2022 Etched on the Head of a Pin Literary Magazine by Portage Northern Light

etched on the head of a pin

reflections reflections

the rival poet The column of your book titles, always introducing your latest one, looms over me like Roman architecture. It is longer than the name of an Italian countess, longer than this poem will probably be. Etched on the head of a pin, my own production would leave room for The Lord’s Prayer and many dancing angels. No matter. In my revenge daydream I am the one poised on the marble staircase high above the crowded ballroom. A retainer in livery announces me and the Contessa Maria Teresa Isabella Veronica Multalire Eleganza de Bella Ferrari. You are the one below fidgeting in your rented tux with some local Cindy hanging all over you.

Billy Collins 2001-2002 US Poet Laureate

ETCHED ON THE HEAD OF A PIN Portage Northern Literary Magazine Staff Astrid Code, Editor in Chief Annabelle Bartz Jaclyn Brubaker Mai Elise Code Abby Hosler Ella Morofsky Brie Quick Avery Romano Miles Slocum Adviser Amanda Thorpe

Dear Reader, This year, we received so many submissions for our literature magazine. As our selection committee went through each one, we noticed a common theme: reflections. Multiple poems mentioned looking at a reflection of themself in the mirror, and many more poems included themes relating to self reflection, reflections on relationships, and reflections on our world. We have organized the poems, art, photograph, and short stories in those three categories. In addition, staff members Jaclyn Brubaker, Abigail Hosler, and Ella Morofsky organized a special photoshoot to fit our theme of reflections that you will see featured on the cover and inner pages. As always, thank you to everyone that submitted work for this magazine, and thank you for reading. Our whole team is incredibly proud to present this year’s edition of Etched on the Head of a Pin. Sincerely, Astrid Code Editor in Chief

About Etched on the Head of a Pin Art and Literary Magazine Portage Northern High School 1000 Idaho Ave Portage, MI 49024 269-323-5430 litmagpnhs@gmail.com Dr. Amanda Thorpe, adviser Cover photo and section divider photos by Jaclyn Brubaker.

Submission Guidelines We accept submissions from October 1 to February 1 through our online contest submission system, and we welcome all different types of creative writing, including but not limited to: Poems and lyrics (40 lines or less) Short stories and creative non-fiction (1000 words or less) Plays (one scene) Photography Digital art and illustration Photographed traditional works (jewelry, canvas, mixed media, sculpture, etc.). Authors may submit up to 3 works for review, and all submissions must be appropriate for a scholastic publication. Submission does not guarantee publication: all entries will be considered anonymously via panel discussion, and anyone is welcome to join the literary magazine staff. Candidates will be notified as to the outcome of the review by March 1.

table of contents reflections on the self

07 09 11 13 15 17 19

Confrontation by Jaclyn Brubaker Photo: Elizabeth Rzepka Bathroom Floor by Micciah Serne Photo: Alex O’Connor It hurts to feel fat by Micciah Serne Art: Ysabela Cerbo Inside by Arman Harris Photo: Connor Clark rorrim me by Abby Kamm Photo: Jaclyn Brubaker I am From Grace Smith Photo: Hailey Christopher Library of Existence by Layssa Loubriel Photo: Abby Hosler

on relationships

23 27 29 31 33 35

Five Things I Wish I’d Known Sooner by Annabelle Bartz Photos: Alex O’Connor, Abby Hosler Looking into my thoughts about love by Kennie Spicuzza Photo: Abby Hosler Andromeda by Layssa Loubriel Photo: Abby Hosler A letter to an old friend by Avery Palin Photo: Miles Slocum My Humber Humbert by Rose Vanderberg Photo: Abby Hosler Oh, to be an ax by Kennie Spicuzza Photo: Elizabeth Rzepka

of our world

39 41 43 45 47 49 53

Window by Abby Kamm Photo: Miles Slocum Nighttime by Claire Conboy Photo: Miles Slocum The Crow by Abby Kamm Art: Annabelle Bartz Calluses by Grace Birko Art: Skylar Handlogten Strings by Thomas Mann Art: Arya Sharma Forever But Never Again by Jaclyn Brubaker Photo: Hailey Christopher About the artists

reflections on the self

13 letters 4 syllables my worst nightmare:

Confrontation Jaclyn Brubaker, 11

Why do I always allow myself to be stepped on? “It’s fine! Don’t worry about it!” A false front that hides my anger. I worry about it. I always tell myself: “This time I’ll do it! I’ll tell them how I feel!” but this time turns to next time, and next time turns to never. I convince myself that by not explaining how I feel I am somehow “helping the situation by not making them feel bad” or “not really that upset and I don’t need to sound aggressive anyways!” But is discussion of a problem really aggressive or am I just afraid of how the words will sound coming out of my mouth? I’m afraid if I continue to swallow my words that it will build up and explode on someone I love. The problem with “passive aggressive” is that “passive” quickly turns to “aggressive” when untreated for so long. So I just need to speak up and speak out and confront my own fear.

Elizabeth Rzepka, 9 Photography

Bathroom Floor

Micciah Serne, 9

In my opinion, one of the worst feelings in the entire world is feeling insecure about yourself. It hurts going home crying after a long school day because you tried to wear something different than sweatpants and a sweatshirt and the entire time all you can think about is how gross you look and how bad of an idea this was. The bad thoughts overtake your mind and can turn a really good day into a really bad one You’ll look in the mirror and pick out all the bad things instead of the good things and bully yourself because you can’t stand the way you look You’ll pick at your body “This could be thinner” “ This could be thicker” “This could be cleaner” “Why do I look like this” Who knew your own mind could be your worst enemy You scroll through social media watching all these people So beautiful So perfect So happy And you’ll sit there and do nothing but wish you looked like that, “Why can’t I be that happy?” “Why can’t I look and act like that?” “Why can’t I be looked at the way people look at them?” “Why don’t people stop and stare at me?” Constant overthinking of all kinds of bad thoughts. Sometimes it’s not even based on how you look but how you act “Why can’t I be happier?” “Why am I always so stupid?” “If only I did something more with myself than sit around and watch TV all day.” “I just want to talk to people instead of chickening out, but I’m too dumb I can’t even do that” The bathroom floor will become your best friend They will know you best They will know all your tears, and the only things there to comfort you They will witness everything, but they can do nothing But One You will have to look into that bathroom mirror And instead of picking at your flaws You’ll smile One day you’ll wake up And it won’t hurt anymore Because you’ll learn to love yourself It will be a long and painful adventure But you will have your happy ending if you work hard And one day you’ll get off that bathroom floor Alex O’Connor, 10 And finally, make a change

Photography

It hurts to feel fat Micciah Serne, 9

It hurts to stand in front of an empty dark mirror and do nothing but stand there, scissors in your hands wishing you had the guts, the bravery to cut every bit of your body you don’t like. But the issue is that you know if you did that, there’d be nothing much left Swimming can be your worst nightmare You wear a bathing suit, a bathing suit that can show nearly all of you Your curves Your legs Your stomach Everything And while you’re supposed to have a good time you can only think about the thoughts going on around you How can someone so young, be so large You look like a watermelon You are scared every day to go to the gym A class where you judged so harshly If you’re last running or out of breath it doesn’t take long to know why, and you know that So you don’t go, because you can’t face the faces The laughs The constant overbearing laughs You’re so used to being laughed at And every time someone says something kind to you or gives you a compliment, it has to be a joke Because no one could possibly be kind to you and mean it And dating is basically out of the question Because who could love someone who looks like you do? You skip meals Even though you know you shouldn’t, you can’t help it because maybe it will help You don’t really need to eat that anyway, right? One meal turns into two, then three Then you haven’t eaten the entire day. You know you should be upset, but you can’t help but smile You smile because maybe it will help But you know in your heart that the next day you will wake up and eat everything in sight Because that’s how it always goes So you live the next 5 years of your life just like this But the worst part of it all is that you know it’s wrong to feel like how you do Because you’re only 10 But you don’t care Because in your mind no matter how old you are You will always be the thing you hate the most Yourself

Ysabela Cerbo,10 Art

Inside

Arman Harris, 12

He’s lost and damaged Hurt with no one to hear him When he speaks He’s alone. Here but non-existent to this world Still providing for his family It’s hard for him to speak when he can’t Organize his thoughts Trying to learn but disrupted by the Illusions in his head Causing regret and doubt He moves but goes nowhere. This person trapped in his mind Has no control over it Only the knowledge that He could reverse that situation If only he believed he could.

Connor Clark, 12 Photography

Rorrim me

Abby Kamm, 12

rorrim a ylno erew uoy

You’ve broken me. Your shards cut deep, deep into my skin and muscle, and my attempts to dig them out only push them in. You’ve broken me. And I can’t see who I am anymore. My face is a menagerie of expressions sliding together and apart, neither revealing nor concealing a coalition of desperation, like ghouls trapped in a purgatory surging to reach their mortal body, only to be restricted by an impenetrable, impossible barrier. And I am broken. My knuckles bleed, dripping in a quiet staccato, glass glinting from every twitch of my hand. Watch, as the little music box plays, how it glimmers every which way you turn it, how it flowers when it reveals the roses, red, red, red,

spilling out from its confines. I say you broke me. I howl, head tipped to the sky to tell all that you, only you, defiled me and my image. You made someone ugly and monstrous appear in my place. Like the Moon to Lycan, gazing upon each other, you cause my skin to tear, my bones to break, my teeth to fang in a permanent snarl. You made me unrecognizable. You, you are to blame because I saw you do it. I saw you change me. but... The shards cut deep into my knuckles, and my face is a fractured mess. I can’t see me anymore. And you, you were only a mirror

Jaclyn Brubaker, 11 Photography

I am Am From

Grace Smith, 12

I am from the rustic backwoods of Indiana Where the honeyed aroma of corn fields dance through the air Where twilight falls over the rich horizon Bringing in illuminated showers of kaleidoscopic fireflies Igniting the somber night sky I am from the mellow mysteries of Michigan Where peculiar critters and small green plants make home in the cracks of the mossy stones Where summers consume your mind of sweet treats and psychedelic euphoria When the apricot sun sends a warm and lustrous glow across the chromatic leaves Eventually bleaching the havens of home with a blanket of graceful snow I am from the hidden thickets of black berry bushes Where the thistles guard the fragrant fruit --Devoted to defending something so fragile and sweet Where the risk of cuts and stabs are worth just a single taste I am from muddy hands and Kool-aid stained mouths Where we go on quests for a distantly familiar melody--Just for the chilled drip of the popsicle to run down our chin And for our laughter to echo through the branches of the oak forest--Where our young spirit runs barefoot through a fantasy kingdom I am also from a place of burden Where the oxygen never quite felt right--Choking . . . gasping, why has the air always been so thick? Stinging your lung with each breath Where home is where love is famine and loneliness is a man’s best friend Lips sewn, for she can’t know the truth that has killed her young spirit Eyes blindfolded, for she can’t see the dark void thats consuming a piece of her more and more each year I am from a world where I have lived for 18 years Where sometimes things don’t make sense and seem to be tied in a hundred knots Where my brain flurries in disorientation But--I am beginning to finally un-tie those knots each day Concealed beneath a hundred knots--Remains the girl I’ve been searching for my entire life

Hailey Christopher, 12 Photography

Library of Existence Layssa Loubriel, 10

For I was delighted to be older, I was not delighted for the time I wasted while being young. So awfully worn but as fresh as any tear. I am a loaded pen waiting to be unleashed on paper. To have letters create words and words tell my tale. I wish for ink to splatter around the paper like beautiful mistakes. For each page to be messy and wild. To hold a truth and passion, I yet cannot foresee. I am no longer satisfied with just breathing. I wish to live,

really live.

A life where I can taste freedom on my tongue, And touch people’s hearts with the power of a pen. A life worth not only living,

but telling.

Abby Hosler, 9 Photography

reflections on relationships

Five things I wish I’d known i’d Known Sooner sooner Annabelle Bartz, 10

I am sitting in my car. I am sitting in my car, I am bawling my eyes out, and I can’t get the damn car alarm to stop beeping. I don’t even know how it started; I have the keys in my hand. People keep walking past the car and no one says anything. I could be stealing this broken down car in the middle of a lite parking lot at my local grocery store and no one would care… No one would care.

1. I am not very good at processing emotions.

The blaring of the alarm keeps going and all I can think to do is get out of the car because it is one ‘o’clock in the morning, I have nowhere to go, and if I hear the car alarm beep one more time I am going to lose it. Lose it more than I already have. I get out of my car and enter the frosty cold air outside. It’s just my luck that it’s the middle of winter. I press the lock button on the keys and then everything is silent. I stare at the shimmering whiteness of my breath in the street lights as I breath in and out. In… Out… In… Out… I hold my breath. Not for long. Not for too long anyway. I start to feel dizzy and I am not quite sure how I ended up on the ground. I inhale. I am too stubborn to die, so I am sitting in the middle of a snow covered parking lot. There are only two other cars, both workers who got the night shift, that’s my guess anyway. I can see stars. They come in and out dancing across my vision… I know that they aren’t stars, but can we pretend for a second that they are. The city took away all of the real ones.

Alex O’Connor, 10 Photography

2. If I wanted to see stars I shouldn’t have lived in the city.

There isn’t anything valuable in my car, not if my phone and wallet are outside of it. The most expensive thing in there is a Paw Patrol toy from my nephew and if someone else takes it they clearly want it more. The snow is cold and the wind continues to sting my cheek. So now I am sitting in the snow, in the awkward stage where you just stopped crying and you’re not ready to be okay yet. I decided to go into the store, hyperthermia isn’t really the way that I was planning on going out. Wallet in hand to buy things I don’t need because the idea that I would go into a store and get nothing stresses me out. I will probably get a candle that will ride in my backseat for a while. I am an anxious person so everyone’s opinion, including yours, defines my worth. Is that a healthy way of thinking? Probably not but here we are. The person there to greet people didn’t say a word to me. Their hair was long and was dyed purple at the tips, maybe I could pick up a box of dye. I walked to the baby clothes section, it’s always up front for some reason, I don’t know what size of clothes my nephew wears. I guess. I hope he likes the shirt anyway.

3. You’re still a good aunt even if you don’t know what size

clothes your nephew wears. I do actually need to pick up a few things so I might as well get a basket. Basket in hand, I start to pick at the stickers on it, a nervous habit. I now have to process what things I should be getting, probably need some clorox wipes, maybe a box of cereal, and definitely a box of tampons. I don’t know how taxes work. I never have, even though I have started paying them. I don’t understand how sales taxes work and what does and doesn’t get it. It is a really complicated system for something that we have to do all the time. I am right near the aisle of box dye, so I figure why not. Most of the colors are natural, keep in mind this grocery store doesn’t have an overwhelming amount of options to begin with. I ended up just getting three colors because I couldn’t pick just one. So in my basket is the purple that the person at the front probably used, a pretty light blue color, and a muted pink. Only time will tell what ends up in my hair. Maybe I could convince my sister to let me dye her hair too.

4. How do taxes work?

I figure I spent enough time out of the house for the day. Not that I want to go there, I would rather be literally anywhere else, but my siblings are probably worried about me. I checked out and it looks like all the employees got the memo about dyed hair cause the cashier had green hair. I leave the store and the greeting person isn’t even standing there anymore, not that they would

have said anything to me anyway but it’s nice to pretend. Back into the frigid air and snow has started to fall again. It’s almost magical. We had an argument… my siblings and I. Dad was all we had left and his addiction got the better of him. It isn’t any of our faults, I know it’s not, but Maxine knew about it. She knew and she didn’t get help or even tell us. I guess she didn’t think that was something we might want to know, considering she is the only one of the three of us who doesn’t live at home anymore. Must have slipped her mind or maybe she was just so distracted with Arty that she didn’t have the two seconds to send a text. I have been avoiding thinking about it because I was the horrible one. I yelled at her… I told her it was her fault. I unlock the car but I hesitate to open the door. It takes me a minute but I do. The car hasn’t started screaming at me yet. I throw the bag of stuff on the seat next to me and open my phone. “I will be home in 15 minutes,” I text my sister, “I’m sorry.” I put my phone down just as it started to ring. I know it’s her. She is the kind of person that needs things resolved before she can do other things. I am the kind of person that would rather just move on. You can see the rub that tends to end in arguments. I let it keep buzzing. I have 15 more minutes of silence.

5. How to communicate better.

I get the car out of park and am finally starting to get out of the parking lot. It is now one’o’clock so I can’t decide if it is really late or really early, but I am a glass half empty kind of person so take that as you will. I am also the kind of person who puts pepper on mac’n’cheese but that isn’t really a relevant detail. I am now driving up to the intersection and the light turns green for me. Maybe a change of luck. The rest of the ride home is smooth, not very noteworthy. I pull up to the cracked driveway, the one that’s all brick. The door is red and there is the beautiful willow tree that my mom planted when she was my age. You can’t miss it. My sister is on the front porch with Arty, not that I am surprised. I open the door and Arty wobbles out to meet me. I grab his hand and take him back to the porch. “I’m sorry,” Maxine whispers to me. “You have nothing to be sorry for.” “But-” “I got hair-dye, do you want pink, purple, or blue?” “Pink”

Abby Hosler, 9 Photography

looking into My thoughts My love, oh my love Adoration is the only feeling I know how to have I adore you, sweet moon Everything for you, Always for you

You are my moon Your light guides me There are no dark times When I have my moonshine You call me your sun, If only you knew how true this rings My rays of light are only for you to see Bright smiles, sweet words, all i have Is for you Sun and moon, we are whole

And complete Hand in unlovable hand rings not true, For I am most lovable when i am with you I am bound to you Fully and completely connected The only thing keeping me apart And away from your heart Is distance My hands yearn to hold you Eternity would not be long enough My soul craves to be next to yours for forever Oh my love, existing is difficult We hurt more than deserved It is an unbearable weight upon our shoulders With you though?

about love

Abby Hosler, 9 Photography

Kennie Spicuzza, 12

Sweetheart, loving you is the easiest thing I’ve ever had the pleasure of doing There is no weight with you, Only comfortable understanding Existing is hard, loving you is easy I will love you until my last breath My heart beats with yours, Quite literally You carved a hole in my chest, And replaced my heart with your own I will protect your heart until the end of time, Because i know you will do the same for mine My moon, my heart, my soul Everything I have for you, Sweet moon You are the sunrise in the morning, You are the pink clouds at dusk,

You are the moon watching over me at night Your love is with me everywhere, I have never doubted this One day, we will be whole Quiet mornings, warm tea I will hold you at night, And everything will be right Dancing in the moonlight, Loving in the sunlight, Sweet whispers at dusk We will carve out our own place in life I have no doubt in my mind, We will be okay Everything will be okay, And I will hold your hand through it all

Andromeda

Layssa Loubriel, 10

The clock struck midnight and the magic only just began. Do you notice how the stars & moons are so alike to us? The moon is big and bright compared to all those little stars around it. It almost overshadows them. But the moon has a secret. She isn’t as bright as she seems . She reflects the light from others, And goes through phases as she sees fit. Whereas the stars might not seem big and bright. They are truly beacons of light and fire. They are far away until you stretch a hand to them. And suddenly you can always pin point them. People are like that too. Who is right in front of you might not be true. Look deeper, and you shall find what you seek. A smile brighter than a star and eyes as beautiful as any galaxy.

Abby Hosler, 9 Photography

A letter to an old friend Avery Parlin, 11

I’m glad we met I’m glad we laughed I’m glad we fought I’m glad we cried I’m glad we loved But most of all, I’m glad we said goodbye.

Miles Slocum, 12 Photography

humber humbert My HUmber Rose Vanderberg, 12

The one who left me drowning in blue Creator of this blanketing hole in my gut Headwaters of my tears The pain that reaches the tips of my fingers The man who made me realize that the butterflies in my stomach were anxiety moths eating away at my insides No matter how much thread I use, I could not mend the chasm between us. Nor the age gap. The one I waste so many words on You are the salt in the wound lined with sterling silver A permanent reminder of how perfectly fragile I am And how easy it was for you to shatter me. You are the one who scattered all of the shards of my delicate ego everywhere The one who made me a modern Lolita.

Abby Hosler, 9 Photography

Oh, to be an Ax

Kennie Spicuzza, 12

The axe forgets. The tree remembers.

Oh to be an axe Oblivious, Allowed to ignore To move on from the painful, broken world they created Oh to be an axe To do no wrong I didn’t do that, you’re a liar delusional lazy difficult I didn’t say that you’re hearing things It’s your fault, not mine I would never do that to you Oh to be an axe Allowed to do anything I can do anything I want They won’t believe you anyways I won’t get in trouble I never do I’m perfect, remember? Good father, good husband, good son I can do no wrong Oh to be an axe Allowed to destroy without worry Destroy childhoods Destroy relationships Destroy people Destroy lives To swing, chop, cut, destroy I can do anything, remember? I’m an axe Axes get to do what they want and move on

Oh to be an ax If only I was an ax But I am not I am a tree The ax forgets. The tree remembers I am a tree Cursed with the destruction the ax left in its wake Born to a forest already on fire Burdened with responsibilities no saplings should have No escape from the destruction given to me I am a tree Forever cursed to fixing what was left behind Destroying something is easy Fixing it is not And even if I succeed in fixing, In healing, in recovering, broken pieces will always remain The tree survived the ax But it was not for free The tree has no roots in the ground Its leaves have died The tree is no longer standing But it has survived And it will live on Oh to be a tree To heal and move on To create life where there is none To survive the unsurvivable I am a tree with no wish To become an ax For the ax forgets, and the tree remembers.

Elizabeth Rzepka, 9 Photography

reflections of our world

Window

Abby Kamm, 12

What be thy name, than to convey? Well, to be less dramatic... A conductor. Of heat, sure. Of cold, most definitely. But certainly of life! A conductor of life, bringing light and color from the experience to the viewer. A portal, to a place that one will never touch, or experience from behind the... ...Clear piece of dissonance. (For what is more jarring, than the feeling of that shock of cool glass when reaching out to the beauty that lies beyond?). Or...maybe...the reminder of facility. (For what is more comforting, than to rest in warmth with an ability to appreciate the torrent threat unable to reach you?) Be it my prison or escape, it is the looking glass to what is right under my nose and beyond my mind!

Miles Slocum, 12 Photography

Nighttime

Claire Conboy, 11

It’s hard to find things that put me to ease, My mind is constantly swirling with anxious thoughts, They rarely leave my mind. However, When it’s nighttime, And the world seems to become quieter, Those thoughts seem a little less important, And I can finally think clearly.

Miles Slocum, 12 Photography

the crow Abby Kamm, 12

What is a name? The Crow preaches to The Murder. Is it what represents the named,

or those who gave it?

Annabelle Bartz, 10 Art

Calluses Some people get calluses on their fingertips, some on their palms Some even on their toes Some get calluses on their heart A callus forms when you hurt something to the point where it recognizes the pain before you can hurt it again It puts up a wall No, it puts up a fortress Strong enough to withstand fire from dragon’s breath Or strong enough not to blister after making sweet music on the violin Hour after hour Or strong enough to not blister on the tips of your toes from dancing on a box Hour after hour Or strong enough not to blister after swinging on bars, Pushing your body to the limit Hour after hour Or strong enough to withstand the heaviness of words Or the absence of them That callus forms when all you hear is how stupid you are How ugly you are How you can never be good enough

Grace Birko, 9

It hurts even more when it comes from your own brain Hour after hour Some get calluses on their heart You can’t hurt them anymore They put up all those walls because of you And now no one can get inside of the fortress Not even the ones who want to help tear it down Some people are lucky The callus never forms on their heart They’ll have calluses on their fingertips On their palms And even on their toes But their heart will remain untouched You can hurt them And they will cry But sometimes those tears are happy tears Because they can feel things People can reach them For there is no fortress to tear down You can hurt them But please don’t Don’t force them to put up a wall Walls formed around the heart are much easier to create than to destroy

Skylar Handlogten, 9 Art

Strings

Thomas Mann, 10

A thousand pattering feet. All with no rhythm, the collective amalgamation of a chaotic horde. I feel it consume me, swallow me whole within its putrid smells and horrid appearances. I almost vomited out my mind from sheer panic and confusion. I wish to close my eyes and conclude this is all a nightmare, but no, the pain I feel in my stomach is as real as my fear of this world is. —-The world appears to be spinning now, a dark carousel that has no end. Everything looks to be an abyss. Enveloping me within its grasp, a thousand hands gripping me, pulling at my mind and heart. Slowly tearing me apart. Yet I was being treated as if my body had no worth. An object, a toy for the masses to strangle without punishment. I was no different than the dirt on the bottom of their feet. I was no living thing to it, a speed bump. Some thing for it to walk over without difficulty, that I would be forgotten when I am not longer in the way. I will be remembered as even less than a footnote. —-The very notion that I have value would cause this union of horror to shrill with laughter. As piercing as the noise would be. All of my senses are already shot. As I can hear the voices of the damned surround and consume me in deafening disarray. Among this concofiny of annoyance. I witness faces I despise to my very core. Faces reminding me of even darker times, times I’d like to wipe from memory. A time I was happy, when I could enjoy the time I spent staring at those faces with a glittering smile that I could no longer recognise in the mirror. —-Now, those faces bring hatred and misery, that I meant nothing to them and never did. That no matter how much I did to get them to tolerate me, it was all but futile in my endless quest for acceptance. They’ve never even seen me, or looked my way, as far as I’m aware. Even though everywhere I look, there they are. As if taunting me with prospects of what I once was. Young and stupid, that’s what. I blinded myself to the idea that I shouldn’t have trusted anyone as much as I did. I was too naive to see how little they cared, and I continued to hope. To think that I could mean anything to them was funny, for them at least, I only cried. I pushed and pushed, hoping I would mean enough to them that when I had hardships, I’d mean something to them, but no. —-When I fell from my pedestal, down to the floor like a puppet without strings. I hoped to be caught, with loving hands that provided a warm embrace. Yet the warmth never came. Neither did the hands. When I fell, the hands that caught me were cold and limp. Dropping me soon after, letting my theoretical wooden body smash upon the ground of failure and depression… That is what I am now, cracked and shattered. Yet now, without the strings of those who once tugged without care. I only fear now, who is pulling my strings now, and who is cutting them.

Arya Sharma,11 Art

Forever But Never Click. The man turns the radio on. Sweet notes pluck out of the device, filling the air with a sense of deep nostalgia, for a time unknown but remembered. A strong emotion crosses the man’s face, perhaps grief or even joy. A faint flowery scent wafts into the room, catching the man’s attention, and he turns around as a young lady enters. She is wearing a knee length red dress, her blonde hair pinned in a half-updo painstakingly, as if she wants every strand to look perfect. A small smile appears on the man’s face as he takes in the sight of his lover. The crooning voice of Doris Day sings from the radio. “Again. This couldn’t happen again…” The woman walks over to the man and leans against

his chest, closing her eyes. Leaning down, the man brushes her hair off her shoulder and whispers something in her ear that only she can hear. The woman smiles, but a tear slides down her cheek. The man takes her chin in his hand and turns her face so she’s looking at him. He offers his hand to her and she accepts. “What’s more, this never happened before. Though I have prayed for a lifetime, that such as you would suddenly be mine…” The man and the woman dance slowly, holding each other as if it is the last time they might ever share this dance. The woman says something to the man and he laughs, a sound they both seem surprised to hear. Suddenly, they’re both talking, a lifetime of inside

Again again

Hailey Christopher, 12 Photography

Jaclyn Brubaker, 11

jokes, memories, and words of love all mixed together in a single conversation. “Mine to hold as I’m holding you now, and yet never so near. Mine to have when the now and the here disappear…”

“...Officials say it will be arriving any minute. Those directly inside the blast zone will have no time to run… ” “...headed on its way right now…greatest tragedy of our time…” “...and as the world watches in great horror…wonder what those inside the blast zone…” “...have they accepted their fates? More at eleven…”

And as the world watches the countdown timer to their doomsday, the couple celebrates their last day of life. Around them, others share their own private last moments. 5 The family next door weeps and hugs each other. 4 The man down the street drowns his sorrows and fear in his bottle. 3 The lady’s best friend writes down her final memoir, rushing to get out every word she never said, every guilt she holds inside, every memory she never wants forgotten. 2 The man’s boss claims his own life before the bomb does. 1 The couple swallows their tears, dancing until the very last note plays from the radio. “We’ll have this moment forever, but never, never again…”

Hailey Christopher, 12 Photography

about the authors Connor Clark

Connor is a senior who has been taking photographs for five years. As a photographer, he is motivated to create, “physical moments in time, a frozen piece in time that any person … can have and pass down for years.”

Avery Parlin

Avery is a junior. She is passionate about creating written and visual art because, “in a world where you can feel powerless, art is a great way to ground yourself,” she says. “Whenever I create something, it’s everything I want and I love having that control.”

Rose VanderBerg

Rose is a senior who has been writing poetry since the sixth grade. Their favorite thing about writing is the creative process, and they share that, “poetry has made it easier to express difficult situations in a way that makes sense to me.”

Elizabeth Rzepka

Elizabeth is a freshman and has been creating art for as long as she can remember. Her passion for photography started in 2017, when she got a new camera. “There are no rules and no two works of art are ever the same,” she says.

Arya Sharma

Arya is a junior and started painting and drawing in quarantine. “I love how relaxing it can be,” she shares. “It feels amazing when an idea that seems really crazy in your head can look put together on a piece of paper or a canvas.”

Ysabela Cerbo

Ysabela is a sophomore and has been creating art since she was 3 years old, and sees it as a way to share messages and ideas with the world. “The artist can share their feelings while the viewers can find consolation in it,” she explains.

Abby Hosler

Abby is a freshman whose passion for photography started in 3rd grade when she would pose her stuffed animals for photoshoots. She enjoys being able to capture “beauty and memories in photos, which is why I take tons of pictures. . .it’s a big part of who I am.”

Jaclyn Brubaker

Jaclyn is a junior and has been writing since 6th grade. She hopes to one day publish a book. “Books are something so personal to me. I’ve been reading since I was two, and it’s one of my favorite things to do,” she says.

Hailey Christopher

Hailey is a senior and specifically enjoys taking photos while traveling and sharing her work through social media. Her favorite thing about art is “being able to see how many people love to see my work and fall in with every picture I take just as much as I love taking pictures.”

Miles Slocum

Miles is a senior who has been doing photography for two years. He enjoys the fact that art tells a story. “My favorite thing about art is that it can be interpreted in many different ways,” he shares.

Kennie Spicuzza

Kennie is a senior and has been writing poetry on and off for a few years. His life experiences and struggles make him passionate about writing. “I put a piece of my soul into everything I write,” he says. “It doesn’t have to make sense to everyone, as long as it makes sense to me.”

Abby Kamm

Abby is a senior who has been creating art for her whole life. “Whether with words or paints, creating and giving life to art has always been satisfying, and being able to stretch the imagination. . .has always been exciting.”

Thomas Mann

Thomas is a sophomore and only started creatively writing very recently. He uses writing as a way to express his feelings and describes pain as his “general leading force, driving me to write and create.” His featured piece in this magazine was actually his first full short story.

Claire Conboy

Claire is a junior and has been writing since 3rd grade. The people in her life inspire her, and her favorite thing about it is “the ability to express all the ideas and emotions and put them into something physical that myself and others can read and maybe relate to.”

Micciah Serne

Micciah is a freshman and has been writing since 6th grade. Over the years, his writing has changed from fantasy to more serious topics. “At first, they were just my way of healing, but I found that people like my teachers and friends responded to this differently than before.”

Layssa Loubriel

Layssa is a sophomore. Her interest in writing started when she read Sea of Tranquility by Emily St. John Mandel, and “truly learned the importance of expression.” Her passion for writing stems from how powerful it is.

Grace Birko

Grace is a freshman and has been writing for her whole life. “There’s no limit to what I can create other than my own imagination,” she says. “I connect with myself and how I feel, but then I’m also able to connect with people who feel a similar way.”

Annabelle Bartz

Annabelle is a sophomore and has been writing for 5 years. “It is a stress release for me,” she shares. “I like having a beautiful end product.”