The Wayfarer 2016 by Edgewood High School

The

Wayfarer

The

Wayfarer Remembrance and reflection how allied! What thin partitions sense from thought divide! Alexander Pope â&#x20AC;&#x153;An Essay on Man: Epistle Iâ&#x20AC;?

Staff Executive Staff Zachary Palmer Editor-in-Chief

Evelyn Stein Managing Editor

Cameron Craig Creative Director

Editorial Staff

Layout Staff

Gloria Bushong Nicole Cook Julia Flynn Kaitlyn Goss-Peirce Eileen Healy Mary Lazar Tia Parisi Meghan Pfau Gwendolyn Pyeatt Claire Stein Thomas Tenzin

Nicole Cook Julia Flynn Kaitlyn Goss-Peirce Tia Parisi Gwendolyn Pyeatt Thomas Tenzin

Advisers

Consultants

Ms. Diane Mertens Ms. Teresa West-Lentz

Mr. James Ottney Mr. Mark Thering

Cover Artist Ran Ran

Table of Contents Literary Pieces * Lenny and Babs: Tess Heinrichs * Fear: Julia LaBonte * My Grandmother’s House: Colleen Scerpella * Wild: Estelle Woloszyn * * * * *

The Mind: Sarah Wells China Doll: Grace Welton Meaningless, Meaningless: Zachary Palmer The Beauty of a Rainy Day: Natalie Myers The Spaces Between Our Words: Gwendolyn Pyeatt An Autumn Morning: Julia LaBonte Timeless Affection: Zachary Palmer Beyond: Estelle Woloszyn The Campaign Traitor: Jonathan Ibach Modern Persephone: Kaitlyn Goss-Peirce Dear Reader,: Tia Parisi The Competitive Conversation Thieves: Zachary Palmer La Petite Fille et La Petite Étoile: Kaitlyn Goss-Peirce I Love You: Thomas Tenzin Humans: Tia Parisi

4 8 10 13 14 15 16 22 23 24 26 28 31 36 38 40 42 44 46

Artwork Ran Ran Alison Lourigan Eileen Healy Daria Murawski Julia LaBonte Jessica Inman Devin Zhang JoJo Munns Cassie Jacobsen Skyler Ta Judy Park Hojin Park Cheryl Zhang *Denotes Edgewood High School Writing Contest Winner

4, 7, 37 8, 42 11, 39, 46 12, 16 14, 24 20 22 23 26 28, 29, 30, 38 33, 45 35 41

Lenny and Babs Tess Heinrichs (12)

Characters LENNY: A gruff old man who is made of steel on the outside but is sentimental and sweet deep down; he pretends he is cynical but truly is not. He is around eighty years old, wears thick glasses, and is completely bald. BABS: A spunky, sassy old woman who loves her husband but is very stubborn and acts like he never does anything right. Has a very distinct New York accent and wears large, cat-eye glasses. All of her movements are energetic and effective but somewhat fragile-looking, so the audience can see that she is aged. She is around eighty years old as well. ETHAN: A dramatic romance novel character and social recluse prior to meeting Arielle, his lover. ARIELLE: A dramatic romance novel character and lover to Ethan. Clearly has high-functioning tear ducts. Setting It is present day. It is a beautiful December morning in an old, urban, Midwestern neighborhood. The play takes place entirely in LENNY and BABS’ second floor bedroom. LENNY and BABS’ bed is the focal point of the stage, directly in the center, and is flanked by two nightstands. BABS’ nightstand, located on stage left, holds an alarm clock, lamp, and book. LENNY’S nightstand, located on stage right, has another digital clock, a pen, a lamp, and some old newspapers, folded over to look like they have been read through and puzzled over for hours. The room has two windows which allow the audience to see the winter scene outside. One is behind the bed, through which a balcony railing can be seen, and one is on stage right. Beneath the window on stage right, there is a small table with doilies, a wedding picture, and a bouquet of flowers. Lights come up higher and higher behind this window to simulate the rising sun. A door to the “hallway” is located stage left. (Lights are off. Alarm clock rings. Flashes 6 AM. BABS’ eyes pop open, and she uses her covered elbow to nudge LENNY. LENNY and BABS are lying side by side in bed, facing away from each other.)

BABS: Lenny, Lenny, time to get up. (Leans over to shut off the alarm.)

LENNY: (grunts) I am not putting one of those idiotic Band-Aids on my face. At least in the NyQuil commercial it’s Drew Brees and not Gary. (thinks for a second, then puffs out his chest proudly) Some people tell me I looked like Drew Brees when I was younger. Maybe even a little handsomer than him.

LENNY: (snorts himself awake) Huh? BABS: Time to get up! LENNY: Oh, oh. (Looks at clock without moving any part of his completely covered body except his head.) Okay. (Lights highlighting the bed come up as LENNY and BABS sit up in the most laborious manner. The bed creaks, and both of them make grunting noises. They reach over to their night stands and put on their glasses. When they finally get situated, they are propped up on their pillows.)

BABS: Ha! And I bet you played better than him too, didn’t you? (Laughs and claps her hands.) Waukesha South varsity football circa 1953...LEGENDARY. LENNY: (grunts stubbornly) Legendary is right! Allconference champs! (Gets up and puts on robe and slippers while speaking.) I am going to get the paper. Don’t move too much.

BABS: How did you sleep, Lenny?

BABS: Where do you think I would even go?

LENNY: How I always sleep, Babs, like the Princess and the goddamn pea. My back KILLS me. (Both look at each other, look away, and BABS sighs dramatically; this is his routine response.)

LENNY: I don’t know...to get Breathe-Rite Strips from LouAnn or something... (Voice trails off at the end as he walks slowly down the hallway. Lights simulating sun are up higher at this point.)

BABS: (Looks at him pointedly, waiting for the question to be reciprocated. When she realizes this isn’t going to happen, she replies anyway, talking to herself sarcastically.) And how did YOU sleep, dear Babs? (still sarcastically, replying with dramatic gestures and facial expressions) Thank you, Lenny, for asking, but I think you mean WHEN did I sleep? ‘Cause I CAN’T when you’re snoring like that. (Stares stubbornly ahead, rolling her eyes and wanting him to fire back.)

BABS: (Peers as far as she can down the hall to make sure Lenny is gone, then picks up the phone and dials; phone rings several times, then someone picks up.) LouAnn? (silence) Hello! Yes! It’s me, Babs. (silence) Yes, well, you know how we were talking the other day about the men and their snoring? (silence) That NyQuil is NOT going to work…(silence) Oh, great! Thank you. That’s just what I was going to ask…(silence) Wonderful, I’ll come meet you by the door when you walk by with Piper. (pause... the slow creak of LENNY on the stairs is heard) He’s coming, LouAnn. I have to go. See you soon, soon, soon! (Puts down the phone with a click. BABS grabs her newest romance novel from the bedside table and pretends to be very interested in it.)

LENNY: Well, what am I supposed to do about that, huh? I’m L-E-N-N-Y and I have C-O-P-D! BABS: I told you last week, Lenny. I saw these new things on the television called Breathe-Rite Strips that you put on your nose like a cute little Band-Aid! LouAnn said they worked for Gary and—

LENNY: (Enters the room with the newspaper, takes his slippers and robe off, and gets back into bed. Rolls his eyes when he sees what BABS is reading.) That book AGAIN? (BABS sarcastically mouths along as he says the following) Why don’t you be a responsible citizen and follow current events with me?

LENNY: BABS! Do you WANT me to look like Gary? That man ain’t never spent a dime in his life on cleaning up his appearance. He always looks raggedy. ‘Course, that could just be a side effect of living with LouAnn. BABS: Lenny, you are NOT the one to be talking. You ain’t spent a nickel on your clothing either. I spent it for you. And, (Smacks him on the arm.) LouAnn just likes to be in control of things!

BABS: You know, I actually think you could take a cue from this novel and be a little more romantic to me, Lenny! Remember those days when we were so young and (pause, then says with energy) spontaneous? (Bats her eyes at him flirtatiously.)

LENNY: That’s the truth.

LENNY: (grunts) I used to compliment your hair.

BABS: (Shoots him a glare.) You know you would miss them if we didn’t have those dinner parties. (pauses) Well, if you don’t want to use the Breathe-Rite Strips, then at least try...what’s that called again? Oh yeah… NyQuil!

BABS: Yes, and I felt soooo beautiful. (smiles) LENNY: Babs. You know I still think you’re beautiful, you just don’t have much hair left to compliment. 5

ARIELLE: Oh, Ethan, you ARE my happiness. (Cries some more. They embrace, and LENNY wipes tears from his eyes. All of a sudden, BABS can be heard creaking up the stairs, and he quickly puts the novel back on her nightstand. Lights fade out on the characters on the balcony. LENNY picks up the newspaper and tries his best to resume his standard grumpy facial expression. Lights simulating sun should be much higher at this point.)

BABS: Look at yourself, man! LENNY: I had a stressful job for many years! And a family! And you! How was I supposed to keep the hair on my head? BABS: I don’t know, but it sure cut down on shampoo costs, so I’m not complaining.

BABS: (Comes over to the bedside, puts the Breathe-Rite under her pillow very discreetly; climbs back into bed.) What’s going on in that paper?

LENNY: Babs— BABS: (Looks at clock, sees that it is almost time for LouAnn to arrive with the Breathe-Rite Strips; feels frantic and interrupts LENNY.) One moment please, Lenny. I feel nature calling, and the doctor said that is no longer something I can ignore. I’ll be back in a snap.

LENNY: (startled at first, looks up in surprise, but then realizes she has not caught onto him but is truly asking) Well, if you want to know, you really should have read it. (grunts)

LENNY: Whatever you say. (Rolls his eyes and picks up the newspaper. BABS puts on her robe and shuffles out of the room in a slow but energetic manner. She goes downstairs to meet LouAnn and Piper, the dog, on their daily morning walk. When she’s been gone for several seconds, he peers as far as he can to make sure, then quickly rolls over to her nightstand and grabs the romance novel. He has a small piece of string in the book to mark his place. He reads for a few moments, whispering the most emotional lines out loud. His mouth hangs open in shock; then a tear almost comes to his eye as lights fade up over the window behind the bed to show two characters from the romance novel on the balcony, simulating LENNY’S imagination as he reads the story. They are looking at each other adoringly and holding both hands...an overly sentimental moment...overboard on the cheese factor.)

BABS: Well, Lenny— LENNY: (interrupting) Of course, I would tell you if there was something worth telling. BABS: (Nods sarcastically because she knows what he really likes to read but doesn’t want him to know that she knows. Opens the romance novel to read. Both are silent for a few seconds. All of a sudden, BABS makes a big deal of moving things around to cover up the fact that she is putting a Breathe-Rite Strip on the same page as LENNY’S string so he finds it when he opens the book.) LENNY: (Looks up at BABS.) What are you doing?

ETHAN: Oh, Arielle, I wouldn’t be able to breathe without you! I couldn’t do anything without you!

BABS: You know, Lenny, what time is it? Maybe we should start getting ready for the day. (Goes to the closet, opening and closing drawers; gets out her toiletries and clothes.)

ARIELLE: Oh, Ethan, I couldn’t see without you! Couldn’t taste without you! Couldn’t live without you! (Tears come to her eyes, and she begins to cry tragically just thinking about a life without ETHAN.)

LENNY: You can. I need to finish reading this. BABS: Gee man, this is taking you much longer than it used to. (Starts going down the hallway.) The next thing I’m gonna have to get you is magnifying glasses… (her voice trails off)

ETHAN: (Putting his finger gently over her lips to make her be quiet.) Shhh. This moment is for you, my dear. Don’t speak. I need to say something.

LENNY: (Barely hears what she’s saying because he is so concerned with what is happening in the novel. He reaches out to grab it, opens it to find the Breathe-Rite Strip. He squints his eyes and scowls...he knows he’s been caught. He can’t let BABS know that, though. He hides the Breathe-Rite Strip under his pillow.) Ugggggghhh. That woman… (As he is saying this, he looks around the room and sees their wedding picture. Both of them are so happy, and he realizes he wouldn’t be much without BABS. He looks at the romance novel and then back at the wedding picture.)

ARIELLE: Anything, Ethan, anything for you. ETHAN: Arielle, my love, you are the reason I leave my home every morning. You know I would just stay inside if I were alone, but you don’t let me. Wherever you are, I want to be there too, even if all we do is just stare into each other’s eyes. I am sorry that I am so shy, and I am only sorry because it is a burden for you. All I want is your happiness, because when you are happy, I am happy.

BABS: (Lights are up all the way by this point. It’s around 7:30 AM; enters the room dressed in cute old lady clothes, all ready for the day.) Aaahhh. I feel so refreshed! (Goes over to the side of the bed and sits to put on her shoes. Her shoes should coincide with her personality a bit...preferably colorful.)

sorry is because it bothers you, and I just want you to be happy. When you are happy, I am happy. BABS: (Touches him gently on the face with her downstage hand and lays her head on his shoulder. She knows that was hard for him to say, even if it was straight out of the book. Pause before speaking.) You know something, Lenny?

LENNY: Babs.

LENNY: What?

BABS: What now, Lenny?

BABS: I’d take you over Ethan any day of the week. Always have, always will. (LENNY slowly narrows his eyes at BABS in a jokingly angry way, then smiles a mischievous smile. Elbows her. She elbows him back. He sets the wedding picture down, uses both of his hands to bring her hand (that he was already holding) up to his mouth and kisses it. As the lights fade on LENNY and BABS (BABS’ head is still resting on LENNY’S shoulder, one shoe tied and one shoe not. LENNY is still in his robe and both of them are smiling), a spotlight fades up on ARIELLE and ETHAN, clinging to each other just like LENNY and BABS. Curtain goes down.)

LENNY: Babs. BABS: (Pauses; turns around to face him.) What is it, Lenny? LENNY: Babs, I wouldn’t be able to breathe without you. BABS: (As smile grows on her face, she rolls her eyes, slaps her knee, points at him.) I just knew you were reading that book. I ALSO knew you’d thank me someday for the Breathe-Rite Strips. (more to herself than to LENNY) I didn’t think it would be today, but you’re not gonna hear me complaining!

THE END.

LENNY: (Sees that she is taking this too lightly. Gets up, hobbles over to get the wedding picture and sits down next to her. BABS looks up at LENNY when he sits down.) Babs, I am not just talking about the Breathe-Rite Strips. Do you remember this day? BABS: (opens her mouth indignantly, pretends to be offended) I haven’t gone totally off my rocker yet, Lenny! Of COURSE I do. (squeezes his hand) LENNY: You know what, Babs? BABS: I probably do, but go ahead. (smiles at him innocently) LENNY: (rolls his eyes; refocuses and gets a little impatient sounding; almost stops trying to be romantic; lets go of her hand) I am trying to have a sentimental moment here, and you keep ruining the mood! BABS: Sorry, Lenny, sorry. (Grabs his hand again and looks up at him.) LENNY: (Looks into BABS’ eyes.) WHAT I am trying to say is that...you are the reason I get out of bed every morning, Babs. I mean, you wouldn’t let me sleep in even if I wanted to, but when I hear you wake up, I want to wake up, too, even if all we do is sit here and talk. And you know I don’t even like talking. I’m sorry that I snore, and I’m sorry that I don’t talk to Gary that much when he comes over. The only reason I’m

Artwork by Ran Ran (11) 7

Fear Julia LaBonte (12)

t is so cold here. And so quiet. The silence is chaos, nothing to hear but the tormenting thoughts of my mind. The space, devoid of laughter and joy, is filled with smoky clouds of deception. Clouds that shroud any fragments of reason, leaving only panicked delusions. My mind is an architect of self-destruction, laying the foundation of a path to eventual annihilation. I keep it all contained, concealed within. If they knew what I held inside, they could control me even further. They already had me in chains, caged like an animal that was not to be trusted. None of us could be trusted. So we were locked up. The air we took in was permeated by the scent of antiseptic. We weren’t allowed the air outside that blew across one’s skin, only that which was oppressed by delinquents’ tortured breaths. The only natural light was to be seen through the window pane of an eternally locked door. So over time our eyes became blank crystal balls that no one could read. After all, we didn’t let anyone close enough to see, nor were we allowed to. For weeks, our skin had felt nothing but the needles they thrust into us and the water droplets that did nothing to wash away our suffering. We had become numb, with no human touch to warm us, only our spidery fingers left to dig into the flesh we hated so fervently. My head turned up to regard the rare opening of the door that led outside of the room we were all confined to. She smiled and waved as she met my eyes. Hello, Mother. She looked so out of place here, with a spring in her step and color in her face. I was called over to her. I should have been happy to see her, but in this place, no pleasure had ever entered. Still, I cracked my ashen mask to show my mother a smile, framed by split and bitten lips. Both of us were escorted to the door from which my mother had entered. A card swipe was followed by a metallic click that opened the door.

Artwork by Alison Lourigan (12) 8

My eyes bloodshot, still leaking tears, I curled up in one corner of the leather couch. I could feel all of their gazes on me. They’d heard me through the wall; the eerie cries of paranoid despair you’d think go along with a mental hospital. I was an object of fear now, an embodiment of the demons we tried so desperately to shelter within. Fear is what ruled this place, and what kept me mute as I was led back to my room to pack my my things. A suitcase full of yoga and pajama pants, loose-fitting t-shirts, sweatshirts, and shoes with the ties removed. Crossword puzzle books my mind was never able to focus on, and a journal I filled with the distorted thoughts of my poisoned mind. The piece of foam used as my mattress was rolled up and wrapped in a rubber band. My coat was retrieved for me, and my bucket of toiletries handed over. My mother was waiting outside the door of my cage to drive me away again. I left the other girls in the room behind, allowing nothing more than a parting word. We didn’t speak in the car. I didn’t know where we were going, only that it would be my home for several months to come. I closed my eyes, resting my head against the seat. I don’t know how long it was that we drove, enveloped in the falling darkness. Eventually, we pulled down a gravelly road covered by tree branches, the hospital logo flashing on signs pointing to various buildings. We came to a stop in front of what looked like a very large house, hard to make out under the cover of night. Numbly, I followed my mother up the front steps and into the building. Inside, there was a commotion, patients lining up for dinner. They regarded me with hungry, excited eyes. I was new meat. My mother and I were led into a small room to file paperwork, and there I signed an agreement to my new imprisonment. A man took a picture of me, my red-rimmed eyes and sallow cheeks, making another addition to my infamous “file.” The man was kind, leading me gently upstairs to where I would live with the other girls my age. They had already left the floor for dinner, and it was silent except for the anxious pounding of my heart. Dread compounded itself with each passing minute. I fiddled with the hospital bracelet still wrapped around my wrist, a bad reminder of time passed. Imagining the worst of the time to come, I stepped tentatively behind the man leading me. He took me to the room I would share with another girl, opening the door to show me which of the two beds I would sleep on. As I turned to look, I stopped with surprise. Laid on the mattress was a sign, flowers surrounding the words, “Welcome, Julia!” At that moment, just for a moment, my fear melted away, and for the first time in weeks, I felt a glimmer of happiness.

A step outside of the cage. I would have run, if there had been any desire, any drive not yet drained from my body. Led through another door, we entered a small office. There, behind the desk, sat my appraiser, the one to deliver the verdict on the course of my future. I had waited for this day with anticipation. Now was my chance to be set free. That was how I had planned it. I’d been on my best behavior, and I was ready for my chains to be cut. I sat in silence next to my mother, listening to the two of them converse. I had never had any say in the matter, and for this, I hated the woman who sat across the desk from me. I’ve said I hated her for her modelesque proportions that triggered me to criticize myself, and for giving me meds that covered my body in purple bruises. The real reason I hated her, however, was because she’d taken control of my fate. All I’d ever wanted was control, and now, with me under her power, she betrayed me. She told us now that all the arrangements had been made. I was being sent away again, expected time was a few months. This was not my plan.

They regarded me with hungry, excited eyes. I was new meat. For the first time in weeks, I felt a warmth to my skin. It grew hotter by the second. Breath came in short, frantic gasps that left me light-headed. My heart beat against the ribs encasing it, as if it were trying to break through. I screamed. Not a scream reminiscent of a toddler who sees a spider in her room. No, this was the sound of a soul tearing apart, a sound that shattered your eardrums, leaving only the sound of pounding blood in your ears. For the first time in my life, I let loose an outburst of fully unchecked rage and despair. A human possessed, I rose from my chair and flung my limbs against the walls with all the force I could muster. The pain of my body slamming against the drywall was drowned out by the shrieks erupting from my throat. My panic revealed itself in this banging, screeching tantrum that threatened to strike anyone who dared approach me. My throat burned as the screams died out, garbled by the flowing tears. For several minutes, my mother watched me with sorrow and disgust on her face. The woman behind the desk spat out threats at my hysteria, and I knew I had surely condemned myself. At her extensive threats, I attempted to muzzle myself, cowering away from her like a dog from a cane. I knew she could punish me, and I could do nothing. I was taken by the wrist in a pinching grip, back to my cage.

My Grandmother’s House Colleen Scerpella (9)

he old, wooden stairs creaked with age as I slowly ascended with delicate steps. I brushed my fingertips against the peeling wallpaper; the birds of paradise had now faded and flown away. Cobwebs hung from the ceiling, their silk strings glinting in the few rays of sunlight peeking through the window. This foreign place did not seem like my house, where sunlight danced across the walls, and laughter echoed through the rooms. I paused to sit on the top step and gazed down at the empty room below. “Emily?” shouted a deep voice from the kitchen, “Are you okay?” “I’m alright,” I yelled back, leaning forward to rest my head on my hands. The voice belonged to my husband, as did the face that appeared around the corner. He looked up at me sitting alone at the top of the stairs, my face stained with grime and salty tears. He held a box against his side and a broom in the other hand. His dark hair was ruffled from the housework, his skin slightly burnt from the work outside. How could it be that he looked so young when I felt so old? “We have to leave soon,” he said after a moment. “Before it gets too dark out. Are you almost done?” I nodded, tucking a strand of hair behind my ear. Shame twisted my stomach, and I was unable to meet his eyes. My husband looked at me intently, trying to comprehend my unstable emotions, but he just gave me a brief smile and walked back towards the kitchen. After a few moments, I picked myself up off the stairs and continued my walk. I peered down the hall of 10

the second floor, surveying it for any signs of life. Nothing, not even a mouse, remained. My childhood room was just there on the right. Beyond that, the bathroom and then her bedroom. How my grandmother must have languished here, all alone, in the mess of a house that she once loved. She must have sat in her bed for hours, watching the house fall into disrepair around her. We had already cleared out the first two bedrooms, leaving just my grandmother’s room to sort, but I hadn’t come up here to do any cleaning. Especially not her room, where she had spent her last days in utter agony. Instead, I stepped inside my old bedroom. It was like looking at a ghost or one of those oldtime photos where everything looks so oddly familiar, yet still seems so out of place. All of my picture frames had fallen from their nails on the walls, the glass panes cracked from their fall to the floor. The powder-pink bedspread from my tiny bed had somehow been stained, even though, as far as I knew, no one had used it in years. My chest of stuffed animals and dolls was spilled across the floor, like a little girl had come in and kicked it over in frustration.

I strode across the room to pick up my favorite childhood doll, the familiar fondness for her stirring inside my chest. Somehow, her lovely china face and hands had survived her tumble to the ground, even though her dress was slightly rumpled. I dusted her off and inspected her, pulling her against my breast, closing my eyes to remember something, anything. My beautiful china doll smelled like my grandmother, a mixture of lavender and the sun. My grandmother, the only stable character in my life, who never abandoned me and never gave up on me. How could I try to forget all those years when she was everything, raising me like her own daughter? How she bathed my bruised and battered skin, nurturing me until the sun sang inside me too. I wiped at a tear on my cheek, taking a deep breath to steady myself. Smoothing her hair, I placed my doll at the foot of the bed, a reminder of everything I had lost. “Christian!” I yelled, poking my head out the door frame. “I’m ready to go home!”

Artwork by Eileen Healy (12) 11

Artwork by Daria Murawski (12)

Wild

Estelle Woloszyn (12)

Up on that hill Veiled in yellow wild flowers And long grass That engulfs you in the splendor Of nature’s finest work Its meekness Next to Devil’s Tower So beautifully created Wonderfully hard to dream up By the human mind It’s there that I go When I miss the feel Of the cool, early summer breeze The smell of prairie grass And the complete peace I find in my mind I remember so well Telling myself To take a good look at The beauty that surrounds It’s been years Since I’ve been there last But I see it and feel it So vividly Even if I never return My heart will always linger Up on that hill 13

The Mind Sarah Wells (9)

She was an egg that had no yolk. Inside she was hollow, except one small bead of fine dust. She looked just like all the others, but when she was cracked, only a small piece of dust remained. She pasted a smile over despair, a china head filled with air hollow, empty. A face to show the hawks that prey the earth, a mask to hide the empty abyss inside. She was empty, dark, and cold; there was no one to fill her heart. Just a small speck of love for another who did not see her. Like a wave that never reaches shore, she was alone.

Artwork by Julia LaBonte (12) 14

China Doll

Grace Welton (12)

china doll, shiny and new, ruby lips, a dress of blue, on the mantle, up so high, little angel seated in the sky. china doll, yellow hair, such a toy was never so fair. passed around from hand to hand, used and played with in the sand. china doll, delicately made, just a bargain in a trade. now your paint is old and worn, dropped, chipped; your dress is torn. china doll, porcelain skin, cracked and broken from within, lying shattered on the floor, whatever did you exist for?

Artwork by Daria Murawski (12)

Meaningless, Meaningless Zachary Palmer (12) 16

chair, straight-backed, stands upon three legs and faces one of three walls. A man, white-haired and fairskinned, sits still with back straight. His eyes glisten and follow the subtle movements of The Keeper. The man clenches his hands and taps his index fingers methodically to the movement of the surrounding air. The room is quite small with a dirt floor and an open ceiling. Overhead, the evening bats begin to emerge from beneath their wings. The man lifts his head and watches them through inky eyes. “Tick – Tick – Tick – Tick,” whispers The Keeper, His sounds wafting through the chilly air. The Keeper clings to the center wall, His meter ceaseless and perfect. The man orients his attention appropriately, closes his eyes, smiles, and breathes deeply. To hear resonance is soothing, and he can feel his mind begin to clear. “Any second now… any second.” Seconds, minutes, hours, days, weeks, years, what does it matter? The man stands and gazes into his companion’s face. The Keeper’s face is one of tumultuous emotion, like a human’s, but more lethargic, more refined, more beautiful. Perhaps a smile, but one moment later a frown, followed by a scowl, then a blank expression. “Tick – Tick – Tick – Tick.” No need to remember…lock the doors, forget… The man turns his back to The Keeper and strides forward through the room’s missing fourth wall to an open, darkened countryside. He turns and admires the room. It stands on the hill as an incomplete structure in a world of white, grey, black, blue, and gold. “Any minute now…any minute,” he whispers. Above him, grey clouds pass in droves much faster than they used to, a common occurrence during the present age. The park the man stands in is abandoned by the world. Once a paradise to children, now it is the home of The Keeper. Trees used to dominate the rolling fields, birds would sing from the foliage, and flowers bloomed without hindrance. No more. Only a solitary willow tree stands where the man’s former resting place stood. Surrounding it are seemingly endless prairies populated with scavengers, prairie dogs, and scorpions. Throughout his travels, the man had never found a place of such personal solitude. It was and is a place to ponder, a prison to keep memories in their place. The man smirks as he turns, sees his former resting place, and walks over to it. He sits beneath the tree and gazes across the prairie grasses, sun-scorched, golden spears dancing in the invisible air. “What folly it is to do anything!” the man says to himself. “What is there but a cycle? An eye opens briefly

before growing tired and delving into temporary slumber.” The brush rustles a few yards from his position. A small dog darts into the clearing. The creature chases its tail and with great speed takes a nearby ground squirrel into its mouth. The man laughs as the dog has its fill and then trots off. “Why eat when one will only grow hungry?” Over the whispering wind, he hears the faint sound, “Tick – Tick – Tick – Tick.” The man narrows his eyes. I…must not… “Remember.” Deep within the recesses of the man’s mind, a lock is broken and a door is opened. A thought escapes from its confinement. Though small at first, the thought grows until it overflows his mind with fear. Goosebumps emerge across his skin, accompanied by a fast, cold sweat. Memories, thoughts, and ideas long forgotten are recalled. The man begins to wring his hands, and he realizes that the secret to his fear is rooted in knowledge rather than containment. The man’s eyes close, drained of their strength as the advancing armies of wind begin to grow restless. *** Twenty years ago, the man’s name was Timothy, not that it mattered or anything. As a young boy, Timothy preferred the company of nature to that of his fellow man. When summers were long, when the heat of the sun split the earth and vapor filled the air, he would walk for hours until sweat hung precariously from his nose. Thick forests were his favorite. He disliked cities, those “cold imposters” as he used to call them. They were worlds foreign to him in both substance and idea. He saw nothing worth his interest there, only the artificial. On one particular day, the sky was weeping in sheets against the pale windows of his parents’ house. He sat on his bedroom bench, situated before his window while his mother called for him to get ready for school. He was determined to disobey. Why should I go? He had found his mother’s transcripts and college scores. She had dropped out. His mother came up the stairs and yelled at him to get ready. As Timothy watched the grey rain collecting in small puddles on the nearby road, his mother’s voice began to fade. She never wanted me. That’s why she dropped out. I’m just a reminder. When his father came home from work, he was told of his son’s arrogance. While his mother washed the dishes, Timothy felt the sting of his father’s belt, his cries echoing throughout the house. This was not the first time; in fact, it had become a regular occurrence. As he lay in his bed, his

Tick – Tick – Tick – Tick.

desire rooted in ancient thought and a hypnosis of every second. As he grew older, Timothy’s curiosity and craving for The Keeper only grew. Deep into the night, as Timothy struggled to enter the recesses of his mind and allow his eyes to close, he could hear The Keeper’s voice calling out to him. It was during those sleepless nights that Timothy began to accept the call. The night became a time of receptiveness; the day became an exploration. “Timothy!” His mother’s cry resonated throughout the small house. Timothy ignored her and instead stared at his father’s prized pocket watch. The Keeper hung from a silver chain in the house library, a statement of some kind, but a rejection of purpose. This was one quality that Timothy admired about his father, a man who firmly believed in purpose but was willing to steal purpose from another. “Timothy!” He walked over to the library door and shut it. The click of the dead bolt rang through the air, followed by the pounding of his mother’s fist on the door. “What are you doing? I need to speak with you!” “Tell me something, Mother. If Father loves me as much as he says he does, and if you love me as much as you say you do, then why do I feel so empty inside?” Timothy looked at his hands and then at the watch. He whispered, “Why do I love being alone?” There was silence behind the door. Timothy walked over to the watch, lifted up the chain, and gently touched The Keeper’s face. Immediately, He came to life. *** As Timothy sits beneath the willow tree, a new memory bursts from its cell. He remembers the day when rockets fell from the sky like falling stars, the waves of flash fire ravaging the countryside, the screams of the city piercing the night air, and the look of awe that spread across Timothy’s face as his body was consumed by the inferno. He had half expected to join the choir of the deceased, but, as his eyes opened, he realized that he was unharmed. His skin felt warm to the touch while the air radiated heat. The world he loved was gone. In its place was an ember, glowing in the wind and blacker than the darkest night. The war was truly the war that ended all wars. It would take millennia before Earth’s population would begin to recuperate. It would take decades before the forests, parks, and wild animals could return. Until

eyes glistening, he relished the silence. Is this love? If it is, I do not want it. During the early hours of the morning, when the air felt sticky on his skin, Timothy left his parents for the unknown. Love was a topic of great fascination for Timothy. As he grew older, he would rest beneath park trees, and his pale eyes would watch lovers kiss. His small mouth would scoff when the man or woman returned a day later with another. In his mind, Timothy believed that actions or the yearning for the completion of an act meant nothing. He never worked. Money that was earned was soon spent. Shoes wore out after only days or weeks of use. Clothes would be outgrown. Beauty was short-lived. In his world, others fretted about their lives, involving themselves deeply in the bramble of politics, religion, and thought, while Timothy observed and laughed at such foolishness. It was this mentality that governed every second of Timothy’s life. Every decision was scrutinized. Once, under the light of a full moon, when the air was coagulated with fog and the grass gleamed with dew, Timothy rested beneath the shadow of a tree while nearby, in a clearing, a young woman birthed her child in the open air. Her screams pierced his mind, but he did not move. After an hour, she raised herself and left, the baby buried beneath bloody grass. Timothy sighed. He knew she would be back. This was the third in a series. He did not care. *** Why did I steal The Keeper? The thought races through Timothy’s mind as his eyes gaze across the dancing grasses. Timothy reaches into his pocket and pulls Him out. The Keeper’s face looks back at Timothy’s, and as he concentrates, more thoughts parade before Timothy’s eyes. *** Timothy had not forgotten that first day. The appearance of The Keeper mystified him. When his eyes witnessed the light for the first time, he saw not his mother nor his father, but Him. His ever-changing face glared at Timothy from a wall, and Timothy heard Him speak, whispering in words only he could hear. The Keeper became his god. However, he had seen the angry look his father had cast on The Keeper. He had shut his eyes tightly as his father tore The Keeper off of His place on the wall. But beyond the moment his father stepped out of the maternity ward, Timothy knew nothing. From an early age, Time was what Timothy lived for, a

His ever-changing face glared at Timothy from a wall, and Timothy heard Him speak, whispering in words only he could hear.

She whispered, “It was you, wasn’t it?” He said nothing, his chest heaving, his eyes widening.

then, there would be no rest and no solitude. Timothy knew that madmen could only stay sane when they believe. Timothy did not know if he was mad. How did anyone? Timothy’s eyes wander automatically towards a plot of grass several feet from where he sits. He frowns and his eyes focus. All criminals return to the scene of the crime. In the distance, the clouds begin to darken, and Timothy can feel the presence of infant rain. *** He saw the blood. It had been nearly five years since Timothy had witnessed the woman’s third birth in the park, and he had returned. Why, he did not know, but Timothy’s walk somehow had returned him to the spot. He scowled. The park seemed to have changed little. The willow tree had grown, and its expanse of shade continued to appease those seeking respite from the blistering sunlight. Children played in the open expanse, and parents watched lovingly from surrounding park benches. Timothy stood at the edge of the park, a spot less popular with the youth. He knelt down and felt the grass. He saw the crimson tint, felt the sticky hold on his skin, and heard the gasp utter from his lips. She has been here again. How many...? A few yards away, a young woman turned her head and saw Timothy. She stood up and began to walk towards him. Timothy stared at the ground and felt its unevenness. Sometimes I wish I had helped her. She seemed to be in such pain that now I feel my actions were cowardly. The woman ceased her approach and stood above him, her hand covering her mouth as she examined him. Timothy’s hand found more lumps in the earth, and his hand began to shake. But what could I have really offered that woman? Counsel? Advice? I would have told her that her struggle was pointless. He slammed his fist into the earth as tears welled up in his eyes. She murdered the children anyway. The woman put her hand on Timothy’s shoulder. He was on his feet in an instant, staring wildly into the woman’s eyes, his left hand clutching his pocket where The Keeper lived. The woman’s face was flushed and her eyes red and puffy. Her hand continued to rest on Timothy’s shoulder; he did not remove it. She whispered, “It was you, wasn’t it?” He said nothing, his chest heaving, his eyes widening. She continued, “I saw you as I was leaving, and...I felt ashamed.” She removed her hand and stared at the ground around them. She fell to her knees and wept. As Timothy stood above her, she looked up at him. “It was you!” Her eyes glistened and sobs blurred her words. Timothy bowed his head, his arms hung limp at his sides. “Yes.” *** Timothy’s eyes open, and he realizes that all of his thoughts, all of his memories, have morphed into a question. His words carry over the top of the grasses.

“Is everything meaningless?” Throughout his life, Timothy never believed in purpose. But over time, after the final war, after everything he actually cared about was lost, he began to ponder why he continued to exist. Timothy’s fear transforms into anger. His right hand clutches some dirt near his outstretched leg, and, in a fit of rage, he flings the handful of earth in all directions. To his surprise, a large object emerges from the dirt and lands in a nearby clump of grass. Timothy raises an eyebrow. He sits up, stretches, and walks the short distance to where he saw the object land. It is extremely old, or at least it appears to be. The object is square and smooth to the touch. As Timothy lifts it up, part of the object falls open, revealing numerous sections with mysterious blots on them. To Timothy, this is all very strange: a mysterious object from a bygone age is found in a field by accident…or was it an accident? Timothy’s eyebrows ruffle at this thought. Was he meant to find the object? Or was it just chance? Timothy scratches his head in confusion. He had seen a similar object many years ago. *** It had been nice to rest beneath the shade of a tall mapletree. Beyond the tree’s shadow, I could see the air simmer and the sun break free of the cloud cover. The park itself was quieter that day. Birds twittered randomly, and the occasional jogger and car passed by me on the road. As I stretched, I could hear a man shouting in the distance. Immediately, I knew it was the street preacher, a small man with a large voice, small hands holding a large object. He had passed me occasionally. I never paid enough attention to him to care about what he had to say. That did not mean I knew nothing of what he stood for. I knew all too well. I detested the man; he challenged my beliefs. He spoke of God, but who is God? What does He look like? Where is He? Does He even know I exist? *** Timothy realizes that his questions have revealed his greatest fear. The preacher had spoken more, spoken the words Timothy had detested and long forgotten. *** On that day, he saw the preacher turn towards him with a stern expression. As Timothy sat up in his 19

his thumb and index finger caressing the smooth face. As water cascades before him, an image of the woman flashes in Timothy’s mind. In that moment of distraction, his fingers lose their grip on The Keeper. Timothy’s eyes widen as the wind carries The Keeper across the grass where He falls to the mud and vanishes into the surrounding darkness, an unknown place. For the first time in his life, Timothy is truly alone. No longer can The Keeper speak to him, whisper to him, control him, and just like that, Timothy’s mind opens to the possibility of a decision. The image of the woman becomes clearer. He sees her kneeling upon the bloodied ground, tears of anguish watering the dead souls she created. As water drips off of his nose and from around his lips, Timothy whispers, “Maybe I can help her…maybe the street preacher was right…” Above Timothy, lightning brightens the entire park. For an instant, Timothy can see the world in light, a light tinted in bluish-grey hues, a light dulling the distant glow of the cities. From within his body, Timothy’s lungs breathe deeply of the charged air. Maybe there is a God…maybe there is a purpose… And with that thought, Timothy’s hands let go of the tree that he had known for so very long. He reaches into

resting place, the preacher began to speak. “Time will soon end, and all purposes will be fulfilled.” Timothy began to stand. The preacher continued, “I have seen you these many years doing nothing and laughing at those who go about their work.” Timothy scowled, his chest tightening. The preacher pointed at Timothy and began to shout, his voice catching the attention of those nearby. “You have believed that everything is meaningless, and you have rejected all that speaks for purpose and order. If there is no purpose, then what sort of life have you lived?” *** Timothy gasps as he frees himself from this last memory. He remembers all that happened, how the man had continued to accuse him of lethargy and disgrace, how he had run from the scene in desperation, and how he had trained himself to forget all that hurt his very core. The air chills, and the wind picks up speed. The clouds overhead begin to flash with charged lightning, and the prairie grasses flatten before the onslaught of the sudden storm. Timothy struggles to stand, his dripping arms clutching the willow tree for support. Instinctively, he reaches into his pocket and pulls out The Keeper,

Artwork by Jessica Inman (11)

Page 1

his pocket and removes a book which is filled with all of his inner fear, his former hatred, his past guilt, and his shame. He lays the object beneath the willow tree and turns his back. He strides across the park, his body drenched to the bone, but he disregards the cold, and a smile emerges on his lips. He begins to make his way down the hill to the nearby city, leaving his demons behind him. *** I’m leaving this place for the unknown. I’m leaving The Keeper behind. I don’t need him anymore. I know there is something compelling me to help that woman I met so long ago. I am the only one who knows how much she has suffered. Someone has to do something…perhaps a Misfit can offer up a new perspective into this world…

Father, I don’t know what I feel for you. I can’t even remember your face, but you shouldn’t be surprised. You’ve probably forgotten about me, that small, wideeyed boy who dared to question you. As a child, I craved a relationship, care, anything but the split you put between us. You said you loved me. But did you love me only when I was asleep, when I couldn’t talk, couldn’t ask questions, couldn’t search for Him? Because of you, I don’t know who I am or where I am going. I don’t know what it means to be a man. Now, I only observe and watch others. I feel as if I am on the other side of the looking glass. My skin has paled. I don’t recognize my own reflection. I can barely hear my mother’s voice. Lately, all I do is think, but I don’t know what to think anymore. All I can do is remember. Father, I do not know you. I have found another. He has become the father I know, and He is still with me.

I’m leaving The Keeper behind. I don’t need him anymore.

Timothy

Page 2 Timothy, I do know what I feel for you: fear. I remember the frightened expression upon your mother’s face when the doctor announced she was pregnant, and that horrible first night when we brought you home. You are right. We never wanted a child. Who knew that secret mistakes could bear such fruit? Your questions frightened us, your boring eyes that never ceased watching us. Every day. Every night. Can you understand? You are a man now, and you can question the world. I only ask that you consider the possibility that everything has a purpose.

Epilogue The storm only lasted an hour. For an entire day, the clouds gathered together in the sky, and the winds became calm. What was left of the human race had fled to shelter to avoid the onslaught of water, except one. The woman had been walking towards the park. She was determined to speak with the man who made her feel ashamed, determined to learn who this man was. Her breathing intensified as she climbed the hill, the first droplets of rain touching her sweaty skin, her right hand raised to block some of the water from her eyes. She reached the top. The man was nowhere to be seen. As she approached the forlorn willow tree, she saw what appeared to be a book lying on the ground. The woman jogged over to the spot and stared. It was a book, resting just a few feet from the spot where she had so often seen the man. The woman squatted and picked up the paperback gently with both hands. The cover was weathered and smooth to the touch. Inside were yellow pages of illegible cursive, a slew of squiggles on dampened pages. She turned to the front of the book. On the first two pages, two pasted letters stared back at her. As the woman gasped, the rain continued to fall rhythmically, and as she pored over the rejected words, the woman could faintly hear the sound of a clock. It sounded lost. “Tick – Tick – Tick – Tick.”

Your Father

The Beauty of a Rainy Day

I heard the peaceful silence, that dampened pitter patter on all the leaves on all the trees that surrounded my peaceful porch.

Natalie Myers (12)

On a dreary, rainy day, neither cold nor warm, I went out on my porch to see what could be seen.

I heard a car drive by, a whooshing in the rain, but in a second the silence returned as it drove off in the rain.

I saw a stream of water running off the roof to fall in a little puddle growing next to my boots so tall.

I heard a small bird whistle a little tiny trill and as it flew to escape the rain I heard the leaves rustling too.

I saw the plants all around me feasting in the rain. Their color was more vibrant than even a sunny day. And now that I had seen a portion of what there was, I decided to instead listen to all that I could hear.

The silence that isnâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t silent surrounds the entire world, and as I look at the beauty around me, I actually feel at peace.

Artwork by Devin Zhang (9)

The Spaces Between Our Words Gwendolyn Pyeatt (11)

There are so many things I want to tell you, because you deserve to know. And those words scream so loudly in my head whenever I see you, that sometimes I forget you canâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t hear them too.

Artwork by JoJo Munns (12) 23

An Autumn Morning Julia LaBonte (12)

Some wait for Winterâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s snowstorms, The shimmering hills of white. Others long for blossoms of Spring, The returning of the light. You might love the Summer, Heat waves and open waters. I see Autumn in my dreams, Visions deep within my slumbers. I walk out in the morning, Before the sun has risen. Fog lingers around my ankles, Pulsing, slithering, white tendrils. Docile wind consumes the air, Flushing skin and tousling hair. The earth is blanketed in leaves, Wrested from their towering trees. Dampened by the morning dew, Their rot ascends in riled fumes. Berries hang on naked branches, Lingering life like drops of blood Upon a pile of dead ashes. The atmosphere is pale and cold, Numbing, a natural oxycodone. My open eyes glint with wonder, Not blinded by the sun of summer. How is it that I feel more alive In this season of demise? I revel in the solitude, No childrenâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s yells to intrude. The lack of mowers in the lawns, Cutting through the peace of dawn. The only sound these mornings know, Is the anguished cawing of the crow. He and I are kindred beings, In this darkness we find our freeing.

Artwork by Julia LaBonte (12)

Timeless Zachary Palmer (12)

A Dinner: Her I have always believed that life is like wine being freshly poured out of the bottle. The way the crimson sloshes gently into the curved glass, climbing up the sides in a desperate attempt to escape before falling back to join in with the rising calm. It’s peaceful watching the waiter pour with such finesse, left arm behind his back, his head steady as he concentrates on his task. I smooth out the folds of my dress, white with a rose corsage. I feel as if I belong in the restaurant, as if the specific spectrum of colors was chosen for me. Red carpets recline upon the floor. They support mahogany tables decorated by snow covers. Candles, little lights, burn all around me, or, as Janie would say, little sparks burning with their inner passion. I can feel the wafts of cinnamon and brown sugar and the caresses of rosemary and nutmeg emanating from the kitchen, the trails journeying towards…him. A Dinner: Him “What are you imagining?” Her red lips unlock to reveal a sparkle of white. I wait for an answer, but after several moments I realize the silence is all I need. She is looking around her, her eyes beaming in the warm light. Her blonde hair is silky and rests perfectly above her slim shoulders. My thumbs twitch nervously. I gently pull out a folded piece of paper, a paper dedicated to the future. I glance over the memorized words, rehearsing in my mind what I will say. I raise my head slightly and glance at her. Her eyes are now closed, and I watch as her chest rises and falls, a subtle rhythm that is hypnotically attracting. I put away the paper, and in that space my fingertips touch a velvety, smooth surface. Not yet… I raise my eyes. She is watching me! Life washes over me, bathing me in warm radiance. I smile at her as my inner child peers from around a corner in my mind. My smile greets a friendly spark, watching from behind her rose eyes. I stand, walk towards her end of the table, and extend my hand. “Will you walk to the park with me? I have to ask you something…” 26

Affection The Question at 5: Her The sun peers at us from above a distant cloud. Its rays dim slowly as it begins its descent into slumber. The air is cool against my skin as soft breezes surround us. Leaves float around the fringes of my dress, and my hair pirouettes behind me. He stands beside me, his hand clasping my own. My index finger softly traces the smoothness of his hand. Roses blossom quickly beneath my cheeks. I wish it could always be like this. He turns to me. We are Transcendent, You and I. Everywhere, with hearts aflame— A song of joy births a union of ecstasy beyond perfection. To discover unconditional purpose in Love and Peace—existence is fused with passion, a truth —of Timeless Affection— From somewhere inside of me, I lose myself to a tidal wave of euphoria, yet my breathing is strangely slowed by his peace. In a moment of understanding, my face is aglow with delight. He reaches into his jacket pocket and pulls out a blue box. I watch as he drops to one knee and opens the box for my eyes to see. For an instant, all light is concentrated within the treasure before me: a ring, crowned with one of God’s tears of joy. The Question at 5: Him I have always believed that life is like a message in a bottle, floating amongst chaos. The way the waves carry the bottle over the life below, through lightning storms and sudden hurricanes, yet never touch the message inside. What is written on that page? The sea will never know; only the chosen who opens the bottle and reads the message will understand. She kneels down to my eye level, her dress spreading out around her like a flower in bloom. Our foreheads touch gently, and for a moment, all I can hear is her soft breathing. I have been plucked out of the stormy sea, and my message is laid bare by her love.

Artwork by Cassie Jacobsen (12) 27

Beyond

Estelle Woloszyn (12)

All Artwork by Skyler Ta (12)

he tears never came. We had known for a while that my mother was dying, but today was the day that the cancer finally took her. I wanted to be overpowered with the feeling of grief, but for some reason, I felt nothing but numbness. I took my face out of my palms and checked my mirror to see if my lipstick had smudged. I wore the same shade of raspberry that my mother had always worn. Everyone said we looked alike, the same five-foot-something build with large, grey eyes that could get us in and out of trouble one thousand times over before we even had the chance to speak. It hurt to see my own reflection because it was a constant reminder of the loss of my best friend. I looked away, put my keys in the ignition, and drove out of the Hospice parking lot. I remember being angry at the simple fact that I had to put my sun visor down. How could the world be sunny and eighty-five degrees, still singing its sweet melodies of joy, when my mother had left it and me behind just hours ago? I decided not to drive straight home that day because, to me, going back to my usual routine would be the same as ignoring my mother’s fantastic legacy. I could not just skip over the fact that she was gone, and looming over me was the impending question of human mortality. Was I ever going to see my mother again? I had no answer, so I just began to drive. I drove aimlessly with no radio on, the way I had two years ago when I got the phone call informing me that my mother had been diagnosed with cancer. I drove far away from the city, passed all the suburbs, and encroached upon the countryside. The rhythmic buzz of my phone occurred practically every minute that I was driving, so much so that it became just as present and distracting as a passenger next me. I did not even come close to answering a single text or call. I knew that anyone reaching out to me in this moment would be following the same script of “I’m sorry for your loss” and “If you need anything at all, I’m here.” Such was life; grief seems distant and foreign unless it directly touches you. I wanted to hear none of these words of sympathy.

I had been driving for thirty-five minutes, although I had lost track of time in the dismal array of emotions that varied from emptiness to rage. I came across a small dirt road lined in tall oak trees that seemed as old as this earth. Their branches stretched every which way up to the sky. As I continued to drive, I came across a large home set back from the road by a sprawling green lawn and long gravel driveway. I pulled over at the end of the driveway, next to a red sign that said “Sale” with an arrow pointing towards the house. My mother was always fond of garage sales, and often dragged me along to look through the heaps of strangers’ items. I unbuckled my seatbelt, took a deep breath, and sprang from my car with the same gusto that I would if I had known that my mother was waiting for me somewhere inside. The gravel driveway was long, and as I was walking towards the home, my mind fell into a spell of wonder and awe. I felt like I was being transported into the novel Pride and Prejudice, like I was walking the grounds of Pemberley. The house was large and its stone structure fantastic. The hot sun blinded me as I crept closer, and as I lifted my hand to shield my eyes, I noticed that there were rows of wooden tables on the lawn. The tables of items were covered in muslin cloth. I reached towards the cream-colored fabric that rippled in the slight summer breeze, but before my hand could lift up the sheets to uncover the treasures beneath, I heard a cheery voice from the front steps of the home. “Hello there, darling, how are you today? You are the first person to stop by. Please let me show you some of my beloved items,” said the man. The old man walked towards me and the tables. He was short in stature with thin white hair and a thick salt and pepper mustache. He wore a tweed jacket and cords. His walk was more lively and younger than expected for someone his age. I reached out to shake his hand, and an overwhelming aroma of mothballs and brandy hit me. “Hello,” I said, with a forced smile. He had a large, dazzling grin as he reached for the sheets on the tables. Like a magician pulling a tablecloth from under a table setting, the man whipped the cloth off of the tables, and the objects below them sparkled in the sun. My eyes lit up as the man gestured to the items and began speaking. “What kinds of things do you like? I can almost bet you, darling, that I’ve got them,” he coolly bragged to me. “I noticed the sale sign, and I thought I’d just stop by to look, really,” I admitted. The old man gestured to a large silver tea set on one of the tables and said, “You see this? I bought this in Morocco. My wife and I used to travel to Marrakesh all the time,” the old man boasted. 29

I could not pass up his invitation, so I agreed to go into his large home. We walked through a dining room with large glass cabinets. I briefly turned my head and noticed that to the right of me, there was a cabinet of elaborately designed glass paperweights. A wall of emotions hit me, and I began to fall swiftly back into my reality. I wept uncontrollably. “Come now. I think these are beautiful, too, but I’ve never cried over fancy blown glass,” the old man calmly said. In between heavy breaths, I replied, “I’ve just lost my mother, and she loved fancy paperweights.” In the same enticing disposition as when I first met him, the old man said, “Darling, do you not believe in the afterlife? Don’t you know that our lost loved ones are around us at all times? In fact, I bet your mother is standing right next to us laughing at you crying over paperweights.” I looked at the old man and held back my tears. I smiled, only this time it was not forced. Perhaps the old man was right. Maybe I would see my mother again someday. The old man turned to me and said, “I’m sure that I’ll see all my loved ones after death. Why do you think I’m having this sale? I cannot take these treasures with me.” “Well, I don’t think the world is ready for someone so young at heart like yourself to leave quite yet,” I said with a smile. After a moment of silence, the old man reached into the glass cabinet and pulled out a paperweight with a blooming pink rose in the center. He gave it to me for free, as a token of his gratitude and sympathy. “I should probably go. Thank you for this afternoon. Really, you don’t know how much you’ve helped me,” I said as the old man let me out his front door. As I began walking down the front steps, the old man said to me, “Oh, Elaine, just remember that I’ll see you again someday.” I smiled and waved goodbye, then quickly retraced my memory, searching for the moment in which I told the man my name. I brushed it off and began walking down the gravel driveway to my car. As I reached the end of the driveway, a woman with black pants and a burgundy blazer came towards me. She had pale skin and thin black hair. I smiled, and cheerily spoke to her, saying, “The man who lives here is so friendly. Good luck leaving his garage sale without at least one of his items!” The women stopped and looked at me with a puzzled expression. “Excuse me, but what are you talking about?” she said to me. “This is no garage sale. This is an estate sale. The man who used to live here was my father. He passed away suddenly last Tuesday.”

“And see here!” he enthusiastically pointed at a little green box. “This is real jade. I bought it in China twenty years ago.” The old man had a story and the same amount of zeal and appreciation for every single one of his items on the rows of tables. He talked about his long life and all of the travels he and his late wife had enjoyed. I nodded my head in admiration at every beautifully articulated phrase that the man delivered. It felt nice to be around someone who could out-talk me, for once, someone who allowed me to keep my mind occupied and away from the somber reality of my life. I laughed and jokingly said, “Geez, where’s your copy of the map to Atlantis and the Holy Grail?” “Forgive me. I must have been droning on about my travels. I have forgotten that not everyone cares about my tales as much as me,” he apologetically remarked. “No, no, not at all. I am truly fascinated by you. You are more of a treasure than your items here!” I reassured him. “Come with me inside my home. I have a map of all the places I’ve been. I’d love to show you,” he suggested politely. 30

The

Campaign

Jonathan Ibach (12)

Traitor

Characters (in order of appearance):

school students are supposed to seem trivial, yet the characters act as if their lives were hanging in the balance. There is irony in the problems, which are being blown out of proportion.)

BENJAMIN: He is a 17 year old junior in high school. He is a short, skinny boy with glasses. BENJAMIN is known by many people for the amount of time that he spends playing video games and experimenting with technology. He is not very sure of himself.

Pre-Scene: (The scene is set in the school gym. It is very dark, and barely anything is visible besides the bright red exit signs in each corner of the gym. BENJAMIN is running across the stage. All of a sudden, the lights in the gym turn on, and BENJAMIN covers himself.)

BRETT: He is a 17 year old junior in high school. BRETT is a jock, plays football, and seems to be loved by everyone. He is running for class council, and it seems that most people expect him to win.

BRETT: So, it’s you. BENJAMIN: What’s me? BRETT: The traitor. BENJAMIN: The who? BRETT: You heard me. BENJAMIN: What? BRETT: I heard that you didn’t go to the computer lab at all today. BENJAMIN: Really? Because I went there and did what we talked about. BRETT: I don’t believe you. (Lights fade out quickly, and an image appears on stage: “Two Days Earlier.”)

JIM: He is an average 17 year old junior in high school. JIM is involved in a few activities, but nothing too strenuous. JIM struggles with knowing whether or not other people actually like him. He decides to run for class council president as a test of whether people will actually vote for him. He has come out of his shell his junior year, and has made some more friends besides BENJAMIN. PRINCIPAL: The principal is a short, chubby, middleaged man who is balding. He always wears a suit, and he tries to look official all the time, even though his students have a hard time taking him seriously.

---------------------------------------------------------------------------

FRANK: He is a 17 year old junior in high school who decides to run for class council president because some of his friends convinced him to do so. He is an average kid, a good student, and is liked by most people. However, he is not very talkative.

Scene 1: (As the lights fade in, JIM is sitting in a chair, looking pensive. He is in the living room of his house, and BENJAMIN stands in the corner, guzzling a bottle of water. The silence ends when JIM speaks.)

Setting:

JIM: Hey, Ben, what kind of class president would I be, do you think? BENJAMIN: What? JIM: You know, president of our class council. How do

A city high school. It is the spring and time for the class council election. (Special note: The problems of these high 31

JIM: So now you’re up, right? BENJAMIN: Yeah. I still can’t believe that you dragged me into this. (BENJAMIN walks out from the bookshelves and slowly walks over to BRETT’s table. No one even seems to notice him. BENJAMIN taps BRETT on the shoulder. All of a sudden, everyone gasps and takes a step back. You would be able to hear a pin drop. BRETT turns towards BENJAMIN.) BRETT: What do you want? BENJAMIN: Um, hello, uh...Brett. (The nervousness in BENJAMIN’s voice makes it seem like a question.) BRETT: Man, everyone knows me. (There is an awkward silence between them.) BRETT: What do you want? BENJAMIN: Well, as a matter of fact, I— BRETT: Honestly, just tell me. I don’t have all day! BENJAMIN: Do you need help with your campaign? BRETT: Does it look like I need help with my campaign? BENJAMIN: I guess not, but I was going to offer some special help. BRETT: (laughs) Okay, what kind of special help would you give me? BENJAMIN: I have a lot of technology experience. BRETT: (suddenly interested) What kind of experience? BENJAMIN: Hacking. BRETT: (a grin envelops BRETT’s face) Alright then, welcome aboard...uh... (BRETT extends his hand but does not know BENJAMIN’s name.) BENJAMIN: Benjamin! (They shake hands.) BRETT: Excellent. (The two of them continue talking as they walk to the bookshelves. They have a conversation amidst the bookshelves, which, naturally, JIM overhears.) BRETT: (whispering) So, I’m actually kind of worried… BENJAMIN: Why? BRETT: (BRETT leans over to BENJAMIN and puts his arm around BENJAMIN’s shoulder.) My campaign manager did a poll of the school, and right now it does not look like I will win the election. I still seem very popular, but many people don’t think I’d be a good president. BENJAMIN: Really? BRETT: Yeah, honest. BENJAMIN: That sucks. BRETT: Yeah, but this is where you could help me… BENJAMIN: What? (BRETT looks around to make sure no one is listening. He sees JIM, but JIM just grabs a book and pretends that he is going to check it out.) BRETT: I need you to fix the election. BENJAMIN: Wait, what? BRETT: I need you to fix the election so that I beat out the other candidates. BENJAMIN: Okay. How am I supposed to do that? BRETT: Aren’t you the tech genius?

you think I would be at it? BENJAMIN: I don’t know. I’ve never thought about that. JIM: Would I be good? BENJAMIN: Yeah, sure. (BENJAMIN furrows his brow and looks as if he is solving a problem in his head. He suddenly realizes where this conversation is going.) BENJAMIN: You’re not thinking of actually running for class president, are you? JIM: As a matter of fact, I was— BENJAMIN: NO, NO, NO! There is no way that you’re going to run. People get eaten alive in these campaigns, and...well...I don’t want to say it… JIM: That I’m not popular enough? BENJAMIN: That’s not what I was going to say— JIM: THAT’S EXACTLY WHAT YOU WERE TRYING TO SAY! BENJAMIN: Sorry, Jim, but it is true. JIM: Yeah, I know, but I don’t need to be popular to win. I can win it with all of the votes of the “unpopular” people. BENJAMIN: That will never work. JIM: Okay. I guess you’re right. Brett’s campaign is rock solid. No one will be able to beat him. BENJAMIN: You’re finally seeing sense. (The conversation seems to be over, but then JIM has an epiphany. He stands up and looks at BENJAMIN.) JIM: But what if there were no other campaigns? (with a devilish grin) What if Brett’s campaign were to disappear? BENJAMIN: (Gets up.) What are you talking about? JIM: I think you know what I’m thinking. BENJAMIN: What? JIM: Old school sabotage and betrayal. BENJAMIN: But how? JIM: I’ve got some ideas… --------------------------------------------------------------------------Scene 2: (One day has passed, and now the setting is in the school library. BRETT is sitting at a table. He is surrounded by a group of fellow classmates who all seem to be wanting his attention. Stage right of the table are two bookshelves at which JIM and BENJAMIN are located. The two boys are peeking around the corner of the bookshelf to keep an eye on BRETT.) BRETT: (addressing his adoring friends) Now everyone, the election is tomorrow, and I’m counting on each and every one of your votes. (under his breath) Not actually though. I’m going to win anyways. JIM: (to BENJAMIN) I think our big chance to win is because he is so freaking cocky! BENJAMIN: Definitely. 32

Artwork by Judy Park (10)

BENJAMIN: I have a lot of technology experience. BRETT: (suddenly interested) What kind of experience? BENJAMIN: Hacking.

BENJAMIN: Fair enough. BRETT: The school uses the computers for the voting process. BENJAMIN: Really? BRETT: Yeah, they all just go into a system where they get counted and tallied, and then a winner is announced. BENJAMIN: Okay, I’m listening… BRETT: Can you get into the system and make it so that I automatically win? BENJAMIN: Yeah sure. I think I’d be able to do that just fine. BRETT: Great! The elections are tomorrow. BENJAMIN: Okay. BRETT: So you need to rig the polls before 9 PM tomorrow because that is when the polls lock and counts are final. BENJAMIN: How can I get into the computer lab? BRETT: I’ll get the door unlocked earlier in the afternoon, and then it will be up to you. BENJAMIN: Cool. I hope this works. BRETT: It will, and I’ll have you to thank for the presidency. (BRETT leaves and goes back to his table. On the way, he sees JIM walking to the bookshelves. BRETT knocks the books out of JIM’s hands.) BRETT: Watch out, Jim. JIM: (sarcastically) Thanks. BRETT: Cut the crap, Jim. I know you’re running for president. You’re my only competition. JIM: Okay. Good luck then. (said with a great deal of sarcasm) I guess. (They leave each other, BRETT walking to the table and JIM walking back over to the bookshelves to meet up with BENJAMIN.) JIM: Hey, Benjamin, I heard everything. So what are you going to do? BENJAMIN: Well, I was thinking of rigging the election so that Brett would just be in last place. JIM: Good idea. BENJAMIN: Thanks. JIM: Enough people should vote for me that I should get elected then. BENJAMIN: Yeah. Brett said in a poll recently that he is actually behind you. JIM: Really? BENJAMIN: Well actually I don’t know if it was you, but he just said that he was trailing behind one of the other candidates. JIM: There’s only one other candidate besides us two. Frank. BENJAMIN: Hmm... JIM: Yeah, he’ll never get elected. BENJAMIN: So you have nothing to worry about. JIM: Great! Thanks. (Lights fade out slowly, and curtains close.)

--------------------------------------------------------------------------Scene 3: (Lights rise on JIM and BENJAMIN talking to each other in the gym. It is evening, almost 9 PM the next day.) JIM: It worked? It worked, right? BENJAMIN: Yes, Brett WILL lose. JIM: Great. (moving behind the podium center stage) JIM: I’ll practice my victory speech right now in front of you. (All of a sudden, the two boys hear footsteps in the hall outside of the gym. BENJAMIN quickly turns off the lights.) BENJAMIN: Jim, get out of here before anyone sees you. I’ll clean up our stuff. (JIM exits by an exit sign upstage.) (BRETT enters the gym and turns on the lights.) BRETT: So it’s you. BENJAMIN: What’s me? BRETT: The traitor. BENJAMIN: The who? BRETT: You heard me. BENJAMIN: What? BRETT: I heard that you didn’t go to the computer lab at all today. BENJAMIN: Really? Because I went there and did what we talked about. BRETT: I don’t believe you. BENJAMIN: No, actually, I didn’t go there right away because there was a janitor in the hallway, but I got in after he left. BRETT: So it’s taken care of, the election, I mean. BENJAMIN: Of course. BRETT: Whew! You scared me for a bit there. Why are you in the gym? BENJAMIN: Hiding from the janitor. (BRETT doesn’t quite seem to believe him, but BRETT thinks that BENJAMIN is too scared of him to have not rigged the election his way.) BRETT: Well, sorry about that, I’ll see you tomorrow. BENJAMIN: Yup. (Lights fade, with a spotlight on the podium.) (Lights rise after a short pause, and students are sitting in the gym for an assembly. JIM and BENJAMIN look excited for the news, and BRETT looks confident and cocky, as usual. The PRINCIPAL walks to the podium.) PRINCIPAL: Welcome, students. And now, here is the moment you have all been waiting for, the moment when I announce the new president for your class. (There are cheers.) PRINCIPAL: The president of your class is...drum roll, please… (Students bounce their feet and hit the ground.) PRINCIPAL: FRANK BELLOWS! 34

Artwork by Hojin Park (11)

JIM: But— BENJAMIN: I was working for Jim. (BENJAMIN pauses and reorganizes his thoughts.) Jim, I’m sorry, but there’s a difference between making someone lose and making someone win. BRETT and JIM: Shoot. Dang it! (show signs of disappointment) JIM: (To the audience. He chuckles.) Sometimes...the better man just wins (Points to FRANK as he is walking down the floor. The theme song from Rocky is playing. The lights fade out on a 5-count.)

(The audience roars with applause, and all of a sudden a smiling teen boy emerges from the chairs and walks down to greet the PRINCIPAL. As he is doing this, BRETT, JIM, and BENJAMIN have looks of utter surprise on their faces. Everyone is cheering and on their feet except for BRETT, JIM, and BENJAMIN.) JIM and BRETT: What did you do to the election? BENJAMIN: You both need to calm down. BRETT: But you said— BENJAMIN: Brett, I’m sorry, but I purposely made you lose—

Modern Persephone Kaitlyn Goss-Peirce (12) Words Rattle in my brain stringing themselves like pearls around delicate throats wrapping and glinting and drawing attention to everything I shouldn’t be thinking about I have to take notes, listen to the lesson, instead, the margins of my papers are dotted and lined with half-eaten poems Making me a modern Persephone Trapped between two worlds The one I endure, tolerate and the one I crave with all my soul— Hush, hush Sometimes I think in music With strains of chords, orchestras crescendoing, echoing loudly Drowning out everyone’s voice The earth fading before my eyes as I fall into the rapture of my own accidental devising My hauntingly empty gaze falling softly upon shoes, books, faces, pens And with soft brushes of eyelashes upon tired cheeks I spiral like peonies budding and blooming into the silent cacophony of brain waves Here I tumble, here I fall (with the echoes of violins reaching daylight)

Artwork by Ran Ran (11) 37

Dear Reader,

Tia Parisi (11)

You are here to read a poem. I am here to write one. But other than this simple coincidence, We are strangers. And I don’t know what you want. I want to apologize for calling you “Dear.” It was a reflex that now seems inappropriate Because I don’t know you. And I never will. We’ve just met, And I’ve already given you my finest bottle of wine. Poetry breaks boundaries, doesn’t it? I’m not sure what to say. You might need love, Maybe hate, Or maybe just some words for your eyes to dance on While your conscience writes its own verses. And I guess the problem is that Even though I don’t know you, And even though I don’t know what you want, We need each other. Two parts of the same machine, Both needed to make sense of the whole. Without a reader, A writer’s poems are uncracked textbooks, Unseen sunsets, Uncharted oceans. I need your ideas to meld with mine Because I want to be a part of something more, Something beautiful. I don’t know if you’ve realized it yet, But I’m only painting my half of this picture. These words are empty to me, Reader, But maybe you can fill them. Your Counterpart

Artworkby bySkyler SkylerTa Ta(12) (12) Artwork

Artwork by Eileen Healy (12)

The Competitive Conversation Thieves Zachary Palmer (12)

Thief 1: Well, there are birds— This was the fish when Iowa City was below sea level, Mom! Look what I brought home! It says “Maze Plants”—Don’t block the corn! Sunflowers— The Crusades came about when the Byzantine Emperor… What does that have to do with this display? This way—this way—if we go this way, The best part is that we have a whole pie… My major? Anthropology, Doe—de—do— Nobody here is being stealthy, I’ve written four lines— Can I see? Stop calling me truffle-butter! That’s a strange name… Hey…wonderful, Any work from the Paleo-Indian… I’m really sorry— Tss—Tss—Tss—Tss Disperse children, disperse! I’ve spoken three lines of nonsense, Then they spliced words together—out of context! Hello… Fossils— How do you spell? Glaciers in Iowa, I get these lines from my mother’s words written on the walls inside of my lunch box.

Thief 2:

Would you be ashamed? I despise… You may never say I am French— I have three birds, Fall, 1835… Deciduous hardwood— I find that interesting. 40

Artwork by Cheryl Zhang (11)

D’abord, l’étoile et la fille se sont régardées. Puis, les deux ont ri et souri. Ensuite, l’étoile et la fille ont joué ensemble. Elles ont fait un tour dans le ciel et ont raconté des histoires. Quand la fille s’est tombée et s’est blessée, l’étoile a embrassé les blessures de la fille. Finalement, quand le soleil a commencé à se lever, l’étoile a fait la promesse de revenir la semaine prochaine. Chaque semaine, la petite étoile venait pour jouer avec la petite fille. Avec le temps, la petite fille grandissait. Une semaine, la petite étoile est venue, mais la petite fille n’était pas là ! L’étoile a attendu, mais la fille n’est pas arrivée. Chaque nuit, l’étoile est venue et a cherché la fille, mais elle n’est jamais venue. La petite étoile était triste. Un jour, la petite étoile est restée dans le ciel. Soudain, une fusée a volé de la terre dans le ciel. L’étoile a été curieuse. Elle a glissé à la fusée et a jeté coup d’œil dans la fusée. Il y avait des personnes dans la fusée! Une femme a parlait avec un homme. L’homme a dit, “Je sais que nous sommes enthousiastes, mais faites attention !” et l’homme a hoché la tête. La femme a mis un costume spécial et un casque et elle a ouvert la porte de la fusée. L’étoile s’est reculée rapidement. Mais avant que l’étoile soit allée trop loin, elle a entendu une petite prière: “Je regarde mes étoiles et les étoiles me regardent. Dieu bénisse les étoiles et Dieu me bénisse.” C’était la petite fille! L’étoile a couru rapidement à la femme et les deux ont ri et ont dansé dans le ciel. La femme a dit qu’elle allait habiter dans une fusée spéciale dans les étoiles. La petite étoile était heureuse! Tous les jours, quand les personnes dans la terre étaient éveillées et les étoiles restaient dans le ciel, la femme et la petite étoile se sont rencontrées et ont dansé dans le ciel. Elles vécurent heureux. La fin.

l était une fois, il y avait une petite fille qui rêvait des étoiles. Toutes les nuits, avant de se coucher, elle marchait à sa fenêtre et regardait toutes les petites lumières qui parsemaient le ciel de velours. La fille murmurait, “Je regarde les étoiles et elles me regardent. Dieu bénisse les étoiles et Dieu me bénisse.” Toutes les nuits, elle rêvait de ses amis, les étoiles. Il était une fois, il y avait une petite étoile qui rêvait des personnes sur la terre. Toutes les nuits, pendant le coucher du soleil, la petite étoile regardait les petites personnes sur la terre. Elle regardait les enfants qui dormaient dans leurs lits et elle murmurait des histoires dans leurs rêves. Toutes les nuits, la petite étoile visitait des centaines d’enfants. Une nuit, la petite étoile a regardé sur la chambre d’un enfant. Mais l’enfant dans la chambre ne dormait pas! L’enfant, qui était la petite fille qui rêvait des étoiles, était bien éveillée. L’étoile s’est cachée rapidement, mais elle a écouté en silence la prière de la fille. “Je regarde les étoiles et elles me regardent. Dieu bénisse les étoiles et Dieu me bénisse.” Mais cette nuit, la fille a ajouté à sa prière: “Permettez-moi de rencontrer les étoiles un jour, s’il vous-plaît.” Et la fille est montée sur son lit. La petite étoile était stupefaite! Elle n’a jamais rencontré un enfant qui a eu émerveillement et qui a adoré les étoiles autant que les étoiles ont eu émerveillement et ont adoré les enfants! La petite étoile a fait un plan. La nuit prochaine, il faisait beau. Il n’y avait pas de nuages ou de brume. La lune brillait forte. La petite étoile est venue à la fenêtre de la fille en avance. La petite étoile a attendu jusqu’à ce que la fille soit venue à la fenêtre et l’étoile a écouté encore la petite prière. “Je regarde les étoiles et elles me regardent. Dieu bénisse les étoiles et Dieu me bénisse.” Mais avant que la fille puisse monter au lit, l’étoile a glissé dans la chambre de la fille.

La Petite Fille et La Petite Ètoile Kaitlyn Goss-Peirce (12) Artwork by Alison Lourigan (12) 42

The Little Girl and the Little Star Kaitlyn Goss-Peirce (12)

“I see the stars and the stars see me. God bless the stars and God bless me.” But before the girl could climb into bed, the star crept into the girl’s bedroom. The star and the girl looked at each other for a few minutes. Then the two laughed and smiled. The star and the girl played together and whispered stories all night long. As the sun began to rise, the star promised she would be back next week to visit the little girl again. Every week, the little star would come and play with the little girl. With time, the little girl grew. One week, the little star came to play, but the little girl wasn’t there! The star waited, but the girl never came. Every night, the star would look for the girl, but she never came. The star was sad; she missed her little friend. One day, as the little star rested in the night sky, a rocket ship flew away from the earth and into the sky. The star was curious. It glided over to the rocket ship and peeked inside. There were people inside! A woman was talking to a man, and eventually the two nodded. The woman put on a special suit and a helmet, and opened the rocket door. The star quickly ran away. But before the star was too far away, she heard a little prayer: “I see the stars and the stars see me. God bless the stars, and God bless me.” It was the little girl! The star quickly ran back to the woman, and the two laughed and danced in the sky all day long. The woman explained she was going to live on a special rocket in the stars. Every day, while the people on earth were awake and the stars rested in the sky, the girl and the little star met and danced in the sky. They lived happily ever after. The end.

here once was a girl who dreamed of the stars. Every night, before she went to bed, the girl would go to her window and look up at the millions of twinkling lights dotting the velvet carpet of night. The little girl would whisper, “I see the stars and the stars see me. God bless my little stars and God bless me.” Every night, she would dream of her little friends, the stars. There once was a little star who dreamed of the people on earth. Every night, as the sun faded from the sky, the little star would look down upon the little people scattered about the earth. She would look upon the children, sleeping in their beds, and whisper little stories for them to dream about. Every night, she would visit hundreds of children and whisper dreams into their ears. One night, the little star looked upon a child’s be room. But the child inside wasn’t asleep! The child, the girl who dreamed of stars, was wide awake and standing in her window. The star quickly hid, but listened quietly to the girl’s evening prayer. “I see the stars and the stars see me. God bless my little stars and God bless me.” But this night, the girl added extra words to her little prayer: “Please let me meet a star one day.” And the girl left her window and climbed into bed. The little star was stunned! Never had she met a child who wondered and loved the stars as the stars wondered and loved the children! So the little star made a plan. The next night, the little star came to the little girl’s window early. The little star waited until the girl came to the window, and again listened to her little prayer. 43

I said, “I love you,” so I could feel it roll off my tongue. It felt hollow as it rang through the air. I said, “I love you,” to hear it echo off the walls. It bounced around as it faded away. I said, “I love you,” from behind a door. You knocked twice and whispered that you loved me too.

I Love You

I said, “I love you,” as you were falling asleep in my arms. You snuggled closer, kissed me, and pulled me under the covers. I said, “I love you,” so you would stop walking away. But it hung in the air behind you as you left. I said, “I love you,” to no one, just to hear it again. It echoed off the walls until it faded away. I said, “I love you,” in my head. I wasn’t ready to say it to someone new yet.

Thomas Tenzin (12)

Artwork by Judy Park (10)

Humans Tia Parisi (11)

Wood burns with temper, like the sun will slowly rise, Tiptoes up to reach its peak, then simmers to its demise. The flame engulfs the lonely house, just as the time hits noon, Then all is ash raining down, as sun is replaced with moon. Debris bubbles beneath the sky, set fire to the grasses, Leaving the man left to die, ignored by the masses. People gape near the road, their hands the victim of chill. Tempted by the vacant ash that simmers atop the hill. Desire explodes, frenzy ignites, the frozen are forced to climb, Blind to the bodies they trample below, unaware of their crime. Trip over limbs, claw to the top to warm themselves in the heat, All the while ignoring the man who patiently dies at their feet. 46

Artwork by Eileen Healy (12)

The 2016 issue of The Wayfarer, Volume XXXI, was typeset, and the layouts were produced using Adobe InDesign Creative Suite 3 and Adobe Photoshop Creative Suite 3. The Wayfarer uses the Book Antiqua font family for all copy and bylines. Various fonts were used for titles. Thysee Printing Service was responsible for printing 600 copies of The Wayfarer.

Mission Statement Edgewood, a Catholic high school, educates the whole student for a life of learning, service and personal responsibility through a rigorous academic curriculum that embraces the Sinsinawa Dominican values of Truth, Compassion, Justice, Community, and Partnership.

Thank You The Wayfarer staff expresses its gratitude to ENCORE, donors dedicated to promoting the Fine Arts at Edgewood High School.

Published by the students of Edgewood High School of the Sacred Heart 2219 Monroe Street Madison, WI 53711 www.edgewoodhs.org Volume XXXI Spring 2016