The Wayfarer 2024

Coeditors in Chief: Lydia Shannon | 11

Isabelle Volberg | 12

Design and Layout Editor: Jacklyn Thao | 12

Marketing Manager: Melanie Harings | 11

Layout and Editorial Staff: Maddie Dahlen | 9

Emily Masciopinto | 10

Ellie O’Day | 10

Olivia Rowe | 10

Harper Roll | 11

Melanie Harings | 11

Isabelle Jensen | 11

Isabella Urzagaste | 12

Proofreader: Olivia Rowe | 10

Cover Art Contest Winner: Eleanor Doro | 10

Advisors & Consultants: Ms. Jennifer Rhoads

Ms. Natalie Koblenski

Ms. Stephanie Baertlein

Table of Contents

ShortStories

3-4

9-10

15-16

27-34

49-50

Table of Contents

Table of Contents

AnOde to My Humerus

Bridget Wilson | 11

Oh humerus, oh humerus, why must you do what you do,

Break in such a way when I was only two.

Part of my pectoral girdle

Why did you have to break when I hurdled my changing table?

Had to break right in the middle by the deltoid tuberosity

What an absolute catastrophe

I lost the support you gave

So I had to get a cast and be very brave.

My appendicular skeleton had just lost an important bone

If it could talk, it would have let out a groan.

At least none of the muscles like the pectoralis major and deltoid didn’t get injured

That is something I could have never pictured.

Time,toaTeenager

Pepper Marlee | 11

Time, to a teenager, are fleeting moments, each one an inconvenient pause in the tapestry of their lives. It is both a companion and a challenger, a constant presence that whispers of endless possibilities while urging them to seize the scarce opportunities that slip through their grasp like grains of sand.

Time, to a teenager, is a paradoxical force, stretching endlessly into the horizon yet slipping away with alarming speed. It is the ticking of the clock in the classroom, each second dragging by as they eagerly await the bell's liberating chime. It is the rush of adrenaline during moments of excitement, when minutes blur into hours in the company of friends, lost in laughter and shared adventures.

Time, to a teenager, is also a relentless taskmaster, bearing down upon them with the weight of responsibilities and expectations. It is the looming specter of deadlines and exams, a reminder that the future waits impatiently on the other side of each passing day. It is the silent pressure to grow up too quickly, to make decisions that will shape the course of their lives long before they feel ready to do so.

Time, to a teenager, is the chaos and uncertainty it holds. The promise of transformation and growth. It is the slow but steady march towards self-discovery, as they navigate the ups and downs of adolescence, learning who they are and who they aspire to become. It is the gradual accumulation of experiences and memories, each one shaping their identity and guiding them towards their dreams.

Time, to a teenager, is a canvas waiting to be painted with the vivid hues of their imagination. It is the blank pages of a journal, filled with the hopes, fears, and aspirations that define their journey through the tumultuous landscape of childhood. It is the music that fills their ears, the art that sparks their creativity, and the stories that ignite their passion for the world around them.

Time, to a teenager, is standing on the precipice of adulthood, grappling with the dual nature of time, embracing its fleeting moments while yearning for the promise of tomorrow. It is a journey marked by uncertainty and possibility, where every decision carries the weight of infinite potential and the knowledge that each passing moment is a precious gift to be cherished and savored. I would know, I’m living it first hand, in the thick of it, and immersed everyday in it. Time is our most previous currency, we must spend it wisely, for once it’s gone, it’s gone forever.

Time to a teenager is, making each moment count.

The Phantom Dog

Conor Mulligan 9

Growing up with dogs my whole life, I became used to the scratching and clawing at my door. Although, now that I live alone it's a lot more concerning.

Creative photo (restyled)| Dylan Colstad | 10

SaySome say I am a wave crashing in the sea

Others say I am the breeze dancing through the trees They say I am the grass under which they lay People say I am the guest who lingers past her stay

I say I am a spark who is ready to ignite

The sun gladly warming you with overwhelming light I say I am the stars that scatter across the sky The dream you hold close to your heart and never wonder why

You say I am a question that seems to have no answer I say I am the desire you tirelessly chase after You say I am the words that get caught in your throat I say I am a voice for those fighting to try and stay afloat

You say all these things of me without a second thought You say all these things of me, things that I am not

But now I can say I am more than what you see Now I can say, I am more than what is said of me

Natalie Trampf | 11

Looking Back| Sylvie Klestinski | 9

Elisa Olson

Heart

Pepper Marlee | 11

artist worked amidst a symphony of colors. Piles of colorful glass scraps littered the wooden table, their jagged edges glinting in the soft glow of the afternoon sun. She worked in a whirlwind of creativity as she meticulously arranged each pane of stained glass and marveled at the kaleidoscope of hues that danced before her eyes.

A variation of brushes and tools lay scattered across the cluttered workbench, their handles streaked with dried paint. The air was thick with the earthy scent of solder and the faint aroma of linseed oil, mingling with the sweet fragrance of freshly cut flowers that adorned the windowsill. Canvases leaned haphazardly against the walls, their surfaces splattered with layers of paint and decorated with half-finished sketches and doodles.

Despite the apparent chaos, there was a method to the madness a sense of purpose that permeated the cluttered space. Each tool and brush had its place, each pile of glass held the potential for a new creation. In the midst of the mess, the artist drew energy from the vibrant myriad amount of colors and textures that surrounded her.

But the glass. A tapestry of cobalt blues, emerald greens, and fiery ambers, shimmered with a vibrancy that seemed to defy the constraints of the physical world. With every delicate stroke, the artist wove these colors together, creating

intricate incandescence that pulsed with life and energy.

As the sun filtered through the translucent panes, it cast ethereal patterns of light and shadow across the studio, transforming the worn floor into a canvas of shifting shades. Rays of golden sunlight danced across the room, illuminating the delicate contours of the artist's work and infusing the space with a sense of magic and wonder.

As she worked, the artist lost herself in the creative process, her hands moving with a fluidity born of years of practice and passion. With each stroke of the brush and each delicate cut of glass, she breathed life into her art, infusing each piece with a piece of her soul.

The artist stepped back and watched in awe as the sunlight played upon the stained glass, casting prismatic reflections that seemed to transcend the boundaries of reality. In that moment, she felt a profound connection to the fragile beauty she had created a beauty that mirrored the delicate tapestry of her own heart.

For just as the sunlight breathed life into the stained glass, so too did it illuminate the depths of her soul, revealing the plentiful emotions that lay hidden beneath the surface. In the soft streams of light, the artist found inspiration, knowing that within the fragile beauty of her art lay the strength to mend the broken pieces of her heart and amidst the chaos of her studio, the artist found solace, knowing that within the messy beauty of her surroundings lay the seeds of her creativity a creativity that would continue to blossom and flourish, just like the stained glass windows she lovingly crafted.

MANYYEARSAGO

Ellie O’Day | 10

Many years ago, In summer, left to roam

My brother and I found A dry moor to call home

We set down all our things and started fetching sticks

We raced down to the brook and picked some green leaves quick

On the hill we built a village from heather, sticks, and brush

It was peaceful on the moorside

I can recall the gentle hush

We played in rain and sunshine

We played on holidays

We played ‘til summer ended and the sky turned dark and gray

Emmerson Elias | 12

There’s splinters in that place now

Abandoned in the snow

All from our little stick town

So many years ago.

Abstract Art

| 9

Palesa Garcia- Prats

Little Village

The Flower

Jolie Dorris | ??

The flower came from the song And withered when the song disappeared

The flower would bloom when the lovers were together

But would disappear when The flower gave hop

But only one of them was The flowers align the groun

But rot and drop dead

One woman held the flowe

While the other one p

The flower helped rega Still, other bonds were br

The girl was hopeful beca

But she also gave up

The flower lead t

Only one would

The flower caused Blame the fl

The flow

All because of th

Fanfiction poem inspired Musical, Hadestown by

Beauty in the Beast

Lydia Shannon | 11

TheTraumaofMyRightPinkyFinger

Makayla Foley | 11

Dear left hand,

Why always be so bland?

Oh you lateral phalange

How can you fracture so easily?

Hit by a ball coming superior to thee

I now must not drink any proper tea!

The hinge of your joint nearly torn in two

Apart from the metatarsal, who knew!

All the other digits still intact

But it is only you who snapped

Oh lateral phalange,

Why do this to me?

Epilogue

Lilly Koblenski|11

It’s dark, backstage, except for the quiet blue glow of the work lights that allow us to move about without tripping over each other. We wander in the shadows, silhouettes drifting along the familiar paths we ’ ve paced so many times before. On stage, the lighting is equally as dim, and the sound of gunshots and explosions has begun. It’s act two of Les Misérables, and the students are fighting at the barricade.

Those of us backstage tread silently to the edge of the wings, some of us lingering in the shadows, just where the audience can’t see us, others hidden in the soft embrace of the rich, velvet stage curtains, tracing the fabric with gentle fingers in the darkness. Quietly, we watch for the last time as one by one, the students, many of them played by seniors, are shot. We watch as they stumble, clutching wounds inflicted upon them by imaginary gunfire, and crumple to the ground, lifeless in the ethereal glow of the stage lights. We watch, and we know that though our friends are not really dead, soon they will graduate and we will be left behind.

The metaphor hits us hard, this final performance. We stand there, frozen, observing the scene as it unfolds before us, thinking that the symbolism is beginning to seem a little too real. Another student collapses, then another, and they sprawl like forgotten dolls against the barricade, bodies limp and limbs askew. We watch, and slowly, we reach out to each other for support. We move together, arms wrapping around shoulders, hands grip hands tightly, as hot tears slip from our eyes. We try desperately to hold it together as we look upon the students’ lifeless faces. We can’t break down completely, not yet. We know we have to make it through the final number… and yet we also wish it would never come.

Too soon, we ’ ve arrived at the epilogue. We glance at each other before we take the stage, knowing that in this last moment we will share together, we will give it our all. Our hearts reach out to one another and swell with the music as we float into the gold of the stage lights, pouring our souls, our love for this show, our love for each other, into our final echoing verse, “It is the future that they bring when tomorrow comes. ”

After we take our bows it all comes tumbling down, and we ’ re clinging to each other before we even get off the stage, tears streaming fast down our cheeks, not bothering

anymore to fight the emotion. We wish, desperately, that this beautiful thing we ’ ve created together might last just a little longer before it becomes a memory. But it’s a futile wish. And we know it.

Last performances are heartbreaking, but at the same time, they hold so much power. They’re a time for reflection, a time to look back on the whole process, from the auditions and the first rehearsals right up to the final bows. They’re a time when we come to understand each other deeply, when we reach out to lift each other up and to provide a steady arm to lean on. And, perhaps most importantly, they remind us that our time together is limited. They teach us to appreciate the little moments with the people around us, as well as the bigger ones. They teach us that the community we ’ re a part of is a wonderful, beautiful thing, and that together, we can create something that’s far greater than any of us could ever have achieved on our own.

Flower| Ryan Schmidt|12

So we hug each other tightly, and then we smile and wipe our tears.

“It’ll be okay,” we say. “We have the memories, and we won’t let them fade.”

And we know that we have so many years to keep the bond we ’ ve created strong and thriving. We’ll keep those that leave us in our hearts, and we’ll continue the loving and supportive community we ’ ve been blessed with, a haven for those to come. As long as we have each other, there is nothing we can’t do.

Works Cited:

Boubil, Alain, Schönberg, Claude-Michel, Kretzmer, Herbert. Les Misérables School Edition. Caird, John, Fenton, James, Natel, Jean-Marc, Nunn, Trevor. Musical Theater International and Cameron Macintosh (Overseas) Ltd., 1986, 1987. 272, 273.

Untitled | Olivia Morsbach

SUMMONED

Pepper Marlee | 12

Fortitude | Mia Eckstein| 12

My sister and I sat down at our Ouija board, she asked, “ are you there?” I moved the planchette to “ yes ” .

I used to love endlessly gazing into your vibrant, beautiful eyes; can you really blame me for taking them all for myself? I think I needed them more than you, anyway.

LOVING GAZE

Flower Silva | 12

Story| Katherine Mello | 12

Silhouette of Cat James Bradley | 12 23

Muffin

Ben Schierloh

| 10

Muffin is one of the two cats we own. She has very soft and fluffy fur, that makes it impossible for you to try not to pet her. Though she may seem cute and fuzzy, her heart is most certainly not. It is like a spiked iron ball, all sharp and hard and cold. Her contradictory state of being leads to her growing hate of the world. The world who cruelly put her vicious mind into a body such as this. She would rather be a tiger, strong and fast and feared by all, or a great bear, whose claws can send a human flying and teeth as sharp as spears. But alas she is stuck in her wretched little body, all soft and cute and plump. Where every day a human come and pets her and picks her up.

So she has decided to try and hide from the world she is part of and which has cursed her life. She likes to find holes and dens and caves which she can hide in. Where she broods and plots and waits for the moment to arrive where she can take revenge against the world which has wronged her. But until that great day arrives, which it probably never will, she is forced to spend her time lurking under beds and couches and tables, hoping for her chance.

The only joy she finds in the world is when she is attacking something, she does not care what. Could be a toy, her brother, or a little bottle cap. She likes to attack things that cannot possibly fight back. Though in her little twisted mind she is a tiger, queen of the jungle. In reality she is quite weak and fat, given that most prey she eats comes diced and in a can. Her Brother is the only one she battles and often loses. Which shows how weak she truly is, given that her brother has to always take pills which make him a little stoned. This only inflates her hatred of the world for giving her this weak body. So she resides herself to hiding in her caves, waiting for the time to come for her revenge to take place.

Nostalgia | Lydia Shannon | 11

Spencer Comer | 10

The Black Cat

My wide yellow eyes slowly open. I had been awakened by the trash can shifting. I’d been through this before. I leapt up out of the trash can. I could hear the hissing and growling behind me. I barely had time to think before he lunged at me, his gray claws grasping onto the trash can, and with the whip of my tail I was off. He was right behind me, nipping at my tail. It wasn’t my fault it had to be this way. After all, he was the one who chose to eat from the trash. I raced down the alleyway jumping onto dumpsters and discarded boxes in an attempt to lose the dreaded beast. No use. I had one last option. I jumped onto a dumpster, looking up at my target. I could hear him climb up the side of it, his sharp claws scratching the plastic on the lid of the dumpster, making a sound like nails on a chalkboard. It was now or never. I sprang up onto the balcony, dangling by both paws. I pulled myself up and ran up the stairs and leapt onto a railing. I could hear him angrily hissing on the top of the dumpster below. I jumped onto the ledge and let myself through the open window. I was safe…for now.

| Carolyn Johnson |

Creativity | Brianna Runnheim

The sound of hurried footsteps on wet pavement. His head snapped up and he split his lower gum and lip with the blade, a deep splice that caused blood to pool in his mouth. Alastor spat and wiped the blade on his coat, turning his attention to the shadow that had appeared in the flickering light of a dying street lamp nearby. Recognizing the short stature of the figure, he slipped along the alley wall, quiet as a serpent in the grass, appearing silently at the edge of the lantern light. The man stood facing away from him, looking about nervously. Alastor stepped closer. Put his lips to the man ’ s ear. Whispered through his teeth,

“You’re late.”

Untitled | Madeline Brandrup | 12

“Al, please, what do you want?”

Alastor spat out another mouthful of blood and tilted his head to the side.

A thought struck him and he howled with laughter, the cold sound ringing around them in the deserted street, blending into the cacophony of booms and cracks from the thunder and lightning above. “You called the police, didn’t you? You clever little sh*t. Well, then. Admit you turned me in.”

“I I d-didn’t hide it, it’s w-where y-you l-left it,” Dolion choked. “I c-couldn’t bring it with me you don’t understand ”

Behind him, Dolion was stuttering apologies: “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, r-really I d-didn’t, y-you see my broth ”

There was a loud bang, a thump and a splash, another loud bang, and then silence.

Fear rose in his chest and a scream curdled in his throat. He turned on his heel to run, somewhere, anywhere…

Metatarsal MYBROKEN

Wagon, oh wagon,

By my brother who was not so carefully draggin’,

My metatarsal paid the price, And walking on crutches had to suffice

My long bone had split

When onto the brick it suddenly hit

My plantar joint was in great pain

And from my eyeballs it started to rain

My talus and calcaneus did not suffer

Thankfully the injury could have been rougher

It only took the foot four months

Before I was back doing my previous stunts

My Broken Metatarsal| Gillian Koning | 12

Lauren Bartelme | 11

Good Teeth

TJ Raichle | 11

You see that this skull had too many flaws, The skull was quite stupid and ignored its calls When the skulls got together and wanted to play The skull that was stupid was casted away

Don’t feel bad for this stupid skull, He soon found others, friends he could call. These bones were faulty just as he, They formed a bond, they made a family.

The Stupid Skull

Alex Matzke | 12

All skull’s have their job, all skulls are the same. They give the head shape and protect the brain.

But there was a skull who was not like the rest. It’s safe to say, this skull was not the best.

This stupid skull did not serve its task, Its frontal bone was fragile like glass The squamosal suture was not very tough, The TMJ joint appeared very rough.

The skull was too heavy to stay on its spine, Its Parietal bone was as thick as a vine. Its styloid and mastoid processes too dull, No muscle could hold, no muscle could pull.

Skelly | Hayden Reuhl | 11

Untitled | Lydia Shannon |

I begin as I let house i in the stars above me begins to fade as the minutes roll away, it's late, very, late but I lie there unable to rest. “Seis, cinco, cuatro, tres, dos, uno '' . My day was long, I spent it free, biking to the morning lift, running around with friends, swimming, and letting the sun kiss my skin, turning it a nice shade of brown. “5,4,3,2,1”. I'm freezing, I can feel the bumps on my scalp form. Despite the cold, I'm profusely sweating, I can feel my soaked clothing melting onto my skin as sweat drips down my neck and my hair sticks to my neck. “Cuatro, tres, dos, uno ” I hear the glass chip and see a figure looking at me from behind the door but nothing moves. I feel as if I'm in limbo and I can't tell what's real or fiction. “3, 2, 1” I lay there listening to the heater click absorbing the sounds waiting for the catastrophe that will hopefully never come. “Dos, uno '' My brain was altering but my senses became cloudy as I felt myself being overtaken by a paranoid fog. “1” After hours of panic, waiting for an attack that was put on hold, I'm consumed in darkness. The light from the stars had disappeared long ago. I'm overtaken by the soft feeling of my clothes and the heaviness of my eyes. My fears drift off as my mind becomes blank. Just as exhaustion takes over and I finally succumb to the darkness around me I feel something shaking me. I shoot up from my bed and scream. I then feel a pair of arms pulling me close. I hear muffled words of comfort, I can't make out exactly what they are saying but I assume they are along the lines of “You okay? What happened?”. My senses begin to calm and I'm able to see the sunlight between the currents, smell the dewy scent of my now damp hair, and blankets around my body. Finally, I hear my robotic voice say “I'm okay. Just a ruff night”. My mother soon leaves my room and I lie down once again. I tell myself I'll get up at zero, I once again begin to count “ Nine, eight, seven, six, five, four, three, two, one…. ”

Keys | Lydia Shannon |

The Meaning of a Life Barely Lived

I never used to be very good at putting myself out there. My parents were worried that I would never make friends. I was always alone. I barely spoke at school, in class or outside it. No one and nothing interested me, until I started cheering. I swear, the first time I ever walked into a cheer practice, I became a different person. I made friends. I became more outgoing. As I cheered more and more, I made more friends, and a lot of them went to my school. My parents were relieved, and I was happier than ever. My coaches called me the best flier on the team. If there was a routine with a lift, it was me they would be lifting. I loved flying. I’d soar through the air, as if I was weightless. But I guess that’s what got me here.

A couple weeks ago, my cheer team was performing at our school’s football game. On Friday, I got home from school and immediately put on my green and white cheerleader costume. I put my hair in a neat ponytail with my emerald bow. I drove to the game, and met my friends. This routine was special, because we were ending it with a ten person pyramid, with me at the very top. We cheered enthusiastically until halftime. When it came, we went to the center of the field. Our music started playing, and we began the routine. It started really well. My poms flew wildly as I kept up with my

a monologue Madeline Dahlen | 9

other teammates. When the big moment was coming up, my friends started stacking one on the next. I got to the top, and held my arms out in a final pose. Applause rose from the bleachers. I stood, smiling, trying to catch my breath. That’s when it happened. I found out later that a bee had stung my teammate, Chloe. She’s allergic to bees, and deathly afraid of them. I heard shrill screaming, one that pierced my eardrums. Then, weightlessness. But not the kind I always felt before, no, that weightlessness was airy and freeing and breathtaking. This kind was… stomach dropping. Sickening. I remember feeling this intense nausea. It all fades to black after that.

The next thing I knew I was in a hospital room. Except I wasn’t awake. I was in a coma, but I was simultaneously having a sort of out-of-body experience. I could see myself, lying on the bed, and I saw and heard everything that happened in the room. I saw doctors moving in and out. I saw my mom sitting with me for hours on end. I saw her crying when the doctors advised her to turn off my life support. I had fallen from 11 feet directly onto the back of my neck. Even if I ever did wake up, I would be completely paralyzed. The doctors told my mom

about how I would have no “quality of life”. She waited an extra week as she mulled on it, then decided to do it. With tearful eyes, she pulled the cord. So I’m here. Stuck in this limbo between life and death. I have nothing to do here except sit with my own thoughts, and at first, I was so angry. Most people get on average 70 years of life, and I only got 17. No one else died from the accident. I heard the doctors talking about my friends. Chloe got an epipen and was fine. The worst anyone else got was a broken arm. Why didn’t I have that? I had plans and ambitions for my future. I wanted a career. I wanted a family. I wanted to do something meaningful with my life. But as I sit here, thinking, I realize that meaning is subjective. Sure, I missed out on things that others don’t, but I died doing what I loved. Cheer was and still is everything to me. It gave me friends. It gave me something to look forward to after long, difficult school days. It gave me happiness. I died young, but I died happily, and not everyone can say that. I loved my life. Even though it wasn’t long, it was fulfilling, and happy, and that’s enough.

Summer's Unbidden Tear

Madeline Brandrup | 12

Grandfather’s

Paper Dress | Annabel Greiveldinger

In Memory of Steve: A Minecraft Eulogy

Ellie O’Day | 10

| Keira Reed | 10

When I first met Steve almost eight years ago, I thought he was a little strange. He never stole my diamonds, trampled my crops, or tried to summon Herobrine in my house. As someone who’d only played Minecraft with her younger brother until then, this was all pretty foreign to me. Steve wasn’t just the bare minimum, though. There was never even a minute when he wasn’t trying to help people. He had a vision to make the world a better place, and he spread love and joy everywhere he went. Before we remember Steve’s brave death, we must first celebrate his life.

Minecraft was a simpler game back then, and I was just a noob who didn’t know the difference between oak wood and obsidian. I only survived the first night because Steve let me stay in his dirt hut. I was scared that zombies were going to break down the walls, so he gave me a dandelion to calm me down. It was the only item in his inventory, but even when he had nothing, he gave me everything he had. Steve’s second house was a modern mansion he built when he was richer. He was so creative that he refused to follow building tutorials on YouTube, and built it entirely from scratch. He was most proud of the gigantic pool. I remember asking him, “Don’t you think this house is a bit much, Steve?” He said, “I made it so that I can fit more of my pets, and have dance parties with my friends.” Our group had a lot of fun in that house. I was sad when we grew up and none of them logged on anymore. Well, not all of them. Steve still threw a party every Friday, even when I missed one or two.

Steve loved playing with his dogs and cats. He had twenty of each. When I asked him where he’d gotten the cats, he brought me to the nearest village. The villagers explained that Steve had saved them from a zombie attack. In return, they’d given him their stray cats. They showed me the redstone trap Steve had built to capture the zombies. It was incredible! I’ll never forget how floored I was by Steve’s

ingenuity and cleverness. He didn’t just use his skills to help villagers, either. Shortly after Steve moved into his mansion, my brother set my Minecraft house on fire and it burned to the ground. I thought Steve wouldn’t have any space for me, but he engineered an entire new room with redstone. I found out later that it took him all night, but he was happy that he was able to help me. Steve never copied anyone else’s ideas, he used only his own mind. He was always using his intelligence to help people, whether it was finding room for a friend to move in, or saving a village from a zombie attack.

Steve’s bravery was exemplified by the last moments of his life. In 2021, he began Twitch streaming, and kept it up for two years. He taught his viewers how to use redstone in building, and even attempted speedrunning, but he never made it past his first Nether portal. His final goal was to create an automated skeleton farm so that his dogs would have bones to play with. Steve always paid attention to little details like that, no matter how small. On May 3rd, 2023, when he first tested the farm, one of his dogs got trapped inside with the skeletons. Steve dove in to save him without a second thought. He was hit by one of the skeleton’s arrows. He fell backwards onto a chest full of fireworks, and a little bit of redstone fell out of his pocket. The entire farm exploded, and Steve fell all the way to the bottom of a cave and into lava. Somehow, he managed to escape, but a spider fell on top of his head. Steve was a fighter, and he shook the spider off. He staggered towards the staircase and was inches away from safety when he was killed by a baby zombie. The dog was saved.

You may be wondering how we know the details of his death. Steve was Twitch streaming at the time to raise awareness for his farm, and the video has since been taken down. But Steve’s tragic death is not the focus of today. We must focus on how he lived. I am dedicating this statue to Steve’s memory. It was built by members of the community who wanted to give back a little of what Steve gave to them. He inspired all of us to be selfless and help others.

He gave everything he had to his best friends and complete strangers on the Internet. In his eyes, everyone equally deserved to be creative, kind, brave, and loved. He gave everything to everyone, and it’s only fair that we give a little back. If we all live with Steve’s creativity and kindness, we can make this Minecraft world a better place.

I Can’t Smell the Flowers | Lily Sager | 12

Ibiza on My Mind| Roman Menocal| 12

There i curls hair defin or someonewithDNAlikeherown,representingthecoexistenceofthetwopiecesthat definedher,piecespeopleneverwantedtoputtogether.Intheend,itleftthegirl wonderingwhichpieceshelikedmore:theonethatgaveherthick,darkhairorthe piecethatmadeherresentit.

Ashermothersatbehindheroneday,gentlyworkingthroughajumbleofcurls,thegirl cursedandcursedherhair.“Ihatemyhair.Iwishitcouldbestraightlikeeveryone else’s!”shecried. “Don’tsaysillythingslikethat.Youarelucky.Manypeoplewishto havecurlyhairlikeyou,”hermothercooedback.

Thelittlegirlcouldnotbelieveit. Howcouldsomeonewantwhatshehatedmost? Whenshefirstwasatschool,shelookedatalltheothergirls.

Silky,straighthair. Beachy,blondehair.

Long,luscioushair. Hairthatwasnotherown.

Thelittlegirlsooncaughtontothetypicalpatterns.Theboyslikedthegirlswithlong hairwhoweregoodatsportsandthegirlscomplimentedtheoneswhoworeslicked backponytailsplacedhighupontheirheads.

Well,thelittlegirlwasathleticandworeherhairlongbutitseemedasifnobodybatted aneye. Andthelittlegirl’shairwastoothicktobeforcedintotightupdos,soshe shamefullykeptitdown.Intheend,itseemedeveryonelikedpeoplewithhairthatwas differentfromherown.

Natalie Trampf | 11

Thelittlegirlsoughtawaytoescapetheclutchesofwhatisolatedherfromtherest.Asshe staredintothemirroroneday,shefeltthetwopiecesofherselfscreamandclawatone another,fightingfordominance,andintheend,thegirlwaslefttosuccumbtoone.

Dayafterday,thelittlegirlwouldbrushandbrushuntilnostrandwasleftcurly. Dayafter day,straightenersbecamethekeytosofteningherdetestedcurls.Dayafterday,onepieceof thelittlegirllaughedinvictoryasshefelttheotherdwindleaway. But,itwasnever completelygone. Herhairwasstraightbutfrizzy.Whensheshowered,hercurlsbounced rightbackintoplace.Thelittlegirlpushedandpushedawaythepieceshethoughtshe neededtoescape,buteverystepbroughtherclosertothetruth.

Yet,dayafterday, thelittlegirlforcedasmileandtoldherselfshewasfinallycontent. Day afterday,shewaitedforwhatshethoughtshehadearned.

Buttheboyslikedthegirlswithlonghairwhoweregoodatsportsandthegirls complimentedtheoneswhoworeslickedbackponytailsplacedhighupontheirheads.

Thelittlegirlwaslefttowonder.Nomatterwhatshedid,nomatterwhatshesaid,she wouldn’tbeseenthesameway.

Peoplewouldseeonepieceofher,butneverboth.

Peoplewouldacceptonepieceofherandshovetheotheraway.

Peoplewouldlikewhattheywerecomfortablewith:strictstandardsestablishedlongago. Andintheend,oncethelightfinallybegantoshineonthosecastaside,peoplewouldnot understandthebeautythatwashidinginthedarknessallalong.

Suddenly,everythingbecameclear.

Thelittlegirlwasimmersedintheshadowsofdoubt andmisunderstanding. Therewasnothingshecouldchangeaboutherselftoescapeit. The onlypathtolightwasembracingthetwopiecesofherselfthatdefinedwhoshewasand whatsetherapartfromtherest.

Theboyswouldalwayslikethegirlswithlonghairwhoweregoodatsportsandthegirls wouldalwayscomplimenttheoneswhoworeslickedbackponytailsplacedhighupontheir heads.Butthelittlegirldidn’tneedtheirvalidationtobeseenforshefinallysawherselfall onherown.

TITLEINITALICS|JANESMITH 12

Thegirl’sreflectionpeeredbackathercuriouslyonedayasshelookedinthemirror. Voluminouscurlsboundedacrossherheadandasmiledancedmagicallyacrossherface.A dazzlinglightraineduponher, radiatingfromthedepthsofhersoul,andthetwopieces becameone.

away in a large cart that comes once a month. What happens to it after that is anyone ’ s guess, and the people of the town don’t really care. They are rather indifferent to the goings on of the outside world.

Once every 10 years, the Emperor visits their town. He gives a speech on how important it is for every adult to do their part in supporting the economy. Most of the people don't even know what the word ‘ economy ’ means. They are familiar with it because the speech is always the same. Every 10 years it is spoken and it never changes. Some speculate ‘ economy ’ means the buildings, while others think it means the people. Nobody knows for sure, and they aren’t likely to for the next 200 years until one villager builds up the nerve to ask one of the Emperor’s escorts.

The children of Coiha call the forest Tihope urit Wheo, which doesn’t have a direct translation into this language, but means, very simply put, 'Our Scary Protector’ and has almost no use in context. Most things in their native language don’t mean anything at all. Like the word rinil which is the holes in a wheel of cheese. If it is a block of cheese, and not a wheel, then the word is rizul and if it is a wedge then the word is rivol. The forest itself is as useless as these words. They get nothing out of it, no agriculture or wood, but on the other hand, no beasts come out of the forest and eat the villager’s cows, so the villagers don’t care about it. There is one thing, however, that the forest does provide, and it is a topic of mystery and adventure for the children.

By the age of 15 years, a small percentage of the children in the town have participated in a tradition that is called Uv Hovip, which roughly translates to ‘Grow Up’. The tradition involves the child going into the forest, finding one thing that is interesting and special to them, and coming back out of the forest. The hardest part of this tradition is the coming back out. Over the years, 44 children have participated in the tradition and 16 children have not come back out of the forest. Most simply run at most 50 meters in, find an interesting stick, and run back out as fast as they possibly can. One child of the family Rho once found some sort of claw. The claw has been used for cutting even the toughest meat for over 50 years and has never dulled, never chipped. It sits on the topmost counter, a place of honor, its pearly smooth white sheen reflecting on generation after generation of the Rho.

Tihope urit Wheo sits on the outskirts of the town of Coiha like a dark ocean, the inside contents unknown, mysterious, dark, deep, and unreachable. And two children stand outside this ancient body, clutching all the bravery they have in their

tight fists. One of them is slightly taller than the other, and her dark, frizzy hair is tied up in a scrap of red fabric passed down to her from her grandmother, a bright contrast against the cloud of dark curls. She is of the family Tugou and wears the traditional, though battered, simple dress of a young girl, brown and raggedy. Her olive feet are bare, and stand slightly behind the other, shorter girl. Her face is dark with the sun, and her deep green eyes reflect the color of the forest in front of her. She goes by the name of Kylen.

The shorter girl has a face of determination, squaring her shoulders, which were bare except for the straps of her raggedy dress, the exact same as Kylen’s. She is of the family Rho, and her young eyes were often shown reflected in the sharp curve of her great-grandfather’s prized claw. Her long, dark, shimmering hair falls free past her shoulders, and it waves and reflects the sunlight and the wind. She goes by the name of Tiburo.

The forest stands before them, high and dark, its trees straight and true. It seems to Tiburo to say, Come in! I am beautiful and will give you everything you have ever wanted. Respect? Yours for the taking. Wealth? You can find anything in my depths. Power? You will be exalted among the children and your peers if your heart explores. Love? Your family will be so proud, they will adore you with all of their hearts. Come in!

“Well, shall we go in?” asks Tiburo. Her hands fidget out of excitement. Deep in her heart, she knows she will keep going until she finds something of worth, some tooth or gem that she will put on the table next to her great-grandfather's claw, for her children and her children’s children to admire and worship as she admired and worshiped the claw.

Kylen looks up at the forest. To her, it seems to say, Do you want to do this? Or are you only doing this because you don’t want your friend to think you are scared? You should be scared, your kind was never meant to go through this.

Kylen takes a deep breath and focuses her mind. It’s not too tall, she thinks, And it’s pretty in there. Look at the sun shining through the leaves! I don’t need anything extra special. It’s going to be fine.

She takes a deep breath. “Ok,” she says.

Tiburo’s face lights up in a giant smile of anticipation and she eagerly bounds into the forest. Kylen watches as the shadow consumes her. Then she hesitantly follows.

The shadow consumes her, too.

The inside of Tihope urit Wheo isn’t very different from the outside, only more hazy, the sun, which used to beat down directly on their faces, instead gently sliding and tumbling through the layers of leaves and branches to kiss their dark hair with its warmth. Light green grass waves back and forth in the breeze, soft and thick under Kylen and Tiburo’s bare feet. The trunks stand firm and steady, slightly waving to and fro as if to welcome them. “See?” says Tiburo. “It’s beautiful in here!

We are going to find the most amazing things you ’ ve ever seen in your life.”

Kylen nods.

“Have you ever seen my great-grandpa’s claw?” Tiburo asks inquisitively.

Kylen nods.

“It’s beautiful. ‘Shimmers like a pearl, reflects like a crystal spring of clear water, and perfectly complements its owner's eyes, ’” Tiburo quotes. Her greatgrandmother often said that.

“Your great-grandfather was sure lucky to find it.”

“Luck? No, it was skill. He said he had to cross rivers and streams and fight a tiger

Empire of mortals. She also knows that tigers were at least 2,000 kilometers south of where they were.

Tiburo starts moving forward, into the forest, her mind too full of visions of her coming back the hero of the family, visions of her popularity with the other kids, of being loved and supported, of putting her sparkling treasure on the family table with her siblings watching enviously, too full of these visions to pay attention to where they were going. Kylen follows, looking back every few feet to make sure they will be able to find their way out if needed. She scans the forest for something that Tiburo will deem adequate enough to let them leave.

Grass and moss squish underneath their feet, and the leaves of the forest rustle and sweep together as the wind swirls lazily throughthemazeoftrunksofbranches. Abirdchirpssweetlyonthetreetops, andanotherbirdjoinsitastheir melodiestwinetogethertocreatea lovelytunethatfillsthesweetsummer air.Antsscurrythroughthegroundand upintolargetrees,under,over,and throughthetreebark,creatingalittle windingpathforthemupintothe heights.Cricketsstarttochirp,their continuousbuzzwaftingthroughthe branchesandleavesandstoppingallat once,onlytostartupagain.

“Howdoyouthinkcricketsallstopat thesametime?”Tiburoasks,breaking thecomfortablesilencebetweenthem.

Kylenconsidersthequestion.“Maybe it’sjustonecricketthat’smakingallthe noise,butitwantstogetmorematesso morefemalecricketscanhearit.”

Tiburowrinkledhernose.“Howdoyouknowthat?”

“Well,cricketshavetomatetosurvive.Iftheydidn’t,they’ddieout.Justlikeus

humans. We kind of do the same thing, if you think of it.”

“Yeah.”

The crickets stop again. The birds keep on chirping, and the ants scuttle on in their mission to find food for their queen. One stream of ants has found a fallen berry, and they lift together with all their might to carry it back to their tiny little hill. Tiburo’s foot crushes the hill, the queen, and half of the colony. She walks on, oblivious to the distress of the tiny creatures behind her. Half an ant colony ruined, thousands of ants dead, their world no more, but her world goes on. For Tiburo, the leaves still rustle in the peaks of the trees, the birds keep singing, and a squirrel darts through the undergrowth by her feet. She giggles as it nearly misses running into her legs.

Kylen is examining the forest, looking every which way for something that she can use as an excuse to get out of the forest. She still looks backward every couple of steps to make sure that they can easily get out, but she is growing unsure. What she thought was a unique tree that she would be able to recognize on their way out looks exactly like every other tree from the other side. Their footprints are quickly getting swallowed up by the forest floor, the indents of their bare feet disappearing as the grass re-erects itself and the mud and dirt smooth themselves out like butter on a hot day. It is as if they have never been there.

Tiburo, completely unaware of the most important part of their mission, still looks nowhere but ahead. “Isn’t this beautiful?” She calls back to Kylen, not turning her head.

It is indeed beautiful, a suspended sort of place, underneath the canopy of trees, to Kylen it feels like she is underwater. The surface cast a soft green filter onto the floor below. Waves of green build and rustle and roar until they are out of sight. Light comes through the surface, rippling across the floor with each passing whoosh of current. The patterns of the treetops, like water, reflect light that alights on pockets of the ground, shifting with each movement on the surface. Currents sift through the undergrowth and plants bend and wave in their wake as the hazy atmosphere shifts to and fro. Butterflies and small insects float by, and Kylen’s eyes follow each in amazement, until she spots a drop of bright color against the smudges of green, yellow, gold, and brown. She freezes and takes a closer look at it. Bright red, matching her Grandmother’s old fabric that is tied against the blackness

of her hair. It is an intricate flower, sprouting from the soil and weaving its way up the tree. Kylen takes an inward breath. This could be what she brings back, she can dig up the roots and hold it and could walk out happy. She can plant it in her parent’s garden, and it would be the envy of all the neighbors. Looking out across the maze of undergrowth, trunks, and leaves, she discerns three other similar flowers, all adorned in bright and happy colors. “Tiburo, look what I found!” She calls. Tiburo has been striking on, quite inattentive to her surroundings.

“Huh?” She asks, looking back at Kylen.

“It’s um…a uh…really pretty …flower.” Kylen’s voice fades out. She knows that Tiburo will not accept a flower as a worthy treasure.

“Ohgoodgods.Comeon,Kylen.Weare goingtofindamazingstuff,bothofus!I promise!Butflowers…?Everyonehas flowers.”

Kylenstaresatthebeautifulredbulb, lightlytracingherdarkfingersupthesoft, silky,fragrantpetals.Theyaresoftand beautiful,smoothandelegantandshe deeplyinhalesintothebulb,tryingtosoak uptheessenceoftheflower.Giftmeyour strength,shethinks,ifyoureallydothat.If you ’renotjustamyth.

“Kylen!”

Kylenjumpsup,startled,andlooksoverat Tiburo.Blinking,sheglancesdownonelast time,onlytodiscoverthatshehadknocked halfthepetalsofftheflowerinher surprise. Sheforcedherselfnottolook

Untitled | Dieter Beilman | 12 down again. Keep going, she thinks, as she starts off towards where Tiburo is standing.

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