Design
Design by Aisha Hashmi
EntomicAdventures
Entomic (en·tom·ic): adj. denoting or relating to insects
The tiny creatures of the world that are often ignored or cast aside aren’t all that much different from you and me. No matter the developments that push the world into an industrious force, we can never escape the truth: humans are a part of nature. We cannot force ourselves to separate from Mother Earth. The challenges we find in our daily lives are exaggerated by the isolation society forces us into. When thoughts, like invasive vines, tangle and twist into a cage around your mind, look past the walls of your fortress and into a reflection of who you are when you are outside.
Nearby the centipede marches an army of ants. Crawling purposefully back to their nest, carrying the weight of their world on their back. It is no easy feat to feed each member of their colony. And so they work as cogs in a machine to ensure their livelihoods.
Watching the sunrise on the horizon evokes deep pangs in your chest. Another night passed, and you have no progress to show for it. In the corner of your eye, barely noticeable, a tiny little centipede squirms within the ground. Your attention is drawn to the slinking insect whose worries seem to outweigh your own. The fresh dewdrops that decorate the grass aren’t close enough to sustain him.
New construction has proven to be a great adversary to the tiny creature. Concrete and cement have now dried up the once fertile land. Weeks with no rain have shriveled up his feeble body. With no great being to take pity on him, he weeps. Hope is seemingly lost, yet he still goes on with the motions of life.
He pushes himself from the dry concrete to the damp grass and continues his search. Reluctant to give up, he persists in his fight to survive. The miserable energy that once exuded from his tiny body slowly dissipates as he reaches his destination. Sure, once high noon hits, it will return, and he must restart his search for drops of water. But for now, he has no choice but to live.
The individual ant can easily be crushed under the weight of a pinky finger, but when you have hundreds working in tandem, they create a system of life. They work to survive and survive to work. Holding no other identity besides the crumbs carried in their powerful mandibles, the unfulfilling nature of their life can only be noticed by the ones above.
Acknowledging their work comes with a surprising sense of empathy; each day, you work on unforgiving tasks that seem to reap no real rewards besides your survival. When may we be able to stop just surviving and start living?
A pink-spotted butterfly lands on beautiful daffodils just past the ant nest. Its wings flap sensitively like paper in a light breeze. Hopping and flying from pistil to pistil, it searches for the nectar it desired all day.
You see what you want in life in this gorgeous insect: to have the freedom to live by your own accord. The freedom that accompanies flight. Flight may not escape all the troubles of an industrious life, but it creates the freedom to live and to create a new path for yourself. With a kaleidoscope of color and so much joy to offer, it allows the release of earthly worries and crafts a new perspective.
The butterfly takes off, its magenta wings contrasting the bright blue sky. Fear and hunger have never been known by this creature. As it ascends, it flutters away from the daffodils and on to smell the roses.
Slinking
Gliding with movements that seem smooth, Like tears flowing down a rosy face, Thousands of tiny legs to climb, Each growing numb, nearly callus, now, Feeling with nothing to gain, each leg may Curl in on itself, turning into a worm, if anything at all
A worm you are not, perhaps something of all, Hidden in the soil, turning slimy and smooth, In rain and floods, they come when they may, What is there to see with no saved face, Nothing can be done right now, But dig through the soil, to the sun you must climb
Eurydice
Once as alluring as soft springtime rays of the sun. You brought warmth and grace prevailing that of the sun in your gaze. A warmth that the world will never replace.
You were taken swiftly, hastily snagged by the cold grasp of death, keen and cocky. I will walk the long road, my path ahead flagged bright red, lined all the way to hell with poppies.
At the end of my journey, it was said there was but a deal we had to see done. For the rest of the arduous path ahead, I cannot look back, ‘till her face sees the sun.
I couldn’t fulfill the task I was told–he stole my sun; I will mourn in the cold.
Bridget Hart, 11 sonnet
You Swam Through The Cold Sea Andres Fuenmayor, 12 photography
by
Andie Korenge
Not Enough
Jessica Sadowsky, 12 acrylic paint on paper
Design
Body Picture Perfect
I grew up with magazines with picture perfect models
I was told that is the ideal body type I looked in the mirror and saw something different They all had the dream body so why didn’t I?
It’s because my body will never be theirs; it’s fat in all the wrong places, it’s ugly everywhere, it’s not picture perfect, it’s not beautiful. Therefore, I am not beautiful.
Zahra Mohammed, 10 free verse poem
AfraidBe Not
Be not afraid, for heaven is where you shall go if you do not sin.
Be not afraid, for God has plans for you.
Be not afraid, for death is not the end.
Be not afraid, for if you confine to faith, you shall be saved.
Be not afraid, young one, and perhaps you shall ascend.
However, if you do not,
Be afraid, endless torture awaits in Hell,
Be afraid, death shall be the end of your pleasure,
Be afraid, you shall be sacrificed, Be afraid, God shall love you no more,
Be afraid, for your suffering shall be an example to those who sin.
Do not listen to those who worship Satan.
Do not listen to those who hate God.
Do not listen to those who claim they know what happens after death, for they do not.
Do not resist your torture, for worse shall happen if such.
One can avoid Hell by devoting one’s body and mind to God, By allowing God into one’s life, By allowing God into one’s soul, By allowing oneself to be taken by God, For God shall love unconditionally unless one breaks God’s heart. Be. Not. Afraid.
Ashley Salazar, 10 free verse poem
Angel Scarabe
Olivia Campodonico, 12 ceramics
SomethingForeign
PacificWoods . Reese hesitates at the sign. It’s halfburied under plant life and creepers, and she can barely read the fading letters. Its age tells of the time when the territory of the forest was only just starting to grow past the legs of the sign. Reese knows because she had been in that same spot years ago, when her parents took her and her sister to see the shore of the woods.
Now, thin pines tower above her, dappling sunlight across her hair. She had entered the Pacific Woods about thirty minutes ago, passing newer billboards that already had the beginnings of flower buds clustered around their stands. The rapid growth of the Woods always brought her awe. It would be amazing if it wasn’t so terrifying.
Anxiety forms as a lump in her throat, and Reese nearly tears her bottom lip as she bites down hard. She attempts to use the breathing exercise her doctor had recommended, before scowling and starting to walk again. She shouldn’t waste time while May is still out somewhere in the shallows of the woods. She can only pray that her niece hasn’t gone too deep.
May is hidden under the overhang of a boulder, thick
“She’s the only witness to the behemoth that comes into view.”
brush and dangling ivy camouflaging her from view. Reese wouldn’t have ever noticed her if it weren’t for the feeble squeak that left her niece’s lips upon the sight of someone she knew.
Reese gasps, rushing to the girl’s side, and they meet each other in the middle as May also hurries to reunite with her. Reese’s embrace around May doesn’t cease, minutes passing as she holds her head to her chest. Her shoulders droop as relief lifts the heavy feelings of anxiety from her.
She steps back from May, kneeling down and putting her hands on her shoulders. Her eyes scan her niece’s figure, thankfully only sighting small scrapes and cuts littering her skin. Although it looked like it ached, it was better than not being found at all.
“C’mon, we’re getting out of here. Now.”
May only nodded, a haunted glint reflecting in her eyes as her throat seized up. Her hand found Reese’s and grasped it tightly.
They set a steady pace as they went back the way
they came, roots the size of their bodies piercing the earth around them. The enlarged undergrowth made it especially hard to navigate at a quick rate, and soon the sun was already going down, much to Reese’s chagrin.
They were still in the twilight zone, where trees stood at least a mile tall, and their large canopies made it difficult for light to reach the forest floor. Bushes crowded the ground, bearing berries the size of volleyballs. The mushrooms were large enough to sit on, and they did a few times as May’s tiny legs would get tired once in a while.
It must’ve been an hour or two at the point when they stopped for the fifth time. The late sunset shrouded the woods in an even darker hue, and Reese knew they had to stop for shelter to avoid the monstrous mosquitoes that would soon emerge.
“Here.”
Reese led May to the hollow of a tree, the tight squeeze inside opened into a more spacious area, where they knew they would be safe for the night. Better to stop now and save their energy.
It was a miracle they hadn’t encountered anything predatory. Even a mere fox would’ve been their end.
Reese recalls how they could grow bigger than regular land wolves in a study she did for university ages ago. Something about the oxygen being so pure in the Woods that animals would grow exponentially large.
Reese kisses her niece’s forehead and urges her to sleep, bundling up her own knees against her chest to peer out into the woods. She knew she wouldn’t be getting any sleep even if she tried, anxiety once again alight along her nerves and making her heart beat just a bit faster than normal at all times.
Still, she stares down at May, watching her breathe, thanking the gods that she was even alive.
It’s when thunder breaks the background drone of crickets.
No, Reese thinks as another booming echo sounds, it’s something alive.
The steps become closer, exactly five seconds apart, she counts. She prays to nothing that the creature won’t
Design by Aisha Hashmi
notice them and stroll right pass as the noise becomes deafening.
Her eyes stay glued to the small crack along the bark of the tree. She’s the only witness to the behemoth that comes into view.
Its eyes shine in the moonlight, big and lacking pupils, staring right into her soul. There are four of them, two on each side of its head, the other pair hidden from her sight. Its fur is shaggy, hanging off its head like vines over a roof. Moss covers its antlers and droops from it like a waterfall. Reese’s breath leaves her lungs.
A hoof steps into the minimal light. It looks to be bigger than her car. Its ears twitch and it stops for a moment.
Reese is caught within a staring contest between her
and the beast. For all she knows, it might not even know she’s there, but she’s caught in its gaze anyway.
A rumble sounds from its throat, and she thinks she might die from panic right then and there, but then it starts its slow gait again, the rest of its body coming into view soon enough, an ancient, worn statue gracing the earth.
Reese breathes again. It would be beautiful if it weren’t so terrifying.
Jasmin Beato, 11 short story
The Three Bears Keira Chen, 12 ceramics
Despair in theRocking Chair
First it was your mother, Then your father. You couldn’t bear To lose another.
You stood in the rain, Staring at their graves. You were hollow, As you begged for less pain.
As you returned home that night, Your tears were like a shower. You couldn’t stop, Even though you knew it wasn’t right.
Then smallpox struck, And your brothers were no more. Your heart broke, As you couldn’t fathom your disastrous luck.
Now you sit in the chair, Rocking your life away. No one could save you, So you rock in despair.
Ahana Tippanagoudar, 9 ekphrastic poem
Design by Aisha Hashmi
The Flowers of Dreams Alexandra Martinez, 12 mixed media
Design
by
Aisha Hashmi
Fallen Girl The
There was once a girl who fell, and when she fell, she fell apart. Her ink drifted from her barren arms to her stars drawn around her scars. She cracked her bones as she touched the crooked cracks, not caring to skip over the dangerous, unrealistic myths. When she crashed, her skin discarded her worn-out clothes and blew her away in an epiphany. She was free in a world far from her expectations. When she sang her stolen lullabies her voice drifted throughout the streets of emptiness. No one cared to visit her, as she was left to shrivel in loneliness.
Whenever kids skipped through the empty, crooked streets, they would hear the faint whispers of the forgotten girl. Her ink spattered onto the sealed cracks that were once visible, and her bones scattered near a slanted road. They would run in astonishment, not fear, for they had just discovered the ancient myths of the girl who lost her dreams. When the poor girl wilted in the strong rays of daylight, she lay on the ground that took her dear life, touching it with pure admiration. She would think of the days she had lost and the dreams she could have pursued if she had listened to the unforgettable rumors of the miserable cracks. Yet, secretly, she hoped she would be lured into the wet cement that surrounded her mind. Tucked into the lines of monotone paint that only trusted her. She waded out into the dark, wild ocean waves rising to her neck. She would feel the desolate agony of heavy pattering showering from the dark skies. Her weak palms even felt the light thumping of the silent steps of innocent children scurrying throughout the mystical streets. Her swollen cheeks would stain the dark sidewalks that were towered by wilted trees.
Often, she would gaze in regret at the trees that were once flushed with joy, reminding herself of the hope she could have kept. Winter would pass and Spring would spoil the trees that did not deserve love, blossoming them with vibrant pressures. They were expected to stay beautiful, perfect. But it was not possible in such conditions. Stress piled onto the leaves until the wind gusted away the wonderful fragrance of precious rosebuds, they were left dead, forgotten. The cycle of seasons continued in no remembrance of the once beautifully kept flowers. The girl connected herself to the flower, sensing the misery it must have felt when ignored. She treated them better than she did herself, pouring every ounce of water into something she cared for. Others believe she should have watered herself instead, but her songs rang through the streets:
I should not be watered, for I am dead and can no longer
grow to my potential.
So, kids remembered the dark saying, “Do not water dead plants,” and it stayed in their hearts ever since the disappearance of the young girl. In the death of her reputation, she truly felt alive.
In her darkest moments, she glimmered over water, her gaze running away like the flow of an obnoxious ocean wave. Her eyes would shimmer at the sight of others who envied her, envied her for nothing but misery. Her pupils would dilate to a shade of mahogany, matching the shade of those poor, useless, blossoms. She lived off pure water from the darkest oceans, Earth’s mighty rays, and even the soil that anchored her into the undiscovered ground. Her roots transported worry from its deepest depths over to her gracious, delicate petals. Her stem could barely hold her overwhelming support, tilting her wilted body. She most definitely despised her colorless petals. She hated the way they leaned in agony, desperate for change. Waiting for something with meaning to come through. Others crushed her soul, ignoring the presence of an immortal plant. Each day she wilted more, leaning for support from the already dead layered grass. Whose shards thrusted into her broken stem, ruining her self-esteem. She had nothing left, no one to rely on. For she was now a dead plant in the vast, unknown world. She succumbed to the stomp of an uncontrollable sneaker, smushed to fit in with how they lived. She was no longer free; this was not what she imagined. For she was reborn as a faded, meaningless flower, whose life did not matter to those who used to care.
She tried to change the ending, running like water. When you are young, they assume you know nothing. But she knew everything. She waited for someone to come for her, to save her from her misery. Yet no one bothered to glance at what used to be the anchor of those children’s empty neighborhood. No one even cared to mention that young girl, whose thoughts spilled onto the broken sidewalks. She regretted her decision, struggling to stay alive without any of the sky’s dreadful tears. She would often clutch onto the water that poured from her colorless cheeks, sustaining it with desperation. On her last day, the sun appeared brighter than her happiness, its rays shining brightly towards her lifeless body. She could not wilt any longer; she could suffer no longer. She was gone, failing her second chance to live. She had nothing left to tend, trapped in her ugly reflection. So, when she fell, she fell apart. Falling back onto those bare sidewalks that decorated her forgotten tears.
Ria Sethi, 10 fable
Wash
Away
The waves rise and fall, Cleansing souls who entrust it Yet my worries stay.
Kate Davies, 9 haiku
Cascade Savanah Venter, 12 colored pencils on paper
TheSNOW PRINCESS
Strolling through the castle grounds
A princess who is up and around
Inside the castle walls
Are long and dark halls
Usually on a winter morning
Birds chirping
A breeze growing
Something felt uneasy
An unpleasant feeling growing in her
The castle halls darken more
No candles
No warmth
Windows open
The princess looks outside
White flakes falling from the sky
No bird makes a sound nor do they fly
An evil laugh from up high
Looking up, seeing someone who’s evil
This feels unreal
The witch spots the princess
She runs fast, but can’t make it far
She hides in a room
It’s filled with buckets, mops, and brooms
Footsteps get closer
Heart beats faster
She hides when the door swings open
The witch had been awoken
The princess closed her eyes
She can’t be found
She can’t make a sound
An unpleasant feeling all around
The witch knowing she was there Grabbed her out of nowhere
“You can run, but you can’t hide,” she spoke Evil in her tone.
Midnight’s Sun Alexander Freedman, 10 photography Design by Aisha Hashmi
The witch took the princess back to her secret place
It was no longer safe
That’s where her story begins
Once upon a time in a land far, far away, the Snow Princess was taken away…
Zainub Siddiqi, 11 rhymed poem
BackwardsFalling
As I climb further deep into an unfounded abyss
Silence hears the piercing pain throbbing through my palms
Noticing the world sit still as if to taunt me
When I gaze to the sky and find dismal nothings, I think only of you.
The dark void waits enduringly to wash me clean
Hair of fine silk, eyes of flame
In my final moments of life, all thoughts linger
You would have found this a humorous end, if not torturous.
My life is in the grasp of this dark and endless pit
Feeling the steps of a stranger dance below
Blood seeps from my hands into nothing
Suffering could never truly mean something, yet the delusions prosper without you.
Everything had become desaturated and nil
To keep fighting against consumption only brings more quarrel
Cowering to imagine what once was mine
When I fall in love with you again, I will let it last longer than a lifetime
Instead I fall backwards into something that already ended.
Dayna Kaplan, 12 free verse poem
Growing up Cassidy Tarr, 12 acrylic paint on canvas
by
The Waiting ROOM
The big security guard sitting outside the door can barely keep himself awake. He’s staring me down, even though I’m probably the least threatening person in the room. There are five big green chairs against the long wall, all separated by thin white curtains. I could see the shadow of the people sitting next to me reflected on the curtain. Sitting in the chairs are kids, adolescents, with horrible expressions on their faces. Their arms wrapped around their ribs, gripping the lime green paper gowns that stretched to the floor. They are all cold, hungry, and losing their patience. Next to each of them, a chair with someone their senior, a parental figure.
I’m in the second chair closest to the door. On my left, a boy my age, but shorter. For thirty minutes I listen to him complain and snap at his poor mother.
“I shouldn’t be here.”
“They’re just going to medicate me.”
“They’re going to put me in therapy.”
“I have to get out of here.”
I can’t lie, I was thinking the same things. His name is Kevin, like the nurse. His poor mother keeps having to leave the room or get up to talk quietly to the nurse. Eventually he gets seen by the social worker, and when he comes back, they give him his clothes and let him go. I can’t tell if he was genuinely well enough to leave or he lied his way out. Well if he can do it, I can do it.
It genuinely gives me hope. The girl to my right was brought in by a police officer, dragging her by handcuffs. Clear scar lines all up her arms. Surprisingly, she seems really sweet. I over hear her talking to the doctor,
“I just woke up and had these cuts.”
Fragile Lucia Giraldo, 12
“Where is my mom?”
“No, I don’t remember.”
“When can I leave?”
It’s really sad. No way she’s getting out as easy as Kevin. I can tell, she’ll be there for a while.
The room has a huge bathroom attached right next to the door. The door has no lock, of course, and a distorted mirror. I’ve been in this bathroom before, two years ago, to strip down to my underwear and put on the green paper gown. And now I do it again because I never seem to learn. There are two TVs on different walls, so high that they touch the ceiling. The rare times when they work, they only play kid’s shows. They are almost impossible to both see and hear, and while I’d rather not watch cartoons, it’s the only entertainment I have. My Mom won’t talk to me or give me my phone. I just sit there and reflect on how I got in my current situation, for four whole hours. I had only eaten a bag of goldfish the whole day and it’s almost 10pm. The grilled cheese that the nurse ordered for me probably saved my life. It comes two minutes before I have to speak to the social worker. I basically swallow it whole and my mood immediately changes. I definitely don’t charm the social worker, but I’m good enough to convince her that I don’t need to be there. Then comes my third time in the bathroom, butting my shirt back on, tying my shoelaces, sorting my jewelry all tangled in a plastic bag. Unlike last time, I was not escorted out of the room in a wheelchair, I simply walked away.
Avery Lansman, 12 short story
Crawling
Each leg grows stronger as you climb, Across every wall, as if nothing at all, A little bit hungry as you make your way down now. Blades of grass graze by, green and smooth, A tickly sensation you feel on your face, Each stride brings you closer to May
The seasons change, from April to May, As, once again, you prepare to climb, Lazy sunlight shines on your face, The early summer found you, after all. Your limbs grab on, crawling up so smooth, Wishing for more, but waiting for now
WorkTough
Cold stung lungs
Finger numb tips
The work begins at noon
Lips already blue
Tack up, lead out
Make deliveries all about Hook up, get in
At noon the work begins
Snow as thick as the night is dark
Off into the storm, right to the heart
Work is tough, life is hard To make an earning, thy shall play the cards
Though it is day, it looks like tonight
All that’s had is the horse’s sight
Door by door, step by step Bell by bell, to the ungrateful who inside dwell
Inside they are warm, sitting at the fire
Deprived of the one thing a soul desires Round and round, one becomes immune To the harshness of a December afternoon
Mylie Mayberry, 10 ekphrastic poem
Coffin Olivia Campodonico, 12 ceramics
Chinatown On a Summer Day Shree Choksi, 11 water color and colored pencils on paper
Flavors
Igrew up around the flavors of India, literally; there was a store near me called “The Flavors of India.” The striking turmeric, the spicy cinnamon, and the minty cardamom follow me daily. These unforgettable fragrances and flavors watched me grow from a nine-year-old girl making chai for her parents, spilling burnt tea on the counter when she tried to pour it, to a 17-year-old young woman, whose steady hands reflect her growth as a person and a tea maker. More importantly, I grew up around the substance of what made our lives so flavorful: community.
Community bolstered the development of each recipe and flavor over generations. I distinctly remember the feeling I had watching my grandmother over the steam coming from the kitchen making halwa in the motherland. It was a defining moment of connection and belonging to my culture, heritage, and community. My grandmother explained how no one else made the nutty sweet like she did: just like how her mother made it.
But it wasn’t just the community that made me strong and independent; it was the growing opposition I had to the values my community tried to instill. From a young age, I was taught I needed to expand my household skills to become a good bride. I resented that. I’ve always believed there’s more to me than being a valuable commodity to a husband. I knew I was resilient, compassionate, and driven, yet I felt that my family wouldn’t hesitate to reduce me into a man’s possession.
The fear of not being able to explore who I was tarnished my sense of belonging and the cherished feelings nurtured in my grandmother’s kitchen. The same fire that once brought my carefully made chai to a boil began consuming my selfrespect and identity in a destructive blaze. I couldn’t talk to my parents anymore. I was alienated in my own home, living with strangers who were holding onto me until I was pawned off to another.
At the age of 12, I felt my cultural values dissolve. The pangs in my chest after I finished reading the Quran for the first time were unforgettable. My clashes with morality manifested themselves and I could no longer ignore what I was: different. I didn’t know what to believe and what was the truth, I was exhausted and had no choice but to belligerently accept my cookie-cutter future.
For five years I had burned pieces off of my aspirations until I was left with a pile of ashes. The overwhelming nature of loneliness was too much; I needed my parents again. I needed their love.
This realization came crashing down in March of 2023. That month ended with my father holding my hand while I slept so I wouldn’t fall apart like a soggy biscuit in hot chai . That month I was diagnosed with panic disorder that affected my eating. My dietary habits devolved into not eating proper meals for weeks until I would be too weak to feed myself.
Despite the fear that isolated me from my family, I could not ignore that they are central to who I am. Although I still am sometimes afraid, I’ve conquered that fear to enable myself to pursue my goals. Achieving my dreams was not a straight path: it involved internal battles and learning to reach out for help.
My father is now my number one supporter, constantly asking me what I need and even learning how to cook to ensure I’d come home to a meal every day. His small act of love broke down more cultural norms than I could fathom, he decided that this centuries-old tradition wasn’t worth the pain his daughter endured. Through his actions, he unknowingly taught me that I could consume the flavors of India without being burned by the fire that reduced me to ashes.
Aisha Hashmi,12 personal narrative
Divorce
We sat there crying Perched on the edge of my bed It felt like relief
Jessica Whitmer, 12 haiku
Peaceful Memory
Shree Choksi, 11
acrylic paint on canvas
TheCrow
As I looked up to see A crow staring down at me Staring down at me from his branch I pondered what he wanted though, I didn't know if he was friend or foe
“Why do you stare at me, Crow?” I asked The crow said nothing, only staring longer. And then I began to ponder. Maybe this crow was nothing more Then a strange event I have dreamed about before I stared at the crow for a little while longer Before making my way on, feeling stronger The crow made no move to move, there he sat Still staring at my back They say he still sits there even now Leaving people to wonder what, why, and how?
Ava
Argieri, 11 free verse poem
Handsome Young Lad Andres Fuenmayor, 12 photography
CandlesEighteen
I am 17
I go to school, I have friends, and work hard I am 17
Last year I was 16
I got my license, I cut my hair and I got my first boyfriend I was 16
The year before I was 15 I had my first kiss, I got my first job, and I started high school I was 15
High school is where my most valuable memories took place: from first love to first heart break high school is where I discovered who I was who I am and who I want to be. I have fallen, learned, and built. I have loved, lost, and found. But most importantly I have grown. Because I was 15, 16, and am now 17 Counting down the minutes until I turn 18 Tomorrow is the day my childhood ends And adulthood begins.
Ella Kalvaitis, 12 free verse poem
Wonder Leah Arambulo,12 colored pencils on paper
Night Out
Cassidy Tarr,12
acrylic paint on canvas
JOURNEY
Love like a journey a line it follows, From when the eyes meet, until the last breath. Starts with the first date which your heart swallows, In love you both fall through sickness and health, Without each other you both cannot live, Occupying others every lovely thought. Jointly they shall stay no matter the strive. The passion you feel could never be bought. Growing together a beauty unknown. Just us forever until death do us part. Time is running the clock against our bone, No matter, you’re the owner of my heart, Our journey united reformed our life. I am glad I had you as my wife.
Gabriel Feijao, 9 sonnet
PotionMagic
The bubbling from my tools echoes across the stone walls of the chambers as I rub my hands together eagerly. I skim over the recipe that had been given to me one last time before adding a few drops of this and a couple pinches of that. By now, the concoction had been simmering non-stop for close to twelve hours, but it was almost at its completion. Scooping up the last ingredient, a newt’s eye, with the tips of my fingers, I wrinkle my nose and drop it into the pot with a small splash. I hold my breath as the eye melts in a half-disgusting, half-satisfactory sort of way, but sag in relief when a small puff of smoke and sparks erupt from the pot, signaling my victory. A grin sweeps across my face, and I close the stolenahem, borrowed potion book with a flourish. Now to just add a few drops to the king’s wine. It was the perfect opportunity. With a neighboring king visiting for the seasonal banquet just after a treaty had been signed between our two nations and a poison from the opposing kingdom being used, there was really no one they could suspect except the other nation. It had the makings of a war, just as they had planned. I would fulfill my debt, and escape to the countryside before anyone could suspect my involvement. I would all go perfectly fine. Right?
I had completed all of my instructions, risking my head to slip a bit of the potion into the wine at the king’s food preparation table in the kitchen. I mean, having a separate area to prepare the food specifically for the king is such a dunderhead move that it almost warrants his death. He’s practically asking to be poisoned at this point. I close my eyes and snort as my leg bounces uncontrollably under the table. The volume level in the hall is astronomical as hundreds of people from foreign and domestic courts giggle and chat, speculating about the courses and admiring the decorations.
No one notices the silly little court mage vibrating out of his seat in nervousness , I tell myself. It brings me no relief.
I take a deep breath and look down the banquet table yet again, giving people what I hope is a reassuring smile when they send me a questioning look. When my observations get to the head of the table, my heart stops and my stomach rolls in the most horrible manner.
Oh, Merlin, I’ve made eye contact with the king. And he’s smiling at me. Is that a knowing smile? Does he know? No, no of course he doesn’t, I think to myself, gravely, I would be dead where I stand if he did.
I try to convince myself that no one suspects a thing, but my face is almost totally drained of blood now. They would be
crazy to not suspect me at this point. This is a horrible plan.
Finally, after what seems like hours, a servant brings out the drinks on a large platter and a pool of dread settles in my stomach.
Wh-where was the king’s platter? Was it going to be brought out separately? Would he get his drink last? I take a deep breath and assure myself that he will get his drink last to give a toast. But, even despite the thought, my gut clenches painfully every time a chalice is set down in front of a guest and every time someone takes a sip. I half expect someone to turn to ash or something equally horrible while I just watch on hopelessly. I don’t even know what signs to look for; the recipe was horribly vague about the potion’s effects, just labeling itself as a ‘magic poison’ and not much else. It’s maddening. Sweat dripped down my back, and my leg jiggled at supersonic speeds. When a servant comes to our end of the table with the chalices, I don’t even take a second look before grabbing what was offered to me and downing it in a single gulp.
I keep watching the crowds looking for any sign of the potion, heart pounding, eyes darting, stomach crackling. My lungs suddenly feel empty of air as a tingling sensation
overtakes my skin. I can feel every eye on me as my bones crack painfully, rearranging themselves in a pattern only the potion recognizes. With every snap, my nerves scream in agony. I close my eyes against the onslaught but can still feel my organs shrinking to fit my new body. A tugging sensation lets me know that a new limb is being grown from by backside; the extra weight is maddingly foreign. Hair grows in patches across my skin until I’m entirely covered in fur.
I open my eyes again, suddenly feeling at a loss for words as I take in my surroundings. I feel like a speck on
this chair, despite being normal sized just a moment ago. Around me, people scream bloody murder, some running away frantically, others pointing at me in fear? Disgust?
I squeak out some semblance of a noise as I become weightless. Someone is picking me up by the scruff of my little furry neck. Out of the corner of my eye I can see the king’s grinning face as he holds me up to the crowd.
“Looks like we found the rat!”
Jessica Whitmer, 12 short story
Chipped Grace Brill, 10 mixed media
The Ones WhoLove You
Never forget those who helped you Who watched you as you grew
The ones that smiled patiently Looking at you gratefully
The ones who helped you begin The ones who are your kin
The ones that watched you start Waiting for you to leave your mark
The ones who watch the world turn Watching as you did learn
The ones helping you by
The ones who would help you lift the sky
The ones that you will always love
The ones who are your beloved
Emily Cichowicz, 9 couplets
Silent City
Mckayla Barton, 10 watercolor on paper
Design by Grace Brill
Flying
The time has come, it is now, As you thought it may, Like a breeze, so light and smooth, The wind begins to climb, Looking out, you can see all, Besides your own wings and face,
Storm clouds and rain you will face, Yet they cannot harm you now, What a nice day, after all, On this lovely day in May, Think of this again, once you climb The wind again, so light and smooth
Cotton in Glass Vase
Natalia Dzielnicka, 9
gouache paint on paper
Gardenias
Peaceful Scent lingering Soft petals dancing while Silent with memories they wish To keep.
Alana Karam, 11 cinquain
The Stars A Triton Flees for
The currents of the waves were strong today, and Somnia felt her teal hair brushing along her iris scales. The gentle sway beneath the water calmed her anxiety, in a way the surrounding environment was always able to.
Somnia swam forward, still hesitating, as she gazed at the pristine manor lit brightly ahead. This was her home, a gigantic mansion for the extensive families commonly found in Oceania. But she didn’t feel welcome anymore.
She sighed, feeling the water pass over her gills, and swam forward. Her psychic abilities–her strange connection to the world around her–were causing a large part of her dread, anticipating that something distressing would occur.
But they also told her there was light at the end of the tunnel. A pearl in the confines of a shell.
Once inside the family manor, she swam through the main hall to seek out her parents, siblings, and cousins. The chill of the water had never bothered her, but now she felt herself shiver. Her thoughts were scattered, like the dancing colors of caustics from reflected light.
“But they also told her there was light at the end of the tunnel. A pearl in the confines of a shell.”
Somnia swam through an underwater pavilion, her skin reflecting purple on the walls by magic fires enchanted to blaze in water. She passed by a divine statue of Oceania’s patron goddess, Sea. The statue’s hair seemed to writhe like an octopus’s tentacles, despite the stillness of the marble. The statue also depicted the large, curling fins of a manta on Sea’s back, and the paleness of the statue made the goddess look undead and ghastly.
Somnia did not worship Sea.
Somnia swam on, reached the door of the great hall, and calmed herself. Her hand reached toward her lucky charm, playing with the bracelet that rested on her left wrist. She took the time to connect herself to the god Luck, knowing she would need his favor for what was to come.
She wasn’t sure Stars would help, but she prayed anyways, to feel the strength originating from her faith.
She had begun worshiping Luck years ago, hoping her
Stormbreak Grace Brill, 10
Design by Grace Brill
Continued from page 54
devotion to him would bring about a turn of her own. Maybe it would come to fruition today. Stars came later when she found herself dreaming of escape, freedom, and travel, all things Stars represented. Already Somnia felt herself strengthen. She hardly felt anger, but her resolve was reinforced. She her fear wash away, like shells on the beach swept away by breaching waves. Then she pushed open the elegant crystalline doors to the great hall.
The great hall was where meals were eaten together as a family, or whoever was present at the time. Coral growing on rocks gave the barren room some color. Right now, the tables were swept aside, making room for the assortment of people standing on display in front of her.
There was Somnia’s father, mother, stepmothers, stepfathers, siblings. Her entire extended family. Everyone is waiting to judge her.
Somnia’s birth father, Murdoc, was a stocky Triton
“Somnia Ursulath,” her mother Aesiryn said harshly. “You have called your family here, and we will listen to your request, but get to the point and do not waste our time. We all know how you tend to speak in your murky way, the meaning obscured like disturbed water.”
Somnia was used to the ridicule, but couldn’t help the pain she felt at the small dig. Outwardly, Somnia smiled placatingly.
“Hello, Mother. Father. Family,” she quickly swept her eyes over the remaining Tritons and Sea Elves. “I would like to leave Oceania.”
There was no build-up, but the weight of the words was heavier than a ship’s anchor.
“Goodbye,” Somnia added, still smiling and appearing cheery. She had already turned around and began swimming away.
“Somnia herself was wearing light armor, more out of custom than necessity, as no armor could shield her from her family’s onslaught of hurtful words.”
man with aqua skin and scales. He gazed down at her reproachfully, a scowl turning his elegant face ugly. Her birth mother, Aesiryn, swam forward to join him, a Triton. Her face was somehow more fearful and held more presence than even her father’s. She was the real power of this family. Her shadowed eyes and painted black lips conveyed the presence that lay in her name.
Both of Somnia’s parents were warriors, still bedecked in vambraces, plated shoulders, and holding their spears. It made for an ominous sight. Somnia herself was wearing light armor, more out of custom than necessity, as no armor could shield her from her family’s onslaught of hurtful words.
Somnia ignored the negativity she continued to sense, instead channeling the peace brought by her faith. She avoided eye contact with Ekaantath and Tallis, both of whom were standing off to the side near their respective birth parents. These were her older cousins, the ones who raised her in place of her birth parents, as was typical among Oceania’s nobility. She had seen them as siblings at one point.
“Somnia Ursulath!” her mother boomed, while others exclaimed and became disorganized.
No one sounded sorry, only incredulous at the thought of a nobility member leaving.
“Somnia, explain! Someone stop her!” Aesiryn ordered, enraged, but Somnia was beyond all worries, filled with relief.
She was also surrounded by a feeling , one that came from her psychic senses, one that excited her. This was the best decision she had ever made, and she swam in the sensation.
By her mother’s demand, she was blocked before reaching the exit of the hall by Ekaantath and Tallis. Somnia jolted out of the hazy dreamlike state and reluctantly turned away from the overwhelming positivity. She looked at her two ex-caregivers, who seemed as uncomfortable with the proximity to Somnia as Somnia felt with them. Soon her thunderous father joined them, then her mother, swirling like a whirlpool with her hair enveloping her, and her menacing spiraled spear raised,
blocking her path further.
“Somnia,” her mother uttered, eerily resembling the statue of Sea.
“Mother,” Somnia replied, unsure of how she was unclear. “I am not wanted, so I am leaving. I would like to do that now.”
She gave a meaningful look at the spear–and family members–currently blocking her path. She still avoided her cousins’ unwelcome gazes.
“Lady Aesiryn, just let her go,” Ekaantath muttered. Her voice was once kind and loud, laughing boisterously with Somnia after trading jokes or praising a young Somnia effusively for simply catching crabs along the seafloor.
Now, there was no love in that voice.
Somnia smiled wide, finally looking her in the eye.
“Thank you, cousin.”
Her heart ached.
Somnia’s mother ignored her.
“Somnia, you cannot leave!” she insisted. “You are a part of the Ursulath family. While you have embarrassed our name countless times, it would be the greatest of offenses if you were to abandon us.”
“Your reputation would be improved if I left,” Somnia explained. “I am very unorthodox, and I will constantly disgrace the Ursualth family.
“Is that a threat?” her mother demanded.
“No, it’s simply a fact.”
“Lady Aesiryn, if I may,” Tallis began. “I must reluctantly agree. Somnia would be better off leaving."
This hurt. A lot. Tallis used to teach Somnia about the different sea creatures and would explain the stories behind each of the stars before putting her to sleep.
Tallis, whose face was mostly expressionless, conveyed some meaning.
“Lady Aesiryn!” Ekaantath shouted suddenly. “Yes, listen to Tallis. Somnia is a disappointment! She will shame our family. Let her leave!”
I mean, this is exactly what Somnia had been trying to say, but Somnia still felt her heart sink.
Aesiryn pinched the bridge of her nose and took water sharply in through her gills. She turned around and addressed the rest of the Ursulath family.
“Everyone. Somnia Ursulath leave the family. Some believe this would be the best course of action, and I would like to hold a vote. How many of us would permit Somnia to officially leave the family?”
Somnia turned as well, to watch as the family she wanted to escape determined her fate.
Design by Grace Brill
Some glances were exchanged. More muttering. A few hands raised. A few more. Many kept their hands down, and nearly all avoided eye contact.
Aesiryn took a count after all votes were cast. Somnia couldn’t tell just by looking; it was too split down the middle.
“So far it’s tied,” Aesiryn muttered, and then she turned to count Tallis and Ekaantath’s votes.
Design by Aisha Hashmi
Flight
Leah Arambulo, 12 digital art
FreeFlight
Its gaze soars high, yet its wings stay tucked in
This young gentle bird has not flown away
No gilded cages entrap it within
Yet some force compels, tethers it to stay
The soul of the bird used to soar so high
Friended by only the sun and the moon,
Drowsy clouds and tearful stars in the sky
Until it flew down and sung a sweet tune
A melody answered through silent mist,
Ringing with the same solitary chord
A song the little bird could not resist
For no longer could his heart be ignored
Now, it will stay for the love it has known,
Since those truly free, must fly all alone.
Alana Karam, 11 sonnet
The Rat, Some Tea, and a Giant Green Moon Violet Ustaev, 12
art
Design
by Victoria Damaso
Milk and
Butter Man
INT. DOORWAY TO APARTMENTNIGHT
MARTY and FLORANCE (late 20s, dressed nicely) nervously stand in the doorway to a New York City apartment. Marty takes Florence’s hand before knocking on the door. IRVING and DIANA (late 50s) open the door with warm smiles and open arms.
DIANA
Welcome!
She embraces Marty
MARTY
Hi Mom(to Irving) Dad.
Irving nods back at Marty. Diana grabs Florence’s hand.
DIANA
And Florence, it is just wonderful to meet you. You don’t know how long it’s been since Marty brought home a girl, never mind a pretty girl, like you.
FLORENCE
It’s lovely to meet you too, Mrs. Goldman, (to Irving) and Mr. Goldman. Irving nods back to Florence
DIANA
Well come in, come in!
She ushers everyone into the apartment. They walk into the living room.
DIANA
I’ve cooked us some hamburger patties for dinner, should be ready any minute. (to Florence)
You can go ahead and wait on the couch. (to Marty)
Go and get her something to drink.
Marty disappears into the kitchen. Florence is left on the couch with his parents.
DIANA
So tell us, how did you meet Marty, we can’t get a word out of that boy.
FLORENCE
Well, it was at a ski resort in Canada, I was fumbling all over the mountain, and he was kind enough to help me. We were both ve-
Marty walks in holding two beers.
MARTY (to Florence) Is beer good?
Florence grabs one of the beers urgently.
FLORENCE
Wonderful.
She starts to chug the beer. Diana looks surprised.
DIANA
Are you sure, dear? We have wine, red and white, or a nice gin, whiskey, vodka? We have just about everything, don’t we, Irving?
Irving nods
FLORENCE
No really, this is perfect.
DIANA
Well, if you say so.
Diana stands up
DIANA
I’m going to go check on dinner. Marty come help me.
INT. KITCHEN - CONTINUOUS
Diana grabs Marty’s arm and looks at him concerned. Marty is nervous.
DIANA
Marty, are you sure she’s Jewish?
MARTY Umm... yes?
DIANA
Good Jewish girls don’t drink beer.
MARTY
Seriously, Mom?
DIANA
I’m just saying. Where does she come from? What does her father do?
MARTY
He’s a milk and butter man.
DIANA
As in he sells milk and butter?
MARTY
Yes, exactly.
DIANA
Interesting.
INT. LIVING ROOM-CONTINUOUS
Florence and Irving are awkwardly and quietly sitting on the couch.
IRVING
You ever been to the Catskills?
FLORENCE
Um, no sir.
IRVING
Well, I built my own little bungalow colony up there, you should join us there this summer.
FLORENCE
Yes! Marty has told me so much about it, he really admires the work you’ve done.
IRVING
What about your father, what does he do?
FLORENCE
He’s a milk and butter man.
IRVING
As in he sells milk and butter?
FLORENCE
Exactly.
IRVING
Interesting.
Avery Lansman , 12 one-act
by Victoria Damaso
Sweet Dreams
The sun sets today Light fades on the horizon Moonbeams on Earth as Day turns to silvery night Goodnight, sleep well, and sweet dreams
Madison Ryan , 12 free verse poem
Dark Trees
Rebecca Rinderknecht, 9 photography
A Hard Day’s work
One versus one. Face to face. Madeleine’s ears flatted against her ginger head, her pupils dilated to the size of saucers. The brown antennas on the creepy crawly flicked up and down, taunting the kitty. She pounced.
They were off. The two creatures scampered around the bedroom, weaving over and under furniture in their way. Madeleine stuttered to a stop when the cockroach scurried under the bookshelf she would often lounge upon. She chittered in disapproval, annoyed that her once furniture friend became a furniture foe. She strained her neck low to the ground to search for unsuspecting creatures under the shelf.
had once kidnapped it from. Her inquisitive eyes followed the roach out the window, scuttling down the water drain and into its new home. But she knew this goodbye wasn’t forever. Madeleine would find it somewhere around the house when she was up for it again.
Her attention was quickly pulled elsewhere, she heard Jenny open a door just down the hall. Her tail shot upright while she trotted down to see her favorite person. Madeleine greeted her with headbutts and soft purrs. She loves the scratches Jenny would give her right behind her ears. Once she had her fill of affection, she wandered down the stairs of her home.
“She exhaled and plopped down right where she was standing. Being a kitty was hard work, and she couldn’t do it all without a nap.”
In a stroke of luck, the roach was right in paw’s reach. She scooped the bug out from under with one swoop.
After being fooled into a false sense of security once, the cockroach learned from its mistakes. It rushed towards the open window, wishing to feel the subtle breeze of the wild once again, but the cat’s silly antics foiled its plans. Madeleine jumped up, paws outreached, to pluck the roach off the wall. She tumbled down but kept the pest tightly in her grip.
Finally, victory was hers. Once situated with the cockroach in her mouth, she sauntered over to the shelf that once betrayed her. After all, everyone deserves a second chance. She toyed with the bug until she had enough play time with her new friend.
Holding the roach again in her mouth, she returned to the window. Gently she laid it near the wall she
Madeleine planted her paws gingerly on the freshly mopped floor. She knew she wasn’t allowed to run litter marks down the tiles after Jenny had cleaned, but she was eying a box that sat, smack center, of the patterned white carpet. She stared down the grout before her, willing it to move her closer. Alas, it was all for naught, she exhaled and plopped down right where she was standing. Being a kitty was hard work, and she couldn’t do it all without a nap. Stretching her legs and snuggling into the cool floor, she basked in the sunlight pouring through the stained glass. Little rainbows danced about her plush white belly. She was satisfied with her adventure.
Aisha Hashmi, 12 flash fiction
Griffin The Cat Ariana Blanc, 10 acrylic paint on canvas
TheGarden
She stares at her reflection through the crystal clear water
Wondering her purpose
Will it ever shine through
Her hand slips into the water
Carefully her fingertips drip off the excess water
She dries off her hands
As she slowly approaches the garden
Her sacred place
A sense of comfort covers her body as she enters
And picks up her rose
Her prickly petals
Her sweet but sensitive smell
Only to ones touch can it mean something
As she picks off the petals
She asks a different question above
What is her purpose
When will it show
Until no petals are left
And it is just her thoughts
She carries herself back into her bedroom
Her spotless, never messy, two bedroom suite
Where she sits throughout her day
Wondering if anything significant will happen the next
Locked away from society
She never learns
Will she ever?
Lea Waterman, 11 free verse poem
Lotuses and Lilies
Mallory Stetz, 12 acrylic paint on paper
Design by Grace Brill
Hey, Diddle, Diddle: An Old Nursery Rhyme
“
Hey, diddle, diddle, The cat and the fiddle, The cow jumped over the moon; The little dog laughed, To see such sport, And the dish ran away with the spoon.”
A dog, a cat, and a cow walk into a bar.
The bartender walks over, it wasn’t the strangest thing he’d seen that day at Moon’s Bar and Grille. “What can I get for you three?” He asked.
“I’ll have a glass of milk,” meowed the Cat, and the Cow shot him a nasty look.
“Rabbit stew, please,” the Dog woofed politely.
The Cow wasn’t hungry.
As the bartender retreated to fulfill their orders, the Cow spoke up.
“Cat,” she mooed, “You know how I feel about you drinking milk.”
Cat twitched his whiskers.
“I do acknowledge your grievance, Cow, I just don’t care,” he said, reaching for a covered instrument in his satchel.
“Please don’t start playing on that God-forsaken fiddle,” Dog whined, “It’s awful...”
Before the Cat could respond, the bartender appeared and placed their dishes on the table.
“Excuse me, bartender,” the Dog began, looking at his meal, “I think the rabbit is still alive.” The bartender rolled his eyes.
“You’re a dog, just eat it.” And he walked away.
The Dog hesitantly placed his spoon in the bowl, avoiding eye contact with his dish.
Puppy Love
Nicholas Litenski, 10 photography
Cat began to sip his drink, staring directly at the Cow. She mooed angrily and slammed her hooves on the table.
“Cat, don’t provoke me!”
“I’m terrified,“ the Cat yawned, plucking at his fiddle.
In a split second, Cow grabbed the spoon from Dog’s bowl and chucked it at the Cat.
He ducked, and the three animals watched as the spoon soared through the air.
Eventually, it hit the huge, glowing “Moon’s Bar and Grille” sign above the entrance.
They all watched as it creaked and cracked and came crashing down right in front of the door.
The Cow was terrified.
“I need to get out of here!” she mooed anxiously, bolting towards the door.
She ran as fast as a cow could, leaping over the “Moon” sign to escape.
The Dog was in hysterics.
“D’you see that, Cat?” He wiped a few tears of laughter from his eyes.
He was so absorbed in the unfortunate circumstances that he didn’t notice his rabbit soup dish had hopped out of its bowl to safety, taking the fallen spoon with it.
The bartender watched in delight at the scene.
The cat and the fiddle,
The cow jumping over the “Moon,”
The little dog laughing at it all,
And the dish running away with the spoon.
Jennifer Scheckowitz , 12 flash fiction
Featured WriterAlana Karam
There is no “I” in writing, at least not the way Marjory Stoneman Douglas High School senior Alana Karam does it. Assuming the perspective of an onlooker rather than a narrator in her work, Karam’s writing is distinct, in part, because she makes a point of writing in the third person. All writing may inherently be a reflection of oneself–portraying one's passions and innermost thoughts–but Karam prefers to represent these things through the eyes of another.
Through her work Karam seeks to move people; the prospect alone of someone being genuinely impacted by words she so diligently strung together is reward enough for the effort. She creates this effect by touching upon universal themes throughout her work, embedding ideas that extend far beyond the page within her words. When it comes down to it, her work encompasses the themes, struggles and conflicts essential to portraying the human condition.
It is by taking this approach to writing that Karam can focus her words on two things of particular importance to her: family and faith. Karam is a family-oriented person; the people closest to her are who she writes for. Having others see her work pales in comparison to watching her family experience it first. Still, Karam’s faith is what ultimately prevails as her largest, most definitive inspiration.
“My Catholic faith inspires the themes of my poetry more than anything else. The morals and Catholic teachings, to me, will always be eternally beautiful and
Andie Korenge, 10 feature profile
universally encompassing, so I find nothing better to write about than this,” Karam said.
A smaller, yet tremendously significant inspiration for Karam, also comes from older styles of writing, specifically their unmistakable diction and flowery prose. Classic writers have proven transformative for Karam ever since she found her passion for writing amidst the pandemic, and she uses her contemporary voice to pay homage to writers and writing of the past. This is only fitting, as Karam hopes “to make just a small contribution to the literary world”–a world that talented writers like herself have been defining for centuries.
As a child Karam was an avid reader, constantly being swept off her feet by the blissful fantasy of children’s stories that she still has a soft spot for today. Reading paved the way for her affinity for writing, which came about as a result of the social distancing brought on by Covid-19. Needing a creative outlet, Karam looked to
“My Catholic faith inspires the themes of my poetry more than anything else. The morals and Catholic teachings, to me, will always be eternally beautiful...”
blank pages, concealing their whitespace with her words.
However, laying one’s thoughts bare on a sheet of paper is no easy task; writing is not straightforward, it is a winding path of frustration. Fortunately, it yields beautiful results. For Karam, the sensation of seeing her first draft is unparalleled and is one that provides her with the encouragement she needs to continue working towards a final piece. It is with this mindset that Karam will pursue writing beyond high school and continue dedicating herself to expanding her capabilities and experimenting with different writing styles.
Read Alana Karam’s work on pages
Leah Arambulo Featured Artist
It is a meticulous process. It takes a careful hand, an eye for detail and a massive degree of dedication. Trust the process. Marjory Stoneman Douglas High School senior Leah Arambulo has been trusting the process since she was five and first became interested in art. After all, it is and always has been a means by which she could express herself; what others may share through words she shares through artwork.
Motivated by the prospect of seeing her ideas become a reality, the intent behind each of Arambulo’s pieces varies. The motivation behind one may be mere experimentation or to practice a new technique, while another may be intended to convey something much deeper. This year, some of the artwork in Arambulo’s Advanced Placement Art portfolio revolved around loss, a theme in her life that has been particularly entrenched.
“Over my four years in high school I’ve dealt with a lot of grief and loss,” Arambulo said. “So much that I consider it a good amount of my older identity. Moving on from it and continuing on is something I’ve spent a lot of time learning.”
“I’ve dealt with a lot of grief and loss...moving on from it and continuing on is something I’ve spent a lot of time learning.”
Having been mainly self-taught, Arambulo often finds herself learning as she goes and taking inspiration from wherever she can find it, which is largely fandoms at the moment. Arambulo has found that it is easy to be inspired by the things she loves, as is it easy to create something when she enjoys what she is making; therefore, she makes fan art.
Despite mainly doing digital art, Arambulo has a profound love for the mediums of colored and regular pencils as well. They offer a certain sense of nostalgia that has allowed them to occupy a special place in her heart. Currently, Arambulo is working on improving the composition of her art–she wants to feel proud of it as she does other aspects of her work. Arambulo knows for instance that her line work is her work’s strongest attribute and the one that is the most uniquely her own.
Since the age of five, Arambulo’s passion for art has followed her. It was there throughout the middle school years defined by awkwardness and transition, the high school years of new experiences and change, and now, it will follow her throughout college as well. With plans to attend the Ringling College of Art in Sarasota, Florida, Arambulo will be majoring in illustration, specializing in visual development and ultimately, keeping her affinity for art alive.
Andie Korenge, 10 feature profile
See Leah Arambulo’s work on pages
Andres Fuenmayor, 12 portrait
by Aisha Hashmi
Andres Fuenmayor, 12 self portrait
Design
Featured PhotographerAndres fuenmayor
Asingular flash captures the expansive and imposing beauty of a building. Another captures the most minute details of a flower. It is the lens of a camera that all of the world’s wonders can be captured with a click. Pointing that camera, taking it all in, is none other than Marjory Stoneman Douglas High School senior Andres Fuenmayor.
It was not until November of 2023 that
good picture. His eye for this is his greatest strength and one that ultimately lends itself to captivating photographs.
What Fuenmayor is most trying to improve upon is his ability to take a photo quickly. After all, photography–worthy moments are fleeting, and being able to pick up a camera, point and click with speed is a skill that must be practiced. Ensuring that
“I'll see a moment of really big emotion... that I know would make a really good photo.”
photography had become a passion of Fuenmayor’s, however, time does not dictate talent. Curiosity may have originally sparked his interest, but the past six months of work have transformed photography into an obsession that’s here to stay.
Fuenmayor’s work is largely influenced by street photography, which he points to as his main form of inspiration. As no one thing directly inspires him, he does not so much set out to take photos, as he does simply take them as he goes.
In his work, Fuenmayor tends to photograph things on a micro or macro scale, focusing on the really big, the really small, and virtually nothing in between. Architecture is one of his favorite things to photograph, but as a general rule, he centers his photography around anything and everything he believes will make for a
See Andres Fuenmayor’s work on pages 9, 23 & 41
these moments will be documented rather than just passing life by.
“There are a lot of situations where I'll see a moment of really big emotion or something of that sort, that I know would make a really good photo, and I'm not quite quick enough to get that perfect shot,” Fuenmayor said.
Fuenmayor’s dedication to his craft, as evidenced by his decision to purchase a camera this past Christmas, is sure to guarantee that this struggle does not remain for long. Seeing as photography will likely prevail as a prominent passion in his life, Fuenmayor exists now at what is only the beginning of a promising photography journey.
Andie Korenge, 10 feature profile
Artifex is published using Adobe InDesign CC 2024, and Adobe Photoshop CC 2024. Artifex was printed by Landy Marketing. Three hundred copies were printed and distributed to the student body for free. The cover is printed on 100-pound coated cover paper. The interior pages are printed on 60-pound offset stock paper. All 72 pages are printed in full color. Copy is set in 9-point Karmina font for prose and 12-point Karmina font for poetry. Title bylines are set in a 10-point Eras Light ITC font. Name bylines are set in 10-point Eras Demi ITC font. Design bylines are set in 10-point Eras Demi ITC font. Headlines sizes range from 30-point to 60-point Timberline Regular font and Aristelle Sans Condensed font. Folios are set in 18-point Eras Demi ITC font. Pull Quotes are in 20-point Aristelle Sans Condensed font.
Artifex is a member of the Columbia Scholastic Press Association, the Florida Scholastic Press Association and the National Scholastic Press Association. The 2023 Artifex was an NSPA Pacemaker winner and CSPA Silver-Crown winner. It was rated All-Florida by FSPA and won an FSPA Sunshine Standout Award. It was rated All-American, with five marks of distinction by NSPA.
Colophon Editorial Policy
Artifex is Marjory Stoneman Douglas High School’s Literary-Art magazine. The main purpose of Artifex is to provide student writers, artists, and photographers with the opportunity to publish their creative work.
Any student in grades 9-12 may submit writing, art, or photography for consideration. Submissions are considered blindly, without author or artist names. Editors read all submissions and sort them into “yes,” “no,” and “maybe” folders. “Yes” selected writing submissions are “paired” with art submissions based on thematic connection. Efforts are made to ensure that pieces from a diverse group of students are included, not just many submissions from a few. The type of art and writing included each year is entirely dependent on the submissions by the student body.
The staff reserves the right to edit grammatical errors and spelling mistakes without the author’s permission. The staff does not edit artwork but will choose elements from the artwork to use as embellishments to the spread design. The staff reserves the right to work with authors, artists, and photographers to rename pieces for the magazine. Authors, artists, and photographers retain the copyright of all printed submissions but grant Artifex the right to publish them initially and use them in the future for any promotional purposes.
The ideas and opinions expressed in Artifex are not necessarily those of Marjory Stoneman Douglas High School or Broward County Public Schools but instead reflect each writer’s and artist’s expression, as the magazine serves as a forum for student artistic expression.
We are so grateful for all the submissions to Artifex this year and look forward to continuing to publish your works in the years to come. If we did not select your piece for the magazine this year, please do not be discouraged from submitting again next year. After taking all submissions into consideration and understanding the limitations we had in terms of page count, we seleted pieces that most closely reflected the theme.
Next year, we hope to see both old and new artists contributing to our publication. If you are interested in seeing your work published in Artifex, submit your pieces to the google forms through the QR code on the flyers that will be distributed to classrooms during the 2024-2025 school year..
AStaff Special Thanks Editor’s Note
Artifex’s goal will always be to allow students to express themselves in the best way they know, whether through art, photography, or writing. We urge our student body to keep creating, inspiring, and following your passions no matter how difficult. Until next year, never stop reading.
special thanks to the Lawrence A. Sanders Foundation Inc. for patronizing the arts for the past 16 years and allowing Artifex to showcase the excellent talent and artistic ability of the Marjory Stoneman Douglas High School’s student body. We are also thankful for our adviser, Melissa Falkowski’s guidance throughout the process of producing our magazine and English teacher Stacey Lippel, who provided moral support to the staff throughout the creative process. We especially want to give thanks to our Editor-in-Chief, Aisha Hashmi, as she lead this publication for the past two years. Thank you to our staff for the countless hours put into making this publication; your work is recognized and appreciated. To the students who submitted their work to be considered, thank you. It can be incredibly daunting to turn in work that one is proud of to be judged and sorted. Your vulnerability is what makes this magazine whole. Even if your piece was not selected, you should be proud.
Editor-in-Chief: Aisha Hashmi
Design Editor: Grace Brill
Content Editors: Jessica Whitmer, Kioni Clarke, Gwen Libby
Staff: Yusra Khairi, Victoria Damaso, Andie Korenge, Malena Molina, Ava Thomas, Lynn Soivilus
Adviser: Melissa Falkowski
