Created using the programs: Google Docs & Adobe Spark Fonts: Marcellus sc, eCZAR, and cINZEL dECORATIVE All Drawings Done by Parker Barry
“We write to live life twice. Once in the moment and another in retrospect.” Writing and art are perceived in life as secondary skills, but are simultaneously godly in their nature. Because creativity truly stems from few and it is e ectively conveyed through even fewer. But somehow luck has brought enough creative individuals together to produce this magazine. This wouldn’t have been possible without the help of all these amazing minds. Each piece you read is a piece of them, please appreciate them. Writing will always be a part of me, it’s shown me pieces of myself I had long since forgotten and will never be able to forget again. Some may call it a blessing and a curse, but we can never forget our roots for they make us who we are. But, if we were meant not to move on, we would have roots instead of feet. So, from the destruction and unforgiving nature of winter, our roots survive and will give birth to a new spring. And this magazine is a perfect example of it. Enjoy our evolution.
-Editor In Chief
Poetic justice 27.1 Roots Faculty Advisor: Trent Laubscher Editor in Chief: Parker Barry Managing Editor: Soraya Esmard Production Editor: Sophia Upshaw Copy Editors: Sara Formanek and Richard John Tobin II Publicity Director: Sahar Barzroudipour Head Poetry: Richard John Tobin II Associate Poetry: Kimberli Galizio, Brandon McGuire, Samantha Schube, Katie Gulkis, Sophia Upshaw, Sara Formanek Head Prose: Ariana Bird Associate Prose: Haley Keller, Dimitri Litras, Ryan Fallmann Head Art: Joseph Belzaguy Associate Art: Alvaro Ramirez, Isabella Manso, Jessica Benova, Sahar Barzroudipour Scapegoat: Ryan Fallmann
Table of the Contents 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 11 12 13 14 15 16 17 18 20 21 22 23 24 25 26 27 28 29 30
Mousai’s Song, Brandon McGuire Summertime, Richard John Tobin II Wanderlust, Katie Gulkis Expired Honey, Sophia Upshaw Sundance, Sahar Barzroudipour Stack of Bricks, Ryan Fallman Sharp as a Needle, Isabella Manso Rain, Sara Formanek Hindsight, Parker Barry Grunge, Alvaro Ramirez Hysteria, Joseph Belzaguy On Your Own Now, Dimitri Litras Sunday’s Thoughts, Sahar Barzroudipour Euphoria, Joseph Belzaguy Too Young, Ryan Fallmann Bone, Hayley Keller Monsters Under My Bed, Samantha Schube A Preamble to Heartbreak, Sophia Woman, Jessica Benova The Rose, Sara Formanek Shame, Ariana Bird Golden Curiosity, Samantha Schube With a Poet, Parker Barry Heartbreak is a Paradox, Soraya Esmard Bad Intentions, Lily Berube Same Love, Tyler Debose Light, Kimberli Galizio The Old Sanctuary, Richard John Tobin II
Mousai’s Song Brandon McGuire
Why can I see you when you’re ampli ed? You’re booming, and it’s satisfying. Irresistible, and treated irresponsibly. I love what you’ve done to me. Helpless on both sides, you know when I tune in, I just can’t hide away from you. Speakers turned blue, you’ve gotten me subdued, I think I want your debut as a tattoo. Your howl intensi es the needle’s cry. Needless to say, I just might die. Inextricable and thought up intricate, I love what you’ve made me see. Glamorous with each note sung, I desperately want to be with you. The harp is gold, you’ve gotten me uncontrolled, the gods foretold this moment to be told.
Summertime
Richard John Tobin II
A crooked crossroad curves beneath a mellowed midnight moon. An old Pontiac. Purple paint peeling away, sputters past a warped wooden sign. Wobbling away down a dimly lit dreamscape. Flashes of uorescent light utter around, a so buzzing bouncing along a billowing breeze. Little lumps of lightning given life. Another summer’s gone.
Wanderlust Katie Gulkis
A voice beckons me to go. It does not call for a location, but rather a feeling. The tranquility of a forest at dawn, drops of dew capturing every hue the sky bleeds. The vitality of a roaring re, consuming anything to burn brighter, brighter still. The liberty of a mountain top, miles above problems that once appeared so big. The siren song of promised experience lures me away, away from the familiar and into the unknown, where lessons are learned and people ourish.
Expired Honey Sophia Upshaw
There is not a sound I know sweeter than funeral bells, the toll of time, a steady hum of tires pulling down the drive; raindrops which pool along window sills, old records slowing to their nal standstill. There is not a sight I hold dearer than cracked lines in the shower tile, the void le behind every “once in a while,” a church at midnight, a city on Sunday, every day I said “I love you” and every way you say “It’s too late.”
Sundance Digital Photography
Sahar Barzroudipour
A Stack of Bricks Ryan Fallmann
How is it that a stack of bricks, despite how high it reaches, no matter how much work it takes, with just a little bit of force, can come crumbling down all the same?
Sharp As A Needle Digital Photography Isabella Manso
Rain Sara Formanek
She can’t escape the inevitable as it creeps towards her. Descending slowly, then rapidly, it connects with her skin, pounding like the beating heart inside her chest. When suddenly, deafening silence slices through the air.
Hindsight Parker Barry
Hindsight is 20/20. You can be perfectly turned around to see the suspicions that lingered in your shadows, but when I looked at him, I guess my hair was in my face, curling up to tangle with my eyelashes. Tickling clouded ideals of “I love you’s” until they became printer pressed onto my tongue, perfect for when he walked through the door. I would part my lips to press my tongue onto his, I’d press “I love you” into his smile. When I looked at him, the buzzing in my stomach rose to the pride I had swallowed. The congestion made the wasps sound like butter ies. As soon as I found out he made a sex pact with his friend over me, I should have le . Hindsight is 20/20 and I now realize that I am a prize. But to him I was merely something to be won. A conquestual right of passage marked by pricked nger blood seals, I, was never seen as a prize to him.
Men, as I’m coming to see, see potential seekers in the seeked and women see dogs in need of our help so we help them. But the dogs carry eas on their shoulders. A ea named dishonesty, a ea named miscommunication, named loneliness, named Sarah, named I knew she was more than just a friend, named I’m leaving, I’m done. I hope that in his hindsight he can see the deprivation that carved its name into my hands, my hands that were outstretched to him. My palms facing the sky burning in the sun, desperate for his shade. I see now he never truly came to me. But always, I would press my tongue onto his. Letters pressed hot as the cigarettes I hated onto my tongue. I love you. But now, in hindsight, I’d say, “I love you” to his footprints. Because when I le him I nally learned to love myself. So don’t get too excited. The only reason I’m kissing the ground you walked on, is cause you’re gone.
Grunge Digital Photography
Alvaro Ramirez
hysteria Joseph Belzaguy
you tiptoed across the bridge, cause you knew the weight on your shoulders from when she le you would warp the thin boards beneath your feet. it was the anticipation that killed you, not the fall.
On Your Own Now Dimitri Litras
A desolate nest lled with open shells. Children, helpless and fragile, set ight into the world, fallen into its grasp, and devoured by fate.
Sunday’s Thoughts Sahar Barzroudipour
the evolution of humanity, contingent upon the extinction of us all. on sunday mornings, i hover stars over the broken and disregarded with the white energy exuding from my exterior. hopefully they see a world of faith. hopefully my own faith turns real for humanity. full of mental pains and loss of creations, i dream of twinkles in dark nights lling every inch of above, bringing solitude and comfort and glimmer. i shimmer and shine, above the dead and loveless, all the while creating a world of faith, humanity, unity.
Euphoria
Digital Photography Joseph Belzaguy
Too Young Ryan Fallmann
My mind races with fantastical stories of how it was someone else's 2007 Honda Civic that collided with a tree on the way back from prom. Stories of how my little girl just forgot to tell me she was sleeping at a friend’s house. But these were just fantasies of a madman trying to hide from the harsh truth. On the surface level, I know the truth, but my theories are the only thing keeping me from succumbing to the thundering ambients of the room. I feel mocked by this room. It is deliberately designed to make people feel comfortable, attempting to hide the true ugliness in this sanctum of pain. How can anybody feel comfortable at a time like this? “This is not right. This is not the way it is supposed to be.” I mutter to myself, trying to stay sane. In most cases, you usually see a young woman tirelessly waiting to see if it was her old man who was the one that dropped dead in the middle of an IHOP. No, it’s not supposed to be like this. Those words repeat over and over with an occasional “It should’ve been me,” or “She was too young,” thrown in for good measure. A man walks through the door holding three pictures, each heavier than the last. My eyes unwillingly deceive me, putting a birthmark where there isn't one, but my mind knows well enough not to be tricked by itself. The eyes that I was supposed to look into at her wedding, now lifeless. The arms that were supposed to hold her rst child, now limp. A whole future swiped away because of one bad choice. Through the tears, I mutter the only words a parent should never have to say. “Yes, that is my daughter.”
Bone Digital Photography Hayley Keller
Monsters Under My Bed Samantha Schube
Insecurity chases me with doubt, laughing at my attempts to accept compliments. Feeding o my screams of frustration and tears of no consolation. Growing stronger from my hurting inside and out. Fearfulness corners me, dissolving my con dence and replacing it with di idence. Tormenting me with lifetimes of nightmares from the judgement of others, of how they will perceive me and compare me to another. Locking away every reassuring thought and losing the key. Anger taunts me, pushing me to the edge of an inconceivable ledge. Burning my tongue with desires to curse at those who carved scars tracing memories I can never reverse. Turning me into the person I promised I’d never be. Sadness ebbs from deep inside, whispering the inevitable truths I refused to believe with no excuse. Leaking from imsy walls glued together with lies and false promises that things would get better in time. In icting me with pain from which I never can hide. Naïve trust from which I am always hurting, spilling my secrets to those who never keep them. Assuring me wrongly that they would never stab me in the back and would always be honest, when the knife just ends up twisting deeper and deeper with every broken promise.
Ticking away at my life like the hands on a clock that never stop turning. Hope haunts me worst of all, creating a false reality of a happy ending free of apprehension and endless tension. Cursing me with dreams of a life full of euphoria and bliss, of stars and constellations that can li me from my abyss. Leaving me with the hauntings of my own creation, that in the end are just monsters under my bed.
A Preamble To Heartache Sophia Upshaw
There is something to say about the sky just before it rains: how wind halts mid-breath, and the air tastes like rusted pennies. Clouds sink down from the sky, the butter ies vanish from the trees. The sky growls, weeps.
Woman Digital Photography
Jessica Benova
The Rose Sara Formanek
The cold forced itself inside the cracks of the window. From what once was a bouquet, remained a single rose. Each day the girl strode to the window to admire it. Days went by and still the rose remained like an image, captured and forever frozen in time. The girl had only seen death, nothing ever thrived so bravely. She became somewhat hopeful a er the last month of Spring came to an end, yet still the rose remained tall and proud. The girl became consumed by this “immortal rose.” It was the perfect rose she had been searching for. Slowly she could feel the colors draining from the petals, feel the strength shrink from its stem. The hopefulness lasted no longer than a day when, what she feared most came true. A single petal gently fell to the oor. She could now feel the eyes of death watching her from just around the corner. Each day the girl sulked to the window to check on it. Falling slowly then all at once, the petals tumbled down. No longer silky to her touch or sweet smelling to her nose, the last petal had pathetically wilted over, hanging on for life. What once was a single rose, was now nothing more than any other dead ower. Like every other rose, it wilted. She thought it was rare. She was wrong.
Shame Ariana Bird
She takes o the makeup that sinks into her face. Her open pores begin to show as she ercely scrubs away her second face. Her natural state being unmasked is too much for her to bear. Soon, her wipes turn red and she starts to scrub harder. Her skin, that was sent from generations to generations. A nose, like her great grandma, her eyes, almond-shaped like her mother. Her high, cheekbones like her grand-dad. Her tears begin to tear away at the makeup like acid. Soon, all the makeup is o . Her skin deteriorates beneath her ngernails. This is how she likes to be, how she wants to be. It is how she pictures herself day and night even with all the makeup. It's how she treats herself everyday. She wants to look just like this. She takes a long look in the mirror and wipes her bloody hand across it. She smiles faintly, because any bigger and her face will be consumed with excruciating pain. She whispers,”I am nothing.”
Golden Curiosity Digital Photography Samantha Schube
With A Poet Parker Barry Everyone says not to fall in love with a poet. That every word carries false existential meaning, and each letter is lled with empty promises and bad news disguised to look pretty. But I say, fall in love with me. I’ll show you carefully folded origami cranes held together by pinky promises and insightful synonyms. I have the heart of an artist that will follow the sound of your footsteps to any city. Someone who will always think about you, and wonder whether you draw the curtains when you sleep, or if you prefer strawberry jam on your toast. Is there a shirt in your closet you’re waiting on the perfect occasion to wear? I’ll kiss you like your lips need to feel safe. I will explore all the places you’ve been hurt, and make every broken part of you better. I will remind you that your heart can still love like you can still sharpen a broken pencil. Let me breathe my love into your lungs. My heartbeat will fall in love with yours and cherish stolen glances from across the room. Fall in love with a poet, fall in love with me, because I, will love you like a poet.
Heartbreak Is A Paradox Soraya Esmard
it was fun. a sequence of rst times and gross clichés and my hand in yours. the pounding of my heart, i’m sure you felt my pulse with your hands around my neck. i remember the delicacy with which you cried, your cheeks always dusted pink. the epitome of innocence, full lips threatening to spill over unsaid “i love you’s” or “i give up’s,” i’ll never know. perhaps i won’t miss you at all.
Bad Intentions Lily Berube
Your love is nothing more than a cruel illusion. You have nothing but bad intentions and intrusive thoughts. The thought of loving someone is surely exciting, yet you do not love me. How could you possibly love someone you’ve known for a month? You do not love me. You love the concept, not the reality it comes with. Maybe the thought of loving you is appealing to me as well. As appealing as it sounds, it was closest to hopeless. I will not allow you to set me up for failure; not now, not ever.
Same Love Tyler DeBose
The ride was quiet. It was comfortable, no tension. No anger. No violence. Just compliant to the silence. Talking when it's needed as if our lives were timeless… little do we know, we’re quiet, but yearning for some guidance. Alike, yet di erent. Our pride takes over, I still love him with all my heart, as equally as my sister.
Light Kimberli Galizio
With the wind, I am meant to be free, caught in the middle of these haunting buildings. Pushing back the sun, moon, and stars from decorating the crystal sky and brightening up our days.
The old sanctuary RIchard john tobin ii Translucent shards hang in the rotting frame, beams of light bouncing through the jagged edges. A row of benches, crumbling in the crisp air, sit in silent vigil, bowing their drooping heads to the earth. A so breezes rustles the pages of moldy, leatherbound books, their words no longer reaching those searching for answers. Time has worn through the ceiling, allowing a quiet drip of water from heaven above. Tethered above, hidden away in a rotting tower, hangs a rusted bell, whose song no longer dances through the world.
Wellington High School
Literary Magazine 2018