eunoia | Fall 2022 | Hour 6 Edition

Creative Staff

Editor-in-Chief

Christal Ruppert

Editing

Hailey Pust

Jayden Busch

Simon Kerkes

Hannah Scholl

Hailey Pust

Proofreading

Ava Morsefield

Hailey Pust

Jacob Jones

Maggie Taft

Marketing

Fillippo Basso

Taylor Olson

Titus Santiago Design Team

Ava Morsefield

Izibella Hailey Pust Firii Yusuf Jacob Jones

Front Cover Art: Hailey Pust. Photograph.

eunoia is the literary journal of the language arts department at PACT Charter School.

Ramsey, Minnesota

Dedication

We would like to dedicate this year's issue of eunoia to Mr. Thompson, all the collaborators who submitted, and my reformed orthodox rabbi Bill Clinton, who has helped our creative writing class, and others who have helped with this issue. This issue is dedicated to you.

Forward

Eunoia is an outlet for students to express themselves, an environment in which they can be vulnerable, where they can exhibit their true selves in the form of art. –student, anonymous

Acknowledgements

We would like to thank and acknowledge all the other team members and teams who helped to make this project possible.

Epigraph

Nothing is absolute. Everything changes, everything moves, everything revolves, everything flies and goes away.

–Frida Kahlo

Introduction

Ladies and gentlemen welcome to the one and only annual EUNOIA issue we here at Ruppert's Creative Writing Class⟨™⟨ would like for you to enjoy this work of art so sit back relax and flip the pages.

Editor

s Notes

On behalf of the Creative Writing 2023 class, we would like to thank you for supporting and appreciating our hard work. We hope you enjoy this cumulation of art created and compiled by some beautiful young minds.

January 2023

The process of publishing Eunoia has never been the same twice in a row.

Or maybe twice, sure, but definitely not more than that. When I started the literary magazine, I was doing both fall and spring issues, all alone. Then I dropped the spring issue. Then my creative writing class took over the bulk of the creative process for the next several years, with the exception of 2020. (We don’t talk about 2020.)

And in 2022, it changed again. This year, instead of one creative writing class one core team working on a central publication I had two.

The theme for the 2022 issue of Eunoia is change. Because, well, the only constant thing in life is change.

As the seasons shift, as our skills grow, as our minds change, as our school expands, we hope you find beauty that can be found in change.

Steady on.

Christal Ruppert

January 2023

Table of Contents

Poetry

Faucet | Hailey Pust …………………………………………………………….. 8

Laconic Kingdom | Claire Tessum ………………….…………………….……… 10

Moonlit Thieves | Claire Tessum 11

They Doubt Those Whoe Were Enough | Maggie Taft …………………....….. 13

Greater Than Fear | Ann Ostendorf…………...………….……….…………….. 12

Shoreline | Heidi Schmitz 17

Shape Poem | Firii Yusuf …………………………………………………..............19

Fiction

Hushed | Christal Ruppert………………………………...……………………… 20

Visual Art

Goddess River | Hailey Pust 9 Girl in Despair | Hailey Pust ……………..……………..…..…......................... 12

Untitled | Morgan Whitby ……………………………………………….…………14

Under The Sea | Madeline Reinke 16 Sunset in Costa Rica | Hailey Pust ……………………….………...……………. 18

Faucet

Hailey Pust

Poem d r i p d r i p d r i p

the love comes to a stop how i wish you’d run through me again the rust is starting to set in your love was my only purpose like water i can’t survive without choking to death your love was the only thing that quenched my thirst your love watered my self worth, my self love i am nothing without you the only water i have now is my tears i am just a old used faucet slowing turning into dust

Goddess River

Hailey Pust Photograph

Laconic Kingdom

Claire Tessum

Poem

The monarchy was simply run

Until they came with sword and gun

An insulting blow sent to The Queen

But she fought back with word and dream

The king thought differently instead, And met the army had to head For in his eyes revenge could stand With honor; they went hand in hand.

She nodded slow, and he left, The kingdom ran with little theft.

The king came back, she hung her head She knew he carried guilt and dread.

Betrayed, with little marriage to repair, She rose above and stole his chair.

Moonlit Thieves

Claire Tessum Poem

Under the dimmest harvest moon

A man, in cloak, mask of raccoon Waits for passing clergymen

To leave the dirty streets and then The raid will soon unfold

The rich deserve the coming theft, His home's in ruins what is left They hide their shadows in the light Since the moon shines justice what is right But until the day, when balance is made, The compass of the rich will fade And with their rivals unafraid, The wealth is hard to hold

The man is cold, but still believes To right the wrong, he still deceives. He gently blows the flames of riot So men like him will not be quiet And Robin's await their morning to sing For hope that one day the light will bring An uncloaking to behold

Girl in Despair

Hailey Pust Drawing

They Doubt Those Who Are Enough

Maggie Taft

Poem

She was perfect

Perfect grades,hair,teeth

Perfect family,perfect friend group, perfect life

But opinions change people and words can be lethal It started with the “you should wear your hair down”

Until it got to “you could lose a couple pounds” She wondered when the world got so bold and judgemental Words are just words right,Until you’re the one getting belittled She was stubborn she was fierce So why was she listening to what they said Because when you know what people think,It starts to mess with you head So she complied she gave in ,Loved to hard and got to thin

She barely ate spoke to much Sad how people doubt those who were enough And by the end she lost herself

All they had to say was “We were just trying to help” Another life lost to trying All her perfect friends just left crying She barely lived, didn’t leave with much It’s sad how they doubt those who were enough.

Untitled

Morgan Whitby

Painting

Greater Than Fear

Ann Ostendorf

Poem

I am the quiet promise who knows the way home again,

I am the gentle wind who says everything is okay now,

Tell me the story that I may spread my wings,

Love is greater than fear, and I am a soldier walking in love.

Under The Sea

Madeline Reinke Painting

Shoreline

Heidi Schmitz

Poem Waves lap the shore Sand smoothed by time

The sea shimmers in the sun

Sunset in Costa Rica

Hailey Pust Photograph

Firii Yusuf Poem

Summer days are here at last. Days of school are in the past. Waking up to the morning sun, as if i'm being hugged by one. Too eating popsicles by the shore, with a nice warm breeze and water flowing. Playing games or going outside, napping in the shade and hiding from the sun. Summer time is the best when you have someone to spend that time with. But not all things stay for long, because spring has finally sprung. Spring comes once a year, the birds sing loudly for all to hear. Flowers growing left and right, cool air, wet grass, and having a blast. The day is dark and dreary, behind the clouds the sun is still gleaming. A drop of rain is like a sudden knock at your door. It can brighten your day or even ruin your plans. Therefore it's best to plan ahead or they might come knocking on your door instead. Silently dropping like flies and blowing in the wind, that's when you know fall is about to begin. Red, orange, yellow, and brown swerving right towards the ground, soon they will all eventually fall. Then they dry and crackle,as it gets very fragile. Crunching sounds Coming from shoes And to wait, like children, for the snow to arrive on the news. Winter just around the Corner. While The squirrels Gather nuts, and The Wild geese fly. Heated breath on numbing lips, while they cook by the fire. Cookies baking in the kitchen, the aroma flying through the air. The time of year everyone knows, When Christmas is finally here. Jingle bells And decorating, and the snow finally falling. Seasons tend to come and go, that's just life as we know.

Hushed

Christal Ruppert Fiction

It's senior night at the football game, so of course I'm there covering for the yearbook, camera bag making my shoulder ache. Mim will tell you it's because I'm a control freak and won't let anyone else shoot, but honestly no one else wanted this shift. I'd be up in the pep band at halftime if I could, not down on the field.

But, okay, yes, I'm a bit of a control freak.

The athletics at Quincy, suck though they may, are rich in traditions. Parents' night and senior night are similar in nature, but still distinct: At halftime on senior night, Rich Crawley announces each senior and they're joined on the field by their families. At parents' night halftime, Rich calls the names of each player's parents, only the parents join them on the field, and the boys give them some kind of gift a flower for their mom, a can of root beer for their dad, something like that.

Either way, it takes a long time. And they want pictures. So I'm stuck listening to Dom and Alyssa handle the drumline, which sucks because we're already missing Owen and Tanner and Gideon and Scott, who are all in Quincy orange and white and currently standing behind me on the field. I mean, the band isn't currently playing, because all the seniors are being announced, but the end-of-half school song run sounded weak, like it was missing half its backbone. Because it is.

I wipe a palm on my jeans and adjust my grip on my camera. One responsibility for another.

Gideon Vogel, #15, is called up now. He walks out to the 50 yard line while the line behind him inches forward. His mom and little sister meet him there with a hug. When they pose and smile at me, I click off a few shots and give them a thumbs-up. Rinse and repeat.

Jonathan Brady, #22, meets his dad on the track, because his dad's wheelchair can't make it out on the turf, and I swivel. Ben Macauley, #25, is joined by his triplet brother and sister, respectively. Alex Koch, 28, scoops his mom up off the ground in a bear hug, and I try to catch it.

Gavin, #39, is second-to-last to be called up. I wave at his parents as they trek out to the 50 yard line, far outstripped by an energetic Hayden. I can see Gavin signing to his brother already as he sprints toward him, and by the time he gets to Gavin, they've worked it out. Gavin drops to a crouch and Hayden, with all his momentum, leaps onto his back.

I choke down some sudden knot in my throat and take their picture: Hayden's arms thrown around Gavin's neck, parents flanking the boys, all beaming brightly. The Muellers. For a second, it's almost quiet.

Sound returns in a rush as Rich starts announcing the last player. They all walk off the field together to the crowd's applause, replaced by Owen Baker, #42, and then senior night, or at least my job for it, is done. There will be cookies after the game, but the yearbook doesn't need photos of that. I reach to my back pocket for my lens cap and turn to look into the bleachers. The players have all retreated to a team huddle for the remaining minutes of halftime, and Kesler has struck up the pep band again. People are milling around, chatting, getting food. Kids are chasing each other, running into people. It's like every other halftime.

I look for my mom, my dad, before I remember they're at home with Marshall tonight, whose teething is making the whole household lose sleep. Presley's here somewhere, but she's 12 and she's with friends, which is to say she's not watching the game even a little, and she wouldn't understand this anyway.

She wouldn't remember.

Mim, from the flute section down in the front of the band's bleacher section, is the only person close enough to catch the look on my face which, in all fairness, I'm not sure what it looks like, but I can guess I've lost any color because I vaguely feel like passing out. I quickly turn back around and busy myself with the camera, removing the lens, replacing the rear lens and camera body caps, packing it away. Mim will think this has to do with Gavin, or maybe Owen, but it doesn't at all.

I leave the field and find a quiet, dim spot behind the bleachers where the band is a little muted and people walk

past me without noticing. I take a deep breath to ground myself and lean into a pole, into the calm.

I wonder if he remembers his football senior night. Luke.

Presley was five or six, and she refused to come out to the field with us because of the lights and noise and people. Mom had to carry her; she's pouting in the photo. But I, like Hayden Mueller, had adored my big brother and jumped at the offered piggy-back and hugged him around the neck and grinned widely for the camera. This is my brother, my smile declared to the world. He's awesome and funny and smart and strong and he's mine.

I remember this moment because a) the photo of it is framed in the living room, and b) it was one of the last times I felt so exuberantly proud of him. By the time his spring track banquet and graduation rolled around, I was more sad than excited, and I cried buckets when we moved him into his college dorm.

I wonder if he ever thinks about it. I remember the text he sent Mom over the summer in response to her asking if he was coming home for the 4th of July a photo of him in a wetsuit, friends behind him, surfboards under their arms. It was an indelicate "no." So the odds aren't good that he reminisces about high school very often, very much less one specific halftime of a football game.

Luke the football quarterback, the basketball shooting guard, the 400 hurdles champ. Luke the endlesslyathletic and perpetually-bored. Of course he's learning to surf.

But even though this is so Luke, so on brand for him, I can't help but feel like I don't know him at all anymore. I don't know this Luke.

I pull my phone from by back pocket and swipe open the lock. The band has stopped playing and the hush around me is more complete without its muffled noise. My thumb hovers over the screen for a few moments, suspended in the stillness. The light from my phone blinks up at me and I wonder where he is right now, what he's doing, who he's with. I want to ask him if he misses playing football. I wonder if he still likes yogurt but not Jell-O. I want to know if he misses us, misses me, like I miss him.

I think about that 10-year-old girl on #11's shoulders: This is my brother. He's awesome and he's mine.

My phone goes dark of its own accord, tired of waiting for me. I swipe it open again, but too many thoughts hold my fingers paralyzed, mind spinning with questions to ask or things to tell him. I want, strangely, to tell him that I don't hate yogurt anymore, the way I did when I was a kid.

And then I think, Luke doesn't know this Kit, either.

We're seven years past Luke's senior night. I'm not that 10-year-old girl, the one who sat on Luke's shoulders at fireworks every summer, eating cotton candy. I'm not the girl who tried every food he ate or watched Star Wars with him just because it would give me a few hours to be next to him.

And Luke, he's not the 17-year-old boy who would let me.

I lock the phone.

I tell myself I do this because Rich Crawley's voice is announcing the return of the teams, and the noise in the bleachers means the pep band is packing up, and I should go help Alyssa and Dominic with the percussion equipment. I tell myself I do this because Mim will come looking for me any second to drag me back to the game and I won't have time to write the text; but I tell myself it's okay because I'm not angry anymore, which I think is probably true, because I've spent a lot of time too much time being angry with Luke over the last seven years.

But the truth is, I do this because seven years is a chasm, and I don't know how to bridge that gap.

Contributor

s Notes

Hailey Pust likes bread.

Ann Ostendorf is a mom, wife, teacher, singer and dabbles in writing lyrics for songs that usually never see the light of day.

Madeline Reinke’s friend made her do this.

Sarah Turner hopes her pictures are better than her 8 year old fuzzy picture of a cardinal all puffed up.

Maggie Taft is black.

Lucia Kerkes says: Drive safe, especially when she’s on the road.

Christal Ruppert hopes that her stories have improved since she was a second-grader writing an unfinished mystery about a stolen report card. She still writes about school settings sometimes, since that’s where she lives –er, works – and tries to write young adult protagonists that are as creative, quirky, baffling, and real as her students.

Claire Tessum has troubles with writers bl–Firii Yusuf was here.

Heidi Schmitz is a 7th grader at PACT who loves to dance and is intrigued by all things ocean-related.

Morgan Whitby is a freshman at PACT. She just submitted a watercolor for fun.

eunoia

beautiful thinking

Hailey Pust

Ann Ostendorf Madeline Reinke Maggie Taft Claire Tessum Firii Yusuf Christal Ruppert Jaden Sipe

Morgan Whitby Heidi Schmitz