2019 Menagerie by Suzanne Andersen

Fragility By Bob Hicok Beyond the quaking glass enclosures scattered through the realm, there are soft, quiescent branches hanging daintily and saintly in their vestments of pure silver. Silver, quiver gingerly in air as thin as paper flutters in the muttering whispers of the air and the quaking glass of the sea

How to become involved in next yearâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s magazine: Submit your work! Send your stories, artwork, poetry, plays or anything else youâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;d like considered to menagerie@lths.net by January 17, 2020. Join the staff! The first staff meeting for the 2019-2020 edition will be January 21, 2020 in SC D124. Become an editor! Editorial applications for the 2019-2020 edition can be found at www.lths.net/menagerie and are due September 13, 2019.

Mission Statement Menagerie is the student-run literary and art magazine of Lyons Township High School. Our goal is to showcase and synthesize the works of our talented students in a professional publication. By honoring the writers and artists of our school, we hope to encourage their future work and inspire innovation within our student community.

Cover art designed by Lucy Hawblitzel and Eleanor Keelan

2019

Menagerie Dream On

Volume 44 Lyons Township High School 100 South Brainard Avenue La Grange, Illinois 60525 www.lths.net/menagerie Contact: menagerie@lths.net 708-579-6300

Table Tableof ofcontents Contents Poetry Poetry

Prose Prose

A Letter from Fourth Period, Anne Caplice, 8

Convalescence, Maya Djurisic, 12-14

Some Rooms, Eli Tecktiel, 16-17

Burning Sands, Karina O’Brenski, 24-25

Unbound, Alana Prinz, 19

If I Could, Anna Murray, 29

Matter of Time, Grace Dekoker, 20

Kick the Can, Audrey Parkes, 38

Cosi fan tutte, Claire VanDerLaan , 23

Childhood Dreams, Kathleen McMahon, 42

On the Park Bench with No Name, Claire VanDerLaan, 26

Spirit of Love, Grace Dekoker, 46

To Follow or Not to Follow, Kalyssa Karkazis, 30

Heavenly Bodies, Courtney Olinger, 53

The Waltz of the Red Pen, Grace Dekoker, 33

Reality, Kevin Hernandez, 60

Blind Date With a Metaphysicist, Jordan Cole, 34

Picnic Tables, Anne Caplice, 74-75

Icarus, Delia Lonnroth, 37

The House, Claire VanDerLaan, 81

Looking Back, Linnea Nelson-Sandall, 41

The Roar of the Run, Claire William, 82-83

Cleaning Supplies for the Soul, Pilar Valdes, 10

Butterfly Nebula, Travis Morales, 6

Chasing Chalkboards, Maya Djurisic, 44 Four, Jordan Cole, 51 Elephant in the Room, Maggie Hennessy, 54 What It’s Like to Be the Only Boy (for those of you who aren’t), Zachary Schierl, 56

Play Play

Museum of Class 35, Jack Baker, 84-86

Refuge, Maxwell Bresticker, 58 Debut, Anja Robbert, 62 Bell Dragon, Ryce Borzym, 65 Calypso, Nora Daley, 66 Mind Games, Nora Daley, 68 What It’s Like to Be an Asian Girl (for those of you who

Graphic Novel Dear Dad, Hannah Smith, 48-49

aren’t), Jesvin John, 70 Dead People, Eli Tecktiel, 72-73 Pouring Perspectives, Charlotte Hank, 76 Curiosity, Erin Cosgrove, 78

MENAGERIE 2019

2-D 2-D Art Art

3-D 3-D Art Art

Shower, Madison Waliewski, 9

Flower, Eileen Flores, 66

The Facade Cracks, Marta Kogucki, 10

Ruffles, Lena Tirva, 67

Self Portrait, Madison Waliewski, 11

Electrophorus, Savannah Cowan, 79

Iceberg, Mason Burns, 13

Ski, Cullen Younker, 83

Spleet, Lucy Hawblitzel , 5

Gorilla, Klaudia Wegman, 40

Girl, Lizzie Labuda, 14 Pick One, Faith Echeverria 17

Photography Photography

Heritage, Mina Fredona, 18 Tommy, Maggie Hennessy, 19 Wonderland, Clara Weismantel, 21

Delve, Laura Cahill, 7

Jack, Eleanor Keelan, 27

Breakup, Cain Nocera, 17

Abduction, Julia Kolosa, 31

Break, Kyle Niego, 22

Lungs Fat Wit a Coughin, Daniel Jelinek, 35

Gaze, Maggie Hennessy, 28

Luminous, Ella Rakvin, 36

Good vs. Evil, Brie Voetberg, 32

Fracture, Megan Aletich, 37

Double Worlds, Brie Voetberg, 47

Fishy, Julie Sklenar, 38

Shoes, Cain Nocera, 51

Are You OK? Kaitlyn Lowe, 43

Neon Daydream, Claire Garvin, 63

Dunce, Faith Echeverria, 45

Under the Bridge, Cain Nocera, 73

Just Lie Down, Kaitlyn Lowe, 51

Grounded, Triniti Cruz, 75

System Reset, Clara Weismantel, 52

Dots, Brie Voetberg, 77

Float, Laura Cahill, 53

Abandoned Church Chicago, Kyle Niego, 80

No Patience, Elaina Simms, 55

Yeti, Kyle Reblin, inside back cover

Thinker, Jared Boston, 59 Mood, Delaney Antikiewicz, 59 Achilles Healed, Erik Chomko, 57 What We Do, Megan Aletich, 61 Eyes on Me, Megan Aletich, 64 Space Goddess, Mila Matejcek, 69 Smoosh, Faith Echeverria, 71 Split Personality, Haley Boggess, 77 If Only You Knew, Will Lipchik, 85 Lily, Giselle Lewis, 86

DREAM ON

Editor’s Note

Dream On. We are constantly inspired to create new things, dream limitless possibilities. This year’s edition of Menagerie is inspired from the phrase Dream On, which illuminates the beauty of ambition. The talented artists and writers of Lyons Township High School go beyond the expected to create magnificent pieces that you will find within these pages. The saying Dream On became popular during the 1960s/1970s. a time of political, social, and artistic freedom which inspired colorful and exhilarating patterns. People were pushing back against such strict structures and expanding their creativity. We took this idea as well as the colorful graphics and designs of the time period and translated it onto the pages. Dream On is conveyed through a vibrant color palette, retro geometric patterns, and groovy vibes to entrance you to read further. The writers and artists’ ability to Dream On is prevalent in every page. Art pieces are matched thematically with prose and poetry pieces to create unified layouts. Whether you read “The Elephant in the Room” (54) or “What it’s Like to be an Asian Girl (for those of you who aren’t)” (70) to help you see the injustice in the world or look at the imagination and wonder captured in “A Letter from Fourth Period” (8) the poetry is sure to provoke a sense of our amazing capacity to be the best we can be. The prose also motivates us to see the mind’s potential and overcome obstacles which you will see when you read “Childhood Dreams,” (42) “Convalescence” (12-14) or the graphic novel “Dear Dad”(48-49). Complementing the writing pieces, you will find a variety of artworks that envelop the dreams found inside every artists’ mind. Whether the artists are digitally manipulating images, taking their own photographs, painting, constructing, sculpting, drawing, or working with a variety of mediums, they show the wide range of subjects for us to ponder. Pushing the limits of the known realms, examine “Wonderland” (21) or take a dreamy look at the ground below in “Break” (22) which motivates us to reach for new heights. The world is flipped upside down forcing us to take a new look at things in “Double Worlds” (80). A new perspective, a new thought, can lead to an abundance of unique and diverse art such as the pieces highlighted in this magazine. Overall these pieces keep us questioning and imagining the future, expressing the drive to Dream On. We hope you enjoy the diverse literature and art, which highlights the students’ talents to surpass norms and re-imagine ideas into the outstanding pieces you see on the pages that follow. We invite you to appreciate the magazine and Dream On.

Brie Voetberg Editor-in-Chief

MENAGERIE 2019

Spleet l Lucy Hawblitzel l Digital

Butterfly Nebula by Travis Morales

When death strikes the hour hearts shatter and tears cascade down our faces while Earth continues to spin giving no bother. Yet it is us who comfort death and caress its pain as if it was a newborn. Joining hands we shed the cocoons of death. As we emerge, we are provided bursts of color that illuminate our wings. We embrace them as markings that we are in fact living. In the midst of these colorful scars we soar high and beyond the trees and look back down on the tombs of our former, painless selves with satisfaction and benevolence. It is the affliction that lets us fly higher than before. Yes, the watery tears of sorrow and agony will weigh us down but we can only fall back into the nest of outstretched arms, where they are ready to catch us and throw us back up into the harmonious, endless sky. Because we feed off the communal energy of our species we gain the strength to fly past the cycles of darkness together. No other being can accomplish such a feat. Death surrounds us everywhere attempting to splatter us when we least expect it. However, before we are caught in its net we have the choice to decide if our remains become a collection of insignificant dust or fuse back into stars.

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Delve l Laura Cahill l Digital Photography DREAM ON

A Letter From Fourth Period by Anne Caplice

To the brown haired girl in my 4th period class, the one who always talked so highly of airplanes, the one who loved heights and dreamed of seeing the world from a new angle, the one whose only wish was to take a flight and see the mountainstheir white caps and cascading beautyand to touch the waters of the pacific coast, dance as the waves exhaled over her feet, breathe in the world and be able to say that sheâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;d experienced life and seen the extremes. To the girl who was filled with wonder, but dimmed her flame and became shy- because people laughed when they heard her dreamI really hope you bought the ticket, that you stared out the window the entire time, that it was everything you could have imagined and more, that while exiting the ground and entering the clouds, you found yourself staring at the gates of heaven, and if you didnâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t, I hope you do. I hope you book the trip, board the plane tonight, and for once, just live. Because the way your face lit up when you talked about the weightless feeling and soft white sandit gave me hope that one day I will experience a love as great as the one I saw in your eyes. I hope you get to touch the water and scream for joy, and laugh at the kids who thought your dream was foolish; I hope your ambitions remain wholesome and dreams remain pure; I hope you never lose your love of airplanes.

MENAGERIE 2019

Shower | Madison Waliewski | Painting

DREAM ON

Cleaning Supplies For the Soul by Pilar Valdes

The Facade Cracks | Marta Kogucki | Photography

I think in biology class freshman year we learned that in seven years all of the cells in the body have reproduced to make completely new cells to essentially become a new person. I wish it were seven months or seven weeks or seven days because I don’t want to wait seven years. I don’t want to wait seven years to be a completely new person, completely void of cells that make up the being you once claimed to care about. I want to be clean. I want to be free. I want a heart with cells that don’t even know your name. I want lungs that can’t breathe it either and eyes that don’t recognize you. But I don’t think my cells going through mitosis or meiosis or osmosis or whatever it is that makes me new can get rid of your memory. The skin cells you touched are gone, but the memory of your handprint will always be there. I keep talking about how I can’t seem to forget you. But I can’t even remember which of your two front teeth had the chip in it. And was your mole on your cheek? Or on your chin? Did you even have a mole? Is your hair really red? Or was it more orange? I can’t even remember the sound of your voice saying anything other than “I don’t love you anymore.” That’s it. I don’t think any kind of cellular reproduction or respiration can get rid of that. I guess what I’m saying is that in seven years, all I’ll remember about you are those five words. That’s all that will remain of you in my brand new body of brand new cells. Your voice will probably not sound the same in my memory as it did that night. It’s a shame, really, because the version of you that will exist in my mind seven years from now will not include any of the good memories we had that even now I can’t seem to remember. All I will remember is the sound of your voice breaking my heart. By then, my heart will be new, put back together by someone who really cares. Put back together by myself.

MENAGERIE 2019

Self Portrait | Madison Waliewski | Charcoal DREAM ON

Convalescence by Maya Djurisic

You’re five years old when your family first takes you to the sea, the twenty-hour drive a tradition you’re finally old enough to endure, and you love it. The ocean is big and blue and endless, and you drink it in readily. It envelopes you, and you let yourself forget that you can’t swim. Your uncle is the one that fishes you out as you giggle and the one that takes you back in at your insistence. In less than a moment, you fall in love with the sea, with the waves that lap and crash over you as you play chicken with the oldest of your siblings, with the pull of the current as your dad teaches you to swim, with the water that is always there when you need it. It’s a universal truth in your mind; you love the ocean and it loves you in return. You forget that the ocean doesn’t love like you do, unconditionally and without fault. It’s fickle and cold, and sometimes it gets angry. It’s the last day of your tenth trip to the sea when you hear of the storm watch. You want to go and surf. Just one wave, then you’ll come back into the house. You swore you’d stay safe. You’d wear your leash, so here you are. The sky is dark, the rolling clouds mirrored by the sea. But you aren’t afraid. The ocean would never hurt you.

“how the ocean loves; ebbing and flowing like the waves it creates, pulling back but always returning, unchanged at its core.”

The water is cold when you run in, paddling along with your board, but you don’t feel it. You only feel elation, finally free in the dark waters you still see as home. The waves are big, bigger than you’ve ever seen, and they rise high above your head, but you are not afraid. You know you’re safe in the welcome arms of the sea. So, you set your sights on the biggest wave you can see, and you swim. It’s further out than you’ve ever gone. You are not afraid. The ocean would never hurt you. You just go and go and go and you’re about to rise up on the board, let the wave carry you to shore and- You miss. You miss the wave and suddenly there’s nothing but dark all around you and you can’t see the shore. No, you say to yourself. No, the ocean would never hurt me. But lightning splits the sky in two and thunder rattles your eardrums, and you’re plunged underwater, knocked from your board. The water is cold and dark and unforgiving and as the breath flees from your lungs you realize, yes it would.

MENAGERIE 2019

Iceberg | Mason Burns | Painting

You don’t know how you survived, how your uncle pulled you from the edge of bottomless blue-turning-black, but you do know that in the car home you dream of an endless ocean that no longer feels like home, water that no longer gives but takes, filling your lungs, choking the life out of you and you’re dying. The ocean is killing you. The next year you try and go back. You insist you’re fine, just that you might not swim as much this year. You haven’t told anyone about the nightmares. So you sit in the sand with the adults, as far from the water as you can possibly be without drawing undue attention to yourself, and you watch. You watch your cousins and siblings run into the water with the same reckless abandon you once had, and you can feel the breath catch in your throat. Please, you think. Don’t hurt them, too.

“The sound of waves crashing from above all you can hear” DREAM ON

And you may only be fifteen, but in that moment you feel much, much older, aged by the shake in your hands and the panic rising up your throat, unnoticed by the rest of your family. Only when the world finally turns dark and quiet do you feel like the skin you wear finally fits you again, the sound of waves crashing from above all you can hear. For the rest of the week you claim to be sick, and the next year, when you sign up for a class during the week of the trip, nobody dares say a word. It’s many years until you start seeing a therapist about the nightmares that still plague you, the fear you still feel when you hear a clap of thunder, or the sound of crashing waves. She’s the first person you tell about the nightmares. “Did you ever go back?” the therapist asked you, during one of your earliest sessions. “Once,” you replied. There’s a distant boom of thunder behind you. “The next year. I wasn’t ready.” “Do you see yourself going back, when you’re ready?” she asked after, a follow-up. It’s a long moment before you respond, honest but too small in your mouth as you said, “I don’t know.” The session ends not long after that, and you feel a frown tug at your lips when you step outside into the sunlight. You’re twenty-five years old when you return to the ocean, the long drive quiet and empty in a way it’s never been before. You’ve never done it alone, but you couldn’t bear the thought of facing this with your family. It’s the same beach you went to year after year, the same warm sand under your bare feet, the same sun shining on you, warming your skin under its rays. It’s the same water that gave you everything before ripping it away. You drop your shoes on the sand and set your eyes on the horizon you once loved. A step. The water is blue, endless in a way that was once inviting. Now, there’s only a lick of fear up your spine, and you swear the sky darkens, just a fraction. You blink, the split second of lightning across your eyelids almost enough to make you turn back. Almost. Another. Your hands are shaking, but there’s something in you coming undone. It’s just you and the ocean, just like it was. Just like it’s always been, in a way. A third. The water is cold when it brushes against your toes, and there’s a part of you that wants to run, run so far inland that you never see another ocean in your life. There’s another part, one that’s lain dormant all these years, yearning for what once was. You’ve forgotten how the ocean loves, ebbing and flowing like the waves it creates, pulling back but always returning, unchanged at its core. You take your final step and the ocean is there, greeting you home like an old friend. You embrace it, and let it swallow you whole.

The ocean would never hurt me.

MENAGERIE 2019

Girl | Lizzie Labuda | Drypoint

DREAM ON

Some Rooms by Eli Tecktiel

The light buzzes over the waiting room like a watchful deity, one who decides the fate of everyone in his jurisdiction.

Some people live, but others don’t. Some names are definitively printed in the most morbid section of the local newspaper, for their friends and forgotten foes to point out to their half-listening audience. No one really notices their absence, their lack of existence Except for those who are next.

The TV gently flashes black and white memories: the faint sound of smokey jazz and Cagney’s prop machine gun, Humphrey Bogart’s drooping face. The forgotten lives of those remembered are reflected onto the red Some rooms are better than others. eyes that have recently been visited by tears. Feet tap lightly on the green and teal tile, while the contents of a book is mindlessly scanned but never read. As soon as a drunken W.C. Fields steps into the frame a cacophony of forced chuckles, desperate laughter ensues. Everything needs to be funny but our minds cringe at the slightest thought of humor, like an unwanted cameo appearance in a film that never should’ve been made. Some people come for a checkup and leave with a tumor. Others walk in and realize that their lives are only just beginning. And the dying old man realizes that he is a ray of fading light that will soon experience a power outage. Such sudden realizations only occur in this large, white, antiseptic building filled with the ailing and those responsible for them.

MENAGERIE 2019

Pick One | Faith Echeverria | Drypoint

Breakup l Cain Nocera l Photography DREAM ON

Heritage | Mina Fredona | Digital

MENAGERIE 2019

Unbound by Alana Prinz

I cheated on death. I had an affair with life. I cheated on death, who wanted us to be forever. I loved him for a moment, but decided Iâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;m just not ready to commit to being his wife.

Tommy | Maggie Hennessy | Digital

DREAM ON

Matter of Time by Grace Dekoker

It only takes one second to notice somebody. In a single second, eyes meet and there’s a flash in your chest, a quickening of your heart, overwhelming and intense as they blink and look away. In a minute, that rush is identified as budding affection, and every time you catch each other’s eyes, it comes flooding back. It takes an hour to have a conversation and to realize that you don’t ever want to stop talking to them. It takes a day of reflecting and remembering every detail and nuance before you can steel your nerves to reach out to them. It takes a week’s worth of dates full of anxious anticipation, of palpable energy, before you kiss them for the first time and all the butterflies in your stomach hatch from their cocoons. It takes a month for you to learn their favorite color, the first band they ever saw live, their most embarrassing moments, and the places they dream to go. In a month, the shared easiness of being together becomes a content routine, and you grow so accustomed to the feel of your hand in theirs that you almost take it for granted, but you don’t. It takes a year to realize you can’t even say their name without smiling, because your feelings towards them are so real, and pure, and genuine.

It only takes one second to say “I love you.”

MENAGERIE 2019

Wonderland | Clara Weismantel | Mixed Media

DREAM ON

Break | Kyle Niego | Photograghy

cosi fan tutte by Claire VanDerLaan

we left chicago in shambles. back wheels of the school bus rushing down the tarmac, we took flight, cement gargoyles trailing behind us. rolled up flyers for the shedd aquarium grasped in our hands, we swatted at the tip of the sears tower decimating it instantly. lit up skyscrapers crumbling into each other, we watched lake michigan swallow it whole and left in the confidence that never again would anyone have it the way we once did.

DREAM ON

Burning Sands by Karina O’Brenski

The burning sand beneath my feet is suffocated by the dark blue waves as they breathe. My favorite mango dragonfruit sangria rested along the inner crest of my hand. Between every breath I took, the ocean breeze got saltier. Since I was five, I’ve been absolutely captivated by anything that reminds me of the beach. As I look around, I couldn’t spot a single face. Tempted to remember what it feels like to be surrounded by others, I glanced down, and the water beneath my feet created a reflection, not my own, but instead a young boy’s. In contrast to his angelic facial features, he radiated fear as he frantically searched around the heavily lit shopping mall. He looked to be about eight years old, wearing a striped blue and orange shirt, accompanied by long beige shorts and a pair of tennis shoes. His dusty blonde hair was long enough to barely get tangled within the eyelashes of his big brown eyes. “Mom,” he called out, yet it was as quiet as a mother whispering the end of the lullaby to her sleeping child. Several heads turned but no one could claim the boy. Instead, they watched the boy fumble around frantically like a cat with socks on. “Are you lost?” A young woman stopped among the chaos to check on him. A purple, long sleeved shirt cascaded over her shoulders, paired with white jeans and two Adidas Superstars pressed against the tiles. Her hair was the color of an acorn and fell just below her shoulders. Judging by the way she dressed and the fact that her phone had a card holder on the back that had the Indiana University logo on it, she couldn’t have been more than 25 years old. Tears brimmed in the boy’s eyes, threatening to run free and explore the nooks of his chubby cheeks. He nodded. “My mommy’s gone.” She sighed; her eyes shifting quicker than melted ice falls from a table. She linked their hands together and brought him to the front of a shop, and bent down to be eye to eye with the young boy, “Where did you see your mom last?” she asked, tilting her head as most do when talking to young children. He paused for a moment, looking down to ponder an answer. “I can’t remember.” The tears escaped his heavy lock on them and began running down his bright red cheeks. Her arms wearily curved around the boy’s thin neck as the tips of her fingers traced light circles along his back. She hated seeing kids cry, but between her teaching internship and her younger siblings who her parents made her watch on the weekends that she was home, she had to get used to it eventually. “Shh, it’s okay,” she pulled him out of the hug and gently wrapped her hands around his arms, “we’ll find your mom, I promise.” He nodded his head, still gasping for air between sobs. Glances were being tossed from the food court and all different stores in the area including all the shoppers passing from one store to another. Women gave sympathetic smiles, while teens rolled their eyes. Children stared, and fathers thanked God that wasn’t their kid.

MENAGERIE 2019

“Where do you think your mom would most likely be?” The boy’s sobbed hiccups slowed and he stepped back for a moment, wiping his eyes as the lights gleamed off of them. He reached into his pocket and as he mumbled something, he placed an object into the woman’s hand. Her jaw dropped slightly, but before they could exchange any more words, a man and a woman in their late thirties came running up, with two security guards following closely behind them. “Max!” The woman yelled, running towards him with open arms. With a frown across his face, the young boy took a few steps back to hide himself behind the younger woman with the purple shirt. “Go away,” he said as she continued walking towards him. “Max, we were looking for you everywhere!” The man took a deep breath and maneuvered his head around the woman to see the boy. “Daddy,” he smiled, reluctantly stepping out from behind the woman and hugging his father.

“he called out, yet it was as quiet as a mother whispering the end of the lullaby to her sleeping child.” The young woman awkwardly stood watching the family reunite as she still held the item he had given her in her right hand, unsure of what it was. The other woman reached out to rub Max’s arm, but he quickly pulled back and looked up to his father. “Buddy, give your mom a hug.” His dad nudged the kid in her direction. “She’s not my mom.” He shook his head, as his big brown eyes looked saddened at the thought. His father looked up at the woman, who sighed as she took a step back in defeat. He boosted the kid up onto his hip and stood up, turning back to the young woman who stood watching this all unfold. “I’m so sorry you had to deal with this-” the man began. “Oh no, don’t worry, it wasn’t a big deal,” she smiled, anxious to get out of the uncomfortable situation. “We can’t thank you enough.” “It was nothing really.” With a little more awkward small talk, the young woman parted ways with the family and as they walked away, the young boy stared back at her. She quickly unfolded her hand, revealing a light blue keychain in the shape of a surfing board that read “Lanikai Beach” in large orange font. She then remembered the words that the young boy had mumbled to her just before his father and the other woman came running over, “daddy says she isn’t with us any more, but this was one of her favorite places, so I think we’d be able to find her there.”

DREAM ON

On the Park Bench with no Name by Claire VanDerLaan

i like the way the walkway trembles beneath my feet. the uncertainty of the place designed for people who are waiting for something. the train goes howling past me. i can count twenty-one cigarette butts in the grass fifty-two buds of chickweed sprouting eight clangs of the clocktower bell one discarded can of coors lite. the cicadas are eerie and omni present, i am tempted to sit in the grass always. my legs are too cut up. someone far away pressed a button so a woman made of mechanics is informing us that â&#x20AC;&#x153;the inbound train to chicago will be twelve to sixteen minutes behind schedule she repeats â&#x20AC;&#x153;the only chance for your escape will be twelve to sixteen minutes behind schedule i have seen the same man four times and it is not my last sighting. all of the trains have left the station. there is no point in visiting the ghosts anymore.

MENAGERIE 2019

Jack | Eleanor Keelan | Drawing DREAM ON

Gaze | Maggie Hennessy | Photography

MENAGERIE 2019

If I Could

by Anna Murray

If I could, I would tell my mother that I’m sorry. I would tell her I was sorry for her sleepless nights spent wondering if I was coming home, sorry for the failed classes and meetings with school counselors and endless tardy slips. I would tell her I didn’t mean any of it, that I swear I’ll change, that I really didn’t want to hurt her. But I did, and for that I’d want to tell her that I’m sorry. If I could, I would tell Jane and Margot that they lied. They lied. They told me I was fine, that they were fine. They told me nothing we did would ever change who I was. Everything is always just fine with us, even as my lips turn blue. They’re standing over me now, just standing. They’ll get busted if they call for help. They get busted, or I stop breathing. Hard choice. If I could, I would tell Will to cover his eyes. Jane and Margot will leave by dawn, and Will’s going to come down to brush his teeth, and he’ll find me, cold as the ground I lay on, and I’ll be there whenever he shuts his eyes for as long as he lives. He won’t understand why or how this happened to his sister, to him, but he won’t need to. He’ll have the rest of his life to think about it.

“They get busted, or I stop breathing. Hard choice.” If I could, I would stand up. I would wash my face, drink a glass of water, and crawl into my bed. I wouldn’t be lying here on the ground, with blue lips and blue fingers and a belt squeezing my forearm. If I could, I would erase the bags under my eyes. I would fill my gaunt cheeks and withered frame with joy and love and happiness. If I could, I would be far, far away from here, away from Jane and Margot, away from needles and pills and powders, away from everything. But I can’t. Instead, I lay on my concrete floor, my eyes filling with a dark haze, my veins filled with just a little too much dope. Because all the times I could, I didn’t.

DREAM ON

To Follow or not to Follow by Kalyssa Karkazis

after William Shakespeare

To follow or not to follow—that is the question: Whether ‘tis nobler to choose the path Already paved, In jewels and gems alike Or to take arms against a sea of the unknown And fly far from the flock To stray, to defy— No more shrinking in shadows shed by siblings No more searching for similarities between individuals That parents and teachers are unconsciously heir to ‘Tis a consummation Devoutly to be wished. To stray, to defy— To defy—perchance to lead: ay, there’s the rub, For in that unknown journey what obstacles may come When we have ventured far from our blood, Must give us pause There— That surely causes uncertainty in another path For who would bear the whips and scorns of following The parent’s expectations, the teacher’s bias The disappointment of lower grades, the challenge of familiarity The same living quarters, and the comparison Of personalities. Who would follow in others’ footsteps, Take the same classes and have the same teachers, But that the dread of something after graduation, The unexplored outcomes, from whose bourn No relative has experienced, puzzles the will, And makes us rather bear those ills we have Than discover those we know not of? Thus fear does make cowards of us all, And thus the individualism we are born to Dwindles with each step towards our siblings And enterprise of a free spirit With this regard are suffocated And parrot the actions of the one before.

MENAGERIE 2019

DREAM ON

Abduction l Julia Kolosa l Digital

Good vs. Evil | Brie Voetberg | Photography

MENAGERIE 2019

The Waltz of the Red Pen by Grace Dekoker

Elegant, she sits, legs crossed and arms folded, sitting pretty until she finds her time. It takes just one click, one action, to transform her entire modus operandi. The calm stillness is replaced with a flurry of action, her ink leaving marks whenever it touches. She crosses out, rephrases, corrects, rights the wrongspassionate in what is right and not afraid to say soher chicken scratch scrawls scream thoughts and she falls into a rhythm, the cadence rising and falling with each paragraph as she leaves her mark on impressionable paperYou did what to my work? A misstep, a blotch of ink that spreads like blood.

What gives you the right to shred my work? Why so high and mighty? Honestly, what do you know anyway? You’re lesser, you’re ridiculous, you’re making problems where there aren’t any and honestly you need to just learn your placeShe stares to her brother, the black pen, And her heart breaks as she sees his lack of criticism, how he is well-loved, appreciated, congratulated. People always think she is harsh, excessive, abrasive, When she simply wants to fix the words, the world. Hesitantly, the shaky ink trail begins again, but she presses herself down so hard she cannot, will not hear the criticisms. Her scarlet ink dries, the blood of naysayers works as her medium, and with a flourish of pride she slows her dance, stepping off the floor. Silent once more, the aftermath of a job well done. A job needed to be done.

DREAM ON

Blind Date with a Metaphysicist

by Jordan Cole A single olive floated in his martini. I took mine out and layed it, dripping, onto a napkin while he spoke about the higher nature of the human soul. His lips pulled rings of cigarette smoke from his throat. He was wrong, of course. It wasn’t a set of metaphorical ruins, an untouchable compass. The self couldn’t be contained to the pale bookshelves, only to be displayed like cold chinaware. It was hungry, wanting, made of soft dirt. “It bides its time carefully-“ he offered, taking another drag of his cigarette. “Except, I think, in the eyes of a lover.” But what does a soul know about the concept of time? Or lovers? If I concentrated, I could practically see Emerson rolling in his grave underneath us, pushing dirt up through cracks in the cobblestone. Above, he stirred the contents of his glass again Eyes wide, lips poutingRecognizing very well the power of performance in a way I never tended to. I retaliated by shooting my hand forward and fishing for the olive waiting in his drink. Unsuccessful, I lost interest and shrugged before leaning back, popping my gin-drunk ring finger into my mouth.

MENAGERIE 2019

Lungs Fat Wit a Coughin | Daniel Jelinek | Painting

DREAM ON

Luminous | Ella Rakvin | Drawing

MENAGERIE 2019

ICARUS

by Delia Lonnroth Oh Icarus you who dared to fly too close to the sun-you, who were so unafraid to get burned, higher and higher you flew. Tell me Icarus, when did you realize your fate? Was it your father’s screams? Perhaps it was the wax rolling down your back; maybe you didn’t even realize until you fell. Was it worth it? Tell me Icarus, why couldn’t you be happy with what you had? Why fly higher and higher just to fall farther and farther condemning you to a watery grave. Oh Icarus tell me how did it feel?

Fracture | Megan Aletich | Printmaking

DREAM ON

Fishy | Julie Sklenar | Mixed Media

MENAGERIE 2019

Kick the Can by Audrey Parkes

So when you sprint from your hiding spot behind the garage, stubbing the toe of your sneaker into a loose root, and feeling the burn on your knee from where a fresh scab splits, you won’t stop just because you’ve been spotted from across the yard; this is because you aren’t afraid, because your feelings are young, and because losing kick the can is not like losing a person. Instead you’ll run harder and ignore the tickle on your dirt-dusted shin where blood trickles from a nasty road rash, and the same tickle on your forehead where sweat slides from your messy hair towards your innocent eyes. You’ll pull deep breaths of the stifling night air that slicks your tank top to your damp skin, that makes you wish the emptied Pepsi can you sprint towards was still sweating against your palm with the comforting weight of late nights that you still hope for and don’t yet dread. It will be a few years until you begin to notice the persistent disinterest in the eyes of your heat-lethargic father, who sits on the paint-chipped porch surrounded by cigar smoke that dances in the buzzing porch light. The untamed grass poking at the mosquito bites on your ankles won’t yet irritate you and you’ll picture the ice cream you get to devour later, without the taunting voices of skinny girls on TV lingering. You’ll pump your scarless, unharmed arms against the heavy air, and your father’s unimpressed mouth, and your neighbor who slows her pace because she knows you are going to beat her to the can. You’ll get to watch the rest of the kids spill out from their hiding spots and surround you, thrill you, because crowds don’t yet make your palms sweat and your heart race uncomfortably. The boy from down the street will touch your shoulder with dirty hands itching for a first kiss, while his sister’s too-small glasses slip off her nose because she’s getting older and so are you. And later, when you sit around the fire despite the heat, you should know that even though the boy from down the street will hold your small hand tonight, one day you’ll fall in love with a girl they say you shouldn’t, take a small, prescribed pill each morning, and forget that you won’t kick the can.

DREAM ON

Gorilla | Klaudia Wegman | Ceramic

MENAGERIE 2019

Looking Back

by Linnea Nelson-Sandall

DREAM ON

Childhood Dreams by Kathleen McMahon

As if a floodgate had opened, I began to dream. My dreams were suffocating and heavy. I dreamed of the beach, only the line between the water and the sky was indistinguishable. The blinding sun reflected into my eyes as I looked for something, or someone. I woke up gasping as if coming up for air. I dreamed of pulling on my swimsuit, in my old house, but it was too tight. I pulled it over my shoulders, the straps digging into my flesh. I held onto the pool wall as I sucked in my submerged belly, my streamlined baby fat. I felt embarrassed. I dreamed that I flew off my swing set into space like an astronaut, or like Amelia Earhart from our History textbook. But instead of feeling weightless, I was heavy. I slowed and began to fall, but not to the ground below. I fell back into my body, still suspended at the top of the swing’s arc, radiant and weightless. I burst into flames as I flew through the atmosphere, coming back into my body on the swing set, sweating under the sun. I woke up with a fever. My skin was hot to the touch. I dreamed that my house was flooding during a summer storm. I was at the top of the stairs, the water rushing in, the floorboards beginning to drift. I walked down the stairs, gripping the banister, but I couldn’t get out to find someone to help me because of the rising water. Someone was outside, but they couldn’t hear me screaming over the roar of the flood. I dreamed of picking the strawberries in our old garden and putting them into the skirt of my dress. Only they were inedible. They were filled with worms, fat and squirming. The worms gorged themselves on the berries, like vultures on a carcass. I bit into a berry and it burst, red liquid spilling down my dress. I don’t dream anymore.

MENAGERIE 2019

Are You OK? | Kaitlyn Lowe | Mixed Media

DREAM ON

Chasing Chalkboards by Maya Djurisic

Growing up, I used to chase chalkboards because they were only found in the classrooms of the children that towered above me in the playground, pity in their eyes as I tried to stop crying. I was sick of whiteboards, of clean lines and the neon markers that spoke only of immaturity. I wanted the smudge, the mess, the diluted white and yellow chalkdust that would cover my fingertips. Now Iâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;m older and the chalkdust never leaves me. Itâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s under my nails, stuck in the crevices of my fingers. Draining the color out of my skin, glistening from freely shed tears made pale under dull blues and pea greens that refuse to lift, no matter how hard I scrub. I miss the brights, the violent reds and evergreens that covered my childhood whiteboards. I want the smooth edges, bright and clean and easily washed.

MENAGERIE 2019

Dunce l Faith Echeverria l Painting

DREAM ON

Spirit of Love by Grace Dekoker

after “To the Lighthouse” by Virginia Woolf

What was the spirit in him, the essential thing by which had you heard the gentle plunking of keys on a piano, you would have known it, by the melodious sound, to be his fingers at the source of its creation? He was a snap, a blink, for the speed of his thought. He was genial, he was genuine (of course, I must remind myself, I am thinking of his relations with me, and I am biased, a quiet person, letting him bring me out of my shell). He pulled the weeds. He planted a garden (so with everyday plants the thought of him in my head). Leaving me late at night with a soft kiss at my door, wrapped up in my arms (for the setting of his demeanor was always that- sweet and meaningful) he would recant an earlier moment of joy, whatever it might be- closing the donut shop; sneaking into the wrong movie; introducing me to “classic” films, some of his favorites. All this he would convey in an instant; commit to memory; and, taking a step back, knowing the night must end- it was past midnight, past curfew- turn back, more intimately, but still the smile lingered, insist of a repeat of the night, for me, for him, for us, since in our whole world, whatever stressors may be tossed my way (though he never did mind talking me down), or moments of pause had by him (for he too sometimes needed reassurance), and here they embraced, brightened, and remained as they were, there could be no disputing this: a pair (we quietly murmured those three special words) a pair such as this was experiencing the best of love. Oh, but I can say, there is my family: my friends; even my passions, that if I dared to say, my passions that delve deeply into the microscopies of the world. These loves seemed different, not little nor insignificant, but just not the same as the one I so gratefully shared with him. Yet, as the months wore on, and sunlight broke through each cloud, it became increasingly clear how right this all was. I can lay my head on his shoulder and laugh and laugh and laugh, losing my breath and tearing up at whatever witty comment had just been uttered in my ear, and for a fleeting moment as our laughter stills and our breathing slows, there we sit, simple, serious. For a moment I look up, and catch him already looking at me. Was it respect? Was it admiration? Was it, once more, the longing for moments such as this, tangled up limbs in a golden embrace? I imagine, how in the deepest neurons of the brain and the chambers of the heart of the boy who is physically touching me, is love, that could be tangible, could be seen, could explain such intricacies of his soul, would it? Could this love, as we knew we had, unite us as one; whether it was shouted from rooftops or exchanged between two hearts; the exchange was all I need, I thought- and with that, rest my head back on his chest.

MENAGERIE 2019

Double Worlds | Brie Voetberg | Photography

Dear Dad by Hannah Smith

MENAGERIE 2019

DREAM ON

Four by Jordan Cole

In the morning. I burst from the lacey confines of my princess prison into the night, wanting to declare my hunger. But I knew what my mother said: “Little girls don’t eat that late. Little girls stay asleep.” My stuffed animals were setting an example, caudled softly in a feathered duvet. They didn’t even snore. Flattened to the ground- me, an army crawler in an action movie. The click of a closing door like a quiet gun reloading. My mother and aunt were awake, sipping small glasses of wine with lights off, except For a soft cinema glow. I snuck through the trenches of carpet, rug-burns on my knees uncovered by a flowery nightgown. Stretching through a barbed-wire fortress of futon springs, the battle-cries of soap operas mixing with smoke and the bullet shells of stamped out cigarette butts. Maybe not a soldier- rather, a war spy. The cinnamon bagel? My hostage. Weighted down, blinded in unknown territory. Eventually I rose to a doga wild animal that somehow snuck into the house where little girls were asleep with empty bellies. But I was caught. Escorted like an escaped prisoner. As it always was. Every young dog, whimpering, back to the kennel. Every young soldier, wounded, back to base. Every young girl, unwillingly, back to her bed.

MENAGERIE 2019

vv Just Lie Down | Kaitlyn Lowe | Mixed Media

iv v

Shoes | Cain Nocera | Photography DREAM ON

System Reset | Clara Weismantel | Drawing

MENAGERIE 2019

Float l Laura Cahill l Painting

Heavenly Body by Courtney Olinger

You are more than stardust, sunrays, and cosmos; you are a Heavenly Body. Built and constructed by the gods themselves. I crave to trace your face, near the peak of spiral galaxy of curls, with my soft, frail fingertips; connect your beauty mark constellations like a child playing connect the dots, to find the relations between our zodiac signs. Iâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;ve come to love you so much - my sun, my stars, and my moon - that I must be turning into a selenophile, a heliophile, or a downright astrophile because when I look at you; you are an astronomical masterpiece. With a smile warmer than a supernova, lips like yours, nebula clouds get jealous. Every night, I long to get lost in your glowing eyes, resembling Sirius up in the night sky. So bright and nearly radiating a charismatic blue. When I get the chance to stare back into those sapphire orbs, Galileo could only imagine and envy my discovery. Forever, I await your greatest successes, your zenith. I want to be there for your rise and your fall. My comet, my guiding star, the Egyptian deity Ra in my solar system revolving around you; I may be your world, but you are my universe. DREAM ON

The Elephant in the Room by Maggie Hennessy

This big, grey, old, wrinkled, smelly, fat elephant arrived in our classroom today for our discussion of social justice. Our teacher tried to lean around its enormous silhouette to gently introduce the topic but the second he got as far as “racis-” a tail whisked, a trunk curled and desks were instantly shifting to avoid an elephant collision. One student tried to develop the idea but immediately after mentioning “misogy-” an ear flapped, a trumpeting blared she was left speechless. Another peer tried to redirect back to the topic but once he was as far as “immigr-” a tusk swung, a stomping shook the building and his comment was trampled. And there that giant, old, smelly, fat elephant remained, its shadow blotting out the ceiling lights and taming us into textbooks.

MENAGERIE 2019

No Patience | Elaina Simms | Painting

DREAM ON

What It’s Like To Be The Only Boy (for those of you who aren’t) by Zachary Schierl

after Patricia Smith

It’s crying in the closet when Mom tells you your new sibling is going to be a girl. Again. It’s knowing every movie night from now on is a chick flick, soldiering through all the musicals and love stories and dramas with only your Dad, snoring the anthem of his chair, there to suffer through it with you. It’s recruiting running backs and wrestlers for brawls in the basement, but taking it easy so they don’t run crying to Mom. It’s navigating a sea of cosmetics and hair stuff, tube forests of creams and lotions, just to brush your teeth at night; driving to soccer, then basketball, then cello and viola and violin, hearing the screeches from the practice room late in the evening evolve from hellish shrieks into ringing notes of art. It’s being alone with your headphones on car trips as they all sing Adele at the top of their lungs, until you’ve accidentally memorized all the songs you never wanted to hear; It’s getting woken up by High School Musical at 7 am on a Saturday morning, but then accepting pancakes as an apology. It’s loving your best friends as brothers, because you’ve never had any of your own. It’s mumbling in response to Mom, beyond the curtain of shirts and jackets, in between the sniffles and sobs: “Can we name her Ellie?”

MENAGERIE 2019

Achilles Healed | Erik Chomko | Painting

DREAM ON

Refuge by Maxwell Bresticker

after Elly Bookman

Elsewhere children wail for their parents gone. How they huddle under blankets, against fences, and in the cells of their desert prison. Taken from their parents by the land of the free. Without a crime to their name, the scales of justice cast only a pale shadow. The vitriol, gridlock, and security concerns on the nightly news is meant perhaps to distract me from the plight of a child without a friend in a strange land While I casually chat with a classmate waiting for the bell to set us free. Instead I listen for that distinctive ring, grab my bookbag, and begin my voyage from one rectangular room to the next. I lumber through convoluted corridors teeming with unfamiliar faces. Yet, a friend or two accompany me-telling jokes, offering reassurance, and planning the weekend ahead. They create six minutes of warmth between classes, overpowering the cold and gloom of that January day. Then the next lecture begins, and perhaps I shall always feel at home, welcomed, and at peace in our great land.

MENAGERIE 2019

Thinker | Jared Boston | Digital

DREAM ON

Mood | Delaney Antkiewicz | Digital

Reality

by Kevin Hernandez

Maria started rubbing alcohol all over Claudi Santiago’s face as Abuelita Carmen stormed into the room, amazed at the bruises Claudio had received. “What happened, mijo,” Carmen screamed. Claudio began to tell his story. Maria was walking home from school, like always, when suddenly a woman started screaming at her. “Why the hell did you step on my lawn,” the white woman asked. “You stupid Mexican girl, do you even understand what I’m saying?” Maria continued to walk towards her house when the woman yelled “Get back here, you little bastard.” The woman began chasing Maria as she screamed for help. Claudio heard his sister’s pleas for help and rushed out of his house. As he began running he noticed that the woman was choking Maria with her backpack. “Leave her alone miss!” Claudio yelled as Maria looked at him gladly. Claudio rushed in and pulled Maria out into safety. “Why were you hurting my sister miss?” Claudio said as he signaled Maria to go home. The woman began slapping Claudio and choking him. “Let me go!” Claudio yelled as he pulled the woman’s hands off his neck. Claudio ran away and locked the door of their house. As Maria and Claudio were finishing telling their story to Abuelita Carmen, a knock was heard on the door. Carmen rushed to the door astonished, as she saw police officers outside. “He went in here!” screamed the woman as police officers went inside without a warrant. Claudio sat shocked on his bed next to Maria as the officers handcuffed him. Maria and Carmen began to weep as they hugged each other. “Call a lawyer, abuelita,” Claudio yelled as the police escorted him while Claudio obeyed.

MENAGERIE 2019

What We Do | Megan Aletich | Painting

DREAM ON

Debut

by Anja Robbert The hall rushes past me as I try to outrun the terror of the auditorium. The bathroom door creaks out a greeting. I am welcomed into a pocket in time free of stage fright, empty of expectation. I am alone. But I look into the mirror. An unexpected face: a doppelgĂ¤nger. She places her hands in the sink, leans forward, lets the water rush between her fingers. Her mouth conceals a smirk, barely visible. Silently, she whispers a word you and in her glimmering eyes I see everything: I see a breeze flowing over a flute like a boy walking over a bridge carrying a basket of hot cross buns. I see a gasp burst from between her lips and her shaky steps forward to the front row. I see her wet cheeks behind trembling hands amidst the cacophony of careless chords. And finally, I see the exhausted hours of serenading Selene until perfection is within sight. I am as perfect as anybody. I admire my face for a moment then trek back to face the stars above the stage.

MENAGERIE 2019

Neon Daydream | Claire Garvin | Photography DREAM ON

Eyes on Me | Megan Aletich | Silkscreen

MENAGERIE 2019

Bell Dragon by Ryce Borzym

First compartment to the right Of the cabinet complex out front Contains the chromed up little Lizard, forever forbidden to rest His arched back and clenched jaw From the burden of his brass bell. How cruel a fate for the king of Reptiles; surpassing T-Rexâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s Conquering of Earth with mastery Of the loftier heavens and hells alike; to be drenched in metal, His majestic stature hammered flat To an unbecoming bust, a pitiful Portrait of what once was, what Will never be again. Rescued From under the clutter of a great Auntâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s widowed home, antique irony Of clasping in his gasp a brass bell, An instrument of banishment. Ringing it with cool clarity against his will and best wishes, he dispels the pure and evil spirit Alike, they themselves as much a myth unless they found a like fate, benign in a shrine someplace Or defying death in memories of others. Its rung once a day, and only Allowed so much, lest it Ward away the wayward Spirits and meager demons Alike

DREAM ON

Calypso

by Nora Daley

The nymph with lovely braids they adore, living on this island, the paradise of prison sitting sedentarywaiting solely on them, they don’t have souls. For they crave a part, yet not the whole but they must continue to traverse, uprooting my lovely braids from the Earth. If they only stayed, if they only loved deeper than this. Asking for nothing in return it’s because they call me lustrous, isn’t it? But am I begging to be taken advantage of? I did not ask for this. They whisper “you never said no” but does anyone? Yet I am still a nymph, lusted after but never loved.

Flower l Eileen Flores l Metalsmithing

MENAGERIE 2019

Ruffles l Lena Tirva l Fashion

DREAM ON

Mind Games by Nora Daley

The star of dinner time Self doubt did not taint Her eyes her smile her mind Foreign to the alternate universe lying ahead The star of the screen Filters the crutch, aiding her double life Spackled over the fissures until she is unrecognizable Her windburnt face now retouched with an airbrush This is the realityBeauty lies in the eyes of another beholder Beaten and bruised, branded by society, Entangled in an inescapable web She suffocated andShe snapped On all accounts- inside and out

MENAGERIE 2019

Space Goddess | Mila Matejcek | Watercolor

DREAM ON

What It’s Like To Be An Asian Girl (for those of you who aren’t)

by Jesvin John

after Patricia Smith

first of all, it’s being hidden, unseen in the country you call home and feeling like that’s wrong, but being told “it’s okay, you’re the model minority” when you’re feeling like you’re not. it’s surgeries on your eyes so you can see clear with your new double lid. it’s smothering whitening creams on your face, not thinking about the bleach as it seeps into your skin. it’s trading the words you know for these foreign English sounds and teaching your parents to change their voices so they can fit in as well. it’s growing up leaving your mom’s food at home and bringing the lunchables instead. It’s waiting to see what part of your culture becomes the next trend. it’s yellowface and yellowfever always in the air. it’s trying not to act too white. it’s trying not to be a fob. it’s assimilating to a new place and slowly forgetting where you’re from.

MENAGERIE 2019

Smoosh | Faith Echeverria | Charcoal DREAM ON

DEAD PEOPLE by Eli Tecktiel

My head fills with a nauseating silence. I set down a dog-eared thrift store copy of Naked Lunch, and walk over to my overwhelming selection of records hundreds of used, abused, and severely bruised albums that exude the charms of long forgotten folk and jazz the pleading cries of Woody Guthrie and the somber improvisations of Hank Mobley. I scan my tortured vertical assets and my eyes land on Go! by Dexter Gordon, as though the title of the album was commanding me to play it immediately. I pull it out, away from its tight-knit community of tragic jazz heroes. As I slide the slick, black vinyl out of the sleeve my eyes widen, reacting to a menacing scratch across the record making sure to compliment each and every groove with a pop tick or skip. The musical equivalent of a bowl of rice krispies.

A fading Blue Note label rescued from a tomb of neglect. A pool of stale air and symphonic dust scatters within the box like the remains of Charlie Parker awkwardly conversing with every sleeve that has been stuffed away in an exhausted cardboard box in the attic of someoneâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s dead grandfather. The record plays and visions of a lost time and place come back to life Mose Allison is resurrected with the drop of a needle. The ghosts of bebop echo through my room, a fitting soundtrack to the yellowed pages of Kerouac and Corso, Jazza rhythmic solution to a poetic union.

MENAGERIE 2019

Under the Bridge | Cain Nocera | Photography

Picnic Tables by Anne Caplice

The picnic table on which we had shared all of our ineffable summer adventures was now at the forefront of another night. The crooked planks of cedar wood splintered into our backs as we squeezed on top, as if this was what the table had been made for all along. My elbow pressed into his side as our fingers stumbled to connect in the darkness, the blanket we had brought, loosely draped over our already sweating bodies, forgetting the heat of Chicago even after the sun goes down. Underneath my left calf we had engraved our initials, as if to prove to history that we had existed here - a token to remember this summer by, even after the two of us would inevitably part ways tomorrow. Nonetheless, we put the thought out of our heads and instead focused on where we were, not where we were going. The sky was a deep, navy blue and my vision contracted, going in and out of focus, as my eyes struggled to adjust to the minimal lighting. The soft clouds of the day before had been swept away, and in their place was revealed a theater of stars. It was one of those nights when you look up and realize just how small you really are in this big, big world. Sheltered by the gazebo, I almost wished that it had no roof so that I could see beyond and explore the night’s beauty, but we were contained- bound to the restrictions of that summer, that town, that night, that gazebo.

“you look up and realize just how small you really are in this big, big world” The symphony of nature played in the background- the hum of crickets and mosquitoes, the occasional croak of a toad that would startle us, prompting us to sit up, but just as quickly as we did, we would slowly fall back like feathers floating down from the sky. The buzzing of cars in the distance as fast people, raced off to important destinations, without ever taking the time to just slow down and stop. Not noticing us, we were silent, our only footprint being the rise and fall of our deflating lungs. We were invisible, and in that moment held no obligations to the world except to listen and observe. At our feet lay a path of gravel that would be stored in our shoes and taken home as a souvenir of the night. Small and gray- bothersome when in your way, but disappearing the moment you searched for it. At the end of the path was a stagnant pond with thick moss and algae growing on the edges. Every so often, you’d hear the pounding splash of a fish, or see a large ripple. We liked to pretend that it was an ocean, home to alligators and sharks, so that when we’d finally muster up the courage to jump in, and immerse ourselves in the world of danger, we could call ourselves invincible.

MENAGERIE 2019

Past the pond was an abandoned house. The front door was boarded with a slab of wood, although the broken windows made it apparent that we were not the only local teens who found an escape this place. The front porch light sporadically flickered on and then would fade into the background to the point where you almost forgot about it, until it would do it all over again. All summer we had talked about checking the house out ourselves, but that night, something kept us glued to our spots. It wasn’t fear of the uncertainty that laid beyond the safety of our resting point, but rather the fear that we’d miss out on exactly what we were doing- nothing. Palms touching, fingers interlocked, soaking up our final two hours until we’d have to say goodbye. Time slowed and in our silence we both understood that this was the end, although neither would say it. My eyes once again became blurry, and sniffles ensued, but I wouldn’t dare move to ruin that moment. I squeezed his hand tighter, reassuring myself that he was still there, before our inevitable release.

Grounded | Triniti Cruz | Photography

DREAM ON

Pouring Perspectives by Charlotte Hank

When I was a baby, the sound of pelting rain left me whimpering,

Now, the fall of rain and the wisps of wind help me fall asleep and dream differently than I did before.

the same way my dog crawls into her crate or open arms to hide from the rumbling that rattles the window.

Rain is always cold and wet. Jumping in puddles is merely a way to get muddy clothes. Wind is only a nuisance that turns your umbrella inside out.

In elementary school, rain opened like a wet recess to run laps around the block and jump in open puddles.

But the sky never changes

When youâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;re younger, everything is more lively.

Something about the foggy atmosphere presents infinite possibilities.

Puddles are a home for tiny fish, or baby mosquitoes. Lightning, is a guide home for animals in the forest. And falling rain, is the best car wash.

When the sky is blank, it can be anything the next second, and it never stays dark for long .

As a teenager, the way thunder and lightning interact: a long distance relationship, fascinated me. You can count how far away lightning is if you count the seconds between thunder. Natureâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s warning against beautiful things.

MENAGERIE 2019

Dots | Brie Voetberg | Photography

Split Personality | Haley Boggess | Digital

Curiosity by Erin Cosgrove

My rebellious friend beckons me, ropes me into mischief. Curiosity peers out at me from my grandmotherâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s attic. She leans on the wall by locked doors. Her long fingers hold my wrist. She pulls me along unfamiliar streets. Curiosity opens drawers filled with shimmering secrets. She fumbles rusted latches, digs in the yard for my childhood time capsules. Her invisible grin eases my uncertainty. Her silent sentences are convincing enough to let her lead. And so we jump into the technicolor unknown, away from the grueling gray.

MENAGERIE 2019

Electrophorus | Savannah Cowan | Ceramics

DREAM ON

Abandoned Church Chicago | Kyle Niego | Photography

The House by Claire VanDerLaan

Tina Trentin bought the house in 1995. Little Tow, Michigan seemed like the perfect little beach town, complete with a rickety library, a cozy chain coffee shop, and an ice cream destination that was perfect for tourists. There was no better place to rent out a house. The cabin, old and creaky but full of potential, blossomed under her care. She painted the front door yellow, greased all the squeaky cabinet doors in the kitchen, sealed the leak in the upstairs window, cleaned the attic so it was a livable space, and somehow made it a home for her, her husband, and their two children. But summers came and went and Tina began to rent the house out for months at a time while she and the kids spent time with grandparents in the city. Although Tina may have forgotten the tenants, their names and nuances and where they came from, the house never forgot. There were the Fosters in July of â&#x20AC;&#x2DC;97, a quaint mother and father with twin four-year-olds who stored buckets of damp sand underneath their beds and tried to keep a family of snails alive in the corner of a linen closet. That summer, ice cream dribbled from sticky hands all over the rails of the wrap-around porch and countless tiny feet and toes burned on the blanket of sand. The house remembered them with the scrapes on the floor from the two beds being pushed together and pulled apart again, along with the notch made in the side of the dresser when one of the kids opened the door a smidge too hard. Then there was the fraternity who rented the house for spring break of 1998. The messiest tenants the house had ever known, they split their time in between the house and the bar on Main Street. Cans of beer wound up deep in bookshelves, under couch cushions, even in the fireplace. The water in March was far too cold for even the wildest of them, but plenty of drunken dares resulted in dunks in the frigid water regardless. The house remembered them with a blown out speaker and the markings of their initials on the wall near the water heater. The Reeds came next in June 1999. A grandmother, her two sons along with their wives and children, that was a tight house. Nightly barbecues resulted in the fridge always being stuffed with assorted cuts of meat and the locally-made chip dip sold in the grocery store two blocks away. A poor use of fireworks left singe-marks up the side of a tree near the back steps. The house remembered. Every family that stayed there, every Fourth of July bonfire, every hot dog grilled and happy laugh shared, the house remembered. Years and years, the people came and went, floating in and out in waves of sunscreen and ruffled bathing suits and red-white-blue popsicles. There could be no telling if they remembered the house, or if it was just one little piece of their existence in the many houses they would encounter in their lifetimes. Nonetheless, it was worth it; every flip-flop full of sand dumped in the mudroom, all the plates and bottles that clinked around the fire pit in the back, each sliver and split in the tiniest details of the house, the parts of it that were the most well-loved, all of that made up for it. All of that, the house remembered.

DREAM ON

The Roar of The Run by Claire William

Winter’s icy fingers know no boundaries. They sliver through the openings of my sweater and pierce the narrow strip of exposed skin between my socks and leggings. My toes burn with a fiery cold that won’t subside any time soon. Because as much as my body wishes to turn back, I need to keep going. After all that has happened today, I need to run. The cold’s talons squeeze my legs tighter and tighter, and I can feel them beginning to tense. A mile farther into the thicket of trees, they become numb. It’s then that I can focus all of my energy on propelling myself forward. Each time I drive my legs into the slushy ground of the forest, I gain a little more momentum. I get a little closer to the speed I crave. The one that will make my lungs burn, my muscles ache, my skin sticky with an almost suffocating sweat. But most importantly, the one that will require all my attention to maintain. Even the most persistent thoughts and images will succumb to the demand of silence. The light dims and the temperature drops. I know I probably should’ve turned around by now, but this feeling coursing through my veins has become a form of meditation. I’m running like the Grim Reaper is on my heels, and if I can just keep this up, it’ll forget about him. He’ll be safe. By now, my breaths are coming in short and ragged. Winter’s breath mixes with my own to create a thin film of fog on my glasses. The dusk continues to descend upon the forest, and through my hazy glasses, the forest turns sinister. The trees are not a soft ebony; they are a pure, unapologetic black. I can see the darkness seeping out of the trees, converging around me, and preparing to swallow me up in it. Fear squeezes my heart, but when I begin to slow, thoughts even darker than that of the forest begin swirling around my brain. I am back in that hospital room. The sterile scent of the room is overpowering, and all I want is to be wrapped up in one of his sweaters that always smells of their musty house. What I really want is to be back in their house, just the way it was last year, but nothing is like it was last year. Last year, Papa wasn’t laying across from me in a hospital bed. He is skinnier than I have ever seen him, his gaunt skin stretched across his jutting bones, with wires jutting out from his skin. Mama stands to the side of his bed, massaging a headache in her temples. My aunt helps him to drink, and we all clutch our armchairs when he begins coughing, afraid that he’ll choke again. When he talks, it’s no more than a mumble. His Parkinson’s has made it so it’s been hard for me to understand him my whole life, but this is so much worse. I squeeze my eyes shut, push the palms of my hands into the sockets, willing it all out of my mind. Every “He’s not ready to go” and every “That was our last Christmas” thought needs to get out, and it needs to get out now. After a few moments, I begin running again. I take off faster than before, as fast as if I was in the final stretch of a race, but I’m not trying to outrun any competitor. I’m trying to outrun the darkness. I’m trying to outrun Father Time. My heart is beating in a frenzied, panicked rhythm. The tears are like ice against my cheeks. I can still feel the darkness gaining on me, the thoughts pushing to come back in, so I keep running. I keep running and running and running and running and -

MENAGERIE 2019

Ski | Cullen Younker | Metalsmithing The forest disappears. It’s so drastic and sudden that everything else - the darkness, the thoughts, the worries, the fear - disappear with it. I allow myself to slow and finally come to a stop within this clearing. Wiping the tears from my eyes, I see with intense clarity the sunset that has ignited in the sky. Pinks and purples, oranges and blues, they all come together to bid farewell to the sun. But even after the sun has disappeared over the horizon, the colors it created remain, giving life to the clouds and the heavens above. The colors are an invitation to become transfixed, and I accept. When I look at them, I see the beauty of nature, the hope of a new day. I stay there, shivering in that clearing, until the sunset fades, and the colors are replaced by a deep navy. It’s not until the sky is speckled with stars that I realize I was waiting for something. For that knot in my stomach to loosen. For the hope of a new day to feel tangible and real. For that sob caught in the back of my throat to disappear. Instead, it finally edges its way out, and I cry out everything that hadn’t been pounded out of me on the run. Eventually, I turn around and head home. Not because I’m ready, but because it’s what I have to do. Whenever I told Papa I was going for a run - whenever I told him anything, really - he replied with, “You have do what you have to do.” In life, that’s how things work. The sun sets because it has to set, people die because people have to die, and those who are left keep going because we have to. We look to sunsets and simple wonders in life in the hope that it’ll remind us of the joy of it all. We repeat “everything is going to be okay” like a solemn prayer in our minds because it’s what we have to do to keep going. But sometimes, things aren’t okay. They’re sad and mucky and unfair. Sometimes, what I have to do is let the real world disappear as it gets lost in the roar of the run.

DREAM ON

Museum of Class 3s by Jack Baker CAROL and FRANCIS stand on stage looking out at the audience. The stage is very bare except for a sign in the background that says “Open House TONIGHT” or “Welcome Parents” CAROL: It’s kinda sweet. FRANCIS: It’s a little creepy. CAROL: No, they had all the kids draw their families, so the parents can see how their kids see them; it’s sweet. (pause.) Oh but all the families have that same blank smile kids draw. Maybe it is a little creepy. (pause.) It feels kinda like they’re judging us. FRANCIS: Let’s just find Jimmy’s. CAROL: Is this it (gestures to a “drawing”). FRANCIS: It says “Fred Jefferson” up in the corner; the key is that Jimmy’s drawing will say “Jimmy Harding” not “Fred Jefferson.” CAROL: Well it looked like Jimmy’s handwriting. FRANCIS: Also there’s no dad in that picture. CAROL: Oh that’s because Malcolm Jefferson got addicted to some kind of drug and his family left him. FRANCIS: (annoyed) Why would you tell me an awful thing like that? CAROL: You wanted to know about the dad. FRANCIS: Yeah, well let’s not gossip at our son’s open house. I don’t want to hear about these sad families (pause) Why isn’t the mom in this one? CAROL: That looks like the Heffley’s, Janet Heffley left their family and moved to Ohio. Nobody knows why and Tim Heffley won’t say a word. FRANCIS: That’s insane. What are people saying? CAROL: Usual rumors. Drug addiction. Secret Lover. Secret other Family. Joined a Cult. Nobody knows for sure. FRANCIS: Crazy...I didn’t think she had it in her. CAROL: It wasn’t a shock. None of the other mom’s liked her. FRANCIS: I can see why. She sounds insane CAROL: Trust me, she was. FRANCIS: Good riddance, then.. CAROL: I found Jimmy’s picture (gestures to drawing) It looks a little odd doesn’t it. FRANCIS: They all do. CAROL: Yeah, but there’s something off about Jimmy’s. It just doesn’t look like us.

MENAGERIE 2019

If Only You Knew | Will Lipchik | Drawing

DREAM ON

FRANCIS: None of them look like people; (gestures to another drawing) most of these kids drew themselves as twice the size of their parents. CAROL: It just doesn’t feel right to me. FRANCIS: You’re making something out of nothing. CAROL: I’m sorry but ifFRANCIS: [beginning to sound more frustrated] You always do this, just appreciate our son’sCAROL: Just let me have an opinion onFRANCIS: Okay calm down; let’s not make a scene here. CAROL: Make a scene? You’re the one whoFRANCIS: I get it but we know people here andCAROL: Who cares? Who doesn’t know we fight at this point.

Want to read how it ends? Scan the QR code!

FRANCIS: They’re not fightCAROL: Here go again… FRANCIS: No, don’t dismiss me. I recently started reading a book on communication and it’s very informative. I think you should read it. What we do are perfectly healthy verbal altercations. The difference between a verbal altercation and a fight is-

Lily | Giselle Lewis | Drawing

Staff Eleanor Keelan

Emma Parzyck

Layout Editor

Managing Editor

Clara Weismantel

Lucy Hawblitzel

Art Editor

Image Editor

Charlotte Wisthuff Prose Editor

Brie Voetberg

Editor-in-Chief

Jordan Cole

Poetry Editor

Angela Gutierrez

Joseph Maffey

Poetry Advisor

Prose Advisor

Mary Rohlicek Art Advisor

ART STAFF

Megan Aletich Grace Burden Caroline Calvano Hope Cordes Stefi de la Torre Sarah Dzielski Kaitlyn Easterday

Paige Haworth Kalina Jasiak Daniel Jelinek Ellen Kleyweg Gwen Konatarevic Juliette Lopez Erin McGovern Hannah McGovern

Angela Mitevska Grace Morrissey Cano Rogers Grace Roberts Sofia Silva Emma Szyperski Grace Weismantel

DREAM ON

Kathryn Brown Stefi de la Torre Isabelle Donahue Kaitlyn Easterday Haley Etheridge Melanie Ocampo

LIT STAFF

Lulu Griffin Paige Haworth Zion Husmann Juliette Lopez Erin McGovern Hannah McGovern

Samantha Meyers Grace Morrissey Aamina Qureshi Flynn Rachford Grace Roberts

Special Thanks Mr. Geddeis, the Administration, and the Board of Education for their continuous support of our endeavors. AlphaGraphics for manifesting our ideas as something tangible. Mr. Maffey for liking birthday cake oreos and being a voice of reason when our ideas get a little too out there. Mrs. Rohlicek for fixing things when we have that “Oh no did I just delete everything!?!?” moments and her much needed artistic eye. Ms. Gutierrez for her honest feedback and pushing us to create the best magazine possible. Brie Voetberg for encouraging us to explore our ideas, keeping us in line, and ALWAYS urging us to “Dream On.” Emma Parzyck for managing the creative process and brightening up everybody’s day. Lucy Hawblitzel for creating designs greater that we could have ever imagined. Clara Weismantel for being short and putting up with everything thrown her way. All of the editors for your tireless creativity even when our ideas ranged from Beatles songs to Ancient Greek sayings. The staffers for staying late, bringing in food, and dedicating their whole selves into making this book successful. The talented writers and artists for producing incredible content, making this magazine possible.

MENAGERIE 2019

Colophon Menagerie is the annual student-run literary and art magazine of Lyons Township High School, home to about 4,000 students and 400 faculty and staff. It is a juried magazine whose participants work beyond regular school hours. All students are encouraged to submit poems, prose and art by mid-January. In February, the poetry and prose staffs meet after school to read, discuss, and evaluate the pieces based on quality of writing, style, originality, emotional accessibility, and subject matter. From the literary staffâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s short lists, the literary editors and advisors make the final selections and edit those pieces for grammatical and technical errors. In the following month, the art staff meets several days per week to integrate artwork with similarly themed literary pieces. Other exceptional art is selected for individual layouts. The art staff collaboratively creates digital layouts that accompany the magazineâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s theme. Finally, in mid-April, the editorial staff makes the final edits on the spreads before the finished product is sent to the printer. Distribution of the magazine occurs during mid to late May.

Yeti | Kyle Reblin | Photography