first? She tapped the corner of the book and looked up at the sky. That was another thing she liked about Montfort. It was so far removed from anywhere else that most nights, you could see the stars perfectly. Even with the rain coming, there was still a precious slip of time before the clouds rolled in, and the sight did something to stay that ugly, gnawing feeling of loneliness and frustration in her gut. Her grandmother had told her there were stories in the stars, and there was something of the stars in a little bit of everyone. So maybe Diana had a story stirring somewhere inside of her that was worth telling alongside that restlessness - something that was worth more than the crumpled scribblings that lived in her bag, more than the academic words that filled her essays that never described
anything that felt real or true or human. A drop of cold rain fell on her face, and she exhaled shakily, a strange feeling taking root in her stomach. She had always loved the way that metal looked when it was first pulled from the heat, glowing bright with adventure and promise like a newborn star. She wanted to be the forger of her own little universe, always hammering and shaping amid the fire. She would make her own story. A constellation for the lost.
A Constellation for Diana Elizabeth Watson ‘21
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Nighthawks (after Edward Hopper, Nighthawks)
Sophia Bawduniak ‘22 On a lonely night Across the street You can see A man turned away from the world Nowhere to go Nobody at home Under the dark blue sky Beside the empty sidewalk You might glimpse Two stories sharing the same space A husband hiding from his wife A daughter trying to survive In a yellow room Through the window You will spy A proud man working each day for minimum wage Dreaming about his lady Dreaming for his babies But maybe you can’t see A boy who wishes he weren’t so alone Quite possibly you won’t glimpse A desperate woman dressed in her prettiest clothes Life can block from your eye A tired man wondering how he got so old And then you won’t spy A worker praying the night wasn’t too cold You’ll walk by Not bothering to take refuge Under the fluorescent lights but that’s ok I see them as I glide by Underneath the lonely night sky
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Praise From God
Aubrey Roberts ‘21
Your wild, dark hair is gray and your once brown eyes are cloudy. A beautiful thing foreign to me, who cannot age. You spent countless hours putting temporary words to your forgotten name. A beautiful thing foreign to me, who cannot fade. You bleed and the wound morphs into a jagged scar you call an imperfection. A beautiful thing foreign to me, who cannot hurt. Your tears burn, throat aches, and chest heaves as grief goes to work on your soul. A beautiful thing foreign to me, who cannot mourn. You fail again, so you try a new method of your own creation which fails too. A beautiful thing foreign to me, who cannot change. You breath your last and sink into a sepulchral sleep. A beautiful thing foreign to me, who cannot die. Everything you do has a price you happily pay; time, pain, life. Sacrifice is the only thing that creates meaning, And nothing I do costs a thing. I envy you, you beautiful thing.
La Iglesia Elizabeth Watson ‘21
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Honey Pot Kaylee Cooper ‘21
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Look (after John Everett Millais, Ophelia)
Aubrey Roberts ‘21
And there lies Ophelia, where she has died Drowned in cruelty, violence, hate, deceit; In her life and death, no flowers arrived. To escape men above, who used her and lied, She chose the fatal freedom under a white sheetAnd there lies Ophelia, where she has died. Before marching to that stark pondside, She gave away her last things soft and sweet; In her life and death, no flowers arrived. To those who cried grief by her graveside, Her death is not hers, it’s a chance to competeAnd there lies Ophelia, where she has died. Of course she saw agency in cyanide! Her existence was shackles, sorrow, defeat. In her life and death, no flowers arrived. By writers and painters, her death’s beautified Her suffering made pleasurable for them to eat, And there lies Ophelia, where she has died. In her life and death, no flowers arrived.
Eve
Elisabeth Rollins ‘21
I should have resented it. The way it compelled my movements like a forsaken sailor lured by the siren’s song I should have despised it. The way its sickeningly sweet sap overwhelmed my senses with a lust for more I should have abhorred it. How it leveraged my greed for that which I was unable to obtain against me I should have loathed it. The way it preyed upon my gluttony and left me envious of its influence I should have scorned it. The way it usurped my sloth with a desperation for more I should have abandoned it. Left it to wilt and face the wrath of a Paradise Lost But my pride would not allow me to do so. So I ask of you, Would you not do the same?
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Icarus
I
Aubrey Roberts ‘21
stand on our stone windowsill, and the waves crash below in their familiarly inconsistent rhythm. My father distantly says, “Use that brain I gave you, boy, and get down!” I linger for a moment longer as to feel the sun caress my face and relax my limbs, stiffened from disuse. My father is a genius. His genius is what imprisons us, and he believes it is what will set us free. At night, when the sun has left my side, his workspace is still dimly illuminated by the candles he melts down. His fingers weave together a sea of feathers with the precision of an experienced thief opening a lock. The determination stabs through my heart. In the morning, when my father has not woken up, I talk with Apollo. He’s seen the world. “It’s beautiful. Let me show it all to you, every last stone and flower.” I cast a guilty glance towards my snoring father. I cannot leave him alone, not here. When I return my gaze to Apollo, he’s left. The windowsill is still warm where he sat. My father murmurs about freedom. In his sleep, as he cooks, as he works on the newest product of his genius. “The wings are freedom. They are… unchained joy. Victory.” I must look uncomfortable because he begins to chastise me. “They are your future, Icarus! I made them for you. Think of all the years we did not have these wings. Now we do. Be grateful!” Every molecule of my body screams as he binds me to what he has created. As I wait for the tears of pain to stop blurring my vision, I ponder the scar that will surely form where the burning wax eats at my skin. Then I recall the plan, crafted in whispered voices during a rendezvous known
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only to the participants. I ponder the scar that will surely form where the burning guilt eats at my heart. I do not change my mind. “I’ve planned it all out, you see,” my father once again explains, not looking at me. “We’ll find somewhere safe, and we’ll stay there. Fly at a moderate height. Not too low, and not too high. If you keep in the middle, the gods won’t punish you for hubris that’s how it goes. Listen to me, I know the world.” It is dawn. The day has come. My legs shake as I stand on the windowsill. My head is light. So this is how the fledgling feels before he falls from the nest. He gives his speech once more. “A moderate height.” The gods painted the world for him in black and white. They painted the world for me in golds. I want to see it. I silently thank whoever is listening that he does not see my eyes. I don’t know what is held there - grief, yearning, pity, anticipation - but, whatever it is, I don’t want him to see it. I step into empty air, an uncharted route to freedom. The earth yanks me downwards. Crags, crashing waves, cold sea mist, panic and gulls, my father’s shout. And then I fly. The sun begins climbing the sky, and I move upwards to meet him. Apollo extends his hand to me, and tenderly helps me into his chariot. I cling to him and look down. So that’s the world, so large and boundless that I cannot point out the tower where I’ve spent my entire childhood. Miles away, I see my father’s face. He looks at me like I am a fellow soldier who deserted some war he himself cannot, will not leave. He looks at me like I am a stranger. My scars ache. I will not change my mind, so I look away. I still see him.
Cliff AC Tillinghast ‘23
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The Death of Ideals (after Jacques-Louis David, The Death of Marat)
Dana Burton ‘21 I. Liberté Breathe life into the corpse of France, Suffocated by the greedy grip of the lords and ladies Who value opulence over humankind. He establishes a system proclaiming Freedom from an oppressive monarchy. See strength, not his bath-ridden weakness, Skin muscled and golden, not pallid and pocked. Endorsed by his publications, Religion is abandoned for Reason. Yet here is a man who has condemned many Being worshipped as the revolution’s Savior. A political martyr in his mournful murder, Drunken on self-proclamation and Inky blood dripping like red wine. II. Egalité Condemn those who have made the people suffer For silk shoes and a pretty penny. Let the Third Estate finally be First. Righteousness guided the original path, But integrity is conquered by The desire to rule, Giving way to malicious propaganda. “Let them eat cake” — a fallacy, Claimed by the very leaders who vow transparency.
As aristocrats cut through their confectioneries with a gilded knife, The blunt blade of the guillotine plunges and thuds. A sprawling view of rolling heads, Faceless victims whose names were tallied by Marat Fertilize the soil of the nation’s unforeseen fate. III. Fraternité A nation of equal brothers— But not sisters— Who fight in arms for the future of a nation that They shall rule. Except their hunger has returned, This time for both bread and blood. Let the peasants consume each other And demolish any initial hope of galvanizing the world. Do not trust your neighbor, Nor the woman who claims to have a list So she can murder him in cold blood Like he did thousands. He cowers behind parchment and quill. “Friend of the People” only to those so fearful they Do not speak. The wooden block reading his name Is like the bascule so many innocents rested upon Before encountering eternal slumber and Departing a bedlam France.
Built into Ruin by Nature Haven Hobbs ‘22 string theory / 49
Eurydice
Elizabeth Watson ‘21
We venture into the looming dark for the one who listened and against all odds, found the truth of us. Who heard the voice that frayed when our songs faltered but chose to keep finding it. We beg before the god of the great below. We stitch together a broken song from fragile threads, and his heart softens like the wax of Icarus’ wings. He offers his wager, hesitant but curious at the mechanisms that drive us mortal creatures. But these wagers are never simple. Centuries will pass before their marble immortality begins to weather at the sharp edges of their children’s blades. And so the gods require a love that we cannot bear, one that never begins to melt the candle it lights. But our lives demand that we exist fiercely with a love that exists in holding hands and lopsided smiles, in innumerable memories and teasing whispers pressed into someone’s sweater when it’s cold outside. It is a love that exists in making a plea to a timeless god, in looking back with the knowledge that we accepted a wager we could not win, in understanding that the gods could never reverse death, in memorizing the planes of someone’s face for the final time, and saying goodbye. It is knowing what it means to be Orpheus in search of Eurydice.
Natalia y José Santos Elizabeth Watson ‘21 string theory / 50
Lizard
navigation strings
AC Tillinghast ‘23
We embark upon many journeys over the course of our lives, and these journeys can take many forms - both the kind that take place on a road, as well as the ones of growth that occur within us. - E.W.
Double Stripe
AC Tillinghast ‘23
Before the Fire Goes Out
Elizabeth Watson ‘21
Sometimes I want to count down the days - the days until I can finally let the words spill out and stay up late and map my constellations without consequence. But at the same time, I want to wait and breathe these days in deep and hold the memories of these people close while this place still exists. Because the moment its door swings shut behind us for the last time, it changes. They call it hiraeth, I think. Missing a place that doesn’t exist anymore - or maybe never did. But right now, our place is still here. Sometimes I can’t wait to leave it, but there are people I don’t want to leave behind. I’m caught in the moment before the fire goes out.
Morning Fog
Aubrey Roberts ‘21
In the silence of an early morning drive, My weary eyes welcome the soft shroud draped over Cotton field and curving roads There is no need to fear this gentle friend Whose whispers lull the world’s blaring color into a muted rest. She is no ill omen, but a blessing For our overworked eyes, she is a curtain That reveals what we need to see only as we need to see it. She is not confusion, but focus. I rest for a moment in her downy embrace And allow her cooling touch to ease my mind into a trance. Cherish her presence.
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Love Travels
GaHyun “Grace” Yoon ‘22
Sending love to my friends who live Seven miles away. Going through bright red lights Sluggish traffic, and stop signs to get to them. Even the pure white snow and slippery translucent ice on the road cannot Stop my love from traveling to them Sending love to my family who lives Seven thousand miles away. Going through a wornout flight safety brochure and an airport like maze to get to them. Even the vast Pacific Sea between the two continents cannot Stop my love from traveling to them
Mid-Flight May Day Kaylee Cooper ‘21
Lehua Sarah Emerson ‘21
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Don’t Talk to the Animals
Erik Knoll ‘21
T
he trailhead is just up the road at the next parking lot,” said the park ranger, sitting behind the counter of the Big Bend National Park Welcome Center. “Oh, and here’s a park map.” “Thanks,” I said. I grabbed the map, and started to leave, but as I opened the door the park ranger said, “one more thing, don’t talk to the animals.” “Okay,” I said over my shoulder as I left the building. Outside, I headed to my grey 2002 Nissan Sentra. I thought back to what the park ranger had said. “Don’t talk to the animals.” I had heard “don’t feed the animals,” but never “don’t talk to them.” I brushed it off as the park ranger simply being weird as I struggled to get my car to start. Amazingly, the rickety thing had made the three-hundred mile trip to the park without anything major breaking. The engine finally fought to life after a minute of trying. I realized that it’s pretty stupid to drive into the wilderness with no cell service in a car that somehow continued to start, but I was already here. It would probably be okay. I’d take it to the shop tomorrow. As I drove up the road, the late afternoon light put much of the valleys and canyons in deep shadow. I would have to hustle if I didn’t want to be left hiking in the dark. I had a flashlight though, so it wasn’t too big an issue. After a few minutes of driving I pulled into the parking lot located at the trailhead. Grabbing my CamelBak from the backseat - as well as some bars and a flashlight, which I flicked off and on a few times to make sure it still worked - I looked at my watch. Seven. I’d have about an hour before nightfall. I started off up the trail. Hopefully I would be able to reach the end of the trail and back before night. I checked the map to see how long the trail was, but it didn’t say. I’d just have to keep track of the time. The trail wound through the desert shrubs and cacti littering the ground. I occasionally spotted a lizard soaking up the last of the sun’s rays or a rabbit darting into its hole, but most of the desert landscape seemed quiet. I only saw one other car in the parking lot, so I wasn’t expecting to see many people on the trail. After hiking for about fifteen minutes, taking sips
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from my CamelBak every few minutes, I saw a rabbit on the side of the trail. Instead of scampering away from me like the others though, it just looked at me as I approached. It must be hurt or something, I thought. It continued to stare at me as I passed it. “Hey little guy,” I said as I neared it. Its deep stare was creeping me out. As I turned my gaze away from the rabbit and back to the trail, it looked from the corner of my eye as if it had two faces instead of one. My gaze snapped back to the animal, but it looked normal again. Must have been the shadows playing tricks on me. I looked at the rabbit for a few more moments, just to make sure its face stayed in place, and then continued back down the trail, a little more on edge. A few minutes of hiking later I thought back to the ranger: don’t talk to the animals. Too late for that, I thought as I continued walking down the desert trail. I passed an older couple heading back down the trail, and asked them how far I was from the end of the trail. “Oh, you’re only a couple of minutes away,” the woman said. Awesome, I could make it to the end and back easily before it got dark. The woman was mistaken. After hiking for ten minutes, I still was not at the end of the trail. I looked at my watch; if I wanted to get back before dark I would have to immediately turn around. You know what, I’ve made the drive, I can handle hiking in the dark for a few minutes if it means reaching the end of the trail, I thought. I continued on, still sipping my CamelBak. Another ten minutes, and I finally reached the end. The view was incredible. Even in the near night, I could see for miles. The red-beige cliffs fell down toward the unseen river below and gave way to a vast expanse of empty desert. It was well worth the walk in the dark. I took out my phone to take pictures of the landscape, and while doing so, I noticed another hiker, obscured by the shadows, also facing toward the cliffside. “How ya doing?” I said jovially. He responded with a quiet but deep “hey little guy.” What a weird thing to say, I thought to myself. Admittedly this man was considerably taller and round-
er than me, but I still didn’t know what to make of this chest before it stopped moving. The rest of its body then response. I awkwardly walked away in the silence that exploded with movement. His limbs uncoiled and lengthfollowed. As I continued to take some pictures in the ened, and his skin seemed to bubble as fur grew and quickfading light, I glanced back at the strange man; he hadn’t ly fell off the thing’s body. It let out a guttural shriek from moved the whole time I was at the trail’s end. Glancing at some unknown orifice, and began shifting toward me. my watch, I saw I had ten minutes before I would run out I snapped out of my paralysis, and began to run. I of light. I took a swig from my CamelBak, opened a bar to couldn’t see the uneven ground beneath my feet, but I kept eat on the way back, and headed down the trail. blindly running down the trail. I didn’t dare turn around Soon, I was left in the dark. I grabbed my flashlight, or slow. I needed to get as far as I could from whatever that and turned it on to illuminate the trail ahead. Outside of thing was. My foot connected with a stone sticking out of the beam, I couldn’t see anything of my surrounding. The the ground, and slid on my knees down the trail. I popped lack of light pollution left me stranded in a sea of black. back to my feet. I had no time to examine my bleeding “Did I hear something?” knees; I had to run. I aimed the flashlight to my right at space I could I finally made it back to my car. I hadn’t heard anyhave sworn I heard something shuffling in the brush. thing following me, but I still felt in no sense of the word What if it’s a mountain lion? I had nothing to protect mysafe. I scrambled into the car, and started the engine. Well, self. If it came for me I was dead. I trotted up the trail for tried to start the engine; my car wouldn’t start. How stethe next couple hundred feet. I reotypical. I tried to get the was pretty sure I was just freakcar started for a few minutes It didn’t sound human; it sounding myself out. It was probably more, but it wasn’t working. ed closer to a woodchipper than just a rabbit running through I checked my phone to see if a person. The sound curdled my the Internet would be of any the brush or something. A couple hundred feet assistance, but of course, no blood, but I couldn’t take my later, still blindly following bars. eyes off this man. the flashlight down the trail, I I sat in my car in the heard a sound that chilled my empty parking lot, thinking blood. Someone to the right of me said, “hey little guy.” about what to do. I grabbed a dirty shirt that was laying in I whirled to my right with my flashlight in hand. Its the passenger side to try to clean up my knees a little. beam landed on the hiker I had seen earlier. He was staring I had two options. I could stay with the car and directly at me. continue trying to get the engine going, or I could start “What are you doing man?!” I yelled. My heart was walking back to the welcome center. I had no idea how to beating out of my chest. fix the car. My only option would be to keep turning the “Hey little guy,” he said. Though he didn’t really say it. key in the ignition, but I was pretty sure that would be His mouth hadn’t moved. He hadn’t moved a muscle, but unsuccessful. As for walking back to the welcome center, it he had definitely said something. I looked at him in shock. would be a long walk, and I certainly did not want to run Why did he keep saying that? into whatever I had seen on the trail. Finally, I decided my He repeated himself again, “hey little guy,” but this best option would be to stay the night in the car. I could time it was different. It didn’t sound human; it sounded find help in the morning when park visitors arrived. closer to a woodchipper than a person. The sound curdled Climbing into the back seat, I tried to get comfortmy blood, but I couldn’t take my eyes off this man. able, but I couldn’t stop thinking about the hiker turned All of the sudden, making no noise, it opened its monster. It kept saying “hey little guy.” Wasn’t that what I mouth, but it kept opening. His chin almost touched his had said to the rabbit on the trailside? Thinking back to
“
”
string theory / 56
Don’t Talk to the Animals (Cont.) the rabbit, I realized that its two-faced appearance out of the corner of my eye was probably real; maybe that rabbit was the same thing as the hiker - and what the hiker became. Just as I was drifting off to sleep I heard a sound. “What are you doing man?” I sat upright in an instant. I grabbed my flashlight and pointed it out the car, though the dirty window made it impossible to see out of it, so I turned it off and hoped my eyes would adjust to the dark. I heard it again. “What are you doing man?” By the loudness of its alien voice, it was close, almost right outside the side window, but I couldn’t see a thing. I look around my car for a weapon of some sort to defend myself, but the best I could come up with was my flashlight. It started repeating its phrase over and over again. It was right outside my car. “What are you doing man?” “What are you doing man?” “What are you doing man?” It started banging on the side of the car. My eyes, starting to adjust to the dark, could just make out a shadowy mass, banging on the car. The vehicle rocked with each blow. Its shrill voice rang in my ear. It was deafening. I covered my ears and screamed. Then, the sounds stopped. I realized the creature had stopped banging against the door. It even stopped talking. I took my hand off my ears and peered into the night outside the window. The shadowy force writhed like a ball of worms. It made no sound. Then, I heard a mechanical click. The door handle. The door slowly swung open. Of course it can open doors. It can look like a human. Of course it can open doors. With my back to the opposite side door, I watched with frozen dread as the door opened fully. There was nothing between me and the thing now. Its writhing mass let out an ungodly howl that must have been its emulation of my own scream. I could feel liquid dripping out of my ruptured ears. The monster lunged towards me and…
string theory / 57
Ranger Report 8/27/20 - Abandoned grey Nissan Sentra found in the first parking lot. Back door was open, but no signs of struggle in the vehicle. A flashlight was found by the trailhead, and rangers are searching for the person in question on the park trails. The search has been unfruitful so far.
Rusted Van AC Tillinghast ‘23
Whiskey Benjamin Tillinghast ‘21
string theory / 58
Finite Avery Schnautz ‘24
silk strings
Our perception of the natural world is built upon a multitude of different concepts and ideas, including the stories that describe our place within nature, from the hidden depths of forests to the banks of a wild river. - E.W.
Königssee - Winter Sunrise
Aubrey Roberts ‘21
Into the Woods
Katylu Offill ‘23
Into the woods Where corsages glitter and gleam in the twilight Into the woods Where trees sway to the rhythm of slow songs Into the woods Where dresses are as red as a fox’s pelt As silver as a wolf ’s hide As golden as the innumerable stars As green as the towering pines and oaks And as blue as a sinuous river Into the woods Where suits and tuxedos are darker than midnight Into the woods Where the clicking of high heels echo like a sweet cacophony of chirping birds Into the woods Where the bass of the music resonates like the footsteps of an approaching beast Into the enchanted forest Where memories are made
Blue Bonnett AC Tillinghast ‘23
string theory / 61
Saucy Mossy Z. Martens ‘22
Seasons of Love
Above the Clouds Sarah Emerson ‘21
Arabella Rosiles ‘24
It was summer and the birds were chirping brightly. The feeling we shared was new and frightened me like a baby bunny. The sun beat down on our hearts and made our palms sweaty. Fall brought a new uncertainty of this feeling. The color changing leaves revealed we too were not the same. But as happy as ever, I continued like clueless foliage drunk on the feeling of love. As snow began to fall, ice embedded itself into your heart and shattered mine. Fingers numb with Winter, you tried to reconcile. But the touch was more painful than the initial crack. Spring bloomed with flowers and peace of mind. She was quietness and new birth; a tranquility I never knew I needed. She was wispy clouds of white and the babble of water. I carried Spring with me forever after that day; Into Summer. Into Fall. Into Winter.
string theory / 62
Wonderland
Dana Burton ‘21
Beauty is to be found— The frost-bitten trees, which will Grow back their leaves. The crunch of brittle yellow grass underfoot Animating the slumbering sidewalks. Cheeks rosied by the bite of a bitter breeze, Adding color to the cloud-shrouded skies That merely obscure the possibilities that shall spring To life in a few months’ time. Sanctuary is to be found— It is the season of convalescence, Whether that be by a hearth glowing red-orange, Encompassed by the homely incense of toasted firewood And laughter of those who possess your heart, Or the solitary company of a plush quilt and dogeared book. Winter is a recess Between fall’s flush and spring’s revival. Celebration is to be found— News of new life in the birth of a babe, Or a family’s strengthened bond. Candlelight glinting off the Twinkling red-and-gold treats under the tree Like watchful stars winking in the midnight sky. Hear the interlude of winter— Its whistling wind and cheerful carols Lullabying the world to tranquility.
Bildungsroman at Dead River
Aubrey Roberts ‘21
Our legs hang over the river, knees sharp like Damocles’ sword as a boat motor cuts through our conversation. When we pull ourselves off the ground at dusk, the hiking trail’s wet earth clings to our legs as if it isn’t quite ready for our exit either. This spot is called Dead River. I wonder aloud how many other people came here to dispose of the remains of childhood, listening to the thick splash of lunchbox ice packs and Hershey bars, limbs of youth hitting the water. Did they pause to mourn before continuing along the trail and fleeing the scene? Can you mourn the inevitable, can you even know what you have lost? Tiny green caterpillars dance in midair, a fairytale. Well, no really they are just drifting on translucent strings which will snap at the smallest of tensions. Then they plummet. Find me the bond that lasts forever.
Red Bridge Sophia Serr ‘23
string theory / 63
Fog Plant AC Tillinghast ‘23
A Tree in the Forest
Erik Knoll ‘21
As he approaches The grand pine The sound of water rushing Up through the tree is almost audible The roots burrowing their way Through the ground Suck water From all around To provide the tree life And give the grand pine Its stolid beauty
string theory / 64
Love like...
Terese Martens ‘24
I love you like the stars Love the sky, like the Dragon loves gold I love you like the tulips Love morning dew, like the Bird loves seeds. I love you like the cats Love the outdoors, like the Deer loves grass. I love you like the horse Loves to run, like the Frog loves water. I love you like the lizard Loves to bask, like the
Elephant loves shade. I love you like the cub Loves to play, like the Squid loves darkness. I love you like the wolf Loves to howl, like the Chameleon loves stillness.
Saturday, October 17th
I love you like the jaguar Loves to prowl, like the Zebra loves stripes.
today i opened my window
I love you like the albatross Loves the sea, like the Penguin loves fish.
Cat AC Tillinghast ‘23
Aubrey Roberts ‘21
the afternoon free and unclaimed the first autumn winds whispered until i slept without dreams upon a bed without sheets
string theory / 65
Everlasting Fire Hyrum Blackwelder ‘22
Drizzle
Juliette Young ‘22
The slight pitter-patter on the concrete Makes my heart beat faster, Like the increasing tempo of a bouncing ball Or the popping popcorn in a microwave The possibility of lightning Makes my heart pound, Increasing my awareness of my surroundings And causing me to pull my blanket up higher I light a candle to calm myself down; The light fills a small corner of the dark room But does not calm me down in the slightest Because of the possibility of something catching on fire while I’m asleep So I blow it out And crawl back in bed
string theory / 66
silly strings
Dropped off at the doctor
Kaylee Cooper ‘21
Exploration can occur through many different mediums, but oftentimes it is the most unconventional variety that can lead us to understand something in an entirely different way than before. - E.W.
Weather Map Catastrophe
Maheen Shah ‘23
how to beefriend
Juliette Young ‘22
look! there he is! try to remain calm, of course; you wouldn’t want to scare him away. a good start would be to call out his name, if you know it. if you don’t know it, however, you could always try flapping your arms to imitate bee wings. if that doesn’t work you should reconsider if the bee would really be a good friend for you; i mean, he probably has his own bee friends, and a very busy work life. but if you still insist on acquiring his friendship, i would advise you to stretch out your palm, reach up to the sky, catch him, and hope that 1) he won’t sting you, and 2) he realizes that you two are meant to bee.
this aint it, hun
Sophia Serr ‘23
imma be totally honest i’m not a huge fan of poetry especially student poetry not tryna step on anyone’s toes but writing a poem about how you thought you broke a boy’s heart irreparably?? in middle school??? like… sis, your life is not a netflix original and i swear to all things holy and unholy, if i hear one more poem about ‘withering flowers fading into nothingness’ then /peace out/
string theory / 69
To The Man In The Green Car
Aubrey Roberts ‘21
I did not intend to startle you Tuesday afternoon. A squirrel crossed the street unexpectedly, and - as it is well known amongst traffic scholars - any small furry creature always has the right of way. At least we both know our brakes work.
Stop eating the chair please Elizabeth Watson ‘21
string theory / 70
Spineless Fool Metal Compilation Ava Chavez ‘23
Erik Knoll ‘21
Sometimes I envy the spineless fool Ignorant to the world around him He does not know about taxes He does not know about politics He does not know about racism He only knows food Nothing is stopping the little man He can inch wherever he wants He can eat leaves all day He can change himself when he’s bored He will rule the world Sometimes I envy the tiny caterpillar
Chris by CLE Sungjae “Chris” Lee ‘24
Preschool Picture Day
Sophia Serr ‘23
my jeans are really itchy but i like my shirt because it’s pink and pink is my favorite color that’s a nice flower in the sidewalk but it’s not my favorite color it’s yellow like my necklace the picture man keeps talking to me i decide that i don’t like him because he hides behind the big camera and he tries to make me laugh using that little bear he’s also bald and i’m scared of bald people he smiles at me now and puts the little bear on his head what a strange man he’s bald and he“Say ‘CHEESE’!”
string theory / 71
A complete list of things I hate Space in the Astronaut Keeton Matthews ‘24
Madi Burch ‘21
1) Onion 2) Onion rings 3) Onion powder 4) Onion skin 5) The smell of onion 6) The word onion 7) The way light reflects off of onion skin 8) Onion layers 9) Leftover onion juice on the kitchen knife that my dad then uses to slice tomatoes which now taste like onion 10) Onion in disguise (baseballs, softballs, oranges, grapefruits, James, pokémon balls, a ball of yarn, the sun. I won’t eat any of these because I have a strong suspicion that they are just onions in disguise) 11) White onion 12) Green onion 13) Red onion 14) The surprise onion on my McDouble from McDonalds that causes me to boycott McDonalds for a few days 15) Hidden onions in my dinner that my mom calls ~~seasoning~~ 16) The crunch of raw onion 17) The smush of cooked onion 18) Fascism 19) Onion bagel 20) The fact that I just typed the word onion twenty one times
I am sorry for stealing your favorite sweatshirt
Emily Coleman ‘21
I stole it, I’ll admit it. I know it was your favorite, Because it was so big and warm. But it just looks so good on me. Come on, you have to admit it. Now I am so warm and happy. You understand, Don’t you?
string theory / 72
Watercolor Flower Question Mark Zoe Matos ‘24
Sharpie
Dana Burton ‘21
To doodle flowers and smileys between blue lines Or to scrawl quick reminders on my hand, A sharpie does just the trick. Fascinated as I dot and blot, Mesmerized by its inky ichor. Devouring the pure fluorescence of white notepaper, Like black blood soiling a lustrous surface, I keep my focus like a lunatic. A semi-permanent mark of my choice As I imagine the possibilities Of what could become an everlasting mark On the canvas of my unblemished skin. For this, a sharpie is the perfect pick.
Robot Dinosaur Lizzy Parsons ‘23
He Wants to Be a Lapdog
Emma Lowe ‘21
I migrate to the couch after some restless nights. I set up my pillow and spread out my blanket, With only one thing left: A pitbull. He comes galloping over, excited for another sleepover. I drum at the end of the couch by my feet. He hops on and curls up like a cinnamon roll. “Stay,” I say. Almost asleep, but then I feel movement. He walks on my heels, and balances on my stomach. Bending his head down so his wet nose touches mine, A sense of guilt is present but is overridden by his pure love and joy. After a few more moments, nose to nose, He plops down right on my torso staring at me, Knowing I’ll unfortunately be immobilized for the rest of the night. But his thoughts disappear as he dozes off into a pleasant sleep.
string theory / 73
A Little Tipsy
A Little Tipsy Abigail Civa ‘24
Abigail Civa ‘24
Chocolate
Bella Garzonie ‘22
It’s The Jack of all trades. It’s the diplomat of all occasions. It’s the glue in s’mores that are eaten in the cold wispy wind by the fireside. It’s the star of the silky mousse in glamorous clinky glasses. It colors the popsicles eaten in the summertime while boisterous stories fill the air. It’s the name of the drink that warms your stomach after a long January week. And sometimes it comes in little heart shapes on a certain day in February. But it’s not always sitting on a throne. It’s only the right-hand man to the world’s favorite cookie. It comes in golden crinkly wrappers. Only to be overtaken by tangy orange filling. It’s only a background flavor in the symphony of supermarket candies. And sometimes brands do it the greatest injustice by Making it taste like a spoonful of sugar. But even then, it’s still positively life-changing because it’s chocolate.
Love Is a Peanut Butter and Jelly Sandwich
Emily Coleman ‘21
Love is a peanut butter and jelly sandwich - messy and delicious Love is a fire that burns endlessly Love is a growth on your heart that develops over time Love is a garden in constant bloom Love is a joyful blanket - filled with warmth as it surrounds you Love is a lemon - bitter and sweet Love is a disease that knows no limits Love is a cough that just won’t go away Love is a fever that gets higher by the minute Love is a poem, written about you
Sunflowers Juliet Indergard ‘24 string theory / 74
How to Make a DIY Gift for Your Boyfriend
Emma Lowe ‘21
Are you tired of buying your boyfriend the same boring gifts: His favorite snacks, flowers, plants, and clothing? Well it is time to switch it up a bit, And give him something unique that he’ll never forget. First, go to your favorite grocery or dollar store. If you truly care about him, choose the grocery store, Because they have the on-brand stuff. You don’t want some knock-off Barbies. Now pick a Barbie of your choice, But it will likely end up being a skinny blonde one. Buy it and bring it home; Just don’t become too attached to it. Now it is time to start making your gift. Tear the clothes off the Barbie, And carefully remove the limbs and the head. You will only be needing the head and a leg, But you can save the rest for another time. Take a kettle and boil water. Pour into a ceramic bowl. Plop in the Barbie head for a few minutes, So the hair will loosen. Grab some pliers, And rip the hair from the inside out. Every single one, Till it’s bald. Perfect! Get some glue, And delicately place a dot on the bottom of the head. Slap that head on the leg. You’re finished! Behold: a Barbie snake! Don’t worry; He’ll love it, And he’ll love you.
string theory / 75
just a little salty
Sophia Serr ‘23
I don’t expect much. No flowers or candies or teddy bears. No sudden confessions of undying love. These things are beyond you. I don’t expect you to bat an eye at the occasion. Or to even mention the date at all. But make no mistake. I’m not bitter, just a little salty.
Eye
for
an
eye
nS bi ah D
m hi
‘23
string theory / 76
threads behind the theory “My poem was written for an assignment over ekphrasis, where you give a piece of art a story. I kept it simple and just wrote about the lives of four people coming together for a single moment. Each of them was together, but separate.”
sophia bawduniak ‘22 “I have always loved working with wood. I experimented with wood construction and woodburning before settling on a more simplistic wood cutout. I found that the overarching theme of my piece made the art piece all the more meaningful and special to me. The choice of a black wood finish represents the charcoal of an already burned log. It prompts the question of whether the wood is fueling the flames or is being consumed by it.”
hyrum blackwelder ‘22
“I want to thank Dr. Allman and the creative writing students for making that amazing class so welcoming, supportive, and inspirational. Each and every one of you helped shape my writing into what it is today, and I’m extremely appreciative of that and the connections I’ve made with you. I’m so proud of you all and proud of this amazing work you’ve produced and I love you ALL.”
madi burch ‘21 “A big influence when I write is nostalgia. Drawing from snapshot memories and past feelings allows me to capture a tone unique to my experiences yet also immersive (and hopefully relatable) for readers. From historical phenomena that fascinate me to the bittersweet reminiscence of a carefree childhood that I’ve outgrown, there is so much nuance I enjoy exploring.”
dana burton ‘21 “Even as a young child, I have always been able to create and imagine different works of art just by looking at simple things around me.”
ava chavez ‘23 “I love welding because of all the sparks! They remind me of fireworks when I was a little girl on the Fourth of July playing with sparklers.”
abigail civa ‘24
string theory / 77
annabeth cobb ‘21
“For Just checking in, I wanted to write something very stationary in the whole timeline of my life, so I could go back to it later in life and check in with how I used to think and see how things have changed. Crimson Rose pt. iii was part of a series that was never supposed to become a series, but somehow divulged into a catalog on my feelings towards love conceptually through the years. Ajax is the climactic end to my AP Art portfolio. The portfolio delves into the complexities of mental illness and Ajax draws from the Greek hero of the same name renowned for his strength as a symbol of overcoming mental struggles.”
“I wrote the I am sorry poem on a whim. It felt so natural to write because I have had encounters just like it in life! For my Love is a Peanut Butter and Jelly Sandwich poem, I pulled inspiration from a verse in the Bible about love, 1 Corinthians 13:7-10. I was writing this poem as I was eating a peanut butter and jelly sandwich and thought it was a funny analogy. I ended up putting those thoughts together, and voila!”
emily coleman ‘21
“A lot of my artworks come from ideas that have been heavily influenced by my childhood. Most of my past memories are fragmented, and with my art I organize these bits and pieces into an abstract or unorthodox concept as a whole. Through this method, I believe a lot of my work reflects off my own psyche, even if the viewer, or even myself, find it incomprehensible.”
kaylee cooper ‘21 “Although this poem started out as a poetry assignment for Valentine’s Day, I knew immediately that I didn’t want to write about cards and flowers. My inspiration for this poem comes from two songs: Paul Young’s Everytime You Go Away and Skeeter Davis’ The End of the World. I used the central theme of both of these songs, which is that it is earth-shattering when someone you love leaves you, and applied it to a story I dreamed up about a woman mourning the fact that her boyfriend has to leave her to serve in WWII.”
haydin davis ‘22
“When it comes to being in the presence of others, I am often seen as an extrovert. However, the moment I am alone, it is easier for me to become mellow and just reflect on situations that have me feeling specific emotions. With this poem, it was my take on how love can make one develop a hate for something so beautiful.”
taniya degrate ‘24 “I love photography but have found that all my best pictures come from a single snap and not sitting around trying over and over again. I prefer the quick and simple approach that still allows me to enjoy the scene in front of me.”
sarah emerson ‘21
string theory / 78
“I like to make things at night, when I’m a little tired. I feel that when it’s later at night, my brain is more foggy than usual, and I am able to think outside the box, or have more creative ideas.”
bella garzonie ‘22 “For Don’t Talk - I spent the days before starting this short story going on r/shortscarystories to get inspiration for the work. Once I had spent a couple hours doing this, I wrote my own short scary story.”
erik knoll ‘21 “For Above Korea - I sketched the picture I took with a pencil, colored it with water body and finally highlighted it in white. I felt that this work was a new beginning when I flew to America from Korea, so I wanted to express a new beginning like the sun rising in the sky.”
heejun “jake” lee ‘24 “I find myself writing about something best right after some sort of event, whether that be a funny encounter with my dog, a strange project in art, or even an unexpected death. Those moments where my feelings are raw and strong are then put in the paper almost without thought because they then come naturally. In other words, my writing is sporadic, natural, flawed, expressive, and real.”
emma lowe ‘21
“I wanted to center the poem around nature rather than artificial things or even people. Using nature, I tried to convey emotion to the reader with similes.”
terese martens ‘24 “I enjoy replicating the world around me; though nature can never truly be repeated, it can serve as inspiration. The way I go about making anything, from sculpture to sketches, is never taking myself too seriously, but rather indulging in the privilege to create.”
z. martens ‘22 “I like to create pieces without an end goal in mind. Often, I start with a minor detail and see where the creative process takes me. I like to take my time and work on my pieces as I feel inspired and be creative in the moment.”
zoe matos ‘24
string theory / 79
“For Space in the Astronaut, I wanted to make an astronaut out of clay, but I didn’t want it to be a boring white. I used colors from space to make the astronaut appear like the universe around it.”
keeton matthews ‘24
theodore miller ‘23
“I wrote this poem during a particularly taxing time in quarantine and online school. At the time, I was struggling to find the motivation to complete my work on time, if at all, and I had been talking to a girl who gave me reassurance that things would turn out okay. I wrote the poem about the stresses that come with online school and how it is beneficial to have someone on your side who is willing to be there for you during such trying times.”
“Photography is the best way for me to show my creativity. A picture can easily change due to lighting or the model simply changing their facial expression. That is beautiful to me. It’s a medium of art that captures a moment before it changes.”
samantha o’flaherty ‘21 “In all honesty, I wasn’t really expecting anything special from this poem. It was just another assignment for school inspired by the theme of that dance - ‘enchanted forest.’ Instead of going along with the classic ‘pretty dresses and fancy suit’ imagery, I tried to make it based more off of the theme than the attire.”
katylu offill ‘23 “Before this piece I had never done art before. I started with a picture, did a rough sketch, and filled it in from there. One major aspect I learned was that straying from the original picture often gives better results than not.”
erin padgett ‘23 “Last year I began welding, and I really enjoyed being able to put random pieces of metal together and bring them to life. I mostly make animals when welding, so it takes a lot of creativity to find the right pieces to make them look realistic.”
lizzy parsons ‘23
string theory / 80
“A lot of life is thinking and feeling things that go unsaid, whether because they are unacceptable, too difficult to express, or just too personal. And that’s a shame really, because we spend so many hours every day looking for someone who we can look at and say ‘they get it, they understand me, I’m not alone.’ In poetry, these feeling fragments are given their own space. They become something whole that another person can hold on to and feel not just connection but entanglement, oneness.” aubrey roberts ‘21 “The day I took the pictures of the peaceful protest that took place in Cameron Park, I came to a realization that Waco really is beautiful. I was able to capture a moment where the people of Waco, no matter the color or race, came together to fight for equality for the Black community. A moment I will never forget.”
nicole robles ‘21 “Often when I was deciding what to write about, I would look around my room and see what caught my attention; such was the case with my RBG poem. I also enjoyed writing poems from the perspective of someone else; this was the case with Eve. I was thinking about what I would’ve done in her situation and figured that would make for an interesting poem; after that I had fun leaving little Easter eggs like the references to the seven deadly sins and Paradise Lost.” elisabeth rollins ‘21 “I like to write about personal experiences in ways that people can relate to without the undertone of my own story: letting people relate to stories without feeling they are being compared to someone else.”
arabella rosiles ‘24 “I wanted to paint something in a realistic style but not something that was too complicated, so that’s what led me to choosing the teacups. They also gave me Alice in Wonderland vibes which I really liked as well. I was also experimenting with the lighting, and I made sure that there were contrasting values throughout the entire piece.”
avery schnautz ‘24
sophia serr ‘23
string theory / 81
“Companions in Isolation: Mmmm, the struggles of being an introvert. an artist’s eye: We were just talking about the ‘male gaze’ in art, and I remember being very irritated. It seems like there’s a lot of unnecessary sexualization directed towards women doing what’s honestly the bare minimum. I can vibe with appreciation or admiration, but I’m not a fan of objectification. Red Bridge: I started this painting at like 12:15 am because I suddenly realized I had never painted with a palette knife before. I kind of just jumped into it because I was too lazy to do a sketch, but I did give the colors some thought. I chose red for the bridge because it’s already a bold statement color in addition to being the complement of green.”
“One day in our beloved art classroom, Ms. Shanholtz asked me about what process and media of art interested me the most, and I knew that I had to figure out the answer to that question. It wasn’t until I got to play around with color and explore with paper that gave me the motivation to come up with this piece on my own. To this day, it has been my favorite work of art because not only is it a VASE gold medal winner, it is unique.”
maheen shah ‘23 “To be honest, my entire creative process is a mess. A lot of times I finish my projects in a manic fashion because I end up not liking the project or just procrastinating. I’m rarely 100% satisfied with my paintings, but sometimes I’ll keep a select few and not paint over them.”
dahbin shim ‘23 “Silhouette: This photo is of my brother. We went downtown, and I just saw the opportunity. It took me a few tries to get the exposure right, as I was still learning manual mode. Rainbow: When I took this picture, I didn’t see the rainbow. I was actually holding my camera over a cliff to get a tree out of view (so smart, I know) and when I looked back, there was the rainbow! Lizard: My brother, Ben, saw this lizard and asked me to take a picture of it because he lost part of his tail. The lizard only let me get one photo of him before he ran away. Blue Bonnet: My mom loves blue bonnets, so I took a couple pictures this year for her. I used a wide aperture to ac tillinghast ‘23 get the blurred effect around the edges, and I chose the center composition purely because there were other flowers around it that I didn’t want in the frame.” “Growing up, my head was always whirling with thoughts and emotions and ideas. Over the years, I learned how to give those things form in the stories and poems I wrote, the characters I made, and the artwork I drew. It’s a chaotic little universe I’ve made for myself, but I love it - and I’m so glad to have had the opportunity to share some of it here. A Constellation for the Lost and Catharsis in particular were two pieces that were really important for me to write. Both were actually based on entries from a journal I kept this year, and they gave me the chance to explore themes about elizabeth watson ‘21 growing up and finding meaning.” “I wrote this poem when COVID-19 was at its worst, and there was story after story of people fighting for their lives and of people who lost the fight. I kind of wanted to show that doctors and nurses are people. They have emotions and face difficulties both in and out of the workplace, and they continue to do incredible things.”
naomi west ‘22
jake willeford ‘23
“I took this photo in Valley Mills on a rainy night and was hoping to capture that sort of misty feeling. To do that I decided to take the photo in black and white because the lights of the buildings were creating a yellowish tint that didn’t give the right feel. I also took the photo in black and white because the contrast between the lights and the darkness is so vivid. I chose the puddle on the sidewalk as the subject of the picture because you can see the reflection of the lights of the buildings and the light reflecting off the pebbles on the sidewalk creating a rainy effect.”
string theory / 82
“I based my art and poem off of my personal experiences with feeling controlled by anxiety. It was also the feeling of being controlled by the people around me. My family growing up felt very controlling and scary like a demon hunting me down every time I messed up. Over time though, I have learned that it was because they cared.”
caroline williams ‘24 “With my artwork I wanted to make people think and see that even though it looks painted from a distance, it’s just a photo to show to not take anything at face value because not everything is what it seems to be.”
david wyche ‘22 “Well, I am an EXTREME extrovert so when I wrote this poem during the snow days, I was really missing my friends since everyone was stuck in their house. But, I was also missing my family back in Korea, so I decided to write about both! Two groups of people I love the most.”
gahyun “grace” yoon ‘22
juliette young ‘22
“It usually takes me a while to come up with an idea to write about, but once I do it doesn’t take me long at all to actually write it. I feel like the easiest way to write something that you can be proud of is just to start writing whatever comes to mind, try and incorporate interesting details or patterns that make it more unique, and edit it a lot during and after you finish. The thing that caused me the most problems while writing was my desire to have a specific plan for each of my poems, but I usually take a different direction with my poems than I initially plan to anyway, so it’s just better to start writing and see what ultimately works.”
“I love being involved with Liquid Paper because it is a sort of birthday party - you never know what gifts you will receive, but they are always wonderful. Example: this is the first time LP has featured bio-blurbs of contributors, which turned out to be a delight to read as an independent feature! I am proud of all these students and their creations.”
wendy allman - advisor “It is always a pleasure to read students’ writing and view students’ artwork. I feel like I get to see a side of students that most teachers don’t get to see, a fuller picture if you will. This year, the work submitted and selected was, as expected, excellent. I am so proud of all the students involved and those students who volunteered their time to comb through submissions and put together a truly wonderful testament to a truly unusual year.”
jen ferretter - advisor
string theory / 83
Photos provided by Bifrost yearbook staff
string theory / 84
contributors Bawduniak, Sophia 43 Blackwelder, Hyrum 66 Burch, Madi 8, 30, 35, 72 Burton, Dana 11, 32, 33, 49, 63, 73 Chavez, Ava 71 Civa, Abigail 74 Cobb, Annabeth 19, 23, 24 Coleman, Emily 72, 74 Cooper, Kaylee 45, 54, 67 Davis, Haydin 21 Degrate, Taniya 23 Emerson, Sarah 16, 39, 40, 54, 62 Garzonie, Bella 74 Hobbs, Haven 49 Indergard, Juliet 74 Ji, Mingyung 17 Knoll, Erik 55-57, 64, 71 Larsen, Ada 7 Lee, Heejun “Jake” 34 Lee, Sungjae “Chris” 71 Liang, Hao Hong “Henry” 25 Lowe, Emma 73, 75 Martens, Terese 65 Martens, Z. 61 Matos, Zoe 73 Matthews, Keeton 72 Miller, Theodore 9 O’Flaherty, Samantha 15 Offill, Katylu 61 Padgett, Erin 8 Parsons, Lizzy 73 Roberts, Aubrey 22, 31, 33, 37, 39, 43, 46, 47, 53, 60, 63, 65, 69 Robles, Nicole 11 Rollins, Elisabeth 20, 21, 46 Rosiles, Arabella 8, 62 Schnautz, Avery 28, 59 Serr, Sophia 13-14, 17, 39, 63, 69, 71, 75 Shah, Maheen 68 Shim, Dahbin 10, 27, 76 Tillinghast, AC 21, 29, 32, 39, 48, 51, 52, 57, 61, 64, 65 Tillinghast, Benjamin 58 Watson, Elizabeth 18, 25, 26, 38, 40, 41-42, 44, 50, 53, 70, introduction, table of contents photo, and section blurbs West, Naomi 12 Willeford, Jake 34 Williams, Caroline 20 Wyche, David 20, 31 Yoon, GaHyun “Grace” 53 Young, Juliette 9, 31, 36, 66, 69
colophon
editorial staff Elizabeth Watson - editor-in-chief Dana Burton Kaylee Cooper Sarah Emerson Erik Knoll Emma Lowe Aubrey Roberts Sophia Serr Wendy Allman - advisor Jen Ferretter - advisor
fonts Acumin Pro - titles on section pages, titles for written works, and page numbers Azo Sans - title as it appears on cover and inner page, page numbers, headings for table of contents, contributor bios, contributor list, and colophon Fairwater Solid Serif - drop caps on prose pieces Garamond Premier Pro - general text
computer & software Surface Pro 6 Adobe InDesign 2020
printing information Printer: Integ Copies: 150 Text printed on Lynx Opaque Offset Cover printed on Futura Gloss Cover Printed digitally as (CMYK) 4 color process
submission High school Vikings may submit visual art of any variety and writing that is fiction, nonfiction, prose or poetry. Submit anytime; submit as many pieces as you like. Check the Morning Memo during spring semester of a publication year for the deadline for a given edition. The next edition of Liquid Paper will come out spring of 2023. Send writing or art in a file to LP advisor Wendy Allman; label the email “Liquid Paper submission.” Submissions should have a title, but the creator’s name should not appear within the file. Work is judged anonymously by the Liquid Paper staff, an editorial board made up of students.
selection A faculty advisor will post an open call to join the Liquid Paper staff in the Morning Memo early in the spring semester of a publication year. Enthusiasm for creativity and a commitment to attend weekly working meetings qualify a student! Staff read and judge each submission. What do LP staff look for? Things that speak and pop, words and art that resonate, and ones that provide new perspectives. Powerful, creative, and diverse themes, techniques, media, and voices—these attract the editorial board. Liquid Paper is heavy on poetry because that is what students submit— and on LP’s limited budget with its desire to put forward many voices, poems work well—but welcomes all sorts of written work, especially genres new to LP. Published works are titled and bear their creator’s name. In rare cases, Liquid Paper will publish a work as “Anonymous” if an author has significant concerns about being identified.
assembly After selections are made, the Liquid Paper staff—led by a student editor(s), who volunteers for the extra labor of fitting the pieces into a whole—begin the design phase. The next decisions include choosing a theme for the edition, dividing work into sections that develop the theme, writing theme and section blurbs, putting work into a shared document, proofreading texts and editing for typos, and choosing art to mesh with the words. Students transfer this information into an Adobe InDesign file and create the final bits: front pages, table of contents, contributor page, index, and colophon. The faculty sponsor submits the completed file to the printer.
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Baylor University COLLEGE OF ARTS & SCIENCES
Department of English