Artifex Literary Art Magazine - 2023 - Coffee House

Volume XV - May 2023

Marjory Stoneman Douglas Hugh School 5901 Pine Island Road Parkland, Florida 33076

Phone:754-322-2250

Fax: 754-322-2280

www.browardschools.com/stonemandouglas

litmagmsd@gmail.com

Student Enrollment: 3418

School Staff: 250

Coffee H O U S E

Come inside, sit wherever you’d like! Take a seat right by the window where you may feel the warmth and watch the world pass, or stay where cool shadows envelop you like the way the spices of the world join together in a medley of flavor. What cup of coffee would you like?

Lattes are the silky drink made for sharing, with an espresso base and steamed milk, and a layer of artistic frothed milk. It’s the sign of a first friendship, a meet-cute, the start of budding admiration for one another. Both delicious and refreshing in any kind of weather, lattes and love are multitudinal: not one or the other are always going to be the same, but it’s the passion that ties it all together.

Full and intense: Espressos are the energy booster of coffee drinks, served in shots. The pressure from hot water meeting freshly ground coffee beans creates something more powerful than coffee—crema. It is the driving force behind foolhardy and well-meaning decisions; it’s a new chapter, another beginning. Stronger and faster than lightning, a fresh cup of espresso will get you revving out of bed and into the world with new possibilities.

Bittersweet is the Americano; the comfort of melancholy invites you in each sharp sip. A strident splash of the embittered liquid envelopes your taste buds, painting your mood to be little more than blue. The tang when swallowed taps your will for another. The espresso crashes on your burning throat, brimming are that of your faded tears, thundering are the umbrella of emotions.

Affogatos are both bitter and sweet, the strong espresso and creamy gelato melting into one another. It’s an addictive beverage that stands itself up for a roaring applause. It’s the coffee house favorite: after the high and after the trouble—it all blends together in a brew that makes it all worth it in the end. Life is not an easy path to travel down, but like affogatos, the epilogue is what entices one for another drink… or the next chapter.

Latte

The first sip: a pleasant, floral dream

Steam and sparks rise, a budding flame

Made for all, sugar and cream

Reaching for each other without shame

Nocturne I

n the midst of September’s evening in the art room red with the rays of the setting sun, Ollie Greene sits alone with his thoughts and an empty canvas, struck with dried-out motivation for any subject ideas. Late work nights and busy days caused his mind to scramble like endless penciled circles on parchment, so by the end of the night, when he tries to force a project out of himself, he comes up with nothing. And it pisses him off beyond imagination.

He receives praise from his professor and classmates like he was the modern-day Monet, always eager to see what next piece he’ll come up with. But this time around, with an assignment telling him to paint something of importance, Ollie hesitates. Maybe it was the overthinking or heavy anxiety that his presentation of what’s of value to him is not good enough, but he couldn’t even begin to trace a sketch.

The ceaseless ticking of the wall clock picks up again after a while, alerting him from zoning out and drowning deep in his head: a recurring and angering thing that happens to him. A short glance at his phone earns a loud and tired groan. A few hours’ worth of notifications blink on his lock screen, and rounded white numbers indicate how late into the night it was rather than just peering up from the desk at the window panes that separate him from the real world. The time reads 3:31 a.m., and Ollie finally feels the forlorn fatigue that slaps him across the face and paints his features red. His chewed-up nails signify how much time has passed since he picked up a pencil or brush. Maybe it was better that he pack his belongings up now and leave the room that haunts him with the unbearable burden of art block.

Lazy hands throw colored pencils and other utensils into the beige tote bag and clean his station to be as it were. Ollie is nocturnal—always has been—but it’s beginning to take its toll harder on him as he’s finishing up college as an art major. He’d like to keep it hidden from his classmates that he lingered in a classroom rather than joining them at parties or dorm room hangouts. His professor, Mr. Rayes, knows how to keep his secret, but he is undoubtedly sick with unnecessary worry. Exhaustion is evident in deep, purple eye bags, nearly covered with rounded glasses and a lowered head, averting solemn gazes.

The click of the door eerily sounds in the hall, rousing Ollie to snap from his sleepless trance and to melt in the moment. He is alone without hundreds of voices overlapping one another, devouring simple noises like the door shutting or even the soft music coming from the dance studio across the way.

Wait, what?

He blinks, readjusts his glasses, and moves his head to

peer into the large windowed room, viewing a nearly dead light panning onto a woman who danced so graciously that it was haunting. An iridescent, snow-white tutu hugs her figure, and the slippers that decorate her feet allowed her to move so benevolently that it keeps Ollie from moving a single limb. Faint tunes of Tchaikovsky meet his ears, instantaneously captivating his deprived mind and watchful eyes. Her porcelain arms swaye like a doll’s, and her hair is of glittering gold, free of the tight bun most prima ballerinas wear. Locks bounce with every step and small leap she takes, and with it, Ollie’s heart. The question that got pushed to the back of his mind resurfaced. Why is someone else here so late? And dancing of all things?

Bubbling life inside the studio was never paid attention to by passersby, but now Ollie can’t help but wonder why he never took a peek. Maybe he would have seen the marvelous dancer sooner had he looked up from his white high-top shoes. Honestly, how could he be so foolish to think all this time he’s been memorizing the dirt placement on his sneakers rather than the melodies and emotions that came from across the way? It was hard enough to live in the present as is, but he would not let this moment pass him by. Such a sight deserved to be appreciated, whether it was by hundreds of people or just him. Just his eyes watching the way she bends and leaps and twirls.

His artistic mind races with her being the fruit of all ideas. Gentle strokes meet the canvas with such tenderness, unworthy to be ruined. She reminds him of shades of lavender and canary yellow; watercolor and oil paintings that would run for glorious amounts of money. And yet, Ollie has the privilege of seeing her dance for free.

Her dancing comes to a slow and the music fades. He watches intently as her chest rises and falls with every quick breath taken. The girl’s eyes quietly moves to him, and her stance falls. He swares, for a moment, between the large pane of glass, they lock eyes. Ocean colliding with evergreen. Dollops of paint mixing to form a more beautiful hue.

She hastily approaches the door after snatching her jacket, wrapping it around her pale arms to hide her figure. It clicks open and Ollie begins to panic. Crap, did he just get caught?

“Stalker much?” She asks, a voice so sweet it could be comparable to honey or vanilla ice cream–pure through, and through.

Now would be an appropriate time to answer her, though, seeing as her impatient eyes glance back and forth, waiting for an answer.

“Oh! Gosh, I’m sorry. I didn’t realize anyone else was

Her porcelain arms swayed like a doll’s, and her hair was of glittering gold, free of the tight bun most prima ballerinas wear.

here this late at night, and I was just on my way home. I must have gotten distracted.”

Words spill out like an abandoned faucet, and his cheeks grow full-blown scarlet as he threads together excuses for his prying eyes. She’d think he was crazy if he blurted out nonsense about how beautifully she danced and her quintessence for being the subject of his next painting. Again, nonsense.

Her skeptical look turns soft once she realizes how timid he actually was, expecting him to be a peeping Tom or worse. She keeps in the doorway, leaning against its frame as a smile finds its way to her lips.

“I’m joking. I don’t mind the audience. So, how did I do?”

Her question sends an impulse of electricity through his veins—worrying he might slip something unnecessary out. Something that paints him as the stalker he first appeared to be. Something that would creep her out as the small word slips through his lips, carrying a heavy meaning.

“Beautiful.” A word such as that.

The girl’s eyes widen, and before Ollie can push away the dagger piercing his neck, she laughs. Laughs so her body shakes and convulses like he just told the funniest joke in the world. Laughs so Ollie watches the crinkles by her eyes and gets at least fifty more ideas for the images he’d like to picture as he lathers paint on the linen surface.

“You’d be the first,” She replies, slipping back into the room, and her features seem to light up more despite the lack of illumination. “No one has seen me dance in ages.”

Ollie furrows his brows. “But why? I bet if they knew how you danced they’d be lining up at the doors.”

She grins at his sweet words, but it fades rather fast, and all mention of their conversation evaporates when she changes the subject. “So what’s your name?”

Cherry wine circles in his cheeks once more, and he shies away from her stare of intrigue. “Ollie. Ollie Greene.”

“Just Ollie? Not Oliver?”

“No,” he confirms with a shake of his head, bouncy, brown hair tousling. “Just Ollie.”

Her darkened ends catch his eye, pupils expanding with the way it reminded him of the way paints melt into each other to become their own. She is a living painting, and Ollie can only wish to dream of creating something so exquisite.

“Well, it’s nice to meet you, Ollie.”

Kindness forms in the extension of her hand. A slender wrist with a single ruby hair tie interrupts his gaze on the ground, and he blinks to realize what he was looking at before giving her his full attention.

“I’m Carmen. Carmen Alpes.”

Determination lingers in the way she speaks; confident and graceful. Ollie feels inferior to her, unworthy to even touch her hand.

With the sound of rumbling thunder outside the building, their hands connect in a shake—Carmen’s hand freezing cold, identical to the room they stood in, while Ollie’s is warm and flush with color. Ollie doesn’t acknowledge the flickering of the light panels overhead. Mainly because his appreciation is seen elsewhere─in the eyes of a lone dancer dressed in ivory and pale peach. Almost ghostly. Almost dead.

Shrink Wrap

Lucia Giraldo Color Pencil and Paper

TileColored Glass

Stars twinkle

Smile wrinkles

Make a wish upon a star

Wake up where the clouds are far

A wrinkle in time

I can hear a faint chime

It’s way past bedtime

I’ve been asleep for a while

And my eyes are fogged with colored glass tile

I see shades of green Red roses too

I see them bloom

Mind outside the world

Outside the classroom

I think to myself

What a wonderful world

Colors explode my vision

I see life as a whole new mission

A colorful world

What a wonderful world

Ella Kalvaitis, 11 rhymed verse

Repent Renata Silva, 12 colored pencil on paper

LaughIsn’t That a

Phoebe Apollo Wade took a deep, deep breath. “Friends, Comrades,” she began in a deep, mournful voice, “We are here today... because someone couldn’t stay alive.”

Everyone in the audience nodded with grave expressions, though some had to smother “coughs” behind handkerchiefs. Cadenza Ruslanlva let out what could best be considered a mangled sob, because it was definitely not a laugh, no sirree. This was a very serious event.

“It is with great sorrow,” Phoebe continued, “that we must gather to commemorate the life of our leader, our friend, our comrade, Leto Artemis–”

“I’M NOT DEAD, YOU–!”

“–who died as she lived, being a little bit of a mess.” Phoebe wiped a tear from the corner of her eye, ignoring Keres, who appeared to be choking on his lungs in the front row.

“The best intentions,” Ainsley repeated, though her eyes shone with mirth. “It is a shame that she met her demise before she could see her dreams play out.”

Leto groaned. “I hate all of you.”

“In her stead, we, the people of Maeva, will carry her dream for her.” Ainsley placed a hand over her heart and took a deep breath so she wouldn’t start laughing. “As a proud citizen of this land, I vow to make Maeva the country Leto wanted it to be.” She bowed her head. “Leto, if you’re watching over us... I hope I can make you proud.”

“Oh yes, I am definitely watching over you because– you know what? This isn’t worth it. Thank you for your contribution. All of you, really.”

Ainsley stepped back from the podium, shoulders shaking with silent “sobs.”

Phoebe swooped in before her tearful facade could break.

“Thank you, Ainsley,” she simpered.

“A truly moving eulogy. I’m sure Leto would be greatly touched by your public speaking skills if she was here.”

“I will murder you,” Leto promised darkly. “I will go

“President Leto was such a great woman, an inspiring figure to all of us. May our heartfelt eulogies–”

“I am literally right here–”

“–do justice to his magnificent character–”

“Stop pretending you can’t hear me!”

“–and embody her best virtues.” Phoebe sighed. “A good woman, she was. The greatest bastard of them all.”

“Oh for the love of–” Leto slammed a palm against the jailed box she was trapped in. “Will you just let me out?!”

“Sometimes I think I can still hear her voice.”

“Because I’m not dead!”

“With that being said, we will now commence this memorial service,” Phoebe announced with a flourish. “Ainsley will be the first to speak.”

Ainsley Aether managed to wrestle her chortle into a sniff as she stepped onto the platform.

Phoebe stepped aside, allowing her to take over the podium. “Leto Artemis was a great woman,” she began. “With a big heart and glorious dreams of the future, and though she wasn’t the sharpest knife in the drawer –”

“What the ever loving moon is that supposed to mean?!”

“ –she only had the best intentions for our wondrous country.”

“Drugs!” someone called from the crowd. It sounded suspiciously like Cadenza Ruslanova.

You Still Need Me

Isabella Silva, 11 pen on paper

“Will you just let me out?!”

“Sometimes I think I can still hear her voice.”

“Because I’m not dead!”

into your house while you’re asleep and smother you with your own pillow.”

“And the next speaker will be Naoise,” Phoebe declared, unperturbed by the threats.

Naoise O’Keeffe shuffled up to the front, carefully not looking in Leto’s direction.

“Leto was an amazing leader,” she started. “But more than that, she was an amazing mother.”

Leto’s angry muttering was cut off with a sharp inhale.

“She raised me, through the good times and the bad. She helped me become the person I am today, and nobody will ever be able to replace her.”

“Oh,” Leto whispered. “Nao...”

“So I want to honor her memory.” Naoise knitted her fingers in the fabric of her suit. “I want to carry on her legacy, to pass the story of her life down through the ages, both the good times and the bad–”

Leto went from teary-eyed to indignant in an instant. “Naoise, I forbid you–”

“–but... her life story is too complicated and difficult to retell.”

“Thank everything.”

“So instead, I’ve compiled a list of all the embarrassing things I’ve seen her do! Plus some extra stories from Phoebe.”

She pulled out a book, opened it to the first page, and cleared her throat.

“Okay. First of all, when I was thirteen, she tried to show me that sand was edible–”

Leto began banging her head against the iron bars.

Mawce Bernstein, 10 short story

Stitches Savanah Venter, 11 mixed media

True

Friendship

True friendship is what you have shown me

Dancing in the rain

Singing in the car

Going to the mall

Turning my frown into a smile

For lifting me up When I feel down You give me strength

Support me in everything I do

You make me laugh

Sometimes cry Your always there for me

And help me through everything

Thank you for being there And helping me through everyday problems

You mean a lot to me

I’m so excited to see where our friendship takes us

Courtney Solinsky, 10 free verse

Autumn to

Winter

Autumn Golden, blushed Falling, crunching, glowing, Crisp, leaves, bare, trees Frosting, shivering, whispering silver, quiet Winter

Alana Karam, 10 diamante

Changing Leaves

Anna Horowitz, 11 photography

Dahlias

She held the soft petals in her hand, running her fingers over the tiny grooves and lines. Dahlias, they had always been her favorite. But sometimes it felt bittersweet. Like God was rubbing it in that most of what she wanted was just out of reach: commitment and love. Sure she was comfortable, she was living the “American dream.” Feeling out of place at her own home was never her dream though. Comfort, that’s what she had. A quiet business that never made a spectacle of itself or her. She ran her hand down the length of the stem, a sharp pain pulling her from her thoughts.

Damn it, Fiza

She held the cut to her mouth, letting the metallic blood taste mix with the scent of fresh flowers. It was too often that she had mistakenly cut herself while working, her mind never stayed where it was needed.

The bouquet she was assembling now was a gorgeous blend of dahlias, peonies, carnations, and tulips. The pinks and purples melted into one another, swirling into a vast sea only Fiza could navigate. It was her genius that helped her manage her own business. Her unique ability to see the flora as a game, each flower competing with another to shine. And she let them each have their place to shine, all right.

Settling down from her visit to her chimerical clouds, she placed the final flower in the vase, setting it in the corner of the window that outlooked the rest of the shops on the street. Fiza’s breath caught in her throat. Long curls took hold of her gaze, then it was the eyebrows, the eyes, the nose, and finally the lips of a pedestrian. Their eyes met through the thick glass, but Fiza ducked her flushed face out of view. In spite of the cold December air, her body grew warm, comfortably warm.

Who was she?

The bells at the door chimed and in walked in the curls, pink-nosed.

“Hi.” Fiza dusted herself off and greeted the young customer. “What can I help you with?”

Her eyes raked over the girl, studying the beautiful gold embellishments that adored the long black coat she wore. Fiza’s own dinghy brown coat felt inadequate in comparison. Still, she wore it with grace, displaying her name proudly on a pin.

“I was hoping to find a bouquet for a friend, her birthday is tomorrow.” She paused and furrowed her eyebrows. “Her favorite flowers are marigolds; I’m not too picky about the other flowers you include, as long as it looks good!”

“Yes, of course, I can put something together for you. Could I get your name and have you write your number here?” Fiza jotted notes down about the order on a plain slip of paper, mid-pen stroke her thought was interrupted.

“My name is Elena You should keep the number for yourself, too.” She slid the paper across the counter.

Fiza’s eyes darted up.

What does she mean by that?

Elena stared coolly back, unfazed by the silent response.

“Is there anything else you need from me?” Elana asked.

“No, nothing else!” Fiza responded. She tried playing off her embarrassment but the red on her face was enough evidence to show the truth. Fiza felt idiotic getting flustered over what probably was nothing. Her eyes followed Elena as she left the shop and through the window where she saw her first.

For a while, she couldn’t wrap her head around why Elena made her feel off, and why it felt like her goal was to do so. But at the same time, she seemed too relaxed when they spoke.

Maybe it wasn’t her goal, maybe she was just being polite.

Fiza slumped her shoulders and sighed. She was too in her head, she needed to get out. It was late enough anyways.

Aisha Hashmi, 11 fash fction

Laperouse Cassidy Tarr, 11 watercolor on paper

The Life of a

Flower

The wind begins to rush Upon my flaky leaves The brightness makes me blush Each petal is taken, by what seems to be like thieves

Each petal has a story Its glisten and its glow Not one is same of glory A different path to show

I just cannot believe my eyes When the petals vanish I hear in the distance soft cries A memory I cannot banish

Life is sweet, hold onto it Before the petals fly off, bit by bit.

Lea Waterman,

10 rhymed verse

Too Big Savanah Venter, 11 gouache on paper

Parallel

Paraphrase the encounter; they were parallel

Adorable that they found each other.

Rather so opposite, but so similar at the same time.

Ages pass when they don’t see each other

Lovers at best strangers they were.

Laughter dance in their eyes and camaraderie in their chests

Each thinking of the other in their hearts

Lovers they were strangers at best.

Riya George, 12 acrostic

Espresso

To the blameless and eager fool

An ode to a sweetly bitter drink

A brewing connection like a polished jewel

But without the ability to savor and forethink

Red

The scarlet fabric envelopes her beauty Light brushes I caress upon her face highlight luminance I stare further into what I have asked of her My own masterpiece of which I paint so meticulously So carefully I plan every stroke of light She is a goddess of the moon, an orb of overwhelming brightness

Her lips are such an honest hue of red Pretty lips sealed with phrases that flood my mind as I linger I do not know why I sit so still To wait so patiently for her to consume every bit of me with cosmic beauty She is all I ever want A desire so strong and crimson that I cannot handle my own mind

Dayna Kaplan, 11 free verse

Serpentine, Lucia Giraldo, 11 colored pencil on paper

Tropical Winter Cassidy Tarr, 11 digital art

You Stuck With

“ It’s your fault we’re stuck in here,” says Jun. What an instigator.

Lucy replies mildly: “You were the one who barreled into the storage room. The teacher only asked me to retrieve the practice books. She said Lucy, not Lucy and Jun.”

Jun crosses his arms, not saying anything more. With a hand in his pocket, he fiddles with a four-leafed clover charm that once had been Lucy’s; she lost it last week within the chaos of the evening group leaving class for the day, and when she told him about it so somberly, it was the first he saw her so emotional. Over a charm, of all things. He found it the day after she lost it by his desk, where she might’ve played with her gifted necklace so much the charm fell, and then absentmindedly kicked it over.

He opens his mouth: “We work better as a team, don’t we?”

Lucy turns away from him, “Working as a team led us to getting stuck in here.”

She sets the practice books labeled TRIGONOMETRY, SUBJECTS 1A-3C on a cart with its wheels missing. She flickes her hands rapidly, wiping down her sweaty palms on her jeans. It’s a ritual of hers, she had explained when Jun asked her why she was fidgeting so much. She makes a chirping sound that sounds more like a hamster than a human. Navigating the dizzying aisles of newly shipped and later-abandoned books, she finds a mirror hanging on a wall. In the same place as last time. She checks for any irregularities in her face, and startles when Jun comes up behind her.

“Don’t scare me like that,” she huffs.

“It’s not like I’m some alien. Stop freaking,” he says. Lucy tenses and relaxes in the same second.

But I am, she whispers quietly in her mind. You’d freak if you knew.

She can only hope he doesn’t notice her apprehension, so she makes an excuse on the fly.

“If you’re going to talk to me, stand to my side or my front. Not my back.”

“Sorry, I forgot you don’t like that,” Jun amends, his voice without a gram of malice that she would have liked.

It would’ve been better if he disregarded her and chalked her up to be another quiet, biting wallflower: that way she would have succeeded in her plan to get her little brother back home, and not be stuck in a nitrogenpoisoned planet affectionately called “Earth.”

Continued on page 32

Continued from page 30

She wouldn’t have to be here, dealing with him and the strange, heart-fluttering feeling.

It wasn’t her fault he looked nice–most of the time. All the time.

Another if bubbled into the surface of her thoughts: if Sybil or one of the Huntresses were here with her, they surely would’ve laughed at her for this. A well-respected princess of the moon Io, the heir to the Attacī Throne, a Huntress (more noble in body and spirit than just any royal guard!)... succumbing to her feelings. For a boy! A delinquent who, if he didn’t spend his time skipping classes and bothering her with needless questions–

“...cy?”

–he was probably lighting a sour-smelling stick of death, a pack of spearmint gum by his side.

“Lucy,” Jun shakes her by the shoulders. “You’re looking pale.”

Lucy opens her mouth, and yet words fail her. From her peripheral vision, the consistent openingand-closing reminds her of Mr. Greene’s pet goldfish. What other excuse can she make up right now?

“I’m afraid of the dark?”

She didn’t mean for it to sound like a question. But the cruel, divine intervention descends lightningquick: the lights above them flicker, as though amused, and go out with a hiss. Darkness envelops them both.

“It’s okay. I can see well in the dark,” Jun pats her shoulder gently and feels for her hand.

She lets him hold her and guide her to the front of the storage closet.

I can too, she thinks dismissively.

“Watch your left,” she says a second too late, and Jun bumps into a wheeled cart; she can’t dam up the laugh building at the back of her throat.

He stares at her with knitted eyebrows, but there’s nothing but warmth in his dark brown eyes. He pats down the spot on his hip where he hit himself and continues walking.

No other divine intervention arrives when they get to the front of the storage closet. The lights are still out, and the door is still closed. Still attached to Jun, Lucy fishes for her phone with a free hand, and turns the screen so he can’t see what she sees.

[Would you like to go to Contact Information?]

< Yes / No >

[Are you sure you want to change Jun Sato Classmate to Jun Sato <3?]

< Yes / No >

Lucy pauses. Before Jun could reach over in curiosity and see what she was doing, she clicked No and turned off her phone.

“Aw,” he mumbles, and freezes in realization. “Uhm. We’re still holding hands.”

She finds herself going against her instinct she grew up on, and ignores any traitorous thoughts in the voices of her teasing girls, tightening her grip with Jun. She avoids his gaze and looks down, his muddied shoes more amusing than the current situation.

She says, quietly, “It’s not a problem to me.”

“Are you sure? I know you’re not the biggest fan of touch, and I only grabbed it to help–”

“I’m sure.”

“Okay. Ye–Yeah, alright.”

The minutes pass by as seconds. Neither of them knows how much time passes, or why no one thought

“He reaches into his pocket seeking comfort. He pulls out the four-leafed clover charm, and with a flick of his index finger, watches it spin.”

to find them yet, but Jun starts to suspect the teachers thought they took the opportunity to skip. He records the lines and calluses of Lucy’s hand deep in his mind. He doesn’t want to forget her warmth.

He reaches into his pocket seeking comfort. He pulls out the four-leafed clover charm, and with a flick of his index finger, watches it spin. He has to force himself to focus his vision on something else before he gets dizzy with a throat-clawing emotion. The slight quirk to Lucy’s plum-red painted lips sends his mind on fire, and he nearly feels himself keel over with butterflies erupting like Pompeii in his stomach. As long as she keeps playing with his feelings like that, he doesn't mind being stuck in a storage closet any day.

Lucy stirs. “My charm...”

Jun presses the charm to the hand he’s not holding.

“I found it by my desk. Now you’re finally all together again.”

“...Mhm,” she says, dazed.

She maps out the muscles and joints of his fingers intertwined with hers and counts the number of scabs he has on his knuckles. She, too, doesn’t want to forget his warmth.

Then, she admits: “It was my fault we got stuck in here. I closed the door; I didn’t know it’d lock us in.”

“I know.”

“What?”

Jun turns his head and gives her a mischievous smile. “I was waiting for you to admit it. Jun one, Lucy fifty-two.”

His mischief turns into an unreadable emotion. “Uh. I’d still like to do… this.”

“Get stuck in a closet together?” It’s Lucy’s turn to laugh.

Jun doesn’t get to reply when the doorknob starts to tremble with force. There are voices from the other side of the door, and the familiar sound of keys being tried and failed fills them both with relief. Hesitating, Lucy lets go of his hand and pockets her phone and clover charm, gravitating then to the stack of Trigonometry practice books. She purses her lips and stares at him with the most intense gaze she can muster–but he doesn’t flinch.

“I was going to say–”

“Jun, I'm not what you think I am,” she interrupts in a fervor. “Wait. What were you going to say?”

“I don’t care who or what you are, Lucy,” Jun grabs some of the practice books to ease her of the weight. “Before you interrupted me, I was going to say... if you’d want to be more than, uhm. I think you know.”

Lucy blinks.

“I wouldn’t mind getting stuck in a closet with you again.”

The door flings open, class president Xiaoshu staring both at them down. She says nothing but makes the expression that she heard everything. Disgusted, maybe. Tired from having to deal with young love, maybe.

As Jun and Lucy walk back to class, Lucy’s head down in embarrassment that another one of her kind caught them like this, her hand finds Jun’s. He looks at her like he’s known her forever and would wait forever for her.

And that’s all she needs right now, other than to get these books back to class.

Julieta Linardi, 12 short story

“Jun, I’m not what you think I am,” she interrupts in a fervor. “Wait. What were you going to say?”

The Hill The House on

Welcome, come all into this humble abode There’s so little time, but so much to be shown Behind lies a garden where the lights can shimmer Silence creeps in except the sounds of critters

The walls that line this place are all too thin But the sounds of rain can be heard from within The ground is so weak and the wood creaks with hate Though none have fell through, I am obliged to state

The architecture is grand, detailed–precise And for what it’s worth, it's so cheap for the price Tall marvelous carvings, and fine granite floors So so easy to clean, no need to adjourn

Secrets spin around this small town full of lies But ground is fertile and flowers never die And the sky is so clear and the stars so bright Yet some God only knows what happened that night

Rusty pillars line the roof, cut crisp and gray And local legend has it, or so they say When the master had taken his break to leave The mistress walked the shore, or so they believe

She said only ‘oh’ watching the rocks turn crim As she watched her husband's eyes become dark-dim Though the past is done and has moved right on out The legends all nonsense, I have little doubt

A five-bed and bath, filled with the warm dry air In great ol’ condition, no nickel be spared This house is too cheap at a god-awful rate So don’t wait up now or else you will be late

Your tour has come to a satisfying end And soon dear customer, I’ll see you again.

Leah Strachman, 12 rhymed verse

Drop The First

Ihave always had a deep fear of roller coasters, and this one was no exception. My sister Ashley and I stood in line for one of the most well-known rides in all of Magic Kingdom: Splash Mountain. Just the line was enough of a horror movie in itself, what with the screams of the ride’s victims being heard every so often and the dreadfully long wait that only added to my anxiety with each passing second. And yet, for all my fear, I pushed through the queue. The two of us were determined; we had said we would ride Splash Mountain, and I would not chicken out on my word. Especially not after having waited two full hours just to reach the front of the line.

There were signs all along the queue, warning us, “You May Get Wet!’ “There’s No Turning Back!” But we payed no attention to these, and went on.

Soon enough I found myself on a little log boat, heart racing faster than I ever felt possible. I was there, and like the signs said, there was no turning back. The beginning of the ride was peaceful, so I tried to calm myself down. It was just a ride, after all. A nice, slow, peaceful ride.

There was a sudden stop. And then we were falling.

The first drop isn’t even half the size of the big drop at the end. And yet, by the end of it, I was shaking, crying, my breathing frantic, my stomach uneasy. I was seriously considering leaving the boat because who cares if I got banned from the ride? But my own morals won over my fight-or-flight, and I stayed put. I looked over at my sister next to me, smiling, enjoying the show as if we hadn’t just fallen down–I looked behind me at the rushing water on the drop–that.

“Ashley?” I said, quietly. She turned to look at me. “I can’t do this.”

But the boat kept moving on, guiding us to drop after murderous drop. It was like the signs said. There was no turning back.

Clover Salazar, 11 memoir

Rain

Isabella Vargas, 12 pencil on paper

Mutt

How do I pet a dog that bares its teeth?

When it looks at me and whimpers

Emaciated and bloodied

Yet when I reach to lend a hand

It rips off my arm instead

And then it looks to me when I refuse to help

And asks

“Why? You said you would help me.

“I said I would offer my finger.”

“You took my hand.”

“I said I would offer my hand.”

“And you took my arm.”

It looked at me

“You should’ve known what I needed.”

And then, it refuses to eat And accepts no help at all It takes and takes and then starves itself All it wants is pity, all it wants is attention When it does want help, it only consumes

Naomi Grandville, 11 free verse

Purple Gator Angelisse Negron, 12 mixed media

Heart to Heart

Apink envelope. Rosalina stared down at her scrawled-out name and the small heart that adorned the paper.

Could it really be him?

The headmistress looked expectantly at her.

“Miss Fuentes,” she enunciated. “While I always enjoy your company, I must ask that you take the letter and open it somewhere private. I have a meeting to attend.”

Miss Wyatt gestured to the gray door that led into a corridor lined with wooden chairs.

With shaking hands, Rosalina pulled the envelope from the mistress’ grasp and clicked her heels into the hallway. Sitting in a chair, she smoothed out her skirt, twice. She gingerly tore open the letter and her eyes ran over the words.

Expressionless, Rosalina abruptly stood. With an unwavering step, she made her way down the corridor and through the overarching double doors. Her mind spun with the words she read repeating over and over.

His own mother outed him as what he is. A conniving, cold-hearted pig. All this time, he never intended to marry her. The knife that pierced her heart was wrenched from her chest and was replaced with a fire. And by God was she going to burn.

My son, bless his heart, could not marry you not due to any fault of yours, but because he has already wed.

Rosalina stood outside under the overhang. Watching the raindrops thwack onto the concrete, she felt a similar storm begin in her eyes. Though, she needed a clear mind if she wanted to be able to get her revenge.

Ah yes, revenge.

Closing her eyes and listening to the thunder, she devised a plan.

Rosalina stalked down to the apartment Basil was staying in, only a short block away from her. His mother had left his address for her in case Rosalina wished to get closure from him. After three sharp knocks, the door opened and Basil appeared. Red clouded her vision, she pushed her way in.

“How. Dare. You.” Rosalina stormed into his kitchen with him on her tail, speechless.

“You lied, our relationship was a lie.” She yanked open his cupboard drawers and cabinets, rummaging around. “You never loved me, it was a game to you.”

Finally, she found the object she desired.

“And your wife! Does she know? Does she know the kind of scum of the Earth she married?”

Brandishing a polished knife, she turned to face him, “I am sick of this twisted game.”

He raised his arms to defend himself, but Rosalina had already decided his fate. In the cramped kitchen where they stood, she was to end his game.

“I pity the women you deceived into loving you, may their souls find peace with my actions.”

A bell rang and Rosalina listened to the sounds of school girls fluttering about and smelled the delicious treats that were often sold in stalls by the school. The autumn afternoon sky had cleared, and from behind the clouds, a golden sun emerged, warming her face and somehow diminishing the fire within her. Rosalina meandered about the campus, taking in the glee and excitement that was all around her. She no longer felt the knife buried deep in her heart, as it now pierced through his.

Aisha Hashmi, 11 fash fction

“It is with a heavy heart I address this letter to you. I could no longer sit with this knowledge bearing down on my conscious.

Rotting, Savanah Venter, 11 colored pencil on paper

Americano

An abundance of essence

The honeyed taste recedes

Turmoil takes up its presence

Faults start their stampede

Attachment, Not Love

Being in love with you was the worst and best thing that had ever happened to me, But the thing is I wasn't really in love; it was just the idea that I had you, and you had me.

It was as if we were the only two people on the planet, and all that mattered was the way we looked at each other.

With you I was the safest I ever felt. You made me feel special, which is why I thought I was in love, but I wasn't.

I was just attached.

Attached to the idea of you choosing me

over anyone else, attached to your soul and the way you looked at me, and reassured me that everything was okay.

I was so attached that I truly believed you. That’s until everything fell apart; we stopped talking, and it felt like a whole new world.

Without you I had no purpose; without you I had no one to focus on, and now I know that the best thing for both of us was to move on, and I claim I'm happier without you, but you're always in the back of my mind.

It's like I can't help but think of you when I

Mina Dinh, 12 mixed media

see the color pink or when that song you said you liked plays on my queue.

You told me you loved me when we stopped talking, and it felt like a whole new beginning in a good way, but also the most depressing way you could imagine.

I kept asking myself if everything you told me was a lie because for me it was hard to get over you, but after we ended things, it felt like I was just another girl in your phone.

The way you used to talk to me made me feel like I was the most important girl in the world,

and now I can't tell if the reassurance you gave me was just to keep me attached, or if you truly felt that way.

The reason being in love with you was so great is because now I know what to expect. I know when I can and can't trust someone, and I know the difference between real love and attachment.

Marina Santos, 10 monologue

Everything Dark The Light Inside Me Makes

The light inside me makes everything dark So I push it down, on my knees, I pray For I feel its unfaithful spark

I dread the times it leaves to disembark Though I know I can’t keep it at bay The light inside me makes everything dark

I was a good man, or so I remark Yet I’m in hell, my body in decay For I feel its unfaithful spark

Crazed enigma my own personal narc My eyes roll back, on my back I’ll lay The light inside me makes everything dark

My body is ruled by a fluorescent oligarch There’s no god, I fear, so I may For I feel its unfaithful spark

My reality is lucid, through this demon that’ll debark It has too much control, I’m scared to say The light inside me makes everything dark For I feel its unfaithful spark

Jinx Recreation Lair Pintado, 12 digital art

Leah Strachman, 12 villanelle

Friend No One’s

While the world was burning, the forest was cool. The trees leaked a sweet wine, thicker than blood. You mustn't be a fool.

The bushes grew berries, that people must kill to taste. The dark roots of the floor, swallowed you up, you mustn't move or you'll be erased.

The howl of the wind, whispered sweet nothings in your ears. The forest was no one's friend. the only way it rained, was when it heard the sound of dying tears.

Nothing lived in this forest, it was forever painted still. Reds and blacks flooded the floor, pinks and purples were there no more.

The gods don’t live in this forest, they feared the picture too much. The only way to survive the forest, is quick wit and the stroke of a brush.

Emma Hershenson, 11 free verse

Made of

Stone

You’re unfeeling, unflinching, reminiscent of stone With eyes empty, staring with nothing to be found And yet I remain with you, as it’s all I’ve ever known

I see a barren soul, dark and ever-cold I gasp for air, and you just watch me drown

You’re unfeeling, unflinching, reminiscent of stone

I am lost in the shadow of a man, perfectly controlled Entangled in your twisted love, I am hopelessly bound And yet I remain with you, as it’s all I’ve ever known

I can’t help but yearn for the warmth he can hold With every feeling fading into the background

You’re unfeeling, unflinching, reminiscent of stone

But buried under bruises remains stories untold Your hand clamped over my mouth, but with every effort, not a sound And yet I remain with you, as it’s all I’ve ever known

I may have given you my body, but it’s my heart that you stole You own my very being, a master uncrowned

You’re unfeeling, unflinching, reminiscent of stone

And yet I remain with you, as it’s all I’ve ever known

Emilee Silberman Belden, 12 rhymed verse

Nose Goes Victoria Zaharis, 11 ceramics

Between Space

I wish to feel seen I don’t exist in his life So much space between When I can be his future wife

Crushes never work He should know Far behind I lurk Keeping my head down low

I’ll write a secret letter So I can see how he’ll react So my self-esteem will be better And keep my emotions in check

I’ll tell him how I feel See his smile glow But what if he has a heart of steel My heart he might just blow

Maybe I should rethink Too late, letter is in place I can hardly blink Rejection is my worst case

He threw it out so fast I ran to hide away I sped walk past Today was an awful day

My self-esteem is shook No shoulder to lean My confidence he took Time to put back the space between

Nicole Adams, 12 rhymed verse

March Avoiding

Everything is growing in our garden Everything is going as we planned But I can't really say I'm being honest As life is dealing me a different hand

You can sing a beast to sleep You can build a bird their nest But you’ve crossed the line with me All I wanted was some rest

I'm in the depths of the rolling hills Where I play pretend all day And for five minutes, I’ll tell the truth So they decide to send me away

Strip me down before I leave Cold and scared ‘til moonlights end They're finally asking me to talk I wonder if I should go back to pretend

Be careful what you say to me I didn’t know my mind was wrong It felt like ice on a burning flame The feeling lingers when March is gone

Avery Lansman, 11 rhymed verse

Affogato

An epilogue syrupy and dark

Swimming down this story’s lazy river

Held together by an herbal spark

Sharing a piece of one’s soul, sliver by sliver

Geetanjali

Geetanjali: /git-an-ja-lee/, the name I was born with, not that it matters to anyone. That’s how my name is pronounced, but for the past eight years, it’s been shortened to the letter “G.”

I immigrated to the United States in fifth grade. I never thought of my name as a social impediment for myself until I came here. When I first introduced myself to my fifth-grade class, they stared at me, waiting for a roll-of-the tongue pronunciation of my name that wouldn’t arrive.

On my first day of middle school, my firstperiod teacher read attendance, swiftly making her way down the list until she reached mine. She read off the letters of my name and claimed my name was too hard to be taken. That is where the letter “G” came into play: my American name, my new identity.

I’ll admit, at first, I was pretty excited by the new name. I got to tell my other teachers that I did indeed have a nickname because, of course, they asked. I was an outcast in every way possible: I was a different color, dressed differently, had a thick accent that couldn’t go unnoticed, and was as skinny as a stick. There was nothing about myself that I was confident about. Nonetheless, with my nickname, finally, something about me was American.

However, while becoming American, I was insidiously losing parts of myself, shedding every aspect of my roots, and covering myself in something very foreign to me.

My name followed me everywhere, and so did the burden of carrying it, especially at school. Although the teachers might’ve thought I didn’t notice, I did see when they struggled to say my name on the Kahoot leaderboard. To save us both the embarrassment, I would purposefully get a question wrong because the academic validation, without fail, was overshadowed by the shame of

the mispronunciation of my name.

Monika, my mother’s name, was my Starbucks name; for if I used mine, no one would dare say it. My name was so butchered, not because it was that hard, but because no one took the time to try.

Social situations were no exception either. Parties were especially bad. “What is your name?” is the first question people ask when you first meet. You can imagine how awkward screaming my name over loud music is, so, in the end, I caved and told everyone to call me by my nickname. No one really listened to me, and along the way, I stopped listening to myself too–that was my biggest mistake.

But now I’m left with no other choice than to accept myself. Accept that not everyone will learn my name, accept that my name will be a hindrance for me all my life, and accept that I will have to introduce myself a million times to the same people. But I have accepted all that and myself.

I have learned to carry my name proudly. It wasn’t until my sophomore year of high school when one of my peers addressed me by my name, that I finally realized what it was like to be respected–a feeling then very unfamiliar to me. I then realized that people who respect me would not change my identity for their convenience. It sparked me then, that if she can accept me, why can’t I? The only person holding me back was me. No longer would I hide behind a letter when my parents named me after a whole book. I could give you a litany of reasons why I shouldn’t shy away from my name, but the most important one is acceptance; for if I don’t accept myself, I can’t expect others to accept me.

I believe that there is something to learn from everything, and my name was perhaps my biggest learning opportunity: learning to respect myself, that is. Now, even the Starbucks employees know Geetanjali.

Srivastava , 12 personal narrative

Geetanjali

Brewing Storms

Winds are chanting over the sea Roaring thunder consumes the sky Listen to their melody

Clouds emerge dark as ebony Far away, the frightened birds cry Winds are chanting over the sea

The trees will rustle nervously While crystal tears from heaven fly Listen to their melody

Daring lightning strikes their enemy With the vengeful waves reaching high Winds are chanting over the sea

This endless tale is their legacy With a song no one tries to descry Listen to their melody

Eternal emotions, no remedy Yet they always recede with a sigh Winds are chanting over the sea Listen to their melody

Alana Karam, 10 villanelle

Swimming

The silence floods my mind

Lap after lap

Push after push

It all matters

Every second

Every painful millisecond

I think to myself: the more you try the better you’ll be And every time I let myself down At this point I should know better To pull stronger

To kick faster

Everyone says the same thing But I can’t I don’t want to I don’t want to stop swimming I can’t

Soon my last day of swimming will come And I would have to say goodbye Goodbye to my good friend that was by my side Goodbye to my home Goodbye to the thing I love most. To swimming, I love you I don’t want to go I’ll miss the painful nights

All the cramps

All muscle tears

The memories we have created

And most importantly our bond

You have made me the happiest girl Always by my side when I need you And I thank you Thank you for everything

Viviana Fernandez, 11 Ode

Suffocation

Elayna Auster, 12 digital art

World Turns The Way in Which the

The world is on a tilt

We spin without knowing Like when a person is suffering And we don’t know

365 days until the next year

People live day after day

As the world rotates Around the sun

We turn in one direction

That’s life

Life heads in one direction How people end up is on them

Success or failure

Luck plays a part With success comes a struggle Like the way the earth struggles

The world needs an equal balance

So why is it that the people don’t get just that That’s just the way the Earth turns

Nicole Adams, 12 free verse

That Day

It was as if I had stepped into the perfect slice of my childhood Visions of home swept over me Cigarettes on manholes, flourishing rose bushes The good old days took their own form in mother nature that day

The sun’s golden essence awakened the green grass The crisp winter air streamed in and out of my nostrils The sky, an uncanny cross between clear and partly cloudy The sidewalks, almost completely desolate that day

This was God’s blessing of existence in color Not just the sights, but the sounds, the scents, the textures outside It was splendor I thought I’d never behold again And it was displayed perfectly in the world outside that day

It was the reality I had neglected, so much so that it now felt like fantasy That was the artwork I laid my eyes upon But would I ever feel it again? The thought spun in cartwheels around my mind after that day

The things I would do to feel it all again, just once To take a quick stroll through my youth, Through a childhood ever-so-perfectly encapsulated In the aesthetic pleasure of the nature outside that day

Lydia Varghese, 9 free verse

Quieter Rooms

Leah Arambulo, 11 mixed media

The Fall of Icarus Olivia Campodonico, 11 digital art

Soldier Child

There was once a knight He once was bright He loved the sounds of guitars And he was promised the stars

Then he was told to join a fight He thought it’d be alright He didn’t yet know, men are boars Who become obsessed with their foolish wars

The boy would become a sight His smile grew tight His face often was stained with tears His mind far beyond its years

The boy would regain his light When he gained wings of white And though filled with spite He left quiet late in the night

Leah Arambulo, 11 rhymed verse

Requiem The Sea’s

A beauty reticent in petals soft

A wreath of respite halos aloft

A breathless sleep falls from sandy lips

By gossamer sewn and

by silver

ripped

Crystalline limbs lain neatly in wait

Marred cracks of the slain allow carmine to sate

The rumbling hunger of the ebbing tide

While Death through Life has bode his time

The Sea’s harrowing requiem is sung

Faded chords stuck in the withering lungs

Of a flower peeled and stripped of life

Anguish quelled only by silver’s bite

The overflow of water has dried to dust at last And into the stillness the faded orchid cast

Catherine Voit, 12 rhymed verse

Featured Writer

Leah Strachman

With a passion for crafting intricate stories out of mere sentences and an aptitude for communicating ideas in the form of words, senior Leah Strachman is dedicated to the prospect of making her work known. While she only began taking creative writing tentatively and due to the encouragement of a friend, Strachman quickly became enthusiasticabout conveying herself through the written word.

With a particular fondness for form poetry but ability to write anything from villanelles to short stories, Strachman has come to rely on writing as a form of expression. This has lent her the ability to better articulate her emotions and has compelled her to advise others to write for their own benefit.

“Don’t be scared that your writing is not going to be good or that people won’t like it,” Strachman said. “It’s not about other people liking it, it’s about you liking it and [it being] a way for you to express what you’re thinking.”

Inspired by other media she consumes,

Strachman takes pleasure in embedding subtle details within her work that reference things she’s seen. When it comes to poetry, she often derives inspiration from shows and songs, taking a concept she fnds interesting and incorporating it in her work.

Contrarily, when it comes to prose, she obtains inspiration primarily from dystopian novels.

Infuenced by the ideas presented in “The Hunger Games,” “Divergent” and “The Maze Runner” series, Strachman occasionally uses their aspects in her work, taking an overarching concept and feshing it out in a way that is distinctly her own.

Motivated by the knowledge that her work is being put out there for her peers to read, Strachman’s future plans are grounded in her desire to write. These plans include minoring in creative writing at Florida State University and eventually publishing a novel of her own.

Andie Korenge, 9 Feature Profle

““It’s not about other people liking it, it’s about you liking it and [it being] a way for you to express what you’re thinking.”

Anna Horowitz, 11 portrait

Mina Dinh Featured Photographer

Anna Horowitz, 11 portrait

For most, a camera’s purpose is to document something; however, to senior Mina Dinh, it is a means by which to create something. To her, the flash of a camera does not just signify the capturing of a moment; it is the vessel by which her ideas become a reality.

With the knowledge she has derived from art classes and three years of photography experience, Dinh has been able to develop an utterly personal and distinctive take on traditional photography.

One unique feature she frequently incorporates into her work is the color red. Having made use of this color in one of her first self-portraits, due to the way it contrasts with black and white, red promptly evolved into a signature of hers, lending her photos a striking quality.

This unique and consistent detail solidified itself as her trademark last year, during the time she spent working on her AP art portfolio. The topic of her portfolio was “the death of a marriage,” in which she chose to incorporate red because of

the color’s capacity to represent different things for different people, enabling the interpretation of her work to vary among viewers. However, despite the desire to induce thoughts and invoke emotions in others through her pieces, Dinh ultimately produces art for her own benefit.

“It’s mostly for myself. Even if I didn’t have an audience or people to look at my art, I would still do it,” Dinh said. “I still have art that I’ve never shown anybody, that I still really like and value a lot because it’s a reflection of who I am, it embodies what I feel and I like seeing it physically.”

Andie Korenge, 9 feature profle

“It’s mostly for myself. Even if I didn’t have an audience or people to look at my art, I would still do it.”

Anna Horowitz, 11 portrait

Savanah Venter Featured Artist

Immersing herself in the creative process, junior Savanah Venter seeks to convey ubiquitous experiences and universal struggles through her artwork. Once captivated by watercolors and the way they bleed into the page and now by colored pencils and the way they create a burnishing effect reminiscent of paint, Venter has experimented with a variety of different mediums.

Possessing an affinity for art since childhood that has only grown in intensity with time, there was no need for something to spark her passion for creating; it has been present since the beginning. Still, as a student in Advanced Placement art, Venter has now been charged with delving even deeper into the motives that define her work and the things that she aims to communicate through them.

With this in mind, Venter decided to base her art portfolio around the idea of conceptualizing the inevitability of change and people’s widespread opposition to it. Placing a particular emphasis on the harsh realities of time, Venter aims for her

portfolio to reveal the nature of hopelessness and its perseverance as a common human struggle. Armed with an endless degree of commitment to creating art, her dedication to this practice rivals that of no other activity in its magnitude.

“Art is something I genuinely enjoy doing. There’s nothing else that I think I’ve put the kind of time and effort into that I have when it comes to art,” Venter said. “It’s something that I’m good at, and more than that, something I enjoy. It’s like time passes by faster when I’m doing it.”

Venter, while unsure of the role art will play in her eventual career, is confident of the fact that it will remain a very prominent part of her life. Determined to keep the passion she has for creating alive far beyond her high school years, Venter will undoubtedly continue practicing and developing her skills, maintaining art as a hobby while reminding herself of its potential to be much more.

See Savanah Venter’s work on pages 22 & 39

“It’s something that I’m good at and more than that, something I enjoy. It’s like time passes by faster when I’m doing it.”

Andie Korenge, 9 feature profle

Artifex is published using Adobe InDesign CC 2023 and Adobe Photoshop CC 2023 on one MacBook Pro. Artifex was printed by Landy Marketing. Two hundred fifty copies were printed and distributed to the student body for free. The cover is printed on 100-pound coated cover paper. The interior pages are printed on 60-pound offset stock paper. All 76 pages are printed in full color. Copy is set in 9-point Georgia font. Art bylines are set in a 10-point Sukhumvit Set Thin font. Headlines are in 62-point Mermaid Bold font and 24-point Inconsolata Semicon font. Literature bylines are in 10-point Sukhumvit Set Bold font. Folios are set in 18-point Sukhumvit Set Bold font. Pull Quotes are in 20-point Mermaid Bold font.

Artifex is a member of the Columbia Scholastic Press Association, the Florida Scholastic Press Association, and the National Scholastic Press Association. The 2022 Artifex was an NSPA Pacemaker winner. FSPA rated the 2022 Artifex magazine All-Florida with three marks of distinction in reader services, photography/artwork, and design. NSPa rated the 2022 magazine First Class with three marks of distinction for Photography, Arts, Graphics; design; and concept. CSPA did not issue critiques for 2022.

Colophon Editorial Policy

Artifex is Marjory Stoneman Douglas High School’s Literary-Art magazine. The main purpose of Artifex is to provide student writers, artists, and photographers with the opportunity to publish their creative work. Any student in grades 9-12 may submit writing, art, or photography for consideration. Submissions are considered blindly, without author or artist names. Editors read all submissions and sort them into “yes,” “no,” and “maybe” folders. Selected writing submissions are “paired” with art submissions based on thematic connection. An effort is made to ensure that pieces from a diverse group of students are included, and not just many submissions from a few. The type of art and writing included each year is entirely dependent on the submissions by the student body. The staff reserves the right to edit grammatical errors and spelling mistakes without the author’s permission. The staff does not edit artwork but will choose elements from the artwork to use as embellishments to the spread design. Authors, artists, and photographers retain the copyright of all printed submissions but grant Artifex the right to publish them initially and use them in the future for any promotional purposes.

The ideas and opinions expressed in Artifex are not necessarily those of Marjory Stoneman Douglas High School or Broward County Public Schools but instead reflect each individual writer’s and artist’s expression, as the magazine serves as a forum for student artistic expression.

We are so grateful for all of the submissions to Artifex this year and look forward to continuing to publish your works in the years to come. If your piece did not make it into the magazine this year, please do not be deterred from submitting again. Upon taking all submissions into consideration, we had to select those which fit most closely with our theme and further narrowed our choices due to the limited number of pages we are able to publish.

Next year, we hope to see artists and writers both old and new, contributing to our publication. If you are interested in getting your work published, submit your work to the Google Forms sent out by litmagmsd@gmail.com.

The goal of Artifex will always be to allow students to express themselves in the best way they know how, be it through art, photography, or writing. Until we meet again, never stop creating, and continue to change the world, one ink drop at a time.

Aspecial thanks to the Lawrence A. Sanders Foundation, Inc. for being a patron of the arts for the last 15 years and allowing Artifex to display the literary and artistic talent of Marjory Stoneman Douglas High School’s student body. We are incredibly grateful to our adviser, Melissa Falkowski, for guiding us through the production of this year’s magazine. She is the glue that keeps this publication running; the ringmaster to our crazy little circus. Without her, we would never have been able to complete this magazine. We owe Julia Landy, our Design Editor, many thanks because this magazine would not have existed without her dedication and hard work. Thank you to our staff for contributing as much as you could with the time constraints, your creativity and compassion for this publication really shone through. Of course, a big thank you to all of our participants who submitted their pieces for us to use in the creation of this magazine.

Editor’s Note Special Thanks Staff

Editor-In-Chief: Aisha Hashmi

Design Editor: Julia Landy

Content Editors: Darryn Pomerantz-Duffy and Julieta Linardi

Staf: Bradley Stern, Kioni Clarke, Kurt Libby, Leah Strachman, Mia Velazquez, Riya George, Andie Korenge, Grace Brill

Adviser: Melissa Falkowski