Apotheosis 2018

BENILDE - ST. MARGARET’S | LITERARY ARTS MAGAZINE 2018

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Apotheosis Magazine Letter from the Editor Hi Friends, Apotheosis has a long history within the BSM community, but since 2012, the literary arts magazine has solely been presented online––until now. For this final KEQ, the Knight Errant has teamed up with Apotheosis to bring some of the Apotheosis entries to the printed page.

The Knight Errant recognizes and appreciates all members of the Apotheosis editorial board for their hard work in making this publication happen. This year, any student was able to apply to be on the Apotheosis editorial board, and for months, this dedicated group has meet Tuesday mornings to critique, layout, and form the magazine and website. Thank you to my fellow editorial

board members: Grace Bacon, Luis Mojica, Andrew Cadle, Em Paquette, Tia Sposito, Brady Solomon, Spencer Sweeney and Tenley Gage, and our new advisers Mrs. Onkka and Mrs. Preus.

Perhaps the most exciting part about this magazine is all the amazing art contained within the pages. All different types of students and their work are showcased. Some of my favorites include “The Whitest Black Kid You’ve Ever Met” a poem written by Sam Charles, “Big Kid” a poem written by Tracy Reiner, “Flora” an art piece by Abigail Gage, and “Spoon and the Cherry” a photograph by Warren Mostrom.

Experiences shape who we are as people, who we are as students, and how we live our lives in general. Art is the opportunity to show them. My hope

Publication Policy Submissions are created by students and Apotheosis is produced by an Editorial Board at Benilde-St. Margaret’s School. The views expressed in this magazine are the opinions of the writers and not necessarily those of the Editorial Board, advisers, or BSM administrators. It is distributed for free to all BSM high school students.

following graduation is that Apotheosis continues to be an outlet for all students to show themselves.

But remember the amazing work of BSM students doesn’t stop at these pages. For more 2D art, 3D art, poetry, prose, music, film, and portfolios, check out www.bsmapotheosis.org and send in your artwork for next year’s edition.

Later friends,

Ashley Ortizcazarin

Staff Editors: Andrew Cadle, Ashley Ortizcazarin, Brady Solomon, Em Paquette, Grace Bacon, Luis Mojica, Spencer Sweeney, Tenley Gage, Tia Sposito Designers: Andrew Cadle, Michael Koch Advisors: Kaia Preus, Nan Onkka

Benilde-St. Margaret’s School 2501 Highway 100 South St. Louis Park, Minnesota, 55416 Contact kpreus@bsmschool.org or nonkka@bsmschool.org

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Artists In The Magazine Alana Kabaka ‘21 Annabelle Bolin ‘21 Claudia Larson ‘21 Jack Rheineck ‘21 Sophia Coleman ‘21 Sarah Corneliuson ‘20 Elle Dickey ‘19 Ellie Mitchell ‘19 Em Paquette ‘19 Lucia Brooks ‘19 Meagan Steck ’19 Rebecca Jungmann ‘19 Sally Calengor ‘19 Trevor Metz ‘19 Xiomara Guzmán ‘19 Abigail Gage ‘18 Anna Lilienthal ‘18 Ashley Ortizcazarin ‘18 Brady Solomon ‘18 Brendan Lempe ‘18

Carmen Ercolani ‘18 Billy Yan ‘18 Claire Folkestad ‘18 Delong (Andy) Ye ‘18 Elke Thielen ‘18 Erin Lerch ‘18 Gus Beringer ‘18 Ian Black ‘18 Julia Hegedus ‘18 Katrina Jamison ‘18 Meghan Staples ‘18 Michelle Wyley ‘18 Noah Shields ‘18 Paige Jayasuriya ‘18 Sam Charles ‘18 Tenley Gage ‘18 Tia Sposito ‘18 Warren Mostrom ‘18 Tracy Renier ‘18

Online Ava Dennewill ‘21 Clare Lynch ‘21 Gillian Brown ‘21 Grace Lira ‘21 Senia Golisek ‘21 Ian Wong ‘20 Maura Judd ‘20 Xander Coonan ‘20 Amelia Backes ‘19 Cecelia Golinvaux ‘19 Kailyn Pedersen ‘19 Lauren Barry ‘19 Malinda Beason ‘19 Matthew Hansberry ‘19 Ziya Yan ‘19 Alyssa Brinza ‘18 Hannah Nichols ‘18 Lillee Couture ‘18

Luke Coughlin ‘18 Morgan Williams ‘18 Noah Bridges ‘18 Olivia Hetletvedt ‘18 Spencer Sweeney ‘18 Wenley Ip ‘18

All students that have pieces in the magazine also have their pieces in their respective categories online.

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Who I Am Vignettes

by Sophia Coleman ‘21 The Sound Of My Name Sophia Grace. What does this mean? Sophia means "woman of wisdom," which I find ironic. Don't ask why. Grace means "thankful spirit."

To me, it is the little mixed girl who is mixed about a lot of things. The little girl who people have mixed feelings about. The girl that grew up with a little piece of broken because no one knew that it was broken or how to fix it. The girl that speaks her mind because that is all she knows how to do. It's all she

can do to try and fix her broken. That is what Sophia Grace is to me.

People always tell me I have a pretty name. But it's just a name. That's all names are. Just names. A sound that defines us forever. How can this sound be pretty? It isn't music. It isn't a poem. It isn't the sound of water flowing of the chirps of the little birds that I hear but never see. It is just the way my tongue moves behind my teeth to make a hiss.

Or the way my lips form a thin "O". Or

the way they sound like an "F" but are really a "P" and an "H". Or the "EEEE, AHHHH" at the end. Is that pretty?

I don't think so. I wish my name was something like music, or a poem. Something that flows off the tongue like a river, or is melodious like the songs of birds. I want it to be truly beautiful. But it is just a sound. A plain, simple sound.

It is mine, just my sound. My sound is Sophia Grace.

Because I Realized When I was young, I wondered many things. Mostly about the part of myself that I knew, but never understood. The part of me that everyone saw but didn’t seem like a big deal to me. The part of me that made me different. The part of me that school never taught me. The part of me that some people didn’t like.

There is a part of me that people will

always see as different. Some even saw it as an excuse to bully me as a child.

Some saw my part as a problem. Some still do. That’s not okay, but back then, it was all they knew. That’s what they were taught. That was even how some adults saw me. I could never be a favorite. Never a teacher’s pet. As I grew, I began to speak my mind. And now,

I understand the two parts about me.

They are separate, yet together. And it makes me special. When I talk about them, I get weird looks. But I will never stop talking about these parts of me. Because I realized, when we stop talking about the parts of us, when we stop believing in who we are, our goals only get farther away.

The Color Blue Calm. Peace. Quiet. Water. Cold.

Sky. Birds. Flowers. Ice. Butterflies.

Stones. Blue things. Blue is the color I breathe when I am sad. It is what filled my mind when I wondered. It is the color I exhale when I am calm. It is the sound of water flowing in a quiet creek.

It is the feathers of the little birds that are hard to find. It is the smell of wildflowers that stand out in a field. It is the taste of the little crowned berries that are sour and sweet. It is the sound of the

soft strum of a guitar. It is a quiet note on the piano. The low blow of a jazzy saxophone. The voice of that singer that sings lows scratchy tones about a wonderful world. That is blue in my mind.

Blue is my color. It flows in me.

It brings me up when I am down and down when I am up. It is the color of balance. Wild and calming. Loud and quiet. Kind and unforgiving. Beautiful.

It is musical and poetic. Like I want my name to be. My name should be blue.

Not the word in itself, but something like blue. Pretty and calm. Flows like water. Sounds like the little blue birds that are hard to find. Blue. Something blue. Something that still describes that small girl who is a little bit broken, but also describes the strong woman she is now. Something that doesn’t only tell of her past, but also of her future. Serene, waiting, ready. Not Sophia, not Grace.

Me. Just me.

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Ombre Mountain Plate

by Meagan Steck ‘19 Sunglasses

by Trevor Metz ‘19

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But At Least I Woke Up

by Em Paquette ‘19

I woke up today, I had the ability to move today, My mind hasn’t shut down today, But never ask me about yesterday.

Because yesterday, Was the reason I never thought I would wake up today, Because yesterday, Yesterday, I wrote a note telling why I didn’t want to live that day, I wrote down all of my thoughts about why I hate that day, But I woke up today.

This is all because of the crippling disease I am a prisoner of, I was sentenced to life without parole many years ago, By the kids in my school, Who cornered me, Spitting not spitballs at my face, but a life sentence of Hatred, Loneliness, And depression.

Because of those kids back in 3rd grade, My body holds a massacre of scars, bumps, and bruises.

Because of those kids back in 4th grade, I can’t look at my body and think beauty.

Because of those kids in 5th grade, My eyes meet the floor before they ever meet you.

But there once was a day, Where I ran around in pink tutus, Where my feet were covered in mud, When my mind was lost in the clouds shapes, When I played in my backyard playground, With my brothers holding onto me, I sat in a world of dreams, flowers, and seas, That used to be me.

Because now today, I am a person drowning in a world of fears, tears, and scars, With my only friend my notebook, When my mind can’t slow down to let me even sleep let alone take a breath, When I can’t stop shaking from my dripping anxiety, Where I tap my feet to an unknown beat, Where I hide my true feelings by being the person they used to tell me to be, yet that still isn’t truly me.

But at least I woke up today.

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Big Kid

by Tracy Renier ‘18 I remember When Daddy’s shoulders were the highest place on earth.

And mommy’s arms were the safest.

Criss-cross applesauce The checks to see if I had flossed.

The tears I cried when I had lost My favorite stuffed duck Louie.

Only being afraid of the dark, The ghost of Christmas future, And those little metal bolts that shocked me on the way down the slide.

Stomps that’d make my sneakers light Not thinking about what I looked like Mom reading magic to me each night Plunging purple plastic pegs into a Lite Brite Claiming the role of “secret-agent” in house And the biggest piece of ice-cream cake Seeing the big kids in the back of the bus and thinking “Hey, I can’t wait to be that big someday.”

Yeah, I remember.

Mom, Would you please stop calling me ladybug?

I’m not a kid anymore.

War isn’t a card game anymore.

Stupid isn’t the only S word anymore.

I can’t look in the mirror and like what I see Without makeup, anymore.

And don’t worry.

I won’t wake you up at 5AM on Christmas anymore.

Shiny bikes turned to shiny cars Soda turned to vodka Race means more than who can run the fastest.

Don’t even think about getting a slice of ice cream cake.

Weight means more than a requirement for an amusement park ride.

Dear 6th grade best friend, You never used to go to parties Or get drunk Or get high Higher than daddy’s shoulders.

I’m sorry, who are you?

Have we met?

Should I join, too?

My head is an echo chamber of voices But which one is mine?

I never used to have to prove myself But now, I’m trying to prove myself to everyone But myself.

Tell me, Am I a big kid yet?

I’m eighteen years old.

And I remember when I wanted to be.

But now, Now I can’t remember why.

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Africa

by Michelle Wyley ‘18

Golden Hour

by Ashley Ortizcazarin ‘18

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A Political Party

by Ian Black ‘18 A

nation in its most simplistic form is a group of individuals building a community through public discussion, which allows for criticism and polishing of any policy.

In a country with such a colossal population, outwardly unimportant organizations (such as a mosquito control district in Saint Paul) can impact millions. A body skillful at solving any microscopic crisis is critical but as individuals cannot craft an approach to all our minor conflicts, collaboration is vital. Thus, a political party is born.

Any outstanding political party should contain both plain, straightforward wording and thorough drawn-out positions on all topics and affairs. From farming in Bhutan to fishing rights in Cuba, in our global world, odd, confusing, random discords can impact our nation. A ramification of globalization is that an action in any country will signify a shift in national affairs. A political party has to adapt accordingly and adopt plans for both a dubious situation and an ironclad actuality.

A strong political party should not uphold its institutions. As our nation transforms, a party must also transform.

Willing to champion transformation, a

party may command our national institutions. But a political party of stagnation fails to warrant its own continuation. A party must stand for its nation.

A political party is not a man nor a woman. It is not a sum of its chairman nor a vocalization of a handful of lobbyists. A political party contains a policy that works, not a policy of moral purity or radical-uncompromising convictions.

But, a political party is for transporting ways of thinking. A party which abandons its convictions has no grounds to

subsist. A harmony among impartiality and foundational morals allows for a flourishing nation and for growth of a way of thinking.

An outstanding political party is a discussion, a position, a vocalization for many, and a way of thinking. Do ours pass?

Editor’s Note: This piece was written without using the letter ‘e’ a single time.

Flora

by Abigail Gage ‘18 Apotheosis | 9 | Summer 2018

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Toby Brady KillSolomon A Cocktrice ‘18

There was a hesitant-sounding knock on the door. Jurian was impressed. A person being hesitant to knock was simple, but it took skill to make the actual noise sound hesitant.

He opened the door––hesitantly, because someone who was unhappy enough about seeing him to knock like that was most likely someone he didn’t much want to see either. He looked outside. He shut the door with very little hesitation at all.

Günther was standing on his doorstep. Jurian didn’t know what he wanted, but whatever it was, he could find someone else to bother. It had been nearly a fortnight since Günther had broken the Wymond family sword and he still hadn’t been able to find anyone who could fix it properly.

But… he’d looked troubled.

Anything serious enough to concern a man like Günther was worrying indeed. He supposed it wouldn’t hurt to see what he wanted. Besides, he could always just turn him away. He opened the door, hesitantly, again.

“What do you want, Günther?” he asked, sighing.

“You, uh… you know about monsters, right?” Günther asked as he scratched the back of his neck.

Researching magical creatures was a hobby of Jurian’s, and most of the village knew it. He’d probably been to every hut in town looking for new books on the subject. “I read about them, yeah. What’s it to you?”

“Do you know anything about a dragon with a rooster’s head?”

“Rooster’s head… cockatrice, probably. It could also be a basilisk, depending on your source. Why do you ask?”

“How do I kill one?” Günther asked, disregarding Jurian’s question.

“I’m pretty sure they don’t exist, so… you don’t, I suppose.” Jurian was confused. Why was Günther so

serious about this? It wasn’t like him to care about much except money, beer, and fighting.

“They don’t exist?” said Günther, fuming. “Well, that’s good. Maybe you could tell that to the one that just destroyed my house.”

•••

Jurian had never really believed in cockatrices. Sure, there were some magical creatures out there; he’d never forget the night the phoenix had flown over his village, just after his father had died. But cockatrices sounded too far-fetched to be real; just because a snake or toad decided to raise a rooster’s egg didn’t mean it should grow up to be some sort of draconic abomination.

The giant winged rooster-lizard squatting on the rubble of Günther’s home and eating his neighbor was making him seriously doubt his previous beliefs.

“Okay, so maybe they do exist,” Jurian said to Gunther. They were crouching behind a short wall a stone’s throw away from the cockatrice. “In that case, the first step would be to avoid all eye contact. If some of the other stories are true, that thing could turn you to stone just by looking at you––so don’t get up for a second peek!” He grabbed Günther’s tunic and dragged him back below the wall.

“It’s eating my pig!” Günther wailed.

“Better it than you,” Jurian replied, although he was starting to doubt it. “Now shut up and let me think. Okay… do you know if anyone in this village has a weasel? A living one,” he added. Most people in the village would shoot anything, so long as it moved and had more hair than Günther or his friends.

“Why the hell would I know that?

And what do you want a weasel for,

anyway?”

“Damn. Weasels are apparently immune to its stare. What about a mirror? It might turn itself to stone if it sees itself in the mirror, or at least attack its reflection until it’s tired.”

“Oh, I can get a mirror. That’s easy.”

“Good. Make sure the reflection is clear––and find some weapons too.

I don’t know if we can trust all these tales. When you’ve got what we need, meet me back here.”

•••

Jurian returned a short time later with a crossbow and a book.

Günther was waiting for him with a greatsword and pike. A mirror rested against the wall next to him.

“Good, you’re ready,” Jurian said.

“We need to get the mirror in front of the cockatrice without looking at it or getting too close––oh! I did some research while I was gone––” he held up the book, “––and as it turns out, pretty much everything about a cockatrice is deadly. If there’s any part of them that isn’t venomous, it’s poisonous or otherwise toxic, so try to avoid its beak, talons, tail, wingtips, spit, saliva, or breath. Good luck out there.”

“Hang on just a minute, kid,” Günther replied. “First of all, calm down. This isn’t one of your storybooks. That thing over there killed two more morons while you were gone; the idiots were trying get underneath it or something; I don’t know for sure, because it took them out before they were fifteen feet from it. Secondly, what the hell makes you think I’m gonna go out in the open, in front of that monster, to set up your stupid mirror?”

“Because it’s now eating your cow, and I doubt it’ll stop there.”

Günther considered this. “Fine, I’ll do it. But you’re gonna need to make a distraction if it starts heading

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my way. Throw some rocks around or something.”

“Sure. Sure, I can do that. I’d go now, though. You don’t want to wait for it to get bored with the cow.”

Reluctantly, Günther stood and grabbed the mirror. He quietly hopped over the wall and crept out onto the gravel road outside his home. When he was about forty feet from the cockatrice, he stopped and gently propped the mirror on a nearby rock, facing the beast.

He hadn’t made it ten feet when the mirror slipped and fell with a clang on the gravel. The cockatrice immediately looked up from what was left of its meal. It turned its bloodstained beak toward the noise, and then, raising its head, it shrieked.

The sound slammed through Jurian’s head. It seemed to ignore his eardrums entirely and go straight for his brain, which felt like it had a vice tightening down on it. He covered his ears and put his head between his knees, waiting for it to end.

After just a few seconds and an eternity later, the cockatrice fell silent. Jurian raised his head and peeked over the wall. He could see Günther writhing in agony as the last echoes of the abominable shriek died away. Finally recovering, Günther lifted himself up––and found himself staring straight at the cockatrice.

The cockatrice stared back.

Günther froze. It wasn’t like Jurian had expected it to happen. He didn’t suddenly turn to stone like the stories claimed. He simply… stopped, paralyzed by that terrible gaze.

Jurian Wymond had always been the type to think things through ahead of time. He liked to form a strategy, a plan of action to rely on before he ever made a move. Now, for one of the first times in his life, he acted without thinking. He grabbed the crossbow, leapt over the wall, and fired at the creature’s head.

The world exploded into motion.

Jurian tossed the spent crossbow aside and ran towards Günther. The cockatrice staggered back, covering its head with its wing and wailing in pain. Jurian tackled Günther, propelling him away from the angry beast. The cockatrice, having retreated, began to curl up on itself.

Jurian grabbed Günther by the arm and began dragging him back towards a nearby house, to shelter and safety.

The cockatrice began stirring again,

all too soon. Jurian barged through the house’s doorway, Günther in tow.

The cockatrice spread its wings, and with a single powerful beat, was airborne. Jurian released Günther, slammed the door shut, and collapsed against the wall.

After taking a brief moment to recover, Jurian crawled over to where Günther lay. He was breathing, but not very much. Jurian nudged his arm, then pushed it, and then, when that failed to elicit a response, he slapped him in the face.

In an instant, Günther was on top of Jurian, pinning him to the floor.

“Hey, hey! Get off me! I just saved your life, do you realize that?”

Jurian yelled as Günther put his fist back to punch him. Günther paused for a moment with a dazed look in his eyes, before lowering his arm and complying.

“What the hell happened back there, man? Those eyes––it felt like it was staring into my soul, and there was nothing I could do to stop it,” he moaned, breaking down.

“Calm down, Günther. Listen, it’s probably going to be back soon.

I don’t know where I hit it, but I get the feeling it’s not too happy with me about it. So get it together, man, because if we aren’t ready to kill it when it returns, I doubt it’ll be kind enough to give us a second chance.”

Günther sighed. “You’re probably right, damnit. Well then, let’s stop sitting around and get ready.”

••• The sun was beginning to set when the cockatrice returned. Jurian and Günther were waiting for it in the house. Jurian had recovered and reloaded his crossbow, now slung across his back, and held the scratched mirror in his hands. Günther was leaning against his pike with his greatsword on his back.

An elongated shadow stretched across the road as the cockatrice landed.

Moving toward the window, Jurian snuck a glance outside. It was hard to see in the dying light, but his crossbow bolt protruded from the monster’s left eye. His earlier potshot had been more successful than he’d anticipated; the cockatrice could only see on one side.

He turned to Günther. “We’ll approach it from the left. Keep your distance as much as possible and aim for the head. Try not to let any blood get on you; It might not be dangerous,

but I’d rather not find out. I’ll try to get it to see itself in the mirror, which I hope will stop it long enough for you to kill it.” He paused and took a deep breath. “You ready?” Günther nodded, silent. “Alright. Let’s go.”

Jurien opened the door and they snuck out, as quietly as possible with four weapons between them.

The cockatrice was slowly prowling down the road, evidently searching for them. Now off to its side, the pair checked their weapons one last time, and charged out onto the road.

Günther thrusted the pike at the cockatrice’s head as it turned to face its unexpected opponents, but he aimed too high; the tip stabbed through the fleshy comb atop the rooster-like head, and with a savage twist of its neck, the cockatrice pulled the weapon from Günther’s hands, staggering him.

As Günther made his attack, Jurian positioned himself in front of the cockatrice’s body and held the mirror high. “Günther, a little help? I need it to look my way!”

Günther, recovering from the stagger, grabbed a stone from the ground and threw it toward the mirror before backing away and drawing his greatsword. The rock sailed through the air and hit the mirror with a metallic ting. The cockatrice turned, saw Jurien standing in front of it, looked up–– ––and froze. “NOW, Günther! Go for the neck!”

And Günther raised the greatsword high, the setting sun shining golden against the blade, and brought it down on the cockatrice’s neck with one swift motion.

There was a soft, silken sound as the sword sliced through the sinew and bone of the cockatrice’s neck. For a moment, time seemed to freeze.

Then, ever so slowly, the head of the cockatrice fell to the ground. The massive body collapsed behind it as Günther jumped away.

Jurien lowered his arms and dropped the mirror. “Well, that’s over. That wasn’t too bad, I suppose.”

“Not at all. You did good, Jurien. I appreciate that. Now, what do we do with this body?”

Jurien thought a moment. “We’ll burn it. I doubt it can do any more harm now, but I’d rather be safe than sorry.”

“That works for me. Let it burn.”

And so they did.

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Identity

by Carmen Ercolani ‘18

Matching Stackable Bowls

by Meagan Steck ‘19

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The Whitest Black Kid You’ve Ever Met

by Sam Charles ‘18 You get upset sometimes when I relate more as a black kid than a white one “You’re just as white as you are black” is a common remark I always say I can’t be both I can’t be half and half because 1/5 is good enough for some You always want to argue and say it doesn’t have to be that way But if it wasn’t, why did you have to tell me to make sure I kept my hands in my pockets when walking through stores Why did you have to warn me about wearing hoods in public And tell me not to look at colleges in the south I am the DMZ that separates two backgrounds Step too far to one side and I’m ghetto, dangerous, and unpredictable Step too far to the other and I’m a sellout, an Oreo, or “the whitest black person you’ve ever met” So, I stay here Somewhere in between the two The place where I respect police But you still worry every time I get pulled over A place without oppression But not without stereotypes And mom I’m not mad because I’m biracial I mean, I stay tan year-round I’m mad because someone told me I’m smart because of my white half And athletic because of my black half I’m mad because I have to constantly tell people that the N word shouldn’t be said Whether you’re white or black So, if I relate to white people, or black people Just know I’m not tipping more to one side and disregarding the other I just haven’t learned how to balance both

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Strings

by Meghan Staples ‘18

Distraught Contentment

by Annabelle Bolin ‘21 Apotheosis | 14 | Summer 2018

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I Had Wings

by Xiomara Guzmán ‘19 I had wings To soar the sky ‘Til my feathers fell off An issue I couldn’t deny But chose I would not dwell I had wings to escape ‘Til they put me in a cage As much as I wanted to leave I resided with rage I had wings to fly From every passerby Higher and higher Further and further I became lost in the sky Not a bird nor a fly I had wings Feathers so light Ready for flight To escape my plight ‘Til my feathers fell ‘Til the last one dropped And I could fly no longer So I finally walked

SilencedbyScreams Alana Kabaka ‘21 My screams are silenced by laughter No’s taken for yes’s My opinion overlooked because of my adolescence I hold my dreams through the night; scared that they will run away My head filled with words knocking to come out Biting my tongue Scared that my words would cause gas to the fire Burning everything to the ground Because my words are the gasoline The conversation, my fire And I don’t want someone to burn When it burns it smells like the word “hate” Burning holes in my mouth when I say it Tears run like rivers Making puddles Yet no one seems to see My tears choking me Not able to breathe Wishing I didn’t throw up My screams silenced by laughter No’s taken for yes’s My opinion overlooked because of my adolescence Never letting my dreams run away

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Humpty Dumpty

by Sarah Corneliuson ‘20 I’m empty empty empty I don’t feel anything at all I feel just like humpty dumpty Who fell off that wall But I fell into nothingness I fell into

never feeling well I just feel–– hopelessness I’m too young to feel this way

But yet here I am writing

To get away

Writing to feel like I can

Writing to feel okay I know I need to open up Crawl out of This darkened shell I need to build up To where humpty dumpty sat Before he fell But again There’s the hopelessness The feeling of Never being well I don’t ever Want to feel this way

Again But this feeling

Just makes me want to give in

Rock

by Julia Hegedus ‘18 Apotheosis | 16 | Summer 2018

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Constellations

by Tenley Gage ‘18

Ralph

by Sally Calengor ‘19

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Seat

by Lucia Brooks ‘19

Ballerina

by Rebecca Jungmann ‘19 Apotheosis | 18 | Summer 2018

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Zam Zam

by Noah Shields ‘18

The Traveller’s Memory

by Tia Sposito ‘18

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Hanayo

by Ian Wong ‘20

Steps byTia Sposito ‘18 Little feet and little hands Crawling about the kitchen floor A little girl brought to stand Like a light, an open door Crying, laughing, planting seeds Roots they sprawl, twist so tight Like gasoline the soul it feeds Such beauty, it is in sight A fruit loop in cheerios floating Massive snow forts, tiny gloves Like a lone wolf, always noting High and low, looking for doves Music in headphones, walking Chocolate chip cookies, flared jeans Moments pass and we keep talking Shoes too small, growth it means Numbers, questions, plans countless Jeans, Converse, foundation cake Trends, sciences, it was boundless Tick tock, now decisions to make Who? Is asked, who wore it better?

Tracks on teeth, grease on gears Algebra, PB & J, a big blue sweater Walls crumble, all the years Dimensions analyzed, seems the same Hills turn to peaks, the snowball grows Our identities, known is our name?

Suddenly a forest, now everyone knows

Apotheosis | 20 | Summer 2018

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States and bunks, we will be apart Mountains and miles, light years away Never we see, always in our heart One sea moving, to days less grey

4/27/18 8:29 AM

Their Wallpaper Perceptions

by Abigail Gage ‘18 Our lives are not tied up with bows.

Frames line the hallways where we try to keep the memories, we fear will escape us.

The curtains that blanket our windows hide our lives.

We sit and pretend we are normal.

We perfect the art of pretending by smiling when people walk through the doors.

Our home becomes their museum.

Our home is wrapped with their wallpaper perceptions.

Constantly peeking in closets Around corners To see where our perfection is torn and crippling.

Like the paint clinging to the corners of ceilings or the door frames that have met anger before.

But their compliments are perfume to us.

And we breathe in the idea that people admire us.

We find comfort in the fact that we can still be perceived as normal despite what skeletons we may hide in our closets.

Chicago L Line

by Jack Rheineck ‘21

Apotheosis | 21 | Summer 2018

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Spoon and Cherry

by Warren Mostrom ‘18 Ritzville, Washington

by Claire Folkestad ‘18

Apotheosis | 22 | Summer 2018

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John Lennon

by Elke Thielen ‘18 Primary

by Paige Jayasuriya ‘18

Apotheosis | 23 | Summer 2018

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In Garden

by Katrina Jamison ‘18 O beauteous rose In the garden Shining like a star Where dandelions wither and Lilacs, violets, and lavender All pale in your presence Your delicate petals Show the dew of the morning And your thorns show pain

Your color tells a story Which only some know Can make or break a human love You, O James, have given Her a red rose But she does not feel your love She has returned a pink One, which only Means friendship But do not despair Maybe another day You will get a dozen red roses

Figural Hand Scultpure

by Meagan Steck ‘19

Your innocent beauty Hides the depth of your meaning Jealousy, passion, innocence, pain, and love

Apotheosis | 24 | Summer 2018

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4/27/18 8:57 AM

Raft

by Elle Dickey ‘19 I feel like a raft in the ocean Just lost in the sea of endless emotion The raft is my life: crappy yet strong Trying to stay afloat but can’t hold on It’s a battle everyday Trying to convince everyone that I’m ok Covering myself with a mask So, people don’t know, so they won’t ask Screaming as loud as I can, but not being heard Trying to make everyone less concerned It’s ok; I say I’m doing fine That’s what I tell everyone, even though I’m dying inside It’s a constant struggle to try and look happy Even though my life is really crappy I try to tell my friends but they can’t relate I have accepted that this is my life; this is my fate What can you do when your “good” isn’t good enough?

They say “It’s okay, life is tough.”

Don’t say you know what I’m going through and that you’re sad I know this isn’t what you want to hear, my bad A crappy diagnosis one after another Sometimes I think why even bother “God has a plan,” they all seem to say If there is one, he takes off in May Why believe in something that doesn’t work Yet when Sunday comes around, we put on our best shirt I’m trying to recover from all of this crap They get better, but guess what? It’s a trap Back through another round of treatment Going to the doctors once a month is an achievement But there I am, just a raft in the ocean Just lost in the sea of blurry emotion I wonder if I pop my raft and let it sink What then would everyone think

Metallic

by Lucia Brooks ‘19

Apotheosis | 25 | Summer 2018

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4/27/18 8:48 AM

Zebra

by Anna Lilienthal‘18

Red Flowers

by Billy Yan ‘18

Apotheosis | 26 | Summer 2018

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by Ellie Mitchell ‘19

Equality

Feronia

by Rebecca Jungmann ‘19

Apotheosis | 27 | Summer 2018

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Olive

by Sally Calengor ‘19

Tonight

by Erin Lerch ‘18

It was 6:15 PM, and I sat behind the shed listening for the rumbling engine of her white Volkswagen. Ah. There she was. Just as I suspected she ran over the curb of her driveway. She always does that. I peered out from behind the shed just to get a glimpse of what she was wearing. Beautiful. She decided to go with that deep blue blazer with the gold buttons and the pencil skirt with the small coffee stain on the front collar. Interesting. She’s wearing a red lip today instead of her usual soft pink. She must’ve been feeling adventurous. She carried her phone in her right hand while looping her fingers through the handles of her black leather Rebecca Minkoff purse. The tan from her wedding ring has finally started to fade. Thank God. He didn’t deserve her anyways. He treated her like shit.

Jesus. Just the thought of him infuriates me.

Yes, I know what you’re probably thinking. You think I’m crazy. You think that I’m absolutely mad, but let me assure you I wasn’t always like this. Back in college when I was roommates with her sonofabitch boyfriend, and soon to be husband, I was not the man I am today. I was fun. I was the life of the party. Everyone wanted to be where I was. That was until I met her. She ruined me. She would walk around in our dorm with no makeup and in her pajamas, yet still looked as beautiful as if she was all dressed up. She made me fall in love with her. It was all her fault. I couldn’t sleep. I couldn’t eat. My mind was running at all times, and I couldn’t get it to shut off. The only thing stopping me from being with her was him. He was so engulfed in her. So incredibly arrogant because he got her. She knew that I would have treated her with the respect that she deserved, but she was idiotic and brainwashed and lovestruck by this pig of a man. She didn’t understand, and still doesn’t understand what she lost. This is why I have to sit outside, behind this shed, and watch her every move. I want to see how much better her life is without me, but for God’s sake she’s miserable. This is why I have to kill her. Tonight.

Apotheosis | 28 | Summer 2018

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Ifraworld

by Delong (Andy) Ye ‘18

The Zoo

by Sam Charles ‘18 Apotheosis | 29 | Summer 2018

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Nine to Five

by Brendan Lempe ‘18 Eight hours left I walk through the doors and I’m greeted by the familiar smell of dust As per usual it is far too loud, far too cold, and far too many people Looking at my surroundings I can feel my eyes droop and my patience become nonexistent Seven hours left Twenty-four people have asked me how to use a gift card Nineteen people told me they’ve forgotten their pin And at least four people have told me that it’s my job to know where a product we don’t sell is located Six hours left A mother has left her crying child sitting in a cart, so that she can go to the bathroom My manager is nowhere to be found I am now the child’s temporary guardian Five hours left The same fourteen-year-olds keep calling the store They ask “is this Walmart?” and I say no They always laugh before they hang up Four hours left I go to buy a pizza to eat during my break As I reach out to grab the last one a customer pushes me out of the way and takes the pizza The next one will be ready half an hour after my break ends Three hours left A woman hands me a coupon I scan it and inform her that the coupon expired last year She now wants to talk to the manager.

Two hours left My co-workers have been picked off one by one Tears fill our eyes as we watch the carts filled with goods approach Danny didn’t make it One hour left The once vibrant store is now silent I play with the Bop-it that is always abandoned at checkout And watch that weird guy who showed up three hours ago pick out clothes and put them back in the wrong spot Zero hours left Walking through the dark parking lot I look back at my prison The neon Target symbol looks like an eye always watching me I pick up the pace even though I know it’s no use I have another shift tomorrow

Apotheosis | 30 | Summer 2018

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Man with a Pipe

by Claudia Larson ‘21

Make sure to check out the Film, Music, and Portfolio submissions (along with more art and writing) online! www.bsmapotheosis.org Apotheosis | 31 | Summer 2018

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