Portraits in Ink, 2022

To the me of After, Is this what it feels like to be weightless?

Portraits in Ink

To the me of Before, Yes. And it only gets better.

—Lana Olarte "Messages Between My Selves"

Durham School of the Arts Literary Magazine

Portraits in Ink '22

Volume XVIII 2022

Yasmin Peterkin '24

Fiction The Red Grotto

Jackson Steffens

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Untitled Vignette

Kesavan Ramesh

15

Someone Has to Do It, and That Someone is Me.

Omundi

27

Cityfire

Annalena Mecagni

39

Scapegoat

Aja Hunter

52

The Candlestick

Julie Eimer McMurray

57

In The Other Room Excerpt from "Ghost of a Million Memories" Excerpt from "The Boy Who Never Grew Up" In Which the Little Mermaid Defies Fate

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poetry

Clowny Jones

Clare Pierce

Kyra Dennie

Lana Olarte

73

79

90

97

The Things They Say Grace Dunzo

6

An Ode to a Conversation with a Stranger

EHP

69

Mixed Up Miracles and Sullied Up Sayings

Maya

17

The Dance of Orange

Ella Bartlett

75

The Cycle

Isabel Rich

18

The Train Tracks

Piper Barnes

86

The Kit’s Day Out

Z.S.

21

Ode to Clarence

Lucy Ehmann

88

The Drift Among the WAYves

Audrey Sander

95

From the Whispering Wood

Julie Eimer McMurray 105

Dear Poetry, I'm Trying

Clare Pierce

23

Forgotten Graves

Maya

26

Love

KG

30

Messages Between My Selves

Lana Olarte

33

Goodbye

NKY.

37

The Ballad of the Yotam GL Thousand-Scent Man

45

Moments Spent in Comfortable Silence

Ember Jones

47

The Playing Field

Jared Boney

49

I Love You More, I Love You Most

Kathryn Adams

55

Dead Blame

Grace Dunzo

60

Creative NonFiction Pulling the Trans Card Tyler Mitchell

7

Overcoming Perfection

QP

13

A Woman

Eloise Griffin

19

Dresses and Stories

Alexa Chambers

31

The Daily

Nathaniel Midkiff

35

Ông nội

Oanh Li Huy Nguyen

51

Winnie-the-Pooh

Sophia Tisdale

61

Photography

Nolan Mennano

65

House of Cats

Ella Bartlett

67

Art’s Impact on Me

Meridy Nicholson

71

visual art Rebirth

Jaidon Green

5

The Graves in the Grass

Aundrea George

21

American Dream

Jaidon Green

50

The Lurking Fear

Nisi

54

Untitled

Hazel C. Glick

64

Untitled

Konjo Lemons

70

Play that Music

Aundrea George

87

Untitled

Yasmin Peterkin

104

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Editor's note Dear Readers,

This past year has been quite something. We've returned to in-person school, resumed many of our wonderful school art performances, and had many impromptu days off (thanks to water main breaks and electricity failures!) One of the more positive changes that we'd like to mention would be the incorporation of the literary magazine into the Creative Writing 4 class curriculum. Formerly, the creation of the magazine would be facilitated by a small group of dedicated students who held club meetings on Friday afternoons. This year, however, Creative Writing 4 students created the magazine in class.

While there have been some challenges and setbacks associated with this shift, we have found the value of incorporating the publication process into our curriculum. Students have not only been introduced to the rewarding world of publication and editing, gained experience in leadership and teamwork, but have also seen their hard work pay off in the publication and printing of the official Durham School of the Arts Literary Magazine.

The Creative Writing 4 team have embraced the challenges associated with the production process brilliantly, and we have worked diligently 3

and enthusiastically on the magazine throughout the school year.

In the fall, we planned our submit-a-thons, worked on outreach, and prepared to receive submissions. In the winter, we started the most exciting part of the process: jurying! Our three jurying teams—Fiction, Poetry, and Creative Nonfiction—loved reading and discussing each anonymous submission. Finally, once decisions were made for each submission, we sent out acceptance letters, created and formatted page spreads, and eventually printed the final product— the magazine you hold in your hands today. It's the product of months of work, learning, and excitment. This is the first magazine printed since the start of the pandemic.

As the Editors-in-Chief of Portraits in Ink, we believe that everybody has a story that deserves to be told, whether you’ve been writing for years or you’re entirely new to it. The goal of our magazine is to ensure that every voice is heard and to give writers the opportunity to share their work in an official publication. Portraits in Ink represents the creative thought process of a group of dedicated students and writers, and it highlights the voices of students across all grade levels at Durham School of the Arts through a variety of literature. What we have learned and experienced this year during the creation of the magazine—in the T-building

computer lab, second period—will stay with us and the rest of the staff throughout our future writing journey, wherever that will take us.

And to you, reader…

Over the course of this year, we have come to discover that as humans, we share similar thoughts, worries, dreams, and emotions with others—with friends and family, with complete strangers, with those that came before us and those that will come after---despite our obvious differences. Though it’s true that we are all wonderfully unique---no two people are the same---we often still fail to consider just how similar we all are; there are values, experiences, and emotions that every single one of us share. Something universal connects us to each other---something invisible, and perhaps something beautiful, but undoubtedly something strange.

Readers, we hope that you’re able to discover that connection within these pages.

We hope that here, you find pieces that resonate with you, ideas that broaden your perspective, and writing styles you've never even seen before. We hope that you’re able to explore new worlds, experiences, and perspectives, and we hope that you’re able to find a reflection of your own identity and background.

We hope that this magazine inspires you to continue reading and writing.

We hope that you have a fantastic and fulfilling summer---work hard and play hard.

But most importantly, we hope you enjoy the magazine.

Sincerely,

Chloe Martin & Ember Jones Editors-in-Chief 2021-2022

Either write something worth reading or do something worth writing.

—Benjamin Franklin

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The Things They Say Grace Dunzo '23 They say so many things about grief They say it should happen when you're alone, at home, not in the middle of what was their favorite place.

Because everyone’s favorite place to feel all their feelings is in the middle of a grocery store.

They say you will always remember their face, even if the details are blurred, and sometimes you have to look at a photo to fill them in They say you will always have all that time, even if it feels like it was all only a few seconds.

They say that once the casket is picked it will get easier.

When it doesn't, they say once the flowers have wilted, it will get easier

Rebirth Jaidon Green '23

When it doesn't, they say once there are no more condolences to accept. it will get easier They say it gets easier that the grief will cease, and that you will no longer drag it with you, like a child pulling a wagon.

They say that the weight draped to your shoulders will simply disappear, like it’s a butterfly, not a boulder.

They say it gets easier that the hole in your heart will heal itself, because they are known to do that.

They say all of these things about grief, but nearly nothing about you.

They say it gets easier, not that you get stronger.

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Pulling The Trans Card Tyler Mitchell '22 Some students have a background, identity, interest, or talent that is so meaningful they believe their application would be incomplete without it. If this sounds like you, then please share your story.

Puberty is objectively disgusting. For me?

Disastrous. Every time a family member welcomed me into “womanhood,” I couldn’t help but feel out of place. I constantly tried to avoid anything even mildly feminine: absolutely no makeup for me, dresses made me feel awful, a skirt was a last-resort compromise, and I didn’t want to shave my legs like the other girls. I hated having long hair, and I eventually convinced my parents to let me, their “daughter,” cut it all off and style it into a typical boy's haircut. A month later, I came out as a transgender male.

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At first for others, it was a struggle to get everything “right.” There were frequent mistakes with my name and pronouns. I remember my younger sister trying to grasp the concept of my being transgender, asking how someone can just switch their gender. There were constant reminders from my Mom, saying things like “remember that we call your brother he because he is a boy.” The corrections within my family often came from my parents or other “aware” people correcting each other and weren’t always from me.

It felt wrong for me to correct anyone. It felt like I was asking too much, and that it wasn’t worth the effort to advocate for myself. I quickly learned how untrue that was.

For a while, I was able to get by as a really young-looking guy. As I got a bit older, it became easier for me to be misgendered in settings with older kids. I remember being in an all-county orchestra one year, sitting in rehearsal. The cello section was struggling with a section in our music, so I raised my hand to ask the conductor a question. After I asked my question, our conductor proceeded to say “now she had a very good question!” The whole orchestra did a double-take, and I didn’t correct her out of fear and embarrassment.

My friends approached me after rehearsal, asking why I didn’t speak up. Although I felt embarrassed, my friends made me realize that I deserve to be called the correct pronoun. I needed to start correcting others. Taking it upon myself to correct others was definitely nerve-wracking. The next day before rehearsal, I made sure our conductor knew my correct name and pronouns. I was thankful for her understanding, and it was easier than I imagined to resolve the situation.

Since then, countless situations have occurred that require a certain degree of correction. When I go to the pharmacy for my gender-affirming hormones, I’ve had to explain that I am on testosterone because I’m transgender, and still get called “ma’am” by the pharmacy technician. On the first day of school each year, I never know if I’m going to be deadnamed during attendance time and have to correct my teacher.

Although some situations are easier to correct people in than others, I’ve learned the importance of saying something rather than remaining silent.

Sometimes, I get nowhere with the person I’m interacting with. I’ve also had to accept that not everyone is going to accept a transgender person.

However, the last thing I want is to do myself a disservice by not correcting someone at all.

Okay, maybe puberty isn’t so awful when it

matches up with how you identify. Gender transition is a long process, and corrections are all a part of that process. It's never been easy to correct someone. Even coming up on seven years into my transition, I still get nervous when I have to do it.

Yes, some things will be disastrous, uncomfortable, and difficult to approach: that’s the point of puberty. Mine just happened to be a bit different, and that different route provided me with confidence I’m not sure I would have otherwise gotten in my adolescence.

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The Red Grotto Jackson Steffens '24

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10

That night a new blood pumped in the veins of the Grotto.

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Overcoming Perfection QP '22

My philosophy on life has been that "You should live knowing you will fall short of transcending your ideals. Therefore, you must make your goals the absolute zenith of accomplishment, by which your failure will be negligible," because that belief has constantly pushed me to new heights. Left amidst the failed pursuit of perfection is authentic greatness.

Well, that's what other people see: the opened hand proffering success, not the closed palm gripping onto burdens that barely fit in its grasp.

Ideals come hand in hand with harsh reality.

I couldn't always see the double edge. The inner grippings of anxiety and imperfection would clench me in a stifling fist with nails that excoriated into flesh. A void remained like a gaping wound, a result of the disparity between what I expected and the reality of what I was left with. I saw it as incompetence rather than room for improvement. If I made something that wasn't representative of my ability, I wouldn't turn it in.

My mom would come home to me bundled in the closet, wrapped in the dark and an even darker place mentally.

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The void was so expansive and unsustainable in its emptiness; an entire galaxy with no stars and only a suffocating lack of oxygen. I floated, grasping for a safety tether that wasn't there, in a vastless empty space where I had no control. It felt more like a black hole.

As I matured, I finally grasped onto a tether. I learned to see the space as potential; as possibility.

I taught myself to reconcile the dissonance between my realities and grow along with that expanding universe. I made it my own domain.

I remember the bittersweet art projects: the ones that would take until the last minute, where I would finally become DaVinci in the wee hours of the night. Tiredness draped my eyes. Then, the weight of exhaustion would settle at the pinnacle of my cheekbone, its corpulence spreading out in width and sagging off of the mighty hands of adrenaline that held me up from under like Hercules. I'd imagine myself as one of the metal scraps in the garbage-disposal scene from ‘Star Wars: A New Hope,’ holding off the inevitably crushing walls. There would be no new hope without that bit of restraint.

I'd then place myself cruising down the highway at night, gripping onto the steering wheel, and keenly aware of the consequences if I lost my path. Drifting off the road wasn't an option; it was now a survival instinct to persevere.

How could some people fall asleep at the wheel with so much at stake? The future me sat in the adjacent seat, and our fates were tied together. My ideal self was an anchor of incentive that steeled me from drifting off.

Still, perfectionism crept at my heels, trying to grasp and possess me. Despite feeling burdened and hating every imperfect step, I would keep trekking forward because I ingrained in myself that self-pity is the accomplice of defeat. It is easy to overlook your strengths when focused only on surrender,

and when a million superfluous excuses clog your head. I might have also missed the nuance of perfectionism, and it being just as misunderstood as I am; that so many times, striving for perfection left me with the fruit of my greatest effort and the ability to come closer each time.

The next day, I turned in the best art project I'd ever made. Every time I pushed myself forward, I realized that all those miserable feelings of nearly succumbing translated into even greater triumph. Maybe the most important lesson I got from a grueling AP Chemistry course is that the more you put in, the more you get out, and that balance is always conserved. I know Newton, Lavoisier, and every successful person I could name would agree.

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Untitled Vignette Kesavan Ramesh '24 I am a serious person, doing serious things.

Right now, I’m an engineer, architect. A large tree stood in front of me alone in the enclosed backyard.

Sturdy twisting branches, tall and old, it was perfect. I had a blueprint laid on a table on the patio. My younger brother sat crouched on a chair to my right wearing overalls and a small straw hat, watching me work. A picture formed as I sketched on the blue piece of construction paper, my pencil bumping on the uneven surface below it. A small fortress, on the tree.

“But how d’we get up?” He asked softly, finger in his mouth absently. Good question. I looked at the print and then at the tree, shading my eyes against the summer sun. The obvious solution nearly escaped my tongue, but I stopped. Rope ladders are overused!

“Oh, brother of mine, you clearly do not understand how this works. We shall make an elevator!” I spoke like a character I had seen in a TV show we watched, a mad scientist; my brother

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giggled holding arms around his crouched legs and bobbing back and forth. But how shall I go about the elevator? Some kind of pulley system? Ideas of ropes grinding and wheels turning as I was pulled up formed in my mind... ...Then it is decided, I will use a pulley system! I drew a small platform with rope on the corner leading up into the tree, but I couldn’t quite get the angles right. Drawing 3D shapes was quite annoying. After giving it my best effort, I gave in to the weird angles. I was a busy man, I didn’t have time for this.

“I can pay a professional artist to draw this later” I proclaimed “On to other—" “But you took my last allowance paying Sally for drawings too! can you just do it yourself?” He looked up at me in concern. Thinking about the budget... This is why he was in charge of our finances.

“We can simply pay her in membership once we are done, then revoke it! No girls allowed!

Now on to greater plans. We need a few more things, hammocks, ziplines, TV and air conditioning, toilets—” "Won’t we need plumbing and electricity for that? How do you plan on—” he talked over me raising his voice a tad, but keeping the quiet reasonable tone.

“—mini fridge, drone launch pad, Automatic point defense water cannons, and…” I punched a hole in my paper, the pencil going through and into a small crevice in the wood below. The paper was unintelligible scribbles, I had drawn the treehouse too small and the many details over them and each other. It looked like a child’s random scribbles. Many little arrows pointed at the scribbles with barely legible descriptions. “Drat,” I said. Now I had to start over.

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p Miracles a U d e Mix d Up Sayings nd lie Maya '24 l u S Twas a mixed up night Not a miracle in sight All blind to my plight

Everything was wrong The monkey played on the gong And played all night long My friend, what a dope Said have a silver of hope My friend said to cope How the turn tables Oh how the mixed up labels All confused fables Bigger flies to fish And bigger fish onto wish What a nice fish dish The frog sings a song To make a short story long Creatures played ping pong 17

Twas a mixed up night Creatures played ping pong To make a short story long The frog sings a song What a nice fish dish And bigger fish onto wish Bigger flies to fish All confused fables Oh how the mixed up labels How the turn tables My friend said to cope Said have a silver of hope My friend, what a dope

The Cycle Isabel Rich '23

As I sleep soundly under my covers.

The cat sits at the foot of my bed Ready for the hustle of a new day.

With the moving sun comes the awakening of creatures.

For a moment the sleepy bat and tired robin pass each other As the sun moves across the horizon.

The light begins to change Until it all starts again.

The light begins to change As the sun moves across the horizon.

For a moment the sleepy bat and the tired robin pass each other.

With the moving sun comes the awakening of creatures.

Ready for the hustle of a new day.

The cat sits at the foot of my bed As I sleep soundly under my covers.

And played all night long The monkey played on the gong Everything was wrong All blind to my plight Not a miracle in sight Twas a mixed up night

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A WOman

Eloise Griffin '25 I was working on dissolving the lump in my throat as I watched my great grandmother rant about nothing for the millionth time. Watched, not listened, because I could not listen to her. Her grasp on reality had slipped as quickly as her dignity. She was dull from sickness, and she had not gotten out of bed in days. She was the epitome of all I feared. I felt like I couldn’t breathe— drowning in history and sweat. Here is a woman with a story that will never be told. Her story swirled around the cramped room. Her story felt like sorrow. Here is a woman who is at the tail end of sanity. She seemed so far from vibrance it was hard to remember that she was something before she was this. It was not the end of her life, but it was the end of her mind, and that was far more painful.

I told myself I would rather die than be a shell of a human. I didn’t know if I believed it. What is the point of living if you’re not? Here is a woman who is not living. But that was a lie—she was still very much alive. We talked about her as if she was not —a tragic apparition. I dug my nails into my wooden chair until one of them broke. The sharp pain reminded me that I, too, was not dead, not yet.

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My lack of death brought my attention to my surroundings. Her room was borderline undecorated, and so hot. The only decor was a few pictures of my family here and there. My mom, uncle, grandparents… None of me, yet there I sat, an imposter. She hadn’t known me well enough to have pictures. I could tell that I was not her family, even if we were forever linked by our blood.

Amidst her ranting, she asked to see my eyes (I had been looking anywhere but at her). I wonder what she was looking for in them. Here is a woman who is looking for an answer.

She would quite obviously be the focal point, if her room were a painting. Her bed was pushed aside to make room for a hospital cot (I did not know where it had been procured, but it was not questioned). She looked old, older than I could imagine. Her skin was the wrinkled leather on the boots that stood in the corner of her room. ‘Most likely,’ I thought, ‘she will never wear those boots again’. Her eyes were sunken in, her lips were cracked and dry. Here is a woman who does not have dignity. Dignity is one of the first things to go.

There was a rusted clock on the wall that hadn’t worked in 20 years. This was why time never passed in her bedroom. Here is a woman who does not have much time. 1 day is short. 1 week is short.

Years go by faster than I’d like. 1 year turns into 5, 5 into 20, 20 into 80—and in the blink of an eye

I’m in a bed, my pores clogged with memory. The fact that I would not be young forever scared me.

One day my youth will be nothing but the past.

Here is a woman who is displaying my future. My future. But I am not this. I am me. She is something else. What? I don’t know. Something. We are not the same. We’re not.

Here is a woman.

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The Kit's Day out Z. S. A little red fox kit Gone outside to play Chasing a gray bushtit On a bright spring day Rolling around in sun-warmed grass Teeth gnashing at bees Fluffy orange tail flicking with sass Fur rustling in the breeze

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Each day is filled with fun The little kit doesn’t noticed he’s wandered far Till the only familiar thing is the harsh, glaring sun The trees are different and bizarre Heart once full of delight Now struck with fear A crow shrieks and breaks into flight And the kit hears a growl from somewhere near Eyes wide, he breaks into a run Panting and heaving every breath And when he finally turns around, there’s no one Mind racing from his close call with death

The kit droops to the ground Clouds start to gather overhead Rain filling the world with sound Calming the little fox’s dread

The kit’s mother A vixen as orange as can be They run toward one another Full of relief and glee

He finds a little overhang and hunches beneath Fur completely soaked through Chattering his sharp teeth Looking out at the dripping gray view

The vixen licks her kit’s snout They decide to return home The sun has come out And they’re no longer alone

Eventually, the rain begins to clear And the kit spots another red-orange tail Accompanied by fluffy, twitching ears Paws tracking up a deer trail

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Dear Poetry, I'm Trying Clare Pierce '24

The real problem with poetry (If you ask me) Is that you’re never really certain what it means, And even when you sit down With the intent To read or write something, Something that might be deemed as poetic, You’re not even entirely sure If it’s really Truly Something that may be called Poetry Who even needs poems anyways When we can read and write in other forms— Forms where Fiction builds new worlds, Non-fiction preserves the truth, Screenwriting gives voice to characters On a page turned into a reality Or maybe a whole new galaxy So, when everything else has its place Inside my brain And a purpose that’s clear to see, I suppose I must turn and ask, Dear poetry, What could you possibly mean to me?

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That’s just the problem with poetry— That it only really helps When something feels wrong with me, And even then, I’m never sure what I’m reading When it’s categorized as something called Poetry But please Dear poetry, I’m trying Trying to understand the twisted words that feed you, Yearning to comprehend the hidden messages beneath you, Searching for a reason to even write you It’s just hard, Don’t you see, When you Come in so many shapes and forms, Never look or sound the same, Sometimes mildly confuse me, (Other times just full-blown make no sense in my brain,) Always completely fool me Into actually appreciating you For a moment, A mere second When that one tiny phrase within you Is somehow relatable For me

So yes, Dear poetry, I’m trying Because I know that you can heal, Have heard of the way you free, Long to soar and fly and crash and reignite with you Somewhere along the way— Somewhere between The beginning And the end The ending— That is where I fall in love with you All over again And though, I may still not understand, Or fully comprehend, What it means to be a piece of Poetry I know that you can Stand And soar And burn And mend again And so, Thank you, Poetry Maybe you’re not so bad, And maybe I should be more open to you, At least that’s what I’ll claim,

Though probably tomorrow I’ll feel the exact same way As I did when I started writing this All those moments ago, Wondering…

What Is Poetry?

So, maybe this is a poem— Or maybe It’s just a bunch of run-on sentences Split into a few different lines Within a couple of stanzas That don’t seem to always rhyme or even flow— And maybe I might even call it (With a bit of a stretch, of course) A piece in the form of something Like: Kind of Sort of Possibly Resembling Poetry?

Oh, Dear poetry, Please have mercy on me— I promise, Don’t you see: I’m trying.

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Forgotten Graves Maya '24

Off the path, a beaten road Forgotten by the world, taken back by nature Vines and grasses crawl the trail Accompanying the weary Traveler along their journey Little tombstones peak from Mother Earth's soil Lifting their stone heads to be remembered Stories to share, lives to tell A forgotten cemetery Quiet place but not extraordinary Billions of graves across the world What make this so one so interesting and different Was it the seclusion, tranquility and peace Was it the people, layed to rest Was it the scenery, greenery to be marveled Or was it just unique because it was Everything is unique in its own way

52' egroeG aerdnuA ssarG eht ni sevarG ehT

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A black cat walks by Omens to be found in this forgotten world A little sanctuary away from chaos and fear Peace and quiet in the disaster of the world One willow stands in the middle A draping cover Protecting the souls of those forgotten by man Walking the tombs, they tell a story, Open your eyes, and ears, and mind

Little heads of stone Children taken from this world too early Old slouching stones Elders taken from this world too late Wide stones engraved with two names Lovers taken from the world one after the other Finding each other after leaving this mortal realm Stones telling stories of people long gone Elizabeth Taylor, 1806-1854 Loving daughter, mother, and wife Graves tell small stories, little snapshots of a life A picture, posed, organized What lies beneath this frame What life is forgotten and covered up here What were her triumphs, her joys and her sorrows Snapshots given, no more needed Mother Earth claims her children back Flowers and vines cropping up Near these stone heads Life and death existing side by side Where there should be misery, there is tranquility The wind stills, peace blankets this place Sad place Beautiful place Scared place

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Someone has to do it, and that someone is me.

Omundi '22 “What do you want to be when you grow up?”

Aunt Asheville asked me at my sixteenth birthday party.

Should I be honest?

No. Yes. “I want to… work at waste management,” I mumbled, hoping she wouldn’t hear. The volume at the party consumed my words.

“You said what?” She leaned in to hear me better. She was deaf in her left ear, which didn't help her at all.

“Waste management,” I said in a rush.

She burst out laughing, making me blush in embarrassment. Her laughter rang throughout the room, bouncing off the walls. My gaze dropped to the wooden floor as she stomped loudly in amusement. “W-waste management? You’re interested in trash?” She wheezed before coughing.

“You are far too comedic for my liking! But seriously, what do you want-” “I’m serious,” I interrupted firmly, looking up at her. “It’s what I want. Why can’t I have it?”

“Children,” she muttered under her breath with an exaggerated eye roll. “Look, you are 27

simply confused! You are a very… enigmatic child, Carolina. I think you ought to know thatbut! You need to make smarter decisions. You have an unweighted 4.0, you take honors and AP classes, you have a high class ranking, you’re everything Harvard wants and more-who even told you about waste management? Was it your Uncle Wilmington? Bizarre ideas always come out of his mouth, so don’t you believe a word he says.”

“It wasn’t him,” I started with a sigh. “I took a field trip to a waste plant in middle school. It was surprisingly fascinating. I did some research and I think it’s interesting.”

“What about being a doctor?” My aunt suggested.

“It’s not for me.”

“Why?” “Long hours, too much time in school.”

“A lawyer?”

“Too many books I don’t desire to read.”

“An engineer?”

“I don’t like math.”

“Goodness gracious! The president of the country?”

“I hate politics,” I laughed, starting to find her

interrogation amusing. “I don’t know how to tell you this, but I’m set on my dream.”

“You dream of sorting my trash? That is no dream. It is a nightmare,” she scoffed with a frown.

“Wake up.”

After the party, my parents and I cleaned up the house. Once every dish was hand-washed, the counter was squeaky clean again, and the only evidence of the party left was the aroma of food, I headed to my room. As soon as I closed the door and plopped on my bed, I heard my mother calling my name from the living room. In my frustration, I nearly threw a punch at the wall before leaving my room.

“Sit down, we need to talk,” my father ordered as he and my mother sat on one of the living room couches.

What did I do?

“Am I in trouble?” I asked cautiously as I sat down opposite them.

“Why do you always assume that you’re in trouble when an adult wants to talk to you?” My mother muttered in irritation.

“Carolina, your aunt told us you said you want to work in waste management,” my father deadpanned.

I gulped nervously. I hadn’t told either of my parents what I truly had in mind for my future. I had only said that I was “thinking about it”, because I knew they would lecture me if I told them

the truth. Now the cat was out of the bag, and I could no longer hide.

“That’s true,” I admitted with a slow nod.

“You said you didn’t know what you wanted,” my mother added in confusion.

“Do you know what waste management is?

That has to do with trash,” my father enunciated.

So? “I know that,” I frowned, clenching my jaw.

“You said you didn’t know what you wanted,” my mother repeated.

“Well I did, I have known for quite some time,” I sighed, struggling to be patient with them.

“Why haven’t you considered other options?

There are so many other things to do!” She exclaimed. "Even being a McDonald's worker?

You can get a bit of free food.”

“I can do that on the side,” I shrugged.

“Choose… anything,” my father pleaded in desperation.

“I already chose,” I raised my voice in irritation.

“Anything but waste management!” My mother cried, nearly pulling out hair. “You can’t do that to me, Carolina.”

“Do what?” I snapped, my patience running thin.

“Ruin our family reputation.”

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“Mom, you’re a musician. Dad, you work in computer science. Both of your parents wanted you two to be doctors. Since they have allowed you to live a little, why can’t you do the same for me?” I questioned.

“We’re looking out for you. You will regret your decision. You will laugh at yourself years down the road, calling yourself delusional. You should really be listening to us,” my mother reprimanded.

In my anger, I fled the living room to my own room and slammed the door. “Why won’t they listen to me?” I whispered-yelled to myself as I plopped on the bed.

Maybe you’re wrong.

I know what I want.

Maybe you’re blind.

Am I? Yes, you are. Think about it. You're so absorbed with this one career that you won’t take a second look at anything else. What if entrepreneurship is your passion? Maybe you’re just obsessed with smiting your family. You don’t like math, but you’re so good at it.

Why don’t you work in engineering or something? …fine.

So, I graduated from Harvard, just as my aunt predicted, with an engineering degree. I worked in construction. As soon as I acquired a high paying job in California, I moved from my small

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town in North Carolina to a three bedroom apartment across the country. The sweltering summer heat brought me close to a heat stroke several times, but the money massaged my concerns. However, money did not make my dream disappear.

After a decade of working in California, one morning I woke up and decided I was sick and tired of my job. I sent an email to my boss and let her know that I quit. With the money piled up in my savings account, I flew back across the country to Georgia to do what I had always wanted to do, to pursue my passion.

Happy I was, to wake up every morning to get ready for work. Happy I was, to achieve my dream. Many of my relatives would make fun of me. Many don’t think much of where the trash goes once the truck picks it up, but someone has to sort it out. Someone has to do it, and that someone is me.

Love KG '22 What is love?

A question often asked Has no real answer A better question is What are the things love isn’t And that's an easier answer Love isn’t a because It's an even though Taking the good with the bad Love can’t be forced There's no way to make someone love you But love can always grow Love isn’t always romantic some love their friends And that's enough for them

But remember This is just what love means to me It may mean the same for you.

But the only way to truly know Is to go out And find love for yourself

#30

Dresses and Stories Alexa Chambers '22

What makes you unique and colorful?

My dresses are the definition of unique and colorful. Every day, I wear brightly colored dresses, with scenes cast around the skirts and building up the bodice. Bright pink, yellow and blue are the background for beach umbrellas, flowers, hot air balloons and butterflies trying to take off. When I twirl, the colors whirl in my eyes, the scenes overtaking me. I can see the slight turn of the eyes, pursed lips, and the raise of the eyebrows as I walk down the dull hallways of my school, but I hold my head high, the skirt brushing across my legs. Multiple times, I have seen or heard comments about my dresses, both from people I know and don’t know. However, that has always been a part of my life. I have never been afraid to be who I am. The music I listen to (Hamilton, Disney, whatever my friends swear by), the amount of books I read (carrying a pile of books around school is normal, right?), and the dresses I wear give me joy, not shame. I’m a writer-- stories are my life, and I have never read or written a book where a character is not different. Of course they may start out shy and afraid-- and to be sure, there have been times 31

where I have caught myself looking over my shoulder or second guessing myself about my clothes, my books and my music-- but in the end, they always find themselves, comfortable in their own skin, and I strive to embody that as well. As the middle child in a loud family of five, I have always felt a slight need to make myself heard, and perhaps that is why I am so loud, through both my voice and my expressions of myself, but I am not ashamed of that. I am proud of who I am. I may not watch the same videos and shows as other people; I may not shop at the same places; I may prefer to go to the bookstore instead of the mall; my references may consist of jokes from books and medieval musical shows, but I don’t care. All that matters to me is that I am happy, and whatever makes me feel comfortable and happy is perfect in my eyes. My boots may be hand me downs, out of style, but when I look down sometimes, the skirts and shoes remind me of those of a peasant, and a smile curls over my face as a story blooms in my mind. My steps become more purposeful, my lips moving in silence as the words flow from me. My stories flow from me on

my computer, through my clothes and how I view the world, and I would never change that, not for the acceptance from the cliques and the fashion at the moment. I may be different, but that does not make me wrong. I am not strange-no. Lover of books? Yes. A storyteller? Yes. Me? Yes.

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To the me of After,

I do not remember What it feels like to laugh Or to smile until my cheeks hurt.

I linger on these descriptions In the pages of books Or the corners of the Internet Wondering why the words Feel so foreign I try to cast myself into the mind of someone who is happy But I am deep in murky waters And can barely tell up from down Much less find the light What’s wrong with me?

To the me of Before,

It’s so easy to remember sadness Pain Grief Like an echo that never truly dies out I don’t think I could forget No matter how much I try.

But it does get softer after a while

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Messages Between My Selves Lana Olarte '24 To the me of After,

Moments of elation can be so small And fleeting Like specks of dust that you can only see If the sun hits them just right It’s too dark out for that right now And the sunrise is hours away yet

To the me of Before,

Just so you know, It feels like relief When you are no longer treading water Because the weight of Your thoughts is so heavy It’s all you can do not to drown So when you finally make it to shore, And collapse onto the sun-warmed sand, You can finally rest.

Look forward to it.

Now I feel strange It really does feel like something is bubbling up inside me My chest aches (The good kind of ache) And the smallest thing Can make me bounce up and down on the balls of my feet And have to muffle my squeals with a pillow I don’t remember The last time I could breathe this easily My lungs don’t feel heavy anymore But rather full of air Ready to float like a balloon

To the me of After,

Is this what it feels like to be weightless?

To the me of Before,

Yes. And it only gets better.

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The Daily

Nathaniel Midkiff '24 I wake up in the morning to the sound of my alarm. I groggily get up out of bed from under my weighted blanket, exchanging its warm, heavy embrace for the sharp chill of a new morning. I rub my eyes with the back of my hand as I look in the mirror from across my bedroom. I stare back. Well, it’s still me at least I think to myself as I slowly trudge across the hall to the shower, with my eyelids drooping, my heavy head already filled with thoughts of climbing back under that weighted blanket.

As the day goes on, thoughts begin to make the rounds in my mind. Some of them are harmless, such as an idea for a story or maybe an expression of annoyance at the construction going on outside the school. Some of these thoughts are not so harmless, however. Thoughts of unfinished work, thoughts of my parents getting a divorce, thoughts of pity and false promises from the ones I love…

I snap out of it when the bell rings, signaling my transition to the next class. These thoughts are not fun. While my usual thoughts are kind of like a slow trickle of information, sometimes the rain comes. And when the rain comes, that trickle of information slowly transforms. First it's a babbling 35

brook, then a river, then the thoughts get faster and faster and faster and it’s overwhelming and I just need to calm down but my sense of calm is completely gone as a wave of negative thoughts overrides any other emotion I might have once had and…

It’s around five in the afternoon when I get home from school. My brain is shot. My emotions are shot. I come in through the front door, barely greeting my parents as I throw my stuff down on the kitchen barstools and head upstairs. At this point, I just don’t care. I don’t care about my work, I don’t care about my parents, I just need a break. I slump down at my desk and boot up a video game, ready to waste the night away.

This continues for a day, a week, a month, almost half a year at this point. I get up, I go to class, I have anxiety, I go home, I go to sleep. I get up, I go to class, I have anxiety, I go home, I go to sleep. I get up, I go to class, I have anxiety, I go home, I go to sleep.

if all of my troubles were like a hard outer shell that has crumbled away. Where am I? Who am I? I am many things at once. I’m the king of my own castle, ruling over my subjects with an iron fist and a soft touch. I’m a time traveler, going on a journey through time to retrieve a lost relic. I'm an assassin who’s been sent on a mission to track down the head of a corrupt crime family. I’m a pilot, piloting my own spaceship to deliver a payload of relief supplies to civilians who have been pushed to the brink by a harsh alien regime.

I am not me.

I wake up one last time. This time, I’m in my bed, covers already thrown aside. Just a dream. I desperately cling to any last scraps of my perfect dream life as I try to pull the covers back around me and go back to sleep. This effort proves fruitless. After five minutes of trying to go back to sleep, I reluctantly get up, and the cycle begins again.

This cannot continue.

I wake up another time. But instead of being in my bed, I’m outside, sleeping under nothing but the starry sky. I feel weightless as I get up, as 36

Goodbye NKY '24 I cut myself cleaning up your broken bottles of whiskey.

As the pain set in, I watched the melted ice and alcohol become flooded with crimson.

I didn't cry.

I didn't yell out.

I didn't mind the pain.

I pulled the cigarette burnt sheets off what once was our bed, now lay a graveyard of memories I wish nothing more than to forget.

I sat and watched them tumble and roll inside of the washing machine; The remains of my dignity finally released.

Today I wore a dress.

I let the sweet air caress my legs, and cradle the body Of which you “loved”

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I saged away what would be the final remains Of what was our love.

I packed up my feelings And sent them away.

I mourned over the loss of the person i once was; Planted flowers on her grave and watered them with my tears One day they will bloom and provide my world with fresh air; and lost souls collected in your world Can be laid to rest.

I'd be lying if I said I won't miss the memories we’ve made; But it feels so sweet To say Goodbye.

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CityFire

Annalena Mecagni '23 The hot air is thick with smoke as she runs out of the house as fast as she can. Out, out, out.

She has to get out. The flames in front of her are already licking their way over the houses towards her apartment. Behind her- she has no idea, no time to look.

Sprinting down the alley behind her house, her only chance at survival is to make it out of the city and to the sea before the walls of flames come crashing down on her, swallowing her whole like the monsters they pretend to be.

Coughing, coughing, coughing, must keep running, so tired, can’t breathe, and she stops running.

Screams fill her ears, as the biggest city in the country is finally taken by the fire that is raging the world. People run past her, ignoring her, maybe they can’t see her? The air is black, all she can see are shapes moving past her, and she has given up.

How can she keep running when her life has fallen apart?

She kneels down, her body bending over in the coughing spasms that control her. She is pushing out the air in her lungs, only to take in more smoke and ash and cough more, an endless cycle that will soon leave her dead.

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As she coughs, a hand reaches through the smoke and grabs her. She stays motionless as the disembodied hand pulls her to her feet. She is too weak, her head is spinning, her mind has given up, yet she stands anyway.

“Come on!” a voice yells and she takes a step.

They start moving towards the sea, to safety, one step at a time, speeding up, hand and voice leading her on, dragging her, lifting her.

Through the haze, they see the ocean, they see cool safety coming towards them, then moving away again in a wave of dirty water.

The smash of the water hitting them takes away her breath and she buckles over, the water washing over her, her coughing reduced to a rasp.

The water is crowded with people, floating and standing, dead and alive.

She needs water, she needs water now.

Her mind muddled, she reaches down for the first liquid she can find, cups it in her hands and drinks it, swallowing some and spitting out the rest as she realizes it isn’t fresh water at all, it is salty seawater and unbelievably disgusting.

She still cannot see, her eyes filled with ash that fell from the sky, that floats around them all and she dunks under the water and stays there. The tug of the hand pulls her up again, letting her know that she has been under too long to survive.

She can feel the heat from the fires on her cold face, feel the wind from the ocean on her exposed back, much of her shirt smoldering from the fire.

The hand pulls her into a walk. She does not have the strength to protest, so she follows.

She tries to look, tries to open her eyes, but she has to shut them again, instinct telling her that it isn’t okay to open them yet.

They are filled with smoke and ash and burn with pain. The hand drags her on, and the cries fade behind her.

Then they stop. She stands, feigning looking around but in reality only following an instinct.

“What’s wrong now?” the voice asks her.

She opens her mouth to reply and finds that she can’t. She can go through motions, but her throat is too dry from the cough and her lungs are so filled with smoke that all that comes out is a small croak.

“Nevermind. You shouldn’t have sat down in the city,” the voice tells her. “You could have died.”

She nods, knowing very well that she could have. Was that her intent?

“Luckily for you, I found you first. We need to find you some water and wash your eyes out,” the voice tells her.

She nods again, crinkling her dry eyes open a crack. Then closing them as instinct washes

over her will and she kneels down, the water reaching up to her chest.

“This is going to hurt,” says the voice, “but you’ll have to trust me.”

Then she is pushed into the water. Faintly, as from far away, she hears, “open your eyes!” It is too late and she comes back up, gasping for air.

“You’ll have to be able to see when we begin finding a way out of here.”

She is confused now. Does she know the person the voice belongs to? She doesn’t think she does. Maybe once she can see she might find out.

“Go on, into the water again,” says the voice and she is pushed under water.

She tries to open her eyes- she really doesbut comes back up, gasping for air. Her eyes are still shut.

“I’ll hold them open for you then,” the voice concludes, and two hands grab her eyelids and open them. She is forced under water and she opens her mouth to cry out at the stinging pain in her eyes, instead getting a mouthful of salty seawater. She gasps, forgetting that she is underwater and breathes in the water, her lungs filling up and she is pulled up, coughing again, over and over and over. The last of the water leaves her lungs and she is left wheezing. Her eyes are closed again, she doesn’t know when she shut them.

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She tries to open them again only to close them tightly again, the salt stinging in them.

She rubs her eyes and can feel them becoming red.

Her hands are taken away from her eyes and put down at her side. “Come,” the voice says and she is grabbed by the wrist and led out of the deep water into shallower water. As she walks, her eyes dry and crust, the salt forming a ring on her eyelashes. Then she can open her eyes.

There are lines in her vision and blurry shapes around her. As her eyes adjust to the light, she can see the world with a red tint.

Fire, fire everywhere. And to the other side, water, water everywhere. And where she is, a figure in front of her. She stops walking.

Feeling this, the figure stops and turns around.

She is met with the most perfect face she has ever seen. Unreal, the face looks at her without expression. Half of the face is glowing, almost translucent.

She opens her mouth to speak, but again, nothing except a croak comes out.

“Can you see?” the figure asks.

She nods. She can see, in the physical sense.

She cannot see who this person is. She cannot see why they helped- are helping- her.

They continue walking, through the water, past the burning city, toward nowhere.

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She wants to stop, to rest, to ask where they are going, but she cannot. Voiceless, she has no way of communicating her feelings and she is left helpless and angry.

After what feels like hours, it starts to rain.

Drops of water fall on her shoulders, the top of her head, and wash away her tears. The fires have calmed down, now smoldering piles of rubble.

She stops and tips her head back, trying to catch some water in her mouth, succeeding in only obtaining small droplets and nothing substantial.

The figure sees this action, stops, and pulls a cup out of its coat. Standing in the water, rain falling all around them, it holds the cup out to the sky. Most of the rain misses but after a few minutes, the cup has a small amount of water in it.

The figure hands the cup to her and she drinks. She savors the water in her throat, the cold washing down the scratches and dryness.

The dryness soon comes back and she decides to copy the figure’s movements and holds the cup to the sky.

For a while, they just stand there. After the cup has collected a substantial amount of water, she drinks. She drinks and drinks and drinks and when she is finished she can speak, though her voice is sore.

“Where are we going?” she asks.

“You can speak,” the figure replies. It is a statement, said with a finality that she does not expect.

“Where are we going?” she repeats.

“We are traveling nowhere. We are walking to pass the time and then we will head back to the city.”

And they start walking back the way they came.

“This is pointless,” she says after walking some more time. “Why are we heading back?

What was the point of coming all this way anyway?”

She waits, but no answer comes.

She stays silent and they continue to walk.

As they walk, she begins to become angry, and tired, and frustrated. “Stop!” she yells. “Stop walking! Please!” Her voice cracks and gives way, and she crumbles to the ground, ghost tears running down her face because she cannot cry. The figure does nothing, which is strangely comforting.

“I have nothing,” she whispers. “My entire family is dead, and I have nothing. What’s the point when I can’t even buy a ticket to a place that will be swallowed in flames in a week, a month, a year?”

“I know.”

“No, you don’t.”

“All you have to do is try. Come on.” The figure grabs her hand and pulls her into a standing position.

They don’t move.

Quickly, she becomes angry. “Are we going to go?”

“After you,” the figure says calmly.

She glares at the figure, hatred burning in her dull eyes, and turns and walks. She does not know if she is going the same way they were before, the other way, or even out further into the ocean. Her feet fall heavily onto the sand.

Eventually her anger subsides, which bothers her, yet she cannot find the strength in her to be angry any more. It is nearly dusk. The fire broke loose that morning, and she has not eaten since the day before, and after walking all day she is exhausted. Her knees give way and she falls to the ground. And sits on the hot sand.

And begins to cry.

Somehow, she feels better than she did. The figure hands her food. Without looking at it, she begins to eat slowly. When her hand is empty, she lets it fall and looks out at the ocean.

There is barely anyone in it anymore, most have gone back up the beach and towards the remains of what once was an enormous city. A few bodies float in the water, but they don’t bother her.

The sun is setting into the water and it blinds 42

her, so she closes her eyes and looks down. She sits there until the air is cold and the wind sends chills down her spine, and then she stands up and walks up the beach, finally laying down in the sand and falling asleep.

She wakes up to the sun burning into her skin. She doesn’t know where she is but is at peace for a moment, until a figure stands in front of her, its outline barely visible to her because of the sun shining behind it, through it.

Sighing, she stands up and asks, “are we walking more today?”

The figure shakes its head. “It’s up to you.”

Her stomach is in knots as she decides what to do. So she begins to walk. Everything around her is burned, dead, and unsalvageable.

It’s sort of peaceful without the noise of the city constantly in the back-ground. She can hear the waves clearer than she ever has, even though she spent many hours at this same beach as a child.

Fifty million people.

The thought rocks her and she stops.

There were fifty million people in the city before it burned down. The fires before had sent them flocking to it, the only reasons it had not burned down yet the sophisticated fire department including multiple stations in every neighborhood, and the ocean right beside the city, sending rain and wet air through it 43

constantly.

How many had died?

And how many would try to escape to a northern country?

She starts walking again, with newfound energy and speed. She has to get a ticket before they’re all gone, before she’s stuck here forever.

She doesn’t know where, or how, but somehow she has to.

It is afternoon by the time she realizes that the figure is still with her, trailing her like a shadow.

She has also reached the docks. Or what is left of the docks. Ships are tied to stakes in the water, and people are everywhere. There are multiple booths set up on the beach, with lines reaching down to the water and back three times.

She stops, though she knows it is dangerous with the sheer amount of people milling around her.

“What are we going to do?” She asks into the air.

“We can hope for the best,” her answer comes, and the figure stands next to her, and then walks to the nearest line and waits.

Sighing, she follows.

They wait and wait and wait. The line moves ever so slowly, but it moves, and by dusk she is already on the last stretch towards the

booth. They wait into the night, and she becomes impatient, until people start to leave the line both ahead and behind her, and she realizes that the booth has closed despite the fact that the ships are still docked. How many people are they cramming onto them?

Finally, she lays on the sand and falls asleep. g She wakes up before the sun has come up, and most of the people around her are asleep.

She doesn’t want to fall asleep again for fear that she will not wake up in time, so she sits up and stays awake until the sun comes up and the attendant at the ticket booth comes back and the line starts to move. The first ship leaves soon afterwards. The figure is still with her, a faint shadow behind her, when she finally reaches the front of the line.

“I need two tickets,” she says quickly.

“You’re alone, I can’t give you two tickets.”

“No, I’m…” she makes a full round and sees no one. She starts to panic. Maybe the figure left to get something and is coming back? “I need two tickets. I have someone else with me.”

The booth attendant sighs. “I can’t give you two tickets without another person in sight.

Where to?”

“I need two tickets please,” she tries again.

“If you don’t take the one you’re not getting any. Now, we barely have enough space as it is.

Where are you going?"

She takes a breath. “I don’t know. Out of here. North.”

The booth attendant hands her one ticket and then she leaves. She doesn’t pay, but the next person has already crowded in front and there is no opportunity to. She probably doesn’t have any money anyway. Not that it would matter.

She stands, frozen, for a few minutes until she looks at her ticket, clutched tightly in her right hand. Old names and numbers that don’t matter anymore are printed on it, like dock three and cabin fourteen. She starts to walk towards one of the ships, weaving through the crowds of people, and arrives at one of the three ships left.

Shaking, she walks up towards it and hands her ticket to the guard standing at the entrance. The figure is not with her. It is less of an absence and more of a desaturation.

Slowly, she heads up the wooden plank and onto the ship. Someone tells her to stay on the deck because the rest of the ship is full. She makes her way towards a corner of the deck, away from the water, alone. She waits.

The time passes, though in what magnitude she does not know. Her eyes are open, and people pass her in a blur of gray, and the space around her fills.

The ship sets sail. The figure never returns.

She does not need it.

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The Ballad of the Thousand-Scent Man Yotam GL

As I was sitting on a bench Surrounded by the city’s stench In a flash, he caught my focus I followed the man throughout the town Like a puff of garden crocus Past the buildings falling down Drenched in the smothering smog Past the trains coughing on burnt steam The man cut through the sweltering fog With the man who smelled like a mountain stream With a whirl of a coat and a twinkle in eye Sending out whiffs of blueberry pie We passed tens of people! I was appalled Standing in trash Only this sole soul did the smell call?

And covered in ash No one else noticed the fragrant folk Yet the air around him seemed filled with laughter This aromatic gent who smelled of woodsmoke With a twirl of his ‘stache It was sort of a trance And a smile flashed Or maybe a dance He beckoned me to follow after The smells enticed, enraptured, enflamed Was it by chance?

This great romance?

I didn't even know the man’s name

45 #

Perhaps it was love, or a chance to escape The delirium of the city, that made me follow til late This man, with scents of every shade Of fresh mowed lawns and lemonade What he looked like I couldn’t say This man from places far away Nor did the police ever know This man scented of fresh rolled dough He pulled out a knife, so I pulled out my wallet And try as I might of the question, to stall it: I followed him “Why are you here? What is this for?”

Into the grim I asked the man selling scents of seashore Shading of a sheltered alley In the dim But a twinkle in eye and a sparkling laugh Light the slim My empty pockets an autograph Man said, “Let’s not dilly dally.”

He left me in that lonesome alley The man of the wind coming through the valley The thousand-scent man left town the next day Taking twelve purses and an expensive Monet The city is a putrid sight to see I only wish he’d taken me

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Moments Spent in Comfortable Silence He’s the kind of kid that loves & loves so deeply that you’re afraid it may one day break him but you’d never see it unless you looked.

He does his homework on the edge of my bed some evenings & we sit in silence doing nothing but understanding each other. Sometimes, it pains him to give me hugs but he does it anyway on those nights where the sky comes crashing down & being alone is suffocating.

He shares interesting facts with me to fill the silence— world records, quantum physics, history anecdotes, strange mathematical phenomena. His enthusiasm is infectious. Sea water bubbles through his veins & boils beneath the surface, just out of sight but so full of feeling.

He bounds & leaps across the kitchen floor, 47

Ember Jones '22

booming footsteps echoing through the hallway & seeping through the ceiling. Those nights, dishes clatter loudly in the sink, porcelain pierces the silence & crashes through the peace & quiet of my room, breaking me to pieces. He paces the hallways awkwardly in his inside-out gray socks & spaghetti-stained science shirts, experiencing something rich & unfamiliar, & ends up curled at the foot of my bed without a word, mug in hand, the sweet smell of hot chocolate filling the room. doing nothing but existing with me because loving is easy, but I love you is hard & I know that still waters run deep in this one

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32' neerG nodiaJ maerD naciremA

The Playing Field Jared Boney '22

They tell us there isn’t any racism, They tell us there is no wealth gap among the races Yet they have a house, in the suburbs, with a husband, a wife and kids Living the American dream.

While freedom fighters are living in the hood, as single parents, with kids fighting for the American dream.

Clawing their way from the depths of abyss Only allowing them to scratch the surface And barely see the light We play into the hands of the defender giving them a leg to stand on We give them the gloves to blow a lethal strike to the head Leaving us with our mouths filled with blood They start the thievery and looting Then we blindly follow and dismantling all previous initiatives taken to gain The American dream I am boxed in the with the standard of black males Because of this I must wear a mask I must work harder than my competition just to compete for a spot on the playing field While society still pretends to be equal and fair But the American dream has yet to be obtained by all.

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50

Ông nÔi .

Scapegoat

Oanh Li Huy Nguyen '22

There’s a charcoal portrait of my grandfather at home. He’s a handsome, young Vietnamese man donning a Western military uniform. As I look upon it, I remember the stories my grandfather told me about fighting the Viet Cong.

“Twenty years,” Ông nội would say quietly, devoid of his usual joy. “They imprisoned me for twenty years.”

I studied his aged face. Did every wrinkle represent his imprisoned years? Was every sun spot a reminder of his lost brethren? His grey hair the sacrifice he made for all of us? Ông nội didn’t speak a lick of English. Only his grandchildren could speak unaccented English.

Some of us tried to masquerade as only “Americans” with an ambiguous heritage, but I

remembered Ông’s face as he thought about Ho Chi Minh. I think it’s a disgrace to reject the heritage Ông missed so dearly when he sacrificed everything he knew just for us to get here. In the Vietnam War, he has created a legacy, and that legacy has given me gifts I would not have found in Ho Chi Minh. I am fluent in English, have access to American resources, and most importantly, I do not live in a country that is still ravaged by war.

So I will don the title “Vietnamese” like a trailblazer. I’ll speak tiếng việt unapologetically and eat bánh bột lọc. And as Ông boards the plane heading back to Ho Chi Minh one last time, I’ll keep his charcoal portrait safe and sound.

Aja Hunter '22

Mary twiddled with a stick in her hand, waiting anyone the jail Maryimpatient twiddled for with a stickto inenter her hand, house.

There were sickly all around her, waiting impatient for anyone to enter the jail coughing andwere wheezing, house.

There sickly sounding all aroundnear her, death.

A few hadand diedwheezing, already, the corpses near left todeath. rot coughing sounding until some official walked into the room to A few had died already, the corpses left to rot remove, if that everwalked did happen.

Since she’d until some official into the room to been imprisoned nobody had entered the jail, remove, if that ever did happen. Since she’d not unless they were being arrested themselves. been imprisoned nobody had entered the jail, brought her knees to herself to notShe unless they were beingcloser arrested themselves. battle the cold.

She was only in her garments She brought her knees closer to herself to she had been inShe when her, as it battle the cold. wasthey onlyhad in taken her garments had had beenbeen the middle the night and in the she in whenofthey had taken her, as it chaos of her house burning down she could had been the middle of the night and in the dress herself anything else.down They’d chaos of her in house burning shebeen couldso quick to apprehend her, she hadn’t even noticed dress herself in anything else. They’d been so the burns on her back, and legs until she quick to apprehend her,arms, she hadn’t even noticed had burns been laying the arms, cold, and concrete ground. the on heron back, legs until she She ran her hands against the burn wounds, had been laying on the cold, concrete ground. hissing she felt the sting of tender skin.

She ran when her hands against the burn wounds, She wasn’t even bandages. hissing when shegiven felt the sting of tender skin.

She wasn’t even given bandages.

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She felt like she was missing a place. This wasShe where theyshe sentwas themissing wicked,a the cursed. felt like place.

This She had no affiliation with a witch, so why would was where they sent the wicked, the cursed. She theyno send her to their was would almost had affiliation withchambers? a witch, soItwhy offensive. thetheir church not trust Was it they send Did her to chambers?

It her? was almost because she was the only survivor of her house? offensive. Did the church not trust her? Was it It made no because shesense. was the only survivor of her house?

She jumped It made no sense.when the door opened, and the stocky of when John approached her. Heand was Shefigure jumped the door opened, the the town’s priest, the holy man that connected stocky figure of John approached her.

He was them all and God.the Sheholy came to athat stand, her thin the town’s priest, man connected handsall wrapping around the cell She so them and God. She came to abars. stand, herhad thin many questions. hands wrapping around the cell bars. She had so “Young shield, please do tell me how you many questions. came in contact with a witch,” “Young shield, please do tellhe mebegan how you standing a few paces away.

He carried the bible came in contact with a witch,” he began in his leftahand, and the cross his other. standing few paces away.

Heincarried the He bible looked worn, like he’d in his left hand, and thebeen crossup in for his many other.hours.

He He had worn, bags under his eyes, looked pale. looked like he’d been his up skin for many hours.

Mary stuttered to respond tohis theskin public figure He had bags under his eyes, looked pale. she was very fond of.

Mary stuttered to respond to the public figure she was very fond of.

52 #

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monotone and empty eyed. “She was the one who started the incantation, she was the one who started the fire. When her family arrived, they were furious to see her. They want to see me burn and suffer and protect their own, but their own is a stronger witch than I am. She caused the fall of the Fischer’s. I saw it with my own eyes then. If you get rid of her, then I’ll be free.” It was all lies, but lies was why she was there.

The priest didn’t respond, but by the way his eyes darkened and his posture straightened, she was sure he took her words into consideration.

He left, his footsteps growing quiet before being lost behind the big, metal door. Mary turned back towards the window with the moonlight, bringing her knees back to her chest. What she did was awful, but what the Smith’s did was worse. Her family had been nothing but kind toward their family. They had seen her, on her knees, crying, waiting for any person in her family to walk out of the flames.

They saw her at her weakest, and they sent her to her doom. She wouldn’t let them get away with it, not without feeling betrayal as well.

The Lurking Fear Nisi Varela Gomez '25

“Sir, you must believe me, this is a mistake. I have no association with a witch,” she managed to say, shaking her head frantically to deny her connections. The priest sighed and looked at her as if she were lying.

“The Smiths claimed they heard something rather monstrous coming from your home that evening. They claimed, when they looked, they saw you outside, screaming words they’ve never heard before. Your eyes were black, and you were levitating. The entire family recounts this information.”

“They’re lying!”

“They speak in good faith, and I believe them,” the priest said. “Is your heart so tainted you can no longer see the Lord's work?” His words were so taunting, so accusing. Mary wanted to scream, to cry, to yell “I believe! I believe!” over and over, but she knew it was no use. She’d seen the others who were accused of being a witch. She knew what the consequence would be.

"Why should I believe anything you have to say?”

“She was there that night,” she lied,

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I love you more, I love you most Kathryn Adams '22

It’s a Monday evening and my dad is singing.

He’s wearing his burnt orange sweatshirt (hook em’ horns) and he is singing.

He sings with the voice of a teacher a director a musician a trekkie a friend my father.

He sings in everything he does, and he does everything.

Projects are finished at late hours, acts of injustice are not ignored.

He sings with the voice of passion strength confidence love.

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The not-so-distant sound of my dad teaching music is comforting: It's my childhood.

Like others, he accompanies me in song, plucking each chord on the guitar as I sing.

To my dad: Maybe we’ll get those matching tattoos we’ve been talking about, perhaps on my ankle, so you’re with me in every step, but either way, the song you have sung to me all my life will forever be stuck in my head.

He accompanies me in song in school in stress in Jeopardy! in joy in life.

When my anxiety disorder got the best of me, he accompanied me, on the couch, singing me the song of a logic puzzle to quiet my mind.

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The Candlestick Julie Eimer McMurray '24

Note: the following story does not represent an endorsement of violence; reader discretion advised.

I was bored. I killed him because I was bored.

It took little inner-fighting and no consideration for me to decide. I was bored, and so I killed him with the golden candlestick from my bedside table.

It began like this, with his feet lifted onto a red velvet ottoman and a book clasped in his hand, unknowing, feeling safe. His eyes flicked quickly across the page, and then the next, and he turned to the next one and read it just as fast as he had the last two. The moon was shining silver, painting him dully in its cool light, and I watched- I watched from the door, just a crack open. Barely able to see through it.

I was eager, my not-quite weapon slipping from my palm from just how sweaty I was. It was summer, after all. I longed to have my little mission done, to become one of the criminals I revered. It was one of the reasons I was so intrigued to investigate murders- I enjoyed the pain. The only hitch in it was that I didn’t get to cause it, watch it happen, watch them bleed and die.

I wondered, just before I stepped into the room, whether there was something wrong with me, for what ordinary person would take such 57

WINNER of the 2022 Fiction Contest! great pleasure from such gruesome, vicious images.

Me. I decided that there wasn’t. We all like what we like and we can’t help it. I was allowed to be happy. I was allowed to do the things that brought me joy. I sat there for a moment, utterly lost in thought but smiling like I never had before.

“Mustard,” a voice said suddenly.

My breath barely hitched, and my eyes shot up to find the source of the noise. Our eyes met, gold on brown. Mr. Body cocked his head to the side, gestured me into the room. He was completely unaware, I realized, and I smiled and nodded and walked in at his request.

“I wasn’t expecting to see you at this hour,” he said, a low chuckle in his voice. “You’re so adamant about getting enough sleep. What keeps you up?”

“Just the case I’ve been working on,” I said.

The lie slipped from my mouth so easily. Too easily, because even I was convinced of its truth. I reminded myself that I was a liar and cheater and soon-to-be murderer.

I couldn’t wait to be a murderer.

“Ah,” Mr. Body said, and he smiled. I remembered his husband commenting on how wonderful his smile was. I couldn’t see it. All I wanted to do was watch it melt away with the rest of his flesh after I lodged this candlestick into his

skull. “And why have you got an… empty candlestick?”

“The murder was committed with one.”

Mr. Body cringed, shivered, said, “Good lord.

That’s grim.”

I leaned my head to the side. If only he knew.

“Yes, very grim.”

“Come sit,” he said. He patted the spot beside him on the couch, as if he was asking to die at my hand.

Is there something wrong with me? I asked myself again as I settled down, filled with excitement at the mere prospect of killing him. Mr. Body. What a fitting name for a man so close to death. He turned back to his book and didn’t look my way again.

I don’t know how long we sat there, waiting for the other to do something. I just know that when it all got too boring, I lifted the candlestick above my head and watched with a smile on my face as it brought him to death . He screamed. He screamed so much, but no one heard. I wouldn’t have minded if they had. Surely they would have enjoyed it with me.

It was slow, and I could see how much it hurt.

I imagined the ache in his eyes, in his head. I imagined the sheer terror he was feeling. I imagined what his husband would say in the morning when he found the love of his life dead on the living room floor.

When his whimpering quieted and I was sure he was dead, I pulled the candlestick from his body, kicked it for good measure. They say to never kick a man who’s fallen over, but what about a dead man?

Slowly, without moving my eyes from his body, I tugged a handkerchief from my pocket and wiped myself clean of his blood. I could save the handkerchief.

As I made my way back to my room, no longer bored, I wondered if I would be hired to solve his murder too. I shrugged, the probability not hindering the joy that ran through my veins like nicotine. Nicotine. I grabbed a cigarette.

I lifted the cigarette to my mouth. I breathed in the smoke like it was oxygen, standing up on my balcony. The night was crisp and humid all at once. I could hear Scarlett and Orchid laughing just the next room over, a happy couple. Green and Plum were probably canoodling somewhere, and Peacock… I heard her coming from far away, her heels clicking on the floor. She thought she was divine.

“Mustard?” she questioned, knocking on my door. I grunted and she walked in. “Did you hear that too?”

“Hear what?” I asked, but I knew. Of course I knew.

“That… scream. Absolutely blood-curdling,” she said.

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“You must be hearing things,” I said, taking another drag from my cigarette.

“I know what I heard,” she said. She held out a tan hand, stretching for the nicotine I had between my fingers. Reluctantly, I gave it to her.

“It was probably a coyote,” I said, then.

She inhaled more than seemed possible for her slim frame, exhaled more than it seemed she had taken in. She shook her head. “No. It was human, I-” I didn’t let her finish. Our mouths were pressed together, hard and fast. She was beautiful and delicate and I knew I was nothing to her other than another person she could add to her list.

She pushed me away. “No.” “Why not?”

I knew why. I could see the way she looked at Scarlett, the jealousy she had for Orchid. But she had no one. What did she have to lose from this?

How could she? How could she deny me this? Me of all people? Me of all men?

The envy blossomed in my stomach, anger flared in my chest.

“You’re a monster,” she said, shaking her head.

She turned on her heel and slammed the door shut.

I heard a crooning coming from Scarlett and Orchid’s room, the music they played to dance to. I rolled my eyes, inhaled more smoke, more nicotine.

I would blame Peacock, I decided.

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Dead Blame Grace Dunzo '23 What am I to say to you, if you were alive?

That I forgive you?

That I’m sorry?

That I regret every terrible thing I’ve ever done?

Should I treat you differently because I know it’s a miracle?

That people pray day and night for this That saints teach children about it That it is a wish millions whisper under their breath.

Should I bite my tongue?

Silence all the awful things I want to say? like how you’re a hypocrite and a liar how your lies could fill a book front and back like how you died From a choice you made How you put all of us through this to get one final high How you left your children and mother of them and left everyone else to think you’re a marauder a good person a role model Because wouldn’t I be the asshole for blaming the dead guy?

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Winnie-the-pooh Sophia Tisdale '22

"Always remember that you are braver than you believe, stronger than you seem, and smarter than you think."

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In my room, printed on a slab of worn white wood, a phrase written by A. A. Milne hangs, threatening me with its ferocious inspiration: “Always remember that you are braver than you believe, stronger than you seem, and smarter than you think.” The harsh red curves of the vowels and consonants mock me, transforming to resemble the gala apple I refused for breakfast. “Brave, strong, and smart,” they taunt, “this will never be you.” Regardless of its Winnie-the-Pooh origin, that message, displayed so proudly in my room, has brought me more maturity and confidence than any segment of advanced prose.

Brave. The first time my nutritionist recommended a higher level of care, I shut down. Guarding my face with invisible fists, I told her I wasn’t ready. I couldn’t do it. She didn’t know what she was talking about. So, reluctantly on her part, I was sent home, feeling smug and amused, thinking I had

outsmarted the professionals. The second time she brought it up, I was trapped.

Harbored emotions of fear and the harsh truth of my condition crushed me every time I, in a haze of vertigo and mindless brain fog, was forced to grasp the railing when walking up a comparatively small staircase. I didn’t know if I could change, though I was competent enough to realize I needed to; I was done living half alive, so I accepted help.

Strong. Just as the sea digests the pebbles, shells, and stones littering a rocky beach terrain, at Veritas Collaborative Hospital I was engulfed in darkness. For four years I had been telling myself and everyone around me that I didn’t have a problem; however, sitting in an in-patient treatment program, confronting, new, terrifyingly overwhelming obstacles everyday, I was forced to face reality. Two days lapsed into two weeks, and, before I was able to catch a breath, I had been admitted for most of my sophomore year. Every bite, every “blind weight”, and every night spent sleeping on sheets that weren’t attached to my own bed felt like an immense deceit against a divine

being: my mind was betraying my body. developed However, the dark began to weave itself with light—taken from family visits, words of encouragement, and heart-to-heart conversations with the mirror—and I persevered.

Eating disorders are the single most deadly mental illness, and no matter how stubbornly rooted I was in my self-destructive habits, I knew I never wanted to become another statistic proving that fact. To flourish you have to fall, and as I slowly began to piece together my broken motivation, I developed an intent to take full advantage of my life. The Sophia who sat on the living room floor, analyzing calories consumed over calories burned, never stopped to truly think about the consequences of her actions, however, the bruised yet still standing woman who, on a chilly February morning, walked out of the shiny glass doors garnishing the hospital exit, was capable of knowing the next step to take.

Smart. My biggest regret is for too long a time allowing my insecurities smother, not only my self-confidence, but my ability to turn my passion into drive. The experiences I have had

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Hazel C. Glick '23

and hurdles I have cleared have molded my ambition and shown me all that I can accomplish through harnessing my struggle and potential and applying it to helping others. Through studying social work I hope to help amazing and unique young boys and girls, who I see myself in, notice their true beauty. I can now acknowledge, and am proud of, my bravery, strength, and smarts, but I also know that I’m much more than that.

I have won the battle and now I’m ready to fly.

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Photography Nolan Menanno '22

Beyond your impressive academic credentials and extracurricular accomplishments, what else makes you unique and colorful? We know nobody fits neatly into 500 words or less, but you can provide us with some suggestion of the type of person you are. Anything goes! Inspire us, impress us, or just make us laugh. Think of this optional opportunity as show and tell by proxy and with an attitude.

“Isn’t it funny how clear objects cast a shadow?” my photography teacher told us as we tried sketching an ordinary plastic water bottle that was sitting on a pedestal. I had never really noticed this odd phenomenon before, but now as I tried to shade all of the values created by each crinkle of the plastic, I realized the truth behind his statement. “If you can’t draw something, how are you supposed to photograph it?”

Fundamentally, photography is about the combination of many intricate choices you make as the photographer. This attention to detail is why I go through the trouble of taping blankets over the windows of my living room to get the ideal lighting on a glass of water. The depth of field, the angle, and the contrast are seemingly minor details, but every careful decision alters a picture’s message.

I find these photography elements to be enticingly powerful, and I therefore value them as much as the word choice in an essay.

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As a kid, I spent most of my days outside going for hikes, playing in the woods, or digging in the garden. I remember being captivated by the documentary Nature on PBS as I watched with my family. Seeing the beautiful scenes of the Serengeti on our fuzzy, rabbit-ear TV sparked a passion for photography within me. It took what I loved about the outdoors and turned it into a masterpiece.

When I was nine years old, my photography career began in the humid butterfly conservatory where my dad works. On Sunday mornings, I would go to work with him to help feed the birds or water the plants, but I always ended up taking his phone and opening the camera app. Pretending that I was a National Geographic photographer, I carefully stepped through the tropical plants, in search of my favorite species of exotic butterfly, the blue morpho. Once I spotted my subject, I edged as close as I dared without startling it. While in position, I did my best to get

the butterfly in focus with the proper angles and lighting. When I was satisfied with my work, or when my nine-year-old energy triumphed over my patience, I went in search of another subject.

My passion for photography has only grown since I was nine. There’s a reason why Our Planet is on the “Watch Again” section of my Netflix account. Even when I’m limited to the space of my backyard, I take advantage of every opportunity to photograph dragonflies, grasshoppers, goldfinches, and cardinals.

Researching photographers, emulating their photography styles, and coming up with projects of my own is how I love spending my free time.

Whether I’m laying on the ground in my backyard photographing a katydid or kneeling on a sidewalk in Philadelphia taking my sister’s graduation pictures, I treasure every minute detail that I control with a lens.

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House of Cats Ella Bartlett '22

Have you ever tried to catch a stray “fish-dog?”

Well, neither had I, at least not before this past summer when my little sister’s best friend claimed to have spotted one in our neighborhood. She told her brother, who told my sister, who told me, who decided this would be a brilliant way to occupy the long hours of the summer in which I was in charge of watching the trio. We would catch this fishdog.

We came up with many different methods as to how we would lure the creature into our backyard, ranging from building a robot resembling the boogie man to tying a string around a hotdog and dragging it through the neighborhood like a bunch of lunatics. You can imagine which sounded more appealing.

“We don’t have steel,” they said.

“We have cardboard,” I said.

“We don’t have cogs, gears,” they said.

“We have tape,” I said.

“You know what we do have?” they asked.

“Hotdogs and string.” And so our summer began.

67 #

Each day I was woken by their excitement, full of anticipation for the day to come. We would pack our bags: water bottles, Elsa branded bandaids, a bug catching terrarium, snacks. You know, the essentials. If I’ve learned anything from helping to raise these three beautiful young children it’s that they will take up more of your heart than you could’ve ever imagined. Yet the surest way to fill theirs is to bring them snacks. This was the logic we decided to apply to the fish-dog as well. So we tied our hotdog to the string and were out the front door, ready to conquer the day, each day, every day. As long as nobody had to poop, that is.

You may be wondering if we were successful in our conquest, and in a way we were. We never did find our fish-dog friend, but there were times where I could’ve sworn I heard him creeping up behind us, heard the wet sniff of his snout as he followed the scent of our hotdog: bouncing down the street as the kids took turns running it like a kite. I often wonder if that was ever our real

intention, to catch the dog. We caught the idea of the dog, we caught the excitement of the dog, we caught the refracted colors of the dog, shown through our joint kaleidoscope of imagery.

I feel as though to be educated in our society one has to hold such a kaleidoscope of perspectives, to have the power to lift the lens and see beauty in spite of the chaos. For a whole summer I was able to look through the spiraling colors of a child’s mind, was able to experience wonders of a mundane life, each experience, each item, each word saturated with possibilities. I was inspired by the kids’ readiness to look at the world around them and draw forth the fish-dog, bringing it to life through their words and actions. And for that opportunity I am eternally grateful, for it is only when the perspectives of the many are layered against each other that we are able to get the true view.

I wish to rotate my kaleidoscope, drawing something new from each fracture, coloring the earth around me with possibilities and wonders, painting an image of a whole, painting an image of an idea. And with that idea, who knows, maybe I’ll be able to catch a fish dog of my own.

68 #

An Ode to a Conversation with a Stranger EHP

To the man on the purple line With orange laughter and dusty brown hair A white dog painted with polka-dots and the scent of day old smoke Never been out of the state but And to the women at terminal 2 gate C Has tickets for way out West With candid eyes and papery skin Dog deserves a better life, he says 64 years but only 24 of them free Gonna get a big backyard, he says Interlocked fingers to declare what is theirs Gotta say goodbye to my mom, he says So much compromise just for love, they say So much hurt in hearts that hate, they say You owe it to yourself to be yourself, they say

And to the woman on the California coast With a freckle-splattered smile and a brand new nose ring Needed to do something for herself After years of thinking of everyone else Toes in the icy water and hands embracing the wind And to every pair of headlights on the highway Had to change everything to feel something, she says And every square of light on darkened buildings Life is only short if you want it to be, she says Spilling over onto a concrete city You have to be there for you, she says Stories hiding in shadowed corners Lives yet to grasp my hand and pull me in Asking me to dance just for the night I am deaf to what is said Blind to the smiles behind what is heard 69

Konjo Lemons '23

Art's Impact on Me

Meridy Nicholson '22

When I was little, I spent my summers at day camp. There was a big gym that all of us kids would sit in at the end of the day and wait for our parents to pick us up. To pass the time, we would draw pictures with crayons. There was a counselor-in-training that drew me a butterfly. I thought the drawing was incredible, and I taped it to my window. For years to come, I would walk by that drawing and admire it. To her, it was probably just a silly little drawing, but to me it meant so much more than that. It inspired me.

It was then that I discovered art envy - the strange sense of both jealousy and inspiration when you look at a piece you thought was so good you could never imagine yourself being able to create anything close to it. I wanted to draw like her. I wanted to draw beautiful butterflies. I wanted to draw fire-breathing dragons. I wanted to learn the craft of shapeshifting paper with pencils.

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With art envy, there are two responses I have had - either hopelessness because I never believed I could make anything as good, or an increased sense of motivation. This motivation is kind of self-deprecating, but it has been a motivation for me nonetheless.

At the end of middle school, I decided to leave my small private school in the woods to go to a public high school that concentrates on the arts.

This decision was vital because it helped me decide that art was something I wanted to do with my life.

I’m so grateful to have had the privilege of these two vastly different educational spaces because they have helped me create a diverse worldview. In elementary school, I used to make fairy gardens, figures out of sticks and leaves, and draw on rocks with charcoal. I learned to appreciate nature and approach art and creativity from a lens that respects that.

Public school was a big shift for me. My tiny private school didn’t have grades, and in my public school grades are a priority. The pressure was intense, but I’m glad I changed schools. It allowed me to connect with all sorts of people with whom I never otherwise would have interacted, and has affirmed my passion for visual arts and creative writing.

In my first three years of high school, my creative writing class participated in National

Novel Writing Month. The goal was to write a draft of a portion of a novel or novella in the month of November. My highest word count was 32,000. It was good practice for stamina, and it helped me with accountability when writing. I aspire to finish and publish the novella I wrote last year, titled Where They Go, which is a story exploring the question, “What would happen if everyone disappeared off of the planet except a few people?”

My high school art classes have allowed me to explore a variety of mediums, many of which I used for the first time. Trying different mediums helps me stay engaged in making art and allows me to foster a diverse range of techniques. I am thankful that this year I’m taking an AP Art and Design Portfolio class where I explore the question, “How do we lose ourselves in pursuit of control?” I learned through the pandemic how easy it is to lose control of our own lives and how control can be a paradox. When we spend a lot of energy trying to control things over which we have no control, we can lose ourselves in the process. We end up losing even more control. It is a scary but humbling experience to realize how little control we have and how much energy we put into thinking we have gained it.

I have come to embrace community and art in unexpected forms. I can make many different types of art, whether it’s online, academic art, or a

novel I write. It all has value if it can help someone.

Art fosters growth and connection, and the means of getting there look different to every artist. I hope I can make art that is authentic to myself and that others can relate to, and I’m crossing my fingers that I can become an artist that would inspire my younger self. Who knew that the counselor-in-training would help me discover my future career? I guess you can’t underestimate the power of a crayon drawing.

72#

In the Other Room Clowny Jones

I was talking to Jack when mom came in.

“Who are you talking to?” Mom clutched to the doorway, like she was about to collapse.

“Jack!” I reply cheerfully. Mommy looks stressed.

“Hunny, who is Jack?”

"My friend! He’s shy.” Mommy looks upset. Did I do something wrong? She says something under her breath and exits. I didn’t hear what she said, though.

“What's wrong with mommy?” I turned to the door connected to my bedroom, where Jack is.

“She’s sick. You should let her rest.” I was confused, but I kept on playing.

“Are you going to come out?” I asked Jacky. I heard shuffling from under the door. "...No." “Are you hiding? From who?” I was really excited. Was he playing a game? Is it a secret?

“I am. I'm hiding from mommy.”

“Why?” He paused whatever he was doing. He clearly wasn’t going to answer, so I resumed my play.

Sometimes people don't like to answer questions. I never knew why.

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A couple years later...

I lay in the corner of my own room, tears drying on my blotchy face. I had clearly gotten older and more mature than the innocent child I had once been. I came to know why mom was so sick, why she drank so much.

But I was still so young. I shift my eyes under the door. Dim light flickers in the other room, as if it was lit by a singular candle stub.

“Jack…?” I asked, my lip trembling.

Shuffling. “Yeah?”

“How- … how old are you?” I asked. It was a question that I used to always ask him, but he would always fail to answer.

“I’m… your age. Maybe younger.” So young… I rub the reddened mark on my cheek.

“Are you ever gonna come out?” I asked another question. This time I wasn’t really expecting an answer. As I thought, he didn’t answer. He always avoids questions.

Our short conversation reminded me of an exchange we had when we were younger.

We were young, maybe 6 or 7. I was excitedly describing what my dream house would look like.

I blabbed on and on about how amazing my pool would be, and the slide leading

down from my balcony.

I asked Jack what his dream house would be.

“Big. More than just a small room. It's like a coffin in here.” He said. I didn’t exactly know what he meant by that.

“If you want a bigger room to play in, then just come out here.” I said.

“I can't. It's locked.”

“Did your mom lock you in?” Jack sometimes mentioned his mom. It was always in some sort of negative light.

"Yeah. She might cry if I ever come out.”

“So you're just going to stay there? How long have you even been in there?” I really wanted to play with him. “Don’t remember. I think I used to play with you, though. Outside the room.” I could imagine him gesturing to the door.

I was being naive. Younger me never really understood all the implications hidden under Jack’s short sentences.

The name on the tombstone is Jack. Jack Smith, 2008. Died upon birth. A little purple butterfly flies onto the stone.

There lies my little friend in the other room. I know now what the other room was. It was a small nursery. Two matching cradles next to each other. One for me, and one was supposed to be for Jack.

I’m glad we still got to be friends.

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The Dance Of Orange Ella Bartlett '22

I am resting now, set under the sun.

The creases in my forehead: unfolding.

Jaw: unclenching.

Mind: releasing.

I still my body, soothing the shivers.

I take in my surroundings, acknowledge the colors swirling about me.

I note the air: how it feels, smells.

The scent is like ivy, growing, branching, weaving.

The wind carries hints of the earthly scent emitted from the crevices carved into the thick armor of the tallest pine.

Today the wind feels green, I can visualize it parting around me now, surrounding my body which radiates pink from a purple core, fingertips the slightest yellow.

I provide my eyelids with a break from the constant fluttering, allowing them to simply slide downward, a veil separating thought from outer sight.

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But I do not not lose my whole sight,

no.

For now I see orange.

Through my veil I can trace the faint outline of the sun, can sense it’s burning deep.

Orange.

I have been seeing orange within myself for days now, and I believe to be finally coming to understand him.

He dances not just before my eyes, but throughout my being.

Dancing is what orange does.

Part of him loves it, loves the freedom of flitting around, whirling and twirling as a gust of wind attempting to sway a loblolly.

And yet he knows he does not simply dance out of love, for it is from the other half that he dances out of fear.

What will become of me if I stop moving, stop focusing my energy on burning energy? What will become of me when the excess is funneled toward my brain? What will become of me when my anxiety is ignited, fueled? What will become of me when I am left only to my thoughts?

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This is why orange must never stop dancing.

Where are we without him?

For with him he not only brings the setting of the sun, but the resurrection as well.

He dances our souls high up into the sky, joining the clouds in his step.

And it is there, where the air turns to Heaven, that orange releases our souls to the darkening day.

Some of us may cling to orange, begging him not to leave us, not to stop the dance.

Others may find it time to move on, time to find a new color.

This is why the sky becomes painted with so many choices as the sun descends, allowing our resting souls to restart.

For when orange returns once more with the rising of the sun he will guide us home, and it is at the doors to our minds that we must decide-- to allow him in or turn our Guardian away.

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He may have the stamina to dance day and night, but our souls grow tired, muscles seizing, giving out.

We are not meant to constantly dance and he does.

Yet at times, as it has been with me recently, we embrace orange back into our bodies with enthusiasm, rathering to focus on the pain of the dance then to the pains of our thoughts.

This is what I see,

as I recline in the green engulfing me,

I see orange.

Too much orange.

It is time for me to stop the dance.

I reopen my eyes and unite with my outer appearance.

I become pink, radiating from a purple core, my fingertips the slightest yellow.

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SECOND PLACE WINNER of the 2022 Fiction Contest!

Excerpt from "Ghost of a Million Memories" Clare Pierce '24

A scream.

It echoes out to me from every corner of the woods, as if every tree is calling out to me, wailing at me.

Willow, help me!

The voice—it isn’t distant or ominous. It’s right by my side, and it’s desperate…pained…

Please.

It is holding on for dear life, crying out to me for salvation, begging for me to be some kind of savior.

Please! Willow, please.

I want to yell back. All the muscles in my body want to run down every trail and path until I find the source, until I save this voice.

But I can’t. I can’t be that savior, not when I can hardly breathe myself.

I cannot breathe…because I know.

Deep down I know where the voice is coming from, whose voice it is, exactly why they need me.

Knowing these things only makes me want to help more, but I also know that there is no possible way I could help now.

How could I? 79

I’ve tried…and I can’t.

That painful thought makes my heart hurt, makes my entire body feel like it is about to burst into pieces, into flames, into ashes.

Help me, Willow. Please.

I’m sorry. I can’t.

And with those words, my body comes crashing down to the ground in a defeated, aching pain. The deafening echoes of the wails and calls for help only grow louder and louder until they are the only thing in the entire woods that I can hear.

Even my own heart-wrenching sobs are soon drowned out by the sound of never ending screams.

I’m so sorry. But you know that I can’t. I never could.

When my eyes come flying open, my fingers are grasped into tight fists that have the comforter on top of me clenched into messily swirling clumps of fabric. Gradually, my eyes adjust to the sight around me—the old quilt that’s mostly fallen off the side of the bed, the tall pillars of the bed frame stretching up high above me, the fan

spinning in slow circles over my head.

My breath enters and leaves my lungs in slow, measured inhales and exhales.

It’s not the woods, Willow. It’s just a room.

I let my eyes fall shut again for a moment, the slivered light that peaks through the closed blinds shining on me in a desperate attempt to communicate what time it is, as if blaring at me to wake up and get started with “the next marvelous adventure of my life.”

At least, that’s what Neena would say…if she were here…

The thought makes me want to curl up into a ball and never come back out. Even the brightest light in the world wouldn’t be enough to force me out of bed and on to my “next marvelous adventure.”

A sudden knock on the bedroom door interrupts my thoughts, and I can hear a subsequent muffled voice trying to speak to me from the other side.

I roll over onto my stomach and mumble something back that becomes instantly drowned out by the pillow smushed up against my face.

A moment later, the old, wooden door creaks open, and I hear light footsteps trailing inside the bedroom. The mattress underneath me shifts as this new figure sits down on the edge of the bed by my side.

“You know, I brought you here to stop your

moping around and to enjoy at least a little bit of your summer vacation,” a soft, loving voice whispers into the room. “You have to at least get out of bed, Wills.”

I let out a muffled chuckle. “Really? Because I was under the impression you brought me here to help you sort through all of Nonnie’s old junk?”

“You know we don’t like to call it junk.”

“Right…just some obsessively and unnecessarily hoarded boxes of useless knick-knacks and prehistoric crap.”

“Willow,” my mother says. Her voice tries to be tender and definitive at the same time, but she’s always leaned toward the tender side.

I roll back over onto my back and look up into my mother’s deep emerald green eyes. I narrow my own eyes at her and reply with a tone of seriousness, “Fine. But I call the boxes not covered in a five-foot blanket of dust, twenty years in the making—deal?”

My mother rolls her eyes and lets out an exaggerated sigh. “If that’s the bargain I have to strike to get your help, then so be it.”

I smile for the first time that morning as my mother and I laugh together.

She leans down and kisses my forehead, whispering beside my ear, “I love you, Wills.

Never forget that—you are loved.”

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The morning goes by slowly after that, as most mornings these past few weeks have—ever since that fateful day in the woods. I spend the time cutting into old, dust-bitten boxes, each one nearly overflowing with enough cumulative junk to fill far more than one industrial sized garbage shoot.

My mother sits in a far off corner of the attic, rummaging through albums of old photographs.

Every once in a while, I’ll hear her laugh or sigh or bite back a few tears as she flips through them. I consider going over and sitting with her, but I know that if I started crying, it wouldn’t be for the same reason as her tears.

That would make the whole thing feel fake, and I can’t handle any more lies.

Not after what happened with the police…

“You know,” my mother calls over to me after a moment, “I think I’m ready for a snack. How about you, Willow? Want to join me in the kitchen for a break? I think we have some of your favorite cornbread crisps left—they’re yours if you want them.” Her smile is strained as if tears are desperately fighting to push through.

However, when I look more closely at her, I can see how strong my mother is. She was strong for herself through the unceasing fights back home and after her mother’s death, and now she’s been strong for me in Neena’s disappearance.

But no one can be strong forever.

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Eventually, the walls do fall down. Whether they slowly crumble or come bursting apart—now that is up to us.

My mother stands and brushes the dust and cobwebs off from her long green and blue patterned skirt, looking at me for an expected answer.

“I’ll be down in a minute,” I reply. “I just want to finish up this one box.”

“Okay,” my mother replies heavily. She walks past me on her way out of the attic, running a bruised and tired hand over my shoulder and down my back as she passes.

I pause for a moment once she’s gone, once I hear the final step down on the wooden attic ladder let out its signature groan. Looking back down at my still mostly full box of antique gadgets and what could only possibly be summarized into the word “thingamabobbers,” I can’t think of a single reason why I would have wanted to stay up here and finish with this box, especially not when cornbread crisps are waiting for me downstairs.

When I look back up and around the short, musky attic, however, a mirror over in the far corner of the space catches my eye. It’s octaval in shape with an ornate brass rim around the edge which connects the glass front to a stand in the back.

When I get up and walk over, it’s impossible

not to notice that the full length mirror doesn’t seem to fit anywhere with the rest of Nonnie’s things up in the attic. For starters, my grandmother loved beautiful house accessories like this that she could put on display and show off to all her fancy, rich friends. She wouldn’t have kept it tucked away in a long forgotten corner of her throw-away pile up in the attic. But even more importantly, there’s not a single speck of dust in sight on its surface, and I don’t recall my mother mentioning having found and cleaned off such a beautiful mirror. It just doesn’t make sense.

As I begin to move around and investigate the back side of the strange mirror, a small slip of paper catches my eye, folded into fourths and tucked into the brass edging at the very bottom of the mirror.

Reaching down to grab it and unfolding the piece of paper, it soon becomes clear that it is more than just some old note or ancient piece of paperwork.

It’s a picture printed in faint colors.

But the strangest part is that the paper doesn’t even appear to be that old itself.

For a moment, the picture doesn’t seem to matter that much, regardless—just an odd piece of perfectly preserved paper. But when I look at it more closely, I realize that the picture is not only of my grandmother—young and free-spirited in her teenage years with her hair pulled back

behind a pink headband and a large white bow on display at the top of her green, pink, and white striped dress—but that there is also another girl standing beside her.

The girl—leaning into the frame with her arm wrapped around Nonnie and resting her head on my grandmother’s shoulder—looks vaguely familiar, like the ghost of a million cumulative memories.

I stare at her bright, auburn eyes and perfectly tanned cheeks, at the turquoise sunhat placed so delicately and yet carelessly on top of her head and the curly hair underneath that cut off at the top of her shoulders. The smooth and radiant glow of the girl’s smile feels almost like a remembrance of something—or someone—long departed from my life, shining like a dazzling constellation of the night sky. In fact, the entire image of her feels like it resembles someone I know very well, all of her— except for her eyes.

When I look into the second girl’s auburn eyes, I feel like I can see galaxies and magic and entire mountains of otherworldly knowledge swimming and swirling together beneath them, almost as if these eyes themselves are otherworldly, from somewhere far beyond my reach…

And just like that, in the span of an instant, I feel like I’m back in the woods.

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Not the woods from my nightmare—dark and tangled and closing in from all sides—but the real woods from all those weeks ago, Neena and I chasing each other over outstretched tree roots and ducking under low-hanging limbs without a care in the world.

“Slow down, Neena,” I call out breathlessly as she races ahead of me through a sun-lit clearing and deeper into the rows of trees.

“Just hurry up,” she laughs back over her shoulder. “We’re almost there. I promise, Silly Willy.”

I stop dead in my tracks when she says that, and when Neena notices a few moments later, she too slows her pace and turns to run back toward me until she’s standing at my side. We just pause there for a moment, until eventually, I have the courage to look up and meet her eyes through a tear-blurred gaze.

“I’m sorry, Willow. I forgot… Is it still happening? Are they still—” I nod, and my stiff inhale cuts Neena off before she can finish.

“I’m so sorry,” she whispers, pulling me into a tight, squeezing embrace. “Look, I’m always here if you want to talk about what’s happening at home. But, otherwise, I say we make the most of this summer. I mean, last summer of high school, right? Next summer, we’ll be spending hours at the mall fantasizing over our perfect college dorm 83

rooms. And then you’ll be heading off to Cornell, and I’ll be on my way to the Fashion Institute of Technology. It’ll be amazing—we’ll finally get away from this little town.”

“That’s the problem, Neena. I don’t want to leave. I don’t want anything else to change.

Nonnie just died, and Reeds is preparing to come to Westchester High with us this year, and my mother and father…” I trail off because the words stop coming to me. Maybe there just aren’t any words—not now, not for this.

Well, sometimes change can be good,” Neena counters, and we begin to walk forward side by side under the canopy-forming trees, her arm linked around my shoulders. “Just think of all the possibilities that wait out there. We’re only going to reach them if we take a risk. You know, allow ourselves to be open to change.”

I laugh. “Okay, now you’re starting to sound like my mother.”

“Huh. Well, I always liked your mom. She just made sense to me.”

Suddenly, a few rows of trees into the distance, something shimmering catches my eye. I can tell Neena notices too because she doesn’t keep talking, something I’ve grown accustomed to her doing constantly and with no deterrent.

Out in front of us, floating above Zedrris Creek and growing and shrinking and flickering and exploding and fading just before our eyes is what I

could only describe as a small, glowing orb of light.

Though I know on instinct that it’s far more than just light.

It’s galaxies. It’s magic. It’s knowledge. And it’s otherworldly in every sense of the word.

“Neena…” It comes out in a faint whisper, my voice a mixture of both fear and curiosity.

Neena’s arm drops down from around my shoulders, and her eyes grow large and excited as she stares at the strange glowing ball hovering in the air just ahead of us.

“Neena,” I repeat more sternly. “Neena, let’s go.

This doesn’t feel safe.”

Neena shakes her head and chuckles confidently at my worries, though it does little to comfort my growing fears. “Seriously, Willow? What was I just saying about change and risks?” She turns around and smiles at me. “Come on—don’t you want a little excitement in your life? Live life on the edge for just a moment, and you’ll see. Come on.”

She seems completely, utterly fearless.

“I’ll race you to it,” Neena cries out as she takes off sprinting toward the orb, bolting as if every muscle in her body were being magnetically pulled toward it.

“Neena! No, you need to stop! Just think about what you’re doing!” I yell after her, running in her tracks. “Please, Neena!”

She slows to a light jog and then stops just in front of the creek when she reaches the orb’s side.

“Wow,” she whispers as I finally catch my breath beside her, reaching out her hand toward the orb as if she were on an elementary field trip to the petting zoo.

A warmth radiates from the orb and flows into our bodies, auburn light running in a dancing motion over our skin.

“Neena, I don’t think we should mess with this,” I practically beg at her side.

“What harm could it do?” Neena shrugs. “I mean, honestly, it’s probably just some prank the boys from Westchester set up for someone to find.

Let’s see what they’ve put together for us this time.”

And with that, Neena reaches her hand closer toward the orb.

As soon as her fingers enter into its glowing, auburn atmosphere, her entire body becomes consumed in the light, which begins flooding out of the orb unceasingly. It wraps and spins around her in spirling rings of flickering and morphing magic.

Neena stands there at first, smiling and laughing and watching it flood over her skin from the tips of her fingers, up her arms, around her shoulders, through her hair, down her torso and legs, and back up and around again.

I try to untense my muscles, to let my jaw and

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fists unclench.

It seems…peaceful…harmless…

That is until, in a split second, Neena’s body goes from being lavishly consumed just in front of me to disappearing into thin air.

Gone.

“Neena? Neena?!” I cry after a moment of silent shock. “This is not funny anymore—okay? It’s time for the prank to end! Neena? Neena, where are you?!”

I stand at the creek’s edge, my head and mind spinning in circles, trying to comprehend where my friend could have vanished to.

“Neena!”

I take off, running into the woods, stumbling over roots and twigs and short, stubby plants and rough stones that I hardly have time to feel scraping at my ankles.

I run until my breaths are sparse and labored and my entire chest feels heavy and on the verge of exploding.

I just run. Because I have find Neena.

Before I know it, I am racing through woods that looks very different from where I was just moments ago. Around me are towering, menacing trees that block out any hope of sunlight reaching down and rescuing me. Vines grow in every direction, strangling the life out of whatever plants they can grasp.

My nightmare.

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There are screams, echoing through the trees and cutting like a knife through the misty air: I need you, please.

Willow, help me!

Please, Willow! Please…

I try to force my eyes open, to let myself know that it’s all just a memory and a nightmare—a flash of some other reality.

I don’t want to relive any of it again…

Please, no—not again. I can’t help. I don’t know how. I just can’t. You know that I can’t help you, Neena.

When I look down at the picture grasped tightly between my fingers, however, it’s all I can do to not want to go back to that day from my memory, to save Neena from whatever force took her away from me, to make certain she could still be here with me now—safe and well.

I look between the two girls in the picture—the girl in the stripes, my Nonnie, and the girl with the glowing auburn eyes but the face of a ghostly memory…Neena?

Nonnie and Neena, back in 1967—both young and beautiful, and bustling with lively, glowing magic.

No, it couldn’t possibly be…

But it has to be.

The Train Tracks Piper Barnes '24 There’s a cairn by the train tracks, and passers by wonder to see it, for someone must have built it to mark a dead man’s crossing where the railway crosses from the bustling city into the unknown.

There’s a penny on the train tracks, smashed flat by the wheels that roll ever onwards heedless of the coinage crushed beneath steam-powered feet on the whims of idle children.

There’s a flower ‘tween the train tracks, all yellow and white delicate yet hardy sprouting amidst the loose gravel.

A tiny hand picks it, tucks it behind an ear: A better death than the pennies faced.

There’s a girl watching the train tracks, her scarf wrought of bold crimson; her teary eyes and freezing fingers redden to match.

With cold numbed hands, she picks up another stone, and presses it against a long-wilted flower.

There are two cairns by the train tracks, marking two strangers’ passage.

Both were built by clumsy hands, but they stand regardless.

The train roars across the train tracks.

A man leans out the window, precarious, with a click of a camera the tiny stone towers are captured in memory-so no matter how much time passes, there will always be two cairns by the train tracks.

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Play that Music Aundrea George '25

Ode To Clarence Lucy Ehmann '24

Clarence, what a magnificent horn Always by my side In all the times I was tried A time you sounded bad has not at any point come Never during an audition did you to nervousness succumb Not once since the day you were born Clarence, how satisfying, the sounds of your clicking and clacking Fragile bridge metal rings keys and joints The sounds jump out at me like exclamation points Functioning like one coherent body altogether Except for when the air turns cold and your fall becomes the weather But what am I saying? Certainly not in any way are you at all lacking Clarence, your tone I absolutely adore It pierces the air with crystal clarity As my fingers fly with incredible dexterity Even your name means bright and clear Which are attributes I see in you throughout the year I couldn’t have asked for anything more 88

Clarence, shiny and radiant are your keys Bore, barrel and bell, made of the finest black wood Every inch, each fiber makes you easily understood On your thumb rest lies a flare of glittery pink A flash of color that makes people blink So not only ears, but also eyes do you please It can without a doubt be agreed An amazing pair we will become But if a time should come From January to December, Please always remember Just blame the reed

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Excerpt from "The Boy who Never Grew Up" Kyra Dennie '24 Note: the following story does not represent an endorsement of drug use; reader discretion advised.

After a long day at work, all Wynn wanted to do was go home and crash onto her bed. She pushed the exit door open, sliding on her mask. It made a mechanical clicking noise as it went on and a green light blinked in her peripheral vision.

She stepped into the thick cloud of smoke called New London. The back alleyway was left mainly in shadow. Wynn didn’t really mind, it was better than being in the blinding lights that flooded the more traveled streets. She glanced up to see if she could see any stars, or even the moon but all that covered the sky was a mix of smoke and smog.

Wynn took a deep breath of purified air through her mask and walked to the main street. The walk to and from work was the only peace she ever got.

Time at the factory was full of work so busy she didn’t have time to think. And at home, all she ever had the energy to do was throw something in the defroster and sleep, let alone take care of her two younger brothers.

Wynn squinted her eyes at the brightness of the main street. Everything seemed to be

screaming for attention. Most were just advertisements, promising the solution to everyone’s problems or store signs trying to pull in customers. The street was crowded with people, most making their way home from work, there were a few just starting their shifts, while others were out for a night of entertainment. And boy, was there things to be entertained by. Bars and clubs offered the most inventive drinks, sure to please anyone’s taste buds. There was the immersive arcade which was filled with games that went beyond the imagination, step into the small booth and you’re in a different world. There were lounges that were coming up with new stimulants or depressants that sounded like heaven after a long, stressful day at work. The ground rolled to the left. Must have been a big swell, thought Wynn. Long before her time the seawater had risen so much that the British Isles had gone under. They had built New London, on a floating platform on top of where the island sank. Wynn tried to ignore all of this and barrel

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past people to her apartment.

The crowd thinned out more as she continued into the residential area. Wynn finally reached her apartment building and placed her hand on the scanner outside the door. It slid open with squeaks of protest. Wynn walked into the lobby, with its chipping white paint, and stopped under a small arch made out of a shiny metal. She stood there for a minute while a yellow light scanned down her body. When it got to her feet it blinked green. “No virus detected. Specimen may enter.” Wynn quickly made a beeline to the elevators in the back after that. The body scanner was a crackdown to reduce the sickness in the city, and so far it was working. The population increasing every day did little to help it. There have been pockets of outbreaks, which ate away at your bones until there was nothing left. The elevator sensed her movement and automatically opened its door. If we were in a better building, then the elevator would probably have some sort of security measure, too, Wynn thought as she poked the button for the 22nd floor. But beggars can’t be choosers. She leaned her head back against the wall of the elevator, not caring how grimy it was.

The elevator doors opened with their signature squeal on Wynn’s floor. She stepped off and undid her mask, bringing her hands to the back of her neck and pressing the button to unleash the airlock.

It popped off with a metallic click. Once 91

it was off, Wynn took a deep breath. The apartment building had been hastily scraped together and some of the material probably wasn't up to code. But the slight stink of the building beat the stale, although purified air, the gas mask provided. Wynn pressed her palm up against the scanner near her front door. With a quiet beep and a green light the door swung open.

“Wynn! What are you doing back so early?” A male voice shrieked. Wynn wanted to walk right back out the door and not deal with her brother’s shenanigans.

“I’m not early. I’m right on time. What are you doing?” She crossed her arms in front of her.

“Could you at least shut the door before you rag on me, please?” Wynn sighed, but obliged, stepping into the minuscule apartment and closing the door behind her, sliding her industrial-grade boots off.

“So, you never answered the question. What are you doing?” The room in front of Wynn barely had any furniture, just a mat in the corner that was used for sleeping, the defroster, the froster, and a small end-table Wynn had gotten at an antique sale. But what Wynn was most concerned about was her two younger brothers in the middle of the room, surrounded by powder and small canisters. On closer inspection. the powder was a small dust that glittered with flecks of fake gold.

“We were just making a profit.” John tried to explain. He stood up and walked over to Wynn as if to hug her. He stopped inches from her face.

“You’re really sooty.”

“Thanks! I go to work all day so we can eat and you two can go to school and this is what you do with your life?!” Wynn was almost hysterical.

“We never wanted to go to school.” Michel piped up from his seat on the floor. He was shifting the powder into one of the canisters, which was smaller than his fist.

“I didn’t either until they pulled me out. School is one of the places where you’re actually somewhat safe. An education can get you a good job, so you’re not stuck in a rubbish factory like I am.”

“We never asked you to look out for us.” John stuck his chin out.

“Oh, so you don’t need me? Well I’m the only one here with an income and this is my apartment, don’t forget that. I won’t have the police coming here and discovering that you're operating A DRUG BUSINESS!” Wynn wanted to do nothing more than collapse into a deep sleep, but her brothers insisted on pressing her to her last limit.

"We aren’t selling it, just packaging it.” Michel was always trying to keep the peace. “We want to be able to help you. That’s why

we’re doing this.”

“Yeah, we have a secure seller that we’re packaging for. It pays better than your factory job.”

“You are packaging Pixie Dust. The most sought after, most addictive and arguably the most dangerous drug on the planet.” Wynn couldn’t believe how stupid her brothers were. Yes, they had done some stupid stuff before, like almost jumping off the apartment roof with bungee jumping rope, but this was one a whole other level.

“I’m done. I’m going to eat dinner and pretend none of this happened.” Wynn went to the one shelf nailed into the wall and grabbed a meal can off of it. ‘Everything you need in a meal, in one covenant package. Heat it, or just eat it with a spoon!’

Wynn followed neither of the suggestions, instead taking the lid off and just guzzling it back like water. She went to the corner with the sleeping mat and just crashed onto it, all her energy drained and wanting nothing more than to just fall into oblivion. Her body, finally able to rest, fell into a restless, dreamless sleep.

***

Tap, tap, tap. Wynn rolled over, used to the loud noises of the city and determined not to wake up.

Tap, tap, tap, tap. The noise continued. Wynn blinked her eyes open, vowing to kill whoever disturbed her rest. The apartment was 92

dark, illuminated by the street lights outside. She could make out the resting forms of Michel and John. They were slumped together under a threadbare blanket. The giant pile of Pixie Dust was gone, replaced with containers ranging from the size of Wynn’s pinky to her head. They must have finished packaging through the night. That still didn’t answer the tapping noise. Wynn turned to the only window in the room, a luxury no matter how minuscule. Wynn had to put a hand over her mouth to stop from screaming. There was a man at her window.

He continued tapping, this time with renewed vigor when he saw Wynn was awake. Wynn stumbled back to the kitchen-area, grabbing the empty can of dinner, and approached the window.

She had no idea what she was going to do once the window was open, but she wanted to get him to stop making such a racket. Then she could finally have some sleep. She threw open the window and pointed the empty can at him.

“What do you want and who are you?”

“Wouldn’t you like to know?” He smirked and waggled his eyebrows.

“Let me try again, what do you want? Because I have the police on speed dial. My mom is on the force.”

“Umm, uhuh.” The longer she talked to him, Wynn realized he was just about her age. “Your mom, who has been dead for what, four years?”

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“That doesn’t change the fact that I can call the police. And how do you know that, are you stalking me or something?” Wynn was about to shut the window on him, and try to return to getting some rest.

“I’m not stalking you, I’ve been stalking them.”

He pointed further unto the room, where Michel and John were sleeping.

“Wow, that’s much more comforting.”

“I was actually mainly focused on the Pixie Dust.

Ain’t that right, Tink?”

“Who’s Tink?” Wynn whirled around to see all the canisters of Pixie Dust surrounded in a net and a small robot hovering above it all.

“That would be Tink, my ever helpful helper.”

The boy had a gleam in his eye.

“Very well done. You’ve gotten a drone into my house and now there’s no way to get out. Smart plan.”

“Oh, I have a plan.” He gave out two sharp whistles. The robot buzzed and sent a blue shock wave through the net. The canisters seemed to tremble a moment before shrinking down, so small that the whole pile that had been taller than John, who was the tallest person Wynn knew, could now fit into Wynn’s hand.

"Oh no you don’t.” Wynn smacked the drone and the net of canisters out of the air before they could leave through the window. The boy gave a shriek as his drone went crashing, waking Michel

and John. They both sat up, blinking their eyes open, not believing the scene in front of them.

“How could you have done that? That was a priceless piece of technology!”

“Well you were trying to steal from me.”

“I was stealing an illegal substance that you stole from someone else. Plus I was trying to save you, so I win.”

“What do you mean, ‘trying to save us’? We're not in danger of anything.”

“Uhh, Wynn.” Michel pulled at her shirt. “Do you know who this is?”

“No, he won’t give me any answers.” Wynn pushed his hand away.

“That’s Peter Pan, the head of the Lost Boys.”

John donned the same fearful tone as Michel.

“What does that matter? Now I can file a police record.” Wynn felt a sting of satisfaction. She was still so mad at her brothers to put any weight in their concerned tones.

“The Lost Boys, as in the infamous mafia that runs Neverland.” John filled in the gaps in Wynn’s knowledge. Peter Pan smiled mischievously and wiggled his fingers in greeting.

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The Drift Among the WAYves Audrey Sander '22 The way his piercing blue eyes Pop with attentiveness, The way his fourteen identical polos Await wearing and washing.

The way his “special” cereal bowl and water cup Stand proudly on top of our fridge, The way each of his special-purpose shoes Lay waiting to perform their duties,

Though not always perfectly positive His attempts at advice and encouragement Do their duties as any good guard dog should.

With reflection and recuperation succeeding The dreadful enlistment process, I find my dad admiring me just as The way he admires his fourteen identical polos, The way he prides himself in making a subpar grilled cheese, And the way he loves me Regardless of my time away at war.

"Jonathan Sander" "Lil Jay” "Jeannot “Daddy” "Father dearest” I enlist for puberty like an unimpressed soldier Required to perform their national duty.

Amidst anxiety, apprehensive development, and An awkward desire to distance myself from him.

My dad.

Stood watchful and alert much like a guard dog Protecting their frail and incapable owner.

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In Which the Little Mermaid Defies Fate Lana Olarte '24 The little mermaid fell in love. Not with the prince, but with the world he lived in.

It had been a star filled night, and her head dipped above the surface of the waves to spot the constellations with two of her sisters. It was a game they had invented, to see who could name the most before sunup, although Ariel always won.

She had scavenged shipwrecks for star maps and consulted her father’s astronomers, who had already mapped the seas and were now drawn to the unknown that was space. She liked to calculate eclipses and meteor showers, and had already memorized the patterns of the sky above.

Still, she was the youngest of the princesses, and her sisters had few other ways to keep her endless curiosity sated, so they accompanied her above and played her games at the request of their father.

A ship sailed near the horizon line, its edges painted with moonlight. Ariel could hear the voices of sailors aboard, and though she had learned a few human languages, the distance muffled them too much to decipher. She started toward it, fins propelling her easily through the

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water. The oldest of her sisters clasped Ariel's hand in hers, humming quizzically. The language of mermaids was melodic, intonations in place of words and singularly beautiful.

Ariel turned back to the ship, longing to get closer. The oldest shook her head firmly. Ariel rolled her eyes, and the three of them dove beneath the surface.

It was nearly an hour before a small head popped out above the waves, hair streaming out behind her like the tentacles of a jellyfish. Satisfied no one had followed her, Ariel began swimming toward the slow moving ship. The sky was a deep, cloudless navy, but she could smell a storm brewing on the salty ocean breeze. She felt her desire tugging her onward nonetheless, as if pulling her along by an invisible tether.

Fireworks shot into the sky, bursting with bright and dangerous colors that made Ariel’s eyes sparkle with longing. Surface inventions were beautiful.

There was music playing, though not a kind she had ever heard. Her webbed fingers gripped the side of the ship and she pressed her cheek to the rough wood, closing her eyes as the vibrations

thrummed through her. A voice rang clear through the air, and Ariel’s skin prickled at the beauty of it.

Hours passed as she listened, clutching the ship’s bow as if it was the last thing left in the universe and letting the sounds of humans and their world wash over her.

The clouds had rolled in when she finally opened her eyes, finally noticing the looming gray canopy above her. A clap of thunder sounded, and Ariel instinctually darted under the water.

The waves had grown tall and choppy, drenching the sailors above deck. Rain started to pour; what was once a light drizzle now gave way to a torrent of water that bit across the sky and made it hard to see.

When she was barely a few seconds away, a crack rang out in the air, and Ariel turned to see a towering mast give a creak and a moan, before falling to the deck and sending up splinters in its wake. Lighting had lit a spark, and flames were already licking away at the ship.

Men were shouting, but Ariel couldn’t hear the bubbling laughter that had just been present in their voices. Now there was fear and panic as the ocean tossed the ship about like a child's plaything.

Beneath the agitated chorus of voices, another crack sounded, and one final wave snapped the last vestiges of wooden sinews that held the boat together. Men tumbled into the

water, some grabbing pieces of driftwood to keep themselves afloat.

Ariel watched all this happen with acute fascination, wondering curiously why the strange creatures didn't just seek shelter below the waves, until she remembered that they couldn’t breathe outside the air. Just then, a figure dropped into the water with a splash, and was quickly pulled under by the powerful currents. Ariel watched as he struggled to resurface, his limbs flailing with desperation.

And then she dove after him, though she barely knew why. He was unconscious before she grasped his hand and hauled him upwards.

Holding his head above the water, she towed him toward the mainland.

She stopped at the shallows, where the waves lapped gently around her and the human. Ariel couldn't help but stare at him, splayed out on the sand like a beautiful sculpture. In fact, his face was eerily similar to a statue she had once seen in the skeleton of a sunken ship. Her father had said it was a

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marble likeness of a prince in the upworld, and that trading ships often get caught in dangerous shoals and sink.

The human was still for a moment, two, before letting out a hacking cough to expel the water from his... What did humans have instead of gills?

His chest began to rise and fall, and Ariel attuned a melody of relief.

Then his eyes fluttered open. He caught sight of her leaning over him as the rising sun caught her hair in a halo of golden light.

His gaze lingered on the top half of her, so he didn't notice the long, fish-scaled tail that stemmed out from her waist, or perhaps he was too overwhelmed to care.

When she opened her mouth, his ears were graced by the most beautiful song he had ever heard, a wordless tune that carried the voices of the sea along with it. A melody of curiosity, though he didn’t know it.

After a fair bit of croaking, he managed to let out a weak "Hello.”

Then his eyes drooped for a moment, and she noticed the way sand clung to his eyelashes and coated his soft black hair, and Ariel decided he must be the most perfect human who had ever lived, for surely the merfolk would have

noticed if they were all like this.

That was all it took for the little mermaid to decide. She would become human if it killed her.

Just then, the rising sun caught in her eyes, and she became suddenly aware of how long she had been away from home. With a wrenching heart, she forced herself to swim away. He called out behind her, and she silently promised him that she would return.

Mermaids don't have souls, or that was what her grandmother told her the first time she asked.

"When we die," her grandmother had sang, "We dissolve into seafoam and return to the ocean where we belong."

The story goes that Ariel gained her legs, but when the prince passed her over for another woman, she refused to kill him and instead threw herself into the sea, becoming seafoam and gaining a soul for her sacrifice. It was her fate.

But it is not the truth.

Ariel became obsessed, and everyone assumed it was because of the prince. Her sisters saw how she studied the marble statue she had retrieved from the wreckage of an old boat. They didn’t notice the way she drew her gaze across its hands, paying special attention to the space between its fingers where webs would be, or how she studied its lips, moving her own in unfamiliar motions and letting out sharper notes than her usual music. They didn’t notice how she

asked the seabirds for any and all stories they carried.

But no one was surprised when Ariel sought the help of the sea witch. She asked to be human, and the witch sighed at the eagerness in her voice that came with love. She had known that same love before, and she had learned the pain it could wreak.

But this particular lesson could not be learned except through experience. So she mixed a brew that would replace Ariel’s gills with lungs, and her tail with beautiful human legs. But there was no magic in the world that was without a price.

"Each step you take will feel like you are walking on a thousand sharp knives,” the sea witch warned. “Every time you breathe, your lungs will cry out in agony.”

“I don’t care,” Ariel sang. And she meant it.

“The price for humanity is your voice,” the witch continued. “Your songs are the voice of the sea, and they must remain here, in the ocean.”

“I don’t care.”

“Foolish girl. There are consequences here that you cannot begin to imagine. That prince of yours will bring you nothing but heartache. If he truly is your one and only, don’t let him marry another.

Should you experience that heartbreak, you will dissolve into sea foam and die forever. No matter how human you look, no potion will ever grant you a soul. Only true love can do that.”

“Well I have already found my true love,” the little mermaid replied defiantly. “And I know he will love me back.”

The sea witch allowed her to take the potion.

The little mermaid swam to the surface for the last time. She waded out to the shallows, and when she couldn’t go any further, she surfaced.

She let the sun warm her face for a moment, before she uncorked the bottle the sea witch had given her and downed the elixr. Immediately, pain shot through her, spreading into her chest and fingers and tail. She choked on a wave that lapped against her face, coughing out seawater and…

She was breathing.

She looked down at her hands, and realized they were no longer webbed. Her tail was replaced with two beautiful, pale, and utterly human legs.

Ariel tried to squeal with joy, but no sound came out. She took another breath and the sensation brought tears to her eyes. The sea witch had been true to her word; she couldn’t speak or sing, and each inhale scratched up her insides like salt in an open wound.

But she could smell the briny ocean breeze as it caressed her chilled skin, and she could feel tiny hairs stand up on her arms. Somehow, everything still felt new and freeing.

The prince found her when she was still trying to learn how to stand. Perhaps he recognized her 100

as his savior, or perhaps merely the sight of a naked woman in need stirred him, because he immediately whisked her away to his palace on the rocky cliffs overlooking the ocean.

He didn’t seem to care that she didn’t speak, but Ariel noticed a small disappointment in his eyes when she couldn’t sing for him. She, too, felt sorrow at the loss of her voice; less because of the prince’s desires and more because she had learned so many languages all just to have them be rendered useless. Of course, she couldn’t communicate this to him or the servants that flocked around her, making little tut tut noises and discussing her muteness.

Over gossip that they thought she couldn’t understand, they scoffed at the idea that the prince might wed her. “She has no skills,” they said. “But at least she’s pretty. With a body like that and the grace she carries, she could make a fine dancer.”

A dancer. Ariel longed to do that, with her two beautiful feet, but each step she took, she felt the need to look down and check for blood.

But if she wanted to impress the prince, the best way to do that would be to dance for him.

And dance she did, making a spectacle in front of him that night. At first, she stumbled over herself, inexperienced on her new legs, and she felt her face flush warm with embarrassment. But then she thought of her home, and the ways the waves ebbed and flowed to their own melody.

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She stopped trying to move like a human, or even like a mermaid, with her tail no longer there to propel her through the water. She danced like the ocean, like the way sand swirled around before settling back down, and like the way the fire had climbed across the breaking ship that fateful night.

She danced like no one else had, and it was beautiful.

She quickly became the prince’s favorite. He allowed her to receive luxuries she would never have found in her father’s kingdom, like food and clothes and books.

Ariel was convinced that he loved her, and perhaps she mistook her own excitement for loving him back. She would marry him, she was sure, and become fully human with a soul, finally becoming fit to experience everything the surface had to offer.

The prince had no such expectation, though. He took another lover, one just as beautiful as the little mermaid, but who could say sweet things to him and laugh at his quips and sing him to sleep. Not even a few weeks later, he told Ariel that they were to be married at dawn.

Ariel’s sisters found her crying silently by the shoreline. They had heard the news from fishermen and fish alike; word travels fast and far beneath the waves.

“Our poor sister,” they wept. “She has

discovered that the one she loves doesn’t feel the same, and now she will die of heartbreak.”

Ariel couldn’t respond, and so they couldn’t have known that she was not so despondent over the loss of the prince, but at the loss of her chance to be human. Everything she had suffered had amounted to nothing.

“Here, sweet sister,” the other princesses hummed, in their beautiful language that Ariel would never again speak. They held out a long, shining dagger, forged by the sea witch in the darkness of the ocean. “We have sold our hair to the witch to get you help. If you take this weapon, and drive it through the prince’s heart before the sun rises on his wedding day, you will become like us again. You can come home.”

Home.

Ariel took the dagger. She returned to the palace and, for a moment, stood over the prince and his lover, the blade poised to pierce their bodies..

The Little Mermaid’s destiny was to make the ultimate sacrifice. She would spare the lovers, and throw herself into the ocean, dissolving into seafoam but gaining a soul in the process. A notquite-happy-ending.

But the truth?

Ariel didn’t kill the prince, nor did she jump to her death.

She left the sleeping couple to themselves, and

wandered away, from the palace and from the sea shore. When the sun painted the sky pink and cast itself onto her face, she braced herself for final death. But nothing happened.

What had the sea witch said? If her true love married another, she would die of heartbreak. But the prince hadn’t been her true love at all. Perhaps it was for the best.

So she began to walk. Hours passed, but she was grateful for every shooting pain in her hobbled step, every breath as the crisp salt air cut up her insides. She no longer had her tail, her gills, her magnificent voice.

Her old self was gone.

Did she regret it? Never.

Ariel turned away from fate and used the legs she had traded her life for to carry her far away. She hitched rides on wagons and listened to travelers tell their tales for hours at a time. She learned that the pangs in her feet had a rhythm all their own, and the pain was often overshadowed by the joy of everything else.

With the knife given to her to take a life, she carved out a flute from a piece of oak, and turned its beautiful, hollow sound into her own voice. In time, she learned to pick out individual notes amongst a tumult of music, and then to make her own.

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With the body given to her to enchant a prince, she danced until the knives that stabbed at her settled to prickles and her muscles were electric. This time, when she danced, it was for herself and for herself only.

The merchants in every town told her stories of where they had been in exchange for an open ear, which she readily provided. And to those who could understand her, she passed those stories on with little twists of her own, hand shadows on cave walls spinning out an enthralling narrative.

Ariel’s walk was still stiff; a noticeable limp was apparent even in her dancing, but those who watched her falter would notice how she deliberately carried it into the next move without hesitation.

Years went by, and the little mermaid, who wasn’t a mermaid anymore and never would be again, grew older, just as humans do. She taught young children how to sign, and developed scars on her skin from accidents and close calls. She smiled and scowled and cried whenever the urge arose.

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She still remembered her grandmother’s words: that when she died, she wouldn’t go to heaven, but dissolve into seafoam and return to nothingness. So Ariel grew afraid of death. And perhaps that was the most human thing of all.

The Little Mermaid fell in love with humanity.

She fell in love with the feeling of air in her lungs, and the steadiness of earth beneath her feet.

She fell in love with the way that voices carried clearly to her ears in a way that they had never done underwater. She fell in love with the ache in her legs after she had walked miles and miles, and with the warmth people brought to their nights with fire. And so when she took her last breath, when her skin grew cold and the light left her eyes, her body remained where it was, and her soul left to go wherever human souls go.

After all, the witch had warned that only true love could grant her a soul. And Ariel’s love had been the truest of them all.

Yasmin Peterkin '24

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From the Whispering Wood Julie Eimer McMurray '24

Are we not all— The whispering wood, with tales woven between the trees?— Monsters looming from not just our nightmares, but our pleasantries too— We settle in the midst of our foggy minds— Writer's block, guarding the letters and codes and words— And when the final mist falls, after all of our wandering— Are we not just stories in the end?

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Chief Editors Ember Jones Ember is one of the Editors in Chief of this year’s edition of the magazine. She loves poetry, spending time with her two birds, reading books by her favorite authors, and playing video games. She’s majoring in biology next year!

Chloe Martin Chloe is an Editor in Chief of Portraits in Ink. She enjoys writing fiction, especially historical fiction. In her free time she enjoys traveling, watching anime with her sister, and cooking new desserts.

Faculty Sponsors

Matthew Crutchfield

Mr. Crutchfield teaches English and Creative Writing at Durham School of the Arts. When he's not teaching, he enjoys writing, reading, backpacking, and playing with the best dogs in all the land: Mika and Argos.

Hannah Moehrke

Ms. Moehrke teaches Creative Writing II/III and English I at DSA. She has a cat named Ellipsis, and three personal WIPs that she hopes to publish one day. Until then, she lives vicariously through the Lit Mag students who somehow pull it together to publish on behalf of the student body each year.

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Lead Editors

Ella Bartlett

Ella Bartlett is a senior in the creative writing pathway at DSA and absolutely adores writing. She also enjoys running, cats in bowties, the supernatural, and the rush of putting on eyeliner with seconds to spare.

Alexa Chambers Alexa Chambers is a senior and lead editor of Fiction. She primarily loves to write and read fiction and fantasy. She is a proud member of Battle of the Books. The Martian is the best book in the world, prove her wrong.

Kylenn Drake ​ ylenn is the Outreach Team Lead. She mainly enjoys K writing young adult fantasy and realistic fiction. She enjoys spending her money on useless items, watching Shadow and Bone, and discovering new boba places.

Leo Free

Leo is a senior, lead editor of Multimedia, and has the dream of being published. He enjoys writing prose fiction. He thinks that fan-fiction is real literature, *cough, cough*.

Eva Leasure

Eva Leasure is the lead editor of the Creative Nonfiction category. She has been in Creative Writing since 8th grade. She typically writes (and reads) historical fiction.

Staff

Beverly Asamoah

​Beverly is a senior here at Durham School of the Arts.

She is in the Creative Writing pathway. She enjoys free writing poems and spending time with family and friends in addition to Writing.

Savannah Byrd Savannah is a senior at DSA in the Creative Writing pathway who enjoys reading and writing in her free time.

She plans on attending university in the UK and making her impact overseas.

Grace Dunzo

Grace Dunzo is a Junior at DSA, and focuses her writing into poetry. She has a 2 year old French Bulldog named Sir Beauregard. She and Beauregard both hate bell peppers.

Chloe Hunt

Chloe is a senior at DSA and an editor on the Lit Mag fiction team!

Annalena Mecagni

Annalena is in eleventh grade and has been in the creative writing program since eighth grade. In addition to writing, Annalena enjoys reading, watching movies, and spending time with family and friends.

Kyra McLean Kyra is a senior and an editor of the Creative Nonfiction category in the literary magazine. She is an outspoken poet who enjoys recreating narratives and emotions in daily life and reconstructing them into poems.

Meridy Nicholson Meridy likes to write sometimes. She likes to experiment with many different types of writing and she can’t wait to graduate.

Lia Pachino Lia works in Multimedia in the Lit Mag. She mostly writes short stories and some poetry. Lia likes photography and listening to music.

Hailey Penny

​ ailey is part of the Outreach team of the Portraits in H Ink staff. She primarily writes poetry and short stories.

She has been a martial artist for 8 years and is highly outspoken about the issue of perpetual exhaustion.

Juan Ponce Rubio

Juan likes music, headphones, and has a hot wheels collection.

Jack Williams Jack is a senior and an editor on the Lit Mag's Outreach team!

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About Portraits in Ink Portraits in Ink Literary Magazine Durham School of the Arts 400 N. Duke Street Durham, North Carolina, 27701 919-560-3926 portraitsininklitmag@gmail.com portraitsinink.weebly.com @portraitsinink on Instagram

acknowledgements

Special thanks to our principal, Dr. Jackie Tobias, for her help and support.

Thank you to the teacher volunteers who helped check over submissions.

Special thanks to Dave Ehinger and Strawbridge.

Thank you to all the student artists who submitted their artwork and all the student writers who submitted pieces for publication. We appreciate your support of the magazine. You make this possible.

Finally, a big thank you to Mr. Crutchfield and Ms. Moehrke, our faculty staff members, who are totally awesome and have kept the magazine staff organized and on track! Without you, there would be no magazine.

Colophon

The student editors, staff, and faculty sponsors at Durham School of the Arts, 400 N. Duke St., Durham, NC, 27701, created this 18th volume of Portraits in Ink. Strawbridge Studios printed 50 copies in May 2022, which were sold to the student body, faculty, and families for $10, with a discount for writers, artists, and editors. Bobby Jones was used for titles, Old Standard in bold for artists' and authors' names, and Cardo for copy. We used Canva online software to produce this issue on student Chromebooks and 2013 Apple Mac Desktops.

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