Melodrama Lit Mag 2023

Editorial Policy: Melodrama is a literary magazine created as an extracurricular activity by staffers of Ladue Publications and student body submissions reviewers at Ladue Horton Watkins High School. Melodrama accepts submissions of any writing, art, photo or video throughout the school year via Google Form. Detailed submissions guidelines are provided to the submitters throughout the submission process. Submitters are invited to include additional information regarding their submission. Submissions

and notes are reviewed by a student editorial board at monthly meetings and accepted, rejected or deferred based on quality, quantity and similarity of subject matter. Melodrama only accepts submissions from current students of Ladue Horton Watkins High School.

Melodrama reserves the right to edit student writing for grammar errors that are not intentional, stylistic choices, and reserves the right to design the magazine using elements from visual pieces that do not misrepresent art or prevent the unaltered work itself from being featured

prominently. Melodrama requests permission from creators before making any image alterations and grammar edits.

Mission Statement: Melodrama is a literary magazine with the intention of showcasing the art, writing, photography and videography of the Ladue Horton Watkins High School student body. Our purpose is to be an outlet for student expression and accurately reflect the diversity and creativity of our school community.

Ladue Horton Watkins High School

1201 S. Warson Road, St. Louis, Mo 63124

April 2023 | Volume 4

laduepublications.com

Phone and Fax: (314) 993-6447 ext. 5844

Email: publications01@ladueschools.net

School Population: 1,488 total. 172 faculty. 1316 students.

photo EVAN CODY

Dear Reader,

Welcome to the fourth volume of Ladue’s literary magazine, Melodrama! After Ladue alums Cassie Beisheim (‘20) and Anna Liner (‘20) founded Melodrama, the magazine deviated from being an arts-and-culture magazine with both typical newsmagazine articles and student submissions to an official literary magazine. Through the tremendous efforts of Rhea Patney (‘22) and Oviya Srihari (‘22), Melodrama was transformed into an anthology of student art, writing, music and video. And although this is the first year without them, our goal has remained consistent: to provide an outlet for the creative work of our student body.

This year, we decided to take a different approach to the magazine’s theme. Nychthemeron is a full period of 24 hours, both night and day encapsulated within one word. After every nychthemeron ends, another begins. From this cycle, we created four sections: night, sunrise, day and sunset. Every 24 hours, we are given the opportunity to start a new day. As the sun rises and sets, we witness a never-ending cycle of creation and

destruction. Each day is a canvas of limitless opportunities, capable of being colored with new memories and experiences. And just as we share these days, we can share these opportunities through art, photo and video.

When the moon gives way to the sun, our world begins to stir, readying itself for a new day. The bright morning sun parts through the clouds like a promise to bring forth the endless possibilities the day has to offer. But as we live in a perpetual cycle, the day must eventually come to a close. The sun rises in the east and it sets in the west, where we find moments of tranquility and peace. The day inevitably retreats back into the stillness of night, offering a chance for reflection before the sun rises once again, Through the magazine, we can see one cycle, one day, out of the thousands we will have in our lifetime. We chose to begin the magazine with a piece that embodies the essence of nighttime: Bioluminescence by Evan Cody. The piece not only displays the signature darkness of the night but demonstrates light, the hope within the unknown.

To close out this letter, we have several thank yous. First, thank you to our staff — submission reviewers, editors and designers — for sharing this passion for Melodrama with us. It was a joy to watch the magazine take shape with you throughout the year. Secondly, thank you to our adviser Mrs. Kirksey for her guidance, patience and time. Despite being on maternity leave for a chunk of the second semester, she was always there to answer any questions (and trust us, we had many questions). Of course, none of this would’ve been possible without our submitters. We loved reviewing every single piece submitted; we’re so incredibly lucky to be surrounded by such talented and creative students. Last but definitely not least, thank you for reading, and we hope you enjoy the fourth volume of Melodrama.

Sincerely,

Olivia Hu editor in chief

Mimi Zhou junior editor in chief Annie Zhao junior editor in chief

Night

Almost

photo EMMA GAN

a modern mythos

poetry CELINA ZHOU

i. mapping knossos tell me how we go on in the dark listless, stringless, dancing with an echo the world a tapestry, unraveled and tangling at our feet.

sing me a hymn for daylight tell me stories of snow on the sea white glitter reflections, a mirror of sun these tears of the gods, buried and remade lie to me, unremorseful: promise me we’ll see it again someday.

ii. archer moon

love, call yourself greed and be proud of it / take a peach and devour it / let your lips stain with nectar / let your teeth scrape against the pit / the ragged grind echoing through your throat // oh fallen god, remember divinity / a cloud of ivory dreams; a river of jade in your veins // remember the stars / white light on ink, bleeding open the sky // remember you are not a demon / you are a god / remember there is no difference but the shape of the word on your tongue // remember betrayal and lovesickness are one and the same // breathe open song and storm / your throat scraped bitter, raw and rosy // your love is fragile and worn / a gilded thing left brittle and moon white / don’t you think it’s time to let it break?

iii. prayer for titania there is nothing golden left in me, plucked and swallowed by hungry gods I am gilded; ruination scraped bare. let me weep at your feet, my body a tithe –take me, love me, break me, hollow me out into devotion and an ache for a scrap of your light and pride. drown me in larkspur, ribbons of silk and vine, and plastic thorns to crown me devour my name, the syllables sweet until it, and I, are yours, too.

The Inferno

photo EVAN CODY

portraits

photo MAYA BRIANZI

Sihouette Portrait

mixed media ANONYMOUS

Patch of Happiness

NOTE FROM THE CREATOR:

People are one of my favorite subjects to photograph, espeically when they do not know that you are taking pictures. I love when you can take a picture of the true essence of a person, without the usual mask that you use when you know that someone is taking a picture of you.

Overbearing Freedom

Pink Horror

poetry LEVI MILLER

They’re not big enough. It’s too small. The auburn light speaks frankly to small inadequacies. Yet passions blaze fiercer than midnight comments

Straighter standing, smarter smiles, sterner stuff.

Socks and spats and thievery flies flags I can’t focus

But in the morning it’s black or blue and back to business.

NOTE FROM THE CREATOR:

I made this piece to summarize my tumultuous feelings on gender and my experience with crossdressing, as well as the emotional strife I went through while questioning my own identity. I learned that it’s always good to try new things and expand upon yourself, but you should never feel pressured to do so.

mixed media MEHREEN ALI

a love like you

poetry SYLVIA HANES

i want a love like a butterfly kiss one that feels like the soft brush of a cheek the gentle caress of fingertips a ripple on a lake

i want a love like a bubbling fountain spilling out in laughter and beaming smiles playful and safe, a place for healing

i want a love like a blazing fire passion as intense as a burning flame fearless and strong as the lingering smell of smoke i want a love like a roaring river daring and brave enough to withstand even the rockiest shores free and wild in all of its glory

i want a love like you sweet and joyful and powerful and deep to heal me and hear me and help me and haunt me my gorgeous ghost the lovely light of my life

What Makes a Face acrylic

ELLA BENDER

poetry don't say'gay

just because you don’t dare utter my name, doesn’t mean i disappear.

you know i notice that whenever i get near, conversations get quiet and eyes glaze with fear. what do you think i’ll do?

are you afraid i’ll poison the minds of your kids? or maybe i’ll stain your soul with sins?

it’s insane that you give so much power to the people you hate.

you tarnish my name, twisting my letters into a snarl, a slur. you kick me out of your quaint club, rubbing it in that i have no home inside your hollow hearts. judging me for the “decisions” i make, you glue my mouth with a single glare.

but I’ve had enough, I won’t stay quiet anymore. you can make it taboo for me to even open my mouth, but that doesn’t mean I’ll stop fighting.

no, I’ll only fight harder, stronger, louder.

I’ll rally the troops, dressed in flags, our uniforms, we’ll take back our name, decorate it with gold, and wear it with pride. so by all means, don’t say gay if that’s what you please.

AVES

poetry CELINA ZHOU

i. LARK HUNT

daybreak – the kingfisher sings me sisterhood kindly as he can bear; equinox carols break on the shore. there’s a voice in my head that says surrender your human heart and make a widow of our god — it falls silent when I weep, balks at the sight of salt in the water. I am winged and hollowed, I tell it, my rage a wretch

on my tongue. the sun is not the sun but a star; laugh with me at the horror of it all, hand in pitiless hand.

ii. DEAD DOVE the sky lies open and bleeding on a demon’s tongue: we break and we mend and we break by whim. there are no mothers left who can tell me what to do with all of this fury, how to storm a castle and burn it to the ground. the monsters

are in your head and in the clouds, disarmed and eating worlds. come now, hero, dragon-tamer, queenkiller aren’t we all hopeless romantics? don’t these violent delights have violent ends? listen, listen – you broke me first, so stitch me back together before I break you too.

iii. GLASS KITE

some nights I dream of crimson and gold, dusky pearls scattered

on the horizon, stained windows blotting out the sunlight – some nights I wonder how long it would take me to tear it all apart how far we could go, playing pretend, dancing under a howling sky.

waltz with me, fall with me, white out the pain so I can’t remember to mourn all the things we left behind; in my sleep I unwind the moons and devour a distant dawn, the god of an ailing world.

photo VINCENT HSIAO

photo MAYA BRIANZI

I wake up to the harsh fluorescent lights flipping on, scorching my eyes. Rubbing them back into function, I groan and roll onto my stomach. Mind still foggy, I dramatically shove my pillow on top of my head. Trying to get one more blink of sleep, I press my eyes shut to the point of a migraine. In a suspiciously timed fashion, I hear the knocks of, most likely, grimey little children on the glass windows surrounding me. The constant banging creates a tune in my head, slowly drowning me in my own agony. I begrudgingly roll over and throw the flat pillow on the floor. The cheaply made bed squeaks with any movement made. A slam on the window makes me shoot up in bed. I frantically look around trying to see where that noise

came from. I see a uniformed man glaring at me from the glass. He shakes his head in a disappointed manner and yells out of his stupid megaphone, “Wake up time was thirty minutes ago. I know you are newer around here, but you dirty little inmates need to abide by my rules. You know the consequences.”

Putting my head down, I slowly nod in agreement. The crowd surrounding the glass had slowly multiplied, getting drawn in by my shame. Some chuckle while others allow an ounce of sympathy to flicker across their face. But then it all returns to normalcy. Kids with their curious eyes peering into my life. Watching my every move. I pace around the room slowly. One foot in front of the other, staring at the

floor. The couple dozen eyes on me burn holes in my skin.

One, two, three, four. Wall.

One, two, three, four. Wall.

Four steps. My entire life is secluded in a four step by four step box. Its full glass walls offer me no privacy. The outhouse-like bathroom is all I have. My safe space. The one place I can go and truly not be seen. I can still hear the chattering and laughing from the outside. The modern slang that I will never care to understand. The outlandish clothing the Futures wear. As a Former, wearing the intricate, flashy clothing they give me makes me uncomfortable. How I would love to wake up and change into a pair of jeans and a t-shirt. But I’m forced to put on a show. My whole life is a show.

The Glass Box

SAMI STRAYHORN fction

I got sentenced on October 12. And since then, my days have been identical. Get awoken by brutally bright lights and terribly loud tourists. Spending my day pacing the room. Staring out into the crowd of strangers that are captivated by my existence. Getting fed food that should be illegal to give to a human. Then tossing and turning in bed for hours, waiting for the darkness.

Accepting how I got here was the hardest thing I have had to do. Laying in bed staring at my ceiling. The stark white in contrast with the black rimmed lights. Accepting responsibility. Accepting myself.

My trail of thoughts was rudely interrupted. A knock at the only door in my cold glass box snaps me back to

reality. I yell

“Yeah?!” questioning why anyone would think it’s ok to interfere.

“Breakfast is here!” A cheery young voice yells.

“You can come in,” I say as though I even have a choice.

Skin as smooth as an untouched body of water. Hair silky and the perfect shade of blonde. Carrying a tray displaying my delicious meal of unflavored oats and a single orange. Unsliced. But right now I am not focused on this terribly bland food. My eyes are fixated on the beautiful woman in front of me. Her eyes shimmer in the natural light that peaks through the door. Her perfectly structured face offers me a pitied, fake smile. Sighing, I thank her quietly and close the door behind her.

As I am closing the door, I feel the fresh air from outside and can’t help but take a deep inhale. This air chokes me. The extremely polluted air is nothing like the crisp air from my present. The past. The futures have destroyed our already suffering environment. Artificial trees are planted in an attempt to raise oxygen levels.

I almost pity the Future’s. Children growing up with nature only being a thing in textbooks. Them researching the 2010’s, learning about real plants and how we have things like beaches. Not the tacky, fake beaches I learned they now manufacture. The joy of standing in the sand, feeling the real ocean water cooling off your legs. I almost pity them. Almost.

It’s hard to pity your enemies... read the full piece here...

poetry SYLVIA HANES on top of the world

photo BEA TALBOTT

The Gift acrylic GRAY BAKER

God Speaks Through Music

LINNAEA ELLIS

poetry

Music is the means for our souls to speak It ebbs and fows with the waves

Dances among the stars, And tells beyond the imperfections of language

During the day it slips through ears, At night it gently caresses the mind To tell a story that words cannot It’s mission our very souls to unite

The world of song is vast and endless Music expresses every disposition ever experienced And may we, through God’s greatest gift, Learn of our divine and eternal natures

OVYA DIWAKARAN

Carnival & Hurricane sheet music

listen to the frst movement of “Carnival” here....

Full Color photo BEA TALBOTT

photo BEA TALBOTT

Why? short flm

FUNDOUKOS

not a cloud in the sky

poetry SYLVIA HANES strength

there is beauty in strength and grace in power there is something perfectly soft in something so incredibly stoic there is safety in strength comfort and security protected by the assurance that nothing could ever break it

there is beauty in her smile and safety in her arms she is so strong and soft and safe

San Francisco's Market

photo MAYA BRIANZI

Sunset

NOTE FROM THE CREATOR:

This is yet another shot I took of Interstate 64, taken in April 2021 in the Chesterfeld Valley. I was still in the early stages of learning photography; it was my fourth month using a mirrorless camera. Getting a intense sunset shot like this has always been exciting.

Spring Sunsets

photo VINCENT HSIAO

I could feel each step crunching against the bone dry ground. What used to be dirt turned dry and brittle a er eons under the sun, caked with sand and dust. I could see the heat rising o the ground, hovering above the surface, embracing my group and me. I looked forward, and saw only desert, I looked back and the results did not change, days of traveling in this hell of a place. e last week was lled only with walking and struggling to continue in this sandy place, interrupted only by an abandoned shack or the so embrace of night. I could sense my legs growing tired, my muscles struggling to push me farther. e most recent hill taking what little energy and

patience I had remaining. e top of the hill opened into a large clearing, the trees forming an almost perfect circle around a eld of grass and the odd ower. I turned to Barney, keeping my voice a whisper.

“Do you think we’re stopping anytime soon?” I said, out of breath from even attempting to speak. “ I don’t think I can keep walking like this, it’s been like this the whole day.”

Barney turned to look at me. It was clear to me that he was in a similar situation, his face red, his lips dry, and his eyes struggling to focus on a clear point. He was sweating, losing water I wasn’t sure we would be able to replace anytime soon. But my worries were

useless, as I noticed Barney stretching his hand upwards, and I turned to match his pointing.

No matter how out of place it seemed, I found myself facing a creek outlining the clearing, providing a border, a place of reference, and most importantly, water.

Almost unconsciously I began a rush towards the creek, and from the side of my eyeline I could see Barney follow my lead. Before any major ground could have been gained, an arm came down before Barney and myself, blocking our way to the creek, to water. I glanced up, growing increasingly annoyed at these series of events. Before I could even think of what I would say, Barney beat me to it.

“What’s the deal?” He spat out, obviously just as frustrated as I was. “We’ve been following your lead for the last week, we haven’t stopped walking at all today, and yet at the rst sign of water you won’t let us go?”

e tall man lowered his hood, revealing short kept white hair, and his face turned brown with decades of sun and complemented by numerous scars of varying sizes. e man reached into the once purple cloak he wore, years of dirt and mud changing the colors to a more earthly shade.

I watched as he reached a bony hand into one of the numerous pockets, and watched as he took a long moment ddling with the col-

lection of junk and material stored inside. A er an awkward moment of watching he triumphantly shot his hand out of the pocket, clutching an even older pocket watch. Not yet ready to speak, the man icked up the watch, read its display, and seemed to spend time thinking about what he read. A er another moment he decided to speak. He walked into the clearing, momentarily pausing to take in some aspect of the environment I did not understand. He kept his head on a semi-constant swivel, registering everything that happened within his gaze. He cleared his throat and turned back to face us.

to Barney, and then back to me and so forth. I looked to my le , giving Barney a confused look, which he shared. I peered back at the man in the clearing.

“Because it’s a new place?” I guessed.

“Yes it is a new place, very good. But that is not the reason I am so cautious.” He replied. “ e answers dumber than that, it’s right there, you’re just too tired to grasp it.”

Feeling drowsy and dehydrated to lash back, I kept thinking about his question. A er what seemed too long, I faced the man and so ly said.

“Because this place shouldn’t be here.” I said, growing more condent at my answer as I read the... read the full piece here...

“Now why would I be cautious?” He asked, shooting a curious face

STEPHEN SONG

When the going ge tough, the tough gets going

Your Sky

poetry ANONYMOUS and My Shore

On one morning full of rain, someone ran along my beach. You, a storm of white and thunder, grabbed me by the neck. Yelled to me— beautiful words, that which I had never heard.

Silent Falls

charcoal PHEOBE CHEN

On some clear, dampening day, you held my hand with violence and spoke lightly without opening your mouth. I could do nothing but look upon you; old eyes and older songs.

On this evening full of sun, the wind whispers of my lonesome. There are no clouds to bless your spotless sky and I sit alone in the sand, right where you left me.

GRAY BAKER

A Relationship acrylic

NOTE FROM THE CREATOR:

This was a part of a series depicting the ways we experience different forms of connection. This painting was the one I’ve cherished the most out of the three, and it’s a visualization of a combination of relationships I’ve been apart of and witnessed.

poetry CELINA ZHOU

hey, babe, don’t you know we’re all gonna die? we live under red suns and a sky on fire dusting the earth in ash and hate. I watch you paint gold and glass to flood out the flame; a lily and the storm, unrelenting. taste blood on your lip

and ash on your brow and sing for me, won’t you? won’t you sing for me?

remember how you promised we’d find ways to be happy again well there’s a world out there where starlight can still reach us – there’s a world out there

The New York Subway

NOTE FROM THE CREATOR:

Last summer I did a program at the [School of Visual Arts] in New York. It was a really cool experience and in my spare time I worked on an animation from what I observed. I used the subway a lot and couldn’t help but notice the patterns and movement found in the people, the stations, and the subway cars. A lot of the animation is based on actual events that I saw and really isn’t that much exaggerated. It was really fun to make and I hope you have just as much fun watching it!

animation MATE DAUS watch the animation here....

Promise of Future

mixed media FIONA

the weather like feelings

Something I have found is that Peoples emotions are like the weather

Changes every day and how they are treated

The weather because of climate change and that’s what we’ve done

Our parents try to shape us into the mold

Starts as we are kids we weren’t supposed to notice

The sunshine we were told always had to be shining on our faces and onto others

Their smile is like, sun

You can always tell when people start to act diferent

The seasons are changing

When their whole mood is ruined because someone said one thing

Because they couldn’t just keep it in their

own clouds

People get hurt and pretend they’re fne because we are told the sun always looks better shining

That is what our society wants

The perfect weather

Parents to child taught only sunshine can show through

Then rains start

All because that one person couldn’t share their sunshine but a storm

Rain, is unpredictable, Rain will always be there hiding in the dark clouds even if the sunshines Rain can come from anywhere

But rain feels cool

Rain helps the fowers grow Rain is the earths way to grow the Earth

The tears that run heal our wilting fowers

But it won’t always last, rain will always be temporary

But we need the rain and sun

We need those feelings, The weather is like feelings.

NOTE FROM THE CREATOR:

I made this because I have had a lot of people asking me how I always have a smile on when I come to school and my friends always ask how I stay so peppy. In reality a person can seem happy and cheery but they can be going through something you truly never know!

This piece is just about the normal feelings someone can go through happiness and sadness and there is nothing wrong with feeling however you feel.

Night

photo AUSTIN BIRK

After Sunlit Days

deconstructed charcoal TAI MOORE

photo MAYA BRIANZI

Time Won't Stop for Us

poetry EMMA MARGRAF

It waits silently behind the mirror, A reflection of our sanctuary. Give me a piece of the light, to hold when the day starts over, Then the darkness won’t take me so soon.

Write me a poem, fresh from your mind

Make it the elegy of our journey away from the world.

Our path which was only just beginning. Time won’t stop for us. It is a rapidly moving train

Heading for a field keep secret from our counterparts

A place, a space overrun with wildflowers

And when the wind brushes over them, over you, I can hear whispers of how you made me feel They sing to me, lyrics dripping with an unrecognizable sweetness

Words that mean nothing, that mean everything. Time won’t stop for us. We are insignificant stars

Measured only by our own truth. We may try to slow the sun's revolutions, To banish the shadows from our minds, But our power is limited by our belief that we will

always get a second chance, And if the world does cease to turn, So will our system, So will our brilliance, So will our lives.

Time won’t stop for us. It is a variable of our own creation, But like all images from our mind, They are adopted to fit the common perception Everyone is lying. But when you taught me to listen I could finally discern ignorance from reality. A skill I never knew was so valuable, So key to blocking out the noise.

Time won’t stop for us, But it will leave us gifts. Memories.

To be spun into endless stories,

To be poked and prodded and embodied

To be held tightly to our chests, as to never be pried away by unfit hands

To be cherished like masterpieces.

To be sung as magnificent ballads, Ones that haunt my dreams. Time couldn’t stop for us. Even if it wanted to. Even if I wanted it to.

The Moon

poetry LINNAEA ELLIS

I love the way the moon shines

Reminiscent of my engagement ring if only it shone eternally

Now it sits in a box far away

Tarnished with memories I pray to forget

Even now it hurts, as love always does

To heal I spend time with the moon every night

Wishing you were here to lend me your light

Sometimes there’s a new moon and I must think alone, But her company always returns just as bright

And you are gone

Why this pain must I endure?

As I watch the moon glow evermore

You said everything would be alright

You promised you would be home that night

One last trip, a single flight

Ended more than just your life

Black and White photo MAYA BRIANZI

photo EVAN CODY

Luminescence

With a face so bright, Yet old in its course, The sun arose with light Of radiant yet gentle force. The glorious passion awoke All the creatures of the dawn And with vivid harmonies they shook Into musicality and song.

The time of the glowing face soon ended And along came another Whose visage would soon encourage and extend

To creatures of the night like a mother. Soon came a symphony of noises

From the stars of the ground

Whose melodies were not sung from voices

But from lights abound.

The pattern is repeated the day after, All paying homage to the luminous crafter.

Despite universal laws, the path never grows sore And continues spreading light forevermore..

DAPHNE GOLDEN

Melodrama staff 2022-23

adviser

SARAH KIRKSEY

editor in chief

OLIVIA HU

junior editors in chief

ANNIE ZHAO

MIMI ZHOU

design editors

OLIVIA CHEN

MAC HUFFMAN

writing editors

RILEY COATES

ALLEN YOU

art editor

ERICA SHI

photo editors

SYDNEY COLLINGER

JACK REEVES

design staff

PRANAVI CHINTHA

EMILY LIU

RORY LUSTBERG

KATIE MYCKATYN

TAREK AL HUSSEINI submissions staff

FIONA HAYREH

AVA HILLEBRANDT

ARTI JAIN

JASMINE PERKINS

EMILIE TIAN

Ordinary Animal

charcoal SOPHIA XU