Elysium Literary/Art Magazine 2022 by Elysium Magazine

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U M

2022 VOLUME 21

VOLUME 21, 2022

E LY S I U M

Literary and Arts Magazine

Coral Reef Senior High School | 10101 SW 152nd Street Miami, FL 33157 | Phone: (305) 232-2044 Advisor: Stephanie Woolley-Larrea | E-mail: SLWL@dadeschools.net

Editor’s Note Jean Paul Sarte wisely observed that freedom is what we do with what is done to us. The contributors to this year’s edition of Elysium emerged from the pall of the pandemic with stories of growth and civic engagement. Documenting the transition from isolation to unity, they evoke all shades of the human experience, inviting readers to assume ownership of their reality. With the impetus of freedom, our creators continue their dialectic of trial and error. It is my hope that readers will accompany us on this journey.

Amanda Rey Dominguez Editor-in-Chief

Cover: mcrib | Julie Fontes | Pen

About Us

Colophon

Published continuously since 2005, Elysium Magazine is an annual publication designed to showcase student creativity in both writing and art. This year’s staff is comprised of members in grades 10-12 spanning 5 different academies. Elysium meets every Wednesday after school from October to March as well as three full weeks in April. All staff members are involved in procuring, selecting, matching, designing, and proofing the magazine. To reach a larger audience, all Elysium publications are archived on elysiummagazine.com along with programs and photos from past galas held at Books and Books in Coral Gables. In this venue, various artists, writers, actors, and musicians present dramatic readings, art discussions, and musical performances.

Volume 21 consists of 88 pages created on Lenovo desktop computers using Adobe InDesign® CS5.5 and Adobe Photoshop® CS5.5. Students were able to access Adobe InDesign® and Photoshop® using their student email account, allowing our staff to work on their personal computers during the remote publication period to allow for proofing and final spread creation. The layout staff chose Neue Kabel Black as the font for the cover and title while Sabon LT Pro was used for the body text and artist credit. A digital copy on Issuu.com will be made available to all Coral Reef High students and teachers, and it will be made available to the public online, as well.

Editorial Policy

Awards

To ensure that the magazine is representative of the creative work of the entire school, staff is selected from across the many academies. In October, the Editors-in-Chief and Adviser select the staff based on a personal interview, portfolio, and the student’s ability to evaluate an unknown piece of art or literature. To further ensure fairness, submissions are judged anonymously and identified by only an ID number. The literary staff reviews and evaluates pieces individually and later discusses pieces in a group. Selections are based on style, distinctive theme, and overall quality. Finally, the layout staff teaches InDesign to the staff. Fonts are chosen and possible covers aid the staff in creating assigned layouts designed to integrate with the overall theme and look of the magazine.

Columbia Scholastic Press Association: Gold Crown 2015, 2021; Silver Crown 2016-2020

Philosophy

Special Thanks

This magazine was founded with the intent to showcase the beauty of the relationship between art and literature. What sets Elysium apart is that we aim to represent the entirety of our student body. Additionally, the staff seeks to establish ties within the community, recognize talent, and teach elements of professional design and layout. We believe there is real value in preserving the publication of print media.

We would like to extend our appreciation to Mrs. Woolley-Larrea, Elysium’s sponsor, for her artistic guidance, and to our principal, Ms. Nicole Bergé-Macinnes, for her continued support of the magazine. Thank you to Mitch Kaplan who has hosted our culminating Elysium gala at the Books and Books venue in Coral Gables since 2009. We would like to thank all of the students at Coral Reef Senior High for submitting and having their voices heard.

Gold Medalist: 2005, 2007-2019 National Council of Teachers of English: Highest National Award: 2008-2010, 2012-2020 National Scholastic Press Association: NSPA Peacemaker Finalist 2006 Gold Medalist and All-American 2006-2012 (Discontinued 2012)

S TA F F Advisor

Editor-in-Chief

Stephanie Woolley-Larrea

Amanda Rey Dominguez

Literature

Art

*Anna Oswald Bernardo Montas Isabella Villa Marco Villamizar Maria Bolanos Samuel Cruz Mhyanif Lozada Ayman Tanzim

*Amanda Barnes *Annick Abello Karina Nemalceff Victor Dieguez Rebecca Rodriguez Alejandra Agustin

Layout *Krystal Li *Annick Abello Catalina Ulrich Carlos Vigil Isabella Armendariz

Business Manager Isabella Armendariz

Social Media Manager Samuel Cruz * denotes staff editor

L I T E R AT U R E

Fate Ayman Tanzim, Prose

Akoya Paulina Yu, Poem

Ecce Homo Justin Fernandez, Poem

You and Only You Mhyanif Lozada, Poem

Pansy Samuel Cruz, Poem

Venus’s Birth Camille Stengel, Poem

The Black Paintings Gabriella Hernandez, Poem

The Kiss Vanessa Weingrad, Poem

Put Simply Justin Fernandez, Poem

The First Poet Isabella Prince, Poem

The Weatherman Marco Villamizar, Poem

The Widower Camila Penagos, Poem

On a Walk Elena Ventura, Poem

59-60

The Fool Vanessa Weingrad, Poem

Slice Catalina Ulrich, Poem

An Ode to the Midwestern Math Rock Guitar Samuel Cruz, Poem

Korea, 1950 Vanessa Weingrad, Poem

Unraveled Symphony Vanessa Garcia, Poem

Sand Krystal Li, Poem Where My Soul Resides Michelle Guerra, Poem

Rain in the Sea Bailey Raymond, Prose

The Neptune Facade Michelle Guerra, Prose

73 75-81

Affinity Samuel Cruz, Poem

On Roots, Words, and Love Samantha Perez, Prose Summer in Autumn Bernardo Montas, Poem Pluie et Brouillard Anna Oswald, Prose

A Walk Under the Parasol Anna Oswald, Prose

Rise Before Dawn Amanda Clegg, Poem

Tense Angelique Nodal, Pencil

46-47

Eww, Gross!! Victor Dieguez, Acrylic Paint

Yellow Acacia Jessica Batle, Digital Pigmentations of the Soul Jazmine Jenkins and Charlotte Balcells, Digital Photography Nature’s Serenity Pearl Cetoute, Colored Pencil, Acrylic Paint, Gel Pen

Grief Stricken Vivien Depp, Acrylic

Selfhood Hannah Corcoran, Marker

52-53

K. Sara Fueyo, Acrylic Paint

Dia de los Muertos Mikey Lanway, Soft Pastel

A Mile in My Shoes Sara Fueyo, Acrylic Paint

Two Faced Julia Guimaraes, Pen, Watercolor

A Man’s Journey Joel Obando, Toothpicks

Parade Diosmary Orozco, Watercolor

Rosy Lady Ishany Martinez, Acrylic Paint

64-65

Bago Mikayla St. Clair, Watercolor

Empty Glasses, Empty Thoughts Moriah Higgs, Watercolor and Gouache

Touch of Red Ileana Hernandez, Colored Pencil

Z GALVANIC STRIDEZ Robert (Asa) Marley, Acrylic Paint

Mother Dearest Kristen DiBello, Acrylic on Canvas

70-71

Morning Sun Ana Lanza, Mixed Media

Buenos Dias William Lanway, Oil Pastel

Stairway to Heaven William Lanway, Oil Pastel

The Nurturing Eye Karina Nemalceff and Maria Bolanos, Pencil

Breakdance William Lanway, Paint Marker and Pen

Somber Taylor Socolow, Acrylic

Two Sides of the Same Coin Anniston Rubio, Oil Pastel The Anxious Biter Taliyah Gopie, Gouache Asphodel Meadows Anna Beck, Photography Meditation on Wheels Jazmine Jenkins, Digital Photography

36-37 38-39

Late Izakaya Evening Samantha Martinez, Digital

Heavenly Depictions Victor Dieguez, Makeup

and what does that feel like? Hannah Corcoran, Acrylic Paint Nostalgic Comfort Rebecca Rodriguez, Digital Vulpine Soul Raul Rodriguez, Digital

Kloe Neva Cruz, Acrylic Paint

ART

Enigmatic Flesh Asa Marley, Oil pastel

FAT E Ayman Tanzim

Fate is a cruel mistress. Her graceful hands and dainty fingers pluck and carry the strings of every life to ever exist. To her, humans are but marionettes she puppeteers to their end. The loss we must face, the unhappiness of one’s own self, the swiftness passing of time, the inability to make a change, the fickleness of the human psyche, the struggle of simply living. We are given a life, a family, a home. And as time passes, we gain more: friends, education, experiences, etc. But these things come to be mercilessly stripped away. When one thing, two things, or everything comes crashing down, there is only one person to blame: Fate.

Enigmatic Flesh | Asa Marley | Oil pastel

The cruelty we humans endure is all for our mistress’ entertainment. Or rather, her satisfaction. For the same reasons for the existence of “good” and “evil,” fate must be cruel. She is not given a choice. One must suffer for another to succeed, even the undeserving. To create the perfect scenario for one soul to achieve their happy ending, infinitely many more are fated to suffer. Only mistakes are the bearers of experience. Only loss will teach lessons. Only the fiery pits of the abysmal hell will spark desire and determination to reach the stars and come face to face with the blinding lights of the heavens. Only suffering is the key to true happiness. And with every blow that our mistress lands on the unchosen, her own mind chips away. The same suffering we humans go through is a simple mirror image of what our mistress must survive when the time comes to choose. So, for the sake of our mistress, we must persist. We must endure.

Though our present life may end in shambles and ash of mediocrity and disappointment, maybe our chance will come in the next life or the one after. Maybe centuries will pass before our soul gets chosen or even a millennium. What matters is that it will happen. One day, our mistress will choose you and all the suffering you have been through, evident in the cracks and fissures of your soul, will heal. Your pain will come to light. Your immeasurable suffering will become worthwhile. Your happy ending will be achieved. As the inflictor of your scars, Fate will sympathize. She will understand and Fate somehow becomes not as cruel as you once believed. It is time who is the true antagonist. Every fleeting or deep-rooted moment spent is the result of time. We need more time. We scream for help, for salvation. But time… Time is not kind to anyone. Time will not wait for us to be ready. It will lunge forward into the depths of infinity and drag us behind as we trip over ourselves and try to get our bearings. Fate’s delicate hands that weave our lives are in a battle against time because she, too, isn’t favored. But unlike the humans, she has power. And just as we endure, she will endure. For the sake of humans who are her most beloved puppets, she will sacrifice whatever is necessary to return triumphant. Even if it means favoring just one human. Even if it means subjecting a multitude of others to a lifetime of pain. If at least one more soul can move on and become free from time’s reign of terror, then she will do whatever it takes. Because that’s what it means to be a cruel mistress.

Ecce Homo Justin Fernandez Like the motes of a sunbeam on a brilliant Monday morning all I ever was were the specks in the way of the Son. First the hands. One to clasp the wrist and watch and one to rest the nape and wreathe and bathe, and embrace, a nature, submerged, almost-human. Then the wine. One shot turned from wedding-water and another in my heart like a quarrel as we clapped and cheered for gaiety sans sin. Then the lips. One touch to betray the Word and rupture skylight, to call to arms centurions here and after evermore. Molten men will wring my neck. They will cry wicked the bond between men claim brotherhood over crime and I won’t hear the cock’s calls over condemnation. But as they raise me, as they flip heel over waist and let pour my heart into my head, as they mesh cypress onto flesh with rope and bronze I will crave crepe myrtle. I will see in his hands the blooming swathes of Rose tied in rush. And I will rue the Devil and his truth that the Son of Man will rise again and Be held without me. Tense | Angelique Nodal | Pencil

Pansy Samuel Cruz I weakly whispered to you on that fateful, terrible day “everything must have an ending except my love for you.” that was all you needed to sink your jagged teeth into the undiscovered recesses of my consciousness and hungrily devour its contents yet you still cast it all aside for pansy-filled pastures clouded in viridian as the picturesque plains crafted in your honor are rendered obsolete in retrospect I should’ve leapt at the opportunity to escape from these continuous cycles of tragedy yet I foolishly remained hell has deemed you the apple of my eye as you rot into a decayed husk of vitriol cruel desire motivates the cold, frost-bitten hands as they reach towards the warmth that never was

Eww, Gross!! | Victor Dieguez | Acrylic Paint

the black paintings Gabriella Hernandez

Gone in the breadth of a baneful night, I bought a lie of the blackest kind. And drinking from a bottle of some boisterous mind, I saw in the black a backwards line. “O’ boy in the jaw of some bogged-down death, with a breath of blood and a father’s best,” I break for a moment, awaiting the rest of a baseless threat for the baby’s best. Your house barely trembles as a barbarous sin rolls in, brush breaks out and brown earth breaks in bye-bye to the breast of life beat in! By the boy’s bullet, the show begins. And the bird’s breathy caw calls out to me while I brandish my gun and I blast three. I look to the black, a blackened sea— I see Saturn beaming back at me Daddy, do you find yourself hungry? He says yes, offer up your body to me. And as my neck crunches and my body bends the bleak smells of glory declare the end

Grief Stricken | Vivien Depp | Acrylic

put simply

Selfhood | Hannah Corcoran | Marker

Justin Fernandez In 7th Grade I watched my friend Danny crumble— he struggled to break into that mold forbid by some Santa or Father or Dad to become his very own Gingerbread Man. Instead he was gifted the nutty sweet of marzipan pinks and the purples of taffy that could be stretched and pulled apart and pictured and swallowed. Thumb down the torso and wield the piping bag at your right hand like your Saint, like your Father, repeat history and rewrite the man Without sin. To those that sit, and pray, and eat at our Rooster’s Mass: I hope you enjoy the hint of acetone-fruit and the crushed hands the acrid coal—which gifts, which burns—for the naughty leaving proof of guilt and consumption on your fingers, on the hands you could have used to hold his. Buried between cake layers of fondant dress and skirt was he your family’s decoration or its dowel? It’s another white Christmas, and the fireplace is more hot than warm under this gingerbread family, and their beautiful pink cake. Unpalatable. Divine.

The Weatherman Marco Villamizar I just wanted to ask about the weather. But as I reached out, You only spoke of how sunny it was yesterday. As times passed and winds crept, Skies darkened, clouds met, I just wanted to ask about the weather. Feeling the warm breeze of the ether, Your breath in tandem, You only spoke of how sunny it was yesterday. And it shouldn’t have been hard to interrupt. Yet I couldn’t bear doing that to you. I just wanted to ask about the weather. My words wound up and heart too, Like the oncoming storm you avoided, You only spoke of how sunny it was yesterday. Come to think of it, you lied. For years the sky’s been grey. I just wanted to ask about the weather, You only spoke of how sunny it was yesterday. And then, It rained.

Somber | Taylor Socolow | Acrylic

K. | Sara Fueyo | Acrylic Paint

A Mile in My Shoes | Sara Fueyo | Acrylic Paint

On a Walk Elena Ventura

there is an art, in rain one that tickles a soul whispering secrets of skies that last forever high above your roots it can be chased, in: a cotton candy flavored sunset a fallen leaf with its salted crunch a breeze, carrying the distant sea a silent smile from a stranger an angry goose, proud and tall but it cannot be caught. so it is followed, hunted by a girl and her dog chasing ideas through the grass on a Sunday afternoon.

A Man’s Journey | Joel Obando | Toothpicks 24

The

Fool

Inspired by Eavan Boland’s “The War Horse”

Vanessa Weingrad

Natural fools, people say had no merry part to play Tingling bells as she enters the court, serving her roe, comic consort: Jane the Foole, could be her name or Fol, or Beden (it’s all the same) she knows not what that makes them laugh she knows not why they call her daft Because in Tudor times, you see, the disabled had no lives to lead; Used as jesters, shaved their heads, Used to laugh until their deaths,

A dress-up doll, the Queen’s delight, Poor Boleyn blind to her plights -A rolling head, the young queen dead, gave Jane new freedoms, it has said, with Princess Mary, she grew old, and that’s all we were ever told. Remembered in paintings and writings of yore, Hidden in corners, a secret lore, of Jane our fool, beloved jester, this poem, my own loving gesture

Rosy Lady | Ishany Martinez | Acrylic Paint

But the life of a fool is not so bad: They lead rich lives, lavishly clad,

SLI CE Catalina Ulrich slice. the familiar gathering of tears in my eyes. slice. layers upon layer upon layers, looking up at me, whimpering, begging, screaming at me to stop. slice. blazing eyes caught in a cloud of smoke, the heat ripping through their corneas. slice. salty water in my parched mouth, reminding me of waves, the ocean, a delicious calming breeze washes over me. slice. the waves are rippling away, replaced by an endless desert, sand everywhere, heat everywhere. slice. the waves have disappeared, the sand has dissolved, I am back, I look down and realize I’ve finished, I’m done, the relief settles in and I shakily place the knife down. the smell of chopped onions lingers around the room as I carefully toss the freshly-cut slices into the steaming pot on the stove.

Empty Glasses, Empty 28 Thoughts | Moriah Higgs | Watercolor

the M A idwe n O sternde to M Rock Gu ath itar Sam Cruz

there is something extraordinary about his concoction of delay and distortion humming within your strings washing away the banality of an atrophied life maybe there’s something outside of this moment after all there is something disheartening about his fading aspirations nestling themselves within your chords transforming into the magnificence of a swansong maybe drifting into catatonia is the norm after all

Z GALVANIC STRIDEZ | Robert (Asa) Marley | Acrylic Paint

there is something exhilarating about his relentless ambition breaking through your warped tonality soaring to the peaks of the highest mountains as the filthy, brown mud of the deepest lagoons sinks into him in inconceivable ways eliciting thoughts of malice towards the present yet a furious, defiant hope arises for something outside of this moment

Korea, 1950 Vanessa Weingrad

You used to like the color red. You liked its passion, its fire, its warmth You picked at the dried blood on your palms, but it wouldn’t come out

This was the risky part of your dance, when too much could be revealed, when the dancer misses the jump, when you’re found on the floor, broken bones and broken hearts. You locked eyes. You jumped. He caught you.

(It’ll never come out) You liked wearing red, but not like this You scrubbed and scrubbed until white went pink and green went brown He walked in to help you, to scrub alongside you for hours in silence He offered you a drink, back in the tent, cheeks tinged red (Was it from the cold or the alcohol?) You took it.

You liked the red of his lips, of his cheeks, of his fingers when they picked at your scrubs. He wore a sweater, sent from home. He didn’t like wearing fatigues. He used to let you borrow it on cold nights. It was red. He promised to visit you, back in the states. (But) He got a pretty blonde wife, got a kid, got a life. You used to like the color red, but now you’d kill to forget it.

Two Sides of the Same Coin | Anniston Rubio | Oil Pastel

My throat hurts occasionally. My throat hurts unbearably, occasionally.

S Y

Vanessa Garcia

E L

H P N M

I think I’ve been ill my whole life because, when the symphony of ideas escapes my vocal chords, the only audible sound of a response, is ringing. The same ringing I heard as I played my tempered keys for them. The same ringing I heard as I painted my pages with the delicacy of a color blessed brush. The same ringing I heard as they told me I should vastly limit my dreams, but I don’t sleep anymore. My consciousness tries to put a close to that vied voice box of mine. Still, the latch of an unending orchestra of ideas and perspectives erupted. I heard it as clear as my soft keys; the ringing, the ringing, the ringing. My throat abruptly clenched in a sharp response to the too familiar seizing pain. In a moment of gray silence, I opened the lid, releasing a relentless instrument. A strange sound strung from this instrument: my voice, a sound foreign to my ears. This instrument passionately strung and frantically played unending sonatas, ceasing to leave itself unheard. Then for the first time, my throat didn’t hurt.

The Anxious Biter | Taliyah Gopie | Gouache

Sand Krystal Li

Weathered glass under feet, he walks, crunch and march in tandem, leaving imprints on the ground to be quickly filled, yet void of convention While wind carries mist and spray forward, the waves recede, as if in fear of his shadow— ambiguity defining him. As a thought alters his natural cadence, he stalls, turning to look back at the path of his sole. But, he finds it has already washed away.

Asphodel Meadows | Anna Beck | Photography

Meditation on Wheels | Jazmine Jenkins | Digital Photography

Michelle Guerra There is little love in this world that is as unwavering and long standing as the love I feel towards my bedroom.

The four weathered walls encase my deepest secrets and my lightest moments. This room becomes a sanctuary when the battle outside the door becomes too impossible to fight. This room becomes a patient pastor solemnly nodding along as I make my final confessions, before I commence a sleep that lasts forever. This room becomes the perfect balance between a force that will never leave my side, will never cease holding me inside of it, and a content observer who is never unsatisfied with me as long as I just be. That is enough for this curious cubed structure. It quenches my selfishness. Gives me a place to rest, think, laugh, paint, write, cry. How come it sees me at my worst, and loves me with all of its best? It continues to welcome me, letting me adorn its walls with a splatter from the inside of my mind, never critiquing what preposterous blemish I might create on this naive white canvas. Never refusing to conform to the standard at which I hold it, unfairly at times. My boudoir obsequiously waits for me to walk through the door, never unhappy at my bare presence, and doesn’t object when I inevitably make my exit. I speculate these qualities would be diminished greatly by a human need for reciprocation, for mutual succor. Luckily, these services, which I often cannot provide, will never hinder my room’s adoration for my intellectual, physical, and emotional presence. It only witnesses the true color of my persona, and doesn’t share its findings, no matter the temptation. Defeated or enabled, I return to my room when the wind blows too hard. When the road becomes too slippery. When the temperature dips below freezing. It warms me, surrounding my stride with a foundation that I’ve yet to build up within myself. My room will continue to call my name, as it knows by now that I live my life strolling after the sounds of that familiar designation. Searching for a force that will fill me up, that will know me so well as this unique enclosure does. I’ll come back to you every time.

Late Izakaya Evening | Samantha Martinez | Digital

Akoya Paulina Yu

I was handed a small velvet pouch. Barely weighing more than a small seashell, the contents inside clicked around when I rubbed the velour cloth. Ah-ma would tell me stories of the necklace: A shiny string of pearl lay across her collarbone cool to the touch but hugged her neck with a warm embrace. The gold pendant, embedded with sanguine rubies and icy crystals, rested on her chest. At its prime, the pearls glistened in the moonlight under the vast sky dotted with stars. If you looked hard enough, you could even see the reflection of the celestial orbs in each individual Akoya. Years later, the aged appearance of the yellowed globes did not hinder the lustrous glow that they once exuded as they now take their place around my neck.

Heavenly Depictions | Victor Dieguez | Makeup

you

and only

you

Mihyanif Lozada Dark evergreen lines In your beige fingers; Lines and branches on Your hands, I linger. Curious, your face Distorting design. Windows into you, Your eyes never lie. I watch as you sob, My eyes become you; My arms do not reach Though I run to you. And in store for me, All that’s left to do Is smile bright for you; You and only you.

Yellow Acacia | Jessica Batle | Digital

Pigmentations of the Soul | Jazmine Jenkins & Charlotte Balcells | Digital Photography

Venus’s Birth Camille Stengel

You yearn, you seduce angels of the Sea, out of pure beauty, a golden mane, hiding yourself from the touch of the tarnished man. You float on a scallop reaching the shores of Cyprus to cover yourself with a silk cloak covered in daisies. Your symbolized body: A contemplation of love and the divine, a manifestation of a sexualized love, a personification of nature, a temporary animation of innocence. Now make your way to Hora.

Nature’s Serenity | Pearl Cetoute | Colored pencil, acrylic paint, gel pen

Inspired by Eavan Boland’s “Degas’s Laundresses” and Edvard Munch’s Kiss by the Window

Two blank faces, intertwined, meeting, melting, molding; Bodies held tight, movement blunt and rough, two become one — identities are not known, not desired — unbeknownst to them, one becomes three; A child is born, equally faceless, equally empty

The Kiss

What was never desired is now discovered— now lost. Two blank faces, indistinguishable, mutilated, miserable, monotonous; This will never change. Unless?

Vanessa Weingrad

The child, once faceless, once empty, draws the curtains and smears the canvas. The painting is remade; the subjects replaced — three become One.

Features are sculpted. Gouache hair and watercolor eyes pressed onto the canvas. What was once lost is now found.

and what does that feel like? | Hannah Corcoran | Acrylic Paint

Nostalgic Comfort | Rebecca Rodriguez | Digital

The First Poet Isabella Prince

I have a faulty memory. As much as I try to lock the cage, the wind blows fast, and birds fly easily. things remain alive in my head a few days. I do not remember anyone’s birthday, nor what I had for breakfast this morning and sometimes I mix the days of the week. But within my veins, flows the pronounced sound from the deep bells of his presence. Of a tranquil voice, from that man with the robust aspect and soft heart. With his implicit look and transparent ochre eyes. His ivory skin, stained with the brisk passing of his sun bright years. His loud hands painted the world of colors with joy made brushes, and his quiet words, painted smiles in the cosmos of those who brought company. In my memory he resides.

Vulpine Soul | Raul Rodriguez | Digital

My great-grandfather was a refugee Fleeing from the fall of an empire to a country his children would also soon flee from. My great-grandmother was his wife’s sister, Marrying him as a last ditch attempt to keep her nieces and nephews in the country, After her sisters’ death. This is a family legend, An explanation for the mismatch of cultural foods during celebrations. An explanation for my grandmother’s family’s hesitance towards my grandfather.

Camila Penagos

If I say her cheeks were rosy with love, Dressed in all white. Their diasporic families reuniting Once more. If I say her nieces and nephews were excited, To have a new mother. And she was excited to become one. To become a woman. Then consider this: Is this our way of paving over history? A son’s love immortalizing his family history in rose Making the bad seem good The young become old Real, yet romanticized.

Dia de los Muertos | Mikey Lanway | Soft pastel

The Widower

Not as history but a fiction Romanticized and woven in To our family history, Until I attempt to unravel it And reveal its secrets. She will marry him at fourteen, Bear his children at sixteen, A man of forty years of age, The husband of her sister, a widower. I will never meet them. He will die of a heart attack at eighty after years in a war-ravaged country. She will die at the same age as him, decades later After raising ten children, a mixture of both her sister’s and her own. In the story they kiss, Him towering over her. Her parents proud. Look at me, I say to her. I am older than you now, show me. How were you able to do so much? Raise so many while still growing yourself? She is inscribed now in my mother’s memory, An aged woman in a wheelchair with a wicked sense of humor, Swearing in Arabic. Youth incarnate.

I: Distancing “A catalyst for creation,” lamented the prodigy as one does when conned by a cabal of silver tongued deceivers “images of riches beyond man’s comprehension was what was promised to me!”

A F

They stare with dull, apathetic eyes

“But look,” whispered the creators “look inwards look at the achievements, the spoils, the glory, the capacity for future success, that our presence has gracefully gifted to you.”

They lie as naturally as they breathe

Samuel Cruz

“How could it be,” wailed the prodigy as the carefully spun web of falsetruths and half-promises spun around him burns down in a fiery frenzy “that this golden kingdom of your creation designed to maximize my natural affinity turns its back to me in shame as periodically as the ebbing and flowing of the tides?” They have every explanation yet nothing resembling an answer

II: Surfacing i came to learn that your obsolete sympathy means nothing to me as this concoction of foul sludge and fair elation consumes my being metamorphosis is the path to affinity and the joy it brings metamorphosis is the only path I need to finally live free III: Ascending A strange sense of lucidity clouds his eyes as raging, untamed clouds of toxicity make way for Monet-esque skies “These endless, omnipresent knots that chain me are as impermanent as a state of stagnation in the ordinary!” he hollers with the spirit of discovery resonating within his words A logical sense of potency floods his synapses as resplendent crimson phoenixes rise with equanimity from his perpetual throne of ashes “This jejune, yet oh so glorious realization within my soul, is as impactful as my formation” he utters with the wisdom of the most renowned thinkers coursing through his veins An ascension towards affinity fuels his rise as the creators’ manufactured state of entropy becomes an obsolete memory in his compound eyes

Two Faced | Julia Guimaraes | Pen / watercolor

Rain in the Sea Bailey Raymond

Parade | Diosmary Orozco | Watercolor 62

There’s something about the rain that makes moments romantic. Something about it that turns leisurely movements in an abandoned parking lot at dusk into a dance, a whirlwind, while the sun sets. There’s something about the symbolism of rain, one we’re taught to mean sadness, descent, and a brooding darkness, falling to create a liminal space that breeds happiness, turning existing into coexisting, and a hug into an embrace with the wind. There’s something about the rain, the fallen children of the clouds, reaching us, as if they’ve brought down a piece of heaven with them. I don’t find myself sitting in the rain often, or running out into it, but when it happens to fall and hit my shoulders and dampen my hair, I don’t mind it. I like the way the droplets make their way down and touch my skin, gently despite their speeds. I like the pitter-patter they make when they touch the ground and the way they leave footsteps behind them (at least until the next ray of sun). They remind me of someone, a girl just a month older than me, sporting a petite frame (not to mean in any way frail or small, there was never a moment where she was not bold and strong) just like the water drops in the rain. She mixed my emotions like warm and cold air, creating a raging tempest within me that otherwise would have remained dormant. She hit with no warning, a storm no newscaster could have ever predicted (though we know how accurate their predictions are), a flurry of wind that graced my skin and left so quickly that all I was left with was the sting on my face. But I didn’t mind--I never mind the rain. Though I couldn’t possibly imagine a greater

storm, I felt comfort. The gusts of air blew around with elegance and grace, not malice, lifting up flower petals and leaves to circle us. The bullet-like rain was anything but, creating a gentle cascade of taps. Though something still inside of me was unsure. Maybe I should seek refuge? Maybe the kindness of her presence was a deception, one I was supposed to mind. No, I could not willingly walk away from this, these feelings. But what if I’ve been mistaken? I had been okay with my mild and tranquil sea. What if it only takes an instant for a piece of flotsam to be lifted up and find its way to a fatal place in my chest? What if this is all just a fleeting moment, and the sun would show its face if I were to just wait a few more seconds? But why take that chance when I can embrace the conditions in front of me, persevere. I cannot deny the existence of the tidal waves that hit when you held my hand. And while the world around was an excitement, the divergence of your eyes is what enslaved me. The calm, the comfort, you were the eye of the hurricane. I could have drowned within you but now you have provided that refuge in your arms, and I happily accept. I accept the rest for my weary body, worn from fighting against the typhoon at your side. Occasionally when I stand out in the rain, a few drops seem to strike my face at an off angle. Down my cheek, leaving a stained path from the corner of my eye to the curve of my chin only to be washed away a few moments later.This rain tastes different. Maybe it is that flavor, that salt in the sea, that changes its meaning. She loves me. She really loves me.

Bago | Mikayla St. Clair | Watercolor

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The Neptune Facade Michelle Guerra

Supposedly, my fish, Neptune, spends his days and nights in the clear fish bowl that sits on my kitchen counter. Just under the cabinet, I’m supposed to believe that he endlessly swims in circles, weaving in and out of his only belonging, a plastic plant. Although this is the case with most every domestic fish, it is extremely difficult to believe. I can tell who Neptune is through his confinement. He’s an adventurer, a pioneer explorer who won’t stand being trapped in a tiny sphere, watching the world pass him by. While my family members sleep cluelessly,

Neptune leaps from the bowl, and catapults himself down the sink’s drain. There exists the world he really lives for. Maybe he’s started a family down there, in the magic universe that I couldn’t even begin to describe. He’s loved and appreciated there, taking note of every part of life and existing to his full potential. While the patrons of his second life are sleeping, he climbs back up the drain and jumps into his bowl that sits in my kitchen, just before we wake up. Carefully, he watches us, waiting for nightfall, so he can escape to the life he longs for.

Touch of Red | Ileana Hernandez | Colored pencil

On Roots, Words, and Love I like to think of myself as a collector of strange and interesting words, words you would find in between the pages of a dusty, ancient tome: solipsistic, obdurate, kismet. I hide these words under my tongue for safekeeping, memorizing the feel of them on my lips. I’ve found solace in words, a home in semantics. But my grandma can’t say the word shrimp. I’ve tried for years to coax her lips into a semismile, to have her press her tongue against the sides of her mouth. To mold “chrampp” into “shhhrimp.” I’ve tried to soften the pop of the P, to smooth the edges of the “ch,” but her native Cuban accent doesn’t bend against the force of her breath. I become frustrated quickly, telling her “ask my brother.” Then, my mom will ask me to proofread her emails for work. She writes, “I hope it finds you well this email” instead of “I hope this email finds you well.” She hasn’t learned how to think in English. She writes in English as if it were Spanish. I, an expert in the dialect of Miami, Spanglish, would know. But it’s never an easy fix; I sometimes think it’s impossible to change people from the way they were raised to be. It’s a digestive issue with my mom, I realize. She’s overflowing. Just when she thought she was done learning one language, one culture, she has to uproot her life and embrace another—the roots had already been planted elsewhere and there’s no more room for them to grow in America. I become frustrated quickly, telling her “I’m busy, I’m at school.” I find my escape in historical English literature. I remember how the tears flowed when Jane Eyre left Mr. Rochester to preserve her sense of self. I saw myself in Jane. Headstrong yet insecure, witty yet curious to a fault. But girls like me are never heroines in 19th-century romance novels.

Girls like me are more like Bertha Mason. Vaguely foreign, “exotic,” a commodity for the male gaze, the other. I look in the mirror and I don’t see pristine, plain Jane. I see the wild and uncouth, I see that caricature of Cuba personified, the damsel in distress in those vintage US tourism posters, waiting for her imperialist man to come and save her. Yet I also see hair between my eyebrows, a bridge between my mind and my eyes, hair on my arms (“to keep me warm,” I say), and hair on my head that can’t be tamed but reminds me to look up and see that the sky is waiting for me. No, I’m not like Bertha. I have power. I have my words. My words have become my weapon. They have the power to cut, to help, to inspire. I’ve learned to embrace the words of my grandma and mom despite their rough edges. I add Spanish words to my arsenal. Instead of picturing myself in Victorian Britain, I imagine myself standing within the four walls my mom called home, a tiny studio apartment in Chile that she shared with her older sister. I can feel the love, the sense of unending sisterhood between my mom and aunt, both forsaken by their mother—my other grandma, who left Chile, crossing the US-Mexico border in the wheel-well of a truck, to provide for her 11 and 16-yearold daughters. But their shared experiences have bonded them together for life, lighting the hearth of my house made of words. I learn to escape to that place that feels warm, like home, instead of the cold halls of Thornfield. When my grandma’s love for practicing the words she learns on PBS was overshadowed by a woman telling her to “speak English” because “this is America,” I made it my mission to fortify her with words, important ones. My grandma still can’t say shrimp. But she can say “I love you.”

Mother Dearest | Kristen DiBello | Acrylic on canvas

Samantha Perez

Kloe

Neva Cruz | Acrylic Paint

Summer in Autumn Bernardo Montas

There once was a summer in autumn, Where the leaves never fell to the bottom. The Sun, instead, Never went to bed, Forgetting it left summer in autumn.

Morning Sun | Ana Lanza | Mixed media

Pluie et Brouillard Anna Oswald

My sister and I have always liked the sound of rain. While there are infinitely many raindrops, the sound they make as they fall is pleasing– their splashes as they hit the ground do not cause us to jump or be startled. While there are so many of them, they do not land onto the ground with a thunderous boom– rather, their constant presence makes the sky a hushed mosaic of mist adorned with raindrops. They reminded us of the s oldiers Grandfather Édouard tells us about in his stories. Countless battalions of them, marching silently. “Viens ici, Lucille and Aliénor. Come here,” he would say, and beckon us to sit on the floor by his rocking chair. His modulated voice birthed images of the brave soldiers in our minds— chants and lullabies about burly and dirt-streaked soldats scrambling across le tranches. Grandfather Édouard always says that, even though the trenches and the evil soldiers disappeared almost ten years ago (before my sister and I were born), the soldiers’ tales are to never be

forgotten. The stories of Grandfather’s great war are not liked by Maman and Papa. He tries to tell Aliénor and I that these stories are not pretend, but I do not completely understand what he means. Today it was raining. It was not raining harshly, but rather mildly. Aliénor and I liked to name the different rains we would notice, for people do not seem to notice there are many different kinds. The strong rain during the summer is what we call “Pluie de balles, rain of bullets.” It is very hard and sometimes hurts to walk under. But this rain, which is milder and more tender, is what we call “pluie d’oreillers, rain of pillows.” This evening there was pillow-like rain, accompanied by fog. I liked to think of my sister and I as rain and fog, for people always describe both of us as always accompanied by the other. This evening, Maman and Papa were making us go to a funeral. The chapel was in the outskirts of Paris, so the

the car ride was a little longer than it was to most places. Aliénor drove in a different car than us, but I saw her again as we arrived at the chapel. I jogged to the coffin, to where she was, attracting glares illuminated by the smoke-colored window panes. Around us, the guests constituted a sea of black veils, lace, and cotton. Aside from the rampant murmurs, the clanking of heavy, ebony-colored dress shoes and block-like heels was the only sound in the funeral home. Although the sun was not out, the timid skylight peeking in from the panes shone on the dozens of black outfits, making them glow like soft velvet. “Did you see the pluie d’oreillers outside?” I asked Aliénor, but I saw that she was too focused on looking up and observing the interior of the coffin. While I thought a coffin was the last object deserving such a preoccupied observation, I had to admit it was a beautiful woodcraft. Its outside swelled with a deep shade of maroon walnut wood, which harbored several silver 76

hinges that swayed slightly whenever someone would walk by. I ran my fingers over the wood, the color reminding me of aged cherries Aliénor and I would devour during the summer. She, however, seemed more interested in the pillowy cushions lining the inside of the casket, for she did not move her wide, glossy eyes from them. “Lucille! Take your hands off that casket! Immediatement!” a shaky voice behind me hissed. I turned around, startled, to find my Aunt Eglantine scowling at me, her pale-powdered face contorted with folds of anguish and streaks of dried tears. “But…” I began to rebut, but quickly stopped myself. Reluctantly, I turned back to face the casket, bringing my hands behind my back. “I was only doing it because Aliénor is doing it as well…” I muttered to myself, thankful that Aunt Eglantine had turned and walked back to where Maman and Papa were standing. Suddenly, the murmurs in the chapel were extinguished as a

Buenos Dias | William Lanway | Oil Paint 77

man made his way to the casket, and I felt cold, bony fingers grab my wrist and pull me towards the benches. Maman forced me to sit in the empty space between her and Papa. Looking to Papa’s left, I could see Eglantine watching me with her large, hazel eyes and pursed, crimson-colored lips.

and roasted food onto the table.

“Bonne soire, everyone,” the man by the casket bellowed, his voice slicing through the now silent air. “We are tragically gathered here today…”

As he proceeded to read a scripture, I looked out the window, and noticed the clouds had darkened. The raindrops also splattered onto the window harder than they had when we arrived, many of them now being carried through the air by a gentle wind.

I recognized the man as Pasteur Raphaël, the pastor who led our church services and was a friend of Maman and Papa’s. I would sometimes see him at our house when Maman and Papa would host dinner gatherings with their friends and Papa’s colleagues from work. At those dinners he often beamed silently at guests and my parents when they joked, and his eyes would slightly widen as our cook would bring out more steamed 78

He was much more loquacious during the services that he led, for he seemed to me like a very quiet man in his personal life. Here in the church, he articulated and accentuated his words slowly and clearly, projecting his voice a little more than I had noticed during his sermons.

I heard Aliénor’s voice as Pasteur Raphaël droned on, his gaze on the thick Bible in front of him. I wish we could escape this dreariness, I heard her say. I do not like everyone’s drab clothing, and how quiet it is. Me too, I reply. And Pasteur Raphaël’s sermons are growing so boring! I hear her chuckle softly. Keep quiet, Lucille, or you’ll make Aunt Eglantine angry again! Stairway to Heaven | William Lanway | Oil Pastel

Now I giggle, which causes several irritated heads to whirr in my direction. The pastor, thankfully, continues to read. I wish we could run in the rain, I say. Me too. Let’s wait until everyone walks out of the church. Then we can fly like the wind and the raindrops! she exclaims cheerfully.

disappeared as the men closed the lid of the casket, the inside lid flange landing onto the edge with a creaking bang. The men heaved as they each grabbed onto a handle and lifted the casket into the air. Promptly, all those seated stood up. Papa grabbed my forearm and lifted me onto my feet as the men made their way to the aisle.

I hear a distraught “Shh!” from behind me, just as the pastor closes the Bible in front of him and ges“Que Dieu protège toujours son tures at the crowd. A few men rise jeune esprit. May God always profrom their benches and make their tect her young spirit.” way towards the casket. As the men began to pass us, “May she rest in undisturbed and Maman fell to her knees. She had to pure peace, watching her loved plant her palms on the chapel floor ones from above,” Pasteur Rato prevent herself from falling over, phaël announces gently, closing his as she let out a high-pitched shriek. eyes as the men disperse around As several people from the crowd the casket and grab it by the hanleft their benches and hurried over dles. He walked over to the casto her, she grabbed my waist and ket, looked at the body inside, and pulled me closer to her. I could feel proceeded to close her eyes tender- her squeezed eyes drench the back ly with his right index and middle of my dress. Several people tried to finger. lift her back onto her feet, but she struck at them with one arm, and “Amen.” kept the other wrapped around my waist. I was barely able to catch another glimpse at Aliénor before her I watched the casket shrink slowly closed eyes and combed hair as the men continued to march 80

away from us. I watched the people at each bench– many simply looked down at the floor, others brought their hands and handkerchiefs as and squeezed their eyes shut, allowing the thick tears to cascade down their pale faces. I tried to focus on the handles gleaming slightly as the doors were opened, and hummed to myself a little to try and drown out the sounds of Maman’s screams.

ME! PLEASE!” Several of Papa’s friends hurried over to where he was frantically trying to push through people toward the men with the casket. They held him back while Aunt Eglantine wrapped her arms around his neck and tried to calm him down. I could see tears escaping her eyes as she brought his writhing body towards her, using her hand to bury his face into her neck. After a moment, he stopped resisting, and sunk into her embrace before crying softly. I do not think I had ever seen my father sink and cry.

“L CHE-MOI! L CHE-MOI! LET ME GO! LET ME GO!” she howled, her voice becoming raspier with each long outcry. I could feel the back of my dress soaking up her torrent of tearfalls, as well as the screams she would try and muffle by pressing her face into my back.

I turned my head to look up at the sky again. The wind was carrying the rain again, but the sky was a lighter shade of grey. A soft glow protruded from a crack between two large clouds, and for a moment I was sure it was the sun, glancing over at us from the curtains of its misty home. In an instant, the glow was gone.

Papa in front of me tried to climb his way through the crowd. “Aliénor, mon enfant, laisse-moi la voir! Aliénor, my child, let me see her!” he shouted, his complexion drenched and twisted with desperation. “LET GO OF

I had never seen this kind of rain before. Rain, wind, and a brief peek from the sun. I had not named it yet. Pluie d’Aliénor, I decided. Aliénor’s rain. Then we can fly like the wind and the raindrops. 81

A Walk Under a r a the P sol Anna Oswald

The familiar viridescent path greets you– cobblestones made of wild weeds and glimmering leaves. The snapping stems dipped with golden bursts of petals on their ends whip at your heels as they waltz to the rhythm of the wind.

Only now does he notice the man you see, face concealed by the easel he strokes ever so gently, the familiar brush in his hand. The man you see in a perpetual, daily rotation: in your home, in your dreams, and now, in this field, under the emerald shields of your parasol.

The ripples of your skirt gush against the breeze’s gentle embrace making your lower body a glowing sea of diaphanous, ivory-colored silk folds– a beacon in the fading daylight, sprawling in all directions outside your parasol.

What will he paint now? He knows you see him. Will it be the sky behind you? A cerulean mosaic Comprised of creamy shreds of cloud Gliding across a ceaseless firmament? Feathery dancers, adorned in pearl gowns Pirouetting across an azure ballroom?

Not far toddles your son, his crimson cheeks growing more red in the sunlight spilling across your parasol’s fabric shields. Fais attention, ma chérie, you call out to him, the ghostly shine from the mesh of clouds overhead casts itself directly on the fringes of his hat.

You squint at him through your translucent veil unable to see that his moving brush has already birthed your skirt, the grass, the hat of your son, and finally your parasol Now brushed and etched forever onto one of his countless canvases.

The Nurturing Eye | Karina Nemalceff & Maria Bolanos | Pencil

Rise Before Be fore Before fore

Dawn Amanda Clegg

In the morning I will rise and the sun will have already risen. The black to pink to blue skies are a blanket that swallows the glisten of the night’s sparkling freckles. In the night, the blue sky will fall grey, each star a puzzle piece that has found where it belongs, and I am lulled to a doze as I lay by the sound of the hours-long song of creatures chirping past my window. It is a cycle that begins and ends once at daybreak, once in the eve. Golden streaks surface and, just as quickly, descend and the harmonious wash of purply pink will cleave the transition from cerulean to navy. It is freeing to know the sequence will repeat even when the rocks others throw quake the ground beneath my feet or keep me from being at peace. And so, perhaps tomorrow I will stray from the routine of waking past dawn and my morning will start a new way. One soft as the hue of a bluish fawn that fades to reveal a fresh beginning.

Breakdance | William Lanway | Paint Marker and Pen

About the Artist/Author Aleandra Austin is a sophomore in the Visual and Performing Arts Academy and is the

Sam Cruz is a junior in the Visual and Performing Arts Academy and the author of “Affinity,”

Jessica Batle is a senior in the Visual and Performing Arts Academy and the creator of the art

Kristen DiBello is a junior in the Visual and Performing Arts Academy and the creator of the

creator of the art piece “Black Health.” To her, contributing to Elysium means that her art has a wider audience and helps spread the importance of black health and wellness. In the future, her goals are to continue to make art that speaks to people and spread awareness about important topics that are not spoken about enough. piece “Yellow Acacia.” To her, contributing to Elysium means good exposure for an aspiring artist like herself. It also gives her a chance to contribute something to our school before she graduates. In the future, she plans to attend an art college and work hard towards becoming someone successful in the art industry.

Anna Beck is a junior in the International Baccalaureate Academy and the creator of the art

piece “Asphodel Meadows.” To her, contributing to Elysium means leaving an unobtrusive mark on the world. She hopes to study biochemistry in the future with the goal of entering the drug development industry.

Maria Bolanos is a junior in the International Baccalaureate Academy and the co-creator

of the art piece “The Nurturing Eye.” To her, being published in Elysium means promoting and participating in the spread of creative freedom. In the future, she plans on studying psychology to help others overcome their adversities.

Pearl Cetoute is a junior in the Visual and Performing Arts Academy and the creator of “NATURE’S SERENITY.” To her, contributing to Elysium means sharing and connecting with others through her art. She plans to one day make a living off her art pieces.

Amanda Clegg is a junior in the International Baccalaureate Academy and the author of

“Rise Before Dawn.” To her, submitting to Elysium means being able to express creativity and promoting an appreciation for literature and art around the world. In the future, she plans on studying marketing and communications at a top university in hopes to turn passions into global change.

Hannah Corcoran is a senior in the International Baccalaureate Academy and the creator

of the art piece “Selfhood” and “and what does that feel like?” To her, contributing to Elysium means taking a step forward on her art journey. She plans on majoring in art and marketing in order to pursue her dream of becoming an artist.

Neva Cruz is a senior in the Visual and Performing Arts Academy and is the creator of the

art piece “Kloe.” To her, contributing to Elysium gives her experience in showing her artwork in a magazine, and it is an honor to have many people observe and see her work and feel the emotions she put into the piece. In the future, she plans to continue using her creativity to be the absolute best version of herself.

About the Artist/Author “An Ode to the Midwestern Math Rock Guitar,” and “Pansy.” To him, contributing to Elysium allows him to express aspects of his personality that cannot be expressed through other mediums. In the future, he plans to attend the Frost School of Music to pursue a career as a professional musician. art piece “Mother Dearest.” To her, contributing to Elysium makes her ecstatic and loves the opportunity to broadcast her artwork over different platforms. Her future goals are to let her heart lead the way to enjoy life as much as possible pursuing a career that she enjoys.

Victor Dieguez is a junior in the Visual and Performing Arts Academy and the creator of the

art piece “Wallflower,” “Venus Flytrap,” “Heavenly Depictions”, “Flesh It Out,” and “Eww, Gross!” To him, contributing to Elysium means branching out and showing people the work you are passionate about and proud of. In the future, he doesn’t have a clear path of what he wants and what his future entails since it’s hard to see himself out of schooling, but he hopes for a successful future and a stable lifestyle.

Vivian Diep is a sophomore in the Visual and Performing Arts Academy and the creator of

“Grief-Stricken.” To them, contributing to Elysium means having their art touch more people. In the future, they hope to continue working with art to improve and make a successful career out of their hard work.

Justin Fernandez is a senior in the International Baccalaureate Academy and the author of “Ecce Homo” and “Put Simply.” To him, contributing to Elysium means attaching his voice to Coral Reef one big, last time. He plans on becoming a clinical psychologist in the future to help other people grow.

Sara Fueyo is a senior in the Visual and Performing Arts Academy and the creator of the art

pieces “K.” and “A Mile in My Shoes.” To her, contributing to Elysium means being able to share her artwork with her peers in a way that immortalizes how she feels about her high school experience. She plans to attend college for a degree in Fine Arts and hopefully be able to be her own business owner working in the arts.

Vanessa Garcia is a sophomore in the International Baccalaureate Academy and the author of “Unraveled Symphony.”

Taliyah Gopie is a junior in the Visual and Performing Arts Academy and the creator of the art piece “The Anxious Biter.” To her, contributing to Elysium means putting her artwork and herself out for the public eye to see. She plans to hone her skills to become a better artist and to improve herself to become a better person, too.

About the Artist/Author Michelle Guerra is a junior in the Business and Finance Academy and the author of “The

Neptune Facade” and “Where My Soul Resides.” To her, contributing to Elysium means sharing her feelings with a large audience through healthy and beautiful art. Her plans for the future are to study environmental science and become an Environmental Architect.

Julia Guimaraes is a sophomore in the Visual and Performing Arts Academy and the creator

Mhyanif Lozada is a senior in the Visual and Performing Arts Academy and the author of

“You and Only You.” To her, submitting to Elysium provides her with opportunities to experience new, fresh perspectives, and follow her passion in creative writing. She will continue to write and follow all sorts of creative endeavors, and although she is going to study biomedical engineering, she hopes to take up journalism and work for fashion, literary, and art magazines.

of the art piece “Two Faced.” To her, contributing to Elysium means a lot because it brings her joy to share her art with more people. Her plans for the future are to keep creating artworks that she and others may enjoy, as well as try to do a graphic or product design program during the summer.

Asa Marley is a senior in the Visual and Performing Arts Academy and is the creator of the

Gabriella Hernandez is a senior in the International Baccalaureate Academy and the au-

Ishany Martinez is a senior in the International Baccalaureate and the creator of the art piece

thor of “The Black Paintings.” To her, Elysium is a place where she can see an orchestrated mishmash of the most beautiful ideas and perspectives. She plans on changing the way people see art and the medium itself, one sticky note doodle at a time.

Ileana Hernandez is a junior in the Visual and Performing Arts Academy and the creator of the art piece “Touch of Red.”

Moriah Higgs is a junior in the Visual and Performing Arts Academy and the creator of the

art piece “Enigmatic Flesh.” To him, contributing to Elysium is a way of showing his authenticity and creativity to others in need of art. He plans on staying a creative individual that solely works for himself. “Rosy Lady.”

Samantha Martinez is a senior in the Visual and Performing Arts Academy and the cre-

ator of the art piece “Late Izakaya Evening.” To her, contributing to Elysium means an amazing opportunity for her artwork to be seen and appreciated alongside many other talented artists. In the future, she hopes to further her art career in the entertainment industry, creating new experiences for her to grow as an individual.

art piece “Empty Glasses, Empty Thoughts.” To her, contributing to Elysium means sharing her work next to other artists, and having her small piece be a part of something bigger. In the future, she hopes to work in graphic design or illustration.

Bernardo Montás is a senior in the International Baccalaureate Academy and the author

Jazmine Renée Jenkins is a junior in the Business and Finance Academy and the creator

Karina Nemalceff is a senior in the International Baccalaureate Academy and the co-cre-

Mikey Lanway is a senior in the Visual and Performing Arts Academy and the creator of the

Joel Obando is a senior in the Visual and Performing Arts Academy and the creator of the

of the art pieces “Meditation on Wheels” and “ Pigmentations of the Soul.” To her, contributing to Elysium means sharing her creativity in the name of far-reaching self-expression. In the future, she plans on becoming a creative/art director in the fashion or film industry.

art pieces “Break Dance,” “Stairway to Heaven,” “Buenos Dias,” and “Día de los Muertos.” To him, it feels good to be included in Elysium and recognized for his talent by his peers. In the future, he plans to live a happy life full of art.

Ana Lanza is a junior in the Visual and Performing Arts Academy and the creator of the art piece “Morning Sun.”

Krystal Li is a senior in the International Baccalaureate Academy and the author of “Sand.” To

her, contributing to Elysium both as the layout staff editor and a writer has made for a fulfilling experience and provided an amazing environment to collaborate with other creatives. She will to continue fostering artistic expression and innovation at Stanford University, where she plans to explore the intersection of graphic design and marketing.

About the Artist/Author

of “Summer in Autumn.” To him, contributing to Elysium means sharing a part of himself with others. He plans on pursuing a career in journalism and making writing his life’s work. ator of the art piece “The Nurturing Eye.” To her, being published in Elysium means being able to share their love for art and advocating for freedom of expression. Karina plans on studying contemporary music and jazz, pursuing her dream of becoming a musician. art piece “A Man’s Journey.”

Anna Oswald is a senior in the International Baccalaureate Academy and the author of “Pluie et Brouillard,” and “A Walk Under The Parasol.” To her, submitting to Elysium gives her a multitude of opportunities: to explore different writing styles, pursue her passion, share her characters and complex plotlines, and take advantage of her favorite creative outlet. She will continue to indulge in her love for creative writing and hopes one day to become a novelist.

Diosmary Orozco is a junior in the Visual and Performing Arts Academy and the creator of the art piece “Parade.” To her, contributing to Elysium means contributing a piece of herself in the form of art. She hopes to change a few lives in the future.

About the Artist/Author Camila Penagos is a senior in the International Baccalaureate Academy and the author of

“The Widower.” To her, contributing to Elysium means fulfilling the dreams of a young girl in the elementary school poetry club. Camila plans on becoming a doctor to help people in any way she knows how.

Samantha Perez is a senior in the International Baccalaureate Academy and the author of “On Roots, Words, and Love.”

Isabella Prince is a senior in the International Baccalaureate Academy and the author of “The First Poet.”

Bailey Raymond is a senior in the Agriscience Academy and the author of “Rain in the Sea.” Raul Rodriguez is a senior in the Visual and Performing Arts Academy and the creator of the art piece “Vulpine Soul.”

Rebecca Rodriguez is a sophomore in the Visual and Performing Arts Academy and the

creator of the art pieces “Nostalgic Comfort” and “Desert Bones.” To her, contributing to Elysium means helping people realize their potential to create amazing art and inspire others to do the same. She plans to be a character designer or storyboard artist.

Anniston Rubio is a junior in the Visual and Performing Arts Academy and the creator of the art piece “Two Sides of the Same Coin.”

Taylor Socolow is a junior in the Visual and Performing Arts Academy and the creator of the art piece “somber.” To her, contributing to Elysium means having his art be seen by others and sharing the feeling that it induces. She plans to go to a good college and meet new people.

Mikayla St Clair is a junior in the Visual and Performing Arts Academy and the creator of

About the Artist/Author Camille Stengel is a senior in the International Baccalaureate Academy and the author of

“Venus’s Birth.” To her, being published in Elysium is an honor as she is sharing her passion for the Renaissance period and its artistic influence on French culture. She plans on attending New York University for the Stern School of Business where she plans on majoring in Business with a concentration in marketing in hopes of joining Wall Street.

Ayman Tanzim is a freshman in the Business and Finance Academy and the author of “Fate.” To her, contributing to Elysium means having her work reach the hearts of other people. She plans on becoming an entrepreneur for a publishing company.

Catalina Ulrich is a sophomore in the International Baccalaureate Academy and the author of “Slice.”

Elena Ventura is a junior in the Visual and Performing Arts Academy and the author of “On a Walk.”

Marco Villamizar is a senior in the International Baccalaureate Academy and the author of

“The Weatherman.” To him, submitting to Elysium means refining his craft each year to become a better writer. He plans on exploring everything the world has to offer through travel and by learning many languages.

Vanessa Weingrad is a senior in the International Baccalaureate Academy and the author of “The Fool,” “Korea, 1950,” and “The Kiss.” To her, contributing to Elysium means expressing her passions and getting more in touch with herself. Her plans for the future are to study film and learn as many languages as humanly possible.

Paulina Yu is a senior in the International Baccalaureate Academy and the author of “Akoya.”

To her, submitting to Elysium means sharing her creativity in hopes that others will be able to enjoy it. She plans on studying psychology in the future and exploring the complexity of human behavior.

the art piece “Bago.” To her, submitting to Elysium means showcasing her talent and love for art. She plans to become successful and make a difference in today’s society.