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PUBLISHER’S NOTE 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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WINDMOOR 2010-2011 St. Teresa’s Academy 5600 Main Street Kansas City, MO 64113 windmoorwired.com
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TABLE OF CONTENTS: ART + PHOTOGRAPHY:
LITERATURE: 5 6 9 10 13 14 17 19 21 22 25 26 28 32 33 34 35 36 37 39 41
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Alysa Turner Amy Wendland Sarah Waller Rachel Moran Lena White Morgan Said Amy Wendland Emma Connelly Lena White Anna Rayburn Claire Cirocco Sarah Waller Maura Porter Kelly Gardella Madeline Best Lena White Lena White Angelica Duckworth Sarah Waller Maura Porter Emily Cosgrove
42 45 47 48 50 51 52 55 56 58 59 60
Sarah Moran Maura Porter Lena White Emily Cosgrove Sarah Waller Claire Cirocco Katie Crow Dream Weber Annie McCalla Abby Dearth Dreama Weber Elena Flores
2 3 4 7 8 10 12 13 16 18 19 20 23 24 25 26 27 30 31
Erin Hutchison Erin Hutchison Janie Thompson Clare Odegard Clare Odegard Katie Crow Jacqueline Kerr Clare Odegard Katie Wilhelmus Marissa Naggi Clare Odegard Elise Pavicic Emily Cox Michaela Knittel Sarah Schulte Emily Cox Libby Sauder Melissa Lane Molly O’Boyle Eilene McSorley Annie Steinert
32 33 34 35 36 37 38 40 41 43 44 46 49 50 51 53 54 56 57 58 59 60
Lorraine Sands Emily Cox Emily Cox Katie Crow Clare Odegard Clare Odegard Anna Rayburn Clare Odegard Katarina Waller Anna Rayburn Katie Crow Kelsey Rodriguez Adriana Ohmes Emily Cox Emily Cox Michaela Knittel Anna Rayburn Erin Sheehy Erin Sheehy Michaela Knittel Bailey Whitehead Laura Gibbler
Madeline Best Claire Cirocco Emma Connelly Emily Cosgrove Emily Cox Katie Crow Abby Dearth Angelica Duckworth Elena Flores Kelly Gardella Erin Hutchison Jacqueline Kerr Michaela Knittel Melissa Lane Annie McCalla Eilene MsSorley Rachel Moran Sarah Moran Marissa Naggi
33 25, 51 19 41, 48 23, 26, 33, 34, 50, 54 10, 35, 44, 51, 52 58 36 60 32 2, 3 12 24, 53, 58 30 56 30 10 42 18
Molly O’Boyle 30 Clare Odegard 7, 8, 13, 19, 36, 37, 40 Adriana Ohmes 49 Elise Pavicic 20 Maura Porter 28, 39, 45 Anna Rayburn 22, 38, 43 Kelsey Rodriguez 46 Morgan Said 14 Lorraine Sands 32 Libby Sauder 27 Sarah Schulte 25 Erin Sheehy 56, 57 Laura Stacy 60 Annie Steinert 31 Janie Thompson 4 Alysa Turner 5 Katarina Waller 41 Sarah Waller 9, 26, 37,50 Amy Wendland 6, 17
Dreama Weber Lena White Bailey Whitehead Katie Wilhelmus
55, 59 13, 21, 34, 35, 47 59 16
BACK COVER: Laura Stacy Erin Hutchison Melissa Lane Meghan Lewis Clare Odegard Emily Cox Clare Odegard Lane Schulte Sarah Godfrey Catherine Arensberg Michaela Knittel Anna Rayburn Anna Rayburn Abbie McNaghten Abbie McNaghten Clare Magers Jacqueline Kerr FRONT ENDSHEETS: Erin Hutchison
INDEX: 5
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state of aliveness
alive Beautiful and cold but alive A dirty outsider but alive I don’t need a witness I’m alive Chilled with Fear but alive Anything but Normal I’m alive Like a mass of loose flesh but alive Today I shed no tears because I’m alive POEM - Alysa Turner
ARTWORK - Janie Thompson
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O
gden Nash once famously declared that, “The dog is man’s best friend.” Sorry Ogden, but I’m going to have to disagree with you on this one. I mean, this is mankind you’re talking about here. Don’t you think that statement’s a little bold, a little overreaching? Not everyone is a dog person; the people in my family certainly aren’t dog people. It’s not that my family hasn’t tried to own and love and keep a dog. Believe me, we’ve tried. My family has owned four dogs, but none of them have lasted. It all started with Chubby. Just weeks after her arrival, she began growling at strangers. Assuming Chubby’s territorial snarls would lead to more aggressive behavior, such as attacking me and my brothers without reason, my mom returned her to the pound. She remembers the commemorative sign I created after Chubby’s demise. Decorated with a carefully drawn crayon portrait of Chubby and me, anchored to my bedroom door with a piece of Scotch tape, and most likely stained with tears, the sign read, “Chubby, we will never forget you.” Contrary to my promise, I have completely forgotten Chubby. Besides her name and her dirty blonde fur, I have absolutely no recollection of the dog I once so deeply mourned. If asked, I couldn’t even tell you whether she was actually chubby. For all I know, she was a petite, well-toned canine simply named by some irony-loving animal shelter employee. Or, maybe she was in fact rolling with fat, had doggie cankles, and could barely make it to her food bowl before succumbing to the weight of her own obese body and passing out on the kitchen floor. I don’t know; I’ll have
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to ask my mom some time. Ever since then, we have tried in vain to fill Chubby’s void with various shelter dogs. Our second dog was Bailey, a black lab who sent my dad into an asthma attack with her profuse shedding and tried to eat our guinea pigs. She only lasted a night before my mom returned her to the PetSmart entrance where she was guilted into adopting her just eighteen hours before. After Bailey, there was Nikki, a gross-smelling, socially awkward miniature poodle. She was around long enough to get comfortable–that is, comfortable enough to pace around on our kitchen table and urinate on a variety of household surfaces. But she never got comfortable with the concept of a human holding her. So, when I forgot and rudely attempted to pick her scrawny body up, she politely reminded me of her freaky phobia by mauling the right side of my face… alright, mauling is a slight exaggeration. Her bite was more like a nip and it didn’t even break the skin. But the emotional wound ran much deeper; ever since then, I’ve had serious trust issues with poodles. Anyway, after treating my scratch and checking Nikki for rabies and demonic possession, my dad returned her to the shelter. Our last attempt at owning a dog came in the form of Tex, a mix of Labrador, Australian Shepherd, and Satan. Nearly a year into his stay with us, Tex went after the hand of a construction worker helping remodel our house. Not wanting to admit that Tex’s obedience classes and doggie boot camp sessions had been an expensive waste, my parents blamed the construction worker’s shifty and possibly threatening appearance. But when he tried to
go after his next victim, a four-year-old girl dressed in Lilly Pulitzer and bows, my parents were out of excuses. My mom told us she took Tex to a farm. However, seeing as this is the lie parents tell their kids after having to put down their dog, Tex is probably dead, reigning in doggie Hell alongside those pit bulls that attack children riding their bikes. Looking back on my family’s history of traumatic failures in dog ownership, it is no surprise that we now own a cat. His name is Pago and he has lasted longer than all our past dogs combined. While he hisses at you if you accidentally step on his tail or slam his head in the door, he has yet to reveal aggression to match that of Bailey, Nikki, or Tex. Unlike a dog, we don’t have to walk Pago or teach him how to sit and stay. We’ve taught him to go to the bathroom outdoors, so we don’t have to deal with a litter box. We bought a special food dispenser that refills itself, so we don’t even have to feed him for weeks at a time. He doesn’t slobber on us or constantly beg to be petted. In fact, he is content sleeping in a dark room without human contact for days. He is the easiest pet ever. My family has tried rescue dog after rescue dog, but we are finally happy with our rescue cat. Pago may not be our best friend. Nevertheless, we enjoy his presence and don’t mind petting him every once in a while. Not everyone can be a dog person. And, while I’m embarrassed to admit it, my family and I may actually be cat people. Yes, my family is not made up of dog lovers, but a bunch of crazy cat people who have owned a bunch of crazy dogs. PROSE - Amy Wendland
My Family and I Are Cat People
ARTWORK - Clare Odegard
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ARTWORK - Clare Odegard
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Let Me
Speak
She is the beloved one You are the hated one She is the pretty one You are the ugly one She is the amazing one You are the disappointing one Her words create laughter Your words create anger Her words create magnificent pictures Your words create basic blandness Her words create joyful tears Your words create painful sobs She achieves goals effortlessly You try so hard, but it is not enough She makes friends so easily You cannot seem to keep friends close She speaks so carelessly free You simply wish to speak POEM - Sarah Waller
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The sun is setting in this hour The heavens aglow with a fiery power The day is sleeping The night is creeping And we are weeping for our lost light Our cries echo into the night Then stars come out and quiet our tears Their soft sweet light erases our fears So we will last another night Comforted by the stars’ sweet light. POEM - Rachel Moran PHOTOGRAPHY - Katie Crow
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’ s r a t S Sweet Light
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ARTWORK - Jacqueline Kerr 14
An Education They taught us to read words; Faces were just That little bit of extra credit nobody did. They taught us to pick and choose Our battles of wills and passions For something a touch more Popular with the public. They taught us to write our letters; Literacy, unfortunately, Had been torn out of the book. And last Before they opened their hands For us to fly away (Fly into the sun or the wild blue yonder) They taught us how to burn. POEM - Lena White
ARTWORK - Clare Odegard
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H a n g
C
oming from a family of eight, it’s not often that I get my way in major decisions. That blazing hot Captiva Island day just happened to be slightly different, which should have been a major red flag that something disastrous was bound to happen. As my stepdad, Cody, rambled off options for the daily activity, all six kids unanimously decided on parasailing. I had never been before, but I loved heights and the rush of adrenaline that came along with them. Or so I thought. “Here, put on this adult harness,” the boat driver explains as he launches a black
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o n
harness my way. “Orca,” Sammy snickers, referring to an Orca Whale – the biggest type of whale there is – implying that I’m fat because I need an adult harness. I shrug it off, as he’s been referring to me as this throughout the whole trip. I consider retaliating by calling him porcupine in view of his ridiculous fohawk, but I decide against it; I don’t want to fuel the fire right before we sail over the ocean together. Finally, we’re all strapped in, so up and away we go: Sammy to my left and Hannah to my right. With butterflies whipping around in my stomach, just begging to be
released, I tilt backwards as far as I can, my body almost parallel to the ground below me. “Oh my God you guys, I think I’m falling out!” I throw my head back and laugh, the wind whipping my face and swirling my long, brown hair in all directions. “Not funny, Morgan. If you fell, you would die. It’s like 500 feet down and you can’t even swim,” Hannah rolls her eyes at me and we both stare down at the still, blue water, hundreds of feet beneath our feet. “I hope you fall,” Sammy said. “That would be sooooo funny!” “No seriously guys, I think I’m about to fall,” I whimper. And
f o r so begins the downward spiral of my parasailing adventures... I can feel my bottom slowly sliding into what’s supposed to be one of my leg holes, but I’m too concentrated on the burning sensation the friction between my skin and the harness is creating on my upper thigh. I cling tight to the sides of the harness trying to pull myself up, but my tiny arms can’t handle my body weight. I momentarily flash back to all of those times my family has called me Orca and regret the loads of homemade cookies-’n-cream ice cream I scarfed down for breakfast. I’m laughing as a defense mechanism and because both
y o u r Sammy and Hannah have just realized the complexity of the issue, and I don’t want to freak them out even more. They both latch on to my elbows and try to lift me, but again, it’s useless. The wind is too strong and our uncontrollable laughter makes it impossible to set me back up into my harness properly. All of the sudden, I slip all the way through my seat. “Shit!” I scream and snap my legs together just in time for my last saving grace – a random strip of harness – to place itself right between my thighs and fixate itself into my crotch. All I can think about is the pain.
At this point, my only option is literally just to “hang out,” so that’s what I do. Once all three of us realize that I might survive afterall, my siblings think it’s funny to mock me. “Morgan, Hannah!” Sammy grins, “look at that dolphin!” We all laugh because clearly, the only view I have is one of the sky. I begin to maneuver my body just enough so that I can peek out the armhole of my life jacket, thinking that the boat drivers and Cody must be horrified for me. All three of us flail our arms in the air, repeatedly yelling for help. I catch a glimpse of Cody waving back
L i f e
at us and snapping some photos. After what seems like an eternity, someone on the boat begins to reel us in. “Did you not see me on the verge of death?!” I laugh nonchalantly, pretending like I’m not horrified. “We really couldn’t see you from down here,” Cody said. “I was too focused on taking pictures of you guys.” As Sammy and Hannah begin re-enacting our experiences, the boat driver turns to me and tells me, “thanks for the show.” After all was said and done, my near-death experience brought my family
closer than ever before. Not because we learned how valuable life really is, but because we still laugh until we cry every time the story gets brought up. The photo proof only makes the memory that much more vivid and continues to remind me of the day that I bravely endured a crotch bruising, mentally scarring, unforgettable moment with my siblings. Regardless, I’m never parasailing again. So call me whatever you want. Call me fat. Call me Orca. Just don’t call me chicken. PROSE-Morgan Said
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PHOTOGRAPHY - Katie Wilhelmus
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MW
idwestern inter
Oh, how I want to live in Santa Fe in the desert where it is nice and hot. I’ll lay atop my adobe all day and bathe in the sun on a little cot. But with my pale skin, I will turn bright red. No sunscreen can protect my pale complexion. So burned I’ll climb down and retire to bed, and wake up to a lobster’s reflection. Then I’ll drive to the CVS in town, buy some Aloe Vera, slather it around. But still that New Mexican sun beats down. There’s a plus to Kansas City I’ve found. In my freezing hometown, for warmth I yearn. At least I avoid a third-degree burn.
POEM - Amy Wendland
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I see her drifting from a cloud of fog gently flowing like a swan she is wearing a beautiful and sparkling crown She takes quick and graceful steps across the floor if I didn’t know her better I’d think her a real bird. She jumps and lands with out a sound snow is falling RK
the scenery is beautiful. Her tutu flows with her every move
O W RT
eO lar
rd
ga
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it is like she can fly away with the prince by her side. The music sings as she dances and soars across the stage one beautiful movement after another the scene then comes to an end I wish I could fly away. POEM - Emma Connelly PHOTOGRAPHY - Marissa Naggi
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ARTWORK - Elise Pavicic
(a)
Pa t h e t ic
POEM - Lena White
She’s living in a world Of simple guitar riffs And unblistered fingertips. She’s living for The best anomaly she can find. She’s indestructible And she doesn’t give a shit There’s nothing left for her to fight for. Her life has become An ironic series of memes; When did that happen? She doesn’t remember And even if she did… (She shrugs) Apathy is the latest fashion.
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O
nce upon a time there was a boy and a car. One fair evening he was driving along and a girl appeared in the car. When he saw her, he screamed; he had never seen a girl before. Then his favorite song came on the radio, but she started singing along before he did, and that is how he knew he loved her. As they were driving along they saw a zombie in the road. The girl clambered out her window and pranced up to the zombie. “Oh man, I hate freakin’ zombies!” cursed the boy, as he opened his car door and ran in the opposite direction. When he realized she was not following, he turned back, but another zombie tackled to the ground. It was “It bit your arm!” cried the girl. him alright, though, because the girl had a shotgun and fought off the zombies single-handedly while the boy received only minor injuries from the encounter. “It bit your arm!” cried the girl. “It’s only a minor injury,” said the boy, waving it off casually. As they skipped off into the sunset hand-in-hand, the infection from the minor injury spread slowly up the boy’s body. When the girl felt his hand begin to erode in hers, she turned to the boy and saw him foaming at the mouth. This was very upsetting, so she did what we all know any sensible teenage girl would do when the love of her last ten minutes ends up a supernatural being: she asked him to bite her.
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The girl, a once healthy and happy apparition, was now rotting from the inside out. She would have eaten the boy’s brains right then and there, but his zombie transformation was complete, so she trotted off, losing a middle toe to a fallen branch on the way, to the local Applebee’s. There, she found that although shoes and shirt were required for service, middle toes and general aspects of being alive were not. Chomping, munching, slurping, the zombie ate her waiter’s brains. When the ghoulish boy, dead and yet alive, watched the girl trot off toward Applebee’s, he felt no impulse to follow; he was hungry, and she was not food. Zombies cannot just eat other zombies, that would be cannibalism, and then you would have a plague of Mad Zombie Disease. Imagine, a pack of rotting corpses wandering around, spreading an incurable sickness! So, just as suddenly as the girl had appeared, she disappeared. The boy, wondering why this did not seem to bother him, searched around the area for an answer, because we all know you can find the answer if you just look in the right places. There, on the ground about ten feet away from him, was his heart which had fallen out of his sickeningly dead chest. He carelessly tossed it over his shoulder; he would not be needing that anymore! So he set off following the wind, in search of a human brain to feast upon. Feet dragging, arm twitching, the zombie boy vaguely tried to remember what it was like to have feelings. PROSE - Anna Rayburn
PHOTOGRAPHY - Emily Cox
A Minor Injury
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CREATURE
SERIES ARTWORK - Michaela Knittel
ay M It
O M
cn
o
H W
To
POEM - Claire Cirocco
re n
C
PHOTOGRAPHY - Sarah Schulte
My limbs are catching on the snags of your abandonment Ripping open my thoughts An onslaught of “Ok’s” and “Don’t be sorry’s” Pouring out of me Along with the salty tears Of my own fragility Exposing my own soft white Self-deprecating frame Unable to hide my daunting Waning pale moon face So full of worry and exhaustion The crackle crunch of my bones As it all comes crashing down Like tin shingles loosened From the pounding of the rain Slender pink fingers Grasping for something meaningful And coming up with fistfuls of air
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PHOTOGRAPHY - Emily Cox
Mistakes POEM - Sarah Waller
Yelling, screaming, heated discussion rings out from all around me I feel the prick of tears to come and struggle to hold them back I cannot do these things I’m told although I try so very hard my mistakes are too great, too many for you to trust me, love me anymore You ask if I can try again to do right these simple tasks I say yes, aware of the lie I just spoke and all I can think is I want it to end
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O TO
PH RA P
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8 1 2
6 3 4
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No O ne
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Ever Said
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Stop
One time. Two times. Three times. Four times. Five times. I have stains on all my favorite shirts. Who told you that I saw what I saw? Did you see what I saw? I don’t think I saw what I saw. Standing in the doorway the ground gave way. I just get lost sometimes. “Intentional, sweetheart. It was intentional.” I shrug.
The man in the coat just sweats and murmurs. “I fell.” “Pretty precisely.” “Precisely.” No one laughs. I roll my eyes and kick my legs. “Are you feeling...down?” “As in gravity?” He just looks and looks and looks. His mouth hanging open like a fish. I put my hood up and kick my legs faster. My calves would be bruised the next day. He swallowed and scribbled on a pad of paper. Ripping it away he handed it to my mother who took it in a sweaty palm. “This’ll make her feel better...it’s obvious she’s...um...” I narrow my eyes. “Well. It’ll just make her feel better.” I stare down at my feet. Attempting to will myself to catch fire. That would be something. My mother shrugs and stuffs the paper in her wallet. She looked at me and I contorted my face and growled. She ignored me. One step. Two steps.
Three steps. Four steps. Five steps. We slammed the doors and I slammed my head against the window. “Quit being melodramatic.” “FINE!” I scream. “That’s better.” She takes me home and pushes me in front of my father. He never said a word again. My brother just laughs too loud, too quick to make conversation. His fiance just whispers and halts her movements. As if faced with a frothing animal. Drifting in an useless fog, I wander. Wander these streets I loved so much. Now I can’t tell where I started or where I’m going to end up. I felt my shirt cling to sweat but I wasn’t warm. Sit and stare. Sit and stare. Sit and stare. Weep in the middle stall. Sit and stare. Sit and stare. Sit and stare. Bruise my knuckles Sit and stare. Stare and sit. Sit and stare. Wait...that’s not right...right? Left? No, no. Right. It’s not right. One week.
Two weeks. Thee weeks. Four weeks. Five weeks. A weight on my chest. I CAN’T BREATHE. Everyone stares until I realize I’m crying. I wait until I’m only gasping and return to the freezing chairs. My hair is suffocating me. It’s gone. Free free free. I’m pretty. I feel pretty. There’s a scar on my chin. One. Two. Three. Four. Five. I don’t have the time. POEM - Maura Porter
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2.
1.
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3.
5.
1. Melissa Lane-detail 2. Molly O’Boyle 3. Melissa Lane 4. Molly O’Boyledetail 5. Eilene McSorley 6. Eilene McSorley 4.
7. Annie Steinert
6.
7.
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FIRST
POEM - Kelly Gardella
TANKA The tears are f a l l in Just as if it was raining. g Sadness is like rain. All is held inside until, It has to p out of you ou r
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PHOTOGRAPHY - Lorraine Sands
PHOTOGRAPHY - Emily Cox
Walking through an open meadow The sweet smell of morning dew in the air Bare feet dancing across the cool earth Collapsing onto a bed of fresh grass Birds soaring in the sky like shooting stars The whisper of the wind in the trees The rising sun peeking over the clouds Bright flowers scattered across the meadow’s floor A butterfly frolicking in the air above
POEM - Madeline Best
Blue skies drifting overhead Tree branches swaying to the music of the surrounding nature The pure beauty of a peaceful morning.
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i. I went uptown For some conversation But I’m too distracted To really be of much use. The shop windows Stared back at me Crayon lips and Faux sugar eyes. I crushed worlds under my boots Lost in my Cultural reverie. I began to understand Those girls (Silly little girls) Who stretch Their overpriced band tees In an effort to be a little less lonely.
ii. I lit up in the alley (Literally and figuratively) And overthought My heartbeat against your lips. My hair bled onto the pavement (dripdripdrip) And you jumped into your Hydrochloric bath Your screams drowned out By inappropriate pet noises.
iii. The simple truth is I don’t love the way you l-i-e Without words, Just the brush of Denim under my fingertips. But the truth isn’t simple And it sure as hell ain’t fair At one A.M. When you’re trying to suffocate yourself In meaningless intimacy, Pre-ordered clichés, (death, tears, blood, rain) And corrupted memories. (frozen, love, sex, pain)
iv. I sat down And took my first honestly Tinted look. Doubts Bitten down To the quick. Weakness Written out Along every curve You used to love. POEM - Lena White
BETWEEN 2:03 AND 2:06
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PHOTOGRAPHY - Emily Cox
PHOTOGRAPHY - Katie Crow
W
Co
ith Your ave S o me
H
ffe
e
Heartbreak Served up cold For breakfast Just as rotten Leftover As it was Warm. Heartbreak Served with coffee. Elbows on the table Isn’t she just The picture of loneliness? POEM - Lena White
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M e m o r i e s
She opens her box Pictures of memories among Of a beautiful girl So precious, so young So tall, so flawless, She looked like a star Long hair blowing in the wind As she drove her nice car. She was prom queen Too good it seems And that is where She met the man of her dreams. A silky white dress Flowers painted pinkish-red Her father beside her Down the aisle he led. She closes her box Pictures of memories behold Of a beautiful lady So precious, so old. POEM - Angelica Duckworth ARTWORK - Clare Odegard
She is your best friend The one to whom you can tell anything The one who comforts you when you cannot comfort yourself The one who means everything to you Absolutely everything.
What if you could take it all back? Took the time to really look at her Took the time to truly comfort her Stopped for just a moment in your so-called busy life? What would you say?
What if you could take it all back? Took the time to tell her she matters Took the time to tell her she is loved Stopped for just a moment to simply talk How different your life could be
And then she’s gone, just like that She was in so much pain, hurting so much But this time she needed you to comfort her This one who means so much to you And you didn’t even notice Again
Now you see all the pain you caused All the pain you didn’t take away Now you see how much she truly means But it’s far too late And you didn’t even notice Again
She thought she wasn’t worth The very life she lived But she is your whole life Was your whole life And you didn’t even notice Again
AG A I N
ARTWORK - Clare Odegard
POEM - Sarah Waller
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SO WE SALUTE
POEM - Maura Porter ARTWORK - Anna Rayburn
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I
lay on the floor and wondered my life away.
I should know.
Dressed in duct taped plaid and a fraying emblem.
I ripped out your seams.”
This would be my life for quite some time.
She made herself comfortable.
A restless wringing of lead smeared palms,
Just last month I was having a staring contest with my single
a nervous tic of a shaking bug bitten knee.
serving of sanity.
All our plans involved A-frames and road signs,
Begging myself to take that step.
but instead we got deadlines and cold shoulders.
To man up and COMMIT.
Though it’s alright because experience proves a valuable asset.
One or the other! One or the other!
Eight(y) months.
I choose the other and I can smile.
Scratch out our faces! Burn our possessions!
An oath of fealty I could never wrap my tongue around.
Tear out the roots and replant.
What was so simple now locks itself in the middle stall with
Do you hear that hum? I’m not sure I can anymore.
empty threats.
A spiderweb dipped in red.
“This is all I can call my own!”
The spider herself danced down and nestled inside my ear.
Causation and scientific notation.
“It’s as simple as ABC, really. You just shouldn’t talk to yourself.
I could never change what I didn’t understand.
They wanted someone who looks like what they look like.
And I don’t understand much.
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ARTWORK - Clare Odegard
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Time
POEM - Emily Cosgrove A whirlwind desert time slipping away; Enough at first, to swim in, Enough at first to drown in; time. a tornado of dust circling down. a wish for the tick tock, but only to find, the constant shh that marks each moment wasted time in the sandy wasteland only grains, each a moment, do remain. Then nothing but a pool of sand, a teardrop of the seconds that marks the lapse in thought.
HY RAP TOG PHO a tarin - Ka ler Wal
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Sarah is a student who knows it all. Never think that it could ever befall That girl of the dark mane and deepest eye An imperfect score that would make her cry. Her manner is quiet, her smile subdued, And you might think her anything but rude, But hers is the voice that scathingly bites In whispered comments and thoughts un-contrite. She judges and mocks with cool condescension. In pleated plaid, she might fail to mention That she, of course, is far wiser than you. No, she doesn’t say it, but knows it is true.
Lover of wizards and hobbits, the nerd If you tease her, would think it quite absurd That books and magic are for those depressed. Head full of novels, that girl is obsessed. She owns all of the costumes and merchandise. To best all geeks and overcome their vice. That geeky, plaid-clad intellectual Pens her thoughts with phrases effectual. Chocolate eyes flash if you call her a pest; She knows she’s a snob, insuff ’rable at best. If this description is beyond the pale, Rejoice, for now here endeth Sarah’s Tale.
The Know-It-All’s Tale POEM - Sarah Moran
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ARTWORK - Anna Rayburn
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46 PHOTOGRAPH Y - Katie Crow
YourSmile
A skinned knee that never quite heals because you’re always tripping on the same crack in the same sidewalk on the same street in the same city. It’s not gushing blood or anything but it stings. A band-aid is futile and hydrogen peroxide is too expensive. You spit on it to feel like there’s some cleaning going on but instead it just mixes with the slight trickle of blood and drips down your calf, making you gag. Bending your knee, wincing and cussing your heart out. There’s nothing to do but stand up and wash the red out of your socks. I just really want to cry. POEM - Maura Porter
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ARTWORK - Kelsey Rodriguez
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A Picture of
Yo u
I drew a picture of you in the corner of this page. As soon as I finished, I erased it, even though you’ll never see it. I’m not really sure why. I remember how it started. You and I, and an endless river of zeroes and ones; yes-no-yes, on-off-off. I also remember how it ended, with the broken pieces of a satellite crashing through my roof.
There are only so many things that a poem can spell out, and I know how to whisper every single one of them in your ear. Everything else is just a new chapter of phrases; “avec la gare”; “en la ciudad”. I’m not sure how to use them in context. I’m not really sure who you are, either. Or which of you I’m talking about. Because you remind me of each other, and I sincerely hope that you’re not the same person, because the second time is shame on me. Honestly, I need to stop drawing the things I’m unsure about so darkly. Graphite likes to worm its way into every little fiber of your life, and I’m tired of smudges on my sheets. That picture of you wasn’t very true to life, anyhow. In my experience, your eyes don’t smudge like that when you’re sad; they drip puddles of self indulgent text. Your smile, though; your smile feels right, but it didn’t come from your face. Maybe one of you is different. POEM - Lena White
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def • i • ni • tion • s POEM - Emily Cosgrove
Power puff Girls, jump ropes, and “lip stuff.” A giggle for the breezy wind tickling your face. The warmth of a hot mug creeping up your fingers, after a frigid date with winter and swirly flakes of snow. Anti-cootied boys. Anti-smelly socks. This is what young girls are. The flutter of a heart, When that certain someone passes by. The ponytail that swings with laughter. The grins that fill each moment. The telephone that’s always ringing. The fingernails that shimmer pink. this is what young women are. A chuckle here for the carefree ways, as the young ones pass her by. With a mind that knows the birds who sing outside, on the windowsill. She knows they sing for her alone. An afternoon walk to see the world, because she has seen the rest of it. This is what grandmothers are.
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PHOTOGRAPHY - Adriana Ohmes
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POEM - Sarah Waller
TEARS PHOTOGRAPHY - Emily Cox
The tear glides slowly down my cheek while I lay beneath the sheets entangled in my own self-pity as the cool crisp air sears the tear to my skin reminding me that I am alone.
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Singing, laughing, carefree sounds rise up and up to my pained ears. They are so happy, yet it’s depressing. It seems so easy – why is it so difficult for me. My throat is tight my face is warm I cannot seem to get a breath. I want to scream and scream and scream But I stay quiet, very still as yet another tear slips out.
PHOTOGRAPHY - Emily Cox
Snatching pumpkins off leaf-littered streets Making our way home up the hill Watching our sad twinkling city Glow and fade in the distance Shuffling along with our grocery lists candied apples Spitting onto the sidewalk Our own airing of grievances And shameless idealistic contemplations Of the future Of love
Of cramped apartments smoldering cigarettes matted cat hair Skewed views of emotion And daily pilgrimages to the 7-Eleven Content and unchanging In twenty years we will still be here Living on State Line Kicking cans down the street Our faรงade of normalcy Our simplistic utopia Middle-American Dream POEM - Claire Cirocco
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Let’s take a look back to when she lay there on her bed in soft peaceful light. Take a look back to who was there for her when she broke her arm, As she lay in the lumpy hospital mattress that could not comfort her. Let’s take a look back to when she would lay there on the grass feeling nostalgic and calm, Take a look on who was right next to her when she would count the ponies in the clouds, Laying on the cool, slender grass slivers, while the hills fit the curves of her vertebrae.
She would pound at the walls in anger until she soon flopped on her back and cried herself to sleep. Take a look at who was there to visit her every day, with a song and a hand to hold. Let’s take a look back to when she was brought home, she lay there on her miniature bed again, with tears streaming down her face as she was overwhelmed by memories. Take a look at who was there to watch her jump on her bed, and have a pillow fight with her when nobody else could. She would lay on the white shag carpeting, filling her lungs with laughter, just after the winning strike of the pillow was thrown.
perhaps POEM - Katie Crow
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Let’s take a look back to when she grew older, She would lie there on the stairs from exhaustion and anxiety, Take a look on who was the one to discover her there, And be denied the generous help she obviously needed, Watching her lay on the stairs and crawl her way up to the landing, With bruises on her arms and leg, and blood on her wrists…
She would always look at me and say she is glad I’m always there, even when the others weren’t. With her bright blue eyes, always looking so hopeful, it made me wish I could cry. With her laugh so vociferous it was contagious, it made me wish I could laugh. With her emotions so conflicting, it was torture to stand there and watch her not be helped, it made me wish I could. And with her stories so playful, it made me glad to have been there for her through it all.
Let’s take a look back to when she was laid in her room, on the soft white floor, packed in all over,
So let’s take a look back to when she was lying in the padded and silky looking box.
Take a look at who was there to leave teardrops on the roses thy had politely placed in her hands. She lay there with her face full of memories painted to seem happy, half of her body covered, and her looking so conform. That was the last thing she was, a conformity, she was so different to begin with, so why did she end all the same? She lay there for hours, monotonous prayers and calls for help being said by a small group, but no respects paid, no teardrops on the roses. Let’s take a look back to when she lay there in the sealed box, beneath the dirt and dust.
“She lay there for hours, monotonous prayers and calls for help being said by a small group, but no respects paid, no teardrops on the roses.” Take a look at who was dressed in black on the rainy day, with the fake hopes being said from the little leather book. Nobody… but me. The whole situation seemed so unusual and confusing as I hoped to see her soon again. But then I realized it was goodbye, and then I wished I was real enough to wave to her. ARTWORK - Michaela Knittel
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ARTWORK - Anna Rayburn
In the room there is quiet except for the click, click, click Of the keys being pressed down By the hands of busy worker, click, click, click As the speed increases the noise does too Becoming faster, faster, faster To the point you need to just say STOP! All is quiet once more, But the click, click, click, is still in the atmosphere Growing softer as the work becomes complete, The final click, click, click And then nothing Pure silence.
POEM - Dreama Weber
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The head of the house with all the control she steps in the lead and she’s ready to roll. No matter when or where she’s always in front; he may think he’s higher and she won’t be blunt. In fact she’ll just smile and say, “of course, dear,” but deep down she knows she’s in charge of everything at least around here. Feeling so proud she lets her man fly while back on the ground she’s controlling the sky. Moving the others like a big puppeteer she plans our whole life straight through the year. The head of the house with all the control the Sergeant steps in the lead and she’s ready to roll.
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ARTWORK - Erin Sheehy
the
sergeant POEM - Annie McCalla
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PHOTOGRAPHY - Michaela Knittel
HEAR
T
O
In the heart of the city, it is never silent. There is a constant symphony of chaos The harmony of the hustle and bustle sweeps you away with a rush.
F THE
Close your eyes and listen to the beat listen to the rhythm of steps on the sidewalk to the voice calling for a taxi
T
Y
EM PO
-A
D bby
ear
th
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I
this noise this discord this pleasant cacophony the heart of the city.
C
feel the vibrations as the city vrooms by the giggling of children and the chatter of businessmen
First Lo e
When the rain pours down, My heart is given to you, Sweet words are spoken And I rise back up to you, When you hear sweet songs, think me. POEM - Dreama Weber PHOTOGRAPHY - Bailey Whitehead
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The Third Tanka Salty warm winds come, and nudge you towards the sea, whispering their song. A beautiful melody with stories of its deep past. POEM - Elena Flores
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PHOTOGRAPHY - Laura Stacy
WINDMOOR STAFF PRINT STAFF: Sibel Alpakin Clare Bowen Claire Cirocco Lucy Edmonds Mary Cate Feuerborn Natalie Fitts Maddie Lundgren Claire McKeon Molly O’Boyle Brenna Palmer Maura Porter Anna Rayburn Libby Sauder Evan Thompson Lena White
WEB STAFF: Cara McClain Elise Pavicic Lorraine Sands Kristen Wieliczka Anna Woolery CO-EDITORS: Michaela Knittel Marissa Naggi MODERATORS: Carrie Jacquin Megan Schaefer
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