BAA's Literary & Arts Magazine: Winter 2024 by BAlitmagazine

The Cardinal

Editors’ Note

Welcome to The Cardinal’s first issue of the year!

We are so excited to be part of the new editing team this year. In this issue, Bishop Allen students have displayed vivid artwork, beautifully written passages, powerful poems, and much more!

We are so proud to commence the New Year with these wonderful creative contributions. This issue has been lovingly curated by the new editing team: Grace Stidham, Angelina Farag, Pietra Melo, and Charlize Stanley-Archibald. Thank you to all of the amazing members and our incredible teacher moderator, Ms. Conroy. Without further ado, please enjoy!

-The

2024-2025

Executive Editorial Team

Charlize Stanley-Archibald, Grace Stidham, Pietra Melo, and Angelina Farag

Before the Bell

By: Bilien Bocre

The classroom buzzed softly, a lull of voices mixing with the faint scratch of pencils on paper. I sat at my desk, the light from the window spilling across the room as I turned yet another page in my book. My mind drifted between the lines, not quite lost in the story but waiting waiting for the bell. My stomach wasn’t the only thing that felt restless. The air had a strange weight to it, something I couldn’t quite place.

Then, the distinct crackle of the PA system broke through the quiet. I glanced up, fingers pausing on the corner of the page. The vice principal’s voice, steady but a touch too slow, filled the room. His words hung in the air like the low rumble of distant thunder there had been a bomb threat. My heart didn’t skip, but something inside me shifted, an odd sense of exhilaration bubbling up. Not fear. Not panic. Curiosity. Around me, the room jolted awake. Chairs scraped, bags snapped shut. There was a flicker of disbelief in the eyes of my classmates, but it was quickly drowned out by the rush to leave. My English teacher, usually composed, looked momentarily frazzled, then immediately motioned for us to go. The whole class moved like a wave, one minute calm and seated, the next spilling out into the grass.

I found myself swept up in the energy, my book still clutched in one hand, the unfinished sentence left behind on the page. The usual chatter was different higher, sharper, filled with fragments of conversations, broken pieces of nervous laughter. Everywhere I looked, someone was on their phone, heads bent low, voices rising above the confusion. Friends huddled together, their words barely audible over the frantic hum of commotion, while others stood alone, furiously texting or calling home, letting their parents know what was occurring.

The noise swelled as we flooded outside, the cold air hitting my skin, a light drizzle coming and going, adding to the tension that seemed to cling to everything. People stood in groups, their faces animated, some with wide eyes, others shrugging it off. My friends found me in the crowd, and for a second, we just stared at each other, like the world had turned itself upside down for a moment.

Despite everything, I wasn’t scared. There was something almost electric about it all—the uncertainty, the movement, the break in routine. It felt like being part of something bigger, like the air itself was charged with possibility. Not the kind you hope for, but the kind you can’t help but feel. The usual rhythm of the school day had shattered, and in its place was something unfamiliar, something that made my pulse quicken in a way I didn’t quite understand.

The minutes stretched on, the conversations swirling around me, but my thoughts drifted back to that announcement, how a few words could turn the everyday routine into something utterly unexpected. I wasn’t sure what would happen next, but in that moment, the ordinary had become extraordinary, and somehow, that exhilarated me.

Liyou Tan

Words

By: KC By: KC

Words come from our minds, Our minds of creativity and passion, But also cruelty and evil. The grasps of humanity, The holes in the cliff side, Of which I once held onto. I lost my grip, I lost my chance, I lost my faith. Words turn into ideas, Ideas turn to change; Change is dangerous and scary, Anyone would tell you that. Change leads to death, Nothing more, Nothing less. All roads end there, Should nature take its course, Or should you disrupt the channel, And end the show too soon, Or keep it running, just one season longer. Words lead to pain, Romance and death, The words we speak, think and hear, Lead to nothing good; Just like change, For one is not without the other. Change is the word, And you need words to bring about change. I wish I never learned about words. Or change.

Tela Green

dancing stone

smooth stone, thrashing foam, gliding across the sea a rock is thrown, rippling bones, heart swells with glee racing across the water—a futile attempt to flee its movements never falter, skipping farther than my eyes can see

By: Zen Andrade-Pinter

Danier Dean

Dictionary Poems

By: Mariana Angelova

Freedom

noun | ˈfrē-dəm

1. The power or right to act, speak or think as one wants without hindrance or restraint. The liberty to carve out your own life, to shape it into something meaningful and unique. The chance to speak your mind even when the world tries to silence you.

2. The state of being physically unconfined. The feeling of stepping beyond the walls that once held you in place. The sensation of barriers crumbling to dust beneath your feet. The rush of cool air against your skin as you burst through open doors. The vastness that greets you and the world that seems to expand with every step you take; the freedom emerging from the vessels in your body.

3. To exist without apology.

The permission you give yourself to be exactly who you are at any given moment, allowing your emotions to rise and fall like waves; waves of power with no censoring of their intensity. Being the thunder and the silent rain, a mix of boldness and uncertainty, without having to choose just one.

Safety

noun | ˈ sāf-tē

1. Being protected from harm or danger.

It’s the sturdy lock on the door, the unbroken barrier keeping the chaos at bay. The well-lit streets at night and the promises we make to shield each other from the darkness. From the damage, the hurt; from the pain.

2. The warmth of an embrace that shields you from the world.

It’s the feeling of arms wrapped around you, the heartbeat you can hear when your head rests on someone ’ s chest. The hum of a gentle voice that reassures: “I’m here, you ’ re not alone.” It’s feeling at home, not in a specific place but rather in a person. A sense that settles your bones and lets your muscles expand in relaxation.

3. The bubble that keeps bad things out of reach. The comfort that wraps around you like a heavy but secure blanket, shielding you from the bitter winds of what we call reality. The choice to stay on the familiar path where the footing is solid and the shadows can’t reach you. The secret hideout you built as a kid; the refuge we build for ourselves when the world feels too sharp and too cold.

Elizabeth Roccosanto

Sophia Vitorino

Ingredients

Pumpkin Loaf

ngelina Farag

For the bread:

3 large eggs

1½ cups pumpkin puree

⅔ cup avocado/vegetable oil

1 cup sugar

½ cup light brown sugar

2 teaspoons vanilla

Preheat the oven to 350ºF, spray a loaf pan with baking spray, and set aside.

Place eggs in a large bowl. Whisk well before adding pumpkin and whisking again.

2 teaspoons pumpkin pie spice

2 teaspoons cinnamon

1 teaspoon baking soda

¾ teaspoon baking powder

¾ teaspoon salt

1½ cups all-purpose flour

For the topping:

3 tablespoons pumpkin seeds

1 teaspoon honey or maple syrup

½ teaspoon avocado/vegetable oil

Add the oil, white and brown sugars and vanilla. Mix until smooth.

Sprinkle the pumpkin pie spice, cinnamon, baking soda, baking powder and salt over the pumpkin mixture and mix until well combined. 4. Add the flour just until combined. (Don't overmix!)

5. In a small bowl combine pumpkin seeds, honey, and oil and stir to combine.

Transfer pumpkin batter to the prepared pan. Smooth the top and scatter the pumpkin seed mixture over the top. Bake for 55-65 minutes, let cool, and enjoy :) 7.

A Game of Tag

By: Zephyr

It's raining in the fields today Soon the raindrops will grow heavy

You'll feel each one against your skin. But the self wants to play tag. Despite the rain, you need it.

Your legs will grow weak chasing it, But it will return tomorrow. You’ll wash the mud from your jeans And come back again. Maybe then it will be sunny instead.

The self will run towards the horizon once more.

For now, find shelter—

Hide from the raindrops that will soon turn to bullets. Maybe tomorrow will be better. Maybe tomorrow your legs will be stronger. Maybe tomorrow the self won't run so fast. Maybe tomorrow it won't rain.

Maybe.

She’s relying on you

Your friends are relying on you

Keep this going, keep on keeping on

You’re small in the grand scheme, just a pawn

Make them laugh, be a clown

Let them insult you, don’t you dare frown

Give them your everything

Be their everything

You act like you matter

The way you dance in front of them

You give out your heart on a silver platter, But you’re a cog in the system

A system where all you do is snicker

Mock yourself; pretend you’re better than this

In reality, you should look at what you are

No one treats you with respect

The facade is fading and so is your heart

You want them to rely on you

Your motives are askew

In the end, you’ll be torn apart

You feign your ignorance

Turning a blind eye to your actions

You trick yourself

Trap yourself into distractions

Your hands are tied

Roped around the lies that were made

Made for that sense of pride

A wish come true, something that you prayed

The attention you oh so craved

A road that was paved in your way,

But don’t be foolish because that road ends.

Inevitably, you’ll crash and burn

Your head being self-aware won’t avail,

Because your body is frail

It can’t handle the fire from your mistakes

So, just drown yourself in a lake

But look at you right now,

Do your charades

PutonaBraveFace

By Andre Kent Arambulo

Play your character, wear your forged accolades

Remember though, after right now;

Make sure that no one remembers you

For what little you are, you’re just a dumb kid

So put on a brave face, kid.

‘Cause when you reach the edge, you’ll still be running

Aurora Jamieson

THE FALLING SNOW

By: Pietra Melo

The falling snow

Crisp, white, and soft

Damp, cold, and deep

Delicate, sharp, and obscure

The falling snow

On the pad of a finger, it melts into drops,

On the roof of a home, it piles and grows,

On the curb of the street, it darkens with dirt,

On open country fields, it spreads over acres,

On the desk of a child, it swirls in a globe,

On the sole of a shoe, it clumps in the creases,

On the turned up face, it sticks to the lashes,

The falling snow

Flakes of melancholy and of magic

Flakes of bleakness and of beauty

Flakes of frigidity and of warmth

Flakes of darkness and of light

The falling snow

To loathe it, to adore it

To touch it, to breathe it

To see it, to feel it

The falling snow

Golden Hour

We run through empty fields, our young legs racing the wind. Voices bursting into song until the sky holds its breath— Cars drift by, mere spectators to our unchained melody. We dance beneath the pouring rain, drenched and glowing with laughter, Our clothes can dry, but moments like these are eternal. We swing too high, chasing the sky with wild abandon... What is life, if not a celebration of being alive?

We lose ourselves in endless adventures, But together, we always find our way home. We leap, trusting the fall, for the thrill is always worth it.

Golden hour. We bathe in the sun ’ s final kiss, Hearts brimming with love, And the sweet joy of being young.

By Angelina Farag

TheBeach

By Anonymous

Walking onto the sparkling sand, we become separated from the land; All the glimmering shells, And the salty ocean air to smell.

Tropical drink in hand, Making a castle out of sand; Everyone is happy as the sky is turning pink, And soon the sky turns purple in a blink.

Ode to Thee

By: Zen Andrade-Pinter

Oh, joyous, wonderful glee, oh, how it means to me.

My thanks for thy kindness—a refuge divine— thus your grace stays with me.

By angels' ranks in heaven, and through our tremendous triumph below, Thy blood is filled with a thousand torn pages, blooming about thy flow.

Be gone, shallow sorrows, to the depths of despair's cold press, For you are more—akin to the great instruments of Eden

Every soul sheds rays of life, greeting others with golden light. So go find glory in one ' s own fluorescence and break your binding mould.

PlaygroundPromises

By: Bilien Bocre

The cement presses against my legs, warm and rocky under the gentle midday sun. I’m sitting alone, watching the chaos of the playground unfold kids chasing each other, shrieking, while the swing chains creak in the distance It’s my first day, and the noise feels too big, too overwhelming I trace a finger through the dust on the ground, trying to stay small. Then, I hear it.

The soft crunch of sneakers on the gravel, a sound that pulls me out of my thoughts. I look up, blinking against the light, and there she is standing just a few feet away. Her brown hair spills over her shoulders like silk, streaks of faded blonde catching the sun She’s quiet, like she’s unsure of how to begin For a moment, neither of us speaks. “Do you want to play?” Her voice is soft, almost shy, but there's a comforting steadiness to it. It feels like an offer, a hand reaching out in a sea of noise I nod, my throat too tight to answer right away. We don’t need words after that.

She steps closer, her foot nudging a piece of chalk across the concrete. Together, we start drawing lines, squares, numbers filling the ground between us with something that feels like a secret language. Hopscotch. One rock, one toss, one jump at a time. As we play, something shifts. The world shrinks down to just us, to the rhythm of feet hitting the ground and the shared laughter coming in waves.

I don’t feel so small anymore. Her presence is steady, and though we don’t talk much, there’s an understanding in the quiet moments between turns. I wasn’t the most outspoken kid, and I think maybe she wasn’t either. That’s why it worked. The bell rings too soon, slicing through our little world. We glance at each other, the game unfinished, but there’s a promise in the way she smiles.

This isn’t over it’s just the beginning.

Nana

InklikeRain

Ink like rain on open fields, it spills, Each word a droplet on the waiting ground

A storm of thoughts that moves but never stills, In books, the pouring skies of minds are found

Between the lines, the world begins to build, Ink like rain on open fields, it spills, A landscape crafted from stories in my hands

Each page a canvas where the mind expands

Through every tale, the heart begins to yield

A thousand lives, like rivers, shape and fill, Ink like rain on open fields, it spills, And in its flood, we drift and softly heal

At last, the rain subsides, the story ends, But the echoes of its flood remain the same

And still I’ll wait for one more drop of rain

Ink like rain on open fields, it spills

BAA's Literary & Arts Magazine: Winter 2024

The Cardinal

Editors’ Note

-The

Executive Editorial Team

TABLEOFCONTENTS

Poetry

Before the Bell

Words

dancing stone

Dictionary Poems

Freedom

Safety

Pumpkin Loaf

A Game of Tag

PutonaBraveFace

Aurora Jamieson

THE FALLING SNOW

Golden Hour

TheBeach

Ode to Thee

PlaygroundPromises

InklikeRain

Street by Yixuan Lin