THE CARDINAL
November/December 2023
A note from the
Editors Hello everyone! We are so excited to share the November/December edition of The Cardinal with all of you. Thank you for all your wonderful submissions and thank you to our teacher moderator, Ms. Conroy. - Elizabeth Todorovic, Katie Kim, Hannah Skoko, Marlene Martinez Bello
TABLE OF CONTENTS Short Stories 3 - Chasing Sunrise by Anonymous 19 - Cynthia’s Eyebrows by Anonymous Poetry 1 - Was Smarter One Year Ago by Alyssa Hilario 5 - Wildflower by Anonymous 6 - Breathe by Grace Stidham 9 - Sincerely, Yours by R.B. Carey 11 - Kaleidoscope of Beauty by Anonymous 12 - I Am Me by Michael Oleskevych 13 - Unmasking the Echoes by Anonymous 14 - Fractured Promises By Marlene M.B. 17 - Where Memories Go by Zephyr 20 - Whispers of Emptiness by Alondra B. Book Reviews 8 - Panenka by Ronan Hession by Roon S. Artwork 2 - The Letter T by Allan Navarro 7 - within my dreams by Kain 15 - Wordplay series 10 - The Unknown by Maria Gonzalez 18 - Artwork by Polina Sliva
I Was Smarter One Year Ago by Alyssa Hilario I was smarter one year ago… I would take my time Be patient, be wise. Never chase rainbows Never trust butterflies. Slow and methodical Subtle and thoughtful. Somehow now I’ve lost all of wonderful. A careless mouth And heaps of doubt, Among the things That plague me now. Weak I have grown Doom I have sown And clear it is That the fault is my own. Past me would never Get into this mess. She’d curb the calamity Dodge the distress. No. If she were here Past me would scold With a look of disgust And the sternest of tones “You were smarter one year ago…”
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The Letter T by Allan Navarro
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Chasing Sunrise by Anonymous We huddle near the open window of our second-story hotel room, desperate for the touch of the chilly sea breeze on our faces, cooling down the irritably humid room. Lit only by the dim street lights interspersed amongst the narrow cobblestone streets, we share secrets in whispers, none of us wanting the conversation to end. Desperate to see the sunrise over the Mediterranean Sea one last time, we dare not go to sleep, afraid we might miss the moment when golden rays paint the sky. The crashing waves echo an invitation, beckoning us toward their shore with the gentle pull of the low tide. We rummage through our tightly packed suitcases, searching for our swimsuits and beach towels, and make our way down the winding steps of the hotel. We amble down the quiet streets, not yet awoken by the noise of the fishermen, who embark early in the morning in search of a bountiful catch. The familiar streets we walk upon appear unrecognisable without the usual bustle of the markets, offering fresh fruits, handmade trinkets, and local delicacies. Along the beach lie forgotten swimsuits and scattered pieces of broken beer bottles, remnants of the previous night's festivities.
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We strip off our sweaters revealing our bathing suits beneath. The cold air pinches our bare skin, sending shivers down our arms and legs yet we pay no mind to the goosebumps forming on the surface of our flesh. We tentatively cross the pebbled beach, hopping awkwardly from foot to foot in an unwieldy dance. Squealing as we make contact with the icy water, the calm ripples of the waves carry us as we float upon its surface. We lay on our backs and relax in the arms of the sea, letting go of all the tension in our muscles. Our teeth chatter and our lips turn an ocean blue, but we can’t conceal the grins on our faces. As the sun rises in the distant east, we part from the sea. We huddle together for warmth on our beach towels and watch the sun paint the sky in hues of orange, gold, and pink. We hold on to each other tightly. None of us want to think about the plane ride back home, never mind that our homes are in different towns. We hide our phones underneath beach towels, so as to not be reminded of the quick passage of time. Beneath the rising sun, we bask in moments that seem infinite, yet fleetingly short, our time together both eternal and insufficient. Reluctantly, we make our way back through the winding cobblestone streets to our hotel, just as the first fisherman goes out to sea and the first market stand sets up shop for the day.
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Wildflower by Angelina Farag Pretty pink petals surround the golden heart. Some petals frayed slightly, The gentle pink, browning at the tips Some bent by critters or mindless passersby Yet each one steadfast in its beauty. Walking by them reminded him of her, The angelic hue grown on its own accord. Untouched by human hands, Bright petals glisten in the sunlight Amidst the expanse of lush greenery. Plucking the pink blossom from dew-kissed grass He brushes aside short strands of soft hair Tucking the flower behind her ear. Her soft, crooked smile blooms Beautiful, Unique, Wild.
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Breathe. by Grace Stidham One, two, three, breathe. One, two, three, breathe. I keep repeating these phrases to myself, hoping to calm the volcano of nerves threatening to erupt from within. Everyone around me is prettier and calmer and cooler and better. My phone buzzes repeatedly with notifications from my equally panicked friend seated across the classroom. I reassure her, telling her everything I wish I could hear. One, two, three, breathe. I ignore my phone’s frantic vibrations, concentrating instead on embedding these new names and faces into my memory. The nervous chatter intensifies as the beginning of our next chapter nears. One, two, three, breathe. The desks fill up with anxious yet anticipating teenagers. I examine the room for potential friends and notice the vacant seat beside me. The clock ticks, neurotically counting down the minutes we have left. The volume rises incrementally, some voices louder than others. Our teacher tells us to take our seat—the bell is about to ring. Suddenly, the classroom door swings open. He walks in. He turns towards the empty desk. My heart stops. He sits next to me. I stare. He smiles. The bell rings. My future begins.
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within my dreams
by Kain
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A Book Review of Panenka by Rónán Hession Reviewed by Roon S.
Published in 2021 and shortlisted for the Eason Novel of the Year award, Hession's novel Panenka follows the central protagonist Joseph, an ex-soccer player who went by the nickname "Panenka" during the height of his career. A panenka occurs when a soccer player takes a penalty and kicks the ball up and to the middle instead of shooting left or right. Since goalies are more likely to dive towards one side or the other, shooting down the center is meant to throw them off. The protagonist attempted this at one
infamous match and cost his team the win. Due to this public loss, he essentially becomes an exile in his own town. The novel follows him 25 years later as he tries to put his life back together. In this incredibly heartbreaking contemporary novel, Panenka traces the story of an ordinary life, told through domestic conversations, while exploring themes of love and family dynamics through exquisite prose and excellently crafted characters.
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Sincerely, Yours By R.B. Carey You gave away your home; I lent a hand, For I have nothing else to give. Sincerely, yours. Your biggest fan, this is sand. To get away on an airborne command, That dusty pride, that dented sieve. You gave away your home; I lent a hand. So bitter! So boring and bland. Yet, all these things you’ll outlive, Sincerely, yours. Your biggest fan, this is sand. But in my hopeful giving grains, you blush and there I stand Amid the dunes and seldom more, dear Nive— You gave away your home; I lent a hand. I’ve been many miles in your shoes, You gave me chance of life to live. Sincerely, yours. Your biggest fan, this is sand. O, how far I am from my home on land! I shan’t look back, lest my conscience not forgive. You gave away your home; I lent a hand. Sincerely, yours. Your biggest fan, this is sand.
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k n n o U w e n h T
By: Maria Gonzalez 10
Kaleidoscope of Beauty -Anonymous
In every corner, beauty softly unfurls, a sight deserving of reverence, it gracefully swirls. The face, a canvas adorned with artistry divine, a symphony of features, where grace and uniqueness intertwine. Lines etched between brows, stories to be told, maps of resilience, tales of courage unfold. Age spots, celestial freckles that grace the skin, glimmers of wisdom, the journeys lived within. Crooked teeth, a joyful grin's sweet delight, imperfect charms, radiant in their light. Complex droplets, down shower glass they dance, each one a moment, a fleeting chance. Vibrant green leaves, nature's brushstrokes grand, in every blink, a world we understand.
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I Am Me By: Michael Oleskevych What is good enough? Who is to say what is and is not good enough? I look to the mirror for answers, Instead, I am met face-to-face with my imperfections. They are all I see. I dissect my every feature, Looking for reassurance that I am who I want to be. Who I want to be is unknown to me, Yet, I have convinced myself that I know the answer. I want to be like him. I want to be like her. Wandering eyes meticulously analyzing all who pass. From the way they walk to the way they talk. For a second I envy them, I want to be like them, Until another comes along. It is a vicious cycle. When will it end? When will I be good enough? This poison has seeped below my skin. I have lost who I am. These relentless thoughts impede my skull. At times the weight is too much. I want it to stop. Who do I want to be? Who am I? Stop. Breathe. Life is bursting at the seams with possibility. Why try to live a life that has already been lived? That is the beauty of it all. Billions have walked across this Earth. However, none have graced it like you. Who we are comes from us. It cannot be decided by anyone else. It cannot be rushed. Identity, like a delicate flower blossoms over time with love and care. To constantly compare is to strip yourself of your own individuality, We might tear ourselves down, but we are left with the pieces to build ourselves back up.
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Unmasking the Echoes by Anonymous
I struggle to be human, I'm decaying inside. Yearning to tear off this mask that I wear, to cast away all miseries, shed earthly cowardice, breaking free from the shackles that tie me to this abyss. To unearth life's struggles, long buried and concealed. from the bottled depths, their truths revealed. To speak them aloud, without fear or doubt, to let their weight dissipate, as they're brought out. To paint the canvas of thoughts, words fail to express, unveiling desires hidden, my heart's darkness I confess. Concealed from Judgment's eyes, like a captive, I reside, afraid of Scrutiny's gaze, like a criminal trapped inside.
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Fractured Promises Broken vows clash upon the threshold's edge, sharp words exchanged until wounds, they dredge. Apologies fall short, unable to amend, stolen kisses lost in misunderstandings' blend. Silent dinners, laden with unspoken pain, unfolding the extendable couch, hope's uncertain domain. Will the morning's light weave clarity's spell, or plunge us deeper into shadows where we dwell? Packed suitcases, a rupture in trust's terrain, mail addresses shifted, a life in repair. Infidelity's grip, a selfish thief of hope, leave last sentiments hanging, a half-mast of frayed rope.
Your paragraph text
By Marlene M.B.
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Digital pieces by Jessica Vollrath, Ella Alves, Michael Hojsan (order of top to bottom)
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Digital pieces by Gillian Stevens and Melissa Coelho (top to bottom)
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Breath of fresh air. A morning cup of coffee in my favourite mug. The voice of my sweet wife Eve greeting me. “Good morning dear” She makes something on the stove. A grilled cheese hot to the touch while I sit on the porch. The TV on full volume while I go out to the park to see the birds. The sun set on my skin as I get back home from the park. The bed at the end of the day. Breath of fresh air. A morning cup of coffee. The concerned voice of my wife Eve telling me something about forgetting. Some scrambled eggs. The living room filled with hushed voices of concerned friends. A man asks if I remember him. I don't. Why is he concerned? The bed at the end of the day. Breath of fresh air. A morning cup of coffee. A woman asks me if I would like anything from the store. Some salad. Concerned people stare as if I'm alien. I tell them to get out. The woman stares. The bed at the end of the day. Breath of fresh air. A woman asking me if I'm there. Where am I? What is this place? Where’s my mom? Breath of fresh air. I'm scared. What's going on? Who am I?
By Zephyr
Breath of air Bright white lights. Unfamiliar voices. A foggy mind. Fear Breath of air Fear Breath
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Artwork by Polina Sliva 18
CYNTHIA’S EYEBROWS b y An o n y mo u s
Cynthia bore an average face and stood at an average height. She ranked in the average tier of every possible criteria one could come up with. From intelligence to communication skills, Cynthia was in the middle. On paper, she should be a person who draws no attention from anyone in the mass crowds of people she faces every day living in central London. However, Cynthia has one remarkable feature that turns eyes everywhere she goes —she has the most miraculous eyebrows. She typically wore thick glasses to conceal their full, head-turning beauty. On the rare occasion they were left to their own devices, people on the street swooned and cars would crash on the roads next to her. Cynthia's unmasked face caused every head in every room to turn. They framed her otherwise ordinary face in such a divine manner, those around her could not go on in an ordinary fashion. To prevent all the head-turning and swooning and car accidents, the eyebrows are kept obscured. These eyebrows of hers were not just impeccably aesthetically pleasing, but she believed they also carried psychic abilities. When they were uncovered, Cynthia could catch fragments of thoughts from passersby, snippets of thoughts or ideas, and if she really focused when talking face-to-face, she could hear everything they were thinking about in that given moment. Sometimes it would play so clearly in her mind, it was as if her eyebrows had completely dug their way into the person's mind and showed her a highdefinition film of the person's stream of consciousness. However, faced with the undisguised eyebrows, the other person really only endlessly thought about the eyebrows.
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f E o m s r p e t i p n s i e s h s W By Alondra B.
In the echoes of emptiness, my presence holds on, a phantom of existence, where all hope is gone. My medal, once gleaming, now tarnished and worn, oh, how I long to return to the day I was born.
Lost in translation, adrift in the flow of years, a stranger’s visage, a forgotten role, an unchosen task. A figure morphed, an identity anew, or perhaps, a leaf misplaced, from a tree it once grew. I ponder my life’s choices, time and again, reimagining paths, seeking solace in the pen. To the mirror I turn, to face my reflection, though it fills me with disdain, a bitter introspection. Longing to break free from this wordly strife, to unshackle the binds that confine my life. To soar beyond borders, unshackled in flight, a quest for liberation, seeking truths in the night.
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