Artifex Literary Art Magazine - 2022 - Fruit Salad

Fruit Salad

Volume 14

2022

Artifex

literary art magazine

Marjory Stoneman Douglas High School

Artifex Volume 14

2022

Marjory Stoneman Douglas High School 5901 Pine Island Road Parkland, Florida 33076 Phone: 754-322-2150 Fax: 754-322-2280 litmagmsd@gmail.com Student Enrollment: 3570 School Staff: 240 www.browardschools.com/stonemandouglas

Table of

Contents

Berry

07

Pome

29

Photography – Caught Red Handed – Mina Dinh............................................................................ 08 Poetry – Ode to Menstruation – Leah Jimenez ................................................................................ 09 Prose – Pressure – Aisha Hashmi ......................................................................................................10 Art – STRESS – Amanda Yu...............................................................................................................10 Prose – King in a Guilded Cage – Ethan Zeichner.............................................................................12 Art – Cries – Amanda Yu ....................................................................................................................13 Art – Desperation – Reese Lansman.................................................................................................16 Poetry – A Fool’s Love – Emilee Silberman-Belden .......................................................................... 17 Poetry – Forests of Appalachia – Marshal Acquaroli ........................................................................18 Art – Hands in Blood – Alua Tazhbayeva ..........................................................................................19 Poetry – Corruption – Emilee Silberman-Belden............................................................................. 20 Art – AUUGGGHH – Amanda Yu ..................................................................................................... 20 Poetry – The Beast That Lurks – Sarah Nikaj................................................................................... 22 Art – The Four-Headed Beast – Kaori Nakamura ............................................................................ 23 Poetry – Don’t Get the Waffles – Avery Lansman ............................................................................ 24 Art – Mannquin – Natalie Szkwarek..................................................................................................25

Art – Powerful – Madeleine Klitsberg ............................................................................................30 Poetry – Black is Beautiful – Raina Grimes .....................................................................................31 Prose – Mirrored Self – Sarah Nikaj ............................................................................................... 32 Art – Uncontrollable Feelings – Luana Smith ................................................................................ 33 Art – Spitfire – Nick Harvey ............................................................................................................ 34 Poetry – Ignite – Gabriela Bravo .................................................................................................... 35 Prose – Entwined – Alyssa Greco.................................................................................................... 36 Art – All Waking – Hailey Donahue................................................................................................ 37 Art – logan is sooo funny – Matilda Carr-Betts .............................................................................. 38 Prose – Teddy – Aisha Hashmi ....................................................................................................... 39 Prose – Resurgam – Ethan Flores Rothmund ................................................................................40 Art – Skyline – Maia Storer ..............................................................................................................41 Art – Sunrise – Elayna Auster ......................................................................................................... 42 Poetry – The Sun’s Glory – Alana Karam ....................................................................................... 42 Photography – Desert Biome – Macy Meis .................................................................................... 44 Poetry – At the End of the World – Brandon Foote ....................................................................... 45 Art – One Way – Ayira Alston ......................................................................................................... 46 Prose – Railyard – Amira Mohamed .............................................................................................. 46

02

Citrus

51

Prose – Reunion – Reese Lansman .........................................................................................................49 Art – Growing Pains – Natalie Szkwarek .................................................................................................50 Art – Profile Portrait – Alua Tazhbayeva ..................................................................................................51 Prose – A Letter – Victoria Correa ........................................................................................................... 52 Photography – Cutting Edge – Macy Meis .............................................................................................. 53 Poetry – The Natural Paradise – Nikita Nangia ...................................................................................... 54 Prose – The Stars Waltz – Kayla Gamm .................................................................................................. 55 Art – Guiding Light – Nick Harvey .......................................................................................................... 56 Photography – Blind – Mina Dinh ........................................................................................................... 57 Prose – Cassandra – Lybah Haque ..........................................................................................................58 Poetry – Heartbreak – Alyssa Greco ........................................................................................................ 59 Art – Empty – Reese Lansman ................................................................................................................60 Art – Carrying Burdens – Molly Huyer ....................................................................................................61 Poetry – The Plummet – Sarah Nikaj ......................................................................................................62

Featured Artists

67

Featured Photographer – Macy Meis ....................................................................................................... 63 Featured Writer – Alyssa Greco .............................................................................................................. 65 Featured Artist – Amanda Yu .................................................................................................................. 67

03

04

Fruit Salad

A delightful treat awaits on the picnic blanket in the clearing at the heart of the orchard.

Ambrosia, it glistens in the morning sun, waiting for one to take the first bite.

A bowl of , it’s an unusual dish but welcomed. The wooden bowl full of vivid reds and oranges, blues and purples. Each fruit has an individual characteristic and taste; much like the students featured in this magazine. The first taste of the and you are transported into the world of creative minds at work. You sink your teeth into the flesh of a fruit; its juices dribble down your chin as you are overwhelmed by its taste – that fresh and flavorful taste.

Lips pucker at the sour taste of a bittersweet fruit. Yet, despite their sharp taste, they are refreshing and summery. Whether its an orange, a lemon, or even a grapefruit, its bright sunset hues signify hopes of resurrection and eternity. They bring anew, revitalize and rejuvenate, like a blossom on a vivid spring day. encourages wealth and high status, sitting atop a golden throne. It’s Vitamin C with Sunny D’s. It’s like soaking in the sun at the beach: bright and zesty.

Or maybe you prefer the honey-like bite of a crisp fruit. With their sweet and crunchy flesh; apples, pears, and quince bring prosperity to those who consume them. are for the youthful and passionate, the wild and free. They represent fruitfulness and fertility, the blooming of a naive child into a full-fledged adult, ready to spread their wings and take off. But with that newfound adulthood, comes something almost forbidden. are desirable and tempting.

They are sensual and evoke a sense of longing to lure you in like a siren’s song. That indulging taste, too good to be true.

Rather than the brightness of or the mystery of , maybe you want a taste of tart . Pick them from their thorny branches and gather them in the palms of your hands, the dark juices staining your fingers. are dark and foreboding. Their purple and reddish hue are associated with blood and death. They bring sorrow and remorse to those who consume its sweet yet tainted flesh. Berries are your arrogance and ignorance. Heads held up high, disregarding the signs straight ahead to preserve pride, only to be blinded with piercing thorns.

They taint troubled souls and rupture strong ties with a simple twist. Beware of the as it brings bad omens and evil spirits to consume the heart and soul.

You salivate from that first bite, you want more. The wondrous flavors of the fruit are manifestations of who these students really are and what they truly feel. Students poured their heart and soul into their writing, photography, and art to depict that. The allows them to showcase their individuality, but all of these students come together in a bowl and make harmonious art at the hearth of Marjory Stoneman Douglas High School. Some students are tangy and joyful like ; sunshine erupts from them with a simple smile and all is well.

Other students are untamed and perplexed like fruits; a gust of wind in a storm, yet a sense of calmness rests in the eye. And the others are sour and spiteful like ; struggling to find their place in the world and hiding in the shadows. But no matter the flavor, the students are at a constant push and pull with nature and the fruits it bears. They stumble and fall while trying to find their balance, and this magazine is a taste of that mindset.

So go ahead, take your pick of the many delectable fruits from the bowl of and take your first bite. You never know... you might just get hooked.

Fruit Salad

Fruit Salad

Citrus

Citrus

Pome

Pome

Pome

Citrus Berries

Berries

Pome

Berry

Fruit Salad

Citrus

Pome

Berries

Fruit Salad

05

06

Berry

Intoxicated by malicious intent The first bite yields the sweet and tart Crimson vengeance taint the pure As bushels of thorns encase their heart

07

Caught Red Handed Mina Dinh, 11

photography

08

Ode To

Menstruation I remember pleading for you to arrive You came with the idea of finally being a woman In my mind you were idolized Even put on a pedestal I can’t say I wasn’t warned I ignored it as if it was fine print on a contract

You seemed like you had a lot to offer Puberty, the flourishment from a girl to a young woman Instead, you brought pain And nothing less It felt like once I signed the contract I would be promoted Rather I was scammed I felt foolish for disregarding all the warnings Every month I despise your arrival Unexpected and unannounced, you ruin everything You ruin my clothes, my plans, and my emotions what can’t you bungle in my life?

Advil no longer does the job I rely on a heating pad and Midol barely getting me through the day Your constant stabs at my ovaries aren’t any help I am not your personal punching bag I deserve some more respect You hold a grip on my emotions like no other You make me look like a baby for crying over the stupidest things You make me look cold hearted for snapping at people for no reason You control so many things I feel disgusting and bloated when your around You make me want to crawl inside my bed and stay there forever The thought of having you around for YEARS sickens me You won’t go away You make your grand appearance Once a month Leaving everything in shreds And then disappearing once again I want you gone This time for good In the end I am the one to blame As I should’ve been the one to read the fine print closer Before signing off to this agony Leah Jimenez, 10

free verse poetry

09

STRESS

Amanda Yu, 11

acrylic painting

10

Regret Smoke hung in the library, so thick that I could read my thoughts in it. I felt lethargic. Everyone sitting in the circle of couches around me moved rapidly. Life moved too fast, I was drowning. My hands began to shake, I felt restless, I couldn’t remember what I was doing there, I couldn’t remember anything. I stood up to escape when a girl grasped at my arm shaking her head, then it hit me. The weight of it all sunk into my stomach. I sat back down.

Aisha Hashmi, 10 flash fiction

11

King in a

Guilded Cage

O

fficially, Raul Diaz was King of Vergue and Master of all Curro. But this was merely a grandiose title.

King Raul sat at the desk in his private quarters, rubbing his temples in pain. For the bedroom of a royal, it was surprisingly disorganized and stank of tobacco smoke.

The King’s eyes darted across the desk, a pile of papers lay neatly stacked in the center. On the side, a collection of various pencils.

To be perfectly truthful, Raul didn’t feel like a King. He didn’t even want to take the throne. He was just an author, who just so happened to be of royal blood.

When the Diazistas first appeared, Raul begged them to stop. “Cease your violence!” He announced it on national television. “I am perfectly content with my life now. I do not wish to become your King!”

But no one can stop a movement, not even the unwilling head. The House of Diaz abdicated rule 50 years ago, and a sizable minority wanted them back.

And who was the rightful heir than poor Raul, an author and poet.

“For a little bit, he was no longer Raul I, King of Vergue and Master of All Curro.

He was just Raul Diaz, author and poet”

They started off small. Protests, picketing.

Perfectly legal actions. But then things got violent.

Rioting. Small acts of terrorism. Then came the assassinations. Local politicians being shot while they ate dinner. Anti-Diazista speakers being burned

12

Continued on page 14

Cries

Amanda Yu, 11

acrylic painting on paper

13

Continued from page 12

alive.

Raul decried the movement up until they came to his door, after the coup. Shortly after the current government was put to death, the military clique came to power and put Raul under house arrest.

“King” Raul I was relocated to the now-vacant royal palace. When he arrived, the blood from the Prime Minister’s execution hadn’t even been cleaned yet.

The clique was smart. They couldn’t let their newly-crowned King just dissolve the government because he disagreed. So that’s why the “Rightful King” was taking orders from a group of six military officials.

King Raul returned his gaze to the pile of papers and let a hopeful smile cross his face.

“Maybe things will change.” He said to no one in particular.

The Propaganda Department gave him the go-ahead to begin publishing works again.

Nowadays, his only solace was with pen and paper.

And now, it is complete. His magnum opus. It was a tragedy, the story of a young boy coming to terms with his own mortality, forced to wander the world as a spirit.

Raul picked up the phone and pressed the only key on the device. “Yes, my King?” The voice of Jose, the King’s liaison to the Clique sounded on the other end.

“I finished the story. I’ll send a copy to you right now.” Raul said with the excitement of a child.

“Splendid! I’ll contact the Propaganda Department for review.” Jose sounded as upbeat as ever. That was intentional. The Clique made sure to make the liaison to their King was always upbeat and overly ecstatic.

Raul rose from his seat and made his way to the bed. He stepped across crumpled papers and pencils broken in writer’s-block frustration, and collapsed into bed. As the embrace of sleep slowly took him, Raul felt happy. For a little bit, he was no longer Raul I, King of Vergue and Master of All Curro. He was just Raul Diaz, author and poet.

The shrill sound of the phone ringing jolted Raul from his sleep. Moonlight gently crept through the window and warmly illuminated the room. Raul tossed around in the bed, falling off the left side and

slamming to the red-carpeted floor.

Now fully awake, Raul rushed to his desk on the opposite end of the room. He scooped the phone from the receiver and held it to his head. “Hello?”

Raul said, rather annoyed from his rude awakening.

“My King, the Propaganda Department contacted me about your manuscript. Director Alfonso would like to speak to you in the Department Headquarters.

“Were they there to protect him from potential assassins? Or were they there to prevent him from escaping?

14

We have the Royal Transport outside of the Palace.

Please arrive as soon as you can.” Jose said with his usual happiness. The call terminated shortly after.

“Shit.” King Raul cursed to himself. That probably wasn’t a good sign. Alfonso would either congratulate the King for writing such a good piece, or tell him that it can’t be published.

King Raul threw on his suit. It was one of the only choices he got to make. The King was not fond of the ornate robes and traditional dress. He rushed out the door, coming face-to-face with a limousine. The back door swung open by itself and the King sat himself on the fine-leather seat.

Without a word, the chauffeur took off towards the Department Headquarters. King Raul took a look out the window. The capital city of Bonimo looked back, in all its glory. The city was beautiful of course.

The cultural pride of Eastern Yodari. But after all this, after the Diazistas and the Coup, the King couldn’t see the capital of his realm the same ever again.

Fine paved roads made the trip very smooth.

Moonlight embraced the buildings, reflecting off windows and polished stone and presenting an almost unreal beauty. But of course, this was just the North side. The Industrial Park and slums of the South were like a different world.

Workers toiled in factories for little pay, facing

unsafe conditions and dangers from pollution. The vast majority were of the Barbeau minority group.

The King’s heart ached for these people, forced into a life of poverty just because they had a different culture.

King Raul’s mourning of the Barbeau’s plight was cut short when the limousine stopped. “We’re here.” The chauffeur said. He sounded rather angry, probably due to driving around in the dead of night.

“Thank You.” The King said. He exited the car, and made his way into the building’s enormous lobby. Two soldiers, clad in military fatigues and sporting an assault rifle slung over their backs. The two soldiers bowed at the king and began to speak in a horribly choreographed way. “We will safely escort you to Director Alfonso’s office, my King.” The two said in unison.

The three made their way through the building, passing countless offices housing some sort of bureaucrat. Each one had a worker standing in the doorway, bowing as the King crossed their office.

As they made their way through the labyrinthine building, the King couldn’t help but wonder why there were armed escorts. Were they there to protect him from potential assassins? Or were they there to prevent him from escaping?

The trio stopped at the Director’s office. A fine wood door stood in front. “We have arrived. We will await the end of your meeting to escort you back.”

The soldiers said with another bow. King Raul took a deep breath, and pushed the door open.

Director Juan Alfonso sat on the other side of an ornate desk. He sprung up from his chair and bowed as the King approached. “Welcome my King, I am glad to see you in good health.” Alfonso said.

Considering this was one of the men who forced Raul to become the King, this greeting seemed almost mocking.

“Yes, I hope I can retain my health after waking up so early.” The King said. A veiled jab at one of his puppeteers. King Raul hated “The Clique” who controlled him, but he especially despised Alfonso. This was the man who controlled how Raul addressed the nation. If he was the “King”, shouldn’t he be able to address his subjects freely?

“I apologize for the early meeting, but matters were... pressing, so to speak.” Alfonso said politely.

Raul hated this most of all. This man knew exactly what he was doing. He knew the King hated him. He relished in it. So he acted all polite just to toy with him, knowing Raul was powerless to stop it.

Alfonso turned towards his desk and picked up a sheaf of papers. A copy of Raul’s manuscript. “The Propaganda Department has reviewed your piece for publishing, alongside my personal viewing.” Alfonso said as he flipped through the papers. Raul knew this was a blatant lie. While a group of bureaucrats could rush through the script, there is no way a busy man like Alfonso could read it within a couple hours.

“It is very well written. Both our reviewers and myself thoroughly enjoyed your work. But...” Alfonso spoke with fake excitement. A hint of sadistic enjoyment flashed in his eyes. “We have collectively determined that the work is anti-royalist and unfit for publishing.”

There it was. King Raul knew this was coming, but it hit hard all the same. Normally, he would back down in defeat. But the King felt defiant today. He was rushed out of his sleep, only for Alfonso to crush his hopes.

“Why?” Raul said with pure malice. Alfonso stared at the monarch. “It’s a simple piece of fiction.

It’s about a wandering spirit, it’s not even realistic.

Why is it ‘anti-royalist?’” Raul continued. Alfonso continued to stare. “I’m the King dammit, that’s what you bastards call me.” Raul went on, each word dripping with venom. “Shouldn’t I be able to address my own fucking subjects? What good is a King that can’t speak his mind?”

After a few seconds of silence, a devious smile crossed Alfonso’s face. “I’m sorry my King.” He spoke with complete sadistic pleasure. “It’s an executive action. For the protection of both yourself and your subjects.” Alfonso continued. “Why don’t you head home? The night is still young, after all.”

King Raul sighed. He exited the office. The troops escorted him back to the limousine and disappeared inside the building with another set of bows. The King entered the vehicle and sat himself on the same soft leather seats.

As the King took off towards the Royal Palace, he looked out the window at the city again. Not as a man, but as a King in a gilded cage overlooking his realm of deceit.

Ethan Zeichner, 12 short story

15

Desperation

Reese Lansman, 12

acrylic painting on paper

16

A

Fool’s Love

Fool me once, shame on you Step on my heart whilst it breaks for you Fool me twice, shame on me Falling for you was never something I had foreseen Fool me thrice, the list goes on Beating and cheating, yet staying and sleeping I’d welcome you back every time you’d come home Innocent and loving, just another one of your owns And sometimes I’d dream of life far away Loved and adored by someone day by day Imagining a life I could’ve lived If only I could stand and not give in Yet it consumes ones every thoughts Twisting and turning with the pretense of love I’ll stay and I’ll stay til I wither and rot Love takes all and gives for not Emilee Silberman-Belden, 11 free verse poetry

17

The Forest of

Appalachia A forest, a home, a body, a being Infested with things you will never understand It’s a heart, rip it open, feel it pulsing Crush its muscles between your hands If you see something, hear something It was just a dream, you’re fine Don’t repeat what you saw, it wasn’t real Don’t address it, ignore it, you’re crazy, you’re lying The soul of Appalachia, the heart of the woods You don’t know what you’ll find Don’t walk through the tender forests at night You’ll lose your life, or just your mind The body walking to you is not your lover Run as far and as fast as you can Feel its skin, it’s too cold to be theirs Kill it with nothing but your bare hands Marshal Acquaroli, 12 rhymed verse

Hands in Blood

Alua Tazhbayeva, 11 digital art

18

19

Corruption Words slashing through all facades Dripping, dropping, splaying The bark always worse than the bite Venomous tongue, poisonous spite The bane of my life Empty husks follow where she goes Lifeless eyes, souls adrift in the cold Oh how I foretold for it seems to me That I’m stuck and I’m drowning irreparably The water deep and cold, losing control

20

Sinking, submerged in ‘til my head A kind of numbness fills my face The world seeming so cruel, and so far away It sinks into my bones, my soul Marking its place and burrowing deep and oh so thorough inside Down, and down and down, unfailingly I’m drowning, I’m drowning, why won’t anyone save me?

AUUGGGHH

Amanda Yu, 10 mixed media

My eyes closed, breathing unstable Still all around, just me alone, enclosed

It took so much out of my soul But lasting, with such minimal control

Light flits and filters in the night Thoughts of loss of life are vast and unconfined Wet and completely uncomposed Willing to drive and just let go

And I’m out but I’m still not free Shackled to chains of limited brutality Born and forged with bits of life Stolen from whatever I had left inside

And yet And yet I dug deep And I drove myself out of that hole Filled with water, so stark and cold I didn’t float, oh no I struggled and tried and probably cried Attempting to stay alive while sinking inside

Is, is this the time Is this when I fully realize That it’s no use That I can’t break free Because I’m stuck, and I’m drowning Irreparably Emilee Silberman-Belden, 11 free verse poetry

21

The Beast

That Lurks His heavy steps pound across the floor. Close your door a little more.

Stay quiet. Run to the bathroom. Go under the blanket and pretend you’re asleep. If you can’t in time, play it safe. Avoid eye contact with him. Keep your arms up to protect your head and heart. When he arrives, this is the most you can do. If you’re lucky, he’ll lurk nearby, quietly, even silently. He might grunt or snarl a bit, but that’s the least of your worries. Do not speak up, do not make yourself seen. You remember what happens. You know what he does.

Growing furious with the slightest peep. Lashing out in rage. Clawing deeper into your skin with each slice. Wounds not even left alone for long enough to heal, but they will scar forever.

Sometimes I wish the beast would leave visible gashes, so all could see.

Sometimes I even wish that the beast might one day snap my weak body within his jaws, ending my misery. I dream of running away from the beast.

Of finally breaking out of this hellhole. But that’s only a fairytale. A pitiful pipe dream. Others around me have tried to get out, and have been living free for a while now. Yet the beast still holds power over us. Over all of us.

There is no escape. Only false hope. But that is enough for me.

Sarah Nikaj, 10

free verse poetry

The Four-Headed Beast Kaori Nakamura, 12

22

oil painting

23

Don’t Get the

Waffles Nurse Kevin walks in front of Lydia, leading her through the dim, fluorescent lit hallway.

They stop in front of room 6. Ari is sitting on a bed in the room, facing them.

ARI (looks her up and down) (speaks slowly) Why are you

here, Lydia, you look like a good girl?

KEVIN This is where I leave you, (puts

a hand on Lydia’s shoulder)

make yourself at home. (disappears back down the hall)

LYDIA (hesitant) I lost my shit at

school, had a (uses air quotes)

panic attack or whatever. I

don’t know, I’ve never actually

been diagnosed with anything

or medicated, but it doesn’t

really take a genius to tell

there’s something wrong with me.

ARI (stands up) (melancholy tone) I’m Ari. LYDIA (walks into the room and looks around) Lydia.

ARI

(quietly repeats) Lydia.

LYDIA

How long have you been here?

ARI (sighs) A while. You just got here, right?

Lydia nods without looking

back ARI

(grinning) First time?

LYDIA (turns quickly to face her) Yeah, why?

ARI

(shrugs) No reason.

LYDIA (leans against the wall) What

happened to your old roommate?

ARI

(serious) She was starting to turn into a reindeer, so they sent her to residential.

LYDIA

(confused) Okay…

24

ARI (nodding her head, sits back down) You know, one time

when I went to school, there

was this girl who started

shooting lasers out of her eyes,

she got sent away for a while.

LYDIA

…Yeah, I don’t think that’s true.

ARI

Hmm

LYDIA (sits on the other bed,

bounces for a second) What

about you, why are you here?

ARI (without hesitating, almost grinning) I have schizophrenia LYDIA (finally understanding) Oh. (curious) Like you see

people? Do you see someone right now? (looks around the room)

Continued on page 26

Mannequin

Natalie Szkwarek, 11

color pencil drawing

Continue on page 67

Continued from page 24

Ari looks off to the side and

starts whispering, Lydia’s

mouth hangs open, looking at her ARI (looks back up at Lydia, smiling) Just kidding, (laughs) it’s not like that It’s

only when I’m over stimulated,

so I’m trying to learn how to be more zen, (pretends to meditate) you know?

LYDIA

(exhale laugh) yeah

Nurse Kevin reappears in

the doorway holding a tray of

paper cups KEVIN (holds out the tray) I know you

just got here, Miss. Lydia,

but it’s med time. Take a cup.

Scared look on her face, Ari

takes the pills.

Cut to about forty five

minutes later, same room.

Lydia and Ari are

sprawled out on the beds

staring at the ceiling.

LYDIA (breathing heavily) I feel… weird Ari rolls onto her stomach LYDIA (deliriously) I think I want

to go into aviation, (laughs) is that crazy?

ARI (looking to the side and muttering) Stop.

Lydia sits up and looks at her

They each take a cup

ARI

(louder) I said stop!

ARI

(slow mocking voice) Thank you nurse Kevin.

LYDIA

(confused) What?

KEVIN

(gives back a snarky smile) I’ll be back in about an hour for vitals, don’t forget to fill out your meal forms for tomorrow

ARI (looks at her and shakes her head) Nothing, it’s just Markie.

(He leaves)

LYDIA (looks where Ari was looking) Oh. Are you OK?

Should I get nurse Kevin?

ARI

Do not get waffles, Quinn will just try to steal them

ARI

(eyes wide) He’s trying to tell you something

LYDIA

(staring down at her cup) Ari, I don’t take meds.

ARI

(swallows her pills) Do yourself a favor and don’t ask any questions, you know, only if you want to leave…

Ari jumps up and urgently walks to the corner of the room and starts shushing.

LYDIA

(gets up) What’s he saying?

26

ARI (shaking her head) It’s nothing LYDIA (walks closer) You can tell me, Ari. Ari whips around and

grabs Lydia’s wrists ARI

(talks quickly and quietly) He’s telling you to run, you’re not safe here you have to leave, now.

LYDIA (scared and confused)

What are you talking about?

Ari lets go of her wrists

and starts laughing ARI

(lightheartedly) Markie’s crazy.

You can’t listen to him.

Lydia takes a few steps

back and rubs her head LYDIA I think I’m going to

be sick, is the room sinking? (kneels to the ground) ARI (kneels with her and grabs her shoulders) Don’t be scared LYDIA

Why, what’s going on?

ARI

(yelling to the side) GET OUT MARKIE! I HAVE TO DO IT!

Ari brings her hands up to Lydia’s neck

LYDIA

(teary eyed, hands on top of Ari’s) Please stop.

Ari’s hands grip tighter LYDIA

(gasping for air, tears streaming down her face) Help! Nurse Kevin!

Ari shushes and brings

Lydia’s face close to her chest.

She lets go with one hand and

covers Lydia’s mouth. Lydia

isn’t breathing anymore, but

Ari is still holding onto her.

Nurse Kevin, with his vital

machine, walks up to room

6. Ari is sitting on her bed,

rocking back and forth, talking

to nobody. Lydia, unconscious,

on the floor. Kevin pulls a voice

recorder out of his scrubs KEVIN (speaking into the recorder) Test 4, fifty milligrams, failed.

Patient appears to be dead after

an hour and a half (turns off

recorder)(turns to Ari) What

happened? I thought we were

going to do better this time.

ARI

(shrugs at Kevin) Sorry.

Avery Lansman, 10 script

27

28

Pome

Untamed souls roaming free Braided away from our Mother’s stem Muses tempt the ignorant fool But with retribution it comes to an end

29

Black is

Beautiful

When I look in the mirror I see a normal girl But through the eyes of those who cannot accept I am just another target for the hateful prejudice that our society has kept I am forced to act in a manner that will not attract attention Stepping out of bounds leads to my own self destruction I cannot stoop down to the stereotypes that hover over my head Giving into a cliche will set us back instead of ahead Because conforming serves as reassurance to people who try to justify their intolerance We try to move forward and create this atmosphere where all races can peacefully coexist But the shackles that we have been released from seem to still be clinging to our wrists Plastered all over the news is another unarmed black person murdered in cold blood My thoughts flood with rage Knowing this is not the last time I will see a victim that looks like me; same race same age Why should the color of my skin determine my fate?

After hundreds of years of struggling, we have remained the same victims of hate We use our voices to speak out and exercise our rights But any attempt to see change results in a fight If we are all equal I should not have to protest and spread awareness about my own life Unable to choose what I look like, yet I am punished for my pigment We are fighting for air in this sea of oppression We are shot because our skin is perceived as a weapon But when we get angry about seeing our people being killed they view our pain as aggression I will never be ashamed of my appearance because I am not at fault for someone else’s ignorance So I proudly raise my fist for the innocent lives lost due to racial injustice I proudly use my voice to educate others about the importance of racial equality I proudly fight for my people because one person is all you need to make a difference So, the next time I look in the mirror I see a strong individual who knows that black is beautiful Raina Grimes, 11

free verse poetry

Powerful

Madeleine Klitsberg, 11 digital art

31

MirroredSelf

S

amantha paced in circles in her room, deep in thought.

She passed in front of the mirror and caught a glance of the boy she called stranger.

“Hello, Sam” The boy mirrored her movement as she walked towards the mirror.

“What do you want...” She muttered, yet gazed longingly at the figure. He had short, messy hair, and slightly strong jawline.

His chest was flat as a canvas, and he was draped head to toe in baggy clothes.

He smiled at her, teasingly.

“How have you been? Haven’t looked at me in a while” Samantha looked down at herself in disgust. “I just haven’t looked nice lately, that’s all” She looked down at her curves, defined extra by the tight clothes her mother had gotten her. Her breasts stuck out awkwardly, and her long, wavy hair draped over her bosom.

“Tell me something I don’t know” The boy laughed. “You’ll never think you look nice like this, Sam. Trust me.”

Samantha’s eyes darted away from meeting his.”You don’t know what you’re talking about.” She turned to leave. “You’re... you’re not real. I’m just going crazy” “Sam, we’ve known each other for years” He sighed. “Stop lying to yourself.”

She stopped in the door frame, and turned her head to look back.

“Leave me alone.”

The boy frowned, and pressed his hand on the other side of the mirror. “Sam...”

“I said LEAVE ME ALONE!” Sam turned around and bellowed at the top of her lungs.

The boy fell silent, staring in

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shock.

“Yo-you’re not real.” Small tears ran down her cheeks. “Please just leave me alone. I don’t want to see you again... ever.”

Samantha’s mother came running up the stairs, and her eyes darted around the room.

“Sweetie, what’s wrong!? I heard screaming.”

Samantha looked up, meeting her mother’s gaze. She choked back more tears, as her Mother turned to the mirror.

“Mom... he... he,” she sobbed, and collapsed into her mother’s arms.

“Aw, sweetie...” Her mother held her tight, squeezing the breath out of her. “This again?”

She pulled away and cocked her head in concern. “We’ve been over this... he’s not real.”

Samantha wiped away more tears and looked at the boy in the mirror. He glared at her mother with flames of fury burning in his eyes. Samantha struggled to continue through her own weeping. “Mom, I’ve felt like this for-” Her mother quickly interrupted her, as always. “No. Sweetie, I love you. You’re a beautiful girl, there’s no problem! You’ve just been overthinking things, and you got confused, that’s all! He doesn’t exist.” The older woman slowly stroked her child’s head, again and again.

After a minute, they both pulled out of the embrace, and Samantha nodded reluctantly.

She waved goodbye to her mom, who began to leave the room.

“Who’s my pretty little girl?” Her mother beamed and giggled, and Samantha feigned a smile as her mother shut the door.

“There.” Samantha whipped her

head around to the boy. “It’s done.

We’re through.”

“Sam...” He reached his hand out in desperation.

“STOP CALLING ME THAT!” She threw her entire weight into her arm, punching her fist straight into the glass mirror. It shattered into a million tiny fragments, and the boy was gone.

Samantha cringed at the intense pain shooting through her hand.

Uncontrollable Feelings

Luana Smith, 12

pencil and color pencil drawing

The cuts bled down her knuckles, as she picked out each and every shard. She sat there alone on the floor, only herself for company.

She felt empty. She felt trapped.

After what felt like an eternity of sobbing into her soaked sleeves, she had an epiphany.

She scrambled around the room, frantically collecting pieces of glass. She spent hours piecing her mirror back together, bit by

bit. She needed to know who she was, and couldn’t shut him out any longer. She finished, and he stepped out into the broken frame.

She smiled wistfully at him in the mirror. “I’m sorry.”

He smirked back at her. “Don’t worry, I didn’t go anywhere.”

She breathed shakily. “I’m scared.”

“Relax,” he chuckled. “...It’s only you.”

The two boys placed their hands on opposite sides of the mirror, palm and palm separated by glass that was broken, but still worked just fine.

The boy in the mirror began to fade away, replaced by a real life reflection. “I’ll see you later, Sam. I really hope.”

Sam smiled back at his reflection in the mirror. “Me too, Sam. Me too.”

Sarah Nikaj, 12 short story

33

Guiding Light

Nicholas Harvey, 12 digital art

Ignite

A blaze will burn Alight for hours at a time Light slowly dimming as it’s hunger is satiated What is left, nothing but ashes blown away in the wind The flames of gold that sparked through time The crimson that burned away so dear It’s remains will forever be untouched It toys with the balance of Life and Death Whether to kill or be killed is it’s motive To ignite it is to start a war Gabriela Bravo, 12

free verse poetry

35

Entwined T

he universe had once been nothing at all.

However, both classics and modern retellings of the way that everything began always start with a tale of two. Elio and Nova.

Known widely by different names — but most importantly, the two lovers: the Sun, and the Moon.

Whatever brought them here was unknown, but they had sprung into existence anyway.

They’d simply known each other like there had been a time before time. They had no knowledge of their purpose, yet still knew they were fated to be together and to create in this empty universe.

It is odd, being so powerful, having the world— worlds, at your fingertips. Anything you’d like to create, the strings of fate themselves bending and sheared at your will.

For a long time, it had been just the sun and the moon, and the birth of life following close behind.

Elio and Nova experimented for a long while.

Creating creatures they’d laugh at for hours on end, spinning mountains into strange shapes, cutting deep valleys into the earth, and bending sunlight to create funny shadows.

Humans may have been their best (and worst) creation.

With the gift of humankind came Pandora and the evils she bestowed upon the world.

With the gift of humankind came other gods, too.

Yet Elio and Nova still remained powerful. They minded their own business, preferring peace over interrupting both godly and mortal affairs.

“What are you doing?” Nova floats closer, aimlessly.

Gray clouds gather beneath her feet.

Elio’s palms glow gold against the night. He pins an array of stars to the sky with a mere press of his hand, as if it is nothing but his canvas.

“Hanging the stars for you, my love.”

Nova smiles. If she had an organ that mortals call the heart, it’d be beating against her ribcage in a sickly fond dance.

“Why?” “Why not?” Elio hums. “They’re beautiful. And all for you.”

Nova realizes that with every flare of warmth in her chest, the stars grow brighter.

“Thank you, Sweet Sun.” And Nova watches as Elio continues to spin the stars into place, sewing constellations into the fabric of the night sky, knowing that they are all for her and that this is the universe’s method of telling her that she is loved.

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Oh, how she is loved.

When Elio touches Nova, it burns.

It is a burn that ripples deep through her skin and touches bone. It sizzles as if stating that the sun and the moon could not be together, because how could they be?

One rises as the other falls. One shines, whilst the other reflects.

But still, they are there, holding one another, meteors crashing and nebula coiling all around them in each color of the rainbow.

It is beautiful. Humans could only imagine what it is like to feel the tears of the sun strike your hands as you clutch your forbidden lover.

“Do not cry,” Nova soothes the sun, thin streams of liquid gold running down her hands like rivers of molten lava.

They blister the skin of her palms. Wiping tears off of Elio’s chiseled cheeks is more important.

“The world moves around us, and yet we will never change.”

Nova has grown an affection for what mortals have named “dancing.” It is fascinating how there are different varieties, though she has taken kindly to slow dancing in particular.

She must inform Elio of each and every one of her discoveries.

The Sun humors her, as always.

“We should dance.” The air itself shifts to make way for the moon goddess.

“Alas, I do not know how.”

“I say let the tides guide you.” Nova’s hands navigate Elio’s larger ones to snake around her waist.

They stand there watching each other in starstruck awe for a long time.

“What am I to do without you, my moon?”

Elio’s eyes are swirling pools of liquid amber and flakes of gold, staring back into the constellations sparkling within Nova’s dark ones.

The brunette laughs. “You shine.”

“But you are the one who makes me shine. The one I burn for.”

“Luckily for you, you will never have to be alone. We will glide like this eternally.”

Elio frowns.

“Unfortunately, fate does not promise forever, my love.”

Nova’s soul yearns to get closer.

They cannot be, so she makes her own promise instead.

“It will for you and I.” Elio twirls her around. The void of space bends to his will. Nova’s sheer robes flow with the fluidity of shadows crawling across the face of the earth.

“You hold me to too high a standard.” Glee paints its way onto Nova’s expression in dustings of pink and

All Waking

Hailey Donahue, 12

color pencil drawing

eyes of mirth.

“Ah, but you deserve no less.”

Their feet move in synchronized steps that neither of them have memorized, but as graceful as the curling tides that Nova controls with the swish of her wrist, it works.

They dance, and the stars are the only audience in the sky to bear witness.

Nova is the silver to Elio’s gold. She is the moon to his sun, the destruction to his creation, the chaos to his peace.

Wherever Elio goes, Nova follows, glowing a pearly white as long as the sun lives to beam directly at her.

He burns for her, after all.

No mortal could ever rival Elio in the way that he reveres Nova.

It doesn’t matter the fantastical statues they build, the sculptures and paintings hung up in homes, and the bountiful sacrifices sailors make to ensure a peaceful ocean.

Elio worships her as a lover should.

It is said that the moon could not exist without the sun, but as Elio presses butterfly kisses over the apples of Nova’s cheeks, it is the other way around.

Every kiss he brings brands stars into Nova’s skin.

By the time it’s over, there are constellations on her cheeks.

No words are to be exchanged. Only the rhythm of gentle kisses and slide of exploring hands. The warmth blossoming in both of their chests like flowers in Spring speaks enough.

With each fleeting touch, a new planet is born into the universe, forever orbiting Elio and his moon.

Nova and Elio have been the beginning and will be the end. They were not brought by the universe.

They are the universe.

When the time comes for them to fall like Icarus and his waxen wings from the sky, they will tumble.

But they will go together, and today is not that day.

“And the universe said I love you,” Nova whispers against Elio’s lips with a sweet smile, exuberance illuminating silver skin.

“Because you are love,” comes Elio’s hushed response. It feels fitting.

Rays of sunlight pour from his skin. The constellations have aligned.

The sun and the moon had created love slow dancing to the symphony of starlight and silence, only fate watching their spectacular performance.

If the sun flares brighter than it ever has throughout the ages, and the moon gleams gold, let it be a tale that mortals pass on forever.

Alyssa Greco, 11 short story

37

T

Teddy

he sound of creaking from under the bed awoke me. I slipped through my child, Rukhsana’s arms, careful to not disturb her. Another night, another battle. I looked at Rukhsana while sighing, she was in deep slumber. She laid comfortably in a twin bed in her bright pink room. She looked so peaceful as she drooled and snored, oh what I would’ve given to lay in her arms, safe. Alas, I couldn’t dwell on my longings, I had a job to do. I surveyed the room around me for the millionth time ever. She had framed photos and badly drawn pictures up on the walls and various knick-knacks and toys strewn across the floor that created an obstacle course around the room. I took a mental note of which toys looked stable enough for me to be able to take cover under.

Just as I grew engrossed in my thoughts I saw it.

A ghastly, white, and bony hand clawed its way up one of the bed frame’s legs from the dark void from under Rukhsana’s bed. I rushed to hide behind the open closet door. Slowly, the figure that the hand belonged to emerged. They were hidden under a thick black cloak that only left their hands and forearms exposed. They stood tall, much taller than I, their head grazed the ceiling. They hadn’t spotted me yet, so I was counting on having the element of surprise on my side.

They turned to face Rukhsana’s sleeping body and brushed stray hairs out of her face before resting their hand against her forehead. Oh no. I had to act soon, they were beginning to intrude onto her mind with gruesome thoughts and dreams. I recalled every spell my forefathers had taught me and retrieved the small sword I had hidden behind the closet door. I also cast a muffling charm so we wouldn’t wake the child.

Gathering my wits, I charged. Weaving through the obstacles scattered around. Once I reached the nightmare, I hacked at their Achilles. They fell from the injury and howled out in pain. Turning to me from the floor they held out their palms while muttering some incantation. My eyes widened

in horror as their porcelain white hands began to glow a dangerous shade of scarlet. Scurrying behind a stack of books, I braced myself for the impact. In my peripheral, I saw red light shoot from their palms and stream towards the books I took cover behind. The books were blasted into every which way and the nightmare hobbled towards my direction.

Cornered, I attempted to lunge at them with my sword standing straight out, but my efforts were in vain. They picked me up from my ear and tossed me to the side and threw my sword after me. I laid where they discarded me and made no effort to pull myself up. The side of me that took the brunt of the fall was throbbing. My eyes kept disobeying me and fluttering close. I was so tired. I moaned out to the nightmare to stop but they didn’t even spare me a second glance. Overwhelmed and trying to keep my mind off the pain, I took a deep breath and forced myself up. In a last-ditch effort, I cast one last spell. A gruesome spell that attacks the victim with slashes until they agonizingly bleed out. The nightmare shrieked and blood oozed out of their lacerations. Before their body could hit the floor, they evaporated into thin air.

Finally done with that for the night, I grabbed a sewing kit I had stashed under Rukhsana’s cabinet and pulled myself up onto her dresser in front of her mirror. I inspected my wounds; I had a tear up along the top of my left arm and the ear they pulled was barely hanging on. I threaded my needle and threw a few stitches into my arm until the gash was closed and sewed my ear securely to my head. My curly, fuzzy soft hair covered up any visible stitches. It hurt like hell but had to be done. It’s impossible to heal yourself with spells and I wouldn’t be unable to bear Rukhsana’s tears if she had seen me in that condition. Exhausted, I hopped down and into Rukhsana’s bed and snuggled up against her. All I needed was a good night’s sleep.

Aisha Hashmi, 10 short story

logan is sooo funny Matilda Carr-Betts, 11 color pencil drawing

39

Resurgam

“

Whether or not a concept is understood is irrelevant, and so too is the nature of a concept’s impact on a human being. We live not as a society of scholars, but as a society of workers, destined to always perform a robotic dance that ensures the survival of the colony. In this world, there are no original ideas, no interesting concepts, and no meaningful art; it is all just the same bleak toil and trouble, no change in the way the cauldron bakes, no hope for the eye of wonder and toe of love, certainly no hope for the charm of powerful trouble. In this world, we survive and exist for years and years, but we are never allowed the privilege of life.” The Reader closed the small paperback and placed it carefully inside the vest pocket of his oversized coat, hugging it against himself to protect it from the outside world that had already damaged it so much.

“What did you think?” He asked as he looked up with eager eyes at a tall figure dressed in a bright yellow raincoat that was staring out of a broken window into a fiery sunset.

The Reader had been practicing that line for the better part of two days, trying not to let the big words stick in his mouth like taffy messing up the flow of the sentences. He desperately wanted to read like the Figure in the Raincoat, fast and sure as a frosty wind, and smooth as freshwater, but, whenever he tried, his mouth would inevitably trip over itself, leaving him feeling like his tongue was made entirely out of lead. But this time was different.

This time his practice had paid off and the words flew out of him smoother than ever before. It wasn’t near the accuracy and beauty of Raincoat’s intonation, but it was a start, and he sure was proud.

“Did you just read that all by yourself?” The Figure in the

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Raincoat asked, taking a brief break from their diligent gaze at the distant horizon to regard the Reader. Their face was hidden entirely by a gas mask that rasped loudly every time they took a breath, but the Reader knew that the face underneath that mask was one of shocked pride.

“Yeah! I’ve been practicing a lot. I’m trying to do it as you do,” the Reader beamed with bright confidence.

“Well, don’t practice too hard.

Soon enough you’ll outshine me, and we wouldn’t want that now would we?” The Figure said. He walked over and pulled the Reader onto their lap so that they could face the sunset together.

“Whaaaat? Why?” The Reader whined, pulling a frown.

“Because then I won’t have a niche in the group anymore. I’m a fantastic storyteller, that’s why everyone keeps me around. If you turn out to be a storyteller 1,000,000 times better than I am, as I suspect you are well on your way to becoming one, then what use would they have for me? They’d throw me out faster than you could say: “Double, double toil and trouble; fire burn and cauldron bubble.” The Figure huffed.

The Reader made to move even closer to the figure in the raincoat, snuggling up towards their chest, “I wouldn’t let that happen. Never ever, ever, ever, ever, never.” He threw his arms around the figure in the raincoat’s neck.

“Thank you, dearest,” the Figure in the Raincoat replied, patting the reader on the head, and the two stared out at the slowly setting fireball. Some time passed with the two sitting in peaceful silence. The land below them was cloaked in a

scarlet shadow. The Reader gazed out over the sunset, happy that he had gotten to catch his favorite part of the day. He observed that, under the scarlet shadow, the broken buildings, the scarred cars, the littered roads, and the flora climbing over them all, seemingly rejoicing in their opportunity to take back their native lands, all seemed to come together as one.

In the light of the setting sun, the Reader observed, there were a blissful few minutes in which everything and everyone came together to simply breathe and rejoice at the end of the day.

As the sun began to set, leaving only an afterglow as proof it was ever there at all, the Figure in the Raincoat posed a question, “Did you happen to understand the meaning of the words you read?”

Their tone had the undertone of a joke. Like they knew the answer to a riddle and were holding it just above the head of a frustrated Oedipus.

“Yes,” the Reader said too quickly, avoiding eye contact with the glass circles of the gas mask.

“Oh really?” The Figure teased.

“Mhmm,” The Reader replied firmly.

“I’m a fantastic story teller, that’s why everyone keeps me around.”

“Well then educate me, dear reader,” the Figure said in a sly tone.

There was a long beat of silence between the two, punctured only by the occasional squirming of the Reader on the figure’s lap.

“Give up?” He prompted.

“Yes,” the Reader sighed dejectedly. In truth, he had no idea what most of the words in the line meant; he was only trying to sound them out.

The Figure in the Raincoat chuckled and ruffled the Reader’s hair affectionately, “In your quest to sound out the words, you have forgotten to read.” He made note of the discouraging way that the

Reader held himself. “Oh but don’t be so sad, it happens to all of us.

Even me,” he said.

At this, the Reader turned his head to stare at the Figure in the raincoat’s gas mask. He didn’t believe them all that much yet, “Really?” He asked.

“Oh yes! Happens to the best of us all the time. Sometimes we get so caught up in doing something that we forget to fully grasp the reason why we’re doing something and what the consequences of the thing we’re doing have,” the Figure said as smoothed their bright yellow garb with one hand while holding the boy with the other. “It’s not enough to just read or look at anything. We have to process it, internalize it, think about it, and, most important of all, understand it,” he continued.

“How do we do that?” The boy asked. He loved listening to any scrap of advice that the Figure in the Raincoat had. He sensed that this was one of the most important lessons he had ever listened to.

“Well we have to-‘’ The Figure cut himself off. He froze and jerked their ear to the right like a bird cocking its head. It was barely a noise, more the tiniest bit of pressure on the drum of the Figure’s ear; nothing more than the minutest vibration, but it had been enough.

The Figure in the Raincoat had set the Reader down and was on their feet in a mere heartbeat.

Moving fast and without so much as a rustle. If he hadn’t been staring at him with his own two eyes, and clutching the edge of the coat, then the Reader wouldn’t know they were there at all.

The Figure in the Raincoat stared out into the dark hallway of the building and listened.

The Reader tried to search along with the Figure in the raincoat, trying to extend awareness into that dark hallway. Over and over again, the Figure had said previously that sight was just one of the five senses, and, to survive, they had

Skyline

Maia Storer, 10 digital art

to use every single one at their disposal. The Reader had practiced every day honing his young senses, sharpening them as much as he could, but he still hadn’t heard the “sound” that set the Figure in the Raincoat off, and he couldn’t sense anything in the hallway.

The Figure turned to him and moved their hands in the shapes and patterns that he had been taught to recognize as speech without noise. The Reader was by no means 100% fluent in the language, but he knew enough.

“Move that way as quietly as you can. Don’t look back. I’ll be right behind you. Keep your senses sharp,” the Figure motioned, looking back at the kid for confirmation.

“OK,” the Reader signaled back.

The Reader let go of the raincoat,

turned, and moved the way that the Figure had directed, away from the mysterious noise.

Then, with his ears tuned to as much as he could process, the Reader heard a sound. It was tiny, barely comparable to the echo of a rasping breath in the dusty concrete hallway, but it was enough to make the Reader’s heart dance. He gulped and began to make silent, speedy progress towards where the Figure in the Raincoat had pointed him.

Eventually, the Reader reached the falling apart stairwell that he and the Figure had used to make it to their sunset view.

The Reader turned, intending to ask the Figure what was going on in their special hand language, but found nobody there.

Ethan Flores-Rothmund, 12 short story

41

The Sun’s

Glory The Sun’s glory, Paints the heavens with hues so bold.

The Sun’s glory, Ethereal, sacred story.

All it caresses is now gold Rise so once more I may behold, The Sun’s glory.

Alana Karam, 9 rhymed verse

42

Sunrise

Elayna Auster, 11 digital art

43

At the End of

The World Dirt and rubble lay the empty road Not a hint of green in sight As the sun draws nearer In these moments of calm and discomfort A stag walks the street with eyes cold In awe of the world she lives Seeming as if the earth itself felt Regret of what could have been Nothing changes now Sun’s flares breach the horizon Burning the surface remains Eyes closed as she accepts her fate Brandon Foote, 11

free verse poetry

Desert Biome Macy Meis, 10 photography

45

Railyard 46

W

ork is constant, but her directive is always the same.

Follow the rails to and from, gather their belongings, and carry them with her powerful legs. When they disembark her back some gape in awe of the new surroundings, for those she recognized they looked less impressed with their hunched backs and shallow eyes. There is no time for her to study their faces as she runs on a schedule. The force of her superior

One Way

Ayira Alston, 9 digital art

guides her back to the next stop.

The sun rises above the tree line and sets below the skyline but her job is never finished. She calls in sick one day and a group of doctors visit her shabby wooden house with peeling washed-out red paint where she and her family sleep. If she cannot work then what use is she to the world? So they poke and prod her silver boots and examine

them until they find red skin that is flaking away. “Rust” is what they called it. “Aged” is what they called her. Unanimously it is decided to let her retire, for, at last, she serves no working purpose. A new employee is brought the following week. His is skin flawless, and his clothes are new. He took a long drag of a cigarette and even his steam looked new, much unlike

the haze she hacked up. As she’s escorted away she wonders if anyone will miss her. She wonders if she’ll miss her routine, her life, her everything. A new house is where they bring her. Some of the tenants are worse for wear. They’re missing parts and disease has claimed their body whole. Her job is done, she decides and falls asleep.

Amira Mohamed, 12 flash fiction

47

Citrus

Day breaks in golden hues A new dawn refreshes the land Hope fills the somber void Placing wonder in wild hands

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49

Reunion

so thin.” I tried to push the bowl in front of her, but she only wrenched her chin from my grasp and looked away.

“Mom…” her voice wavered, “Mom, this is a goodbye.”

I made a desperate grab for her hands, just wanting ’d been on edge all day waiting for the doorbell to feel them in mine, “What do you mean? Sarah, look to ring. I paced through the kitchen and into the at me, please.”’ bedroom until my nails were bitten down to the “Mom, I—” Her voice cracked and my heart beds. shattered.

I waited for her to collect herself with It was only when I watched the sun disappear patience hanging on by a thread, “I didn’t know I beneath the thicket of trees in the backyard that the was leaving that day.

Alexander was driving after chime rang through the house. I nearly jumped out of school and he said ‘wouldn’t it be fun if we ran away my skin as it broke the tense silence of anticipation. together?’

I knew you didn’t like him but I didn’t care.

Frantically, I rushed through the hallway, barely After that…

I don’t know.

We drove for a couple hours pausing before throwing open the heavy wood door. into Hollandale to see his friends and we lost track of There she was. Her face was thinner than I time and then each other…

I didn’t even realize it had remembered. She was tall too. So much taller than been so long.” before. Her hair sat straight against her shoulders I felt the world fall out from under me. I’d spent an shining blue-black in the porch light. eternity thinking about all the worst case scenarios, The words rushed out of my mouth before I knew looking into every ditch on the side of the road, what I was saying, “You dyed your hair.” begging not to see a familiar face. The reality might be She rolled her eyes, “Nice to see you too, Mom.” worse than every terrible moment waiting.

I could hardly stop myself from pulling her close “A couple weeks ago I… I did too much. The things to me. My baby was home in my arms after so long. that became normal since I left home became too I could feel the sting of tears behind my eyes. After a much all at once.

I…” Sarah’s voice drifted off. moment, I allowed myself to pull away, though not “Honey, what are you saying?” I whispered, afraid quite letting go of her arm which was clutched in my anything too loud would make her disappear. hands.

“I came here to say goodbye.”

Sarah finally looked “Come in honey.” I pulled her through the doorway. in my eyes, “To say that I’m so sorry.

I should have just “Smells like spaghetti.” She smiled softly while come home.” looking around at the framed photos and furniture.

I tried to protest but all that came out was a “Of course,” I pulled her through the hallway to the shuddered breath. There seemed like so much to say kitchen. I forgot how cramped it could get with two and no words to express it. Through the confusion people. “It used to be your favorite.” I gestured toward and pain and quiet, my phone began to ring from the the small kitchen table for her to sit and turned to the counter. stove.

“You should get that,” Sarah said softly, “it’s I heard her chuckle from behind me, “Did you really probably about me.” keep my drawings on the fridge all this time?”

In a daze, I got up and reached for the phone. The Turning around with a bowl of pasta in hand, I caller ID wasn’t one I recognized. With shaky fingers, I finally let the tears flow from my eyes, “Sarah, you’ve answered the phone. been gone for 3 years. The only time you even let me “Hello?” know you were alive was when you called last week! If The voice that came through was gruff and tired, I wasn’t so happy to see you, I would tear you apart!”

“Hi, is this Mrs. Sharell?”

She avoided my gaze, “Mom, I’m sorry-” I glanced over at Sarah to find her almost as tense as “Jesus Christ, Sarah, you better be sorry! I thought me.

“Yes, this is she.” you were dead!” She flinched, “I must have lost a year off my life in those first couple weeks.”

With a sigh, I let the tense energy in my shoulders drop and walked over to the table. “But I’m just glad you’re home. Talk to me. Tell me what happened to you all this time.”

“This is Officer Nolan with the Hollandale Police Sarah still wouldn’t look me in the eyes. I reached Department.

We have news about your daughter.” up and took her chin in my hand. Gently, I turned her I shot another look at Sarah while trying to ignore the head to face me. She looked so thin and pale. Her eyes knot growing tighter in my stomach. I turned my focus were filled with sorrow but her cheeks were dry. back to the man on the phone, “You may want to be “Come on, Sarah. At least eat something. You look

I

“This is Officer Nolan with the Hollandale Police Department. We have news about your daughter.”

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Growing Pains

Natalie Szkwarek, 11

color pencil drawing

sitting down for this.”

“What is it?” I demanded. A rush of vertigo washed over me. I squeezed my eyes shut and tried to regain stability. Tried to remember reality.

“We found your daughter in an apartment building in South Hollandale while responding to an emergency call by one of the residents. She is currently unresponsive and we believe she overdosed on opioids about two hours ago. The EMTs are currently doing everything they can to save her but-” “No, no Officer, that’s not possible she’s right-” I opened my eyes to see my daughter. To know she was real and right in front of me.

But her chair was empty. The space she had filled just moments before was completely empty.

“Sarah?” I called, sure she was just in the other room. My heart began to pound heavily in my chest and I dropped the phone back on the counter, “Sarah!”

As I left the kitchen I could hear the distant sound of the officer’s voice coming from the phone. I didn’t care. Desperately, I ran through the hall and into the bedrooms.

Every room was empty. It was like Sarah had never been here at all.

Reese Lansman, 12 short story

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Profile Portrait Alua Tazhbayeva, 11 acrylic painting

I

A Letter

stood there, in the half empty room. The furniture was covered in dust sheets as though ghosts were roaming about on Halloween. The day was quiet and quaint; a brilliant blue sky juxtaposing the somber mood that drowned the empty house.

My knees met with a field of fuzz below me.

Running my fingers through the rug, I reached for a closed envelope.

when I found out you were married as well! To a good man no less, from a prominent family in the city. You have every right to thank your mother for your charms. Your grandmother as well; her compassion and determination shines through you.

You must be wondering how I know this. I have done my share of investigating, my dear. Lucille, our longtime family friend, had kept me informed on your well-being throughout the years. Guilt is a rather burdensome companion, for who could November 18-only be thwarted by me knowing you were all-right.

To My Daughter: Only on one occasion had I the opportunity to see You’ve left years ago, yet I can still hear you you once more. I hope you’ll forgive me for denying running around the halls playing God knows what myself the chance; I did not want to break what was while the nanny tried to catch you. Or how you already healed. used to dance around the piano while your mother, I have seen you smile- for at least once in my God rest her soul, played Beethoven- or something miserable existence- I have seen a true smile, just of the like. as when you were younger. That is enough for me.

I did not want you to leave. You weren’t I hope this letter will be enough for you. By the supposed to. time you are reading this letter, I will likely have I want to say you had no right to leave me, but succumbed to my illness and be with your mother. you did. You had every right. I cannot say that I That is, if I have any right to be up there with her. was there for you, nor can I say that I was anywhere I am not a changed man; many of my near an exemplary father- the father you deserved. disagreeable habits still follow me— or rather I I spewed violent things while drunk, some which, follow them. I was simply a blind man, not seeing as hard it is for me to confess, I truly meant. what was once in front of him.

I did not want to believe you left me. I denied Do me a favor my dear, please smile before you it for a long time, shaming you, cursing you. But I discard this letter. I would like to see you happy was wrong. I treated you poorly and inhumanely. one last time.

I paid no mind to your welfare. I was ignorant and should not have placed such expectations on you; A quiet loneliness hugged my chest tight. I sat you were merely a child. there, wondering the possibilities of what could But oh, my dear Beau, I am truly very proud of have been, my mind spinning like how I used to you- and just as happy. And when I saw your smile! dance around the piano.

Oh that precious smile that reminds me of your I wish this was what he said. mother, I knew it was all for the best. And to think Victoria Correa, 12 short story

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The Natural

Paradise Tranquil waters, the sun shining up high Losing myself in the beauty of day Blue and green hues reflected in the sky Something about the ambiance makes me stay The Everglades is sanctuary A place where all wildlife lives and can thrive Tall, strong, everlasting sable palm tree Heron drinking in the water, alive We need to work to save this paradise This natural wonder where we all live If we could do it together, it’s nice We will only get as much as we give The natural world is both theirs and ours So we continue to spend nights under stars Nikita Nangia, 12 sonnet

Cutting Edge Macy Meis, 10 photography

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Spitfire

Nicholas Harvey, 12 digital art

The

Star’s Waltz I

n an empty theater she spun, sunlight leaking in from the windows, hoping, praying for but a glimpse of blue shadows. The city was silent save for the quiet tap, tap, tapping of her pointed shoes. Twirling and leaping and humming again and again and again with only the silhouette of the unburdened fog to accompany her.

Again. And again. And again.

Bones and limbs extending to reach beyond the symphony of an imaginary orchestra that played its melody forever in her mind. The vines, decorated with roses that will outlast even her, crept underneath creaking doors, hoping to become part of the music she seemed so entranced in that her fingers flit on their own, now with their own mind.

She drew shapes and created colors that took the form of the stars she danced on, leaping one after the other after the other, around and around in a circle of enchantment that outshone even Lady Moon’s own servants.

More. And more. And more.

The fog’s mist dripped with the crystalline tears of her heart, and the blood that wrestled its way through the pure whiteness of the tulle mingled to create shades of violet and periwinkle that decorated her eyes with

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the smiles of Gods. It held her upright, gentle around the waist and firm around the neck so as to keep her movements beautiful She needn’t worry about breathing, for the music guiding her hands both inhaled and exhaled in time with her cries. Both experienced and not, talented and yet lacking, she continued to spin and twirl Again. And again. And again to the piercing voices of the piano and his conductor, playing the illusions of the stars.

It was a dance that should never have come to be, but was here all the same. Present in the way the silk of her clothes held her in an embrace, trailing after her, fluttering in time with the tweeting of the birds. The sun, too, bore witness and continued to look wistfully on through small cracks in the windows that have yet to be fixed, and probably never will. And all working in tandem, the fog, the stars, the orchestra, helped bring her to face the day again.

To experience the chance she has been gifted. To relish in the peace of daybreak, where no one yet has thought to think, and reality is but a blurred line, still overshadowed by the soft dreams of a dancer.

Kayla Gamm, 10 flash fiction

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Cassandra I

saw this girl once in my dream. I open my eyes to see her standing there in a field of indigo lupines. There she stood, bare feet in the soil, wearing a wheat-colored tulle dress that flows in the wind. Her eyes, full of stars, misty and wistful. Those eyes spilling diamonds, making kaleidoscopes in the light. A weary smile adorned her tear-streaked cheeks. Though standing still, it seemed like she danced in the wind. In her hands, a broken hourglass, pink sand slipping through her delicate fingers; a symbol of passed time and lost love. She ran her hands along the blades of feathery grass as she hummed a melancholy tune. Just one look into her torrential eyes and you get swept up by a storm. It was as if she were screaming for help through her sealed pink lips. She seemed so fragile, as if one touch and she would vanish into thin air.

Maybe it was all just for a moment that I saw you swaying among the flowers. That one moment in an eternity, playing over and over again. What is it that I keep wandering around looking for? There’s something mysterious and alluring about you that draws me in like a siren’s enchanting melody, urging me to that red line. I feel as if I am grasping at straws just to reach you. Is it the rose-tinted glasses that I see through? You make everything seem glassy, that bright aura, shining like heaven’s beacon in my eyes. I wonder if you’re wandering out there somewhere. Time passes by and the days become the same, just one day in a journey so long. I wonder where’s the end; if there ever will be an end. How many seasons have passed since the day we met? Each and every day feels short as your spring.

On a shooting star, I dreamed of her, of that day that I could reach for her and touch her with my arms. But where are we now?

Lybah Haque, 12 flash fiction

Blind

Mina Dinh, 11

photography

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Heartbreak Thought out letters crumble like sand sifting through my crescent engraved hand the world sounds silent, like a still heart why, oh why, have you torn my world apart?

My lips taste of nothing but salt for these tears will never halt I hoped this would all be fixed by light but all you said to me was “goodnight” Your smell still lingers on our sheets I wonder if I’ll ever see you in the streets but you broke my heart, left it in pain I’m guessing you still don’t care, as you have nothing to gain Will you move on from us? From what we shared?

I shiver restlessly, knowing we will never be repaired your skin soft as silk ghosts my cheek the world in the distance has turned gray, and bleak I may never heal from seeing the bed empty as I wake for you would always stay beside me until dreams shake now I know that is no more and yet, I’ll spend my sleepless nights waiting for you at the door Alyssa Greco, 11 rhymed verse

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Empty

Reese Lansman, 12 acrylic painting

The Plummet It usually starts in middle school doesn’t it? That’s where it all goes downhill. For some kids, it goes straight down into the deepest canyon. This is what I like to call “the plummet.” Call it that, call it “feeling down,” call it “the blues,” just don’t call it what it actually is; don’t call it what your shrink does. Then everyone will think you’re deranged. You don’t want that, do you?

It starts at I feel down.

Goes to I’m really sad.

Becomes I always feel so blue.

Turns to Something’s wrong with me.

Spirals straight down into Nobody even cares.

It can even end with I’m worthless, or I can’t take it anymore…

But don’t let it. Don’t worry. Trust me. You won’t hit the ground. There’s no ground to hit, except for the one you make. Grab hold of rock while falling Get your hands dirty and scratched. Climb all the way back up. Take as long as you need. You’ll see the sun and sky again eventually.

Sarah Nikaj, 12 free verse poetry

Carrying Burdens Molly Huyer, 11 digital art

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Macy Meis

Featured Photographer

M

acy Meis is a sophomore at Marjory Stoneman Douglas High school and finds herself to have a mindset very different from her other peers. She loves looking at the little things, and really enjoys them.

Other than photography, she is also a competitive dancer and is very involved in the school’s DECA program. She even started her own organization “Girl’s Who Start” that won fifth place internationally at the 2022 International Career Development Conference.

Her art and writing influences include making connections to her emotions and finding something that truly touches her

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personally or emotionally.

“I like to see things the way other people can’t, then portray that,” Meis said.

Meis gets her inspiration from role models in photography like Melinda Green, and dance photographer Jordan Matter. She is also inspired by the fact that her photography has the chance to touch lives and hearts. Meis enjoys taking pictures of nature because she believes there is so much beauty in the simple things. “I also enjoy taking sports and nature photography,” Meis said.

Meis first got into photography when her grandfather gave her a camera towards the beginning of the pandemic as a new hobby, and she fell in love with it. She

finds both photography and writing as great outlets for stress.

Whenever she faces any artist blocks, Meis listens to music that inspires her. Her advice to other aspiring photographers is to “take pictures that you enjoy, and look at the world from a different perspective. Show the world who you are, and show them your eyes.

Take pictures that feel like you.”

In the future, Meis hopes to study sports medicine at the University of Florida, and dreams of being a professional dancer for an NFL or NBA team. She also intends to pursue photography as a hobby or even potentially as a job.

View more of Meis’s work on pages 44 and 53

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Alyssa Greco A

Featured Writer

lyssa Greco is a junior at Marjory Stoneman Douglas High School. She loves to listen to indie music and likes to write short stories and poetry in her free time. Currently, Greco is working on a book to publish in the future.

Her writing is inspired by the books she reads, including author Colleen Hoover. She finds peer input on stories valuable and uses real life occurrences to write accurate depictions of scenarios, such as daily menial activities in her writing.

Greco feels the most inspired and creative in her bedroom and is able to write incredible, moving stories and poetry in her own little hub. She got into writing in elementary school, about six years ago, writing about whatever interests or inspires her at the time. When dealing with writer’s block she tries to work on other projects to find other inspirations to write in addition to finding inspiration in recreational activities such as TV shows or books.

Greco’s favorite writing style is realistic fiction drama, and noncheesy romance.

Her advice to other aspiring writers is to “do a lot of research for the piece you want to write, and plot it out so the climax hits well. Don’t be so hard on yourself with what you made and be patient with yourself.”

In the future, Greco hopes to become a well known published author and write many loved books for her readers to enjoy.

“DO a lot of research for the piece you want to write, and plot it out so the climax hits well. don’t be so hard on yourself with what you made and be patient with yourself.”

Read Greco’s work on pages 36 and 60

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View more of Yu’s work on pages 10, 13, and 20

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Amanda Yu A

manda Yu is a junior at Marjory Stoneman Douglas High School. She would describe herself as reserved and creative. Yu spends a lot of time dedicated to her passion for art. Besides being enrolled in AP 2D Art and Design and a member of National Art Honor Society, she spends her free time interacting with other artists online.

Pieces from her Advanced Placement Art sustained investigation can be found throughout the magazine. Her focus was the portrayal of average high school troubles. Yu said that making art is a way for her to express her complex emotions in a visual media.

Yu hopes to pursue a career that would be

Featured Artist

financially sustainable as well as enjoyable and creatively fulfilling.

“I don’t want to be a starving artist, you know?” Yu said.

Yu noted various inspirations for her art including friends, artists online, and various animation styles. Specifically, the TV show Stephen Universe and the artist @cryptidw00rm on Twitter and Tumblr have inspired her artistic style throughout the years.

We asked Yu if she had any advice for aspiring artists.

“Practice every day. It is perfectly OK if it doesn’t look good, this is just the beginning.

Practice,” she said.

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Colophon A

rtifex is published using Adobe InDesign CC 2022, Adobe Photoshop CC 2022 on one Apple MacBook Pro. Artifex was printed by the SunSentinel. Three hundred copies were printed and distributed to the student body (about 3,570) for free.

The cover is printed on 100-pound coated cover paper. The interior pages are printed on 60-pound offset stock paper. All 71 pages are printed in full color. Copy is set in 10-point Georgia font. Art bylines are set in 14-point Supa Mega Fantastic Caps font, 10-point Supa

Editorial Policy A

rtifex 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 students. The type of art and writing included each

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Mega Fantastic Thin font, and 7-point Georgia font.

Headline and Literature byline sizes vary but are set in Supa Mega Fantastic Caps and Supa Mega Fantastic Thin fonts. Folios are set in 37-point Supa Mega Fantastic Caps font.

Artifex is a member of the Columbia Scholastic Press Association, the Florida Scholastic Press Association, and the National Scholastic Press Association. The 2021 Artifex was an NSPA Pacemaker Finalist. It was rated All-Florida by FSPA, First Class with three Marks of Distinction in Concept, Design, and Photography, Art, and Graphics by NSPA, and Gold Medalist with All-Columbian Honors in Essentials, Verbal, and Visual category by CSPA.

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 reflect the individual writer’s and artist’s thoughts, as the magazine serves as a forum for student artistic expression.

Editor-in-Chief - Lybah Haque Design Editor - Reese Lansman* Submissions Editors - Gabriela Bravo and Nikita Nangia Staff - Aisha Hashmi, Kayla Gamm, and Ethan Flores Rothmund Adviser - Melissa Falkowski *All layouts were designed by Reese Lansman

The Artifex editorial board and staff are part of the Creative Writing III-IV Honors courses at Marjory Stoneman Douglas High School, which are for credit courses.

However, the literary magazine is mostly completed after school as an extra-curricular activity.

Editor’s Note

W

e are eternally grateful for all of your submissions to Artifex this year and look forward to continuing to publish your works in the years to come, despite any conditions we may face. 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 were 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.

Art has been a driving force in our world since the very beginning. From cave art to Victorian oil

Special Thanks A

special thanks to the Lawrence A. Sanders Foundation, Inc. for patronizing the arts for the last 14 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 advisor, Melissa Falkowski, for guiding us in 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 never would have been able to complete this magazine.

An extra special thanks to our staff members for

paintings, from Picasso to Frida Kahlo. It encourages us to keep creating and innovating; motivating the world to keep changing. Just as the world kept going round despite the COVID-19 Pandemic, so did the amazing and imaginative minds of artists that kept creating work that continued to inspire and bring the world together. During the past year, despite being back together, there was an unimaginable gaping hole that was left in our lives due to the pandemic.

But piece by piece, the artists mended that hole, connecting hearts and minds all across the world to bring peace and change.

The goal of Artifex will always be to allow students to express themselves in the best ways they know, 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.

working so hard to get the magazine finished. From the long days after school to the long nights without coffee, from stressing over the theme to debating over divider copies; without their efforts, this book would not be finished and of the quality that it is.

This one goes out to Team Yolk and all the blood, sweat, and tears they put into this magazine. And last but certainly not least, a huge thanks to all of our remarkably talented students who sent in their art, photography, and writing for this year’s issue of Artifex.

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