Menagerie 2018
Volume 43 Lyons Township High School 100 S. Brainard Avenue La Grange, Illinois 60525 www.lths.net/menagerie Contact: menagerie@lths.net 708-579-6300
Rein Rein 1
Editors’ Note Rein
Table of Contents
Noun \ rān \ To direct, keep straight, or guide like reining in a horse
Prose
Art
Controlled lines, contained objects and colors, and arranged shapes make up the Rein section of the magazine. Although prose may seem like it has little variety, there are various genres such as graphic novels, short stories, plays, prose poems, and nonfiction to name a few. Among these different styles, there is a consistent control in language and image in order to guide the reader through a story, similar to reining in an object. Travel to the humorous scene with an unexpected twist in “Can I Call you Rob?” Another universe in “The Fate of the Earth,” or a surprising romance between the Earth and the Moon in “Eclipse.” Additionally, we showcased wonderful artwork including dynamic printmaking, intricate acrylic paintings, colorful ceramics, interesting photography, and more. Make sure to open to the heart-wrenching “Melting into Extinction,” the mottled collage “Drip,” or the intricate “Copper Kracken.” These art pieces were carefully paired with prose to create a visual masterpiece that has a connecting theme between the literature and artworks displayed on the page. Throughout these art and literature pieces, you will find structure, consistency, and stability, that reflects the controlled design of Rein. Our art staff took this idea and found objects that could be contained in a colorful and interesting design, while still being clean, orderly, and complementing the literary and art work. Between sequins, friendship bracelets, tea leaves, pearls, or even eggs, the designers found a way to incorporate Rein while still being creative and showcasing the work of their peers. The staff not only had to choose which object they would use but also make sure that both the design and artwork matched the necessary mood. To add a variety and to emphasize the objects, we placed varying shades of gray in the backgrounds in the hopes to juxtapose the vibrant colors found in the Rain side by controlling the background to a single color. We sculpted this half into a controlled mess by creating order and neatness which allowed the pieces of our fellow classmates to shine.
Short Stories
2-D
This year’s magazine was inspired by the idea of a flipped magazine that requires the reader to flip the magazine upside down to read the other half of the magazine, which makes it more interactive and unique while also emphasizing the balance between opposites. Intrigued by the contrast of clean and messy, tight and loose, contained and spilled, organized and disorganized, we decided to center this year’s magazine around the homophone “Rein/Rain.” Although having two very separate definitions, both words illustrate our two opposing topics of tight and loose, yet combines them into one word just as we combine both ideas into this issue of Menagerie. Similar to how each person has their own outlook on art or literary pieces, there are multiple ways to explore or view the pieces and pages featured in our magazine. There is neither a first or a second half, a better or a worse half, nor a right way to read this magazine; everything depends on your perspective and how you choose to interact with the pages and the content they hold.
Approaching Boiling Point, Sarah Valeika, 6 The Dissolving Darkness, Phoebe Hartoonian, 11 The Fate of Earth, Maya Djurisic, 14 Lessons in Daughterhood, Hollie Varerro-Jacobs, 16 What It’s Like To Be OCD and Depressed (for those who aren’t), Paige Deitz, 20 Noah, Erin Cosgrove, 21 Purple Gems, Nicole Von Drasek, 22 Every Little Detail, Eloise Driscoll, 26 The Serenade, Sydney Weber, 28
Prose Poems Heart & Soul, Grace Dekoker, 8 Eclipse, Grace Dekoker, 36
Graphic Novel
Self Portrait, Stefan Marin, 7 Self-Portrait, Lauren Trail, 9 Robot Invading Earth, Amelia Brisk, 10 Drip, Aubrie Studwell, 13 Patrol, Andrew Schramka, 15 Cat Ladies, Giselle Lewis, 20 Mother Earth, Amelia Brisk, 23 I Got a Beautiful Shoulder, I Know, Walter Guissard, 25 I’ll Always Be Here, Heather Munyon, 29 Chaos, Haley Spolar, 31 Equilibrium, Lucy Hawblitzel, 42
3-D Melting into Extinction, Syrus Reardon, 5 Copper Kracken, Evan Hultman, 12 Under the Sea, Tia Hammon, 27 Under Sea, Emma Rout, 41
Surprise, Walter Guissard, 18
Play Can I Call You Rob?, Maren Williams, 38
Photography
Mermaid, Brie Voetberg, 6 3, Aubrie Studwell, 26 June, Louise Serrano, 33 City of Flowers, Jacqueline Lopez, 35 Old Love, Cain Nocera, 37
We invite you to appreciate the magazine and our creativity and hope you enjoy the Rein.
Lauren Trail • Brie Voetberg
2 • Menagerie
Rein • 3
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 being a twizzler walrus and insulting our music taste but also being the voice of reason. Mrs. Rohlicek for spending long hours with us and not going crazy. Ms. Gutierrez for helping guide us in the correct direction with her honesty and sharp eye. And for buying us too many pizzas. Brie Voetberg for being a Cindy Lou Who buddy and always knowing how to help. Lauren Trail for laughing at stupid puns and jokes that don’t make sense and always being accepting of other’s ideas. Sarah Valeika for the willingness to step away from your myriad commitments to share your love of poetry on days when we needed decision-making.
Melting into Extinction • Syrus Reardon • Ceramics
The talented writers and artists for producing incredible content that makes this magazine possible.
4 • Menagerie
Rein • 5
Approaching Boiling Point
Sarah Valeika
You set down your coffee mug so gracefully this morning, did you notice? Did you intend it to be so? Because I noticed, even if you don’t believe me. There was seldom a moment this morning when I failed to notice your fingers around that coffee mug, flushed at first with the sear of boiling water against china, but you never flinched – I’ve always wondered how you do that. You claim that your fingers tingle every time you touch my face, and yet, yet, yet…when you cup your hand around a little blistering cavern of coffee, it doesn’t bother you as much as it does me, just watching it. Just thinking how the heat of the mug must be ripping into your skin, and if you are suffering it to appear brave – why, then, I’m terrified that you are reduced to such fear of my censure of weakness. My greater worry is not that you conceal it, but that you feel nothing at all when that burning cup touches your fingers, nothing like the scalding thing I hand to you. Your coffee is my offering to you; it’s the one thing, that very single and simple thing, that I can give to you, and to me. It is radiating heat and flavor and boiling caramel, and if what I see bespeaks what’s true, the thing I hand to you at hundreds of degrees scarcely makes itself felt by you at all. As if your hand never knew it was there. Ghostly, almost. Ghostly.
Mermaid • Brie Voetberg • Photography Self Portrait • Stefan Marin • Drawing
6 • Menagerie
Rein • 7
Heart & Soul Grace Dekoker The human body forms around the heart. It’s the core of everything we are. Before we are ourselves, we are a heart. Character and state of mind evolve from it. A tiny bundle of cells divides itself, still too small to even beat. One section will branch out into an aorta and arteries and become an intricate web of vessels. The other will split itself once again, developing a septum and transforming into ventricles. Hearts split before we are born, before we can grasp what it meant to divide. The heart intersects into right and left, their function so different yet each dependent on the other. Two sides, four chambers, working synergistically, pushing blood through a vascular labyrinth. From birth, our hearts are already creating walls and barriers; as life goes on, our frame of mind and spirit can shape them further. Two of the heart’s four chambers are dedicated to collection; atria to hold blood until it is ready to be released. The blood travels to the lungs, where it is infused with oxygen – The heart is a reflective reservoir of our beliefs, our dreams and our fears. – until it is perfused from the left ventricle, rushing blood on a course to oxygenate the entire body, from the thickest arteries in the trunk to the tiniest capillaries in the interstitial spaces. Love is born in the heart and radiates to the mind. It travels from the soul to the body, spreading its warmth to every crevice until it spills out with grace and compassion. The heart beats perpetually: in sleep, in exercise, in quotidian life. Requiring incredible and constant strength, the intensity concentrated on the sole task of contracting and relaxing the muscle, ceaselessly pumping. Love is steadfast. It is deep and powerful. In a perfect world, love will never waver, will never fade, and is constant in its unconditionality. The world in which we live is not perfect. Muscles can tire. Vessels can narrow. The walls dividing the heart can thicken. The heart is limited; it can only take so much for so long until its commandeering power begins to dwindle, until our hearts fail. If not taken care of, love will fade, an emptiness, cavernous and dark, replaces the warm contentment. But the heart does not give up; it just keeps beating. And our souls do not give up; we just keep loving.
8 • Menagerie
Self-Portrait • Lauren Trail • Charcoal
Rein • 9
The Dissolving Darkness Phoebe Hartoonian
Robot Invading Earth • Amelia Brisk • Watercolor
10 • Menagerie
I’m unsure as to how, but I’m watching my parents quickly drive down the winding streets at night, trying to get home to me. They are almost there when a car speeds out from a side street and crashes into them There is a deafening sound as the two cars collide, and both vehicles flip. I shout my dad’s name, and I try to run towards them. But every time I do, they get farther away. I look and see the gasoline pooling around my parent’s car. It ignites, and it is all over. I let out a horrified scream and – My eyes shoot open. Breathing heavily, I stare up at the ceiling. I rub the sleep out of my eyes, and the tears off of my damp cheeks as I attempt to catch my ragged breath. It was just dream. It was just a dream I tell myself. Reaching over to the battered nightstand, I grab my glasses and put them on. But, as my eyes dart to the corner for a split second, an uneasy feeling settles deep in my stomach. I slowly turn towards the normally empty corner and a tall dark figure forms. A slight buzzing fills the air around me. Bright yellow eyes pierce the darkness, and a deep chill slithers down my spine. Sharp, white teeth flash maliciously at me as the amorphous shadow hisses out an icy laugh. The thing darts towards me shockingly fast as someone shouts my name, “Clara?” my grandma gasps, “Have you gone mad? Why are you on the floor? I look around, but the creature with the yellow eyes is nowhere to be seen. “Where did it go!?” I sputter, “It-it was standing right over there, then it came at me!” “Clara, there’s nothing there,” my grandpa said in a wary voice, as though he is scared of me. When I look up and watch them walk away, I narrow my eyes. They have been cautious around me ever since the accident that killed my parents. I have been having that dream ever since my mom and dad died and, along with this, I feel like something is askew within me. I have been seeing shadows appear in the corner of my eye, but the second I look in that direction, it is gone. That moment the other morning, however, was the first time I have gotten a good look at this demon. This demon who causes waves of panic to overcome me. This demon who causes my heart to pound, and my breath to shorten. This demon who squeezes my heart into a little ball and does not let go. Who throws me to the ground, and doesn’t allow me to stand back up. I feel like I am going crazy, and I do not have anyone to explain these emotions to. Pushing aside these feelings, I compose myself and start preparing for my first day at a new school. After the seemingly long walk to school, I finally arrive, and step into the massive, looming building. A secretary gives me a schedule, and after much endeavoring, I find my first period class in the most deserted corner of the school. I slowly creep into the room, and the teacher seems to ignore me. I guess he already knew I was coming. This first class goes by in a blur and the only thing that catches my attention is the guy sitting next to me. He is tall, with dark hair, yet bright eyes, and something about him triggers a memory; however, I cannot quite figure out what it was. While heading to the next class, I quickly realize he is following me through the dimly lit halls, just a few steps behind me the whole way there. I walk faster, and the next class comes into view, and I run in. I grab a creaky seat in the back of the nearly empty class when I realize he is in this period too, so I continue to try to ignore him. As the day continues, I come to realize that this guy and I have the same schedule. He trails behind me class after class. Through the fluorescently lit hallways, up and down the dingy staircases, he is there following me. At one point, I look out of the corner of my eye and attempt to suppress a gasp. I could have sworn the black figure was staring back at me. Its razor sharp teeth smiling that same devilish sneer and the amber eyes piercing my soul. But, looking back, I notice it is simply him. Nothing more. At the end of the day when I am walking home, he is there after me again, so I walk faster. His mere presence still has a hazy effect on me. I notice he has started walking quicker as well but when I stop to confront him about it, I realize he has disappeared into thin air. My breath begins to shorten. I turn in a circle. Where could he have gone? He was right there. Have I made him up in my head too? An eerie feeling eases its way into me as I sprint home, worrying he will emerge out of nowhere. I go straight into my stone-cold bed and try to sleep but only end up thinking about him.
Rein • 11
For the next few weeks, this boy continued to try to befriend me, which at first I resisted, but surprisingly, I eventually accepted it. After all, I had no one else. This partnership went on for months. When I talked to new people, he was always there to remind me that they probably did not actually like me. He was filtering out any people who might be toxic. He has fixed me! At least, this is what I thought, until an uneasiness overcame me. One day, I was out with him and was texting a new person. It was going really well, except he denied it. “She does not even like you, Clara!” he exclaimed. “Why would she?!” This was not the first time he had said something like this, and every other time I had labeled his statements as facts. However, something unnerved me with this claim. I looked up at him and said softly “But what if she could just like me for me?” He chuckled. “Who would ever like you for you? Just look at yourself!” I started to restate what I had just said when he cut me off. “Just listen to me!” he shouted. I flinched. Where had this anger come from? He has never lashed out at me before. I looked up, saw a touch of malice in his eyes, and sensed something was definitely wrong. I pushed back my chair a little, and started to leave, but he grabbed my arm and demanded that I stay. His grip was surprisingly strong, and when I looked down, I saw the monster’s claws. Screaming, I broke free from its powerful grip. This was not ordinary, something was wrong and I am sure this wasn’t a trick of the eye this time. Running home, I have a moment of realization that causes me to see that it has all been a façade. He was using me, and he had a death grip on me. At this realization I recognize that I had been drowning, and every time I had tried to get back to the surface, and allow myself to come out of my shell, he pulled me back under again. I had not been scared of this before, but now I am terrified. He had not been fixing me, he had been tearing me apart. He placed dark thoughts in my head and made me panic. It had caused my breath to hitch, my heart to pound, and my hands to shake. The friendship we had was toxic and I needed to break free. That ebony monster I have been seeing was the same thing as this “friend,” and it was time to break the bond between us. For the past few weeks, I have done my research on what could be haunting me. His “human” form has not appeared ever since that day, and I am starting to come to terms with Copper Kracken • Evan Hultman • Metalsmithing what my parents’ death has stirred up in me. This monster that had once been so persistent is slowly surrendering, and although I’m not sure if I will ever become completely cured, I can get better. A great weight has been lifted; I am no longer drowning.
12 • Menagerie
Drip • Aubrie Studwell • Mixed Media
Rein • 13
The Fate of Earth Maya Djurisic
The last stand was on Earth. Of course it was. Nearly two centuries ago, humanity had taken to the stars, soaring through space as they learned more about the universe they thought they knew so much about. They kept going looking for something that was out there, some sort of lifeform. Nobody knew exactly what they were looking for. Some didn’t think they would find anything. But they searched and searched and searched until they did. They hadn’t expected it to be the Nizaxca. A gentle species, ruling over a large intergalactic council that cared for that sector of space. An advanced society with technology millenniums beyond humanity’s wildest imaginations. The Nizaxca were old, older than Earth itself, and their leaders had learned many lessons in their eons alive. Painful lessons, ones taught from others abusing their kindness for their own gain and stealing the technology they guarded so zealously. Regardless, they welcomed humanity into their council with open arms, not hesitating to add the relatively uninhabited Milky Way to their sector’s control. While the Nizaxca had wise, old leaders, many of their younger members disagreed with their elders. They had none of the experience that the elders did, but still held onto those lessons, hard-to-swallow stories of crueler, more power-hungry species coming and trying to take everything from the Nizaxca. Insurrections began, and humanity watched in horror as the rest of the council simply sat by and watched the great civilization fall to pieces by the hands of its own people. It was not their way, they said. Exile was, though. The Nizaxca, crumbling and falling with all their leaders dead or captured, were banished from the council by their sister species, the Eril, who then took control of the council. A century passed in what could be considered peace, the council having more important matters to attend to than a crumbling empire. Nobody noticed the Nizaxca rebuilding themselves until it was too late. They returned with a vengeance that nobody had expected from the formerly passive species. Felhus, the Erilian home planet, was the first to be destroyed. Gone were the kind, benevolent people that accepted humanity without a second thought. In their place stood a warrior race, angry and filled with righteous contempt for humanity and every other species that refused to help them in their darkest time. The council tried to fight back. They really did. The humans even tried for a diplomatic mission to show them mercy, in hopes of making it through with minimal bloodshed. But the response to that offer was the destruction of a new, fragile human colony that housed more children than adults, the new city left as nothing but scorch marks on the surface of an otherwise unmarred planet. The Nizaxca chipped away at the council, destroying planet after planet, species after species. Nobody else had the aeronautic technology to rival them. But even against such incredible odds, there seemed to be no shortage of hope on Earth. This war was the first – and quite possibly the last – time that the universe had seen all of humanity working together for a common goal.
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Earth had been preparing for the attack once news of the destroyed colony returned, and slowly, Earth became a powerhouse. Not of space technology, but of weapons on their home planet. Weapons that could launch missiles they weren’t able to carry to deep space, newly developed explosives that could damage Nizaxcan physiology more than they knew, combined with whatever technology that could be salvaged from the deaths of hundreds of planets.
Patrol • Andrew Schramka • Digital Art
Humanity knew that this battle would be the last, whichever way it went. Earth was the last home planet that remained of the tattered council, and the last planet with any sort of helpful technological advancement, but the Nizaxca weren’t much better off. The extended warfare on all sides had begun to wear down on their troops even if many of the opponents didn’t pose a threat individually. Their newly rebuilt empire was crumbling yet again. It was the beginning of an end. Humans didn’t intend for it to be theirs.
Rein • 15
Lessons in Daughterhood
Hollie Varerro-Jacobs
Days Before My green eyes stared back at me in the mirror as I processed what my mother had just told me. The words she spoke didn’t sound quite real. It was like I was a character in a movie. “Your dad is going to die soon,” she stated, standing in her Sunday-cleaning outfit of jeans and a flannel. Her unruly hair was pulled back into a clip exposing her tired green eyes. I thought for a moment and shrugged, it wasn’t like he was winning any “Father of The Year” awards. I looked away from the mirror and simply replied, “Oh.” I was afraid she would give me some signature mom look, but she didn’t. Instead she ran her hand through her hair and asked me if I would like to meet him. I chewed on the thought for a moment. Maybe he was actually really cool, and I would be surprised. My mother told me he used to renovate houses. Maybe he had become a successful businessman. That made me kind of sad though, if he really was a millionaire and never gave me anything. I decided I had no interest in meeting him. Why should I go? I thought. I was nine and he left a long time ago. Besides, I had playdates to get to. I couldn’t worry about some guy I barely knew. However, after even more thought and a glance at my mother, I ultimately decided there was no harm in it. Besides, dads who abandon their daughters rarely become millionaires, I concluded. “Ok, sure. I want to meet him.” Day 1 Before I knew it, I was in the back of my mom’s blue minivan, cruising down the road. I clutched my armrests and stared out the window. We were in a nice little town with parks, trees, little shops, and almost no people. It reminded me of where I lived, but not quite. The farther we drove from home, the more unsure I felt. He hadn’t done anything for me, so what was I doing traveling all this way to meet him? I gripped the armrests harder and shook the thoughts from my head. There was a reason for the journey, even if I didn’t know it yet. I looked out the window which showcased a bright blue sky with fluffy white clouds. Maybe the day would turn out wonderfully, and I was worried for nothing. Our car pulled up in front of a diner, and my stomach did a somersault. I was still clutching the armrests when my mom stepped out of the car. Ever so slowly, I unbuckled my seatbelt and walked to the diner. My nine-year-old imagination twisted a harmless restaurant into a distorted nightmare. Finally, we reached the door. By the time we found a table, I was surprised I hadn’t bit my nails down to the cuticles. A few minutes later, a shadow appeared over the table. I held my mom’s hand and gulped as I looked up. There was my dad, standing right next to me. He seemed as tall as an NBA player, and in fact, I probably knew more about Michael Jordan than I did about my own dad. On his face was a smiling, yet angry complexion. He seemed to be trying to soften his appearance for me. It reminded me of Ursula from The Little Mermaid; she had a human counterpart but was really a sea witch. “Well, hey there!” he exclaimed excitedly, his arms outstretched. He waited for a hug, but I only shook his hand like we were business partners, like he wasn’t my father. Day 2 The next time we met was at a Dairy Queen. I asked for a vanilla cone, my favorite. I was more focused on my ice cream than my father. We all sat on a curb in silence as the hot July sun beat down on our backs. He put his hand on my shoulder like he had been doing it my whole life. I stiffened and my father asked me a question which nearly baffled me.
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“Don’t you remember when you were little we would get ice cream all the time?” My ice cream was beginning to melt in the heat, but I didn’t bother licking it. I wanted so bad to ask him if he remembered that I wasn’t even two when he left. That those eighteen months didn’t exactly provide enough time to make memories. Either he didn’t remember anything from my childhood or he was lying in hopes that I would gingerly agree. Finally, I licked my ice cream to prevent it from dripping down my hand. Bravely, I stated with a small chuckle, “No, not really.” My mother didn’t correct me, verifying that I was right. He and I never ate ice cream together. I wanted to scream and yell at him, you were never there for me! But I snapped back to reality when he laughed even though there was nothing to laugh at. Then we were silent again, consumed by a near tangible awkwardness. I hurried to finish my ice cream so we could leave. Finally, we all made our way to the car. He didn’t sit next to me. Day 3 The final time we met was at his house. It was an overcast day as we drove through an unfamiliar neighborhood towards unfamiliar people. The only thing keeping me going was the fact that my mother told me that there would be pasta at the little “get together.” We both knew there was no other reason I wanted to go. That and the certainty that this was the last time I would see him, which had to count for something, right? The white bungalow loomed in front of me when I finally worked up the courage to exit the car. The car had become a safe haven for me those few days. It felt like I was playing a video game. This visit was like the final level and the car was the main menu, where I could go when I needed to pause before entering the next battle. I took comfort in this metaphor, until I remembered my father didn’t even know I liked video games. When I entered the house, I felt like a moving target. Every eye was on me. So, naturally, I spotted the pasta and bolted. Upon seeing the bowl of pasta, I noticed it was covered in thick red sauce. I was much more of a plain pasta girl, so I grabbed a slice of bread and returned to the front room. My appearance prompted a crowd of people to smother me with hugs. I didn’t know any of them. They were asking me if I remembered them or not. I wanted to scream that their relative, my father, left before I could turn two. If I knew any of them I certainly didn’t remember our meeting. Did no one understand that? After they all bombarded me, they pretty much left me alone and didn’t talk to me the rest of the time. I was fine with that. I did find some place to kill the time, though. There was a lady playing a tan, shiny guitar. I didn’t recognize the songs, but they were a pleasant distraction. Before long, I was nodding my head to the songs and actually enjoying my time. Who would have known? Later on, my father came over to where we were. I looked up at him, looked at the guitar player sitting on the floor beside me, and my stomach fell. His eyebrows were knitted together angrily and his fists were balled. I gulped and braced myself. The lady kept playing her tunes and chuckled. She didn’t notice. I didn’t know why he was so mad, but I knew he was. Then, it played out like a volcano erupting. “You think you can play the guitar? You can’t play the guitar; your music is garbage! I could play better than you!” The insults spewed out of his mouth as he flailed his arms wildly. The lady stopped playing and nervously packed her things. She wanted to get out of there, too. I shot up from my seat on the shag carpeting and made a beeline for my mom. I was afraid I would be his next victim. My mom nodded knowingly, and asked, “Do you want to leave?” I nodded as an answer, and we left. She started the car and we drove away. I watched the white bungalow slowly fade into the distance, into the vibrant green of the trees. When I couldn’t see white anymore I turned back around in my seat. I felt a bit nauseous after accepting that that was probably the last time I would see my father. After a little while, though, I settled down. Maybe it was for the best. At least I didn’t leave thinking I missed out on having him as a father. I shrugged my shoulders and shook my head, ready to head back to the sweet normalcy of childhood in suburbia. Childhood in suburbia with a single mom sounded really great right about then.
Rein 17
Surprise
Walter Guissard
18 • Menagerie
Rein • 19
What It’s like being OCD and Depressed (for those who aren’t)
Paige Deitz
It’s being in bed late at night not being able to sleep because you shake the house. It’s being terrified of tomorrow. It’s feeling like you’re drowning but your head is barely above water. It’s spending thirty minutes outside your house re-stepping on the cracks, because the first 80 times wasn’t right. It’s telling your friends “I’m just tired,” but you really just don’t want friends anymore. It’s passing out in debate because you couldn’t control the tics. It’s experimenting with three different antidepressants, in order to get out of bed in the morning. It’s self-punishing because you didn’t walk exactly right. It’s crying about dropping food. It’s taking twelve hour naps. It’s having your best friends call you every other hour because they don’t trust you. It’s laying down with your dad because you don’t trust yourself. It’s feeling like life isn’t for you, every day. It’s every conversation being seen as a cry for help. It’s not being “bad enough.” It’s being suicidal. It’s self-mutilation. It’s losing hair. It’s trying to swim with weights on your feet, but having people tell you to “just swim.” It’s doubting your long journey of recovery. It’s relapsing after three years. It’s your best friends hearing an ambulance and praying you’re inside. It’s going to therapy and sugar coating your thoughts. It’s wanting help, but not institutionalization. It’s shaking and counting while writing this. It’s like getting a beautifully wrapped gift, to only find it empty inside.
Noah
Erin Cosgrove
The yellow beam shone brightly on Noah’s wall in the otherwise darkened room, the flashlight propped up on his headboard. His small form sat in a sea of blankets. He could never seem to figure out how to get his hands to make anything more than bunny shadow puppets. Still, it was more fun than restlessly tossing around wondering if he’d ever get to sleep. He rubbed his eyes before returning both hands to the ray of light. ‘Gary the Bunny met Larry the Bunny and…’ he struggled as he continued trying to tell a story to himself, but his mind was wandering elsewhere. Noah wondered about whether he could get out of going to school tomorrow. Hardly getting any sleep wasn’t exactly a good start on getting through the school day, and adults seemed to have no idea how challenging first grade math was. He didn’t want to worry his parents about how many hours he usually spent awake in the night though, so he decided to put it aside. Oh well, at least it’ll be Friday. Maybe his family would go to the mini-golf course like they sometimes did. Maybe he could finally beat his older brother and sister. He had, in fact, been working very hard on trying to get the ball in the hole in less than seven strokes. Maybe his parents would be so proud of him that they’d take him out for ice cream. Maybe he’d get a bigger cone than either of his siblings. He smiled to himself as he pondered how the weekend could go. Anything was better than sitting in school Noah’s hands still absently moved about in their bunny formations and he shook himself back to focusing on the story he was thinking up. ‘Gary the Bunny met Larry the Bunny, but Larry fell over,’ he turned one of his hands to the side, giggling as quietly as he could. ‘And Gary was laughing, and....’ Noah’s smile faded away. He had always been an awkward boy. He only really had three good friends: Johnny, the boy in his class who had come to the school halfway through kindergarten and taught him how to make paper airplanes; Carol, who was the only other kid his age on the block and had been playing with him since they were toddlers; and Max who had always been there for him, but he kind of had to be. He was a teddy bear, after all. On the first day of the school year, Noah tripped over the balance beam and fell flat on the blacktop with a loud “UMPH.” He wasn’t hurt, but he sure caught the attention of a few of the kids. The blunders were normal for him; just the previous week, he had accidentally glued his left sleeve to the table in art class. The teacher had to help him pry it free. Not wanting any more memories, Noah relaxed his hands and switched off the flashlight. Sighing, he set it on his night stand. He could feel his eyelids droop; maybe he would finally be able to sleep, and the day ahead wouldn’t be so bad. He shrugged his baggy pajama shirt over his little shoulders and laid down, pulling one of his many blankets over him. Pulling Max against him, he closed his eyes and tried to clear his mind like his mother had told him to do at night. He often found, however, that the more things you clear, the more things enter.
Cat Ladies • Giselle Lewis • Watercolor
20 • Menagerie
Rein • 21
Purple Gems Nicole
Von Drasek
As Liam sits down for his first lesson, I try to count how many times, “Hi, I’m Mr. Williamson, and I love piano,” fell out of my mouth. All because New York City is full of moms needing something fresh to rave about at book club. Before I go any further, I should declare that teaching booger-eaters how to play “Row, Row, Row, Your Boat” is a strenuous ruse. And as a result, my symptoms have become indistinguishable. Am I coughing because of their heinous candle? Or am I reaching the end? It’s easier for me to pick the prior in order to keep the act up. Though, I do have to give this four-eyed one some credit. He answered the door for me. Mom, tapping robotically on the couch didn’t even say a word as I passed. It offended me. Two nights ago she pounced on me in the hallway. After placing the book on the stand, he grabs it like a chimp. A good start. “What’s a con…con-care-con-sare-“ “Concerto. It’s a title of a composition. That one there is by Beethoven.” “I’m gonna be as good as Beethoven?” Just nod and refrain from crushing his dreams. Just nod and refrain from crushing his dreams. I put the lesson book back on the stand and flip it back to the first page, “Row, Row, Row, Your Boat.” Of course, he starts singing. “Glad you recognize the tune, now let’s learn to play it.” Explaining to him how the two staffs work is truly a fight against interruptions. He questions everything. All Cows Eat Grass? Good Balloons Don’t Fly Away? Is it possible that putting up with this is catalyzing my condition? “What about…what if it was…great belugas…don’t…don’t swim away?” “S” is not a key on the staff.” “Well why not?” “Because there’s only keys for A to G.” “What do you mean? There’s enough keys here for the whole alphabet!” Looking around the room for an answer, I long to be across the hall writing a ballad. Even if it does end up crumpled on the floor. However, his dinosaur wallpaper and ninja turtles collection are pleasantly distracting. Sun is blocked by clouds, so the room is as— “Where did you get that?” I grab her with my eyes. She doesn’t belong there, on the dresser, displayed like a battered wheel among Nascars. “What? This?” He gets up, reaching on his tiptoes to receive Sasha’s ring, “A lady gave me this. The lady that used to live with you.” “Give it to me.” I say a little too forcefully. Liam retreats back a step, “Why?” I try to contain my sanity’s dam, “Because it’s mine.” “I don’t know, Mr...Mr. Williamson. She gave it to me.” He bites his lip, looking up so high at me, his eyes could roll to the back of his head. I want them to. I know Sasha would slap me for thinking that, but I can’t help it. He’s a thief. She never would have given up that ring. Liam fingers the faux stone, gilded in gold paint, pointing his head to the ground, “I’m sorry... but she gave it to me. It’s mine.” The timer goes off on my phone, and I don’t bother running through my closing speech. I just turn around, wave a goodbye at his focused mother, and swiftly escape out the door to my cavern across the hall.
22 • Menagerie
Mother Earth • Amelia Brisk • Printmaking
I’m in Walmart with Sasha. Two twenty-somethings awkwardly dressed in concert black after our first Friday night performance. Together. We intended to people-watch, but that costume gem caught her eye. It was a joke. But I think she knew I was serious about buying it. I wanted to remember that day. I thought she did too. She wore it even when it clashed with the 18 karat amethyst on her ring finger. She should’ve sold that one to the ditzy boy. I wouldn’t have cared. I need to stop caring, so I impulsively grab my wallet and make the trek to Preston’s. •••••
Anytime that bent, purple gem hits me, I take another swig, shaking in the undeniable sweat of a rising fever. Thinking about what other reliquaries she gave away to strangers, I stagger to the closet to check the guitar case of purple gems. Smells of backstage essentials: hairspray, smog, and cigarettes enflame me. Stacks of concert
Rein • 23
music, piano and vocals, still melted together in musty velvet, untouched. And I can hear the instruments stroking the air. Looking up from the pit, a soprano lights up on center stage, critiquing my chord variations. She recites bars like blooming violets at our grand piano, leaning against my shoulder with a ring-less right hand. Why did she give it up? I don’t realize I’m yelling out loud until the door clicks open and a small, blond boy in footie pajamas paddles in. “Mr. Williamson? Are you alright?” I curse my careless self from behind the guitar case. “I’m sorry if you’re angry because I didn’t give you that ring. You can have it if you want.” A nubby hand, with fingers too small to play the white keys, hold out the pitiful ring, blocking my view of the linoleum. “No...I’m fine, Liam. You can keep the ring.” I don’t dare look up. “Are you sick?” He asks, touching a hand to my forehead. I don’t know why, but I’m honest this time. “Where’s your medicine?” “I don’t need it.” I don’t want it, really. “You sure?” “Yes.” “Where is your mother?” “Out with her girlfriend,” He grabs my slippery hand, “Her name is Shauna.” Letting go, I stumble alone to the couch with sweat paving paths down my cheekbones. I still don’t look at the thing royally following me. “Go home, Liam.” “But you’re sick. You need to be taken care of.” He argues, draping a blanket over me. “Thank you, Liam, but I just need sleep.” Lying on the couch, head propped up on the armrest, I think I am set for the guillotine. “Can I play a song before I go?” It’s a plea, more than a request for permission. “Sure.” And he thumps on the bench, sitting on my secrets. Hesitantly, Liam begins playing “Row, Row, Row, Your Boat.” And he knows what pianissimo and adagio mean. It doesn’t take long for me to row down a misty stream. •••••
When I wake up, the boy is gone. The ring glowing fuchsia on the table. The ends of my lips perk up miraculously. I pick up the ring, twirling it around in the presence of dawn. Rising up from the tucked cocoon he tightly wrapped me in, I go over to the piano bench and take out the unopened prescription bottle. Twisting the cap, I think there’s a reason to take a pill.
I Got A Beautiful Shoulder, I Know • Walter Guissard • Drawing
24 • Menagerie
Rein • 25
Every Little Detail
Eloise Driscoll
She’s laughing at your stupid whispered joke, the joke you didn’t even think was funny, her smile blinding. You notice the way she tries to cover her grin with a hand when the teacher sends a pointed glare around the classroom, trying to catch the perpetrator, and the way her eyes light up when she doesn’t get caught. She looks back at you, and you look down, back to your chemistry test. You tap your fingers on the table, swearing not to look back up because you know she’ll see you staring. Time passes. You hear her pencil scratching on the paper. You forget the answers to the questions you should have remembered. She flies through the exam. You don’t. While trying to remember the answer to question sixteen (having skipped the previous two questions), you hear her murmuring faintly. She’s whispering the chemical formulas to herself, lips in a half smile as her pencil continues down the page. Her curly hair falls in front of her face as she leans over her paper, but she doesn’t care; she’s so focused on responding to question forty-three that you doubt a bulldozer could get her out of her desk. She gets up to turn in her test, and when you look back at her, she’s smiling at you. There are twenty minutes left in the period and you’re on problem seventeen of fifty. But you can’t focus now, not when she smiled at you. You’re in love, and it sucks. The grade you’ll get on this test is proof.
Under the Sea • Tia Hammon • Ceramics
3• Aubrie Studwell • Photography
26 • Menagerie
Rein • 27
The Serenade
Sydney Weber
The man’s leather shoes clicked on the cracked terrazzo flooring. It’s been ages since he’s walked down the hall of shame to the principal’s office. Even being twice the size from when he was a kid didn’t make the hall feel any shorter, with tired legs from walking the length of the city and business shoes from his old man. Usually Nora would have gone. She attended all the teacher meetings and seminars about child growth that the school offered, but that was no longer an option. He had been picking up some takeout from the Golden Wok near the tracks after work and was looking forward to opening the door of their small apartment and relaxing in front of the TV with his son, watching the classics: Tom and Jerry, The Flintstones, the Road Runner. So when he received a call from the principal saying that a fight had broken out between Charlie Pendleton and his son, Branson Blank, all Mark could say was “I’ll take some stir-fried noodles with that, it’s going to be a long night.” Turning the cold handle of the principal’s office, Mark sighed heavily. The office had a laminated wooden desk that bisected the room’s superior from the inferior. Flanked at the door were navy blue student chairs, the backs coming up barely past the knee. Across the wide desk, a middleaged man in a broad suit sat on a leather-cushioned throne. “Take a seat Mr. Blank,” rasped the principal sitting idly, motioning his sausage finger to one of the blue chairs. With a hesitant look, Mark took one hand, grasped the back of one of the student chairs and swiveled it across the quiet carpet, and slumped down, eyes level with the desk. “Mr. Mark Blank, we were informed by Mrs. Pendleton about the misconduct your child Branson placed on Charlie Pendleton. In addition to destruction of property, Mrs. Pendleton reported, a potentially fractured wrist from the occurrence.” The announcement of such an atrocity did not change the monotone voice of the principal. “Now before I am obligated to press charges, I must inquire on the opposing side. So, what has Branson said about the incident?” “Forgive me, I haven’t seen him yet. I was on my way home when you called me,” Mark said bluntly. Analyzing the candor of the principal, he grew suspicious of his opponent. I’ll give that boy hell if he managed to so much as lay a sweaty finger on my son. Where does this mom get this stuff, ‘potentially fractured wrist’? If that mother is a lawyer, I swear, he thought. A simple job recruiter from the city, divorced, in a homely apartment, going against a lawyer who is discontent in one of those suburban dream houses, did not settle well in Mark’s stomach. The small chair he was teetering on did not help much either. “You’re telling me, you leave your son alone, this late on a Friday night? Don’t you have anyone to take care of him? He’s only eight,” urged the principal. “We used to. Not anymore. I’m a single father providing for my son. I have no alternative,” Mark said, trying to justify himself. “He’s been talking about serenading a girl with one of those rented violins from the instrument program for weeks now. I suppose things got out of hand between him and this boy,” Mark explained. With a furrowed brow, the principal slowly began to rise from the throne. He waved his hand dismissing Mark Blank from the office and proceeded to his paperwork. “We’ll have to take this to the students themselves,” grumbled the principal. On the walk home, Mark pondered the encounter. The phrase ‘potentially fractured wrist’ turned in his mind. Who was this woman, to claim that an eight-year-old can break his wrist? Mark, despite wishing his son was capable of physical strength, knew deep down he was a romantic. His only weapon was his violin.
28 • Menagerie
I’ll Always Be Here • Heather Munyon • Drawing
He remembered, watching from the doorway earlier that morning, his son, barely able to keep the violin case gripped. Branson really was his mother. She had asked Branson for his fifth birthday if he’d like to play an instrument. Branson had replied the piano, but that turned out to be quite costly and wouldn’t be able to fit in the house. So, they settled for the violin. The first few months were rough, Branson soon realized that before he could earn playing with a bow, he needed to learn to pluck. When he finally was awarded his bow, he said he’d be Robin Hood, saving the world one serenade at a time. This would not be one of those times. There was a pang in Mark’s chest when he realized a serenade could go so horribly wrong. In his experience with love, all he remembered was seeing a freckled blonde with enormous round glasses on the stage of a theatre bellowing, ‘The panties are the most important part!’ Proceeding to jump down from the stage in frustration, she walked right through him. In a day’s time he learned her name. In a month’s, he’d wave between the fourth and fifth passing period to Nora. In a year’s time, their fingers would lace in each other’s, and in three, there’d be a silver band on each. But the dynamic shifted Mark supposed. Once Mark got home, he was too tired to talk about the frustrations of the day. Rather than be comforted by his wife, he wanted to be comforted by the light of his childhood cartoons, sharing them with his son as they both fell asleep. Nora was vehemently opposed the bad influence of the cartoons, but it soon didn’t matter. As they dozed, a tower would be built until it wasn’t long before she too couldn’t be saved. Mark wasn’t there to save their marriage, just as he wasn’t there to save his son. Unlocking the door to the apartment, Mark saw his son, still staring at the cartoon cat chasing the mouse, the rented violin case sitting in the corner across the room. “Hey Branson, do you want to talk about what happened?” Branson didn’t blink away from the T.V. “That’s ok, um…” Mark said shifting his feet, “Which episode is this?” “The one where Tom gets a bass and he tries to impress his lady friend. Didn’t work, obviously.” Mark turned to the dusty TV remote perched on the arm of the sofa. The lights reduced to a star that faded on the screen. Branson, leaning back against the couch heaving a sigh, finally raised his eyes to meet his father’s. “Did I ever tell you the story of how I met your mom?” Mark said, joining his son against the couch, Chinese food still steaming between the two of them.
Rein • 29
The Mr. Reynolds Theory Jaclyn Fulscher Mr. Reynolds laid atop his bed. The sheets were a periwinkle satin and a headboard made of a luxurious mahogany. His translucent hands crossed upon his chest, leaving not a single crinkle in his crisp cobalt suit. Mr. Reynolds began to sit up and adjust his crimson tie with a self-given dignity. He grabbed his delicate gold spectacles and then began a customary day. What is a customary day for Mr. Reynolds, one may ask? Well, Mr. Reynolds existed in space. Just like you and me, together in the universe. Except Mr. Reynolds only exists in his cosmos. You see, Mr. Reynolds saw no point of the world, outside of his room. Because in his room, Mr. Reynolds dabbled in a type of magic, a science, voluptuous with secrets, and the depth and darkness that eluded this enigma, polluted the room. The windows were boarded up with old rotting planks of wood, only letting in desperate livers of light, that eventually dissipate into darkness. Mr. Reynolds would not let the world see in. It was not because he felt an unusual sense of superiority, but that the world offered nothing for him. In all of Mr. Reynolds’s obscurity, there was a light. A majestic cerulean orb to be exact. It was concocted of some sort of enchanting froth and swirled in its own mists. It rested atop a ledge so high that Mr. Reynolds needed his ottoman in order to reach it. Of all the golden gizmos and bronze gadgets in his room, Mr. Reynolds held the orb with the most delicacy. Mr. Reynolds only took the orb down once a day, and he had his most certainly reasonable reasons. Every night, Mr. Reynolds inhaled the sweet perfumes of the orb in hopes of an overwhelming ecstasy that stemmed from truth itself. Then he would sit at his aged mahogany desk tinkering with his golden trinkets and using his intellect to develop even more complex scientific riches. He was constantly surrounded by his bejeweled accomplishments. It was a supremely bewitching life of luxurious solitude. However, one day, this infinite elementary cycle would soon cease to exist. The evolution of the world that surrounds us is inevitable, and change is a necessity. One day, Mr. Reynolds woke up, breathed in his orb, and time stopped. Maybe it was for decades, years, weeks, or even maybe just a second; time halted. It was as if the pause button had been unintentionally struck, and there were repercussions. For when time continued, to Mr. Reynolds’s horror, he was not alone. His perfect individual sanctuary was now filled with small beings. They were contrived of a somber dust and just the size of Mr. Reynolds’s thumb. They were faceless, anonymous, and hard at work. Mr. Reynolds stood mouth agape, bathing in the restless waters of shock that consumed him. It was as if he was drowning in consternation. Thousands of these beings were working on his priceless golden phenomena. They were improving and bettering them, almost inventing the objects themselves. Mr. Reynolds felt a wretched pain in his chest. Had all of these acclaimed works that he had credited to himself belonged to others? Had he never truly accomplished anything? Mr. Reynolds was now covered in a heavy sweat. Did the truth finally crack through? Mr. Reynolds put his hand to his head wiping the condensation from his brow. Had reality reared its beastly head? Uncertain, Mr. Reynolds stumbled to bed unsure if the concept of tomorrow will bring resolution and a limitless veracity.
30 • Menagerie
Chaos • Haley Spolar • Mixed Media
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Hell Tyler Bernklau
“...so welcome to what some people call Dante’s Inferno. Enjoy,” declared the Demon, “NEXT!” “Wait, I have questions! How? Why? Where?” proclaimed Damned Soul #67890978345. “Oh, please, I don’t have time for this. I have an eternity and a half to complete this, and these damned souls just don’t sort themselves. Now please go to your personalized hell on the third floor to the left: room 13456,” replied the Demon, “NEXT! Seriously, I only have an eternity!” Damned Soul #67890978345 decided to exit the room. It followed the demon’s directions and headed toward its own personal hell. “Well, here it is room: 13456,” whispering to itself. It then entered the room to be amazed at what it encountered. The room was empty. “Surely this must be a mistake…Nothing? The room right next to me has an eternity of waiting in a line, and the room across of me has an eternity of falling from a building. And I get nothing?!” exclaimed Damned Soul #67890978345. It decided to march back to the entrance where it came from and confront the Demon. “Ugh, you again. What do you want? Can’t you see I’m busy?” uttered the Demon. “Um, why do I have nothing for my ‘Hell’?” asked Damned Soul #67890978345. “If you have a complaint take it to Satan or whichever overlord of darkness you believe in… NEXT! Come on you guys!” exclaimed the Demon. “Fine,” replied Damned Soul #67890978345 and proceeded to Satan’s door. The lavish room was filled with the most gruesome acts. In one corner was a being that was continually mutilated by dogs. In another, a naked form was giving a speech that it wasn’t prepared for. Damned Soul #67890978345 walked up to Satan saying, “Satan, what gives?! Why do all these souls get their own personalized Hell that are objectively better than mine?! Why can’t I be tortured for the rest of time?!” “Well,” Satan started, “I make sure that everyone’s personal Hell is perfectly fitted for their crimes towards others…what’s your number?” “#67890978345,” it answered. “Ah, right here…Yep an eternity of darkness,” stated Satan. “Well, why do I have that?” said Damned Soul #67890978345. “You were an electrician that charged too much.”
32 • Menagerie
June • Louise Serrano • Photography
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Cherry Red Rain Boots
Sarah Valeika
My grandmother liked to plant vegetables in the little garden in the front of the house. Of course, her mobility was limited, so when she did drag the walker out the front door, it was usually only to take a look at the sky, observe that it might rain and that she needed to get back in the house. There was cilantro in a little ceramic bowl on the gravel leading up to the house, and after it rained, the soil spilled over, making me wonder how the roots never floated away in all the morass of things that flooded her front garden. When she felt playful, she slipped into her cherry red rain boots and stood in the center of the marshy yard, seeming to announce to the world that she was as defiant as the rain was wet. One was left to interpret whether she was pleased by the rain or determined to thwart it. I drove my car – newly mine, as I was just eighteen at the time – up to the front of her house, that one-story house which stood at the end of the block like a period at the end of a sentence, and I just sat in that seat looking at her. I had just smoked my first cigarette in that car and was feeling guilty already for my transgression, but the stress of Mother’s illness was eating me alive and the need to do something to prove to myself that I really was the child and she the mother was an urge too strong for me to resist. In truth, I didn’t even try resisting; I wanted to feel in control. Therefore, when my weary-white Camry crawled up to the curb, I sought anything to tear my attention away from the smell of nicotine in my faux-leather seats. So, I watched a 78-year-old woman with her hair yanked into a ponytail, wearing a plastic black poncho and cherry red rain boots and no umbrella, and I twisted the key out of its ignition. She was crazy. This woman was bona-fide bizarre; she was mentally unstable; she was weak of mind; she was a curmudgeonly rejecter of normalcy. She was a brewer of tea that she wouldn’t drink if it tasted too sweet; she was an octagonal-peg-in-a-square-hole social reject. She was magnificent. “Gram,” I called, clambering out of my car, “why?” “I don’t like it when it rains.” “So when it pours…?” “It’s even worse.” Fair. So she was standing in it. That was fine. “Would it be easier to have an umbrella?” “Yes. But I don’t need one, thank you.” She stood there, her eyes closed, content in the rain she didn’t like. No invitation to join her but the general implied invite, which I had come to know from a young age when she made cookies and I asked her, quite stupidly, if she had “made some cookies, Gram?” “Yes,” had been her only answer, and I had, out of politeness, not eaten any since they hadn’t been explained to me as open fare. Turned out later that I hadn’t offended her or anything, but she had intended them all for me – my favorites, oatmeal pretzel crumble. They were for me, but she assumed I would know. “Would you like me to join you out here?” I asked now, watching her hair getting drenched, her face still flushed with bright refusal to submit to the elements. “If you’d like.”
34 • Menagerie
I would like, I decided, so I shook my hair out of its ponytail so that it could soak up even more, just to do what my father would call showing the rain “who’s boss,” and with the keys in my pocket, I sloshed in some puddles to reach the middle of the lawn and sunk my Converse into the mud. “Nice day,” she said dryly, a gentle mockery of the types of women she really couldn’t stand. “Lovely,” I said, and silently, we both turned out to face the roads and watch as the world rolled down and out of the sky, sloshed towards the sewers, and became the underground river. She was magnificent.
City of Flowers • Jacqueline Lopez • Photography
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Eclipse
Grace Dekoker
The Sun was everything bright, glowing charisma with a shining smile. In comparison, the Moon shone differently, more quietly than her paramour. He was vibrant, blinding and brazen, while she was a shimmering silver, creating a subtle glow on even the darkest nights. His warmth would radiate to her, through her, down into her soul. He could stare into her eyes for hours and count stars. Their time together was scarce, one rising as the other set, so they made do with what they could. The Sun could call upon the clouds to give him cover whenever he missed her most, and would sneak away under the guise of an overcast day to savor what time they had. The Moon was cyclic, waning and waxing routinely to schedule the times she could see her love. Cloudy gray skies, or a nearly invisible Moon were rarely understood for their true meaning. They were star-crossed indeed, catching only fleeting glimpses of the other, and replaying those memories until they could meet again.
Old Love • Cain Nocera • Photography
They could only yearn for the days when the stars all aligned, when kismet smiled on them, when the universe allowed their paths to cross. For a few fleeting seconds, the world would turn dim as they abandoned their duties and were united, overcome with joy, his arms around her, pulling tight and holding fast; her lips on his, spelling out the passage of years gone by; his hand, brushing locks of the rippling night skies away from her face to see her shy smile, so true and pure, warming him even further. We cannot look directly at an eclipse because it’s too bright, the light will scorch and sear our eyes. The moments so few and far between, the ones the Sun and Moon lived for, pined for, waited for, shone so brightly with their passion, that no one can ever bear to watch them.
36 • Menagerie
Rein • 37
Can I Call You Rob?
Maren Williams
Westin is a 37-year-old accountant who has just been fired. He is at the lowest point in his life and he is devolving. He doesn’t know how to live without a routine and he is very impulsive. Kami is a young 23-year-old with short term memory loss. She is working at her father’s convenient store because she is having trouble finding work anywhere else. She is very ditzy and youthful, but not dumb. It is a cold winter afternoon at around 4:50pm. It is dark outside and the store is closing soon. Kami is sitting at the front counter. WESTIN : KAMI: WESTIN : KAMI: WESTIN : KAMI : Westin : KAMI : WESTIN : KAMI: WESTIN : KAMI :
38 • Menagerie
(Westin walks in stage right wearing a ski mask and a gun in his hand) EVERYONE GET ON THE FLOOR NOW!! (surprised) Oh this place is pretty empty. YOU! LET ME SEE YOUR HANDS. (Kami reaches for pepper spray but puts her hands up when she sees the gun, Westin picks up the pepper spray before she can get to it) You won’t be doing anything with this. (Kami nods fearfully) Now I need you to listen to me very carefully. You’re going to dispense all the money in the cash register. Then you are going to put the money into this duffel bag. The easier you cooperate, the safer you will be. Uhuh yeah… (Kami begins punching in account numbers) How much did you need again? Whatever is in there. All of it? That sure is a lot. Why would I be giving you that much? (confused) Because I’m, ya know, making you. Wait...what...what was I supposed to do with this? I’m sorry I don’t have the best memory. The duffel bag. It’s a nice bag I guess. A little boring, ya know, it’s not very colorful. Are you going on a ski trip or something? That would definitely explain the whole ski mask and duffel bag thing. What? No. Why would I wear a ski mask to the bank unless I was going to... (cuts him off) Hey, I can’t judge. Whatever floats your boat. But, we are kind of in the middle of closing so if we could make this quick that would be great. My name is Kami, how may I help you today?
WESTIN: By giving me all of the money in the cash register. KAMI : Wait...but you haven’t even bought anything yet. WESTIN : That would be the point. KAMI : Are you insinuating that I should give you the money from the cash register?? WESTIN : (sigh of relief) YES! KAMI : Well that seems kind of illegal. WESTIN : (waves gun around) THAT’S BECAUSE I’M ROBBING YOU. KAMI : Oh...I’ll dispense that right away then. (She starts to dispense the money and puts it into the duffel bag; this continues throughout most of scene) WESTIN : Finally! GOD, who knew it would be so difficult to rob a convenience store?! KAMI : I heard there is a rerun of Heat on tonight. You should take some notes. WESTIN : I don’t appreciate the attitude, Kami. KAMI : Well excuse me Mr. Robber. I am sorry if my short term memory loss is inconveniencing you. WESTIN : Oh (sarcastically) I didn’t mean to offend you. KAMI : (answers sarcastically also) Wow so kind, Mr. Robber. Can I call you Rob? Ha how funny would that be? If you were a robber named Rob? It certainly would make it easier for the cops to identify you. Like, (she says mockingly) “Oh there goes Rob out doing what Rob does best. But also not really because we are able to catch him every time.” WESTIN : My name’s not Rob! Now can you just… (Kami looks at the duffel bag and her eyes get big) OH MY GOD!! NO WAY!! KAMI : WESTIN : What?? KAMI : You’re not going to believe this! WESTIN : Kami, what is it? KAMI : Your name is sewn into the duffel bag!! WESTIN : What...uh...that’s ridiculous… KAMI : HA!! LOOK it says your name right here sewn in with (mockingly) the cutest pigment of rose-gold string. W-E-S-T-I-N…Westin? That kind of reminds me of Westie, ya know, the dog breed. Aww...I think Westies are so cute. Don’t you? I’ve always wanted one but my dad would never let me get one. (Westin realizes that she has forgotten again and sighs; he puts the pepper spray down next to Kami without thinking about it, and takes off the ski mask; he has realized that this will take a while) But of course my mom just HAS to be allergic to dog fur or whatever. Sounds like she’s more allergic to fun in my opinion.
Rein • 39
WESTIN : KAMI : WESTIN : KAMI : WESTIN : KAMI : WESTIN : KAMI : WESTIN : KAMI: WESTIN : KAMI: WESTIN : KAMI: WESTIN : KAMI : WESTIN : KAMI :
40•Menagerie
JUST GIVE ME THAT! (Mutters quietly but loud enough for Kami to hear) Uh mom must have sewn that on there... Your mom sewed your name into your duffel bag?? That’s...that’s so funny. Aren’t you like fifty? I’m 37!! Does she sew your name into all your clothes? AWW. That’s...ADORABLE! (smiles solemnly) Yes she used to when I was a kid. Is that so? She reminds me a lot of you actually. Ooooh. She must be awesome. She is. I haven’t seen her a lot lately. She’s been really struggling with her memory lately and I haven’t been taking care of her. I spend so much time at that same goddamn accounting firm. I was laid off after ten years of working there, too many people they said. And I...I have a wife and kids. They need me. (Westin drifts off and spaces out; he doesn’t want to talk anymore) Well that sounds terrible. I couldn’t imagine losing my job. I don’t have a very good memory and it’s been that way for as long as I, well couldn’t, remember. So it’s always been hard to find work. But my dad happens to own this store so that’s why I’m working here now and I don’t think he will fire me very soon. (She drifts off and looks into the distance) But I have a dream. I’ve always wanted to be a musician. Play the saxophone. (Snaps back) Wait who are you? (Westin snaps back into reality like Kami, as if he’d been pondering something long and hard) I don’t even know anymore. I have spent so much time focusing on work and getting money that I’ve lost sight of what’s important. Well I didn’t really mean like existentially... But now my family’s falling apart! My wife and I fight constantly. I don’t remember the last time I’ve heard my kids laugh. I’m never home. And this was all before I lost my job. Maybe the job isn’t the problem then. You’re right. You’re completely right. I don’t have to do this Kami!! I can just walk out of here a freeman! I can fix my relationship with my wife, spend time with my kids. I can find a purpose, do yoga, join a book club! I don’t have to have this ONE moment define me!! I don’t have to do it! Do what? Rob the store! ROB THE STORE?!? (Kami sprays him with pepper spray. Westin falls over onto the ground. End of play.)
Under Sea • Emma Rout • Ceramics
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Entrances and Exits
Sarah Valeika
Somebody missed a cue. Suddenly, there was a rancid smell of our play decaying, the carcass of our fantasy that sat on stage where it had been alive just so very recently, but somebody missed a cue. Why? How? I wondered, as the sweat washed over our bodies, whether lusty limelight was really the sickly light over a cadaver, as we excavate its treasures its organs and its almost-thumping heart, but so suddenly it can be suspended from life -- the doctor operating can snap a sinew, an actor can cease to pretend or somebody can miss a cue. There is no resuscitating a play with no will to go on.
Stage Directions
Focus • Maggie Hennesey • Digital Photography
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Flicker • Kaitlyn Lowe • Digital Photography
Sarah Valeika
Lights up on a park bench. It is wintertime. Time is measured only in winter’s light-to-dark here, no clocks, no watches on the wrists of MARCIA and DANA, who sit in ski jackets with pockets puffed full of their mitten-covered hands. The streetlamps are coated in a shimmering froth, and there is a silence as MARCIA takes a puff of a cigarette. (At actress’ discretion). The hand with the cigarette has red-tipped fingers, eyed by DANA with a commingled irritation and concern. Stage Left there is another bench, empty, Stage Right there is a trash can, and on its rim hangs a tissue, a reminder of flu season, and the tissue flutters in the wind a little as MARCIA looks at it. She puffs her cig. DANA watches her watching the tissue flutter. Lights never raise entirely on this scene, for there is always a little darkness, a little darkness to make the light of the congested street lamp a little sadder. It is wintertime.
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Micheal Swineheart
Track Shoe Poetry 42 • Menagerie
To the eighth inch spike stuck in me, Listen, buddy, pal, Eighth inch, your time has come. 55 metering has been fun, kinda. With the smell of gunpowder, the rubbery taste of the track, eerie silence before a race. You’ve been with me the whole way. Getting into the blocks, feeling the firmness of the blocks, the tenseness of our owner and suddenly we are slammed into the track, repeatedly, repeatedly. The blur of spectators, focused on that juicy finish line. THUMP. Now, we are sand molds, after three painful leaps for our final escapade, indoors. Next week we go outside and freeze but that means our Odyssey is over. You’ve been uselessly helpful in the long run, as your more impressive Quarter inch friends are legal now. They are twice as long as you and twice as useful. You might have helped at indoor conference, but NOBODY
cares. It’s time for you to leave, so I can smell the gunpowder taste the stiffer, harsher track, and sense the eerie silence in the massive stadium at Eastern Illinois.
My Dad • Mina Fredona • Digital Art
Respectfully, Track Shoe.
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An Ode to the Ear Daniel Torres That humble cone stamped on either side of the head Like a cryptic, spiraled hieroglyph. Hard at work you’ll find it, if you travel down the tunnel whose amber-lined walls story auditory fossils. The beat of the primal drum that fuels the hammer, the anvil, and the stirrup as they forge soundwaves into being— A child laughing, a church bell ringing, a father snoring, a hearse door closing.
Crossfire • Hugh O’Donnell • Photography
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Two-faced • Caroline Higney • Printmaking
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Love Stings
Allison Ozark
You see a woman and a man walking in a garden. The old woman is hideous, screaming at the man.The man shoulders her shouts with patience. As you’re standing there, the woman begins to wreak havoc on the garden, smashing flowers, stepping on ants, crushing snails in between her old shriveled hands. You wonder how the old man has stayed with this woman, how her cruelty must sting into him. You work up the courage and begin to approach her. She holds a small bumblebee in her hand, moments away from death. You tap her on the shoulder. She turns to you, one eye obscured by an eyepatch; the other eye is beautiful. Suddenly she appears to be an angel too, unearthly and surreal. You understand now why this old man has remained in the presence of the woman. Beauty is in the eye of the bee holder.
Look Back at It • Faith Echeverria • Printmaking
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Sleeping City
Grace Roberts
even dark places have light ink pot sky with glittery stars small but nonetheless there a sleeping city buildings stretching up up up dark windows sleeping people but there’s me a little light in the middle the cream of the city scribbling away inspiration slipping through my fingertips like melted butter words and dreams interchangeable
Is This Even Real? • Alexis Fergon • Printmaking
Reverence • Cain Nocera • Photography
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I smile, pulling the blankets up to my chin, the flash blindingly bright when everything else around me is inky black. -11:16 p.m.
A Series of Late Night Thoughts Grace Dekoker
“Sleep tight,” I type, letting my eyes slip shut. Not before another notification pings my screen, and fighting heavy lids, I open it, grinning. -11:34 p.m.
Burnt • Haley Spolar • Acrylic
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It’s getting late, I think, stealing a glance at the clock. Though I continue our conversation because, let’s be honest here, I don’t mind at all. -11:56 p.m. Is it wrong to set a timer for yourself every three minutes, just in case you start to doze off? Some will say yes; the others are in love. -12:13 a.m. I said goodnight over an hour ago, but somehow we both knew we’d be talking far after that. -12:28 a.m. My alarm is due to ring in five hours but damn that smile. -12:47 a.m. “No, you’re not keeping me up.” False. “I’d rather be talking to you anyway.” Absolutely true. -1:01 a.m. Walls crumble, the particulars of wakeful and alert conversation faded fast as the hours ticked by. This is the time when fears and desires and dreams are shared in the darkness. -1:13 a.m. I blearily open my eyes. I see a few texts, notifications, but my eyes dart immediately to yours. I open it, my chest light, because seeing your face (though it is from four hours ago) is just the start to my day I need. -5:27 a.m.
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Ancestry
Lauren Weber
there’s a smile buried beneath the grass down deep in the earth, in a place you cannot see. there’s a twinkle in her eye passed down for generations the shining reflection seen by few. there’s a willow tree where they kept his soul waving in the wind to passers-by. so tell me, the hope in your heart and the kindness of your tongue, where do they come from? because there’s beauty in your body and a hunger in your history so you can see why it pains me that
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you don’t know your smile, you can’t see the twinkle in your eye, you’ve been waiting ages to see this passerby but time is passing by and it’s a crime of theft so tell me in your heart are you the last one left?
Valentine’s Day • Lauren Trail • Acrylic
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Watercolor Confession Sydney Weber
The golden snow fell lazily, you were slumped, absorbed in the blue and grey of the desk even though the blinds let the sun creep in, and exposed your pristine marble features. I could have reached out a hand, could have slipped beneath your conclusions, could have given you my watercolor confession. I could have plunged into the murky waters of the rinsing cup. I could have spilled my memories, of vibrant red admiration, or explosive orange excitement, and excluded the indigo uncertainty. I could have extended my hand and allowed the sun to dry my watery canvas, evaporate the ambiguity.
Rosa • Meredith Gebhart • Ceramic
And I’d confess: through the passions of red and green, the reasons of my inexplicable love to explore the shading in your character, the mannerism of your texture, painting your life in mine. But time has revealed the truth, that I so desperately tried to paint over. We were never close. I painted pictures of you, and kept them locked away in my chest. Yet, digging with my dripping paint brush, I hoped you’d share yours with me. But, my sparse memories, are smeared and lost, in the murky colors of what was once a clear cup of water to rinse the brush after painting, one color at a time.
• Meredith Gebhart • Ceramic
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Dear Marie
Lauren Trail
Dear Marie, I’m the girl you used to be when you were thirteen, sitting in a world of disbelief, watching how the sky turns colors of valentine clichés, of heartbroken Fridays. I’m writing you, wondering how to see past clouded love scenes, thundering with words I pretend mean something. Remember when you were thirteen? Because I know how to sit, lonely, at a table filled with your own grief. It’s barren here, built on sand that buries all hope and peace of friends far out of reach. Four scorched seats stay empty, now Crushing my self-esteem, waiting like a wilting tree for the bell to release me from lunch hell.
And Marie, I think I finally know what it all means. I am a girl who’s pounded to dirt like an unwanted pest, who goes unseen, who smiles at make believe but knows they’ll remember me. Yes, I will be someone strong and whole someone never cold, but bold and successful in a world where society said I wasn’t a normal girl. Their lights fade with passing years, colors grey, and I can finally say mine flickers to life after they saw the world with their own eyes, no longer thirteen, no longer mocking me.
From time to time I go looking for girls that used to be someone like me. We are not thieves, nor lovers of Prada jeans and Maybelline, but fighters never seen. The silence traps us deep within our thoughts, but one burst, one bubble, and our whole sphere will pop. And I’ve got a dream that when I’m old enough to intervene, this world will know how it feels to be someone like me excluded from popularity scenes. Stronger Together • Caroline Higney • Painting
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Jen Blouin
Meet Expectations
Expectation used to just be an in school friend. The kind you only see in class, never on the weekends. The kind you’re always happy to talk to because they’re great, in carefully measured doses. She fast-tracked through the friend stages. Expectation invites herself to family parties now. She’s always by my side. Lurking, looming, peaceful naps painfully interrupted by potent panic. Relaxing, more like regressing she declares. A flawless future, a perfect plan. Place that in my hand, and then you can rest. Frantic research, perpetual migraines, countless cups of caffeine, desperate attempts to please my ruthless friend who transformed from welcomed acquaintance to ubiquitous foe in the blink of an all too tired eye. Carefully measured doses are a thing of the past. Now, just hearing her name makes me sick.
16 • Madison Waliewski • Acrylic
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Unrequited Love: Piece of Macaroni and a Pot
Isabel Launspach
They warned me you have a temper, that you’d boil up on me and turn me weak, but things are just starting to steam up; I can’t back out now. All common sense is blinded by your steel shine. OK, I’ll admit it’s a bit warm in here, and crowded. Can’t a piece of macaroni get some elbowroom? Of course, I’m shoved between two beautiful Italians: Fettuccine and a tall thin named spaghetti. How many girls have you had in here anyway? You’re way too clean; I know you’ve washed up. I’m sorry. I’m getting in a twist. They always tell me to use my noodle, but you know I’m not that smart. I am, however, very Krafty. I probably just need to cool down. Pot, not to get cheesy or anything, but just know, when everyone else drains, I’ll be the one stuck to your pan.
Banana Flower • Eleanor Keelan • Drawing
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Kate Beumer
Tree of Life
Tornado • Clara Weismantel • Digital Art
Inertia
Francesca Restani
a bird sits perched on a branch. the wind ruffles its feathers, each breeze licking away moisture from eyes and beak. the bird watches as the wind summons a storm, howling commands to fly. its eyes start to sting and the beak dries. as much as the weather screams desire for motion, inertia is perpetuated and the bird remains.
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Goosebumps
Melanie Ocampo
A prick to my face. The cold tingling air goes to my neck and my arms and my legs and my back. All the decimeters of skin I own. It rattles my fingertips, but I don’t mind. The air is purple here, the wind a wonderful violet, my absolute favorite. I want to diffuse myself into it, and maybe I will, just this one moment, a heated chill Because the sun is a shower, the moon, soon a bath with dozens upon baker’s dozens of bright little spectacles creeping out just to say hi. Stars poke the sky, and do a little dance that almost matches the jazz number happening on my decimeters of skin right now as a friendly violet gust of wind washes over me again. No • Caroline Higney • Acrylic
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I Don’t Remember You
Claire VanDerLaan
The last time I saw you smile was here, your legs folded onto the bench green with moss and chipped paint, coated in teenage graffiti and poorly carved hearts. You began to rant about some folk story you had read and your fingers started to shake with some uneven combination of the cold and your unadulterated excitement. The toe of your shoe drew unconscious diamonds into the wood chips and I could only watch it bloom into existence. I watched the sky begin to drown with color, the raw soul of the sun grinning at me with clouds for teeth, watched your smile appear before it was gone. I could still hear your diamonds rubbed into the ground, the sound masked only by the rustling of the trees. I could still shut my eyes and picture it, the last time I saw you smile.
Grace in Millenium Park • Haley Spolar • Mixed Media
Vintage Wheels • Abby Fox • Photography
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Nirvana of the Common Man
Hayley Mirabile
That small Italian man in the American diner (both from 1935) told me I had my head so far up in the clouds the angels were inside of it just like his. He had euphoria on his forehead and everything he needed in a small duffel bag. It was time to begin anew, for a reinvention of the soul. He stuck his thumb out down winding back roads, met some people he fell in love with, met some people he regrets, and found his way to the Big City. It was December when he entered this haven. The snowflakes on his thick eyelashes softened his stoic look. Everyone told him he would never find himself here, would never hear the thoughts in his head amidst everyone pushing each other down to rise to the top. But, he says, he did exactly what he wanted. He was never looking to find anything, only to lose himself. Rory • Eleanor Keelan • Colored Pencil
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Tara Brankin
Black Sheep
Under an oceanic sky, the black sheep walks, head hanging low, staining a cloud of malevolent purity. Others criticize this beautiful monstrosity, make snide remarks towards his ebony wool, pretend they can’t see him, anoint him a pariah. He ignores them at first, one day they’ll stop, he says one day I’ll be accepted. But the harassment never ceases. The others don’t understand how someone could have black wool and not be ashamed. Tired of being berated, he finally leaves. When he is gone, the other sheep look around, and wonder if another flock has ever looked this perfect.
Destruction • Mina Fredona • Digital Art
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Synopsis
Mattigan Kelly
after “This is just to say” by William Carlos Williams I have hidden the Jews, slaves, and refugees that were running far away, and which you were probably saving for injustice Forgive me, They were frightened, so hungry and so cold.
after “This is just to say” by William Carlos Williams I took your snowman’s head and hurled hit as a snowball, though we spent the afternoon light crafting our dear monolith. Pardon me, But seeing the snow splatter my stalker’s face was worth every flaky crystal
Eric Ko
A Dish Best Served Cold
From Tears They Grow • Heather Munyon• Drawing
Waves • Jake Burr • Printmaking
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Dialogue Between Punctuation Brothers Stefan Theiss
. I hate it. You’ve always been better than me. Taller, Stronger, More unique, like a reality TV star you yell whatever crosses your mind, and people listen, people love it! They don’t want to see invisible me. I’m a stub, you’re a stud. I’m stupid, you’re stupendous. All of me combined is nothing compared to you.
! Aww thanks! You really think so? Because I don’t. I think you’re capable, brave, and confident. Only you could be strong enough to stop a sentence dead in its tracks. Only you could be bold enough to take two friends and venture into the oblivion of et cetera… Only you could be sure enough to know exactly when to end a thought. You champion all punctuation: no ifs, ands or buts. I used to base my worth on how high I could fly, but I could never fly without my base, a period. Death by Plastic ∙ Syrus Reardon ∙ Ceramics
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Meet & Greet
Madison Holt
“Hello.” I don’t know much about you, but I think you are like me. I can only hope that beat-up sneakers and coffee stains don’t lie. So ‘hello’ as well, I can pretend my heart is not made of something breakable and is not leaping, scraping, choking in my throat. There’s a struggle in ripping off my cling-wrap skin, baring my teeth in a grimace-looking grin, something I want to call anxiety pulling and pushing and tearing and screaming out the names of ice cream flavors and movies and things that make me laugh and cry. Things you don’t know, but I think I want you to. “I’ll see you later.” Short conversation. Quick, ending just before things could get good. I watch as beat-up sneakers and coffee stains walk away from me, but the hope of a ‘later’ gives me solace.
Girl on the Lake • Kyle Niego • Photography
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First Flat and Pale
Daniel Torres
Like the skyward side of a sun-bleached oyster my mother’s stomach was a source of pride Then pregnancy sounded the alarm of a swelling belly. Two brothers, a sister, finally meThe far pearls of her oyster. Her stomach was my favorite bed. Its rise and fall, like ocean tide, lulled me. To remove me from my perch came at the risk of awakening a wailing leviathan. And although her stomach is now peppered With the bruises of countless insulin pen pricks, its sight pleases me, my serene orb, the bellows that stoke the flames of our familial lighthouse.
The Looking Glass • Hugh O’Donnell • Photography
Violence
Luke Lusson
Bullets pierce the flesh Yet humans pull the trigger Our talking misfires
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Rain • 7
Editors’ Note Rain noun, often attributive \ rān \ moisture condensed from the atmosphere that falls visibly in separate drops In the Rain section of the magazine you will see organic falls, spills, and explosions. Within the genre of poetry there are lots of various styles including Haiku, sonnets, lyrics, and epics to name a few. The variation seen within poems we can associate with the infinite variety of rain- spilling forth the creative opportunity to make it your own. Similarly, our poems represent a variety of form and subject matter: take a look at “Entrances and Exits,” the lighthearted “Ode to an Ear,” “Black Sheep,” or the satiric (?) “Love Stings.” Among these poems you can see that vast range of content this issue contains, which coincides with the design aspect of Rain. Designers were asked to reduce or manipulate objects into a new or scattered ways that allude to the random and inconsistency found in rain. Whether using shards of broken CDs, feathers, cheerios, eye shadow, or dirt, the idea was for the art staff to provide a sense of movement and surprise that showcases student literature and art. The staff not only had to choose which object they would use, but also make sure that both the design and artwork matched the necessary mood. Part of this process included incorporating a background color that complemented the elements on the page, which also separates this section of the magazine from the Rein section due to the brighter colors. By adding various colors and objects, we were able to create an unpredictable and loose layout that enhances Lyons Township’s creative minds. This year’s magazine was inspired by the idea of flipped magazine that requires the reader to flip the magazine upside down to read the other half of the magazine, which makes it more interactive and unique while also emphasizing the balance between opposites. Intrigued by the contrast of clean and messy, tight and loose, contained and spilled, organized and disorganized, we decided to center this year’s magazine around the homophone “Rein/Rain.” Although having two very separate definitions, both words illustrate our two opposing topics of tight and loose, yet combines them into one word just as we combine both ideas into this issue of Menagerie. Similar to how each person has their own outlook on art or literary pieces, there are multiple ways to explore or view the pieces and pages featured in our magazine. There is neither a first or a second half, a better or a worse half, nor a right way to read this magazine; everything depends on your perspective and how you choose to interact with the pages and the content they hold.
Table of Contents Poetry Violence, Luke Lusson, 6 Fist Flat and Pale, Daniel Torres, 7 Meet & Greet, Madison Holt, 8 Dialogue Between Punctuation Brothers, Stefan Theiss, 10 A Dish Best Served Cold, Eric Ko, 12 Synopsis, Mattigan Kelly, 13 Black Sheep, Tara Brankin, 14 Nirvana of the Common Man, Hayley Mirablie, 16 I Don’t Remember You, Claire VanDerLaan, 18 Goosebumps, Melanie Ocampo, 21 Tree of Life, Kate Beumer, 23 Inertia, Francesca Restani, 22 Unrequited Love: Piece of Macaroni and a Pot, Isabel Launspach, 25 Meet Expectations, Jen Blouin, 27 Dear Marie, Lauren Trail, 28 Watercolor Confession, Sydney Weber, 30 Ancestry, Lauren Weber, 32 A Series of Late Night Thoughts, Grace Dekoker, 35 Sleeping City, Grace Roberts, 36 Love Stings, Allison Ozark, 38 An Ode to the Ear, Daniel Torres, 41 Track Shoe Poetry, Michael Swineheart, 42 Entrances and Exits, Sarah Valeika, 44 Stage Directions, Sarah Valeika, 45
Art 2-D
Miller, Lauren Trail, 4 Waves, Jake Burr, 13 Destruction, Mina Fredona, 15 Rory, Eleanor Keelan, 17 Grace in Millennium Park, Haley Spolar, 19 No, Caroline Higney, 20 Tornado, Clara Weismantel, 22 Banana Flower, Eleanor Keelan, 24 16, Madison Waliewski, 26 Stronger Together, Caroline Higney, 29 Valentine’s Day, Lauren Trail, 33 Burnt, Haley Spolar, 34 Is This Even Real?, Alexis Fergon, 37 Look Back at It, Faith Echeverria, 39 Two-faced, Caroline Higney, 41 My Dad, Mina Fredona, 43 Equilibrium, Lucy Hawblitzel, 46
3-D
Death by Plastic, Syrus Reardon, 11 Rosa, Meredith, Gebhardt, 31 Burkettes, Meredith Gebhardt, 31 Ki, Daren Kruchko, 32
Photography
The Looking Glass, Hugh O’Donnell, 6 Girl on the Lake, Kyle Niego, 9 Vintage Wheels, Abby Fox, 19 Reverence, Cain Nocera, 36 Crossfire, Hugh O’Donnell, 40 Focus, Maggie Hennesey, 44 Flicker, Kaithlyn Lowe, 45
We invite you to appreciate the magazine and our creativity, and hope you enjoy the Rain.
Lauren Trail • Brie Voetberg
Rain • 3
2 • Menagerie