the literary magazine of st. teresa’s academy
WINDMOOR LITERARY MAGAZINE • 1
The publication of this literary magazine is made possible through the sponsorship of Andrews McMeel Universal companies in honor of James F. Andrews, co-founder of Universal Press Syndicates. John P. McMeel, chairman of AMU and companies, and Kathleen W. Andrews, chief executive officer of Andrews McMeel Publishing, established the literary magazine program in his memory after his death in 1980. Jim Andrews’ interest in nurturing and developing artistic and creative writing talent is reflected in the program, which provides young men and women the opportunity to express and cultivate those talents.
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St. Teresa’s Academy 5600 Main Street Kansas City, MO 64113
2012 -2013
windmoorwired.com
WINDMOOR LITERARY MAGAZINE • 3
TABLE O F CONTE NT S Kathleen Keaveny, Sarah Vickery
32-33
Elena Spaulding, Bailey Whitehead
4-5
Natalie Nuessle, Emma Rebein
34-35
Katie Crow, Abbey Curran
6-7
Savaria Goodman, Betsy Lehr
36-37
Shelby Hawkins, Katie Holt, Bailey Whitehead
8-9
Emma Rebein, Lena White
38-39
Katie Crow, Savaria Goodman
10-11
Ema Brzon, Anna McDonald, Adrianna Ohmes
40-41
Bailey Whitehead, Bailey Whitehead
12-13
Erin Sheehy, Tessa Smith
42-43
Maya Burtin, Bailey Whitehead
14-15
Alexis Jenkin, Maria Luna, Margoth Mackey, Kellie O’Toole
44-45
Emma Rebein, Taylor Rees
16-17
Katherine Becker, Bailey Whitehead
46-47
Katherine Becker, Ellie Shorter
18-19
Kathleen Nicely, Bailey Whitehead
48-49
Violet Cowdin, Jesse Walker-McGraw
20-21
Meghan McCalla, Zoe Royer
50-51
Rachel Fosselman, Taylor Rees
22-23
Elena Spaulding, Bailey Whitehead
52-53
Katie Holt, Bailey Whitehead
24-25
Katie Crow, Sarah Wunder
54-55
Katie Crow, Bailey Whitehead
26-27
Natalie Nuessle, Bailey Whitehead
56-57
Christine Jenkin, Emma Rebein
28-29
Phyleia Battle, Jessica Favrow, Peepers Gray, Kennedy Reller
58-59
Emma Rebein, Lena White
30-31
Anna McDonald
60
Ema Brzon
ARTWORK - Kathleen Keaveny, ‘13
2-3
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ARTWORK - Sarah Vickery, ‘13
Phyleia Battle
28
Christine Jenkin
Katherine Becker
16, 47
Ema Brzon
56, 57
Zoe Royer
20
Kathleen Keaveny 2
Erin Sheehy
12
11, 60
Betsy Lehr
6, 7
Ellie Shorter
46
Maya Burtin
42, 43
Maria Luna
14, 15
Tessa Smith
13
Gloria Cowdin
48
Margoth Mackey
14
Elena Spaulding
22, 23, 32, 33
Katie Crow
24, 25, 35, 39, 54, 55
Meghan McCalla
21, 45
Sarah Vickery
3
Abbey Curran
34
Anna McDonald
10, 30, 31
Jesse Walker-McGraw 49
Mercy Favrow
28
Kathleen Nicely
19
Lena White
Rachel Fosselman 50
Natalie Nuessle
4, 26
Bailey Whitehead 17, 18, 23, 27, 32, 36, 40, 41,
Savaria Goodman 6, 7, 38, 39
Kellie O’Toole
15
42, 43, 53, 55
Peepers Gray
29
Adrianna Ohmes
10, 11
Sarah Wunder
24
Shelby Hawkins
37
Emma Rebein
4, 5, 8, 9, 44, 57, 59
Katie Holt
36, 37, 52
Taylor Rees
45, 50, 51
Alexis Jenkin
15
Kennedy Reller
29
8, 58, 59
IND E X WINDMOOR LITERARY MAGAZINE • 5
The Sound of Words 6 • WINDMOOR LITERARY MAGAZINE
PENSIVE, she called me “Pensive,” I said.
Fiat lux.
Pensssssive… pensive.
Uluavit.
I didn’t remember what it meant.
Cellar door.
It made me sad.
Tessalation. Life.
PERDITION, they yelled. Perdition for you and your family!
A complex word.
Perdition sounded like a hammer clacking,
A word that contains so much happiness and pain and love in four letters.
Shutting a door unseen.
Just roll it like a marble in your mouth for a second, No one’s watching, no one cares.
Cellar doors, I think
It’s a wonderful word.
Cellar doors, fi-air-ies, and tessellations,
They all are.
Cucurri, uluavit, fiat lux:
Ergo, don’t waste them on the mundane, the fallacious, or the somnolent.
Soft words for comforting the mind.
Use them to sculpt your speech like tiny brushes on a canvas. Each makes a small difference,
Shrill. Shrill. SHHHRRRIIIILLLL!
But small additions make resplendent works.
The word of my nightmares. Actually, that’s unfair to mares. It’s the word of my torture and death and… Life.
POEM – Natalie Nuessle, ‘14
PHOTOGRAPHY – Emma Rebein, ‘13 WINDMOOR LITERARY MAGAZINE • 7
ARTWORK - Betsy Lehr, ‘15
POEM - Savaria Goodman, ‘16
I’m tired And weak I’m out of air I can’t breathe I’m trying to escape With nowhere to run I am drowning in my tears While my mind is attacked by my fears I want to scream And let it all go But what do they know They think it’s all in my brain All my pain So now all the weight is on me To defeat my enemies But at this moment I’m begging on my knees Ready to put up the white flag Because in this moment Everything is all bad.
Now the weight on my shoulders becomes heavier The voices in my head tells me to carry on Then my body gets numb And my heart gets cold But it’s all getting old Because I’m trying to be bold But my faith is getting thinner Now I just feel like a loser A beginner If this were only easier. I spend my time trying to protect and save you But you don’t realize I’m fighting my own battles without a hero So now what am I to do? When my back’s up against the wall And my faith becomes small Who’s going to save me? Will it be right now, or later on, maybe tomorrow?
Then I remember I’m not just fighting for me. I’m fighting you Her Him Them They Us We.
I just want to know; Who’s there to save the hero?
WINDMOOR LITERARY MAGAZINE • 9
We are the sum of our parts: fractured spine, ribs cracked from the pressure of our lungs exploding as we made a panicked leap to the surfacethe last moment that we truly thought we would breathe again.
POEM - Lena White, ‘13
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When darkness blurs at the edges of your vision, you swear to me that there are tiger sharks swimming in the corners of your eyes. You wake in the night, screaming that you can hear their teeth snapping; you tell me that you’re tired of swimming, that now it’s time to sink. I never found anything more beautiful than the angles of your limbs as you raised your arms and swam for shore.
PHOTOGRAPHY - Emma Rebein, ‘13
WINDMOOR LITERARY MAGAZINE • 11
ARTWORK - Anna McDonald, ‘13
PROSE - Adrianna Ohmes, ‘14 “I tried to kill myself.” The five words I dreaded the most. The five words that I already knew so well. The five words that assured me she was back for good.
walking on a tight rope, if I lost my balance for even one second, this could be the end. Her other “friends” hadn’t handled her revelation well, and had ended up truly abandoning her. But how could I convey to her that it was okay? That I was there, and always
But I wasn’t sure how to react.
had been, that I wasn’t scared to death by this too. Just the thought of her attempting to end
What do you tell your best friend of seven years, when she tells you that she became so
it all again was too much.
mentally ill in the past year that she almost succeeded with taking her life? Twice. Both since we had last spoken after a falling out the summer before. I mean, it wasn’t a surprise. It had gotten bad. But I knew if I fought to stay as an ever-present reminder of the past, I might push her too hard. This was fragile territory. A circus performer
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So sitting outside of that Starbucks in our first week of summer break, I did all I could. Reaching for her hand, I tried to formulate the right words to say. But the taste of the glazed, vanilla scone I’d just eaten, and the frappuccino I’d just finished were too sweet in my mouth. The sugar was choking me. My answer couldn’t be a sugar coated bit of sweetness.
ARTWORK - Emma Brzon, 13
My answer had to be real. This was real. My body was in overload. All my senses felt flooded, as if I’d just been thrown into the Atlantic Ocean. The afternoon sun was too bright and hot, my patio seat too uncomfortable. The smell of the lady’s perfume, who had just passed us smelled too similar to my great grandmother’s Avon perfume. From the 70’s. The sugar lump in my throat felt too much like a boulder. It was too much. She sat across the table from me. Her eyes squinted from the sunlight beaming down on us on that June day, causing her hair to look like a liquid gold halo. Her face was guarded, anticipating my reaction, weighing the probability that I would freak out and run away screaming. I’d never lost my composure with her before in situations like this. I was known for keeping it together. She always told me that I was the determined, mature, self-controlled one. But in that moment, she was everything she always said I was. She’d fought the urge to hurt herself for years, and she was still fighting it every second of the day. Even that exact second, when I was internally freaking out and searching for the proper words to say, she was thinking about killing herself. She was the one who had supported me through my awkward, pissed-at-the-world phase in middle school. She’d helped me realize my love for psychology. She had believed in me when I couldn’t. She had inspired me to keep trying, to give myself a better life than I’d always expected to have. How could I be that for her, now? I was thinking about this too much and she was probably afraid that I’d lost capability of speech. It felt like it had been forever since I’d last spoke. Really, only 20 seconds might have been all that had passed. I swallowed that sticky, sweet lump of nerves that formed in my throat and squeezed her hand. For my sake or hers, I’m still not sure. Her crystalline blue eyes were encouraging and with all the control I could muster, I sighed. “Sweetheart, I know. I’ve known.”
WINDMOOR LITERARY MAGAZINE • 13
Life Crying baby Minute after minute Laughing baby Hour after hour Adventurous toddler Day after day Boisterous pre-teen Week after week Daring teenager Month after month Respectful adult Year after year Doesn’t time fly when growing up
POEM - Erin Sheehy, ‘13 14 • WINDMOOR LITERARY MAGAZINE
ARTWORK - Tessa Smith, ‘14
WINDMOOR LITERARY MAGAZINE • 15
4.
1. 2.
3. 16 • WINDMOOR LITERARY MAGAZINE
6.
5.
Chinese Art and Culture 1 & 2 - Margoth Mackey, ‘13
5 - Alexis Jenkin, ‘13
3 & 4 - Maria Luna, ‘13
6 - Kellie O’Toole, ‘16
WINDMOOR LITERARY MAGAZINE • 17
The Call of a Zombie My throat burning, I am blinded by hunger. Finding prey, I sink my teeth into the white skin sack; and with a crunch, the warm, luscious, juicy meat crawls across my tongue, begging for more of my infectious bite. Their human screams pierce the night like sunlight, and one by one, they melt as I walk the streets listening to the cries of the abandoned children, suffering alone in the darkness, no match for death.
POEM - Katherine Becker, ‘14 PHOTOGRAPHY - Bailey Whitehead, ‘14
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WINDMOOR LITERARY MAGAZINE • 19
PHOTOGRAPHY - Bailey Whitehead, ‘14 20 • WINDMOOR LITERARY MAGAZINE
What Would You Do? PROSE - Kathleen Nicely, ‘15
I was sitting alone in the corner of a cold, damp room, regretting what I had done. It worsened the cold feeling that had already consumed me. It was a cold like you would feel up North. Not the slap-you-in-the-face cold like a southern winter. It seeped into you, got under your skin, and before you even realized you were cold, you had frozen to death. The walls were concrete, windowless, and confining. It was like a prison cell or a cage. They seemed to close in onto you until one day, they would crush you altogether. I shivered and held my cracked knees up to my chest. A salty tear rolled down my face, just grazing the side of my nose, and dropped from the side of my lip. The feeling washed over me until they poured from my eyes, dripping from my chin onto my dry hands. Soon, however, it passed, and I was left sitting silently again in the dark, sniffing up the last of my tears. A wave of fear washed over me again, another set of tears, but I stopped myself, biting my lip until I could taste the iron in my mouth. I could hear footsteps behind the large menacing door. With a soft creak, it opened, and a tall, dark, figure materialized. He bent down and procured a small package from his suit. I looked up slowly as he slid it towards me across the floor. I saw a shining label on the box that read Klondike. Leaning in close, he whispered, “Was it worth it?” and he was gone.
WINDMOOR LITERARY MAGAZINE • 21
You want to know how I got these scars? I got them from people like you I ask you why so serious? But I get no reply I try to live my life and you just bring me down Some men just want to watch the world burn I believe that you are one You want to know how I got these scars? Because you’re so serious So watch this world burn And watch your hopes and dreams fade The ashes are there So there is one thing to do Rise. You want to know how I got these scars? Because I am healing
POEM - ZOE ROYER, ‘15
Because I have watched this world burn
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I have risen from the ashes So I shall ask again, Why so serious?
ARTWORK - Meghan McCalla, ‘15
WINDMOOR LITERARY MAGAZINE • 23
POEM - Elena Spaulding, ‘13 24 • WINDMOOR LITERARY MAGAZINE
PHOTOGRAPHY - Bailey Whitehead, ‘14
Life seems impossible I can’t stop getting caught up, In and out of the moment. Minute after minute, Day after never-ending day. Month after long month. Before I know it, time stops. The clock ticks no more. Life seems impossibly long. Time slips by in slow motion. Smiles and laughs pop In and out of my mind’s eye. People flash quickly across the Projector screen in my mind. Tears start to fight through my closed eyelids.
My eyes open, teary and resolute, Life no longer seems impossible. WINDMOOR LITERARY MAGAZINE • 25
In All, During All, For All, POEM - Sarah Wunder, ‘16
Succeed, exceed. Fly,
Be known,
above and beyond.
not for what was done,
Reach for the stars,
but
come back with galaxies.
who you are.
Create pride,
Be true,
a sense of self-assurance.
in all, during all, for all,
Help in order to be helped.
forever.
Smile,
Create happiness,
in all, during all, for all,
summon peace,
forever.
craft hope, fashion love. Be who you are, become what you want to be, in all, during all, for all, forever.
26 • WINDMOOR LITERARY MAGAZINE
PHOTOGRAPHY - Katie Crow, ‘14
WINDMOOR LITERARY MAGAZINE • 27
TOM THE
Olim, A little kitten was born in a pet store. His name was Tom. Tom was painfully shy, For no one handled him. One day, a little girl came into the store. Although her father had a cat, she wanted one to call her own. She picked up Tom and immediately he saw something different. Where others held him like a football, Or a sack of potatoes, She cuddled him close to support his whole body,
TOM POEM - Natalie Nuessle, ‘14
And he trusted her. He was very loyal, only tolerating others at best. She let him listen to her talk, Pulled mats out of his fur, And kept the mean dogs away. In return, he loved her innocently; When dark thoughts filled her mind, And she questioned herself, He loved her. And she loved him, Her little, blind tom.
28 • WINDMOOR LITERARY MAGAZINE
PHOTOGRAPHY - Bailey Whitehead, ‘14
WINDMOOR LITERARY MAGAZINE • 29
ARTWORK - Phyleia Battle, ‘13
ARTWORK - Mercy Favrow, ‘13
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ARTWORK - Kennedy Reller, ‘14
ARTWORK - Peepers Gray, ‘13 WINDMOOR LITERARY MAGAZINE • 31
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ARTWORK - Anna McDonald, ‘13
WINDMOOR LITERARY MAGAZINE • 33
PHOTOGRAPHY - Bailey Whitehead, ‘14
BROTHER BASHING: THE NEXT BIG SPORT?
O
“Of course, I would pick the creepy path to the restroom…
Crunch. The sound pulls me from my thoughts. As I stop
Although this is the quicker way, allegedly,” I mutter to myself.
to listen to the cacophony of the forest, I can distinctly hear the
The worn cotton sweatshirt I have pulled over myself does not
sound of footsteps that aren’t mine. These are louder, heavier--
keep the biting wind at bay. I rub my hands together for warmth.
and grow ever closer. A long, slender shadow looms next to mine,
“I shoulda brought my gloves,” I whisper, throwing the
and a willowy hand reaches out towards me…
“Have you beaten a game yet, Dweebs?” Daniel, my brother, questions with a cheeky grin. “Who asked you to talk to me?” I ask, crossing my eyes at Daniel. Landon laughs loudly as Daniel flicks my nose. “Yeah, do you even go here?” Landon quips, punching
palms of pale hands up in amazement at my own foolishness.
Merely hours (and less scary situations) earlier, the rustling
Lights of campfires in the distance cast long, dark shadows,
of bags and equipment had surrounded me. Cushioned between
“Oh! I see how it is, Brats,” Daniel grins, before turning
contrasting with the moonlight that streams through the leaves
the family suitcases and camp gear, I sit with Landon, my best
around and reading his book. We shrug and go back to our games.
of the trees. 34 • WINDMOOR LITERARY MAGAZINE
friend and step-brother.
Daniel lightly in the shoulder.
“That’s right. Turn around while you can!” I joke, taking
for some sort of civilization, we groan in unison
“Yeah. Sure, D. You’re not leading us into
“Guess I shouldn’t have quit karate after
when we see nothing that will prevent us from
a trap or anything,” I say, nodding to myself
all,” I smirk before turning to face the would-
going insane in the wilderness.
reassuringly. I grab Landon’s arm and guide us
be assailant. “How does that feel, you jer—
towards the bathroom’s designated path.
Daniel?!” I rush to pick up my battered brother,
“And so it begins,” Daniel mutters from the seat in front of Landon. I smile at my oldest
“Okay, whatever. See you in three hours,”
friend and brother, ruffling his shaggy dark
Daniel quips, rolling his eyes and heading
brown hair. Daniel turns to look at me and
towards his tent. We arrive at the bathrooms,
smacks at my hand, rolling his eyes. I have never
change quickly and head back. I zip up our tent
been more excited to go on a family trip; Daniel
and crawl into my green sleeping bag, snuggling
“That’ll teach you to sneak up on me,
had been able to get off work for the weekend
into its flannel lining. With a quick good night,
won’t it?” I quip, grinning at him and draping
to join. Although I know he would rather not
Landon and I drift off to sleep.
his right arm across my shoulders. “Let’s get
wilderness. I pat his shoulder reassuringly,
My eyes snap open as I feel my body’s need to--
We hobble into the bathrooms a few
”I gotta take a whiz,” I mutter to myself,
minutes later. I wait patiently for Daniel,
you cleaned up.”
“Don’t worry, D. You, Landon, and I will
wriggling out of my sleeping bag. I slide
who wobbles outside, and I start towards the
go insane together,” I cheer, smacking my hand
on my sneakers quickly as I hop outside.
designated path back to our campsite. I take
against Daniel’s and then Landon’s. “Come on,
Struggling with my shoe, I stumble towards
Daniel to his tent, helping him inside. Before I
my boys. Let’s go out into the world,” I say, just
the tree line behind the family car. My eyes
have a chance to head to my own, Daniel pokes
as the car rolls to a stop. Daniel and I bump
adjust to the lack of light as I take in trees and
his head back out.
shoulders competitively before immediately
their scraggly branches.
“Let--let’s not tell anybody about this,
grabbing some bags and hustling over to where
“This better be the right way, D, or else…”
okay? If anyone asks, I fell on the way to the
Dad is going to set up the tents. Daniel shoots in
I murmur angrily. My frantic hazel irises take
bathroom. Which is sort of true…” Daniel
front of me, using his height and long legs to his
in the looming shadows of the night. “I hope
trails off, looking down at the ground shyly.
advantage, he then throws his bags down and
I don’t die before I can strangle that boy,” I
“Yeah, ix nay a blonde karate kid. Don’t
does a victory dance as I glower at him. Dad
whisper, my eyes zipping to my left where I hear
worry, bro. I don’t want to get in trouble. You
grins at us and hands me a pole.
a rustle in the bushes.
don’t want to tell people an eleven-year-old girl
“Here, Kiddo. Hold this while D and I
I am tugged from my happier thoughts as
kicked your butt. I get it. Deal,” I say, smiling
work on these,” Dad instructs, moving to help
the large, warm hand on my shoulder clenches
at my brother as I pat his head condescendingly.
Daniel hammer some stakes into the ground.
around my sweatshirt. The stranger takes a
Walking back to my tent with a smug grin on my
breath, as if to speak.
face, I know I will never let Daniel live this down.
and I wander over to the running river. Our
“Just remember to S.I.N.G., Elena,” I
campsite is close to the shallow end, which
tell myself silently. My hands tightening with
makes it safe for us to play beside it. A picture-
fear, I slam my elbow into my capturer’s solar
perfect moment: everyone is smiling, laughing,
plexus. “Solar plexus, done.” I think with
my eyes off my DS screen to grin at Landon.
and cheering. Before long, the sun sets with
triumph. “Next, Instep.” I slam the heel of my
“Otherwise, I’ll kick you around with my
flares of purple, red, and blue. With yawns and
foot into the stranger’s toe and hear a groan.
awesome karate skills!”
last-minute jokes, we all go to our separate tents.
“Then, Nose.” I bring my fisted left hand back
Daniel waits for Landon and I as we grab some
into where I can feel the stranger’s breath on
clothes and start to head for the bathrooms.
my neck. When I hear an ugly crunch and a
me as I smack his shoulder.
“Shut up and help me, Buttface.” Daniel groans, slapping me upside the head.
An owl hoots in the tree above our tent.
After setting up our tents, Daniel, Landon,
have that going for me,” Daniel says, smirking at
good, boy.”
experience the mosquito-ridden, tick-holding grinning at Landon.
“But you quit, remember? You’re rusty, I
gingerly touching his cheek. “Dang, I got you
“Where are you guys going? There is a
howl of pain, I know I have hit my mark. “Last,
“And here we are, Kiddos! Tan-Tar-A,”
quicker way through those trees over there,”
Groin.” My left hand comes down my body and
my goofy dad exclaims, gesturing with his head
Daniel suggests, pointing just behind the
swings back to hit the stranger’s crown jewels.
for us to peer out the windows. Looking around
golden Odyssey.
With a groan, the man falls backwards.
PROSE - Elena Spaulding, ‘13
WINDMOOR LITERARY MAGAZINE • 35
PHOTOGRAPHY - Abby Curran, ‘15
36 • WINDMOOR LITERARY MAGAZINE
M I S S O U R I POEM - Katie Crow, ‘14
A small town where my blood bleeds. I’ve shed every tear, every cry, every shout here. And I’m still on my knees. Waiting. Waiting for what? That’s a good question. It’s also my quest. I boarded that plane with an intention of missing “home”, but only found myself loving to roam. I saw sights I never want to un-see; people’s faces and costumes, experiences that have set me free. I never thought I would want to leave, but my now my heart has a burning desire to get out of this place, and fly up higher. These chains that “home” holds on me, are shackles on my soul; and I know you won’t believe me when I tell you, but it’s true, everything I say. She’s a monster and her abuse never goes away, only I can. She won’t get better, she will never proceed. So I’ve completely stopped hoping. “I always get sad whenever I return home from a trip.” I didn’t experience sadness, not even the slightest tear down my cheek. But a tear in my brain ripped me down to my toes, as I walked up that driveway I just knew I was going to regret coming home, to this sweet little town called Misery. WINDMOOR LITERARY MAGAZINE • 37
“I’m tired of being here.” “Here as in this room or in this city?” Here as in this world. “Yes.” “We could go on a trip.” “If I go, I’m not coming back.” “Ever?” “Maybe,” a shrug, “not for years. This place is worn out. It needs time to rejuvenate.” “Okay. My car is in the parking lot.” “I have a couple duffel bags in my room. Do you have a passport?” “Somewhere. Give me two hours.” “Not a minute more.” “See you soon.” “One can only hope.” “Wait for me.” “I can’t promise anything.” “Okay.”
PHOTOGRAPHY - Bailey Whitehead, ‘14
“Okay.”
38 • WINDMOOR LITERARY MAGAZINE
ARTWORK - Shelby Hawkins, ‘14 POEM - Katie Holt, ‘14 WINDMOOR LITERARY MAGAZINE • 39
I have a lot on my chest
I understand
And so much on my mind.
Ignorance is bliss
I can see the issues
So now the world is stuck in la la land
Yet the rest of the world is blind
And we judge our fellow man
So I think it’s time.
Like we’re on a jury
For death of ignorance.
Without knowing his journey,
I mean they say,
His story,
“real eyes realize real lies.”
Are we really repeating history? Or maybe it’s just me.
And it seems to me as though we are advertising lies. We are all one
But it can’t be
But you deny each other’s cries.
Because every were I go
I mean, the world is a simple place and
All I see is violence
Love is spelled L-O-V-E
And cries for help waiting to be silenced.
And now we’ve added xyz
The world is turning into a crazy place
Now it’s more complex than it should be.
And to God I pray
Now we are all lost
That the buildings we bomb only light our way
Because we refuse to listen
I mean we’re all feathers in the wind
And now the meaning of unity is something completely different.
And if we all come together
So let’s kill ignorance
We will win But first, Let’s kill the ignorance…
40 • WINDMOOR LITERARY MAGAZINE
c e n a r o
ig n
POEM - Savaria Goodman, ‘16
PHOTOGRAPHY - Katie Crow, ‘14 WINDMOOR LITERARY MAGAZINE • 41
42 • WINDMOOR LITERARY MAGAZINE
EXCHANGE OF A GRIN
Intrusion of question
The Question let in
PHOTOGRAPHY & POEM - Bailey Whitehead, ‘14
BEGINNINGS
Interaction of skin
WINDMOOR LITERARY MAGAZINE • 43
Black eyes cover up black lies Red lips cover up marks from hits Blue tears are never shed because the story is never said. Hidden lies consume your unfulfilled life Bruises cover your arm used for protection against harm Blue tears are never shed because the story is never said. Wobbling because your ex kept calling You ask why this happened to you, but you already knew Blue tears never shed because the story is never said. You ran, but he had a plan He hit as you bit Blue tears are never shed because the story is never said.
deep, dark, PHOTOGRAPHY - Bailey Whitehead, ‘14
44 • WINDMOOR LITERARY MAGAZINE
SECRET
You hid in the bathroom, but he saw you from the back room You tried to run as he started to come
Blue tears are never shed because the story is never said. You bled just like he said
You never cried because you were stronger than his lies
Blue tears are never shed because the story is never said. Your pain was at the mercy of his gain Your dreams shattered as glass gets scattered
Blue tears are never shed because the story is never said. Scars showing, appendix blowing Fear is showing, mind is blowing But, blue tears were never shed because the story was never said.
POEM - Maya Burtin, ‘13
WINDMOOR LITERARY MAGAZINE • 45
PHOTOGRAPHY - Emma Rebein, ‘13
e h t d n Fi
s r e h Ot ‘15 alla , McC Meg han MPOE
A misunderstood superhero never finds solace and will never rest My job is not to weep for loss and wait to fall My job is to go out and find the others.
&T aylo
r Re
es,
‘13
Speaking words no one will hear creating scars no one will see my job is not to stay isolated and alone my job is to go out and find the others
It does no good to dwell on the past or trail gasoline around this place My job is not to fix you My job is to go out and find the others. WINDMOOR LITERARY MAGAZINE • 47
ARTWORK - Ellie Shorter, ‘13
48 • WINDMOOR LITERARY MAGAZINE
P
I
A
N
O
His hair carefully slicked back,
The music flows through the room like a river,
he uncurls his sweaty fists and relaxes
the notes he had played so
the tight muscles in his fingers.
many times he had them memorized,
Stretching his trembling hands
drowning out the worries of life
out above the piano, Charles slowly
and the days to come, if only for a moment.
presses his fingertips against the cool
After taking only a second to fix his jacket,
keys glistening in the lamplight.
his fingers quickly return to their place,
He remembers the way his mother
moving faster now, fluttering like birds,
had shown him, back at the farm,
swiftly flying across the keys.
watching her cracked hands dance
Their minds finally at peace,
across the piano like leaves
the boys will soon retire to their beds,
in the crisp autumn wind,
drifting off to the soothing notes
his heart skipping with every angelic,
of the piano still echoing in their heads.
flawless beat. The other boys came over, surrounding the piano, listening intently, holding their breath, afraid to disturb
POEM - Katherine Becker, ‘14
the song’s beautiful perfection. WINDMOOR LITERARY MAGAZINE • 49
50 • WINDMOOR LITERARY MAGAZINE
PHOTOGRAPHY - Gloria Cowdin, ‘15
PROSE - Jesse Walker McGraw, ‘16
B
efore time, when the goddesses
Moon, and her marble glittered any color she wished.
were first born, they had the minds
As Leafa thought, her baby mind devised a plan.
of children. They lived in their
She crawled into the sky and gathered the colors of
Paradise, as they do today, but it
the stars and the moon, from blue to pink, in her long
was as they were, young, and suited
nightgown that she learned could serve as a basket.
for children. The immortals had
As she tottered on the thin walkways between stars,
guardians, but no one, not even the baby goddesses
a few colors fell from her improvised container. Most
they cared for, knew who or what they were, as they
of the blue tint fell into the rivers, oceans, and lakes
were invisible to all eyes.
of her sister Wana and colored her precious water
As you might imagine, all-powerful toddlers
aquamarine, while the gold color fell onto Sola’s sun
occasionally caused complete and udder havoc. One
and made it glow. Leafa, completely absorbed in her
night, as the guardians attempted to put them to bed,
task didn’t notice. She had more important concerns!
the oldest, Mira, the infant goddess of the mirror world,
After Leafa had taken all the beautiful tints, she
proclaimed “I no wanna go sleep! Mira want play
tumbled out of the sky onto a soft bed of pure white
more!” Her cries woke the other sixteen all-powerful
flowers (all flowers were white back then). Being only
baby girls, who begin wailing as well. As the guardians
nine hundred years old, she tired easily and slipped
hurriedly rushed among the hammocks, soothing and
into a deep sleep. As she dreamed the dreams created
singing, the littlest quietly slipped out of her hanging
by Dreasha, the one who controlled sleep even as she
bed and utilized a newly acquired skill, crawling, to
slept, the beautiful colors drained into the flowers
move out of the sleeping hall and into the gardens.
surrounding her till they were colored purple, yellow,
The escaped little one was Leafa, the goddess
and red.
of all that grows from the Earth. As she crawled
In the morning, when the Guardians realized
among the plant residents of her garden kingdom,
that they were missing a child (it wasn’t their fault that
she thought, in pictures as babies think, what a pity it
they hadn’t noticed earlier, Leafa was a quiet baby,
was that her older sisters, Stella and Luna, had gotten
and they had needed to be recharged so badly when
all the colors for their realm. Stella was the goddess
the children went to sleep), they were understandably
of the sky and stars, and at the moment, she was
quite concerned. Losing an immortal baby/goddess in
being lulled back to sleep by a soft singing voice. The
no small matter! They ran into the garden and were
stars in her sky were every color of her sister Rah’s
stopped in their tracks at the sight of Leafa peacefully
rainbow that Rah created with her rain, and glowed
asleep among brightly colored flowers that looked
with amazing beauty. Luna was the child of the
suspiciously like Luna’s moon and Stella’s stars. WINDMOOR LITERARY MAGAZINE • 51
PROSE - Taylor Rees, ‘13
ARTWORK - Rachel Fosselman, ‘15
52 • WINDMOOR LITERARY MAGAZINE
“You know what I want?”
“You want a lot of things.” I was told that I want a lot of things, and at that I had smiled and realized that yes, I do.
There is so much that I want. There are a lot of other things that I need, but I could explain that in detail when I’m motivated towards that topic. What’s a good piece without the motivation to create it in the first place, right? There is so much that I want and I could come up
little place, a little bit cooped up, but that’s ok they won’t
or sprinkled into my hair when I’m having a bad day. Stars
complain- they’ll just shine.
belong where they were in the first place, even though I
A microcosm- maybe 60 stars at the very most, 64
would always love to have my microcosm right where I
if I can fit a bit more, into a glass jar that I can set on my
could continue to marvel whenever I needed to remember
bedside table to light up my room and make any electricity
the wonder that this world strikes upon me...
with something new every time I have the time to, and
obsolete. I can do my homework by starlight and not even
considering the way time stretches itself out for me by the
worry about them dying like those poor little lightning bugs
them, even if yours are in a box. Microcosm; unnatural
minute, I have a lot of it...
I used to collect as a child...
no matter how unfathomably beautiful. Maybe the
I can take several different directions of thought at
They will quiet down by the morning and glow as the
Microcosm. A jar of stars. That’s where I keep
unfathomably beautiful is unnatural? The unnatural called
the same time and right now there are five. My chattering
light fades and I might take one out to touch to my lips and
an abomination by the catholic church? I shrug at the
classmates around me, two songs, this poem and the latest
warm my fingertips whenever I feel the urge to touch the
thought. It’s just too beautiful to be caged inside glass that
on my list of materialistic or imaginative desires: my own
sky, and I won’t have to feel so disappointed all the time
it cannot seem to break.
microcosm.
because I’ll have my own real sky with me along with my
Microcosm, Microcosmos, Microcosmis, Microcosmic,
I want so many things, a microcosm being one of them
store- bought one on my ceiling. I’ll smile up at the real one
and it’ll probably stay on my list because I’ll never have one,
Microcosmical, Microcosmica: A little world, A little
outside my doors and wayyyy up above the ground and I’ll
even though it’s contrary to the verb tense that I used in
universe. The epitome of what fills one teeny little world,
reach up so high and giggle at the fact that I have just a little
writing this.
(It’sss a small world aaafter all)
bit of all that black velvet within my curious reach...all of
The space-takers, the footsteps in the dust, the
that black velvet splatter-painted with those burning orbs of
me cry and my own microcosmica, my escape, my
existence of anything possible, whether or not it can make a
gas that don’t sound so pretty unless they’re called by their
sanctuary, my haven.
sound, or the stars in the sky...the stars.
true name: stars.
A microcosm, a little universe, too small for a bird to sing, for a baby to cry, for any god to rule over, too small for anything but a couple of stars. Stars are small enough right? They’re small enough to exist in a little constellation, in a
“Look...look there’s your brothers and sisters,” I’ll say as I raise the jar to the sky.
I want my own microcosmic relief from what makes
I may not fit into my little jar of stars, but then again, unfair circumstances never lessen a wish or two. I want a lot of things.
And one day I’ll open it up and let them go, because as much as I hate to admit it, stars don’t belong in my hands WINDMOOR LITERARY MAGAZINE • 53
POEM
I could’ve said it was art. That restricting myself to paintings and fine literature was linear and boring. I’d be right, of course. I’d be lying, of course. They’d write it off, of course. I didn’t want to make art. The windows just wanted to be broken, and who am I to deny them? They sounded so beautifully discordant as they burst. They were so full of scenes playing out on both sides of the panes-sometimes with an audience, often without. A testament to all the actions surrounding them. Mirrors that showed reflections we’re not ready to see. And that’s such a heavy burden for a window. They wanted to be smashed, and I wanted to explode into painful, tender shards. Who was I to deny both our needs? So I shattered the windows and soaked in the release of tension. I could’ve said it was art. But really, it was the destruction of myriad works of art, layered on top of one another over years and years, trapped in the window, a dimension we can’t see yet. But I could feel it, and so could the windows. Like I said, officer, the windows wanted to be broken.
54 • WINDMOOR LITERARY MAGAZINE
- Kati
e Hol
t, ‘14
PHOTOGRAPHY - Bailey Whitehead, ‘14
WINDMOOR LITERARY MAGAZINE • 55
s w o r C The
POEM - Katie Crow, ‘14 56 • WINDMOOR LITERARY MAGAZINE
PHOTOGRAPHY - Bailey Whitehead, ‘14
hers drip rains, ck fe at acid when it la B
and scar the night wi th their blades.
e
w o l l e y d s an
, s e y
hiss
e
s u o n e v a R
r u o y p kee
m t h in g
. n e p o s e ar
They swarm, they gather, they cover the city at feeding time. 6 o’clock it is, my dear. Here, I’ll feed you to the Crows. WINDMOOR LITERARY MAGAZINE • 57
58 • WINDMOOR LITERARY MAGAZINE
PHOTOGRAPHY - Christine Jenkin, ‘13
Blazing bright orange- I must glance away, Else my insides will burst, a breaking wire, Soon expose what I have wanted to say.
When your sweet whisper flows to my heart, The flames flare and jump warming my face. Past thought consumed as the hungry arms dart. You leave, I smolder, a flickering trace.
When our hands finally graze, cannot be! An eruption, a shocking bolt courses. Every inch is sure that finally you can see I’ve been trying to smother these forces.
Then I see you burn for her, it comes to be, Every spark…the ashes now meant for me.
a scorched sonnet
When our eyes do meet it is like a fire
POEM - Emma Rebein, ‘13 WINDMOOR LITERARY MAGAZINE • 59
I have a feeling that we will encounter each other rambling along the edge of a dusty planet, thumbs-out, down-and-up-again, taunting oblivion, eyes stumbling towards the horizon, waiting- infinitely waiting- for our mothership to appear. Imagine it, the crescent Earth before us, curved like the blade of sickle, curved like the moon used to be on clear winter nights curved like your mother’s back, the first time you really saw it break curved like your first cradle, curved, but so very empty. Back when, way back when school was a daily pilgrimage, somebody told us that every atom in our bodies came from an explosion within the first star, the first spark, that when we looked to heaven we created the infinite cycle, the universe incarnate, staring into our own reflection. When I find you stumbling upon the crescent Earth, I imagine I will ask you if you can tell me if Scorpius still twinkles on warm July evenings. I have walked a long way, I am weary, and I dare not look skyward.
60 • WINDMOOR LITERARY MAGAZINE
PHOTOGRAPHY - Emma Rebein, ‘13
POEM - Lena White, ‘13
WINDMOOR LITERARY MAGAZINE • 61
ARTWORK - Ema Brzon, ‘13 62 • WINDMOOR LITERARY MAGAZINE
WINDMOOR STAFF 2013 Editors-In-Chief: Sibel Alpakin, ‘13 Lena White, ‘13
Staff: Mercy Favrow, ‘13 Anna McDonald, ‘13 Abbie McNaghten, ‘13 Emily Reboulet, ‘13 Emily Cosgrove, ‘14 Shelby Hawkins, ‘14 Rachel Moran, ‘14 Emma Mullen, ‘14 Adrianna Ohmes, ‘14 Emma Rebein, ‘14 Libby Torres, ‘14
Faculty Advisor: Ms. Jillian Hamilton
WINDMOOR LITERARY MAGAZINE • 63
64 • WINDMOOR LITERARY MAGAZINE