Legacies
❂ Wellington High School Literary Magazine Poetic Justice Vol. 27 Issue 03
Programs Used: Google Docs & Canva Cover P hoto: Canva Stock Images Fonts U sed: Fenix & Abril Fatface & Montserra
A Letter from the Editor In just three months, I’ll be graduating high school, closing the book on four of the most influential years of my life. I’ve experienced love and felt my heart break, watched best friends wither away to strangers, battled depression and conquered mental barriers. Life has been that of a revolving door of friends and lovers and moments I wish would never end, but the one thing that’s remained constant in my life is writing. It’s strange to think that today something is, and tomorrow it i sn’t, how the seconds in our day are ever-fleeting and even as you read this letter, you will never have this moment again. The days of our youth are precious and meant to be spent on something meaningful. We might not be the same person we are now in ten years, but who you are today lays the soil from which you will blossom and grow. So then arises the question that begs your attention - who do you want to be? As authors and poets, we leave sprinkles of ourselves in every piece we create. It’s the special ingredient that gives each word life - truth. And my truth is this: I do not know where I’ll be in ten years. I don’t know where I’ll be living or who I’ll be loving. But what I do know is that I am a member of the human race, and I see many things in a different light. I’m a surveyor of wallflowers, a conduit for all the whispers of the world - a poet - and that is who I’ll be forever. To my Literary Magazine family, those past and present, for being a constant hour of light in my days; to my best friend, Eka, and my best boy, Kyle; to my actual family, who supply me with the pencils and the paper and the love that I need to express myself; and to Mr. Laubscher, the greatest mentor and the only humble guy to ever rock a beard. So I leave this magazine to you, dear reader, to read and love once or always, the final piece to my high school legacy.
Legacies
❂ Wellington High School Literary Magazine Poetic Justice Vol. 27 Issue 03
“We don't read and write poetry because it's cute. We read and write poetry because we are members of the human race. And the human race is filled with passion. And medicine, law, business, engineering, these are noble pursuits and necessary to sustain life. But poetry, beauty, romance, love, these are what we stay alive for…” - Robin Williams, Dead Poets Society
Poetic Justice 27.3 Legacies Editor-in-Chief……………………………………………………………...…………… Sophia Upshaw Managing Editor……………………………………………………………………. Soraya Esmard Production Editor…………………………………………………………………………. Parker Barry Copy Editors……………………………………………………………...……………………... Katie Gulkis ………………………………………………………………….. Richard John Tobin II Head Poetry……………………………………………………………………………… Sara Formanek Associate Poetry Editors……………………………………………..…....……Leanna Arrigo ……………………………………………………………..Parker Barry ……………………………………………………… Kimberli Galizio ………………………………………………………...…… Katie Gulkis ………………………………………...……..…. Brandon McGuire ……………………………………………….. Samantha Schube ……………………………………..…… Richard John Tobin II Head Prose……………………………………………………………………………..…... Ryan Fallman Associate Prose Editors………………………………....………….………………… Ariana Bird ………………………………………………………..……… Haley Keller ………………..………………………………………………….. Ana Lares ………………………………………………………..……. Dimitri Litras ………………………………….……………………………... Lily Berube Head Art..………………………………………..………..………………….….. Sahar Barzroudipour Associate Art Editors……………………..………....……………………..……. Jessica Benova ……………………………...………………………….. Joseph Belzaguy …………………………………………….………………. Isabella Manso ……………………………………………..………………. Alvaro Ramirez Publicity Director:................................................................... Sahar Barzroudipour Faculty Advisor……………………………………..………………………………. Trent Laubscher
Table of Contents 1 2 3 4 6 7 8 9 10 11 12 13 14 15 16 18 19 20 21 22 23 24 25 26 27 28 29
Where I’m From, Parker Barry 6:15 in Fredericksburg, Texas, Sophia Upshaw La Fleur, Jessica Benova My Grandpa’s Riddle, Samantha Schube Lemonade Love, Soraya Esmard Vineyards, Joseph Belzaguy New York, Ana Lares Whenever He Talks About Paris, Richard John Tobin II Blind Love, Sahar Barzroudipour Sister, Ariana Bird Goddess of Austria, Jessica Benova Medusa, Katie Gulkis Mother’s S ong, Ryan Fallman Milkman, Dimitri Litras Jailbird, Samantha Schube Gift o f T ime, Abigail Wescott Trapped Routine, Mckenna Tosner Purple Raincoat, Soraya Esmard Number One, Joseph Belzaguy Read 1:18 AM, Sophia Upshaw To Be Found, Parker Barry You Broke Your Promise, Sahar Barzroudipour Florida, Ryan Fallman Bliss, Soraya Esmard Sanctuary, Katie Gulkis Delusion, Joseph Belzaguy Death of My Legacy, Kristin Thies
Where I’m From Parker Barry
I am from the backwoods’ backwoods. Bottom of the map, where it’s low enough to feel Hell’s heat but high enough to see Heaven’s gates. Where fallen angels play tag in backyards while parents stand by, playing horseshoe with their halos. Where those angels grow up filing down their devil horns and tucking away their wings, trying to hide where they come from. They pretend they aren’t who they are, and that’s unfortunate, because when they finally come back home, they are reminded just how beautiful Heaven is, and just how hot Hell can be. I am from the eighth wonder of the world. A beach raised by its own hands, cut and burned by shells and hot sand from the bottom of the sea, where we survive being drowned. I am from bars that close at eleven and bottles that open at twelve. Where Christmas lights stay up until July and watch everyday as roots contort to crack innocent cement sidewalks like peer pressure. Where street corners compete with school bathrooms for most graffitti, most deals made, most lives taken. Where the lives of children are only involved to pay for what their mama can’t ‘cause daddy got too caught up chasing rainbows to corner stores to realise the gold he should’ve been after was his baby learning how to crawl on the living room floor. I am from the stillness of that floor.
6:15 in Fredericksburg, Texas Sophia Upshaw
I don’t want to leave this life without Him knowing that I fall in love with the world every night as if it were my first. That I can see the rose petals and orange slices He crushes in the palm of His hand and sprinkles across the sky come dusk so that I can have dreams steeped in a sunkissed summer. And though linen sheets might cling to me tighter than warmth does some nights, I still make sure to leave my windows open, lace curtains stirring with the gentle breeze, so even when I can’t see His masterpiece painted across the sky, I fall asleep to the fragrance of sweet citrus that makes my weary smile sticky along the edges. I don’t want Him to think that I don’t feel the soft blankets laid across my shoulders when I fall asleep in the shower, my skin pruning like clipped Wisteria blooms. I want Him to know that I feel the world shiver with excitement in the midst of something beautiful. That I feel the air hum when my bones blossom as my friends and I drive down that one street, and though it might be fleeting, in those small moments I have meaning. Maybe the ink was smudged in the cookbook and I was made two cups love and two cups sad, bitter without the sweetness of vanilla cupped in teaspoons. Maybe I am my great-grandmother’s porcelain angel that I dropped when I was four, her right wing shattered in a halo of rubble all along the floor. Regardless, I want Him to know that I’m sorry my soul doesn’t believe Him. But I still see the runway strips at night, how they teem with blue lights in a way that makes me want to take off running, to explore the universe, t o finally come home. I don’t want to leave this life without Him knowing that I see the ways He tries to save me everyday. That His efforts aren’t in vain. That I am thankful.
La Fleur, Jessica Benova, Digital Photography
My Grandpa’s Riddle Samantha Schube
When I was little, I would sit on my grandpa’s lap at Hadley’s park after a long game of chase and ask for a riddle. My grandpa always loved his riddles and jokes, and he very much enjoyed seeing his little granddaughter challenged. The riddle was simple, yet clever: The man who invented it doesn't want it. The man who bought it doesn't need it. The man who needs it doesn't know it. “Do y ou know the answer yet?” he’d ask with a chuckle that quickly turned into a cough he tried to hide with his shirt. Out of breath, my grandpa would then take a shaky seat on the bench from our brief game of chase. I’d rest my chin heavily on his shoulder and humph with a sigh of defeat after five minutes too long of staring at the sky. Of course, that’s all a six year old can do. “Grandpa, c’mon, please, please, please t ell me,” I’d beg as my small hands made a tangled mess of his thinning hair. “Ah, but that would be no fun, now would it?” he’d push, his loving smile hiding the knowledge my younger self so desperately craved. I’d smush my palms against his cheeks, patchy and rough with grey stubble, trying in vain to win him over. “But what if I don’t see you for a long time, and I can never tell you my answer?” I’d persist, adamant in winning him over. “I guess you’ll have to make sure to see me again before then, right?” “I guess…” I’d reply with a toothy grin. He would then take me for ice cream, where I would devour a tall cup of lemon sorbet so quickly it seemed almost as if I had never tasted sugar before. After, I would take his hand, and thank him for everything - the ice cream, the riddle, the endless games of chase through the park - but most of all, I would thank him for just being my grandpa. Then I would go back to a six-year-old’s playful personality, and I
would pull his baseball cap over his cloudy blue eyes and steal his glasses, initiating yet another game of chase. I couldn’t believe my grandpa was sick until I watched the sparkle in his eyes fade with him. I never figured out the answer to his riddle, until the day he could no longer take me to Hadley’s park. My mom bought me sorbet the day he died, but I let it melt in my shaky hands. As they lowered him into the ground, I grew up a little. We never know when we might need it, and my grandpa was no different. A tear slipped down my cheek, paving the way for realization. I’ll always remember the words I whispered to his grave, the answer to a forgotten riddle told to a little girl on a park bench years ago: “A coffin, grandpa.”
Lemonade Love
Soraya Esmard
the day we first met, your fingers brushed against mine over a paper cup of ice-cold lemonade. you smiled, an ugly thing, with one of your front teeth missing. my mother laughed behind her wine glass, whispering something i didn’t understand. throwing a single quarter into a glass jar, i smiled too. the day you showed up on my front porch, scraped knees and elbows with glass shards in your hair, i saw you cry for the first time. over a pack of baby wipes and hello kitty band-aids, i cried too. days went by, then months, then years, and not a single one spent without you. abandoning silly pinky promises and secrets whispered through paper cups, we grew up. the day you first learned to drive, over french fries and milkshakes, you promised me an adventure. your pupils dilated and mine full blown, you laughed, and i did too. the day we met again, with matching rings on our fingers, your hands brushed against mine over a paper cup of ice-cold lemonade. you smiled, something beautiful. my mother laughed behind her wine glass and whispered something i’m sure i’ll never know. our eyes met for the second time in twenty-three years, and i smiled, too.
Vineyards
Joseph Belzaguy
i want to walk the streets of northern italy and run through orchards and vineyards. i want to taste fresh peaches plucked from the tree outside our villa, and feel the fresh air seduce my nostrils. i want to look into your eyes with the body of italy behind you, to see the way your hair flutters in the wind because it is not long enough to flap its wings. i want to walk the city like my fingers walked across your skin this morning, our lips swimming as if our bodies were oceans. the way we held each other tight, like a war had begun. the way we cried in each others arms and braced for our inevitable fate, made me feel something, and i could not say it was love, but it was strong. i held on to it for as long as i could.
New York, Ana Lares, Digital Photography
Whenever He Talks About Paris
Richard John Tobin II
Whenever he talks about Paris, his words sound hollow. His are not the story of some epic conflict where the hero everyone prayed for brings justice and hope. Paris is his reminder of loss, of a bloody conflict where bodies fell with the snow, and blood pools formed scarlet icicles from the rooftops. When he talks about Paris, he never mentions the beauty of the architecture, never the culture of the people. He says Paris was a waste, a scar where no treaty could remove the sins that stained the city’s soul. When he talks about Paris, his stories are short. He leaves out the people he wants to forget, the truths he’d rather lie about. He leaves out the thoughts that keep him up at night, the images that still make him scream. When he talks about Paris, he talks about the town where his parents were born, and the home where he was raised. He talks about his first dog, about the friends he made before the fighting. When he talks about Paris, he talks about home.
Blind Love, Sahar Barzroudipour, Digital Photography
Sister
Ariana Bird
As I take my leave of the house, remember that this is how you fold clothes. This is how you fix the TV. When you make food for dinner, remember that brother doesn’t eat white rice, sister is allergic to fish; remember mother gets home when the moon sleeps and the sun starts to rise, so when you fix her plate, make sure that the food isn't touching, and make sure not to put too much cause if you do, she’ll get overwhelmed and won't eat. This is how you fix a man’s plate. Make sure to put a fork on the side because a man doesn’t eat rice with a spoon. If you don’t fix it right you won’t get married because the way to a man’s heart is through his stomach. Remember to season your food. If you don’t know how to cook, you won’t become a wife. Remember to have dinner out and ready on the table when the little ones come home. Remember to keep the secret of the cook because a chef never reveals. This is how you wash dishes. If Dad asks what’s for dinner, start your sentence with “Momma cooked...” This is Dad’s schedule. Remember it because you need to make sure that Dad doesn’t catch the cook. Make sure to clean Mom and Dad’s room before he gets home. If anyone asks say, “Mother did it.” Remember to put the mail on Father’s side of the bed and fluff his pillow because he gets neck pains in the middle of the night and takes a lap around the house a couple of times. Never let someone come clean, cook, and take care of your sister and brother because, remember, if you don't learn these things you won’t get married. You will be lonely. As I take my leave of the house, remember to teach your sister these duties. As I take my leave, remember me.
Goddess of Austria, Jessica Benova, Digital Photography
Medusa
Katie Gulkis
She lingered by the sculpture, tracing the cool stone with her warm fingertips, exploring every divot and ridge of his chiseled face. His betrayal wasn’t expressed by his blank eyes, but rather by the curve of his mouth and the furrow of his brows. His hand was paralyzed over his heart, the same heart that once beat for her, now frozen forever in a moment of devastation. She reminisced all the evenings they spent together, their fingers laced tightly together as she leaned on his warm shoulder, breathing in his earthy scent of pine and amber. A bitter brew of anger, grief, and resentment boiled within her, threatening to spill over and drown her, blinding her to all the joys of life. She fell to her knees, cradling his crestfallen face. Injustice stabbed at her ever-aching heart, scorned from the love she so desperately craved.
Mother’s Song Ryan Fallman
Tony’s fingers slid across the piano keys, collecting years and years worth of dust on his fingertips. The keys were cold. Warm hands had not touched them since her death, maybe even longer before that. Tony placed his hands in position as if it was second nature. He took a deep breath and gently pressed the first key down under his index finger. The key sounded as if it had echoed all the way back from his childhood. Goosebumps grew up his arm as it became harder for him to breath. His hands then tensed, he found it harder to press the next key. Tony wiped a single tear off the key and took another deep breath. Tony closed his eyes and relaxed his hands. Without a thought in his mind, he began playing the song. He didn't even know the name of it, he just knew it his whole life as “Mother’s Song”. He began to slow as the song finally found its way around the old house for the first time in over ten years, the piano finally singing its favorite old tune again. As the melody glided through the air, a flurry of memories broke free like a dam bursting, memories of him and his mother sitting at this very piano playing this very song - all of them happy memories. Tony began to play faster. The music flowed through Tony as if his mother, herself, was channeling her musical talent through his very fingertips. His fingers glided across the piano pressing key after key, playing as if he had only last played it yesterday. The music came so natural,like breathing or blinking, and once Tony started he couldn't stop even if he wanted to. About halfway through the song, Tony finally opened his eyes to watch his fingers dance along the keys. As he watched his fingers do pirouettes and pliés atop the piano, he was awestruck because he felt like he didn't even know how he was doing it. The movements looked so complicated, but they flowed out of his hands so fluidly. Before he knew it, the song had ended and he wiped the welled-up tears from his eyes. Tony smiled and looked at his shaking hands, then began to play the song again.
Milkman
Dimitri Litras
I walked across the street today. Nothing happened: nobody waved hi, no dogs barked, there wasn’t a car in sight when I looked both ways. I walked up to my neighbor’s freshly trimmed yard. I stepped over the winding stone path through the grass and to his front door. Shortly after ringing the bell, the door, of course, opened. “Hey bud, how are you?” he said. “Milk,” I responded. “What?” “Do you have any milk?” “Why, I don’t think so. I can check if you’d-” “No, thank you. It’s alright.” I turned and walked across the street back to my house. “What kind of degenerate doesn’t have milk?” I thought to myself as I sat down and ate my cereal dry.
Jailbird
Samantha Schube
My father never liked orange. He always said orange is the color of a man who does not have the freedom nor money to buy other colored clothes. And men without money cannot put food on the table for their families, their sons and daughters and wives who they leave to go live in a cage colored grey. My younger self would remark, “at least the cage isn’t orange,” and my father would give me the side eye with his left brow raised. None have ever felt more stupid than I would feel in that moment, at the chipped wood we called a dinner table that night before my daddy would leave. The morning my daddy would leave, I would wake up the same way I always do - 8 o’clock sharp, groaning and rubbing my eyes in some attempt to look presentable for my mother, who would call me into the kitchen at 8:05, no later, or breakfast would be cold. And if breakfast was cold, my daddy would not be pleased, and of course, we would be eating cold breakfast. My mother would only set the table for four that morning, just four plates and napkins and forks and knives, to be used by her, my two brothers, and me. My father’s chair would sit vacant, the newspaper left curled and unread, the coffee pot empty, the news from the black and white TV silent. My mother would scold me for not sitting down, as she was serving my favorite - scrambled eggs with tabasco, just as daddy liked it. Questions swirling around my mind, I would just blink at my breakfast, my fork twirling aimlessly, my chin resting in my palm mindlessly. Two weeks later, I would go see my father. I would wear my long black pencil skirt, the white blouse with a small black bow below the collar, and my Mary Janes. My brothers would wear their knickers and freshly pressed khaki pants. As for my mother, she would spend hours getting us ready, brushing my hair until it flowed like silk, ironing and pressing every piece of clothing in the house, preparing us and fixing us until we looked presentable. I didn’t complain like I do for church. I didn’t jabber and talk as I always did before church when my father would yell at me to close my mouth because to speak was a gift. And gifts should not be wasted. My father never liked orange. He always said orange is the color of a man
who does not have the freedom or money to buy other colored clothes. And a man without money cannot put food on the table of his sons and daughter and wife who he left to go live in a cage with grey bars and glass windows I can’t feel the warmth of his touch through. With black phones with cords too short and static overtaking the voice of my daddy. I started to forget what it felt like to hear him. My father never liked orange, but now my father was the man wearing it.
Gift of Time
Abigail Wescott
My grandfather gave me time. It's packed in a small metal container with itchy fabric holding it in unison around my wrist. Its swamp green palette gives it authentic feelings of the past, its modes and settings hold every memory. Everytime I run my fingers across its prickly velcro, I remember every “I love you” and “Goodbye.” My grandfather gave me time to make up for the time he’d lose in my life. He gave me digits that led my day by the hand, constantly reminding me of the time I have left. My grandfather gave me time to remind me love will never die, just as the battery to this time machine won’t either. My grandfather gave me his watch for my tiny hands to grow into, to mold into this strong, unbreakable capsule that holds the good and the bad, every tear and laugh, my love, his love, our love. My grandfather gave me time.
Trapped Routine Mckenna Tosner
I accidentally packed her lunch today. Even when I realized it, I didn’t stop. My mind has a fragrance of regret and a heavy weight attached to the back. I get in my car and put some of her favorite music on. I don't stop listening until I get out. Once the day is over, I come home to an empty house. I make my way into her room. I find pictures and pictures--there is no end. I want desperately to cry, and I can feel the invisible tears as they gently stream down my face, hot and numb... But still nothing. I sit on her bed and remember all the times she begged me to stay home, pleading, “Just this once?” My response was always the same hesitant shake. It had been a great day at the office. That is until my heart dropped out from under me and my world turned to an infinite loss of hope. I still remember the chills that infested my body as the blue screen caught my eye and hammered me to the ground. Nine missed calls and a message that read: “Mom. Please pick up. Something’s happening.” I was shaking like a wounded deer. I was scared, confused, in pain… I felt the room getting smaller. Now I sit in her room alone. I hear her pleading voice filled with sweetness and longing, asking to stay home once more, and then my own, “Your lunch is in the fridge. Get dressed.” I go into the kitchen to make my lunch. Then, I make hers.
Purple Raincoat Soraya Esmard
your boots draw patterns in the mud outside my window. moons and suns and hearts of love stories i’ll never know, yet you let the rain ruin each one. peaceful, you watch as the droplets fall from the sky, filling in where you’ve already dug your lines and washing over what was supposed to be your masterpiece. eyes screwed shut, you lift a hand towards the sky. fingertips dusted pink, i watch as you catch raindrops in your palms. when your eyes open once more, there’s water caught in your eyelashes. tears streaming down your face, even in the rain you are beautiful.
Number One, Joseph Belzaguy, Graphic Design
Read 1:18 A.M., Sophia Upshaw, Digital Photoshop
To Be Found
Parker Barry
If I could place my tongue inside a time capsule to be found a hundred years from now, I’d play a game of telephone. I’d let whoever lives on being loved know all the songs I used to sing in the shower, imagine all the foggy mirror messages I tried to remember based on the forgetfulness of my speech patterns. If I could pour every ounce of my blood into a reusable bottle, perhaps the feelings of family misfortune would flow onto someone else, and my children could live without contracting the disease that is anxiety. And if I could strip my eyelids of eyelashes, I would delicately place them in an envelope stamped and sealed with candle wax that smells of my shampoo. I’d pass every wish I never had time to make onto a person who probably doesn’t deserve them. I would attempt to capture all the stolen breaths and fill a jewelry box with all my lost hair ties, earring backs, and every lost sock too scared to go home. It would lie in my time capsule until someone who probably doesn’t deserve to would find it and every drop of what’s left of me would fade like the light from my eyes.
You Broke Your Promise, Sahar Barzroudipour, Digital Drawing
Florida
Ryan Fallman
Surrounded by the ocean at nearly all fronts, we constantly fear that the tempests will take us. I am from the land of the water dinosaurs. Children taught to run in a zigzag pattern to escape their scaly claws and killer bite. I am from the land of the ancient ones. Crawling onto these shores, just to shrivel up and wait patiently for their souls to be reaped. I am from the land of the orange tree orbs. Mass produced and harvested just to be squeezed dry of their pulpy blood. I am from the land of the space voyagers. Shoved into tight tubes and launched into the heavens above us with a fiery explosion. I am from the land of the giant rodent. Luring tourists into its domain with promises of joy, just to steal the cash right from their wallet. I am from the laughing stock of America. I am from Florida.
Bliss, Soraya Esmard, Digital Photography
Sanctuary
Katie Gulkis
The car’s steady progression was matched by the telephone wires stretching into infinity. Twilight falls outside, periwinkle giving way to a rich indigo speckled with stars. The friends lean against each other in the backseat, a comfortable silence hanging between them. The only sound heard is the soft swing drifting from the radio. A long day of excitement leads to honeyed moments of internal peace. The world, for all its triumphs and downfalls, was null in their nomadic sanctuary. There, only they existed, shrouded in their safety blanket of metal.
Delusion, Joseph Belzaguy, Digital Photography
Death of My Legacy Kristin Thies
I took my most precious belongings and sacred memories, and built a coffin lined with baby blankets and stained ocre to bury my past. Pictures of a childhood with great happiness and sadness lay gently atop the silky fabric. Seashell-filled glass jars and coins from amusement parks placed in the middle, like a heart, with an old Dirty Dancing t-shirt wrapped around it, protecting it like a newborn baby. An Eternity perfume bottle to the right. A Paloma Picasso bottle to the left. A copy of The Outsiders face-down covering my secrets. Shreds of artwork filled empty spaces and coddled everything. A wooden slab nailed to the top. Kisses blown six feet deep. Saying goodbye to my legacy.