Jackson Prep Earthwinds 2021 by Jackson Prep

e a r t hw inds

the literary and art journal of jackson preparatory school

ea r t hwi n d s

2021

jackson preparatory school jackson, mississippi 39296 jacksonprep.net/earthwinds

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staff

Ainslee Johnson Belle Grace Wilkinson Kennedy Maloney Paul D. Smith, PhD

note from the editors

Editor-in-Chief Poetry and Prose Editor Art and Photography Editor Faculty Advisor

The 2021 earthwinds staff was presented with a wonderful opportunity: celebrating the 50th anniversary of Prep’s literary and art journal. We did not take our task lightly—we wanted to honor and continue the rich legacy of our predecessors. This golden anniversary edition of earthwinds offers words and images that move through time. From the black-and-white simplicity of the seventies to the vibrancy of the nineties to the contemporary earthwinds that has made its name nationally known, we have taken a journey through the life of the magazine. These pages contain a deeply-rooted love for words that has grown abundantly over the last fifty years. We hope you enjoy the movement through time in this 50th edition of Jackson Preparatory School’s earthwinds.

editorial policy

The contents of this magazine represent the remarkable depth and variety of creative talent found among the students of Jackson Preparatory School. Selections are made by the staff on the basis of creativity, style, and artistic merit. Artists retain all rights to their work.

The views represented in earthwinds are those of the artists and do not necessarily reflect those of the staff, the sponsor, or the Jackson Preparatory School Board of Trustees. Student members of the earthwinds staff conduct the design, layout, and proofreading of the magazine, and the works published are solely those of Jackson Prep students.

colophon

spread design

Ainslee Johnson: 1–7, 22–27, 32–43, 48–51, 56–57, 64–65, 76–77, 86–87, 90–91, 98–101 Belle Grace Wilkinson: 12–15, 18–19, 28–29, 66–75, 78–81, 84–85, 88–89, 94–97 Kennedy Maloney: 8–11, 16–17, 20–21, 30–31, 44–47, 52–55, 58–63, 82–83, 92–93

This issue of earthwinds was designed on iMacs using Adobe InDesign CC and Photoshop CC. Cover image by Caroline Heirs and design by Belle Grace Wilkinson. The font is Amiri. Dallas Printing of Jackson, Mississippi, printed the magazine on partially recycled paper using soy-based ink with no animal byproducts.

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Anti-Love Letter 9 Belle Grace Wilkinson Honey 10 Belle Grace Wilkinson Writer’s Block 13 Kennedy Maloney In Defense of Lying 14 Kennedy Maloney Good Morning 17 Ainslee Johnson Insults 18 Ainslee Johnson Aubade for Daydreamers 21 Ainslee Johnson I’m Ugly 22 Ainslee Johnson Lonely on your Special Day 25 Belle Grace Wilkinson The Stalker 27 Belle Grace Wilkinson Wisteria 29 Ainslee Johnson i’m not sorry 31 Belle Grace Wilkinson Cavities 33 Belle Grace Wilkinson After the Creation 41 Ainslee Johnson Before the Needle 42 Ainslee Johnson Morning Thoughts 45 Belle Grace Wilkinson Lullaby 53 Belle Grace Wilkinson I Walk in Near Silence 55 Graham Speed Beauty not Truth 57 Alex Roberson Pretend 58 Ainslee Johnson stay 61 Kennedy Maloney

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In My Mind 62 Ainslee Johnson I Wish I Could 65 Belle Grace Wilkinson The Waiter 67 Ainslee Johnson Part of the Whole 77 Lilly Noble Truffles 78 Ainslee Johnson Another Day 81 Ainslee Johnson Roses are Red 83 Kennedy Maloney Rubber Band 85 Kennedy Maloney Alone on a Subway 87 Kennedy Maloney Pluto 88 Belle Grace Wilkinson Leaf 91 Belle Grace Wilkinson A Cup of Tea 93 Ainslee Johnson The Bicycle 94 Kimberly Blount The Clock 99 Belle Grace Wilkinson

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Chaos 8 Carlie Gleason paradox 11 Jillian Hollman Blanket 12 Rachel Watts Blur 15 Carlie Gleason untitled 16 Hannah Zhou Fate 19 Ethan Hicks Dazed and Confused 20 Elizabeth Clarke Peace 23 Carlie Gleason Childhood Sweets 24 Hannah Zhou Untitled 26 Caroline Cavett Birthday 28 Belle Grace Wilkinson Merlot Moon 30 Lily Flowers fall 32 Brittany Jiang parents swimming 40 Brittany Jiang Bathroom 43 Julia Phillippi Purple 44 Madie Van Pelt Reaching 50 Alex Roberson Twists and Turns 51 Katherine Habeeb Butterfly Effect 52 Katherine O’Brien primary 54 Emma Liddell

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Purple Skies 56 Mimi McCraney Cobbleburnt 59 Eli Venarski thriller dreamer 60 Brittany Jiang Interrogation 63 Elizabeth Clarke drowning in hallucination 64 Brittany Jiang the sun 66 Brittany Jiang truth 75 Brittany Jiang Taking Flight 76 Elizabeth Clarke Poolside 79 Riley McCoy Balloon 80 Belle Grace Wilkinson Study in Oil 82 Madie Van Pelt Glow 84 Belle Grace Wilkinson Blur 86 Molly Tipton Sliver of Silver 89 Lilly Flowers Gateway to Somewhere 90 Elizabeth Clark Deep Blue Sea 92 Hali Holman Every Breath You Take 94 Macy Polk Imagine 97 Raylei McKinney La Vie En Rose 98 Emma Liddell like a river 100 Brittany Jiang

Sapphics

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Anti-Love Letter

Belle Grace Wilkinson

All you are: the fingerprints scarred into me that have stained my skin an unpleasant color. Bruised and battered love is what keeps me alive— scars of the desperate. Hiding heartbreak, burning the letters—ashes pile inside my head, and you burn, not with them, but with every word from your lying tongue. I know that you’ll miss me.

Chaos | Carlie Gleason | charcoal

Belle Grace Wilkinson

Honey

It is that quiet time of morning when the world is still sleeping. With my book and tea, I tiptoe to not wake you, honey. You look so peaceful, like the gentle tune from my music box, and your skin—olive and soft— gleams in the dim light. This is my alone time,

sestina

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but I fall back desperately in love every time we meet, so I hate to part: a daily mourning. An autumn chill grazes my nose like a soft kiss and blows away the wisp of steam from my tea. I take a slow sip as I hum a tune from the radio last night. Blissful, honey, is how I feel. The sun—golden as honey— glimmers on the fresh dew. It’s about time to wake you up. I want you to hear the tune of the thrushes, singing gaily of new morning. Darling, wake up, and I’ll make you some tea with ginger and lemon to soothe your soft

lips. My book and the words within those soft pages will go untouched, but honey, for you I would give up every word, cup of tea, birdsong. For you? The world—time and time again. If this moment, if this new morning in all its beauty were my last, to hear the tune of the thrushes with your hand in mine would tune my life to a forever joy. Your soft fingers laced through mine are all the morning treasures I need. So, wake up now. Here’s honey to sweeten your cup. In all the countless times I’ve let you stay sleeping, I’ve taken my tea

and my book, and I watch the new day until my tea gets cold. I walk inside, kiss your nose, and tune the radio to our favorite station. Every time it’s playing our song from that night. I keep it soft— you are still adjusting to the new day. Honey, there is nothing like your smile in the morning.

I have my hot tea, the golden morning sunrise, and nothing but time to share in these soft moments, humming the tunes of memories with you, honey.

paradox (design) | Jillian Hollman | graphite

dramatic monologue

Writer’s Block

Kennedy Maloney

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Click. Click. Click. I wish my mind would formulate the thoughts needed to fill up this page. 1000 words turn to zero in the blink of an eye. I want the ink to form a black hole on this page, encapsulate my thoughts and generate a meaningful piece, taking me with it. I can’t think when the doors of little children are always open in my mind, sending shock waves of doodling and procrastination. Think. Think. Think. Nothing. My fancy pen dances on my fingertips, refusing to touch the page, like an wise old man fearing the plague that circles a nation. I’ve been preparing for this my whole life, but every inch of my body is holding back. Fearing that the purity of the white page will go away when I write. Somehow filling my soul with its want for words and meaning.

Blanket | Rachel Watts | ink

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In Defense of Lying

Kennedy Maloney

It’s just a simple reconstruction of syntax, a mode of getting your way at the right time. Like swiping black tar on a window or a teenage mood swing. One move can change the entire image. I mean, what’s wrong with wanting something you don’t have? I prefer the easy way out, but I can promise you, I’ve never lied once in my life.

Blur | Carlie Gleason | charcoal

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Good Morning

Ainslee Johnson

Last night I feared I would die in my sleep. Look, here I am now braised in lavender and sunbeam and my throat burning and the red bird out the window and I’m happy. I’m happy with everything it elicits.

Untitled | Hannah Zhou | ink

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I N S ULTS

Ainslee Johnson

You can pick me apart to my very vessels and veins, to my wires and gears, in every wrinkle on my skin, to every split end in my hair, within my anesthetized mind, to every oxygen molecule flowing through my lungs, to every cell in a drop of my blood, to every proton, neutron, and electron until I’m a pile of quantum nothingness. Smash. Shatter. Splinter. Split. I will sit here smiling because I didn’t expect anything different.

Fate | Ethan Hicks | photo

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Aubade for Daydreamers

Ainslee Johnson

It hurts. From the dullness of the sky cut by everlasting sun to the songs of branches and chirping of songbirds. The morning creatures dance upon waves of sound. It stings from the noses of my nerves to the deep core of my chest. It carries heavy on my lungs, with every breath it adds another weight to further suffocate me with my own body. It hurts. When the clouds don’t form into animals, when harsh, cold reality burns your wrist like rusty medieval prison chains. Because in this dream you had a purpose, you knew where to go. Because in this dream people cared, even that person. Because in this dream it didn’t hurt to wake up. When you are in the dreameous state, you fly through starlight planes of space, in lands nobody speaks of, but everybody knows. It’s warm. Like the sunlight tingling on your face as you sit on your private island. Waking up is cold, and it hurts.

Dazed and Confused | Elizabeth Clarke | ink

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I’m Ugly

Ainslee Johnson

No matter what anyone else says, I will always be ugly, until you tell me I’m beautiful.

Peace | Carlie Gleason | colored pencil and marker

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Lonely on your

Special Day

Belle Grace Wilkinson

Confetti scattered limp, party favors untouched on the table and heartbroken tears on the floor. Her uncut strawberry cake left no crumbs on the Minnie Mouse table cloth. She had it all to herself now, but the loneliness burdened her little heart. Alone, she lit the big striped candle with a proud number “7” and made her wish: she’d rather share what she loved than have to love it alone.

Childhood Sweets | Hannah Zhou | watercolor

terza rima

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It was late, and you were standing outside with a whirlwind of cigarette smoke swirling around your head. On the curbside,

the ashes piled. You were pleased when they broke off: every deep inhale, another one to dust. You wanted the feeling of death to soak into your poisoned lungs. The chemicals must have made you feel something that this place didn’t. I wish I knew how you felt. A gust

of wind scattered your pile down the empty street. You watched and lit another without missing a beat.

The —Stalker—

Belle Grace Wilkinson

Untitled | Caroline Cavett | photo

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Wisteria

Ainslee Johnson

The world is a veil waiting to be torn. What’s underneath? Maybe if I reach into the thin sky and tug as tight as I can, I could rip the world in two, tear apart oceans, mountains, trees, wildflowers, and wisteria. There has to be something behind this. We sharpen our claws as we find comfort in the warm light of false safety—knowing we will eventually accomplish something. We fight every single day for a success that only exists as long as we do. This world is a beautiful, dangerous place. We ignore the wisteria peeking through the trees like purple sunlight and look straight ahead, driving ourselves into oblivion.

Birthday | Belle Grace Wilkinson | photo

haiku

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i’m not sorry

Belle Grace Wilkinson

i do not want another soul to know your heart the way that i do —unapologetic selfishness

Merlot Moon | Lily Flowers | photo

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Cavities

Belle Grace Wilkinson

woke up at 4:27 again this morning. I peeked through my blinds to see if any life was awake with me, but they were all still drifting in the void in-between. The window was frosted—the closer I looked, the more the sheets of ice looked like millions of tiny snowflakes. I could make out the microscopic details of every unique flake stuck to my window. The fog from my breath crept up the glass until I could no longer see what was already just darkness, so naturally, I drew two dots and a parabola on the hazy pane. I exhaled room-temperature carbon dioxide onto my ice-cold pointer finger and dazedly grinned at the smiling face I made—a comfort to see protecting me from the blackness of 4:30. I smiled back at him until he faded away. I don’t know what’s wrong with me. It’s like my energy battery is constantly at full charge. When I open my eyes, I feel like I was never asleep—my dreams dissolve in the millisecond it takes for my eyes to go from seeing nothing but blackness to opening and realizing that the world my unconscious thoughts created is nothing more than a wish: a longing for something different. I sat up and decided that my day had begun; there was no hope in attempting to fall back to sleep. I shifted sideways and let my bare feet touch the cold wooden floor—goosebumps shooting up my spine. I don’t like slippers. They make me feel weak: if I can’t handle the morning cold of my bedroom floor, then what could I ever handle? I took a deep breath and tiptoed to the kitchen—my ancient floors creaked like arthritic skeleton. My fall blend coffee beans were already ground, but I went ahead and ground more for a lazy rainy day. Productive. I’m wide awake anyway. I saw this video of a girl frothing milk in a French press. I don’t know how I feel about it, but I tried it anyway. I don’t even take milk in my coffee: it hurts my stomach. I only keep it as a treat for the stray cat that lives in my bushes. But, it was 4:39, and I had nothing better to do.

fall | Brittany Jiang | photo

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My favorite mug was in the dishwasher. It was gifted to me by someone I don’t remember. It was big and yellow like any good mug should be, but it was dirty. I must’ve forgotten to start the load last night. I washed it by hand. The box of Honey Nut Cheerios was on its last leg—half a serving left. Usually, I eat two bowls with almond milk and blueberries, so needless to say, this discovery was a disappointment. But, I guess I need to lose some weight. And so does everyone else—I’ll just be ahead of the game. I ate alone in the bay window of my small kitchen. It’s the most beautiful part of my apartment, overlooking the quiet street that never changes. Sometimes familiarity is a good thing. Sometimes. Meadowbrooke Avenue is a lonely place at 4:51. Even the breeze that scrapes the barren branches of the birch tree against my window had not made its usual appearance yet. The dimmed streetlights barely lit the road. The longer I stared, the emptier it became. There was no one—just a never-ending slab of paved concrete; it seemed longer than usual. The bay window suddenly seemed massive, like an opening to an overwhelmingly small world that my doomed future belongs to. The window grew and grew, but I stayed the same: overlooked and unimportant. I was too small. My street became the size of the entire planet—the only road I’d ever walk, the only place I’d ever be. My head jerked up from the table at the sound of my blaring alarm clock. My clock said it was 6:02 a.m. My cup of coffee was cold, and the last of my cheerios were soggy. 6:02 a.m. I had work in an hour. I deliriously wiped the morning gunk from my eyes and threw away my neglected meal. I picked out my outfit the night before thanks to my untimely restlessness. It didn’t take long for me to get dressed and put on my minimal makeup—I’m going through an winged-eyeliner-only phase: I want to be simple like the French girls who drink straight espresso in their vintage slip dresses, but I think espresso is too bitter and slip dresses don’t flatter my giant hips. So, I had to put on my too-big clearance pencil skirt and blazer because it’s the last of my clean business suits. The hole in my tights was undoubtedly noticeable, but there was nothing I could do about it other than coat the tear with hairspray and accept a sticky leg. It was freezing outside. The dew on the grass sparkled like snow—just looking at it made me shiver, and my pathetic ripped tights were no help. I rushed to my helpless toaster on wheels, even though I knew that the air conditioning was incapable of producing any heat, and turned on the sputtering engine.

It was an old car—nothing to be showing off. I call it an antique, but on the “ancient to valuable” scale of collectable, it leans so far left that it falls out of my peripheral vision. Sometimes it breaks down in places that are so ironically inconvenient I contemplate whether jumping in the powerful current of the river would be a more viable option than calling a tow truck. I eased out of my driveway and turned on the Solid Gold Oldies radio station: if I start getting too freaked out about the fact that my generation of millennials will one day be running the world, I simply turn on “Why Do Fools Fall in Love” by The Teenagers, and it puts me back into my humble place. The roads were emptier than usual for a Thursday. I passed through the Square and saw freezing pedestrians bundled up in so many layers they looked like the Pillsbury Doughboy. The store windows were decorated with cotton batting and multicolored lights; people were just trying to get into the spirit of things. I work as a receptionist at a law firm not too far from my apartment, hence the god-awful business suit. Obviously, that isn’t what I want to do with the rest of my life—I’d much rather move to Amsterdam and open a flower shop on the Amstel River—but it pays the bills for now. I was halfway to the firm when my phone buzzed. I was driving, but I’ve gotten quite good at tempting fate. Dentist appt., Dec. 13 @ 9:00 a.m. Dentist Appointment. Damn it. I made a U-turn in an illegal zone in front of a cop and nearly went off-road, but he must’ve been eating a donut because I drove further and further away, yet no blue lights flashed in my rearview mirror—a disappointing end to a potentially thrilling story. I’ve never had a cavity, but I still have reservations about the dentist. Maybe it’s because every other person on this planet has nightmares about the sound of dental drills, so their dread is imprinted on me. I’ve never heard a normal person say they enjoy getting a stranger’s fingers stuck down their throat. I’ve never even heard a questionably sane person say they don’t mind it, much less enjoy it. I called my boss to say I would be late. The traffic was minimal, so I made it just in time. My dentist works in a small brick building big enough

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for two dentist chairs. I parked in between two faded lines and prepared for the wave of dry cold that was about to hit my bare face. I hurried inside to the buzz of expensive heaters warming the legs of a chair-glued receptionist. She wore baby blue scrubs and a kind smile with a messy knot of hair on top of her head and one too many tacky bracelets on her right wrist. “Can I help you?” “Yes, I have an appointment. My name is—” “Oh, say no more, sweetie. I remember you from last time. I could recognize that beautiful red hair from anywhere. Just take a seat over there.” “Thank you.” I always liked that receptionist—she always had a sweet thing to say. I looked around the waiting room and studied the odd decor that was placed in shockingly precarious places: a disco ball hanging from a piece of fishing line above a glass coffee table, a coffee pot on a stool next to a white velvet sofa for a complementary burst of caffeine, and a delicately hand-built replica of a pirate ship sitting on a low shelf behind the front door. Something terrible was bound to happen one day, and I hoped to God I would be there for it. I only waited a few minutes before a dental hygienist cracked open the door and called my name. I semi-reluctantly stood up and obeyed her beckoning. “Good news, you had an X-ray last time you came, so you don’t have to get one today… Unless, you want one, of course,” she said with a weird giggle. “Oh, no thank you!” I managed to choke up an unconvincing chuckle. “Alrighty then, follow me.” She led me into a small boxy room with an awkwardly high ceiling and sad gray walls that matched the pleather of the examination chair. A small window on the wall was too high to see out of. “All right, hun, here you go. Just sit down here, and I’ll start your cleaning.” I sat in the uncomfortable chair, and she reclined it until I was parallel with the sky-high ceiling: it was made of panels of stained wood—the idea was promising, but the execution was poor; it looked handmade. She placed a yellow napkin on my chest and gathered the rest of her surgical-looking metal tools. She switched on the intimidating yellow LED light that hung above me, threw her hands into her lap in an excited manner, and grinned. “Okay, open up for me.”

I opened my mouth as wide as I could. I felt like a little kid again, hiding the emotion that lies somewhere between fear and confidence. “Oh, my. You have some of the most beautiful teeth I have ever seen. You know, I’ve been a dental hygienist for twenty-five years, and I have seen some pretty nasty things. Do you floss every morning and night?” “No, I don’t,” I barely sounded out. She was in the middle of brushing my teeth—there was bubblegum flavored saliva—they were out of mint, apparently— building up in the back of my throat. I could hardly make any sort of coherent sound

“Something terrible was bound to happen one day, and I hoped to God I would be there for it.”

“Well, that is quite shocking given how pearly your smile is. Now, tell me, where are you working nowadays?” “Sullivan Legal,” barely audible. I didn’t understand why she kept trying to ask me questions that I obviously couldn’t answer. “Oh! Very interesting.” I doubt she even understood me. She should’ve been a paid actress for how believable she was making it all seem. She kept talking, and I kept barely answering. She finally completed the hard cleaning and rinsed my mouth with that strange metal squirty device: it’s always been my favorite part of a dentist appointment—I adore the feeling of the ice cold water washing away the remnants of the bubblegum cleaning paste from the small cracks between my teeth. The vacuum tool sucked away my sudsy saliva, leaving me with a functional mouth—a short-lived victory because she abruptly stuffed floss between my front two teeth and sawed back and forth until my gums bled. “Okay, hun, I’m finishing up, and I’ll get the doctor to come check on you in just a second. Sit tight!” The empty room was lifeless and lonely. I looked up at the small window but couldn’t see out of it. I stood up from the chair and backed away to get a better view, searching for anything that could comfort me. Not even the top of a tree was

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visible through the window. The longer I stared, the smaller the window became. It got harder to see the cotton candy clouds and the bright blue color of the winter sky. It shrunk and the room shrunk, and I was locked in a tiny cell with no oxygen and no water and no hope of escape. I felt my throat closing up and fell to my knees, so I went for the one water-abundant source I could think of: the metal rinser. I crawled to the dentist’s station and, with one hand on the pedal and one hand on the tool, sprayed the water into my mouth—chugging it down. The stream spewed out faster than I could swallow, going everywhere. It soaked my blazer and my chin: I felt the rising panic in my lungs. “Hey there!” The dentist enthusiastically swung the door open, which jerked me awake. “Gosh, long night? I didn’t mean to startle you, my apologies.” He must’ve been a new dentist, but I was too shaken up at first to notice his jaw-dropping beauty: he looked like the love child of Johnny Depp and young Stevie Nicks. If I believed in love at first sight, this would’ve been it. “Oh, no! I accidentally took a little snooze.” If I had a gun with a single bullet handy, I would have used it at that exact moment with no hesitation because I said the phrase “little snooze” in front of this god-like man. “No worries. I’ll take a look at your teeth now, if you don’t mind.” “Be my guest!” Why do I talk? Ever? He stuck his little mirror and scraper tool into my mouth, more gently than the dental hygienist—something for which I was grateful. It was painfully difficult to not gaze into his dark chocolate eyes as he leaned over me. I studied his features: the faded freckles, the singular dimple on the right side of his mouth, the scar on his upper lip. Plain and simple: he was beautiful. I was losing myself until he scraped particularly hard on one tooth, which made the hairs on my arm stand up. “Well, now, miss, I do believe that you might have a small cavity on your right incisor. It’s no big deal; we’ll get it fixed in no time. Just schedule an appointment for you to come back soon. I’ll walk to you to the front desk.” All I could bear to do was flash a soft smile. He led me to the reception desk and left me to pay. I watched him as he walked back through the door. “Ok, sweetie, when do you want to schedule the appointment to come back? It’s not a long process…” I didn’t catch the rest of what she said, I just knew I could never face him again. He knew I had bad teeth, he knew I wasn’t perfect,

he would never think I was perfect. Ever. I bet he had perfect teeth—he was perfect, so he must have flossed everyday or something. I couldn’t face him again, especially knowing that he thinks I’m ugly and imperfect. “Never.” It was probably a dramatic way to leave, but I couldn’t help it when the tears started falling as I walked out the front door—my heartache was too much to bear. I slipped on the icy pavement in the parking lot, but at that point, it didn’t even phase me. I stood up and made it to my car, blurred vision and all—it felt like the below freezing temperature was turning my tears into droplets of ice before they had the chance to fall from my chin. The car wouldn’t start. I turned the engine over again and again but nothing. There I was in the frozen parking lot of a living deity disguised as a dentist with a car engine that failed me, a painful toothache, and a broken heart. I’d rather drink bitter espresso and wear an unflattering slip dress than ever see him again. My cavity was never fixed.

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After the Creation of the World

Ainslee Johnson

Rock and rubble, land and water swam within themselves like a fully functioning machine created delicately and purely by its Master. Darkness waited around the corner like a mousetrap. People made clothes out of leaves.

Languages, different faces, and experiences now move with the wind. Fire, water, salt, and sweet spiceflavored textiles. Slow down, man has conquered the sea. The earth has crumbled into a ball like paper—it used to be flat. People paint pictures while others carve weapons for war. It seems like forever ago when we said goodbye to the dinosaurs.

parents swimming away | Brittany Jiang | photo

Traditions are beginning, and pilgrims are pilgrimming. Selfish desire sits on a wire like a crow in the morning, weapons that explode in many shapes and sizes. Birthday parties, high fives, and candy. Coffee fuels the tone of the world. Power is hungry and it devours people in deep rage. The computer is coded for decoding and pulling apart our minds. Holidays are celebrated some more. Music is the new coffee.

I could talk to you from here to Australia. Life has become a game, just like politics. Funny how it works. The mousetrap has caught some, but there is still hope.

Before the Needle

Ainslee Johnson

The air smells royal blue, dark and slicing into a series of painful memories as old as modern technology itself. The purple rubber gloves try to reassure me, leaving chalk dust where they touch. Their residue is invisible to the human eye, but you feel it brushing the ends of your nerves. And I’ve done this time and time again, but my body is hot and my hands are cold, shaking. It’s like when I knew you didn’t love me, yet I made you say it anyway. It still hurt. My arm squeezed with the power of a thousand eagles flying, all pulling a single chain. The nurse wipes my skin with a damp cloth like you’d imagine a tiger with bulging muscles would, rough and trying to be gentle. Nature will be nature. I breathe in that sharp blue again and close my eyes. I squeeze the bottom of my chair, wishing it was my mother’s hand. I hear the small click of a needle going into its place. “I don’t love you,” it whispers.

Bathroom | Julia Phillippi | acrylic

Morning Thoughts in a Dusty Room

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Belle Grace Wilkinson

I hate sunrises and the narrow rays of light that beam through the tiny gaps in my blinds, blinding my drowsy eyes. I wish things functioned like they were meant to. Morning light casts shadows on billions of dust particles flittering around my lonely bedroom. Fibers, bacteria, dead skin cells. My dead skin cells. Microscopic pieces of my own flesh: decayed, detached, gone, and flying around my room, teasing me. I can only see those old parts of me when the sun rises: when the dusty beams of light show me what I used to be, what I will be, what I want to be. I hate sunrises and the pieces of me that got away. The irony is too much to bear.

Purple | Madie Van Pelt | digital

the literary & art journal of jackson preparatory school

volume forty-nine

2020

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literary and art journal jackson preparatory school

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volume fifty

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48 earthwinds

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2020

The Literary and Art Journal of Jackson Preparatoy School

ea r thw i n d s

the literary and art journal of jackson preparatory school

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“I can truly say that Earthwinds was a joy for myself and many others who were on the staff.”

—Mark Caraway (Class of 1977)

“I remember the feeling of being published for the first time and thinking, ‘Wow, someone thinks what I wrote is really good,’ and that was really incredible. What an unexpected path for growth, accomplishment and inclusiveness for all students. Congratulations to all who have kept the spirit of Earthwinds alive all these years.”

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—Cynthia Harrison Saatkamp (Class of 1989)

Lynn Green ‘72

No, I’m not really insane— It’s just that on certain days my mind steps out of my brain and floats through the eye of the sky and the nose of the rose and runs beneath the shadows with the Earthwinds.

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“I am forever mindful of and deeply grateful for all that I learned and the great fun I had working on the Earthwinds staff what feels like just a few years ago but was oh so many more.”

—Janet Gerber (Coeditor 1994)

“It’s in Earthwinds that I first fell in love with the peculiar pleasure of writing workshops— it was my safe space, no less—where I was able to read the intimate thoughts of others on a page and marvel at how each and every one of my classmates’ minds worked in such excruciatingly different and curious ways. I, too, was “read” in such a way, and I am unable to put into words how validating that was for me as teenager. To be seen. It was gift.”

—Mary Buchanan Sellers (Prose Editor of 2009)

“To call Earthwinds a class or a magazine would be to oversimplify the power of it—it is a long-running publication featuring invariably high-caliber art and writing; it is a sandbox for those who may go on to become curators of art and writing as adults; it is an essential cornerstone of Prep’s creative community as well as a benchmark for excellence for scholastic literary journals across the country. I am so proud to be an Earthwinds alum and so grateful that it lit the path for me so many years ago.”

—Alexandra Franklin (Editor-in-Chief 2010)

Earthwinds is special to me because it’s not only the place where I felt an unconditional sense of belonging and joy, but because it is where I met so many of my lifelong friends. Because the environment of Earthwinds is so affirming, creative, and simply wonderful, I have tried to model my life after the feeling I came to know in the publications room. Earthwinds is much more than a high school literary magazine, it’s a lifelong community.”

—Jewels Tauzin (Editor-in-Chief 2018)

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Twists and Turns | Katherine Habeeb | photo

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Lullaby

Belle Grace Wilkinson

You are my sunshine— I can smell the fresh coffee dripping into the pot. I can hear you softly singing the love song my dad used to sing to me. my only sunshine. But I know you aren’t there— your silverware left untouched. You make me happy, I still set it out every night. when skies are gray. That song always made me sad, but I’d give anything to hear it again. You’ll never know, dear, how much I love you. I love you. Come back. Please don’t take my sunshine away.

Butterfly Effect | Catherine O’Brien | acrylic

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I Walk in Near Silence

I walk in near silence, the kind suspended in air before a storm, as every resilient creature prepares for the suspicious tranquility to break into chaos. I hear only the sound beneath my feet, each step anxious, hesitant to disrupt the fragile scene.

Graham Speed

I came here to find peace, yet in the silence my mind grew paranoid to shatter a world in which I didn’t fit.

primary | Emma Liddell | photo

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Beauty not Truth

Alex Roberson

It looks like a child has gone over it with crayons. The reds are plastered and scuffed, everywhere and nowhere at the same time; a crime scene of splattered possibilities. I’m told that if I add another— if I keep mixing, layering, mixing— it will be beautiful. And so I pick up the pastel, my fingers greasy with smudged attempts, and try to see a picture under all these tries. But my life is not a painting, and I am tired of layers.

Purple Skies (detail) | Mimi McCraney | acrylic

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Pretend

Ainslee Johnson

I must’ve been about five when I picked a dandelion and blew. You told me I wasn’t magical enough to see the fairies, but you were. Maybe the wand I fashioned out of vines and a stick was pretty enough? Maybe it was the drop of honey I left on a magnolia leaf. I was finally magical enough.

Cobbleburnt | Eli Venarske | photo

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Stay

Kennedy Maloney I was afraid you would walk away and never look back. I needed you, and I thought that you needed me. I didn’t like to be alone, because I didn’t want one second not to be filled with you. I tried to hold onto the rituals of the past so that nothing would ever change between us. I wanted everything to stay the same. Change was my enemy. My greatest fear. It haunted me. Forced me to see through the eyes of someone that I was not and who I wished I never was. Change somehow shattered my insides until I didn’t focus on who I needed to be, because I thought everything was perfect. But it wasn’t.

thriller dreamer | Brittany Jiang | photo

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In My Mind

Ainslee Johnson

Maybe it was the way you said my name, I don’t know. I don’t know much these days. I’m a fool, a clown. As I dance around with my face painted smiling, I pretend I’m happy. Wait, I am happy. I am happy. I wish you were here, then I’d be happy. I wish you knew I was here and maybe you’d come. Maybe you’d say my name again in your strong voice. It’s nice. I like your voice. I like when it notices me. I’m stupid. I pretend I’m stupid. I wish I was. You’re like a hero, a knight, a legend. You’re shiny and gorgeous and you’re everything. Snap out of it. It’s dark in here. Turn the lights back on. If the lights are back on, I will see you again. Standing next to me. Truth is dark. I’m happy. It’s okay. Everything is fine. I really wish it was. No. Never. Wait, just don’t think about it. Don’t think about the smile. I wish you’d see me. Shut up. Smile, make it happen. Dance around, you clown. Act stupid, you fool. Trick them.

Interrogation | Elizabeth Clarke | acrylic

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Wish Could

Belle Grace Wilkinson

tell her that it gets easier as I brush back her frizzy curls behind her small and sinless ear, that the world will grow kinder, and that she’ll be the heartbreaker strutting around like she owns the place, that her sweet tears will fall less, and her smile will show more, and the monsters in her closet are just a bad dream. tell her it’s all just a bad dream, but I’d just be lying to both of us.

drowning in hallucination | Brittany Jiang | photo

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The Waiter

Ainslee Johnson

Brittany Jiang ~ The Sun ~ photography

the sun | Brittany Jiang | photo

You know how everyone has something wrong with them? Well, this man’s one fault is that nothing seemed to be wrong with him. Absolutely repulsive. Disgustingly sublime. Let me paint you a picture, it isn’t a pretty one, but it isn’t bad. He walked up to the steps of my porch one foot at a time. He didn’t slightly slip on that edge—the concrete ledge that stabs everyone in the back. I couldn’t believe it. Many people stumble there; it’s entertaining to watch. Now you think I’m a terrible person, don’t you? I promise you I’m not. I can just feel the embarrassment sweating from the pores on their foreheads after they fall. It brings back memories of when I fell in the bleachers at a football game. Everyone noticed it. Their eyes seemed to bulge out of their heads as they peered into every secret chamber in my soul. It was absolutely horrifying. I was like a deer staring into headlights, waiting for the car crash, the laughter. Back to this man, I can’t even focus on him. I wanted to see if he was the-laugh-it-off kind of person or the, “I’m sorry, how embarrassing,” type of person. He was neither. He was the confidentlysmile-as-I-walk-to-pick-up-my-date type of guy. Now, I wasn’t completely destroyed by the fact he didn’t slip, I am not a terrible person. It was a series of small factors. This wasn’t even a major one. He had brownish green eyes, not particularly striking, and his hair was brown. His jawline was as sharp as a butter knife and a dull one at that. He could have been a nose model if that was a thing. Maybe it is a thing, I

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don’t know. There were no curves or dents in it, and it wasn’t too short or too long. A bystander would have called him handsome, some. He wasn’t too good looking, and he tried to be charming. His face was covered by a thin beard. His eyebrows were on the thick side and his hair was combed a little. He was wearing a light blue long sleeve shirt with darker blue lines. He wasn’t ugly. No, even in my occasional insanity I wouldn’t call him that. But in a large crowd, he couldn’t catch my eye if it were thrown at him. Also, he didn’t open the car door for me. He decided to take me to an Italian restaurant. I had lived in this town for three years now and usually have a couple of friends come with me to this restaurant every other week. It was a classic old Italian joint. The best thing was their spaghetti—it was handcrafted by the finest artisans in Italy. The noodles were thin, and, if I didn’t know where they came from, I could mistake them for someone’s old Italian great grandmother’s hand kneaded dough noodles. Pure angel’s hair. The meatballs on top were, how do you say, “Mmmmmmmmmm.” If you aren’t familiar with this onomatopoeia, it’s the sound you hear when no one at the table is talking because they are too busy munching on the food. The air smelled like basil and margherita pizza. Classy calm jazz sung against the walls. It wasn’t elevator music, no, it was magical jazz with unique phrases of notes. All the waiters knew me at this restaurant and seemed to enjoy my company, all but one. When we sat down at the table, I waved to my usual waiter, Annie. She waltzed over to me and softly whispered, “We have a new employee and I am handing him to you. I know you will be a good person for him to wait on.” I smiled at her and my date smiled too, but awkwardly. He had never been to this restaurant, yet he had lived in this town longer than I. He liked to eat at the places most people went to, not my hole-in-the-wall Italian diner. He liked to eat pizza and burgers and fries and toddler food. He had lots of friends, as you could imagine, but, I knew when he ordered a beer instead of red wine, I would never let him have the pleasure of coming to this place with me again. As my date was telling me about how he played football in high school and was a team assistant in college, I saw him. He glided to my table dressed in the all black waiter’s attire, but I couldn’t care less. To me, he was a prince in a finely crafted suit making his entrance at the ball. His hair seemed to flutter in the wind as he walked. I could write a thousand

books on his eyes alone. They were blue. Sailors and pirates from all over the world could only dream of sailing in a sea as blue as his eyes. They were surrounded by a dark blue circle and then as you got into the pupil they got lighter, until they were like a sky on a summer’s day with small, thin clouds floating in them. His face was finely sculpted and clear. I cannot stress enough how I actually thought he was an angel, an angel with a small tattoo on his wrist welcoming me to heaven after I died of boredom. He was absolutely beautiful, gorgeous. My hands shook as he placed my drink next to me. I managed to whisper a thank you. He stood with perfect posture as he asked, “So you guys know I’m new?” “Yes,” the man sitting across from me sternly replied before I got a chance to speak. “Well, I feel lucky to get to serve a couple of good customers like yourselves. I hear you come here a lot.” The waiter smiled delicately, like a feather. “We are happy to have you,” I managed to spit out and peered at his nametag, “Isaiah.” Isaiah the great prophet, displaying God’s beauty through his creation. Snap out of it. I tried to focus on the tablecloth as my date spoke into a black hole. I began to count the times he said, “Once I…” while I silently nodded. Seven so far. I tried to seem like I wasn’t bored out of my mind with him. I tried not to stare too much at Isaiah as he danced from table to table like a dove floating upon the sun lit clouds. The date was much better now. I still resent my friends for sending me into this phantasmagoria of a blind date. They always dare me to do things and live through me. They treat me like I’m some toy or show; their eyes follow mine in amusement as I tell them my thoughts. They think I’m crazy, but people who would sentence their friend to eat dinner with my date are psychopaths. “In high school, me and some buddies decided to have a party after our championship game and you’ll never guess what happened.” His face lit up, how cute. Sigh. “What?” “We lost, good thing it was only my sophomore year!” “Ha, and don’t tell me… I bet you won your senior year and planned a huge party after that one too.”

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“How’d you know?” I was almost scared by his surprise. Maybe he’s just trying to be nice or maybe he’s just dated a few blonde blockheads in his life. “I’ve always had a way of sensing these things and I—” “That reminds me of a buddy I had in college!” I swear if I hear him say “buddy” one more time, I will move out of the country and learn a different language. I will forget I ever knew English so I never have to hear that word again. After the man, still disgusting in his simplicity, began to talk about his parents, I interrupted him to ask if he was ready to order. Of course, he was. This was the first time I genuinely smiled at him and looked into his eyes. Not because I was captivated by the “funny” stories he told about his fraternity brothers. Not because I liked him. Not because he complimented me. I knew that the faster we ordered, the faster it was over. Also, I knew Isaiah would have to come back. The man, that’s what we will call him because I already forgot his name, shouted to Isaiah and waved like some barbarian. I suppose he was jealous because he was handsome and the waiter was beautiful. Isaiah walked to the table and I took a closer look at him. His hands were sculptures of Michaelangelo. The veins stuck out of them in a perfect crease and his fingernails were perfectly shaped. They moved smooth as he wrote down orders—I suppose he had neat handwriting. “Are you both ready to order?” His soft lips chanted. I nodded. Isaiah continued, “Alright then, what’ll it be for you?” He looked at me. He looked at me. “The spaghetti and meatballs,” I looked up at him like a sad puppy, trying to smile. I imagined him sitting on the other side of the table with the man waiting instead of him. I would be rude to the man and make him work for his tips, while Isaiah would laugh and tell me to take it easy on the man. “And for you, sir,” Isaiah looked over. “I’ll have the house salad with ranch dressing and grilled chicken.” The house salad? What kind of sick person orders a house salad at this place? What the hell is wrong with him? I could tell that Isaiah knew I was about to lose it. It didn’t take working there long to realize that ordering a salad at a restaurant this good was a mistake. My finger tapped on the top

of the table. I smiled and told Isaiah thank you as he walked away; I didn’t want him to go. I didn’t know I was capable of such colossal love. I quickly turned to the man and began to talk. This was the first conversation between us that I actually started. “So, the house salad,” I looked at him sternly, but not mean. I’m not cruel. Plus, if I were rude to him, my friends would never talk to me again. They loved this man. “Yeah,” he smiled, “not a big fan of Italian food.” “Really?” I laughed while dying inside. He shook his head smiling. “Honestly, I didn’t want to come to this restaurant, but I really like you.” Gross. Honestly, I didn’t want to come to this restaurant either... well at least not with you. Control yourself. I managed to smile and look down at the table like I had done many times before. He wasn’t amused by that. It’s our first date and our last date. How can he say this to me? Has it not become clear to him? I caught myself pitying the man. I could tell he was floundering in his thoughts and trying to pull himself together. He seemed like a nice guy, but he wasn’t my type. I am cruel. I hope Isaiah doesn’t notice that I’m hurting this man. Isaiah may never grow to trust me, and, if he doesn’t trust me, all my faith is lost. I can tell there is something in Isaiah. Whenever he comes to our table, he treats me with such care and grace. I never want to heartbreak Isaiah. As soon as I saw Isaiah carrying the salad in one hand, all pity melted away. I just wanted to sink into my spaghetti—to jump into a pool of it off a high dive. I would have eaten messy just in spite of the man, but Isaiah was there. Must act ladylike. I would have put my napkin on the table and dug in, spilling noodles and sauce all over my sweater. I’d wipe my tomato-stained fingers through my hair and trap parsley in its strands. I’d purposely get pepper flakes stuck in my teeth and drop the meatball on the floor. This isn’t me but I’d do it. Just as I was finishing up my food, I realized that I let this man control me. He made me feel closed off. He put a glass wall between my reality and what I wanted. He made me small talk and eat with manners and not tell jokes. His motives may not be as clean as I thought. He wanted me to feel pain; he wanted me to hate myself. He longed for me to feel agony and restriction. “I think I am gonna go to the ladies’ room,” I told him.

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“Okay, hurry back!” I certainly did not hurry back. Bursting into the bathroom door, I made sure all the stalls were empty. I put my hands on the edge of the sink and stared deep into the mirror. My confidence began to swirl down the drain. I am not pretty enough for Isaiah, so I must settle for this man. Behind the makeup, I am but a cruel shadow. I’m insane. My lipstick is wearing off and my mascara is flaking. I must settle for this man. I cannot do better. No one will ever love me. I have fallen into the trap of forced love like most do. This man has stolen my fairy tale desires from me and ripped me away from my home. The beating heart inside my ribs no longer longs for anything, no longer longs for anything attainable. I have lost the war, this man being the final battle. I knew when my friends set me up with him that they were taking pity on me. No one loves me. This man may not even want to be here with me now. Love has never given me a chance, yet I leave it all to chance. Fate is a wicked witch. Tears overcame my eyes and I listened as they dropped. Trying to make no noise, I closed my eyes and dreamt of before the date. I wanted to never have met this man, and, it pains me to say this, I wish I had never met Isaiah’s eyes. I wish the best for them both, but I would never play this role. Loneliness is a chair and I am happy to curl up in it while reading a novel. I want to dwell in my infinite empty space. The tears began to fall harder. I looked at myself again. Stop lying. I knew I didn’t want to be lonely. What did I do to deserve my punishment, my destiny? I have laid eyes on an angel and cannot go back. I will not settle for this man. Why lower standards if I know I will end up by myself either way? I knew I must go back out there. After brushing my fingers through my hair and doing my best to wipe the tears away, I crept out of the bathroom. “Ma’am are you okay?” I heard a sweet voice sing from behind me and pull me inside of it. I turned around and saw Isaiah’s face staring into me. I had no words left, so I just stared at him. I must be dreaming. He took my hand and led me to the hallway next to the kitchen. I was far away, I was in another world. He whispered, “Has that man threatened you or hurt you in any way?” “No, no, he hasn’t. He’s just a reminder.” I managed to stutter this out, while tears beat the edges of my eyelids. I was with Isaiah, talking to him. This time I didn’t want to be.

“A reminder of what? I know it’s none of my business to ask this, so you don’t have to answer. I just noticed you not enjoying yourself and Annie has told me so much about you.” An angel and a saint. “Isaiah,” I spoke more confidently than ever like I knew he understood me, “a reminder of my failure and loneliness. I don’t want to be here with him.” “Okay, I’m sorry.” He seemed confused. I hoped he wasn’t regretting the fact that he showed he cared about me. “You think I’m a terrible person, don’t you?” “No, I don’t. I just don’t understand.” “Please, I don’t know what to do. I’m so confused.” He smiled, “You know what? I am on my break and I don’t want you to be sad. I think I can sort of see what’s happening. Let’s leave the man behind.” Isaiah snuck out two plates of spaghetti and we sat in the back of the kitchen, eating and talking. He told me he liked music, but he didn’t have to. I could tell from the way he spoke that he was always a fan of the classics. He listened to rock and sometimes just piano music. We contemplated each note, dissecting them in our beating hearts. If this were the Renaissance, he would be a philosopher. Each word he spoke was covered in gold that shone perfectly when the light hit it. He said he had traveled to Mykonos and experienced the beauty of summer, but he came back to find love in the place he had grown up. He told me about all his adventures and promised to take me with him. I could almost smell the waves hitting the rocks as he described it to me. We floated on cotton candy clouds and soaked in a bottle of wine. The air was crisp and full of excitement. That man was nowhere to be found. I was glad he was gone. All I could see was the face of Isaiah. I blinked and I was back, staring into my reflection in the bathroom mirror. Everything was grey again, the faded jazz. I rolled my shoulders and took a deep breath, holding my lungs as they absorbed it. My confidence was making an appearance, so I gathered my courage to return. I hoped Isaiah would meet me. I hoped the man at the table would be gone. All traces of messy makeup were wiped away. I walked back into the barely lit room to find him sitting there, awaiting my company. Of course, he was waiting to release some passive aggressive comment about the time it took. “I was beginning to worry,” the man said.

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“Sorry, beauty takes time,” I smiled, “you never told me that my lipstick was fading.” I’m glad I made him feel uncomfortable. He didn’t want to be there and it wasn’t his destiny to be with me. I would never, even if fate forced it, ever go on a date with a man like him again. He was extremely annoying in his efforts to act normal. I’m not normal. Nevertheless, we continued to dine. I refused to take small bites like a woman should. At this point, I feel like I’m more likely to go on a second date with my plate of spaghetti than the man. I don’t hate him. I just resent him. He was halfway done with his salad when he raised his hand to Isaiah. I almost let out a huge gasp. “What can I do for you?” Isaiah said calmly. So sweet. “I need more ranch,” he said, so rude. He was like a dirty pirate who could not read or write. He wasn’t the captain of the ship, no, he just scrubbed the deck. He wasn’t even a real pirate. I grabbed Isaiah’s hand. It was soft and warm and gentle. “Thank you for all your help tonight, you’ve been great.” “My pleasure!” After he drenched his salad in ranch, I let him finish dinner and made some meaningless small talk. I turned my head as we walked out the door. I saw Isaiah standing, taking orders. Humble beauty. I smiled at him and longed to glance into his eyes again. Isaiah’s eyes are hope and his smile is victory. I let the man drive me home, but not walk me to the door. I even told him that I had a nice time. This wasn’t a lie. I think Isaiah and I are off to a great start. I let him do all these things because I knew it was the end for us. But it wasn’t the end.

truth | Brittany Jiang | photo

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Part of the Whole

Lilly Noble

First impressions, pinky promises— how can something so worn down be what decides a new friend or a forever lover? I watched her petite hands clicking at a keyboard, twirling the dead ends of her hair, twisting an orange plastic pill bottle open. I see mine, manicured but flawed, as they erase stray marks and pick at their own imperfections. Leave a print on the car window, leave a print on another’s heart: Let it tell my story.

Taking Flight | Elizabeth Clarke | photo

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Truffles

Ainslee Johnson

Truffles are like rust on a street lamp or where the paint is scratched off clean. They taste like trying not to smile when telling bad news. For some odd reason, you can’t help it. Used right, they can be like a romantic comedy with a dull ending or a book painted beautiful with textured imagery that no one really understands. They can cause headaches from not getting enough sleep or looking at a screen too long. Truffles are like the sparkling water you get at a steakhouse because it’s fancy. They’re the twenty-dollar bill you find lying on the street. They feel like icing a bruise carefully, the ice surrounded by a gentle cloth. If truffles could fly, they wouldn’t. If they were a person, they’d be very specific about what they like and get into arguments a lot. Their name is written with a calligraphy pen because it matters.

Poolside | Riley McCoy | photo

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Another Day

Ainslee Johnson

The blurred weeping of the newsman and static of the tv sings in the background. The microwave repeatedly beep beep beeps as the plump tan reclining chair whispers. Step. Click. Step. Click. Step. A mouse squeak empties from the microwave— a sigh and commentary. The plastic cover of the meal is removed like horizontally rubbing guitar strings. Step. Click. Click, step click. Step. The recliner has a word again and the smell of steamed broccoli, mashed potatoes, and chicken-fried steak rules in the realm of air. The same way it did yesterday.

Balloon | Belle Grace Wilkinson | photo

Roses Are Red

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Kennedy Maloney

You should see the roses. They smell like incense but could turn into burning flesh in an instant.

Study in Oil | Madie Van Pelt | oil

Rubber Band

dramatic monologue

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Kennedy Maloney

I’m stretched, pulled, mended for your benefit. Made to fit my user and conform to what society wants of me. People take advantage of me. Throw me around, step on me, disregard my true value. I hate it. Everything that I’ve wanted in life is out of my reach. I’m a stretchy circle that wishes to be an individual, not a puppet, but it won’t stop.

Glow (detail) | Belle Grace Wilkinson | photo

Alone on a Subway

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Kennedy Maloney

I can’t tell them apart. The monotone hums of the people around me. And the high pitched screaming in my head telling me to get out of here. I don’t belong. I never have. I daydream all the time. Thinking of places I wanted to go, but didn’t. Things I wanted to see, but didn’t. Because I am living someone else’s life. I’m just the quick exchanges on the subway, the intensifying shrieks in my head.

Blur | Molly Tipton | photo

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t u l p o

Belle Grace Wilkinson

It’s like music, and she smells like leaves, and the stars finally make sense because they’re just as small as we are. And she is the Milky Way, and every breath of comfort Persephone brings when she comes back to claim what is hers. But she is autumn, and the raindrops falling down my window, and the fiery speck in the sky that my father tells me is Jupiter. But I know you’re Pluto, and you’re so beautiful.

Sliver of Silver | Lily Flowers | photo

dramatic monologue

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Leaf

Belle Grace Wilkinson

I can feel it; it’s coming. I’ve been waiting for this. The sharp wind slithers around me, above me, through me. Persephone has been called back to the underworld, Mother Earth has fallen into a dreary, deathlike sleep. My skin is slowly turning into droplets of spilled ink, soon to be in the multitudes of magnificent cherry reds. Then, I will be beautiful. And then, I will die. I will turn brown and decay in the only place I’ve ever known. With one harsh breeze, I will be ripped apart from the life I knew— forever falling until there is none of me left. Like Adam never satisfied from the touch of God, I will watch as I fall to Earth—helpless. I can feel Death. He is near. He is every cold autumn breeze, taking the life of another perfect thing. My beauty won’t last; it will lead me to my inevitable fate. All beautiful things must die.

Gateway to Somewhere | Elizabeth Clarke | photo

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A Cup of

Tea

Ainslee Johnson

I know the water is too hot, but impatience knocks at my door in an irresistible rhythm. Knock. Knock. Knock. I pour the honey in. The tea bag drifts, soaking itself in the warmth. I wish I could shrink myself and lie on top of this tea bag, feeling the steam soak into every pore, inside my lungs and forever inside my mind. I hold the cup—chamomile and lavender—up to my nose. It waters my tired eyes as my lips wait to be burned.

Deep Blue Sea (detail) | Hali Hollman | photo

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Bicycle

Kimberly Blount

The cul-de-sac, silenced by the sun’s piercing rays which slapped the pavement and sent all the children indoors for a spell, beckoned my parents to bring me outside and take advantage of some friendly privacy. My father, clad in an old t-shirt, yanked open the garage door; my mother stood in the doorway directly behind me, encouraging me to go forward into the driveway. Shutting the door behind us, she joined my father in that junk-filled habitat of paraphernalia, and together they emerged with my new bike.

It wasn’t quite the shiny new bike I imagined in my head. Instead, the peeling electric blue paint—the painted purple flowers had faded years ago—the clashing deep teal bell, and the comforting thick tires were robbed of the training wheels which kept it all together, which had made it my bike. My mom led the handlebars into my little fingers. This was something new— something foreign. I didn’t like it. Nonetheless, my father standing at the end of the driveway, arms folded loosely across his chest, and my mother whispering Every Breath You Take | Macy Polk | photo

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coaxing, fantastical words in my ear made this new challenge appear to be a necessity. And who was I to not comply? I swung my leg over the machine, sweat dripping down my forehead and squirming its way between my fingers and thighs. I felt my mother’s hand against the back of the little blue seat. With only one foot rooted firmly in the ground, I turned to face her—her eyes were two perfectly polished spheres of plastic. The grin across her face disagreed with the strength of her hand: the only thing maintaining my present stature. Eyes glued to my father’s figure, elongated by the looming shadow generated by the sun, I picked up my feet and stuck them on the pedals. My mom pushed and ran and released. My fingers trembled on the thick bars; the tire below me followed aimlessly. The world turned sideways as gravity took hold of both body and bike. The blazing concrete cut into the raw flesh on my knees. “Again.”

“This was my time. I had to grow up.”

my pitiful mouth. My feet pressed hard against the plastic pedals; I guided my bike’s front wheel beside a slender crack down the center of the driveway. My knuckles, red and white, gripped the bars, forcing them to adhere to my command. The sun beat down on my head, and I heard the distant cheers of locusts. In a flash, my bike ran into the palms of my father, who stopped the bike and nearly jolted me from its seat. His thick brows lifted slightly—not much, but slightly. He trotted to join my mother near the garage. They embraced and my mother squealed and waved at me, who stood in a faraway land. The concrete driveway’s reign had ended. They re-entered the house, leaving the door wide open. I heard my mother’s shrill voice on the phone with grandparents, aunts, uncles, cousins, and friends. She shared my victory story with them. Exhausted, I relinquished my faded electric blue bike and sat down in the yard. I bent my darkened knees into my chest and wrapped my sore arms around them. I felt smaller, safer. My eyes glistened in the calm air. At last, the tears came.

Just as before, my mother’s firm hands pushed me forward into the open driveway. Still, the handles quivered, and the tires trembled beneath them. This time I could make out the narrow squint of my father’s eyes. My torso tried to find its center, and my little bike gave up trying altogether. Prepared this time, I released the handlebars and braced myself for the pavement’s gritty impact. It was unforgiving. My hands carried the dirt and quick-drying blood back to my mother with my bike. “Again.” Streams of defeat rose behind my gentle face and coated my little round eyes. A frustrated sort of determination welled inside me and flowed through my twitching muscles. I imagined the fun I would have riding up and down the neighborhood hills with my friends. I longed to race my parents, the grown-ups. This was my time. I had to grow up. Six more attempts left me in anguish. My mother’s words, firm and tenacious, grew louder and more definite. “Again.” She pushed before any word could escape

Imagine (detail) | Raylei McKinney | photo

Clock

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The

Belle Grace Wilkinson

I didn’t want to die because I had something to lose. But then you were gone, leaving nothing but a guilty memory and a ceaseless ticking in the back of my head. Tick. It’ll be more painless than breathing already is. I couldn’t catch a breath after I knew you wouldn’t be there to keep me from drowning. Tick. It’ll be fast. Don’t second guess. I never doubted you for a second. Maybe I should wait for you, maybe I’ll open my eyes and you’ll be there holding my hand. Tick. That all seems silly now. Tick.

La Vie En Rose | Emma Liddell | photo

Poetic Forms

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Aubade: A French form, a poem for the coming day, specifically dawn or the parting of lovers in the morning.

Dramatic Monologue: The poet speaks through and an assumed voice—a

fictional or historical character—to an implied audience. A form with no

structural or metrical requirements, the dramatic monologue is a character study of the subjective point of view of the persona.

Haiku: A Japanese form, seventeen syllables in three lines (5, 7, 5), presenting a moment of intense perception, an image, spare and condensed.

Sapphics: Lyric verses often dealing with desire and longing. Named after

Sappho, the legendary ancient female Greek poet, Sapphic stanzas are built on

a strict but subtle metrical pattern consisting of three lines composed of pairs

of trochees separated by a dactyl, and a fourth line (the Adonic) composed of a dactyl followed by a trochee.

Sestina: A French form consisting of six sestets and a three-line envoi, using only six end-words, repeating them in a different prescribed order in each

stanza. The envoi uses all six words, three at the end of the line and three in

the middle.

Terza Rima: An Italian form organized by tercets, often in an iambic pentameter, with an interlocking rhyme scheme (aba bcb). The final stanza

is usually a couplet.

Villanelle: A French form organized in five tercets followed by a quatrain. The first and third lines of the first stanza are repeated alternately as the last

line of each remaining tercet, becoming the last two lines of the final quatrain.

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like a river | Brittany Jiang | photo

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Columbia Scholastic Press Association National Critique of Student Publications Crown Awards Competition

Gold Crown 2008, 2015, 2016, 2018 Silver Crown 2005, 2006, 2007, 2010, 2011, 2013, 2017, 2019 Columbia Scholastic Press Association National Critique of Student Publications Medalist Competition

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