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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.

2 • WINDMOOR LITERARY MAGAZINE


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

12 • WINDMOOR LITERARY MAGAZINE

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

Windmoor Literary Magazine 2013  

Windmoor Literary Magazine by St. Teresa's Academy Students Published yearly through a donation by Andrews McMeel Universal, the Windmoor l...

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