Artifex Literary Art Magazine - 2021 - Elemental by Artifex Lit Mag

l a t n e m le 13 Volume

Artifex 2021

literary art magazine

Marjory Stoneman Douglas High School

Artifex Volume 13 2021

earth

air water fire

Marjory Stoneman Douglas High School 5901 Pine Island Road Parkland, Florida 33076 Phone: 754-322-2250 Fax: 754-322-2280 litmagmsd@gmail.com Student Enrollment: 3300 School Staff: 240 www.browardschools.com/stonemandouglas

Earth

Art – Queen of Roses – Nicholas Harvey ...................................................................................................................................... 08 Poetry – Roses – Riya George ..............................................................................................................................................................09 Poetry – A Walk in the Forest – Nikita Nangia .............................................................................................................................10 Photography – Over the Horizon – Harrison Sparaco ..............................................................................................................10 Poetry – Here I Come – Geetanjali Srivastava ...............................................................................................................................12 Art – Growth – Michelle Berndt ..........................................................................................................................................................13 Photography – Above the Abyss – Harrison Sparaco ................................................................................................................14 Poetry – The Climb – Nicholas Colella ............................................................................................................................................15 Photography – Sunset Road – Briana Martin ................................................................................................................................16 Poetry – Back Home – Jacob Hunter.................................................................................................................................................17 Poetry – Comfort in Empty Hills – Alexis Weinberg .................................................................................................................18 Art – A Gaze into the Distance – Daniel Pan .................................................................................................................................19 Art – Leaves and Stone – Reese Lansman ......................................................................................................................................20 Poetry – Lost One – Gina Torres ........................................................................................................................................................21 Poetry – Simple Pleasures – Lybah Haque .....................................................................................................................................22 Art – Tea and Lemon – Reese Lansman ..........................................................................................................................................23 Photography – The Bright Side – Reagan Licata .........................................................................................................................24 Prose – Darkness – Aisha Hashmi ....................................................................................................................................................25

Air

Poetry – New Beginnings – Rebecca Green ............................................................................................................................. 28 Art – Open-Minded – Carolina Bermudez .................................................................................................................................29 Poetry – Kindness – Lexi Schwartzberg ....................................................................................................................................30 Photography – Joy – Mina Dinh ....................................................................................................................................................30 Prose – My Nice Features – Geetanjali Srivastava ...................................................................................................................32 Art – Fractured – Christine Yared .................................................................................................................................................33 Art – Age of – Alexa Correia ..........................................................................................................................................................34 Poetry – Lonely Old Wanderer – Leslie Chacon .......................................................................................................................35 Poetry – The Pink Sky – Leah Strachman ................................................................................................................................36 Art – Thermal – Natalie Szkwarek ................................................................................................................................................36 Art – Limbo – Michala Christie ..................................................................................................................................................... 38 Poetry – Chronophobia – Lydia Samuel ....................................................................................................................................39 Prose – The Scarecrow – Ethan Flores-Rothmund ................................................................................................................40 Photography – Into the Wind – Mina Dinh ...............................................................................................................................41

Table of Contents Water

Photography – Midnight Sun – Gabriela Bravo ..................................................................................................................................44 Poetry – Windy Day at the Beach – Charles Cahill .............................................................................................................................45 Poetry – Where Would I be? – Martina Castillo ...................................................................................................................................46 Art – I Can’t Do This Anymore – Rachel Kuperman ..........................................................................................................................47 Art – Self Serenity – Katelyn Laverde .....................................................................................................................................................48 Poetry – Beautiful is You – Gabriela Bravo ............................................................................................................................................49 Art – Color of Life – Faith Hartwig ..........................................................................................................................................................50 Poetry – The Meraki – Neketa Dixon-Jenkins .......................................................................................................................................50 Prose – The Sound of Silence – Lybah Haque ....................................................................................................................................52 Art – 33076 – Kaori Nakamura ...................................................................................................................................................................53

Fire

Poetry – So Much I Would Like to Say – Nikita Nangia .....................................................................................................................56 Art – Realm – Christine Yared .....................................................................................................................................................................57 Poetry – Heart of Wax – Sydney Lieberman..........................................................................................................................................58 Art – Pride – Mina Dinh ................................................................................................................................................................................58 Prose – Do Unto Others – Ethan Zeichner ...........................................................................................................................................60 Art – Victimized – Isabella Terpstra .........................................................................................................................................................62 Poetry – Kore and Persephone – Reese Lansman ................................................................................................................................64 Art – Approaching the Magical Gate – Angela Guiso ..........................................................................................................................65 Play – Ducks Aren’t Hobos – Avery Lansman.........................................................................................................................................66 Photography – Out in the Open – Harrison Sparaco ..........................................................................................................................69

Featured Artists 58

Featured Photographer – Harrison Sparaco ..........................................................................................................................................70 Featured Writer – Geetangali Srivastava ...............................................................................................................................................72 Featured Artist – Christine Yared ..............................................................................................................................................................74

Elemental

Water • Earth • Fire • Air Where there is energy, there is life.

The Elements are pure substances but cannot be found as pure on Earth. No, the Elements make up everything on Earth. They are present all around and essential to life. They are the building blocks to all things, inside and out. In high school, students are up against the Elements wherever they go, be it the people they meet or the experiences they face. But the Elements go beyond the physical and the manifest, they are personalities and energy forces. The universe and all its living things were formed by the four Elemental forces or Aether: Water, Earth, Fire, and Air. Water is healing and regeneration. Immerse yourself in it and become cleansed by nature’s tears. Thrashed and abashed at sea then find yourself in the eye of the storm. Water is transcending into a state of tranquility, allowing you to heal the scars that mar your heart and skin, enveloping you in a warm embrace until you rise again. It is forever swimming against a tide of ever-changing emotions. It is staring into pools of reminiscence that mirror the continuing echo. It is fertility, devotion, and unconditional love. Earth is stability in times of uncertainty. When the forces of life and mind undermine your strength, find your core center of energy and ground yourself to your morals and values. Earth is a nurturing soul: it is the abundance and prosperity of life. Eyes wide open but you dream of the vast possibilities that Earth offers. Earth will ground you and give you control. Fire is warmth but it is also destruction. It is hunger and passion, anger and impulsivity. Play with fire and you get burned. But set your heart ablaze and accomplish a longing ambition. Fire can provide light in a time of darkness, but it could also cause you to burst into flames of lividity and fury. Air is the vital breath. It is the movers from the East. Listen to the whispers of the winds, they will guide you on your path of spiritual faith. Air connects you to the mind, wisdom, spirits, and the soul. It is the transient and intangible, the uncontrollable and raw. It reminds you that there is more to the world than what meets the eye, and likewise, you must grow and change as the world does. The Elements here to bring balance to the world. Too much or too little of one element can bring great imbalance and devastation to the order of the spirit. Like how Water quenches the thirst of a raging Fire, Air moves the branches of Earth. Much like the art in this book, you see an array of emotions reflecting the experiences of the students: pain and healing, free-spirited and grounded. But at the core of these whirlwinds of Elements, there is poise and equilibrium. So close your eyes, get a feel for your surroundings, and become one with the Elements.

h h t t r r a a E E Nurturing, caring, mothering Earth Keep strong and hold tight to withstand the storms Though the tempests may weather and erode, Earth rebuilds Keep grounded, beautiful, bountiful, plentiful Earth

Roses Roses Red are thou roses; roses are thou red As the birth of an Alabama sunset captured in its petals. A prick made no pleasure, but a puncturing mark Shaped like a bell it rings in beauty Its leaves spread open in rapturous content Just by looking at it makes one so invigorated Its smell gives one a feeling of serenity Its petals are that of an old man’s head; soft, yet lathery No flower can match its beauty, for it is a ravishing rose.

Riya George, 10 free verse

Queen of Roses Nicholas Harvey, 11 digital art

The bright orange sun shines its light A river flows on forever The green grass sweet and soft Hearing the sound of the forest Feeling the warmth of the earth Caressing me and reducing my sorrow It once overwhelmed me, the sorrow But I see the hope, the bright light That we have a green, smiling earth That I will wander this land forever The twisting, turning forest Feel the ground beneath my feet, so soft Seeing the light flowing through the tree leaves, soft I feel that the earth, nature is forever comforting my sorrow In this beautiful haven, called a forest I see it above me, the pretty light This feeling that I have will last forever This truly is a miracle, the earth Wise and old, to us speaks the earth In a voice low, humble and so soft She has seen it all, she has been here forever She tell that a good companion is sorrow Day follows night, sun fills up with light Every dark place, every corner of the forest I can’t stay in my corner of the forest I must come out and face the earth Not care about shadows, I must face the light Feel the breeze, cool and soft My spirits are lifted, gone is the sorrow It wasn’t here to stay forever I take my farewell, I will be thankful forever To this dark, deep, forgiving forest, I walked a while here with sorrow, learned a lot, from sorrow and earth I feel the wind on my face, blowing soft As I walk towards the world, towards the light Like a dewdrop is sorrow, it doesn’t last forever It just takes one ray of light, to brighten a dark forest I was taught this by the earth, with tender love and word so soft

Nikita Nangia, 11 sestina

A Walk in the Forest

Over the Horizon Harrison Sparaco, 10

photography

Here I Come I yelled, “I’m coming too!” Every Friday night, as we got in the car She put on her red lipstick, I put on my lip balm She was my star

Mom, I miss you You left me blue Did you meet someone new? Do you miss me too?

We drove to the ocean We went together We let out our hurt, pain, and emotions She was my heather

What is in the ocean? Why didn’t you come out? If I jump will I too feel my emotions? Why didn’t you shout?

We got away We got away from him We left the ugly day My every limb Lived with her not yesterday, not tomorrow, but today

Why did you let him win Why did you leave Was it the battle within Or the pain you grieve

She loved me I loved her Ever since I was three Always together we were But she left me Mom, I got a degree She said she’d be free Where is she She was my friend, not my mom How can I let her be She missed my graduation and prom Now I have no one to sit with during midnight tea

Mom, I miss you I want to hold your hand Like we used to do I don’t understand Why didn’t you tell me? You were setting yourself free Did he keep you in chains? We could’ve shared our pains I want to be free now I missed you too much I missed you I missed your touch I’m coming too

Geetanjali Srivastava , 10 rhymed verse

Growth Michelle Berndit, 11 mixed media

Above the Abyss Harrison Sparaco, 10 photography

The Climb

These granite mountains tower towards the sky. Rosy pink carnations spiral upwards. So rough and steep the ascent does no one try. The challenge is enough for one to wither.

Bright green plateaus rest on the mountain peak. Here’s where peace resides untapped for eons. The weather above the clouds is all but bleak. Adventure is not finished without a cause.

So old they cast a shadow on the divine, An unholy and synthetic design. God himself has feared this vigorous climb. It’s proven they withstand the test of time.

Though very strong, it cannot crush your dreams. These things are often never what they seem.

Nicholas Colella, 10 sonnet

Sunset Road Briana Martin, 09 photography

Back Back Home Home

There place way far out in the country, A place full of southern gentry. A place where the rivers run strong A place where sugarcane grows tall. Where all men belong. Where the Mississippi floods in the fall. A place in central Louisiana, North of Baton Rouge and due east of Morganza A place where the summers are hot, And the tea is ice cold. A place where cattle trot, A place you can grow old. How I long to see her cypress tree once more. A feeling of longing that shakes me to my core. I yearn to sit under that blazing sun. To see magnolia trees, To feel the crabgrass scratch the inside of my thumb. I wish to walk down her dusty dirt roads, Passing classical buildings and plantation homes. I long sit at the old magnolia cafe, To walk slowly back home, Watch the setting sun of a fleeting day, Past the post office where the wild armadillos roam. Forever there I wish I could stay But she has left me with no say. There is no opportunity there, No place to grown, And though it may not seem fair. I cannot go back home.

Jacob Hunter, 10 rhymed verse

Comfort in Empty Hills The empty hills glow under the sunlight Untouched by destruction; empty and free No one can harm this land any longer. No more hatred will infect Earth again. With a land that is free of apathy Peace reigns forever on the quiet hills. No fear to contaminate the waters. Rivers trickle on rock peacefully. Winding through the banks, animals within. Seek comfort within the big empty hills. Be at peace with nature, close your tired eyes. Take shelter within the forest’s cover. The empty hills glow golden in sunset. The light smiles warmly as it sinks below. The empty hills are silent and peaceful.

Alexis Weinberg, 10 free verse

A Gaze into the Distance Daniel Pan, 12

acrylic, charcoal, and ink on canvas

Lost One Innocent flower Awarded the seed of life Having a Mother who watched over her A kind and selfless caretaker Who helped grow a joyful soul, Blossoming to perfection True beauty surrounded by a withering world. The young flower learned to keep happiness within her Fearing darkness affecting the outsiders she looked upon. She kept the shadows absent most of her years Keeping her petals’ beauty as she grew Using the giving sun’s power Residing in the damp soil Mother provided Soaking in the water accompanied by Mother’s words Secluded from the outside gloom Which she was most afraid of. But soon, the world no longer Was harmful to only those around her. Mother’s teachings no longer brought her light Her kind words now twisted Blowing away with the wind. The flower’s aging caused her to shrivel through time Trampled by those who carried dejection around her No longer secluded in a cheerful place to call her own The young flower’s happiness Soon faded The sun unable to keep her alive Her soil had rotten The water never again reaching her shining petals. By then, Mother had gone away from the flower Pain tore the youthful one away from her giver Now the happy flower was no longer She shriveled up and lost the life gifted to her Ending up just like the world surrounding her Which she feared most of all.

Gina Torres, 10 Leaves and Stone Reese Lansman, 11 watercolor on paper

free verse

Bitter green, and jasmine sweet A gleaming light, the taste of peach. Cherry lips and shattered gold A soft blanket, a warm tight hold. Black ink, an empty white page A whisper of wind, a waiting stage. Peacock feathers, and a rose that blooms A dazzling smile that brightens the room. Diamond crowns, a heart of brass A porcelain cup, an hourglass. The ocean’s blue, the morning sun The crisp clean air when you go for a run. Purple clouds, an orange sky A clock that ticks, a kite that flies. Candy drops, and paper planes A sour lemon, or when it rains. Children’s laughter, the moon at night A red balloon, and carnival heights. Fireworks and freshly baked goods A crystal bead, the forest of Sherwood. Graffiti brick walls, and dripping paint A small cafe, quiet and quaint. Ballet shoes, and holiday festivities A mockingbird’s pure symphonies. I look in the mirror and what do I see: All of life’s luxuries looking back at me.

Lybah Haque, 11 rhymed verse

Simple Pleasures

Tea and Lemon Reese Lansman, 11

color pencil, watercolor, and pen on paper

The Bright Side Reagan Licata, 11 photography

“

Darkness

Attention citizens, the end is imminent. Take cover, say goodbye to your loved ones, and make amends. It’s been an honor to have been able to serve you your news for all these years. Signing off, for the last time, Jackson Smith.” Holly couldn’t stop shaking. Her entire world was collapsing in on itself, all her family, all her friends, were going to die. She looked up at the kids with tearful eyes but tried her best to be strong. Charlie, Janie, Ashley, Penelope, and Mark were playing on the reading carpet with various board and card games. They were the only kids left with her, the rest of them were picked up by their family. How heartless can someone be to leave their child with someone who’s practically a stranger when the world is ending? She shook these thoughts out of her head. No good would come from thinking about the what-ifs, what’s done is done. “Ms. Holly?” Charlie asked, “what time are our parents going to pick us up?” Jesus. She understood that they’re kids and that they don’t know what’s going on, but Jesus. This is not going to be a fun last day alive. “They’re almost here love, don’t worry, we’re just going to have a sleepover tonight, okay? How does that sound?” Charlie nodded enthusiastically and went back to the carpet to play with Janie. She rubbed her necklace absentmindedly, her mother had gotten her that necklace all those years ago, oh how much she missed her. Her head went to Kendall, Holly’s spouse-to-be and the person Holly wished she could spend her last day with. She looked through the window by her desk and wondered why the worst days always had the best weather. She glanced from the

window to the kids and bit her lip. They didn’t deserve to stay inside on a nice day, especially since it’s their last. “Okay babes, clean up time,” she announced, “we’re going to go for recess outside.” The children scrambled up and shoved the toys into place, excited for outside playtime. Holly’s heart weighed down in her chest. She assigned a line leader and they headed out. While she sat on a bench, texting her goodbyes, a man in a van pulled up. “Hey! You there! Girl in glasses! Yeah, you, the one with the brown hair!” She was startled out of her little world. “What are you doing here? The world is ending!” She quickly explained her predicament and he expressed his sympathies then drove away. About five minutes later he pulled up again but this time he got out of his van and pulled out about 10 pizzas, a pound of candy, and some water and put it by the bench she was sitting at. “Listen, you were dealt a bad hand when their parents decided not to show up. The pizza place down the street is open and just giving out free stuff, take it, you guys are probably going to get hungry and you don’t deserve to die like that.” Holly thanked him profusely while tears dripped down her face and he left. She took the stuff and the kids back inside and they feasted on the carbs and candy. After their sugar high crashed, she had a group of children napping quietly on rows of tables that she converted into beds. This left Holly alone with her thoughts once again. Only a little bit of time is left, then this will all be over, okay Holly? She reassured herself. That was her last thought before a loud blast left her and the kids crying out and then just darkness.

Aisha Hashmi, 09 short story

Air The East wind exerts the spiritual flow of the holy spirit. Providing the steadfast wanderers with strength against the forces. Encouraging to fly free with every fleeting moment. Whispering words of wisdom with each gasping breath.

New Beginnings Waiting patient for the moment to subside where I can delay My emotion toward the future and what it holds Living in constant fear of how it all unfolds New beginnings and fresh starts sound cliche Yet, those are the exact things that I pray For even though I’m hesitant as to what it beholds A future that I’m unable to mold Into whatever I may Thinking about my new beginnings often paralyzes me in my track To a point where I cannot see past My concerns and I can’t make a decision And I contemplate until I go back 10 steps making no progress at last But starting new beginnings is my mission

Rebecca Green, 12 italian sonnet

Open Minded Carolina Bermudez, 12

watercolor and marker on paper

Kindness

We speak with words familiar to us and learn to use them well. A kind word can cheer us up; a mean one can make us feel like hell. If we could work together it could help to feed our souls, And the world would be a place in which to grow old. To live with kindness and compassion for all whom we hold dear, Will make the world a better place for those both far and near.

Lexi Schwartzberg, 11 rhymed verse

Joy Mina Dinh, 10 photography

My Nice Features

“

You have nice features.” Really! Yay, thanks . . . I thought to myself every time someone complimented my features back home in India when I used to visit them every 2 years or so. I was born in India, but I grew up in Dubai, and now I’m here, in Florida, so, most of my life, I lived out of India. Thus, every time I and my family visited India, I looked different from the time before, and for some weird reason, everyone thought it was fine to comment on me and my sister’s appearance, kind of like they had to approve of what we looked like. Me having received many ‘nice features’ comments, I really did start to think man I just must have the best features. To me, having ‘nice’ features and being complimented on them was something I would be happy to hear. Each time my sister and I visited a distant relative, they complimented my sister ardently, “Look how pretty she is!” “Gosh, you’ve grown taller!” Now, to give you an idea of what ‘pretty’ means in India: 80% of prettiness comes from being white, or the lightest shade of brown, and 20% from being tall, but never taller than the boy, because that isn’t acceptable. From the beginning, my sister had a lighter shade of skin than the average brown person. Along with that, she always had great height, and she was healthy from the beginning. I was born weak, dark-skinned, and well, since people always compared me to my older sister, I was shorter. While comparing, they forgot that they were comparing me with someone older, so obviously I’d be shorter, and us maintain a specific height gap meant we both were growing, but they didn’t put too much thought into this, they just judged. Seeing my sister, the first compliment that came out of everyone’s mouth was, “Look how pretty she is!” And to me, she really is pretty, and 100% deserving of that complement, but what bothers me is that those relatives did not compliment her because they actually saw beauty in her, they complimented her because she had whiter skin. After they complimented my sister, they looked at me, stared for a few seconds, and then said the same old phrase “She’s got nice features.” Since my skin was darker, filled with eczema spots, I was short and skinny (too skinny), and nothing I had was something that the Indian society glorified, they came up with a phrase that would be so vague that whether it was genuine or not didn’t matter, “you have nice features.” Now I finally realize that they didn’t say I had nice features because they actually thought I had nice features, but only to state the obvious, that since I am not whiter, the only complement best for me is having nice features. My parents knew exactly what this backhanded compliment meant, but I had no clue and thanked my

relatives sincerely each time I received this compliment. The reason I took this backhanded compliment as a serious compliment was because of my mom, to whom I am eternally thankful. She never, never ever, taught me that white is prettier, or that black isn’t pretty, so the thought of anyone saying I’m not pretty because of the color of my skin never crossed my mind, and honestly, I didn’t even know there was such thing as people being considered ugly because of their color. She never told me to not wear bright colored clothes because they made my skin stand out (like a few other parents do), or to put on the silly night cremes sold in the market that will make you ‘white’ overnight, nor did she ever compare me or my sister’s physical appearance. \ You might be thinking, what my mom did is the bare minimum, and yes, it was the bare minimum. But her growing up in a society that only taught her that white is pretty and black isn’t, I’m glad she dared to break that line of thought, and not teach us the same thing. Obviously having the mindset of thinking one color is superior to another is fallacious and just wrong. However, I do not blame my relatives fully for their narrow mindset, because ever since they were kids all they have heard is that white is pretty and black is not. India being the conservative country it is, women also have not been taught to question, to question the norms of society, to question their parents, to question anyone. In the times my relatives were growing up, women questioning societal norms was frowned upon. Everyone liked a woman who knew how to obey, but no one liked a woman who knew her worth and spoke out for herself, my mom being one of them, they were looked upon as rude and uncultured. Because of this, most women have never tried to question the colorism in South Asia, they just went along with it, even though it just them just as much as it hurt me. They have never tried to see the beauty in black because frankly the thought of black being as beautiful as it is never crossed their minds. Even though these toxic beauty standards have changed a lot, there is still a long way to go, since these beauty standards are so engraved in our society, we have to take an extra few steps to not spread this information to our kids, cousins, and friends, and educate them on why these beauty standards are wrong and should be repudiated. Though the main reason for colorism in India is the British raj, which engraved that white is in some way superior to any other race in people’s minds, I still do feel, now the people must change these stupid, ignorant, and foolish beauty standards in South Asia.

Geetanjali Srivastava, 10 memoir

Fractured Christine Yared, 12 oil paint on canvas

Lonely Lonely Old Old Wanderer Wanderer How lonely it is to live

To look at their lives

To live a century and ten more

To ponder how time works for them

How every passing day bitters the soul

And to wonder where they go when they will leave

Another reminder that time affects only the Fortunate

To remain a constant in an ever-changing place Would turn me bitter and duller

To live a century is lovely

Just as it had done before

Until you’ve cataloged every color of the sky

I glimpse life in its prime

The colors of twilight fading to dawn Purples and indigos shifting to reveal warm orange and yellow

Old men, young women, Aging in my passing eyes

The stars that had been shining

Growing footsteps older every moment

Get out-shone by the sun and fade

How fortunate

Dimmed to let the sun blaze

Weary I am

And how the rise of her, yet another sun, blisters and burns

Weary I pass

Once you’ve mapped the stars and painted every color of the heavens

The trodden pavement turns to unmarred grass

There is nothing left

I carry on

Nothing left to look at

Looking for something to ponder, to wonder

Nothing to ponder Nothing to wonder

The Sun swims in the heaven above me My equal

Onward

My Sol companion

To another land where the skies might be a different shade of blue

Knowing that we have no place among the Fortunate

Weary feet can travel far when time cannot deter you Together we watch life grow and wither from afar For time only affects the Fortunate

Together we remain the same

And how fortunate the Fortunate are

Going round and round in a cycle

To begin life and to experience the end To see beauty, to look, to ponder, to wonder

She whispers to me in the same old melodies Of soft breezes and cotton clouds

To not see the world as just a cycle

Of whistling reeds and swaying blooms

That repeats

How grating her tune has grown

And repeats

How my ears have turned sore and tender

And repeats Yes, how fortunate the Fortunate are

To her mourning lament of the Moon she ever chases Yet I am bound to listen, just to hear her

My weary feet take me far

To hear anything

To a land where the unmarred grass fades to trodden pavement

Weary as I am, she is my Sol companion and I hers

A town of life and fortune And I pay it no mind

Lonely we are And lonely I am

I have no want to be among the Timed

A wanderer with nothing but weary feet

To be reminded of my ever permanent existence

And a pocket overflowing with time

Leslie Chacon, 12 Age of Alexa Correia, 12 charcoal on paper

free verse

The Pink Pink S Sky ky The Little, white lights sparkling in the pink sky Tall dark statues with birds perched on a wire Shoes tied over a dead electric line Yet the grounds remain still And trees get caught in an endless fire Little do we care about those who fly Humans are the ones who kill But they wouldn’t hesitate to call me a liar For they believe it’s fine The feeling of this unconventional pill It’s what we all had acquired Killing us before we can die And the atmosphere sends a chill With the quietness we all desire The feelings that we won’t let shine While everything falls downhill And refusing to admit it’s dire We look into the sparkling pink sky And think about how everything is just fine

Leah Strachman, 10 free verse

Thermal Natalie Szkwarek, 10 color pencil on paper

Limbo Michala Christie, 12

pen, watercolor, and marker on paper

Chronophobia The future is an abyss before me I push thoughts of oblivion away Fears of the unknown are all I that see I’m afraid that this is all I’ll ever be A lost girl trying to find her own way The future is an abyss before me The present is not perfect, I agree But I want to remain here, to just stay Fears of the unknown are all that I see What will it mean to lose the present’s safety? I am not ready for that forsaken day The future is an abyss before me I know the future has no guarantees Future plans can easily go astray Fears of the unknown are all that I see As time goes by, my cries turn into pleas Let only blessings come my way, I pray The future is an abyss before me Fears of the unknown are all I that see

Lydia Samuel, 11 villanelle

The Scarecrow Scarecrow The T

he man stood, nailed to his post, like a sad imitation of Jesus. His clothes hadn’t been changed in days and his neck was beginning to tear. It would only be a matter of time before his head would be gone. There has to be more to life than this, the man thought. What is out there beyond these fields that I guard, what wonders have I not seen? Just then a glossy black bird soared downwards from the sky and landed on the stem of one of the plants and began to pick at the seeds within. The man growled a deep growl that could’ve been mistaken for thunder. The birds looked up and stared at the man. The man narrowed his eyes at the bird, giving it a warning. The bird looked longingly at the plant that he was eating, but flew off, deciding that it wasn’t worth angering the man. The man returned to his contemplative thoughts once more, only this time he made sure to be on the lookout for more birds. My job is simple and sometimes boring, but someone has to do it, he reasoned. Soon night fell and the stars crept out, this was the man’s favorite time. He thought of the stars as wise sages gathering to watch while the world slept, seeking to fill their brains with yet more knowledge. Every night he thought of asking them for answers to things that he did not know, and every night he decided against it. Who am I to them? Why would they ever associate with me? He reasoned. But tonight he felt braver. So for the first time ever he opened his mouth and asked a question: “What is the meaning of life?” For a moment there was no answer and the man felt dejected. Then there was a voice from above, a truly melodious voice. “To us, the meaning of life is to watch as the world sleeps and to fill our minds with

yet more knowledge,” said the stars. The man looked up in wonder at the thousands of lights that had decided to talk to him and then down at himself. He felt sad again all at once. “I am but a simple man; I do not watch the world as it sleeps, and I do not fill my head with knowledge. I have been doing life wrong,” the man deflated slightly. “No, you are not,” said the stars, sounding slightly amused. “But I do not do as you do, oh wise sages,” said the man. “No one does as we do,” said the stars, really laughing this time. “Man of the fields, if you truly want the answer to your question you must leave your post and find it yourself.” “Leave? My post?” said the man, shocked. “Yes, leave your post and walk the earth, ask that same question to the beings you meet. The wind, the sun, the sky, the moon, the ants, everyone. Ask each that question over and over again until you finally have your answer. Then speak to us again, and tell us what you have found.” With that the stars went silent leaving the man to his thoughts. The next morning the man tore himself from his post and began to walk the earth in search of his answer, it wasn’t long before he came across a tree that was perfect for sitting under. The man, who was not very accustomed to walking, decided to stop and rest for a bit. As he sat and settled down under the tree he felt a breeze go through him. He asked it a question. “What is the meaning of life?” There was a beat of silence before the wind, with its whispering voice said:“To us, the meaning of life is to be free and to slip through the tiniest cracks into ever changing worlds.” The man stared down at himself, feeling miserable. “I am not free, nor do I slip through the

tiniest crack. I am doing life wrong.” The winds were quick to answer. “No you aren’t, are you not free now? Are you not wandering the world in search of something? Are you not seeing new worlds?” The man contemplated this and asked one more question. “The stars said that life’s meaning is knowledge, but you say that it is freedom. Who is correct?” The winds answered quickly again. “Both.” And then they were gone. The man got up and continued on his journey, feeling no short amount of confusion. The next day was hot and dry, the man felt his skin heat up with the sun’s rays, he decided now was the perfect time to ask. “What is the meaning of life?” There was a pause. “To me it is to set the world aglow so that it may live and exist in happiness,” said the sun, with a strong and bright voice. “I… cannot do that,” said the man. “No, you cannot,” said the sun in return. “I have been living wrong,'' said the man, disheartened yet again. “I did not say that,” said the sun, laughing. “How are you supposed to set the world aglow? To expect that is to expect a fish to climb.” The man grunted, and thought for a moment. “The stars say life means knowledge, the winds say freedom, you say light, but which one of you is right?” The man asked. “All of us,” and the sun grew quiet. The man continued on like this for several days, asking the same question to everything but receiving different answers. The trees said growth, the ants said order, the water said change, fire said food, and earth said stability. Everyone had a different meaning, but they all came back to the same conclusion as each other. They all said everyone before them was right, and that he was

In the Wind Mina Dinh, 10 photography

not wrong. The man only became confused, for if he did none of the things that they said, then how was he right? He decided to go back home and tell the stars what he had found, he hoped that they, with all their stellar wisdom, could help him. On his way home he spotted a flock of birds picking at a wheat field. It wasn’t his field, but, out of instinct, he let out a mighty roar that sounded like the rumble of a storm close by. The birds scattered and flew off from the field, startled. The man watched them, their black bodies flitting left

and right, they moved with the freedom of the wind. The man gazed, intrigued, and watched as they flew round and round forming random shapes every second, changing like water. He stared at them longer, he was able to tell the exact moment that they noticed him. They formed an orderly V formation and flew off in the opposite direction, it reminded him of the ants. With their complex order and strict rules, always so structured. The man stood there for a long time before, finally, he understood. He laughed

and ran home, praying that he would be fast enough to make it to his post before the stars came out. “So,” the stars said, ready to ask the man his own question. “What is the meaning of life?” “The meaning of life,” The man answered, standing up straighter on his post. “Is whatever you want it to be.” The stars beamed with pride. “Very well done, scarecrow.”

Ethan Flores-Rothmund, 11 short story

r r e e t t a a W W Water holds memory and emotions, each full of thoughts Imagination running wild in ripples and waves Trickling water over an open wound, cleansing the red tide Enveloped by its loving embrace, floating in a state of serenity

Windy Day Day Windy at the at the Beach Beach Castles on the beach are made by hand Unexpectedly, A shivering wind blows Waves collapse onto beaches of golden sand

Sun rays break through clouds creating a summer wonderland A clear skim runs over wet sand, gradually, it slows Where freezing cold water meets dry land On the horizon, small ships meet the seas demand It is night time, as the tides of the ocean show Waves collapse onto beaches of golden sand As time goes on, those same castles in the sand disband No time will fix how the dry sand and wet water oppose Where freezing cold water meets dry land The day now ends with each particle of sand left slightly more tanned Seaweed left on the beach continues to decompose Waves collapse onto beaches of golden sand Where freezing cold water meets dry land

Charles Cahill, 12 villanelle

Midnight Sun Gabriela Bravo, 11 photography

Where would I be? So much change, so much confusion I can’t seem to get lost in this illusion My life feels unknown while my past becomes a dream, A dream that thanks to a virus I can no longer achieve Reality seems different, odd, and unusual, Life seems to change, and I feel delusional Why has it come to this? Will things ever go back to how they used to be? I miss my regularity, I miss how simple my life used to be. No masks, no distance, just unity. Crowds of unknown people, all free to put their hands wherever they want them to be. My culture, my home, I don’t want them to forget about me, Forget about the girl who used to live in those streets. The laughs, the hurt, and all the things I was able to achieve, I leave them all behind because a virus caused me to leave. They say I should be thankful it didn’t take my life, They say I should be thankful when I go to sleep at night. But I can’t help but wonder where I would be right now, If it weren’t for that damn virus that turned my world upside down. Someday I’ll feel better, Someday we’ll all recover. But till that day comes, we’re all left to wonder, Where would we be if none of this would’ve ever happened.

Martina Castillo, 11 free verse

28 46

I Can’t Do This Anymore Rachel Kuperman, 12

color pencil on paper

29 47

Beautiful is You Marks and colors Curves and dips Chub and skin The pressures to withhold from customs to fit into ideology Stopping the calories for cake Malnutrition for praise and jealousy Flat but curvy, skinny but thick, beautiful but natural The burning of words of hate and shamers onto the skin of those who fail to meet the standards Hiding behind a screen and their words as they press send to immortalize their comments in our despaired minds The numbers of each little crumb counted as your stomach salivates for more, but the comments refuse to give it Harsh criticisms burning into another's skin as they are ridiculed for wearing this or that or trying to stand out to fit in Being told that you aren’t who you are and that it’s wrong They are wrong, you are more than your fears and their words Scars that hold many stories Marks that hold many memories Both are beautiful Beauty Beauty and it’s standards There is no fine line or definition of what is beautiful Defining what the individual can think is like saying everyone has the same favorite animal Beautiful is not the number of likes on a post Beautiful is not the number of people asking for your number or catcalling you Beautiful is not a standard Beautiful is what you want it to be A smile A laugh A goofy face In all your glory In all your flaws and imperfections Beautiful is you

Gabriela Bravo, 11 free verse

Self Serenity Katelyn Laverde, 10 digital art

49 29

With a black hole that won’t close, and a wound waiting to heal She searches for a purpose, a reason to feel Haunted by her past, her detrimental mistakes Trying her best to move pass it, proving her smile to be fake

The longer she carries on, the harder she finds it to breathe Giving what little she has into planting each seed Hoping one catches as a sign of her hope But not one does so, leaving her with nothing to do but mope

Planting sunflower seeds to right her wrongs Knowing eventually they’ll dry out, it won’t be long Leaving her empty with yet another hole to fill Stuck in a trance on an ongoing hill

Without thought she walks into calamity Flipping the switch, turning off the humanity Making herself invisible to the troubles of her pain No more heightened emotions, no more crying in the rain

Neketa Dixon-Jenkins, 10 rhymed verse

50 28

Color of Life Faith Hartwig, 11

watercolor on paper

The Meraki

29 51

The Sound Sound ofof Silence Silence The

hen the first wave came crashing down there was panic. The tsunami that took over wiped out millions. Legends were lost but so were normal people. It was like the world had stopped rotating, but at the same time, it was still going. Suddenly there were no cars in the streets, less pollution in the air, the birds were chirping for once. But then there were massive fires, the sounds of protests, the chants for voting, a movement for change. All while a silent killer passed in and out of homes across the countryacross the world. It was strange, it’s like everything happened, but nothing was achieved. It’s an uncanny phenomenon that I still can’t wrap my head around even though the year has almost come to a close. And life kept going. In BTS’s song which was released in November, “Life Goes On” there are many lyrics that make the song resonate with me but there’s just one part in the chorus that stuck with me especially after their explanation of the song. “On my pillow, on my table, yeah life goes on.” We kept sleeping, we kept eating, the world kept turning, and suddenly there was a new normal because life goes on. It made me realize that nature stops for nobody, especially not for the selfish creature that is mankind. And so we wore masks, and socially distanced. We became more dependent on technology and social media. We lost our jobs, we were away from school, and most importantly we were away from family. But yet we became connected. Amidst the chaos in a year of separation, we managed to stay connected. Yet it wasn’t easy because we started divided in the first place. It was easy to try to blame others for what happened, but when we realized that nothing was going to change no matter how much we blamed others when we looked in the mirror and thought to ourselves, that’s when we came

together, as a community, as a country, as citizens of the world, and as humans. And now take a moment to reflect on what has happened and what you have just read. Notice how I never directly said virus, or the specific instances of climate change, or the instances of protests whether for the election or the Black Lives Matter Movement or how I didn’t mention the names of the legendary or not so legendary lives lost. Notice how I never mentioned the year. That’s because I feel like there’s no need to say what year it is because everyone knows what happened, and to who it happened, and when it happened. There are just some things that don’t need to be said for people to just know. So now I come full circle to where I began. What inspired me to write this year-end recap for myself ? Well as a writer, it is my job to write things down, and strangely despite all that has happened, I never took the moment to sit down and write my thoughts down. Who knows, this mini-memoir could be living history- in decades, maybe centuries from now, people will look back at this note that I made for myself, as a high schooler looking back upon the year. So what inspired me? Well, I was reading the special, December edition of the National Geographic magazine. The whole thing gave a recap of the year. As a member of my school’s yearbook, I recognized the magazine as a yearbook for the world. But there was one quote in the magazine that struck a chord within me. It is so true and so it resonates within me like a guitar. It hit hard, and it hit home. In a magazine filled with many inspiring and brutally honest pictures and stories what photographer Rafal Milach said on “The Newfound Quiet” stuck with me. He said, “I’m afraid to get used to it. If the world speeds up ever again, the sound shift may be harsh.”

Lybah Haque, 11 memoir

33076 Kaori Nakamura, 11 color pencil on paper

52 26

29 53

Fire Fire is destruction and loss, ambition and desire A roaring flame that burns purpose into the heart and soul The mind and body face a furious struggle growing within A warm everlasting glow in the vast darkness

So Much Much I I So Would Like Like toto Say Say Would Every night when I kneel down to pray I feel things are not how they are supposed to be There is so much I would like to say So much to do, so short is each day I wish to strengthen what is weak in me Every night when I kneel down to pray Life seems like a play on Broadway We play our parts with gloom or glee There is so much I would like to say It's hard to keep doubts and fear at bay I wish to heal what's broken in me Every night when I kneel down to pray We shape each day like potter's clay So much strife, on little do we agree There is so much I would like to say Our leaders behave like a child's play I pray for our town, our country Every night when I kneel to pray There is so much I would like to say

Nikita Nangia, 11 villanelle

Realm Christine Yared, 12

oil on canvas

Heart of Wax Despite being inanimate, candles have memory. They remember their first burn, and if they were burned from edge to edge the first time they were lit, they’ll never be able to do so. Similarly, a candle that burns twice as bright will burn out twice as fast. Imagine a very bright candle that wasn’t given the chance to burn evenly the first time it was lit, that candle burns down at a rapid rate and is lopsided. Only for a short period does that candle burn at its brightest and at its most even, that period of time is the candles peak. People are a lot like candles. Most of us are uneven and some of us burn brighter than others. We all will peak at some point and we will all one day burn out.

Sydney Lieberman, 11 free verse

Pride Mina Dinh, 10 photography

Do Unto Others

ack at home, mission control held their collective breaths. A profound feeling of nervousness spread throughout the ranks, unsure if the mission would be a success. Considering the enormous consequences if it fell through, success was the only option. For Lee Johnson and Jack Butch, the feeling was one of nervous excitement. They had been friends since childhood, growing up in the same Brooklyn neighborhood, going to the same schools, and now, preparing to make history. The ungodly machine tore through the sky; intense turbulence made the steel plating vibrate like a droning insult. Droplets of rain

“

came, it left. Enormous turbulence took its place, shaking the plane with the force of God. Johnson grabbed the yoke in front of him, furiously pulling it towards him. The plane leveled out, and they began their long journey home. Walking into Whitfield’s office was strange. The normally stern demeanor of the military man was replaced with an almost childlike joy. He gestured for the two men to take a seat. They sat down on the other side of the desk, smelling the tobacco from Whifield’s cigar. He crumbled it on the ashtray and looked the two men in the eyes. “You did it, you bastards!” Butch grinned at his higher officer, while Johnson faked a smile. He was happy of course, but Johnson couldn’t get

In a second, hell shredded the serenity to pieces. A blinding light filled the cockpit, like looking directly at the sun. With this light came the heatfurious, unrelenting heat, like your very being was burning to ash.

raced down the massive window. Butch focused on the drops to calm his nerves. Johnson couldn’t help but think God himself was weeping for what they were about to do. Johnson suddenly grabbed a nearby lever and pulled it back, slowing their speed. This was Butch’s cue. He grabbed a map from a storage compartment and glanced at it. It was a ratty old thing, no less than 20 years old. How the world had changed in 20 years… Butch leaned to look out his window,

barely managing to identify anything through the ferocious rainstorm. He squinted, and sure enough, began to see vague shapes directly below. These shapes began to materialize with each passing second, and Butch knew they were in the right location. Butch returned the map to its metal tomb, and gave his friend a simple thumbs up. Johnson sighed, and grabbed a handlebar hanging from the ceiling. Both of them knew, when that bar was pulled, the world would never be the same. After a few seconds of hesitation,

”

Johnson pulled the bar down. For the next 30 seconds, time seemed to stop. The rain made a pleasantly calming sound as it hit the window. Machinery whirred lightly, as if recognizing the situation. In a second, hell shredded the serenity to pieces. A blinding light filled the cockpit, like looking directly at the sun. With this light came the heat–furious, unrelenting heat, like your very being was burning to ash.

the feeling of what he’d just done out of his head. “It was nothing, really.” Butch said. Faking modesty for compliments. Johnson saw right through him. Johnson spoke with his trademark nervous tone, “So, what now?” “Now? We wait for everything to come crashing down. Without Berlin, the krauts will be running around like headless chickens. If the Japanese don’t take the hint, the Soviets will take care of them. You just cut the heart out of

Just as quickly as this taste of Hell

the Axis. Pretty soon the body will die,”

Whitfield said with a grin. “And Hitler?” Johnson asked. “No contact since Berlin went under. If he’s not buried under pounds of rubble, he’s trapped in the worst city in the world,” Whitfield said happily. Johnson exhaled and slumped back into his chair. He held his face in his hands. “I need to go to bed. Reflect on all this.” “Of course.” Whitfield said, preparing another cigar. While Whitfield may have been right about one thing, he was dead wrong about everything else. The Germans and Japanese did surrender, but Berlin is nothing more than a radioactive wasteland. 230,000 were killed by the bomb, and Johnson couldn’t get that out of his head. Whitfield’s prediction of a “New Era of Peace” couldn’t have been farther from the truth. While fascist threat may have died, the communist one rose shortly after. The words “VICTORY 65’” were splashed above the stage in bold lettering. Each letter was red, white, and blue, with little stars inside. Johnson was all for patriotism, but this was a bit much. The two men, the two old friends, sat in separate chairs atop the stage, watching the crowd cheering below. There was a young man speaking into a microphone. He must have been 20, a newborn when the bomb was dropped. “Friends, we welcome you all to Victory 65!” He announced. For such a young kid, he had a good speaking voice. The crowd cheered loudly, waving American flags. “20 years ago, the United States used the most powerful weapon in history to

bring an end to Nazi tyranny, stopping the bloodshed of World War II,” The announcer continued. The crowd erupted into a crescendo. For Johnson, the last 20 years were a blur. After the war ended, Johnson returned to New York, and went on autopilot. He only had passing memories of major events. General Whitfield winning the Presidency in 56’, the Soviet nuclear test in 58’, even the President getting shot in 61’ evaded him. “Everyone, please give a great big round of applause to two of our greatest heroes, the men who cut the head off the Axis… John Butch and Lee Johnson!” The announcer yelled. Butch and Johnson rose from their seats, approaching two microphone stands at the edge of the stage. Butch cleared his throat, and began to speak. “Thank you, thank you all. You’re too kind. War is a silly thing. God would want us all to lock arms and march forward, as a species. But of course, that is impossible. They are always outliers, enemies who seek to attack another. Napoleon, the Kaiser, Adolf Hitler, and now, the Soviets. I believe that you, the people of America, will pave the way to the future. After all, soldiers are just citizens who are brave enough to fight. So, support America wherever she might need it. Support our boys in Vietnam. Thank you all. God bless America!” Butch finished his statement with a salute. The crowd erupted into cheers. This is why Johnson broke away from his former best friend. His blind patriotism clouded his judgment. Even after news broke of the horrific things America was doing in Vietnam, he still believed the U.S. of A. could do no wrong. Johnson wiped sweat from his fore-

head and began to speak. “In the long history of the world, humanity has… uh... “ He forgot his lines. Something about speaking in front of an expectant crowd did him in. “We need to continue and march to the future…” His perfectly planned speech dissipated in the air. “Please forgive Mr. Johnson. He suffers from a speech impediment. Just know that he loves you all, as citizens of America,” The announcer chimed in. Part of Johnson was annoyed at this, but another was glad he didn’t have to speak. “That does it for our first set of heroes. Please enjoy yourselves as we prepare the stage for our next hero, former President and military general, Henry Whitfield!” The announcer shouted, followed by another round of cheers. Chicago hotels were nothing like those down South. Sure, there were more of them, but nothing beats southern hospitality. Johnson might have spent his childhood in Brooklyn, but he was a Louisiana boy by birth. Johnson lit a cigarette and sat himself at his hotel room’s table. A newspaper was neatly folded in the center. He unfurled it and read the headlines. “NEW YORK GAY RIGHTS PROTEST PUT DOWN BY POLICE” Johnson never understood this. If people love a different sex, just let them be happy. Why should the government and police intervene? “MORE EVIDENCE OF U.S. WAR CRIMES IN VIETNAM COME FORWARD” What else is new? “AMERICAN, SOVIET TROOPS CLASH IN POLAND” This terrified the nation. Not Johnson. He knew this was bound to happen eventually. Either way, it was just a minor skirmish. Continued on page 63

Victimized Isabella Terpstra, 12 mixed media

Continued from page 61

“PRESIDENT RATHBONE DENIES KKK TIES” So? Every President in history has been some sort of racist. Why is this news? Johnson crumpled his cigarette in a nearby ashtray and placed the newspaper back on the table. Reading about how bad the world is tires a man out. He retreated into the bedroom and jumped into the king-sized bed. It was only 7 p.m., but Johnson was a tired man. His dreams were normally unsavory, but this one was absolutely horrific. He dreamed he was in Berlin, shortly after the bomb fell. It looked like Hell on Earth. Buildings all around were crumbling or destroyed. The sky glowed an ominous orange and the air prickled his skin. He saw people, if you can call them that. One boy, no older than 10, stumbled around. His right leg was twisted at an unnatural angle, with a bone protruding out. His face looked like wet clay. Strips of skin hanging off his face, some falling to the ground. One of his eyeballs dangled out of it’s socket, only connected by the thin optic nerve. His hair was melted to his scalp, resembling the skin of a reptile. “My sister, have you seen my sister…” He spoke. It sounded broken and pained. A man sat, leaned against a wall nearby. He was holding his face in his hands. As Johnson approached, the man shot his head up. His eyes were glazed over, pupils a milky white. As with the other boy, his skin looked like it was melting.

“

A deafening bang sounded. Johnson glanced out the window and saw a towering mushroom cloud in the distance, it’s shock wave rapidly approaching. Buildings were torn apart and people were vaporized.

”

“I’m blind! I’m blind! I-” His frantic screaming trailed off when a flurry of deafening sounds erupted. It sounded like gunshots, but extraordinarily loud

looks dire. At 9:24 a.m., the United States launched 15 nuclear warheads at the Soviet Union. Contact with Moscow has been lost. We believe

and coming from everywhere. Johnson awoke with a fright to the sound of knocking at the hotel room door. He rolled out of bed, and opened the furnished door. He was greeted by none other than Butch, looking frantic and panicked. “What’s wrong?” Johnson asked, still shaking the sleep from his mind. “It’s the Russians. They… They threatened us with missiles. Goddammit! We’re at DEFCON 2. President’s going to give an address soon. Turn on your TV and just wait. I have to prepare some things,” he said. Butch left, running down the hallway to his room. Johnson switched on the TV and sat on the couch. The droning of the Emergency Broadcast System filled the room. Johnson’s mind began to wander. It was only natural for the Russians to threaten us. A few weeks ago, a nuclear-capable spy plane crashed in Siberia, and the pilot was imprisoned. This was just a show of force. As long as the military keep their cool… Johnson’s thoughts were cut off by voices coming from the TV. President John Rathbone appeared on the TV, standing in front of the Seal of the United States. “My fellow Americans, the situation

the threat is real and retaliation is a certainty. Please relocate yourselves to your nearby fallout shelter. If you have no fallout shelter nearby, please take cover in any safe place nearby, such as a closet or basement. Always remember, no matter the situation, America will prevail. Thank you, and God bless you all,” Rathbone said, before the broadcast returned to the EBS. Johnson got up and switched off the TV. Air raid sirens began to sound. He glanced out his window and saw chaos in the city below. People ran frantically, and cars sped by erratically. Johnson slumped onto the couch and sighed. It was strange. He was witnessing the end of the world, yet he felt calm. A deafening bang sounded. Johnson glanced out the window and saw a towering mushroom cloud in the distance, it’s shock wave rapidly approaching. Buildings were torn apart and people were vaporized. As the shock wave rocked the hotel, one last thought ran through Johnson’s mind. I did unto others, and they did the same unto me.

Ethan Zeichner, 11 short story

Kore and Persephone Every step she took Sprung flowers in her wake And her hair moved with The elegance of the spring sky But in her eyes held a stare More terrifying than death How beautiful, innocent Kore Became queen of the Underworld How her name, Once leapt from the mouths Of careless forest nymphs Now whispered only in hushed tones By those who dare risk her wrath How the tart taste of pomegranate seeds Stained her tongue red And the taste of power and darkness Burnt at her rose petal lips So she shed her name, Kore: Maiden, Child, Daughter For one that shook the earth With every bored tap of her nails For a name that could turn green meadows To frozen wastelands With just a glance Persephone: Bringer of Destruction

Reese Lansman, 11 free verse

Approaching the Magical Gate Angela Guiso, 10 digital art

Ducks Aren’t Hobos Syd and Mya walk into frame, along the sidewalk, sharing earbuds. Music is playing and it is clear it is coming from their earbuds. Syd smiles and waves her arms with the music.

ma's birthday dinner. He kept going on about being spiritually in touch with himself or something. He's so weird. Like, nobody cares, Garet. SYD

(making fun of MYA) Yeah, it really backfired when your dad made you join the club with him after.

MYA

I’m never going to do yoga, he must be absolutely mental if he thinks I'm ever setting food in that gym.

SYD

(rolls her eyes) Yeah, think you made that clear.

MYA

Good, anyway did you hear the new Bikini Kill song?

SYD

(confused) No, I don’t think they’ve made music since like... 2015.

GARET Are you coming to the yoga club meeting?

MYA

(now also confused) Oh... who was that then?

MYA

MYA and SYD pass by a 7-Eleven.

SYD

70s is the best era for music.

MYA

Totally.

SYD

Oh play Fleetwood Ma-

Garet runs on screen, stopping in front of Mya and Syd. GARET (like it’s hurting him to be nice) Hey Mya! Mya pulls her headphone out of her ear, clearly annoyed. The music suddenly stops; MYA

What do you want, Garet? (monotone) I’d rather walk into the lake with rocks in my pockets.

Syd laughs genuinely. GARET (desperate) Mya you promised you would try yoga. MYA

I changed my mind. Namaste Garet!

Maya walks away, but Syd stays with Garet GARET (yelling to her, desperate) I'm telling Uncle Jess!

SYD

(eager) Hey, wait! Let's stop for a slurpee.

SYD immediately starts walking toward the 7-Eleven, dragging MYA with her by the headphones. MYA

(judging) We got one yesterday.

SYD

(not caring) So?

Syd and Mya go into the 7-Eleven

MYA

(yelling back, carelessly) Whatever!

MAMA (warmly from the cash register, heavy southern accent) Hey girls

SYD

(subtly mocking) Oh no Garet, looks like your nail polish chipped a little.

SYD

(bubbly, suddenly with a southern accent) Hi MAMA!

SYD

(leans over the counter to kiss her on the cheek) Can I get a slurpee? Please please please?

Syd stretches to kiss Garet on the cheek and then skips to catch up with Mya. Garret doesn’t look surprised and walks away. Mya sighs and unpauses her music. Music starts playing again. MYA

(to her phone) Sorry Stevie.

MYA

(to Syd) I hate Garet.

SYD

(scolding) Don’t say that, Mya.

MYA

(confused) I thought you hated him too.

SYD

Only because you do. (Desperate now) He’s your cousin he’s just trying to help.

MYA

(annoyed. Gets faster as she rants) I don’t need help. It's not my fault I yelled at him at grand

Mya smiles in reaction to Syd’s sudden switch of accents. MAMA (pretending to be surprised) That’s your third this week Syd, might have to start charging you. SYD runs off screen. MAMA Weren’t you supposed to be at yoga today Mya? MYA

(annoyed to be making small talk) Yeah, well I changed my mind.

MAMA (genuine) Oh no. Garet must be devastated.

MYA

I like Murdoc.

MYA

SYD

Next band, make it harder.

MYA

(laughing) One Direction.

SYD

(laughing but hesitant) Oh no! Can I think about it?

MYA

(joking) It’s speed round!

SYD

(deflecting) Who’s yours?

MYA

(confident) Zayn.

SYD

Typical.

MYA

Shut up! You say yours.

SYD

(confident) Louis definitely.

MYA

(sincere) That’s surprising. I would’ve thought you’d say Harry.

SYD

(shrugging and smiling) It’s a package deal, really.

Obviously.

Mama (desperately) Well, how’s school going for you Mya? MYA

(mumbling) I hate that question.

SYD

(walks back into the screen with a big plastic cup) Thanks Momma.

Mya grabs a bag of Cheez-Itz near the door and walks out with Syd right behind her. MYA

(annoyed) Do you really have to tell her everything?

SYD

(exasperated switching back to her normal accent) Yeah, you already know everything about you so who am I supposed to talk to about you.

MYA

(genuine) You make a really good point.

SYD

(dismissive) Obviously, can we go to the bridge.

MYA

(whiney) But it's so far away...

SYD

(like it's obvious) Well then maybe you should take your driving test.

MYA

(accusatory) Why can’t you drive? You have your license.

SYD

(same tone) I do, don’t have a car though.

MYA

MYA laughs. . MYA (bored) Can we leave now, Syd? SYD

One second.

Three ducks walk up to Syd and Mya. Syd takes the top off of her slurpee cup and takes out a piece of bread. MYA

(shocked) I know you did not just take bread out of your slurpee cup.

Well, I don’t either.

SYD

It’s for the ducks.

SYD

(annoyed) You know your dad would definitely get you a car if you got your license.

MYA

(confused) Wait, they sell loaves of bread at the gas station?

MYA

(dismissive) I guess we’ll never know.

SYD

Yeah. It’s really cheap. You know in case the hobos get enough money or something like that.

MYA

(lighthearted) Ducks aren’t hobos. They’re animals; they can get their own food.

SYD

(convincing) But they'll love me if I bring them bread.

MYA

(joking) Is my love not good enough for you Syd? (monotone) No Mya. Sometimes it’s not.

Syd bumps her backpack into Mya’s. They reach the bridge and sit at the edge. SYD

(joking) You gonna jump today?

MYA

(laughing) You first.

Cut to them still at the bridge, but the sun is starting to set. SYD

Beatles.

MYA

George.

SYD

(laughing) Yeah I wouldn’t brag about that...

MYA

(curious) Why? Who’s yours?

Mya looks at Syd hurt. Syd continues to toss bread to the ducks, not looking at Mya.

SYD

(smiling) Ringo.

MYA

(hurt just a little) What is that supposed to mean?

SYD

(explaining) I mean, you radiate this energy that makes it seem like you don’t have much love in your heart to start with, but I know deep down you do. Continued on page 68

They laugh. MYA

Gorillaz.

SYD

(hesitant) Oh um. 2D.

Continued from page 67

MYA

(joking) Geez you sound like Garet. Just because I’m not as bubbly as you doesn’t mean I’m a bad person.

SYD

(defensive) I didn’t say that, Mya.

MYA

(arguing) Well it kinda sounded like it.

Syd lays back onto the grass looking at the sky. SYD

(relaxed, turning to Mya) Just lay with me for a second.

MYA

No, that’s ridiculous.

SYD

(convincing) Oh come on, look at the sky with me.

MYA

No.

SYD

(pleading) Please.

MYA

(determined) No, get up.

SYD

(gets up, upset) You need to learn how to relax. (joking) I know, You should try yoga!

MYA

(laughing) Whatever, you’re the one who won’t go home if her house is empty.

SYD

(brushing it off) No, I like spending time with you.

MYA

(pushy) No, you're afraid of being alone. Admit it.

SYD

Wait, we were talking about you.

Mya shrugs.

MYA

(shrugs) Possibly.

SYD

(defeated) Well fine, I can't go home alone. I can't be alone.

SYD

(annoyed) You always do this Mya. I’m sick of it.

MYA

(mocking) What are you going to do, go home?

Mya says nothing.

SYD

(determined) Yes, I am. (Syd walks away).

SYD

Cut to MYA opening the door to the 7-Eleven. Syd is sitting on the counter sipping through a slurpee. Mama is not on screen. SYD

(sighs) What?

MYA

(annoyed. Heavy use of air quotes) Don’t “what” me, “what” you. You said you were going home.

Is that what you were dying to hear. At least I can admit it. You can’t admit that you have borderline anger issues. It makes you angry just thinking about it. You always change the subject to my faults instead. Why do you do that Mya? Why is this so hard for you?

Mya stays silent with a blank expression. SYD

(defeated) You should just go Mya.

MYA

I’m sorry; you’re right. I have anger issues.

SYD

(unconvinced) I don’t believe you.

SYD

(mocking) I changed my mind. Sound familiar?

MYA

(exasperated) This is ridiculous, Syd!

MYA

(confused) What?

SYD

(annoyed) No, you're ridiculous. Why’d you even come here anyway, to prove a point?

SYD

(says it slower) I don’t believe you.

MYA

(confused and annoyed) What do you want me

Out in the Open Harrison Sparaco, 10

photography

to do? It takes Syd a moment to respond, but she looks confident.

SYD

(pouts and gives MYA puppy eyes) Whatever.

MYA

(takes a deep breath) Fine, I’ll go.

SYD

(eyes light up and she jumps off the counter, celebratory) I did it!

SYD

(smug) Go to yoga.

MYA

(surprised, raising her voice) What, no!

MYA

(laughs) What are you doing?

SYD

(smug) Go!

SYD

MYA

(determined) Absolutely not!

(calming down) You don’t have to go if you don’t want to, I just needed you to listen to me for once.

SYD

(exited) I’ll tell Garet you’re in.

SYD

(confused) Why?

MYA

I just-

SYD

(annoyed) You always have to stand your ground, don’t you?

MYA

Yeah, kinda.

Syd starts for the door. Syd pulls out her phone. Mya makes a desperate grab MYA Where are you going? for Syds phone but Syd dives over the other side of the SYD I’m going home. counter. MYA (confused) By yourself ? MYA (feeling bad but still upset) I can’t. I’m sorry. SYD

(grabs Mya’s hand and heads back to the door) No! You’re coming with me.

MYA

Namaste Syd.

Avery Lansman, 09 one-act script

Harrison Sparaco Featured Photographer

08, 15, 28, 53, 54

View more of Harrison’s work on pages 10, 14, and 69

arrison Sparaco is a sophomore at Marjory Stoneman Douglas High School. Besides photography, he enjoys playing the guitar and making music in his free time. He is member of both DECA and newspaper. In His Own Words: “I first got interested in photography after I bought myself a drone. I saw a lot of videos of drone flying, and it seemed like fun. I started to take pictures of the neighborhood when I first started, and I ended up liking it. I then moved on to taking nature photos, and I loved the high-resolution pictures that came from the drone. I get inspired whenever I travel and find new spots. There’s something so inspiring about going to a place you’ve never been before and taking a photo is the best way to preserve its memory. The photos I took were taken on a hike in Tennessee; there were so many amazing things we saw along the hike. I like taking photos of nature, there’s something both calming and exciting. And because I use a drone, I am able to get a new perspective–a birds-eye view if you will–of things in nature like lakes and waterfalls that traditional photographers with regular cameras can’t get. For now, photography is just a hobby for me. It is something to do in my free time or whenever I travel. But I hope I will continue to do photography in the future. Maybe I will continue it as a hobby or pursue it as a career. As of right now, I don’t really know. My advice would be to not be afraid to try different mediums for photography. It seems strange but before my drone, I had only taken photos with a regular camera or my phone, but there is something different and much more thrilling about using a drone for photography, but I never would have known unless I tried.”

Geetanjali Srivastava G Featured Writer

eetanjali Srivastava is a sophomore at Marjory Stoneman Douglas High School. Besides writing, she enjoys baking, reading, drinking coffee, going to the gym, and watching Gilmore Girls. She is a member of National Honor Society, Mu Alpha Theta, and Big Brothers, Big Sisters. She would categorize herself as the water element. She sees herself as a very sensitive and sentimental person. In Her Own Words: “I was born in 2006 in Lucknow, India. I traveled within India a lot, and soon I moved to Dubai where I spent most of my childhood. In all, I’ve been to more than 15 schools. From this immense amount of traveling, the most important thing I got to experience was exposure. I learned so much at such a young age. I met many different people each time I went to a new school, some nice, and well, some not so nice. Though it was hard at first to move so much since I could never make many friends, soon I learned to be my own friend, I learned to be self-sufficient and independent, and now I’ve started to enjoy my own company, and writing has helped me a lot with this. I learned to pour my thoughts and feelings onto paper, and soon paper became a friend of mine. My traveling has many times been an aspiration for my writing since there is just so much I want to say about it, and other times it’s my happiness or my sorrows that I put onto paper. I don’t have a set routine for writing, usually, things come to me and that is when I build upon them and soon I’ve written a piece. I got into writing freshman year, in Mrs. Lippel’s class, Creative Writing I. I used to hate writing, and there was a good reason for it. English was not my first language, and to express myself in a language I didn’t even know properly was really difficult for me. Even now, as I write this, my English is very simple compared to others. However, when I walked into Mrs. Lippel’s class, I learned that writing was not just limited to an essay or current event, it was so much more. She introduced me to so many more styles, and above all, she gave us the freedom to write about what we want. When I came into Mrs. Falkowski’s class, she told me the same thing, to write whatever we want about whoever we

want. I was surprised because usually, one would expect a set of rules for an assignment like my other teachers give. But neither Mrs. Lippel nor Mrs. Falkowski ever restricted my creativity and gave me opportunities to navigate through the different sects of writings. Hence, I give all my writing credit to Mrs. Lippel and Mrs. Falkowski because they are the ones who introduced writing to me. I would tell aspiring writers to write about what they are passionate about. Many times new writers have only experienced writing in the form of an assignment from a class. Hence, I feel it is very important to experience writing the way one wants in order for them to really become a writer. Thus, I would say to write about things they are passionate about, and while writing, don’t judge yourself. I used to judge my writings a lot because I used to compare mine with others and pointed out the many flaws I thought I had. But now I realize those arent flaws, they’re differences, and differences are what make one’s writing original. While I write, I like to think I’m having a conversation with the paper, and I try to pour all my feelings out on the paper. Once I’m done with that, then I go back and edit, and revise if needed. The most important thing to remember while writing is that writing has no rules, no piece has to fit any criteria, so write however you want. My favorite writing style has been memoir these past few months because during quarantine many memories have just been coming back to me. When I grow up, I plan to write occasionally but not as a career. Writing has been something I do when feeling any heightened emotion, may that be sadness or happiness. Also, I write mostly for myself and I’ve noticed quite a lot that when I have to write something specific with restrictions, I just cannot write. Thus, I think it is best for me to just keep writing on the side, and of course, if I get any chances here and there I would participate in a few writing events, I just feel writing would not be fitting for me as a career but more as a hobby. I honestly do not have any specific writers that inspire me, since I read various different things, and I’m still trying to figure out what my writing style is and what I like to read the most.”

Read Geetanjali’s work on pages 12 and 32

View more of Christine’s work on pages 33 and 57.

Christine Yared Featured Artist

hristine Yared is a senior at Marjory Stoneman Douglas High School. Beyond her love for art, she enjoys reading and writing. She has been published in two different newspapers. She is a member of DECA. Christine participated in some political activism during high school, which inspired her to major in political science this fall at George Washington University. She most identifies with the fire element, as she is passionate about things she cares about, and she sees herself as hot-headed. In Her Own Words: “Both of my parents are involved in art; my dad is a photographer and my mom is a painter. They inspired me to start doing art at a young age, and I’ve been involved in the arts ever since. I’m mostly inspired by people, as they are what I tend to paint.

I love scrolling through Pinterest to find unique and interesting portraits and faces that I can put my own twist on. I’m a big art nerd, so I love many different types of art, but one of my favorite styles is semi-abstract. I love seeing solid concepts being taken out of focus and turned into something more artistic. Although I won’t be studying art in college, I plan on continuing pursuing it on the side in the future. I’ll continue to draw and paint whenever I get the chance, and maybe display or sell some of my art if the opportunity arises. My biggest advice to an aspiring artist is to dedicate some time to do art each week. With art, practice and time developing your skills are super important, so having a set time or date each week that you plan on doing some art is a great way to build a habit that will allow you to improve as an artist.”

Colophon

rtifex is published using Adobe InDesign CC 2018, Adobe Photoshop CC 2018 on one Apple iMac. Artifex was printed by the Sun-Sentinel. Two hundred fifty copies were printed and distributed to the student body (about 3,300) for free. The cover is printed on 100-pound coated cover paper. The interior pages are printed on 60-pound offset stock paper. All 80 pages are printed in full color. Copy is set in 11-point Adega Serif font. Literature and art bylines are set in 12-point Made Mirage Medium and 10-point Made Mirage Thin. Headlines sizes vary. but are set in Bacalisties font. Folios are set in 18-point

Made Mirage Bold. Artifex is a member of the Columbia Scholastic Press Association, the Florida Scholastic Press Association, and the National Scholastic Press Association. The 2020 Artifex was an NSPA Pacemaker and a CSPA Silver Crown. 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 the Essentials category and the Visual category by CSPA.

Editorial Policy

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 is included, and not just many submissions from a few students. 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 to from 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.

Staff 76

Editor-in-Chief - Lybah Haque Design Editor - Reese Lansman* Submissions Editors - Gabriela Bravo, Leslie Chacon, and Nikita Nangia

Editor’s Note

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 of 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 tthe Google Forms sent out by litmagmsd@ gmail.com.

Art continues to be a lasting part of our world and it is us who continues to contribute to it. When the COVID-19 Pandemic began, it felt as if all things had come to a stop, however, art kept going. It was the amazing and imaginative minds of artists that kept creating work that continued to inspire and bring the world together. During the past year, we were up against the elements, socially distanced and disconnected, but it was art that connected our hearts and minds to bring peace to the world. 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.

Special Thanks

special thanks to the Lawrence A. Sanders Foundation, Inc. for patronizing the arts for the last 13 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 directing us through a computer screen while we created the magazine from the comforts of our homes and school due to online learning. Without her, we never would have been able to complete this magazine. Thank you to our contest participants and winners, Karen Prada and Santiago Vasquez for the Haiku Contest, Lydia Samuel for the Villanelle Contest, Avery

Adviser - Melissa Falkowski Staff: Gisele Jimenez *All layouts were designed by Reese Lansman

Lansmen for the Script/One-Act Contest, Mina Dinh and Alexis Tracton for the Elemental Photography and Art Contest, and Mackenzie Mueller for the Six Word Memoir Contest. You can find their work throughout this magazine. An extra special thanks to our staff members for working so hard to get the magazine finished despite being separated by the pandemic. Without their efforts, this book would not be finished and of the quality that it is. 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.

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.