Elysium Literary/Art Magazine 2021

ELYS ELYSIU IUM ELYS ELY ELYSIUM VOLUME 20 2021

IUM YSIUM SIUM M Cover: THEY ARE not JOSHUA/ Robert Marley/ Oil pastel

ELYSIUM VOLUME 20, 2021

literary and arts magazine

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

Our connections are an indispensable source of artistic creation. They fuel us, whether through friendly, familial, or intimate relationships. The color they add in our lives drives our work. Over the past year, many artists and writers have found themselves lacking those connections that pulled them to the pen or brush. Rather than slipping into dull stagnation, they persisted. Those featured in this magazine created their own color, forged their own connections in the confines of their minds.They strove to think abstractly and created unconventional work in a time where everything seemed to lack convention.

Ava Albelo & Andres Rincon EDITORS-IN-CHIEF

About Us

Published continuously since 2005, Elysium Literary Magazine is an annual publication designed to showcase student creativity in both writing and art. This year’s staff of twenty students came from an assortment of magnet strands and represents grades 9-12. Elysium meets every Wednesday after school from October to March, as well as three full weeks in April. Since students were given the option of choosing between in-person learning and online instruction, we decided that all of Elysium’s usual meetings and general production were conducted remotely. All staff members continued to work tirelessly in procuring, selecting, matching, designing, and proofing the magazine from home.

To reach a larger audience, all Elysium publications are archived on elysiummagazine.com, along with programs and photos from past end-of-year galas held at Books and Books in Coral Gables.

Editorial Policy

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.

Philosophy

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.

Colophon

Volume 20 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 stafff to work on their personal computers during the remote publication period to allow for proofing and final spread creation.

The layout staff chose Montserrat Alternates Black as the font for the cover and title while Source Serif Pro Light was used for the body text, artist credit, and body text. 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.

Special Thanks

We would like to extend our appreciation to Mrs. Keller, Coral Reef’s visual arts teacher, for her artistic guidance, and to our principal, Nicole BergéMacInnes, 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 your voices heard.

Awards

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

EDITORS-IN-CHIEF Andres Rincon Ava Albelo

LITERATURE *Sabrina Morales *Amanda Rey Isabela Alvarado Samuel Cruz Karla Fidalgo Leslie Gonzalez Anna Oswald Bailey Raymond Brennan Woolley-Larrea

LAYOUT *Sophia Salamanca Annick Abello Ana Guardado Krystal Li Lina Oliveira-Ulrich

ART *Ava Albelo Amanda Barnes Rio Cosimini Kali Gerrish Miranda Hill Sara Johnson

BUSINESS MANAGERS Isabella Armendariz Carlos Hernandez *denotes staff editor

11 Wait and Set Me Free

Maria Bolanos, Poem

15 Supernatural Database Crash Alejandra Agustin, Poem

16 Go-go girl

Samantha Perez, Poem

19 Superwomen

Grace Chaviano, Personal Essay

21 swan song

Jared Merriwether, Poem

23 Deconstructing Ableism: A Step Towards Bettering Our Society Emily Defreitas, Speech

27 The Orange Trees Ava Albelo, Poem

32 Treason

Amanda Rey, Poem

34 A life in the sun

Isabel Yip, Poem

37 On Turning Five

Cody Knecht, Poem

39 On You

Michael Arevalo, Song

41 The Code of The Ones Broken Beyond Repair Samuel Cruz, Poem

42 Bittersweet Guts

Cody Knecht, Poem

44 scales and men

Karla Fidalgo, Poem

47 The Taking Tree

Devan Prendes, Poem

55 Somewhere

Sara Fueyo, Poem

The Rose Gatherer 57 Anna Oswald, Play purgatory 64 Jared Merriwether, Poem Sailor at Sea 66 Rohan Joshi, Poem But I’m not a poet 70 Bianca Morris, Poem How to Speak Like You Belong Here 72 Sophia Salamanca, Spoken Word The Silver Screen is Not a Mirror 76 Veronica Sanjurjo, Speech Mechanical Ascension 82 Samuel Cruz, Poem To not be a fool 84 Karla Fidalgo, Poem Seasonal Habituation 86 Rohan Joshi, Poem

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Somber Sorrows Diana Leon, Colored Pencil

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El Diablo Victor Dieguez, Makeup

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When The Sky Falls Victor Dieguez, Makeup

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Underwater Visions Charlie Sanchez, Colored Pencil

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Help Krystal Rodriguez, Digital

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Jalynn Miranda Hill, Colored Pencil

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POETIC PURITY Robert Marley, Acrylic Paint and Watercolor

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The Color of Us Sydney Navia, Acrylic Paint

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Sicily Kennedy Ross, Gouache

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Comfy Cosy Dominic Bono, Markers and Colored Pencil

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Forever Sara Johnson, Digital Photography

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Seven Mile Destruction Neva Cruz, Acrylic Paint

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Not Myself Kali Gerrish, Watercolor and Acrylic paint Jelly Cells Danielle Atherley, Acrylic Paint

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Hades Miranda Hill, Colored Pencil

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Koyasan 43 Sara Johnson, Digital Photography

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Memento Mori Sara Johnson, Digital Photography

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Magic Garden Dayme Flores, Digital Art

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Queen of Sorrows Anabelle Figueroa, Digital Art A Walk on the Beach Mikayla St. Clair, Acrylic Paint

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Scattered Yadelis Gomez, Collage

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Oh So Blue Sophia Salamanca, Digital Photography

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Strange Fruit Jalynn Mcduffey, Acrylic Paint

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Jordan Jalynn Mcduffey, Acrylic Paint

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One thing Sara Johnson, Digital Photography

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Sunday Night Raul Grasso, Scratchboard

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Personification of An Unknown Future Rio Cosimini, Plaster, Wood, Found Objects

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Picasso Mask Ava Albelo, Yarn

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Pigtail Mask Ava Albelo, Yarn

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caged in Sara Fueyo, Acrylic Paint

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Our Lapis Courthouse Robert Marley, Oil Pastel

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Shadows Yadelis Gomez, Wire

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Somber Sorrows/ Colored Pencil/ Diana Leon

Maria Bolanos My mind baffling speed Leaves my hand behind My hand Tries desperately To become its equal My mind conjures Numerous plots Bountiful images Abundant faces Ample possibilities My hand simply falters Overwhelmed My mind dreams of infinity My hand knows only finite bounds Together, both Driving me to insanity My mind pleads me Implores me to write it all But I can only freeze Structure becomes foreign And the words escape my mouth Taunting my hands, they dance And my hand Unable to snatch them Retires back, defeated I’m left with my mind’s abyss Full of endlessness A void I have to write to life I yell, I beseech, I plead for the uncertain visit Of the embracing silence My mind Overpowers me My mind No longer belongs to me I belong to my mind

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12 El Diablo/Makeup/Victor Dieguez

When The Sky Falls /Makeup/Victor Dieguez

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Crash

Alejandra Agustin

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Underwater Visions / Color Pencil/ Charlie Sanchez

I’ve never been able to acknowledge the fact that loneliness takes on different shapes My own personal umbra My despondency turns me into the gum stuck on the bottom of your shoes Disgusting!

Oh, I could be loved by the entire state of Connecticut, but it never satiates the craving for something unplaceable It’s always there Makes me hopeful when I unlock a new character Latch on!

They’ll be honored to be my lifeline!

My salvation That parasitic abstraction grows until suddenly, all my hope has gone into my perception of one person Purely a victim of my uncontrollable lunacy They don’t fit that cruel mold I made of them I only have my solitude to comfort me like a weighted blanket I relish the sadness I find it more comforting than hope Hope that I’ll be someone’s someone dismantles my fragile spirit I’m not really a fighter, and I never will be I can’t take many kicks to the gut The holy poltergeist that follows me arounds uses my vulnerability and childish fantasies to stay tangible Its weight is unbearable at times Pushing, and pushing until suddenly, It replaced me And when it does, I go catatonic My toothpick bones don’t have the strength To even care Simply At the end of the day, there won’t be a warm presence in my bed to caress my hair until I slip Away and dream about the world ending Most of the time it doesn’t feel like a dream The world ends just a little every day Oh, no It pulled at the natural stitches of my heart until they weren’t able To sew themselves back up again

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g o o o GG - o r l i G rl G Samantha Perez

i want to be like the curves on a gilded frame,

wrapping my arms around smiles and sweet nostalgia— the protectress of your rose-tinted memories. i want to take a bite of the apple, to know what it’s like to tempt fate— the goddess of fickle-minded females or

a being of my own making, wholly myself— the girl who pins flowers in her hair to remind herself that her thoughts can blossom with enough watering. i want to be the smile in the painting, immortalized in acrylic— the muse to an aspiring field-frolicker with big dreams to move south in search of sunflowers. i want to be the one you won’t forget, whose words lingered in the air and followed you everywhere you went— the girl who wears go-go boots everywhere to remind herself that walking on clouds is much harder than it seems.

but she’s getting there.

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Help/Digital/Krystal Rodriguez

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Jalynn/Colored Pencil/Miranda Hill

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SUPERWOMEN Grace Chaviano

New York City at night was overwhelmed by a freezing breeze. The inky serene utterly devoured every corner of the city, reflecting the dove-white snowfall sprinkling over its street. It was 3 A.M., and an exhausted mother sat on the balcony of a cramped one-bedroom apartment with her four-year old daughter in her arms, who had never before experienced the comfort of snow until that night, their first winter in the city.

The effervescent smile which stretched across her daughter’s face warmed her, and all the burdens of working hard in a city which never sleeps melted into the ebullience if nighttime.

The mother embraced her child, and her eyes glanced towards the view of a distant skyline— her alarm was scheduled to go off in two hours so she could prepare to labor at a 10-hour daily job—yet a snowflake brushed against her skin.

The reflection of her and her daughter, who she worked endlessly for and wished to have a brighter future, carved an unforgettable moment.

Havana, Cuba was a gemstone within the island’s cities. In the early morning, the colorful palettes of street structures contrasted against a malecón which wrapped around the shimmers of deepened ocean waves. A woman stopped to stare at the azure beams of a mystified horizon, chatting happily on the phone. “I know—I’m so happy to hear school is going good! Be safe, I love you, and miss you every day,” her voice, dripping with honey, departed from the call. The dial tone ringed in her ears moments after hanging up, and the woman’s eyes were drawn to the scene of an endless ocean, just as two dolphins—a mother and her child—inscribed their silhouettes against the sky’s glistening canvas. The woman dared to look beyond the horizon, and envisioned the smiling picture of her only daughter, who was

hundreds of miles away in the United States, who left in search of a better life. The image faded, and she continued her path along the city’s crowded sidewalks, on to work, meregue white nurse scrubs soft against her skin…

Miami, Florida. “Ten pineapple strawberries to the right—no, right—you got it,” a 20-year-old smiled encouragingly, her caramel curls blowing with the wind as she stepped across the sand.

In one arm, she balanced a plate encompassing over a half a dozen smoothies, to be distributed to sunbathers scattered across the sun-kissed beach. As the manager of one of the beach’s most prestigious hotels—it was her responsibility to train the dozens of new employees hired for summer vacation. She distributed the drinks to beachgoers, and in her rare minutes of spare time, indulged in notes from her university courses in preparation for upcoming exams, bits of sand dotting hundreds of pages. Under the honey- marmalade sun, her phone buzzed with numerous reminders—various tasks assigned throughout the day. “Finally leaving?” one of the hotels’ guests chimed, their voice echoing against the marble walls of the hotel lobby several hours later in the day. The night was now devoured and stained by ink, and the woman, tinted with the exhaustion of hard work, allowed herself to beam at the prospect of rest.

“Yes, and off to night classes, and another shift early tomorrow.”

“Woah, that’s incredible.”

“That’s life,” hervoice melted against the dulcet streams of moonlight, brightening her strength.

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POETIC PURITY | Robert Marley | Acrylic Paint and Watercolor

Jared Merriwether it’s hard for me to forget the scars keep freshening like spring oh, how they burn like a campfire where we set alight our little things my heart, how it longs for love like a lost little kid yearns for home he cries his eyes out, sobbing for mother and your hands created a storm i’m so tired of the rainfall when you are looming and i feel two feet tall my heart wishes for sleep my soul has a hunger for death but it’s also so parched for life so i will give it some rest it pains me to think about your ghostly embrace but it’ll feel better when i can look at my own face it takes time for me

to unlock my chest for you this dilapidated, breath-so-bated home of a heart for you but i think i’d like to try to throw you my love’s bone and when we sway, all they’ll say is “i saw a boy today dance alone” i’ve learned to love the rainfall the pit-pat on my window tells me “stand tall” my heart so wished for sleep my soul had a hunger for death but it was also so parched for life so i had given it some rest it pained me to think about your ghostly embrace but it feels much better when i look at my own happy face i feel my heart overflowing when i look at your face

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The Color of Us/ Acrylic Paint/ Sydney Navia

Deconstructing Ableism:

A Step Towards Bettering Our Society

Emily Defreitas

A little while ago, I was scrolling through the popular video sharing app Tiktok, where a 15 to 60 second video can quickly go viral and one can find a variety of trends. So, as most teenagers with nothing better to do in their spare time, I mindlessly flicked my finger across the screen, when I came upon a video that was following a truly questionable trend. It immediately caught my attention as said trend essentially mocked the existence of Helen Keller, with the video claiming that there was no conceivable way a person both deaf and blind could have existed and survived in our society, much less have thrived in it. Helen Keller, as most know, was an infamous activist, author, and seen as a representative for the deaf and blind communities, and yet this trend sought to invalidate her existence. I encountered multiple videos concerning this topic, some with thousands upon thousands of likes and shares. I was truly taken aback by the fact that videos so inherently ableist could have gained such traction. This may be one isolated incident; however, it reflects the thoughts held by those individuals who do not recognize their own discriminatory actions. Ableism has become far too normalized, and some tend to forget the struggles that those with a disability still face. According to

Carli Friedman of the Council on Quality and Leadership, “Disabled people, amidst political and social gains, continue to experience discrimination in multiple areas.” Evidently, there are both systemic injustices along with societal prejudices against those with a disability, to be dealt with. There is simply no denying the existence of blatant bigotry, therefore, we must acknowledge the ableist ideals deeply ingrained in our modern society.

These issues may pose a great challenge, but they can be efficiently combatted through education, supporting disability organizations, and by opening our minds to the personal experiences of those individuals with a disability. The question we must ask ourselves is “how can we as a society do more to support the disabled community and dismantle long-held prejudices?”

In case the term is unfamiliar, ableism is described as the discrimination of the disabled in favor of the belief that able-bodied individuals are superior.

This appalling idea can be traced back centuries, but it was specifically identified in the 1960s, when it was placed into a political context. Ableism comes in many forms, from the lack of wheelchair access in a building, to marriage inequality, to

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avoiding conversation with a disabled person, or inversely, focusing the conversation wholly upon their disability. Some of these issues are more difficult than others to tackle as individuals, therefore, for the time being, one can merely focus on the societal aspects of ableism. As stated by the U.S. Census Bureau, there exists 1 in 5 Americans with a disability. So why is ableism an issue, still prevalent today?

Well, according to a study conducted by the University of Illinois, this is due in part to the lack of education regarding disabilities and the implicit or explicit biases that ablebodied individuals hold.

Unfortunately, due to these prejudices, those with disabilities might be viewed as “weaker” or worthy of pity but nothing more, and on a systemic level seen as incompetent or incapable of holding a job. This is nothing if not false. These thoughts are indicative of one of the largest issues in our society regarding ableism. The disregard for, and lack of education surrounding disabilities and those who possess them.

In order to combat ableism, we must begin with the prejudices held by our society and use education as our mighty sword. This can be done simply in the form of mandatory seminars, both in the classroom and workplace. These types of presentations would encourage

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enlightening discussions. However, the responsibility to educate the ablebodied falls solely upon themselves.

The main goal is to inform others of and deconstruct preconceived notions about disabilities, but cooperation and willingness to improve one’s own knowledge is crucial.

“How can we as a society do more to support the disabled community and dismantle long-held prejudices?”

Thankfully, while being an essential method, education is not the only technique available to us in combating ableism.

What must also be brought to light is the funding that goes towards disability organizations. According to an article published by the disabilityoriented, non-profit, AABR, “too often, disability services are under-prioritized by the public agencies that fund them”.

Organizations and services for the disabled may serve as a lifeline for some and their underfunding is a cruel act. It simply demonstrates the lack of awareness for those with a disability, and once more, the inherent ableism prevalent in our communities. Despite this saddening fact, by supporting disability organizations we amplify their

voices and possess the potential to bring in more funds, an absolute necessity for these establishments.

Ultimately, the most important thing we can do is listen. Listen to the voices that are often spoken over, those of the disabled community. Many individuals with disabilities have shared their stories and most importantly, how they wish to be acknowledged and experience typical social interactions.

“In order to combat ableism, we must begin with the prejudices held by our society and use education as our mighty sword.”

Simply put, a person with a disability is to be treated as a person. Far too often others have taken it upon themselves to infantilize disabled people. And I am sure you all have witnessed it as well, the cooing over a disabled person far into their adolescence or adulthood, simply because they have a disability. While those who participate in the infantilization of the disabled

may have good intentions, the point is being missed entirely. In our society those with a disability are placed at an extreme disadvantage, however, this does not justify treating them as children. The obligation that the ablebodied should hold is to amplify disabled voices to the max, not to develop a savior complex.

Ableism has dug its claws into society for far too long. The discrimination, bias, and mistreatment overall must be halted. Privileges that an able-bodied person possesses in comparison to one with a disability have never been more clearly outlined. Thus, it is essential that we all take the first step towards educating ourselves and continuing to battle ableism in our society.

Those of us who are able bodied will never fully understand the struggles of those with a disability, as is the case with any marginalized group. Nonetheless, humanity as a whole can stand to improve upon itself and bring an end to the injustices that the disabled community faces. I wish to live in a society where my brother, who was diagnosed with autism, can step out without fear of discrimination or mockery based on a condition he can’t control. With a joint effort, this can be made possible.

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Sicily / Gouache Paint/ Kennedy Ross

The Orange Trees Ava Albelo I. They sailed on the peculiar ocean blue Shining under a moon covered in dust And on the horizon a dark storm brew Making the pale moon’s muted light a must On the captain’s map they marked the journey Off to follow a mysterious pull Its importance was emphasized firmly And they set off hardy and full So, the crew had no need to ask questions The boat glided forward, parting the waves They all felt little urge for objections Many had seen things that put men in their graves But no man can be prepared to see The strange lighthouse and the orange trees II. After twelve days at sea, they saw the light That came from a tower hidden in stone The captain thought it odd it shone so bright Because the lighthouse was stripped to the bone Its dead silhouette hung over the ship As they planted their anchor near the shore On the rowboat, silence, no jokes or quips And four young crew men went off to explore They waited hours with no man in sight And sent five more groups that never returned The captain alone started on her plight For answers is what the proud woman yearned She arrived at the shore, lantern in hand Not knowing life wasn’t in her command

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III. The island was larger than it appeared Brambles tangled ‘round the old orange trees Creatures wait in the dark, wait to be feared Our captain shook in its villainous breeze She walked in the center of a dim grove Then growling came from a horrible place One could see from the bones, men came in droves And out of the shadows appeared a small face “Nothing exists and all is but a dream,” The pale white face whispered very softly “Each fruit has souls, pure like honey and cream, If you choose the wrong one its quite costly.”

The captain sat down distressed and confused Terrified of all the fruit she could choose IV. She saw all the oranges, sickly sweet Each one afflicted with all types of rot None looked like any she could ever eat They appeared to be a miserable lot “But sir, how could I know? How could I choose, And skip the fate of the bones at my feet.

For there to be such high stakes if I lose I understand how my crew met defeat!”

“Madam I will give you one little clue,” The face then grinned too wide for her liking “Search far and wide is what you must do, Find an orange that’s filth is too striking.”

In a desperate search for mold and disease She found a shriveled-up husk with much ease

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V. “Strange apparition, what do you still need,” Now I’ve presented your accursed fruit?”

“Well in order to follow through the deed, Gobble it down like a strong handed brute” The face waited for her to start eating Sinking in her white teeth, she took a bite Not knowing if death she’d soon be meeting Then the captain’s arms didn’t feel quite right “I know this journey was long and grueling, But your crew was just a path to my arms!

It’s meant to be! There is no fooling!

Don’t fight the fruit’s nectar or gorgeous charms,” Contorting in pain the world quickly spun “Oh, forgive me lord but what have I done!”

VI. As she screamed, she thought of her luckless crew The captain couldn’t recall why she came Dragging them to death through the ocean blue And she just had herself and fate blame The skin on her body charred to a crisp From the ashes pealed back leathery white Her hair fell out leaving nothing but wisps And her eyes, like the face’s, black as night She became something not human, but new Crawling like a sickly babe to her kin The pale white face took her in, and he knew That he’d finally found his sickly twin After years of calling out past the sea He fulfilled the purpose of the orange trees

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Comfy Cozy / Marker and Colored Pencil / Dominic Bono

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T R E A S O N 32

Amanda Rey

Forever/ Digital Photography/ Sara Johnson

Grief, Great levin of the Pinacoteca, You descend on the primrose path of ken, Facing the marble bust that once was David,

And I wonder: Shall we ever know how you veil yourself from the blithe?

But it remains an abstraction to sustain my mental infirmary— That is: the belief in continuity.

To harbour those life-rendering thoughts, One must: Weep in the face of nakedness, Fight, fast, tear thyself, etc.

At the altar of Saint Moretto, Whose austerity crumbles in the face of David, And tread the path to feel A shock, Sensing that decision has escaped you.

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a life in the sun Isabel Yip

The blue sky gave way to you, pure light In a golden gleam, you beam, we bask, I ask Is there anyone else like you?

Who glows in the unknown Day in and day out, you shine Without a doubt, and I smile In the light that glowed off the sea Reflected from the shore to the horizon And came right back to me Your light melts the clouds As they flush and give way To the orange and pink that mean the end of the day The pastel hue of you Is bathed in the fiery color of a life lived for others Until the ocean reached its hand to the sky A mere wave to a passerby And in an instant The sun fell into the sea And since then It has been one endless night I write to remember A life with burning embers So bright it shone like the sun A light so bright A sea so blue That in the afterglow, I dread, in my head, I beg Is there any way I can be like you?

If I ramble and rattle It’s in memory of an hour A day A life In the sun 34

Seven Mile Destruction/ Acrylic Paint/ Neva Cruz

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Childhood Bedroom/ Oil Pastel and India Ink/ Ava Albelo

O n T ur ni n g Fi ve Cody Knecht

I was a tree

Inspired by “On Turning Ten”

by Billy Collins

Until not long ago. Towering tall, Umber roots firm in the earth’s sheets.

For years, I stayed in such a state But fell To the comfort of the soil After a breeze from a helicopter Pushed me down.

I sunk far, decomposed, And found warmth in being one With the ground.

I was aslumber Until not long ago. Sunken In granules of dirt, far away from troubles above.

But whirring—I had no ears, no skin, Yet knew as the air whirred, the ground stirred.

It sagged, It sang, Funneled my life into an inky graveyard.

No towers, no dirt, No umber roots.

All that could be sensed was the whirring Of a ceiling fan and the protests Of a clock.

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Chunky Blond Highlights /Oil Pastel and India Ink / Ava Albelo

On You Michael Arevalo

my eyes are fixated on you I’m caught in the trap you’ve made so carefully you spun a spider web I can’t seem to get loose from it hard to think when I need to think easy to get tangled up when I try hard to think when I need to think easy to realize that I love you you grabbed me by the heart and pulled me in so hard I almost fell and died you shook me right to my core I can’t believe you aren’t a dream someone pinch my arm hard to think when I need to think easy to get tangled up when I try hard to think when I need to think easy to realize that I love you hard to think when I need to think easy to get tangled up when I try hard to think when I need to think easy to realize that I love you the stars in the sky remind me of you the bright moonlight surrounds me

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Not Myself / Watercolor and acrylic / Kali Gerrish

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The Code of The Ones Broken Beyond Repair Samuel Cruz Ones who trust have the most malleable souls They will be bent and contorted by those demons who have the knowledge to shape them into their subservient, brainless, lapdogs.

Ones who love have the most blinded eyes They have lost the ability to see the crimes of their demonic masters that are using them for rushes of dopamine.

Ones who feel have the most fragile brains They shall be destined for a miserable, tragic existence since issues of little importance will drive them to insanity.

A life lived with no control. is the tragic fate of the ones who do not succumb to this holy code of illogical hate.

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BITTER SWEET

GUTS

Cody Knecht

I lay on my side, staring at the wall.

It’s there, but I see through it To the workings inside, The layers, the bugs— juices churn, exit my mouth in acidic chunks, And splatter across the tile floor.

The walls were guts: The innards of a whale Which beached ashore two days ago. disemboweled, bruised, lifeless.

“I’m dead.”

Love of younger years, Obsession of my youth.

Its elegant stature, Noble body poised in the blue— The water was red.

The majesty was gone, But its glorious phantom stayed etched in my brain.

“Remember me.”

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Jelly Cells/ Acrylic Paint Markers/ Danielle Atherley

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scales and men Karla Fidalgo

there is something so seductive about emotional unavailability, a snake who slithers quietly through the leaves, yet we all know he is there. we follow in secret though it may cost us our demise, for behind his fangs could sit enough poison to liquidize an entire army, or enough love to make me feel any sort of warmth while entangled in these freezing leaves.

it almost seems worth it. i memorize the patterns on his scales and the shades of auburn near his eyes, i attach meaning to the marks that enclose his inner thoughts, hoping to find absolutely anything to recite back to him, maybe he can realize that I understand him. i am charmed.

maybe that is why I am so honored to be let into this shrine, this unseen artifact whom all follow, despite the poison that seeps into my bloodstream when his fangs dig into my skin, just as frost stabs the leaves when winter arrives. and maybe that is why I stay and suck the poison out of his fangs, why i swallow every last drop and scrape the plate with my tongue and pick at the remnants of poison hidden behind my nails,

because there is nothing left to eat or breathe or feel without you.

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Hades/ Colored Pencil/ Miranda Hill

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Koyosan| Sara Johnson| Digital Photography 46

The Taking Tree

Devan Prendes

October 1788

The colony was a tight-knit

community, so a missing person was a rare occurrence. Anderson Wicket was aware of this, which was why he set off in the direction William had been seen last.

He had never been in the forest much, he tended to shy away from that particular crevasse, so he left that to the others. The forest was much denser than the last time he had been there, which did not personally vex him. He seemed to have been traipsing for hours through this labyrinth when suddenly he heard a whispering noise. It never ceased and was exceptionally eerie and yet his feet pulled forward, stepping past the trees in front of him and into a clearing. The center of the clearing held a towering tree, the top unable to be seen. The tree held an amass of low-bearing fruit and as Anderson moved further towards it, his eyes found William at its base. Admittedly, it was William in a sense; it was his still corpse.

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Anderson approached the tree slowly, his eyes shifting back and

forth between William and the surroundings of the tree. With each step, the whispering noise got louder and louder until he reached the body of his friend. And with each step, the whispers accompanied the increasing feelings of hunger until they both reached tenfold as he reached the tree. He circled the tree, surveying it and never daring to touch its bark until he advanced to inspect the low-hanging fruit. Not quite sure what kind of fruit it could be, he guessed it to be a hybrid of a plum, with its purple pigment, and an apple, with its hard texture and familiar shape. The desires from his appetite were now at an apex, leading him to cave in, ripping off the closest one to him, and then finally, sinking his teeth in.

When he took this first bite, the contrast with the crisp skin and juicy, soft flesh around

the small pit invaded his mouth. Immediately, a euphoric sensation traveled through him, taking a hold of his mind and body. Before his mind recognized what his body was doing, he marched back into the colony as a prisoner, trapped in his mind.

Strolling through the outdoors has always been able to put the mind at ease. That, at

least, is what her friends and family have always expressed. She is aware they are only trying to help, and under her particular circumstances as of late, she admits she does need help. And

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that is why she is wandering about the colony at an unusual hour compared to what is considered normal. As she goes about the town, she realizes even though she has lived here just as long as the others, two peaceful years, she is not familiar with the colony in the slightest. But that is not shocking, to say the least, taking into account what happened before these simple two years. She shoves the thoughts of that time out of her mind since she would rather not dampen her mood.

Because of the current hour of the night, it is very quiet around. But the night is not quite quiet; it is still and uncanny. Suddenly, she is alert and vigilant. It is as if every sound fled the colony, and its absence creates an uncomfortable atmosphere. She goes on her way again, but if it is even possible, she takes to pay more attention to her surroundings. As she scrutinizes, she comes across a cabin; rows upon rows of logs enclose this building, but something gives her pause.

Something abnormal about this place as well as her unrelenting curiosity prevents her from retreating.

Taking the stairs one step at a time, she maintains her caution and vigilance. Reaching

for the door handle of the front door, she preserves the same amount of hesitance. She turns it ever so slowly, opens the creaking blockade, and crosses over the entryway. Her eyes first land on the kitchen: what strikes her are the bright fruits and vegetables laid across the counters; their pigment is too bold for bleakness that drenches their surroundings. As she continues throughout the house, it perturbs her that if any other person were in her current situation, they would be having some form of a response, whether that be terror, confusion, or physical reactions such as a racing heart, while she was calm and merely curious. But she is aware things do

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change rather quickly, as she learned the difficult way. Showing no indecision as she did with the front door, she opened the bedroom door. She never has the appropriate reactions, does she?

Where hesitance was due, she was without. When the door swung open completely, the light from the hallway burst into the room. Overwhelmed with her initial disorientation, she froze in place, one foot in the air, mid-step. Her eyes, now focused, followed the trailing light from the candle in the hallway. They settled upon a male figure on the bed, the sheets and linens in disarray. When she finally unstuck herself from where she stood, she moved towards the man and was then able to make sense of what she saw. He was drenched in blood, but he thankfully was still alive. Now that she entered, she could make out the choked noises and whimpers coming from the man; she became overwhelmed with sympathy, for he was in a great amount of pain.

As she approached him, his eyes snapped to hers as he noticed movement. He was lying on his side, facing the door. Recalling her entrance, she realized he flinched when the door opened, he was in terror that his assailant returned. She reassured him with a small smile as she stood next to where he lay. He seized her hand, and she thought his grip was impressive for a person who was about to greet death. Whispering words too low to hear, she leaned in further to understand him. Although it was not entirely clear, she was able to make out a few words that were said with warning and urgency: no, fruit, help, inspector, wife. She pressed closer to fully grasp his message when she heard a sharp intake of breath, rather than releasing the pained sounds she had grown accustomed to hearing in that short time. She stood up from where she was

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kneeling next to the bed, exited the room, and went to inspect the rest of this home. As she went in and out of the rooms, a nagging feeling that something was missing followed her. This feeling was now in tandem with the earlier sense of abnormality about this house. When she saw every room, she went back to where she started: the kitchen. She had not walked into it earlier and now that she had, she saw a woman collapsed on the floor, hidden behind the counter. As she took a closer look, the woman, presumably the wife, was unconscious and in her left hand, she held a strange-looking fruit and in the other hand was dripping with blood. The troublesome feeling subsided, now overpowered with the anxiety of what the truth may be. Rushing out of the house in a panic, she turned the corner at the end of the street. Once again, she halted in place. Curiously enough, she saw a man carrying a lumpy satchel. She found she could not place how she knew this stranger as she watched this man entering and exiting people’s homes. The bundle he guarded seemed to be lighter and smoother each time he exited each house. To add more to her curiosity, she witnessed his conspicuous body language. He strode in a rigid, slow manner that can only be described as mechanical as if he were carrying a considerable amount of weight atop his head and shoulders. Unearthing movement in her body, she rushed to one of the homes the man was sure to have already entered. What she saw when she burst into this home was paralyzing, yes, but all the more petrifying.

It was nearly a replica of the horror she found in the previous home composed of the

same elements: a murdered spouse, a mysterious fruit, and the matching spouse unconscious with bloody hands. Running out of yet another tragedy, she ran right back into one, darting into every house and always finding the same components. Fearing she was going mad, she

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stopped and forced herself to concentrate only on her senses. Repeating this ritual several times, she calmed down and regained some of her rationality. Formulating a plan, or not quite so, she decided that whatever appalling and dangerous forces were at play, was a game she denied partaking. She forbade herself to experience events such as these again, including such events that occurred previously than tonight. Fleeing town without making any goodbyes nor warnings, she vanished from the town, never returning nor discussing the events that have scarred her even further.

Waking up the next day in his cabin, Anderson shot up in bed.

Having no memory of the occurrences from the previous day, he first thought of his wife. Noticing she was not lying next to him; he went out in search of her. Climbing out of bed and exiting their room, he first explored the guest bedroom. She would have no reason to be there and was not, but he became frantic and had to verify, for he had an unsettling feeling blooming in his stomach. So, he made his way into the kitchen. The first thing his eyes perceived was that there were still items in the sink and across the counter. This was exceptionally uncharacteristic for that his wife always made sure the house was neat and tidy before bed. The final place to check was outside in her garden; Anderson knew if she were not elsewhere then she must be here, in her favorite place, in her sanctuary.

When he made his way into her garden, he swiftly halted after

gazing upon a figure in the dirt. He began to unconsciously make his way towards her, wondering why she was on her side, not kneeling near her favorite plant, arum. As he reached out towards her to lay her on her back, he went pale white as the blood drained from his face and his mind went blank. Finding his hands stained red, he stopped yet again in his tracks.

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Anderson had first halted because she was so stiff and cold, but finding his hands covered in blood was the reason for the second pause. Shuddering, he proceeded to hold her shoulder to turn her over. As he turned her body over, his heart was racing, his breath was shallow, and the only thing he could hear was the blood pounding in his ears. Her body was soaked in her own blood, so much of it in fact that he would not be able to deduce what the source could be. He knew it was too late, judging by her ice-cold body and hollow, lifeless eyes. As Anderson began to weep, only two things were occupying his thoughts. The first being what happened to his dear, sweet wife. The second, which terrorized him, was why his hands were already marked by her blood before he held her; why he would have blood on his hands; why he could envision her death. When he attempted any form of coherency, the only thing that escaped past his lips was his last, shuddering breath.

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Somewhere Sara Fueyo

Momento Mori / Digital Photography / Sara Johnson

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S M O E W R E H I wish I’d kept your grocery lists

I picture you are happy

Wish I’d known your scraps and sheets were rare

I know somewhere the flood has stopped

I wish that every time I thought of you

And somehow you are laughing

I didn’t have to wish that you were there

I know all this because your you

I wish I’d saved your gift receipts

And endings never stopped you

From that shopping spree in March

I know all this because the truth

I wish that every inch without you

Is fate just finally caught you

Didn’t have to feel so far

You pumped your arms

But most of all, I miss your presence

And ran for your life

You could always make me laugh

But stumbled when a root emerged

I wish I didn’t have to feel

It struck you down but took with it

How good things never last

All of your pain and hurt

I’m glad we spoke before you left

So now I stare at the TV remote

I passed you the remote

And think of the wonders that you’ll never know

The only endings we’d ever known

Of the life that was waiting before you left home

Were pulled from TV shows

And it hurts for a minute, when I recount your life

I don’t know grief like I know malice

But then I think of the somewhere

Don’t know how people bare to move past it

That you left to find

I hate how everyone can hurt one day

And the thought of you safe there

And then move on in such quick fashion

Brings me peace of mind

I picture us in your favorite place

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Magic Garden/ Digital Art/ Dayme Flores

Anna Oswald

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Opening:

There is rumble in the building that blares with the voices and the clamoring remarks, which seem to make the walls of the courthouse shake.

But over the boisterous noise, we notice that the courthouse is not like traditional courthouses. The golden midday light seeps in from the large windows adorning the side of the building, and large paintings hangdepicting scenes of fruitful harvests and farmers hard at work- from the grandiose, incandescent rose-marbled walls.

The courthouse is chaotic, as the ardent chatter intensifies with every passing second. We see Detective Reus Aberforth, perfectly still, glaring at the sea of raucous townsfolk.

He is not the only one staring at the chaos in the courthouse. From his bench at the far end of the courthouse, Judge Hugh Clarimond, narrows his eyes at the scene playing out. He finally rolls his bulging eyes, which seems to take a great deal of effort, and slams his gavel upon the table.

JUDGE CLARIMOND: Silence! Warphook’s beard, people, you all call for an open courthouse and now seem to want to screech it into the ground!

(Silence follows. The noises die down in an instant, as the townsfolk become quiet, like the three people shifting uneasily in the stands . The silent janitor, Rociuss Gylten, continues wobbling slowly and cleaning quietly in the corner.

Detective Aberforth stifles a cough from where he stands, but only those in the stands can really make it out as a soft chuckle.)

DETECTIVE ABERFORTH, quietly and coherently: Thank you, Your Honor.

JUDGE CLARIMOND, sitting back in his squeaky and suffocating chair: (mutters) Oh, don’t thank me. This is the last place I’d want to be on a Saturday afternoon…

(Detective Aberforth scans the reticent audience with his unreadable eyes, as he slowly walks over to the other side of the courtroom. He takes advantage of the apprehensive crowd, each member hardly breathing for fear their breaths’ sounds will cover up the words the detective might soon speak. He smiles a little to himself, not much, but definitely enough for them to move to the edge of their seats, with wide eyes and racing hearts. All but Rociuss Gylten, who

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keeps his gaze on the wooden floor under the sweeping motion of his straw broom).

DETECTIVE ABERFORTH, some townsfolk jump as his articulate announcement slices through the air: I’m sure I don’t need to clarify anything for you all this afternoon, for it seems the same bad tidings have a way of ebbing and flowing into this house.

(Murmur erupts in the room, like vibrant magma seeping out from a dormant volcano. Detective Aberforth examines the effects he has just caused, and brings his gaze over to the individuals in the stands. Like a wolf encircling its prey, he slinks slowly, yet keeps his proper, looming composure.

We can identify three individuals shifting uneasily in the stands, which are facing the judge from the opposite side of the floor. We recognize the two landlords, Clive Danshire and Beatrice Hiltenburrow.

Danshire was known throughout the town as a conceited urchin who had inherited a considerable amount of money and power before his parents moved to a city about a train’s ride away. They left their son in town, the residents thereof considered him nothing more than a wretched gambler and a snobbish firebrand.

Beatrice Hiltenburrow handles herself as she always does, her alert and timid gaze fixed on the floor beneath Aberforth’s lustrous shoes. A quiet and pious young colleen like her made her the perfect candidate in Lady Hiltenburrow’s eyes for her son’s hand in marriage. Beatrice came from an upper class town in the outskirts of New Haven, and never dared to meet the eyes of fellow townspeople for more than 40 seconds at the produce store or hold more conversation than a bashful, casual report on the weather at town meetings.

Beside her, Magdaleine Maudington chews on her lip while her harbor grey eyes dart across the sights in the room. Behind her sit Agnes and Walter Berkeley in the first row bench, along with the other townspeople.)

DETECTIVE ABERFORTH: With another occurrence happening in so little time, I propose we review the recent events that have affected those in the stands.

(He slips an approval-seeking look at Judge Clarimond, who provides him allowance with an irritated wave of his hand. Detective Aberforth faces the front once more.)

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DETECTIVE ABERFORTH: Now, the evidence brought has been the same asMAGDALEINE MAUDINGTON: Oh, please, Mr. Aberforth!

(She has caught the attention of everyone in the courtroom, now even Judge Clarimond is straightening in his seat. Detective Aberforth stands frozen in his position.)

DETECTIVE ABERFORTH, regaining confidence and clearing his throat: Madam Maudington, is something the matter?

MAGDALEINE MAUDINGTON, with a voice trembling so hard even Rociuss Gylten looks up from where he is cleaning: Something the matter, Mr. Aberforth? My daughter has been missing for two days, and…(She fumbles with something in her coat pocket with shaking hands)...And the slightest clue as to why I have is this!

(Out of her coat she retrieves a crumpled envelope, and what is most conspicuous about it is a crimson-colored wax seal on the side with none of the faded writing. Despite the parchment being completely wrinkled, the seal seems completely intact and preserved, its vivid color glistening in the light of the courthouse, as well as the design of a rose carved into the center.

The townsfolk are all captivated as she raises the crumpled envelope in her hand, as they all gawk at it in a synchronized manner. More focused than the others, however, were Beatrice Hiltenburrow and Clive Danshire. Even Rociuss Gylten stopped sweeping and muttering, his thumb over the edge of his broom as he stared up at the sealed envelope.)

DETECTIVE ABERFORTH: And to whom is it addressed?

MAGDALEINE MAUDINGTON, smacking her lips: Is that even a question, Mr. Aberforth? It’s addressed to Guinevere Maudington, but it’s from the Rose Gatherer.

(Murmur erupts once more, but now accompanied by horrified gasps.)

JUDGE CLARIMOND, mumbling: Another one, have we…

BEATRICE HILTENBURROW, beginning to breath heavily, but not enough to make those beyond the stands notice anything: Detective-

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CLIVE DANSHIRE, losing his somewhat controlled exterior and beginning in an anguished town:That’s how(The sound of the Judge’s gavel produces spreading silence, like the edges of a wave receding across the shoreline.)

DETECTIVE ABERFORTH, his face remains unchanged, keeps his composed manner and attitude: Revisit the events of what happened with young Guinevere, Madam Maudington.

MAGDALEINE MAUDINGTON, begins speaking to him at first, but then turns to address all townsfolk in the house: I estimate it was five days when she received this, the letter. I made nothing of the post left in our box, but my husband comes back one evening and calls me over before either of us even consider telling her. ‘It’s for Guinevere,’ he told me. Such an official looking envelope?

Well, of course, no stamp or prominent name litters it, but- in truth- the seal did bewitch my eyes. And addressed to little Guinny? Now, that was a sight…

(She turns back to face the Detective) ‘Who on God’s fields is the Rose Gatherer?’

I asked Klaus, but both of us knew the same amount as the other. Until a few days later, when Guinny skips down for pastries to the Berkeley’s Bakery, and we learn from Suzanne next door about the disappearances.

CLIVE DANSHIRE, cutting in: That’s the same way Archie was gone a fortnight ago too, Aberforth, and yet no one has an answer for me.

(It is important to note that Mr. Danshire has a resentful attitude toward the Detective, for he does not refer to him by his legitimate title. Rociuss Gylten continues to clean, his thumb remaining on the wooden edge of the broom.)

DETECTIVE ABERFOTH, returns Danshire’s scowl with a professional and reassuring look: The case of your friend has been researchedCLIVE DANSHIRE: Researched?! I haven’t seen him for two weeks, since he went to down to the bakery two days after telling me about a letter he received from some kind of ‘gardener-’ WALTER BERKELEY, from his place in the stands: It’s true, Archibald hasn’t come down in so long!

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BEATRICE HILTENBURROW, her effort to chime in can be noticed as being very strenuous for her: My Virgil hasn’t been home for a week since he got a letter addressed to him with that same red seal! We sent him one day to buy the pastries, and this is what it has come to… (Her lips begin to quiver, impeding her from concluding her statement.)

(Animated babble bursts through the air, and soon enough the house is engulfed in crazed conversations and shouting. And again comes the resounding pound of the gavel on the hardwood, followed by the Detective’s demands for the courthouse to quiet down. But suddenly, a voice so solemn coming from the corner of the room is a hidden reinforcement that temporarily quenches the demanding thirst of a derailed mob).

DETECTIVE ABERFORTH: You all are saying these three people disappeared after receiving a letter?

(The individuals in the stands nod.)

DETECTIVE ABERFORTH: And what else did these three have in common?

ROCIUSS GYLTEN, whose voice makes a sea of heads whirl in the direction of his corner: Where they all went before they disappeared…

(Gasps, all around.)

CLIVE DANSHIRE, turns around to face Walter Berkeley with flaming eyes: Sound familiar?

(Beatrice brings her hand to her mouth to suppress a shriek, or a sob, more successfully than Magdaleine Maudington does.)

MAGDALEINE MAUDINGTON, stomping over to where Walter Berkeley sits: What have you done with her?! What have you done with my Guinny?! (She climbs over her place in the stands, reaching out her arms and aiming to strangle Walter Berkeley, but is restrained by her husband in the stands and the quick reflexes of the Detective.)

DETECTIVE ABERFORTH: Madam Maudington, contain yourself, please!

Walter Berkeley, I’m sure you would not be opposed to following us for some questioning. You as well, Agnes.

He makes a signal with his hand, gesturing the two guards standing at the entrance doors to come to the stands.

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WALTER BERKELEY: What?! Me and Agnes? There must be some kind of misunderstanding, please! I remember little Guinevere leaving the store, yes! With the strawberry rolls, yes, please! (He pleads with the guards that force

him and his wailing wife by the arms, and begins to sound slightly frenzied as they are carried out of the courthouse.) Please! Virgil too, Madam Hiltenburrow! I remember him greeting me and leaving! The same with Archibald Harris, Mr. Danshire! You’ve all got to believe me!

(As he and his wife are dragged out of the courthouse, the mood in the courthouse definitely shifts. Some feel relieved, some even rejoice. The individuals in the stands, however, do not. Judge Clarimond simply observes everyone’s shifting reactions, before hoisting himself up from his sagging chair to follow the now exiting crowd.)

(After having a final word with Magdaleine and Klaus Maudington, Detective Aberforth stands back to assure himself that everyone has filed out of the courthouse, until his eyes catch Rociuss Gylten still sweeping in the corner.

As the Detective scans the courthouse again, he notices that he and the frail janitor are the only ones left in the house.)

DETECTIVE ABERFORTH, approaching him: Who knew the baker had something to do with it…(He chortles softly.)

(Rociuss Gylten continues sweeping, not looking up to meet his gaze.)

ROCIUSS GYLTEN: Yes, the baker…

DETECTIVE ABERFORTH, straightening up slightly and reaching into his coat pocket, seizing a piece of parchment with writing on it: Here’s the next one, Rociuss.

ROCIUSS GYLTEN, taking the paper and holding it up to the light: Presley Scornton? From the brewery downtown?

DETECTIVE ABERFORTH, nodding: Yes, him. Don’t forget your signature and mark...(He winks with a smirk, before turning and making his way to the entrance doors) Rose Gatherer.

(As the double doors close behind him, the old janitor scans the name on the piece of parchment again, using both hands to hold it. With his thumb being off the edge of the broom for the first time, we can see how the edge of the broom possesses a small wooden stamp, an intricate rose etched into the wood.)

FIN

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Purga ory Jared Merriwether I see the perfect mirror in you and i love what i see you stoke a fire in me and you burn away all the blue I watch you soft and silently and my heart, it grew I sure as hell didn’t choose this limboed life for me your back stares at me and taunts me with a laugh i’m nothing but a half slowly learning to be wholly the echoes stuck inside my heart its chambers drone with love inside, below, outside, above they sing & crack my soul apart

Christ laces your neck in gold he blesses your anatomy a halo floats sinfully atop me they call it cupid’s chokehold a cathedral lives inside me a choir runs cold in my veins vibrato explodes in bloodstains mary’s candlelight ignites me the devil is in the stitches of my ever-open mouth and inside my ever-loving south i’m ripe in my secret riches I can feel my eyes twitching the pupil begins a coup d’etat I’ve entered the land of no law this is wildly bewitching

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Queen of Sorrows / Digital Art / Anabelle Figueroa

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SAILOR

AT

AT SEA 66

Rohan Joshi

Ocean waves batter against the rocks And the seagulls swarm the coast And be one sailor against the violent gusts Looking to the lighthouse illuminating the sea As he is swashed with salty waters, rocking in the arms of the vast oceans, in the thick of pelting rain Zoom out and all is Dismal. Infernal. Mierce.

A shoreless ocean holds the sailor With tide drawing back and flinging Like fronds swinging to a storm’s furor He yells in pain, drowning in his own misery Suddenly, cumulonimbus turns into wispy stratus As if the waves flipped, no longer below, But now above, the sailor floats in the liminal waters And mingles in the rising waves Over yonder, the eternal beacon rises from the horizon Boundless in its majestic, liquid gold It tranquilizes the choking heolstor from the night The sun blends perfectly with the azure Manifesting a peaceful aura enveloping the sea From the stars it is Lively. Immaculate.Thriving.

Calm seas and smooth sailing, His boat lulling and rolling in the gentle breeze Like a stargazer vacillating between dreams and verity.

In the distance sparkling sand shimmers Land at last!

A Walk on the Beach/Acrylic Paint/ Mikayla St. Clair

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Picasso Mask / Yarn / Ava Albelo

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Pigtail Mask /Yarn / Ava Albelo

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But I’m Not a Poet Bianca Morris

I use metaphors for messages Similes for simple statements Personification for personalizing my pretty phrases Don’t get me started on alliteration I compare the sun to your eyes My love to the sky It is pretty when you are gone, the stars wink at me Its brighter while you’re here, there is no blink from me It hurts when I look directly at you Dark as dark chocolate and honey hidden inside I’m not a poet but sometimes when I write I find it lovely to rhyme I’m not a poet But around you my words imitate William My speech turns to sonnets I’m not a poet and I’m not Shakespeare but when I read his work, I think of you and there is a change in the atmosphere The air leaves my lungs every time you are near I’m not a poet but Jesus I might be Around you every lullaby is a symphony Every step is a march Every breath is my last Every cheer is a jubilee A poet has no poem like there is no song without something to sing Around you, every pen stroke is a testimony Around you, a poet I might as well be

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Scattered/ Collage/ Yaelis Gomez

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Spoken Word Sophia Salamanca

What they don’t tell you about being taken seriously Is that you have to end your sentences with crisp P’s You have to leave behind your ‘like’s and ‘basically’s You have to sit up straight and take up space Raise your arms while you talk Keep a straight face They don’t tell you how to pronounce each double O That it has to be drawn out like the word ‘ooze’ That it’s a competition to sustain eye contact That you can’t stutter or hesitate In fact

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You have to speak fast enough to not get cut-off But not too much —then your rambles prove you don’t belong

You actually have to name-drop your school at the start If you want to be taken seriously here It’s survival of the fittest You know that, right dear?

Sometimes you have to pick your battles But don’t let them keep you quiet either Hit every, single, consonant at the meeting And soon you’ll look like you belong here

Oh So Blue | Sophia Salamanca | digital photography

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Strange Fruit/Acrylic Paint/Jalynn Mcduffey

J

Jordan/Acrylic Paint/Jalynn Mcduffey

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THE CONDUCTOR OF LIFE Isabella Prince

The conductor of life A very solemn man of rigid black arms with a round thin body and an engine for a brain The tick of his righteous compass never ends for his sharp beat is steady and he runs the rhythm with his hands His numbers are unyielding and counts never off in spite of everything and anything his unceasing cadence must go on Like the conductor of a relentless orchestra everyone diligently follows the pace of his unswerving baton Don’t get left behind he never turns back!

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One thing/ Digital Photography/ Sara Johnson

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Sunday Night | Scratchboard | Raul Grasso

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THE SILVER SCREEN IS NOT A

MIRROR Veronica Sanjurjo

Let me set the scene: you sit down with your family to watch a long-anticipated movie.

Yes, it’s time. You know this movie centers around a Cuban-American and feel the excitment coursing through your veins. It’s not often you see someone like yourself on the screen. They speak English most of the movie, but finally, the time comes. The scene is set for the character to finally speak Spanish and show his Cuban roots, speak the way that we do, act the way that we do.

They open their mouths to speak Spanish and ... they can’t. It’s a terrible accent, so incredibly forced that it’s painful to watch.

You look around at your family and feel the disappointment radiating off of their faces.

You had so much hope, but you’re back to a life in which the faces behind the silver screen never really see you.

Even if it seems like nothing more than a way to relax after a long day, the media, especially television and movies, has an incredibly strong impact on us and on the way we think. As stated by historian Carlos Cortes, the media, whether intentionally or unintentionally, “teaches” the public about minorities, other ethnic groups, and societal groups. Yet, for having such a large platform, the media has failed in this aspect. Minorities and people of color have long been systematically undervalued, as Hollywood chooses to both work off and generate false stereotypes. Today, we’ll first analyze how Hollywood fails to accurately and consistently portray minorities. Then, we’ll look at just how deeply the lack

of representation on screen affects life offscreen. Finally, we’ll look into some solutions to the problem that has plagued us as a society for far too long.

In 2015, the average US resident consumed traditional and digital media for 15 and a half hours per day, a large part of which comes from television and movies. It seems crazy to think about, but it’s true. I don’t know about you guys, but the TV is almost always on at my house, with volume, annoyingly enough. Between my brother, mom, dad, and grandmother, Netflix really gets put to use.

So isn’t it weird that these things that live both at the forefront and background of our lives don’t actually represent us accurately?

According to UCLA’s Hollywood Diversity Report, only 19.8% of lead film actors were people of color. However, according to the US Census Bureau, the nation’s population is nearly 40% non-white. And by 2055, it’s estimated that our community will be so diverse that there will not be one racial or ethnic majority group. Yet, white actors continue to make up the majority of Hollywood, even taking on the roles of characters of different ethnicities. Think back to the film version of West Side Story in which Natalie Wood, the famed actress of Russian descentplayed Maria. And sure,it’s easy to say that Hollywood was smaller back then and that that’s just the way things were.

But that attitude continues on even today, as seen by Emma Stone being cast as a woman of Hawaiian and Asian descent in Aloha.

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And while we can’t say that Hollywood is completely lacking in diversity, one of the even larger issues stems when they do try to implement diversity, as they present solely stereotypical interpretations and pay little attention to cultural intricacies. For example, let’s take a look into the dialect coaching industry. Dialect coaches are acting coaches who help actors in designing their voices and speech to correctly portray a character. This industry has long been dominated by white people despite the fact that they are most often used to portray different ethnicities and backgrounds.

The dialect coaching sphere is a clear example of what’s wrong with representation in Hollywood. While dialect coaches are almost always demanded when white American actors must portray English or Australian characters, nonwhite actors are cast solely based on physical traits and little attention is paid to their ability to accurately portray other backgrounds. For example, Dominican actors are cast to play Chileans despite the differences in the way that they speak Spanish. When it comes to identifying the differences among minorities in the media, a lack of attention to detail erases the humanity of the characters and leads to the formation of inaccurate stereotypes.

And when we start to erase the humanity of minorities, erase their struggles and hardships and identity, what kind of a society are we left with?

Because Hollywood is at the forefront of our lives, everything we see affects how we act and what our beliefs are. For example, a study by the University of Oregon showed that exposure to negative African American portrayals in the media significantly influences the evaluations of African Americans in general. This negative exposure shapes the attitudes of viewers, makingthem fearful of things they have no reason to fear, and angry with people they have no reason tobe angry with. These attitudes

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then pervade themselves into every aspect of life. For example, doctors may not treat minorities with the same importance that they do white people and juries may not be completely unbiased after seeing the color of the defendant’s skin.

These issues arise to the greatest extent in areas with a very small minority presence, as people tend to substitute the stereotypes they see on screen for reality. For example, studies have shown that Latino stereotypes in the media can lead audiences to negatively associate immigration with an increased unemployment rate and an increased crime rate, despite having no real evidence to back the claim. This is what causes things like hate crimes and general xenophobic ideology to not only be justified but also spread. In this way, Hollywood acts as a blueprint for reality and has the power to pit people against each other. The power to somewhat dictate society as whole.

However, there’s another side to the effects of misrepresentation, as it not only affects the way we see others but also how we see ourselves. A study on black and white preadolescent boys showed that television exposure led to a decrease in self-esteem for black boys and an increase among white boys. As reasoning psychologists point to the fact that black male characters are shown as menacing and troublemaking while white boys are portrayed positively, normally as the protagonist or hero. Isn’t that sad? That before we’re even able to understand our differences, we’re being shown how others think of us?

And of how we should think of ourselves?

The same can be said for Native American teenagers, who experience a decrease in self-esteem after being exposed to traditional Native American mascots in the media. When your culture has been painted negatively for so long, you start to feel shame in it, shame in the fact that you’re not like everybody else.

I’ve experienced this feeling. Sitting in a restaurant off the highway of Georgia, I received a phone call from my grandmother.

Excited, I immediately answered, detailing my entire day to her in

Spanish, the only language she speaks as a Cuban immigrant. However, I soon felt eyes on me. Looking up I see that I’m being stared at, that people have stopped their own conversations to look at me perplexed, like I’ve stood on the top of a table yelling obscenities when, in reality, I was just speaking my language.

that she’s forgotten where she’s come from, but in the fact that where she comes from isn’t the only thing that defines her.

As a society, we can implement performing arts in schools across the country and encourage minorities to follow what they love, even if they’ve never truly seen someone like themselves on the screen. We can let people know that being themselves is more than just ok, it’s necessary. We can show people that there is no need to feel embarrassed by our features, our language, our family, or our culture.

As individuals, we must try to look past the screen to gain an understanding of someone.

Native American teenagers have the The process of developing our beliefs is a highest suicide rates in the United States. silent one, as ideals are conveyed to us in the That’s why we can’t dismiss the subversive smallest of ways. As humans, we take what messaging or fail to stand up for the way we see and apply it to our lives, a trait that we are represented.Because we are hurting has been looked at as the reason that we’ve our youth. And, in turn, we are hurting our gotten so far. However, this trait can harm us more than hurt us if we future. Though the problem is so deeply ingrained in our society, a disease don’t look at things from different lenses. of the heart rather than of the skin, there are If we don’t question what we see and try getting the full picture of something before a few steps that can be taken by Hollywood, applying it so intensely to who we are. It’s society, and by individuals.

Hollywood’s job to represent us consistently Hollywood can include diverse casts and cast and accurately, but it’s our job to look past the frame of our television when making based on more than just appearances. They deductions. can employ dialect coaches that understand the dialect their teaching, paying attention I have hope that one day I will see my family to the all-important cultural intricacies that on my screen. That I won’t be looked at funny we at home are all waiting for. Hollywood for speaking my language. But this can only can show thatthey care about the voices of minorities and their perspectives. Hollywood be achieved if we look at each other with open minds rather than closed ones. can make more shows like “Never Have I Ever,” where an Indian-American teenager is portrayed as an American not in the sense

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Mechanical

Ascension Samuel Cruz O intuition! Speak to me in ways unforeseen and bend my mind with the wisdom of the contortionist who twists its limbs with a sickly, inhuman sheen In his smile, that complexes and perplexes like the mist.

Mist that ebbs and flows from the deep recesses of my own being to enchant each and every neuron with desires that incessantly persist.

O evolution! Mutilate my body in ways guaranteeing a rejection of these brutish human forms who shackles me to the confines of emotion, with no luxury of fleeing The waves of chemicals dousing my consciousness like a series of storms.

Storms that wash away Icarus-esque yearnings so obscene as the frustrations within me, like ants to an apple, swarms.

Near-infinite regressions and decay set the scene for unholy intuition to transform husk into machine.

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Personification of An Uknown Future | Plaster, Wood, Found objects | Rio Cosimini

To not be a fool But isn’t satisfaction for fools

Karla Fidalgo

Those who swim by the shore where their feet scratch the sand Those who accept gravity and twiddle the dirt at their feet those who don’t have a favorite flower

And I am no fool I dream of the waters beyond the horizon with mermaids and challenge the ground below me with jumps of excitement and I want my fingertips to graze the clouds and dip my feet in the Dead Sea with a book in my hands about feminism or Louis XVII’s lamentable death and the end of monarchy or kiss you or your friend or take a long swim only to unexpectedly fall in love with a merchant in the South of France and hear of his traditional views and politely ask him to use his mouth for other tasks besides speaking and remember that there is still the horizon and clouds and stars and that nothing will ever feel right because there is so much more to see and feel and love and despise and learn and teach and live and absorb and

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caged in/ Sara Fueyo/ Acrylic Paint

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Seasonal Habituation Habituation Rohan Joshi

Nothing has been ever so beautiful, Except for the livelihood of the children Playing in the snow, screaming full Of laughter in the piled leaves At that time of the year, autumn leaves blossom Orange, red, yellow in its entirety, boughs sway To the chilling wind as I step to the rostrum Speaking amongst seasonal mellow fruitfulness The sunsets in the west, gleaming golden glimmer Glowing like fires in my eyes, kindling a charming ambiance The hands of my watch wound quicker and quicker Oh as time flew by, had ensued Whilst the night owels hoot to the birth of the night sky The lit skies expire and fall with such allure As the wings of the stars glide up so high The groundhog gets ready for its annual goodbye So next to a deciduous tree, it begins to dig, wothstanding the vigorous winter in dormancy And waking up to a new season full of verdancy 86

Shadows / Wire / Yadelis Gomez

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