Soliloquy 2022 by Rachel Rauch

SOLILOQUY volume 7, issue 1

overflow

TABLE OF Youthful Thunder- Calista Sims Angela Vang- Watercolor Icarus- Hannah Kendzor Ryenne Julian-Digital

Letter to the Writer in MeNora Raasch Matthew Pokorny- Digital Art

Silver Monster-Elizabeth Rater Zach Miller-Mixed Media

The Bird- Peyton Berryman I see- Erin Snow Alison Kellner-Pen and Pencil

When will it stop?- Bailey Timmer Abby Vang- Pencil

Walking into a NightmareAinsley Figgles Shelly Chang- Charcoal Rebecca Yang-Charcoal

Glass Dome- Anne Strunets Maddy Stocking - Digital

Tangerine Skies- Nora Raasch Joseph Schutkin- Watercolor

The Eternal Guardian of the Ana Mendoza CarrascoColored Pencil

The Route- John Evans Cy Ridley- Ink

The Which- Kelsey Dillon Rebecca Yang- Ink

Love Is...-Hannah Kendzor Hailey Case-Watercolor We are- Nora Raasch Rebecca Yang-Pen

Yellow- Heaven Kim Trinity Otto-Digital

Metanoia- Megan Gehl Caroline Garsha- Soft Pastel A Quiet Lullaby- Nyla Haswell Tori Kraft- Digital The Sins of Man- Jason Pan Elise Rickert- Colored Pencil

The Season's First Snow- Serena Hodge Cassandra Szklarz- Ink and Pen

CONTENTS 41

The Hands of a Cook- Izzy Germano Elise Rickert Pen and Colored Pencil

Curse of Experience- Austin Heffernan Rebecca Yang- Mixed Media

45 47

Whole Lotta Red- Chance Davis Zen Grant- Digital

Disorder- Alia Bloomgarden Gabe Cicero- Acrylic Paint

a letter from the

STAFF

When discussing the theme for this issue, we brainstormed seemingly hundreds of different ideas, and they all piqued our interest---we were overflowing with them. To be a teenager is to eternally exist in a hyperbolized state. With monumental events and experiences constantly unfolding before our eyes, everything feels like everything. The word overflow managed to encompass all of our thoughts. If we live fully, immersing ourselves in experiences, taking time to truly connect with others, and observantly noticing the truth

River's Bend- Travis Weber The Skier- Rachel Starsky Trinity Otto- Ink And Colored Pencil

lost in the night-Colleen Klocko Talking to Plants- Jusleen Bindra Maggie Sehnert- Digital

Frostbite- Kyle Schoeffler No Matter The Season- Tori Kraft Ana Mendoza-Pencil

True Colors- Fiona Lawlor Ana Jaquez Zarate- Oils

I will go there someday- Colleen Klocko Ana Mendoza- Pen

and beauty that surround us, life fills uup, and with the overflow, we create art. This year, Homestead’s students allowed their experiences, emotions, and personal connections to manifest themselves within their work to create our 7th issue. The staff of Soliloquy invites you all to immerse in the deep, multifaceted themes presented in the students' work on these pages and to allow yourself to submerge yourself into depths unknown.

Matthew Pokorny Digital Art

Letter to the Writer in Me Nora Raasch Let me ask a simple question. Why do you write? Truly, what pushes you to pick up a pen and pour your heart and soul onto a page? I think that the answer is blatantly obvious. We write so that we can breathe. The words constantly spin in our heads and fight to make their way to the page – some filled with rage, some filled with serenity. Some even hide in the cracks and crevices of our minds, wanting to never be let out because of the fear that prohibits them from making their way to the page. Abstract ideas and questions that may never be answered fill the abyss of our minds until it is overflowing; yet, there is still a gate that forbids any syllable from touching the page. The gates will crack open here and there, but there is no consistency to their open. We often find ourselves caught in the lines of the page; writing and feeling too much or too little, there is no balance. The words that we write either leave us overflowing or empty, and our minds either holding back or endlessly rolling like the tide. There is no in between. Force yourself to keep the gates open. Stay awake. Fill in the blanks. Write without ceasing. My love, your story is not over yet; there is yet ink to be spilled and pages to be filled with the wondrous ideas in your messy and beautiful mind. Empty yourself. Allow yourself to become undone in the words. Allow yourself to embrace the ambiguity and truly find what it means to be alive. Our hearts fuel our souls and minds; the blood that courses through our fragile veins bleeds black and blue ink with full vibrancy and infinite end. Never let it stop flowing through you – never let your creativity be inhibited by the poisons of this world. It is both freeing and a joy to let all that ties you down The words will continue to flow, now that the gates have been opened. They will slowly piece themselves together and the ink will spill out in endless waves onto the page in their own time. The gates that held the words back were rusted and needed repair; but now that you have the tools, use them. The words will continue to spread like a wildfire once you choose to strike the first match. This is a new beginning. The writer who you were is only a part of who you are becoming.

Silver Monster Elizabeth Rater Sometimes I sit on my bathroom floor The tiles press cold against my legs as I shiver with my head between my knees While my silver monster lays crouched in the corner His eyes light up blue and his pupils reflect their reality into mine The truth behind the number he shows me as he claws his way into my head Into my subconscious and my fear of not being perfect or pretty or presentable My grey eyes turn away wanting to be shielded from this monster’s hideous stares His unwelcoming stares tell me I will never look like her Sometimes I sit in front of my mirror: my monster. In my bedroom against the foot of my bed I lay as the monster weighs his options Of either entering my head or staying dormant in his own bed for another hour His blue eyes still gleaming from him buffing and shining his lenses but his pupils now reflect That number that glosses over my grey eyes with a false reality Because he confines me within his frame, his cage, and makes me see what he sees Because he shines his eyes right into mine And seems to repeat that line You will never look like them In the summer, the heat blurs my vision as the mirage of his lies encompasses my eyes, I am always taken aback when my monster Seems to strike harder and his toxin turns lethal He’ll pack up his things from my room to move outside He’ll put himself into the small box in my hands And consume the light that lights up my face The white light that becomes a ritual for me to blind my eyes the sand storm of likes and comments swirl around my brain He glows with delight as my face is slowly destroyed As my fingers mindlessly scroll from picture to picture, stopping, staring, liking, but ultimately dying; lost in his illusion l eat piles of ice cream And thousands of icies that will Happen to find themselves in my hands 7

Zach Miller Digital

While I find my hands squeezing every inch of my reflection next to my bed he’ll light up in my eyes as I hold his cage in my hand Each reflection pressures my posture and I purposely propose new ways to handle his glare I watch as his blue eyes shine the number to the sky as his silver claws dig into my sides Why can’t I look like you? My monster writes novel upon novel explaining and revising And proving that his eyes shine truth They shine reality But they blind what truly Should be seen By my grey eyes that glow dim as if he is blocking the sun and I am no longer exposed To the warmth it provides They do start to shine softly in the heat of their friendly words Their words are the kindness he hates, but their stares are what keeps him out of his cage He thrives on miscommunication and the trend in which starving is sexy and slim isn’t good unless you can see a rib cage The news feeds my monster’s strength His eyes grow bigger with deeper glares against my will to do what I wish Without the pressure of a third party Another party whose stares can wilt flowers and drain the glimmer from the dew I get too much excitement when I see his silver body shake In the corner projecting the Number I have always wanted to see His teeth smile a snarl he hates to expose But he knows he has me under his claws I’ve had to learn to realize that the pressure he put in my eyes as I look upon myself Each stare and every word do not make up her whole story Her story is much more than that number her monster shows. She knows she hasn’t locked his cage at night, but sometimes we need to understand a different reality In which we are already what we need to be Against the rage of our silver monsters 8

Alison Kellner Pen and Pencil

The Bird Peyton Berryman I woke up, my vision blurred Looked outside and saw a bird It said chirp chirp Than ate an herb It was a pretty bird One special from the herd The pretty colors shown And reflected like a stone Like it’s fellow friend, the crow It did not enjoy the snow It jumped around like so Then flew past my window Up in the tree it flew And then a gun went pew The beautiful bird Fell to the word Of the song the hunter sang As the sound of his pistol rang

I See Erin Snow I see I see I see My people are still fighting for freedom. I see them weeping. I see the scars from a whip that takes their souls. I see them praying; stuck in an unwanted hole. I wish I couldn’t see the slaughter of the innocent; the ridicule from the guilty; the souls lynched by night, watching from above their deaths on repeat.

When Will it Stop? Bailey Timmer The first time it happened I was ten or eleven Ten or eleven Let that sink in We were walking into the mall As I reached down to tie my shoe Probably some old converse Innocence shielded my skin A glimpse at my mom and I knew something was wrong “What?” Her arm gripped me tight Pulling me away from the perverted eyes of an old man I did not understand Why some forty-something would want me I could be his daughter ew My skin crawls to this day No man will ever understand How it feels to have eyes on your back When you’re just trying to pump your gas I’m not allowed nor would I want to go alone especially at night Darkness is their territory Hiding from the eye Around the corner waiting to pry A question or “hey you” Who knew something so simple could be so alarming?

They preach independence But I hate walking through parking lots in sight I love being alone But not alone with strangers The danger that may come leaving me panicked and pathetic Just wanting my mom When will it stop? How old will I be when I don’t have to walk with my key between my fingers Scanning my surroundings The pounding of my heart on a run by myself A man stops in his tracks to watch me go by I stopped running by my house after that Why do they get to take that from me? What did I do and when will it stop? Maybe when I am old and wrinkly But my grandma still keeps pepper spray in her car I stay in shape Keep my speed You never know when you’ll be in need Of a getaway run I hope that never comes I would be petrified Paralyzed And traumatized. When will it stop?

Abby Vang Pencil 12

Glass Dome Anna Strunets The wind outside the dome whipped harshly at Lene’s cheeks, but the grin on her face only grew. The soreness of her legs from crossing the rough terrain had been worth it; the dome holding Achroite City was finally out of sight. After countless days of watching, Lene had finally found a chance to slip past the guards. She sat down on the hard mauve ground, leaning against a lone shriveled tree to gaze at the bright moons. The white branches curled like grasping hands reaching for those bright coins in the sky, and Lene’s hand unconsciously reached up too, vying for the untouchable space beyond. The light of the moons caused a glare on the metal band on her wrist, causing her to grimace. Pulling out the hairpin holding a headache-inducing bun, Lene began to fiddle with the lock of the rentronoid strapped onto her wrist. After a few sharp jerks, the slim metal strap clanged onto the dusty ground. She let out a shaky breath, savoring the dry, yet sweet, air. Just sitting there, taking in the sky. ... “Dr. Odo is ready for you now Miss Lene Nym,” informed the voice of the clinic's medbot, echoing around the office. The walls, chair, and desk were all the same uniform shade of green, save for a thin white line tracing a direct path from the chair to the white arched door next to the desk. Lene quickly stood up, wincing as her weight shifted onto the blister on the bottom of her foot from the morning. The rentronoid strangled her wrist, growing heavier as Lene staggered towards the door. Behind it was another green room, this time furnished only by a simple polished gray desk and chair, which was occupied by an old, sallow-looking man.

“Good evening Miss Nym,” called out Dr. Odo, with a grin; the green light that reflected off the walls gave his teeth an eerie glow. “This will just be a quick check up on your rentronoid to see that it’s working properly.” Lene gave him a curt nod as she stepped into the room, the door closing behind her with a soft hiss. Her hands clenched in sweaty fists behind her back as she focused her eyes onto a corner of the steel table. A stuffy silence hung in the small room. Dr. Odo’s gnarled fingers fidgeted around, straightening the already perfectly lined up stylus pens on his desk. After a moment, he cleared his throat and spoke again, “Your medical data showed that your heart stopped beating earlier today, Miss Nym.” He gave a dry laugh, and noticing Lene’s blank stare, quickly covered it up with a cough and pulled a small u-shaped box from the desk. The serial number ‘8PFSb’ was inscribed on its side, and the white paint was chipped in several places. Dozens of square black buttons lined up one of its sides. Dr. Odo pressed a couple of them in some evident pattern and gestured to it, “It’s an old model, but still works as great as those flashier ones,” a brief shadow passed over his face, “well, just place your hand here then, if you’d please.” Lene bit into her cheek as she stepped towards the desk to put her wrist on the rentronoid scanner. Immediately, diagrams popped up from her rentronoid, displaying several data charts, ranging from her emotions to her sleep patterns. "Oh stars. I’m gonna get caught". Lene thought, fighting to keep her face expressionless as fear began to choke her.

Maddy Stocking Digital

Dr. Odo swiped through the diagrams, mumbling to himself. She held her breath, focusing her eyes anywhere but the charts. It’s over.

Mr. Odo curtly. She nodded her head in farewell and rushed out the door. Lene wiped her sweaty hands on her pants as she approached the front desk of the clinic, allowing the medbot to scan her rentronoid. As After a moment, it became absolutely silent. the medbot spun around to get her prescription, Lene felt her hands go numb as they dropped Lene wondered why she even went to collect to her sides. Dr. Odo leaned forward in his medication she had no intention of using. She chair, furrowing his brows at the projection snapped out of her thoughts as the medbot before fumbling around for a button on the returned. underside of the table. In the silence, Lene met his eyes for the first time. Her flat eyes “Miss Lene Nym, here is your prescription. Dr. reflected into the old man’s small watery Odo prescribed it to be taken orally twice daily. ones. Thank you for visiting Lothair clinics,” said the medbot, extending its mechanical arm over the He cleared his throat and stiffly said, “It counter to hand her a vial of pills. appears our technicians made an error. I apologize for worrying you.” Lene reached out her hand, but suddenly retracted it and said, “I’m not Lene Nym,” she Lene’s breath caught, her heart beating hard smiled, “she already left.” Lene turned around enough that she thought it could be seen and briskly walked out. violently pulsing in her neck. Dr. Odo’s gaze fixed onto the styloid pens and continued, After walking a couple of blocks, her limbs rushing over his words, “But your stress began shaking with adrenaline. Her steps grew levels do appear to be abnormal, I see your further apart until she was sprinting; she had work advisor has submitted a complaint.” never felt the biting wind before within the dome. She ran to the edge of the dome towards He vaguely gestured to the graphs still the only exit, the shouts of the guards hanging above, “I’m sure it must be swallowed by the wind. She burst out, gasping frustrating. I’ll fax your prescription to the for air. medbot and you’ll be able to collect it at the front desk right away.” The moons shone down on her as the wind spun around, picking up the mauve sand. There Lene’s lips twisted into a dry smile as Dr. was a loud shout. A quiet beep. A scorching Odo’s desktop lit up a deep red, signaling pain from her wrist. And the world around her the end of their session. “Have a good day faded away. Miss Nym,” said

Ana Mendoza Carrasco Colored Pencil

The Eternal Guardian of the Keep Jason Pan I once lived upon a quirinal hill I think it might have been some time ago Dreams of a throne so heavy to fulfill I had ever served with honor and pride I plied my trade in dauntless precision Always on course and never led aside I would slay the horde of foes before me And gather my allies behind my shield But now I falter on my timeless joust I have forgotten that pleasure of glory I have lost the dutiful vow of faith Now flailing in my age-old quarry I had followed divine authority Into their den of thorns and rich deceit Undeterred deeper and further I delve I doubt the merits of obligation, I wonder what that means anymore Yet I do not abandon my station Millenia pass as dust Still as stone I stand stout in strained sleep They call out to me The eternal guardian of the keep

The Which Kelsey Dillon “Abby head outside and collect some mushrooms for the stew.” The old woman creaked as she cut vegetables with shaky hands. “Sure Ma,” She said as she walked with practiced ease to collect her basket on the other side of the small cottage. She walked around the forest collecting mushrooms before entering her home again. In the small cottage on the back edge of the citadel, the girl and her grandmother continued to cut up vegetables for their stew. They sat behind a poorly fashioned cutting board next to the stewing pot, a pot that contained a stew that was strangely eerie. As the granddaughter continued to cut herbs the grandmother walked, on unsteady feet, to the pot to pour the contents of her cutting board inside. In the distance, a faint crunching of leaves could be heard, sounding through the otherwise quiet forest. Suddenly, guards bust through the door leaving the family scurrying to stand and meet the unexpected intruder. The guards moved to form two parallel lines surrounding the doorframe as the family composed themselves. Between the two parallel lines walked a man, tall in stature, who wore clothes that were tailored to fit him, they were miles ahead of the rags the family wore, he was high born, a royal. From the side of his body strapped to his waist he pulled out a piece of paper, unrolled it and began to speak, “ By order of royal decree of King Derek Constantio Lennart the Third, Martha Wellbottom you have been sentenced to death for suspicion of committing witchcraft. guards!” With that order the 3 guards ascended on the house, trampling the hand fashioned furnishings that lie in their way. “WAIT, what is this?” Abby panted as she ran to the high born man,“ Sir, My grandmother is no witch, she is just an old lady, please spare her, please.” The man stood there and said nothing watching the old woman being taken away. After realizing that the royal would not help her, she ran back to her grandmother, who was not being manhandled by two of the guards. She attempted to pry the hands of the unwanted guards off her grandmother when the high born man

spoke again, “If you wish to know more about this witch's past you can request an audience with his royal highness.” With that the man and his guards turned to With that the man and his guards turned to leave, having left behind a distraught Abby and a destroyed house in their wake. No one with as low of a status as Abby could even look at the King let alone bargain with him. ... Later on that same day Abby was forced to return to her duties, as they would not wait on a maid and her lowly problems. She walked into work and met with her supervisor, the head maiden of the kitchen. (and a pain in Abby’s… side ). The maiden had never looked her in the eye. The only time the maiden spoke to the maids was when she assigned them their post, as well as when she commented, rather negatively, how well their tasks had been completed. For the first time the maiden looked at Abby that day, she looked her in the eyes and spoke to her. “ You, Your name is Abby, right.” Before Abby was given a chance to respond she continued “ You are no longer working on this floor, instead you will be working in the king's quarters.” Then a murmur could be heard through the maids kitchen, no woman ever worked in the king's quarters. The maiden then cleared her throat and all of the maids got back to work. Abby stood up straight, bowed to her old boss and started her trek to the king's room, being that it is on the other side of the palace. On her way she encountered the king walking from these marvellous doors, most likely the entrance to the throne room. She attempted to walk up to the king when she was stopped by another, very obviously high born person. He stared her up and down then stated with obvious pretension in his voice,“ What on earth do you think you're doing.” “I am going to speak with the king about my grandmother, she is being killed for being a witch and I don't know why.” She said speaking far too fast for anyone to comprehend. “He will not be speaking to anyone of your status,

It would put shame on his name. So let me hear, what is your concern with this grandmother of yours.” She watched over his shoulder as the royal party moved further and further away. “My Grandmother, Martha Wellbottom, was accused of being a witch.” The high born man looked at her in disbelief before sucking in a deep breath.“I know that she is not one, she was loved here by everyone. The old king even gave us our house for her years of servitude. I just know there has to be a mistake. I know I don’t have much power but.” The high born man stopped her mid sentence and said in a hushed whisper, “Quiet down before someone hears you, We all know your grandmother was no witch. She practically raised the king and I. I wish I could help you, she was like a mother to all of us royals but it was a decision made directly by the King himself. He is even rushing her execution despite the protest of all of the members of the royal council.”

Rebecca Yang Ink

... The next day she woke up in the lonely house she shared with her grandmother and walked to the center of the citadel. On the usually peaceful walk to the place she cried, not having the quiet comfort of her grandmother's steady breathing to accompany her on her journey.

In the square, stood a platform made of a light brown wood, rotting from a mixture of blood and tears. This is a platform they used for special occasions, occasions where some people would cry or stare or laugh. On the platform stood a man, dressed in all black with a blade that no one wishes they had to wield. He stood with tears in his eyes, staring at the second figure on the platform, the one who saved him from starving after his parents died. In the crowd stood all of the people, people who lived in that town staring at the second figure, who helped everyone in need.

“But why, she has not even been near him since he was a child.” “ I do not know, all I know is that the King wanted her dead and decided to say that she was a witch to do so.” The high born then looked around to find, to his surprise, all of his party had left him before turning back around. “ I must be going before they find out that I am missing, I am sorry for your loss.” The highborn turned around and started walking, having left behind a very confused Abby. ... Two days go by and Abby is content in her new position, she has been trying with no avail to find the real reason why her grandmother was being killed. On her way back to her now lifeless home she hears the announcement. “ Martha Wellbottom has been convicted by his royal highness and sentenced to death, her execution is set for tomorrow midday.” Abby’s world turned upside down, the person who raised her, loved her and cared for not only her but the whole town was scheduled to die. She sprinted home, to the house her grandmother raised her in. She burst through the door, her grandmother marked her height on. She hugged the pillow her grandmother laid her head on. She sat on the chair her grandmother fashioned for her. She cried tears that her grandmother would never be able to wipe away.

An announcement was said by a man standing on the side. No one listened, no one cared about that, they were all focused on the figure of a kind old woman standing on the platform. The woman, who was prepared to die, knelt in front of the town praying that someone would save her. After the announcement The man dressed in black with tears in his eyes swung the blade. Turning off the light that once shone bright in the dark town.

Yellow Heaven Kim Who would I want to have dinner with? Maybe Einstein, who would tell me how to build a time machine. On the other hand, it would be satisfying to reprimand my great-uncle who had the nerve to gamble away an entire Korean village—an inheritance that would have made me a “crazy, rich asian”. But the best choice of all would bea to meet…the old me. Ask any Homestead teacher or student about me, and most will think of the color “yellow”—some visualizing an angry girl (wearing a bright, mustard-yellow parka) storming through hallways while others picture a quiet, yellow girl sitting forgotten at the back of class. Yellow was what I wore after chilly runs, when the cross-country coach’s words brandished my mind like the charred lines on a grilled burger patty; “If you’re talking, you’re not trying hard enough.” So I didn’t talk. At this point I must pause and say I thought it was enough—to meet my parents’ expectations, sit through hard classes, ignore my hate for cross-country, and prioritize performance over happiness. This is where I wish I could go back in time and ask myself, convince myself, tell myself to quit. Because somehow, somewhere along the line, I had stopped loving the adrenaline of racing and juggling the hectics of “double-accelerated” math. I remember quitting—but only in my mind. It was at this moment when the back of my prized yellow parka split open. I was outgrowing the coat; but more than that, I was outgrowing myself. With each millimeter of ripping, I was entering a threshold of discovery—which, at that time, I recognized as negative; I focused on the loss of my passions, the loss of motivation, and biggest of all, the loss of self-worth. If I could, I would beg myself to stop playing the balancing act and just acknowledge that I had lost the battle—that in the midst of my frenzied pursuit of success, I had become numb. Re-facing the shame that trapped me, I would connect with the hundreds of individuals that, still today, are struggling with identity-loss and failure. It would fulfill a mission that has since penetrated every single decision I make: to speak, act, and choose with passion. My ability to impact myself and those around me lies in viewing the two words “I quit” as a success story. To have dinner with my former-self would be a reminder to be authentic, to “Go find yourself,” because I was more than the confrontational yellow of my coat, the yellow of my Asian-American” skin, and my unintentional RBF (“resting b**** face”). Today yellow is what makes the quirky, ambitious, extrovert that my family knows. It is what pushes me to inspire the musicians around me and the classrooms full of aspiring future business and health professionals. As for what me and the “old” me would eat? Delicious, traditional Korean dishes- an aspect of my life that will forever remain constant and remind me of who I am: Heaven.

Trinity Otto Digital

Angela Vang Watercolor

Youthful Thunder Calista Sims Thunder booms like laughter in the heavens. The claps and flaunt of lighting phase no one. Out late with friends, utter bliss fills the air, with not a care in the world. Star tipping past curfew, storm clouds attempt to drain the joy. The clouds are the art of the heavens, beauty found in all forms. The pleasantly warm drizzle fails to dampen the upbeat atmosphere. Phones silenced with 'what if?' questions and talk about the future. As the night fades into daybreak, the sunrise swells with brilliant colors. Phones overflowing with worried messages from parents, The night has reached an end, so must the fun. The thunder is now gone, along with the laughter.

Rynne Julian Digital

Icarus Hannah Kendzor They told me Icarus was a stupid man; He used his wings and flew too close to the sun. They said ambition gets you burned, as you fall from the sky. I was never one to question this; But now I have to wonder, did Icarus have it right? I think maybe Icarus had it right. Cause when you live life on the edge, Spread your wings, Let the sun paint you gold. When you are in the sky, And fly a little higher, Fall a little further, As you soar, You leave a trail of fire.

Metanoia Megan Gehl i could not have loved the earth more tenderly if i had knelt on muddy hands and knees to trace each boulder’s crevices and kiss the forests’ floors; if i had filled the seas with water from a celestial pitcher, closing with gentle illuminated fingertips, the eyelids of each behemoth whale to rock the world to sleep under a cacophonous star-sung lullaby. i could not have loved people more dearly, passionately if i had carved out the hollows of their eyes with my own trembling hands, traced their ribs with tear-stained cheeks, painstakingly painted each delicate vein light blue. i could not have loved all this world so innocently as a child, passionately as a poet, humbly as a pilgrim, if i had birthed it in a fit of cresting waves, rich blood, wrenching screams. i could not have believed in a life beyond mine if i had not understood my own agápe and realized that it was only a fraction as potent, passionate, devoted as the love that created us. profoundly beautiful and enchantingly 23

foolish are we, little playthings of the universe in a vast expanse of sky and song. we run, casting our arms wide, our hearts in endless pursuit of love. we saw the shimmering stars above, the moon like a saucer, hanging low and said we will have our tea among the heavens. we saw the rolicking waves of the ocean, her white-crested hands of warning and said we will know you. we will tame you. we lifted our gazes upward to the pinnacles of towering mountains and vowed to reach the top. we found ourselves at the lips of humongous canyons and swore to see the bottom. we ran our tender hands over every inch of this world and loved it all the same. sonder is too short a word to signify that each of our beings is as vast and complex as any galaxy. men have died in pursuit of what noble truths have brought us to an earth that we may not deserve, but we go on dizzy from the juice of ripe fruit, smiles dripping down our chins, embracing one another under a loving sky. humanitythere is nothing purer than that.

Caroline Garsha Soft Pastel

Tori Kraft Digital

A Quiet Lullaby Nyla Haswell The blue sky drapes over her world As the sun plays her sweet song The people below dance and sing To the smooth sound Song after song The world spins and skips Snapping and swirling The sun plays her final song The people shout and cheer pleading for an encore But nevertheless, the sun knows Her show is done The man in the moon steps up To play his set A quiet lullaby to put the city to rest

The Sins of Man Jason Pan Dare not question the vices of man Upon which civilizations rest From here empires began Though they plot and plan How those snakes and schemes spring Dare not question the vices of man They seek wealth beyond their span Power beyond their grasp From here empires began Proud lest they become lesser than Hubris ever-present to become greater than Dare not question the vices of man Conquests bereft with burning bran In name of vengeful slaughter From here empires began On the thrones of the madman Amid their gluttony and doomed caravans Laced with stories of sloth and ineptitude Dare not question the vices of man

Waking To A Nightmare Ainsley Feigles I opened my eyes reluctantly, shielding myself against the unwelcome light that penetrated the dust-filled room. Slowly, I sat up, sending a searing pain through my body, which screamed for me to stay still. My mind was foggy and blurred, and I was struggling to take in my surroundings, as they seemed to be spinning around me. When the room finally began to come into focus, my head was still swimming. Where am I? How did I get here? How long have I been here? Why does my body ache? I could hear my heartbeat pounding and reverberating inside my head, like a blacksmith’s hammer. Each pulse tormented my body. I cracked my knuckles, rubbing my hands against each other. My palms began to grow damp with sweat. I took a deep, metered breath in an attempt to calm myself. I searched in vain for the last moment I could recollect. Looking down, I noticed a small tear and several dark stains on the slate blouse I had selected for work on Thursday morning. Biting my lip, I wondered, How many days have I been wearing these clothes?

My gaze extended beyond the foot of the rumpled bed on which I was sitting. The space was entirely unfamiliar to me, and it was most certainly not a place where I would like to live. The walls were covered with peeling wallpaper that had been bleached from decades of exposure to the sun. The one, minuscule window was framed by threadbare, moth-bitten curtains. They were currently pulled to both sides of the window, allowing the meager light to filter into the room. Grasping the headboard for much needed support, I rose to look out the window. Peering down, I realized that I appeared to be on the second floor. I could see a run-down alley below flanked by detached garages, each one of them topped with a small window, similar to one I was looking out. The brick wall of the building on the otherside was lined with garbage cans, though it seemed as if they had not been closed since pieces of trash floated freely, like leaves in the wind. I thought briefly of the view from my oversized apartment window, where I could watch the sunrise glisten on the water without even leaving my bed. I suppose I’m more lucky than I realize. Turning around, I noticed a small kitchenette along one wall, suggesting that the drab space was a single room apartment. In the corner stood a greasy range, covered in remnants of every meal that it had cooked. The range was coupled with a battered refrigerator that had seen better days, and a formica table was pressed against the wall and outfitted with mismatched chairs.

Shelly Chang Charcoal 27

Glancing at the cluttered shelves, I noticed a grimy mirror hanging on the wall. I limped across the room to examine my appearance. The dark brown eyes that stared back at me were the one feature in keeping with my

ordinary character. My usual composed and professional persona seemed to have vanished along with my memory of how I wound up in this place. My chestnut hair, usually neat and pulled back, was now unkempt; my hair tie desperately clung to a few remaining strands.

“I know he is, I just feel a little stressed. That’s all,” I confessed, rubbing my hands together. “What if our relationship doesn’t work out and it ruins our friendship? Also, I have so much work to do and I’m taking the time to go on a date tonight. It’s all just a little overwhelming.”

But aside from my disheveled appearance, I noticed something glinting in the mirror. As I lifted my wrist, my expensive, gold bracelet shone under the feeble apartment light. I gasped. I remember this moment. But it had not been quite the same. I was standing in front of a different mirror, one that was much cleaner and more extravagant.

“But he could be the one!” Natalie offered, winking.

A large, unframed mirror hung above the sleek, modern sinks in the women’s restroom at work. My purse was resting on the marble countertop as I reapplied my light red lipstick with intense concentration. Reaching into the purse, I extracted a gold bracelet and fastened the clasp around my wrist. Staring at it fondly, I recalled how my mother grinned while I opened the petite jewelry box on my twenty-fourth birthday. I snapped my purse closed, catching a fleeting look at the contents. My makeup containers and a bit of orange plastic peered out from underneath an unorganized mess of papers. The clicking noise of a coworker’s high heels echoed through the bathroom, drawing me out of my daze. I watched as the figure of my closest friend, Natalie, appeared in the mirror, approaching the sink beside me.

I was supposed to have gone out with Joe. Our date was set for seven on Thursday night. As to whether I made it there, I was still uncertain. I pictured Joe sitting at a table alone, in front of two glasses of merlot, only one of which had been touched. I envisioned him illuminated by the lights of the downtown restaurant, framed by a crowd of smiling and laughing people. The image was heartbreaking. Did he worry about me? Or did he think that I was working? That I stood him up?

“Somebody’s getting all fancy,” she joked, smiling as she turned on the water. “Are you excited for tonight?” “Excited might be a stretch. It’s been so long since I’ve been on a date that I would rather be at home watching Netflix in my pajamas,” I replied. “But Joe is such a nice guy, Kass! You two have known each other forever,” she remarked.

It was as if I could still hear the staccato sounds of her heels on the tiles as she walked away. But, turning around, I realized the noise was just the continual dripping from the rusty sink in the kitchenette.

My pulse raced and I laced my fingers, digging my thumb into my palm. The stuffy and humid air of the apartment hindered my breathing, furthering my feeling of confinement. I frantically lunged toward the door, grasping the cold metal of the locked doorknob. I twisted it repeatedly, delusionally hoping that it would finally give way. Despite the force that I applied, it remained perfectly still, like a stubborn animal that refused to budge. Tears welled up in my eyes as I turned away, grasping strands of hair with my sweaty hands. My eyes trailed to a dark red stain on the floor. Is that blood? I questioned, my fear intensifying. I have to get out of here. I attempted to divert my focus and began to

examine the objects lining the overcrowded shelves. A dull silver pencil cup held an assortment of pens in a variety of colors, but mostly muted tones.I noticed my favorite among them, the exact same pen that I regularly purchased by the four pack and used daily. Slowly, I began to recall using this pen after my interaction with Natalie.

comment at me as he passed my desk.

The shiny, black ink had escaped from the pen, following the strokes of my wrist and creating smooth, dark lines on the document in front of me. The sky had turned from deep gray to black as I poured over my work. Almost everyone else had left the office, but there was not enough time for me to drive home and make it back downtown for my date with Joe, so I figured I should use the time productively. The piles of paperwork aren’t going to magically disappear, I had thought.

“Good luck,” he replied as he pushed the door open. “I hope he’s a keeper.”

There were only three of us remaining in the office: myself, Bill, from accounting, and the newest hire at our office, whose name I did not yet know. Bill was in his mid-forties, with a balding head and a steadily increasing band of fat around his stomach. He often stayed around late; I believed it was to avoid his wife, who was always forcing him to attend social gatherings. His desk was positioned a few stations away from mine, and I watched as he shuffled through papers that were most likely already completed.

“You’re here late, Kassandra.” “Yeah, believe it or not, I have a date tonight,” I said, raising my eyebrows and placing particular emphasis on the word date. “I had some time to kill beforehand.”

A cold burst of air rushed through the doorway, sending a shiver through my body. The heavy glass door slowly swung closed, clicking into position. Taking a quick glance at the new hire’s desk, I considered the situation. It’s going to be really awkward if I don’t just go ahead and introduce myself. Preparing to walk across the office, I looked up again and was startled to see that he was already staring at me. Well, I guess I was just looking at him too. As I walked toward his desk, I noticed that the closer I got, the more sinister he became. What appeared to be curly hair from a distance was truly frizzy and his skin, up close, was red and bumpy, reminding me vaguely of a crab’s shell.

The new hire appeared to be close to my age. His desk was cluttered with highlighters, Post-it Notes, and other objects that were layered haphazardly over the mess. I grounded my feet, fighting the overwhelming urge to run over and straighten up his desk. Yawning, I diverted my focus back to Bill, watching as he slid his laptop into his bag and turned off the lamp at his desk. Great, now it’s just me and that guy, I realized, wondering if it would be awkward to introduce myself. “I better get going. My wife is waiting on me for dinner,” Bill announced, directing his 29

Rebecca Yang Charcoal

His glasses were stretched at the joints, far too small for his adult head; it looked as though he had not bought a new pair since middle school. Additionally, his attire was not even close to the level of professionalism upheld in our office. He was wearing a wrinkled pair of khaki pants with a hooded zip sweatshirt. But the aspect of his appearance that most bothered me was his smile. There was something about the way that he grinned that I found unsettling, though I was not sure why. Maybe it’s his teeth? I paused about two feet away from his desk and feigned a smile. “Hi Kass,” he said, with his disturbing grin. How does he know my name? “Hi…” I replied, trailing off in hope that he would provide his name. “Zac,” he offered. “But we’ve met before.” “Oh, right. Of course,” I laughed. We have never talked before. I began to rub my hands together. My discomfort growing, I decided to escape the conversation. “I actually have to get going,” I mumbled. “Have a good evening.” “You too,” he called back as I hurried across the room. As I shoved the personal items from my desk into my purse, I could feel his eyes on me. For once, I was grateful for my desk’s position near the door since it allowed for a swift escape. Upon opening the door, the cold evening air enveloped me and washed over my skin, like rain water, as I attempted to rid my memory of the awkward encounter.

I hugged myself to ward off the chill, but the memory of the evening air began to fade and I became aware of the humid warmth of my surroundings. My tight grip drew me back to the apartment once again, this time with a greater understanding of Thursday, but with no knowledge as to what led me here. I hoped desperately that Joe might have realized that I was missing and called the police. Maybe they’re searching for me now? I wondered in vain. Sighing, I collapsed back onto the foot of the bed. My sore body protested this sudden movement. Taking my mind off of the pain, I placed my head in the palms of my hands and examined the dark red spot on the floor. I squinted at it, contemplating the possibility of it being red wine. Where was it that I had a nice red wine lately? I began to recall the label of a refined bottle of merlot. I could visualize the waiter, with a pressed suit and a striped tie. I was sharing the bottle with someone else. Joe and I ordered that bottle of wine on our date! I had at least made it to the restaurant. We had been sitting at a table in the corner, distanced from the larger parties, as the waiter poured the rich liquid into two tall glasses. We thanked him and he smiled and nodded as he walked away, leaving Joe and I alone. “As I was saying,” Joe continued, resuming the conversation. “I really hope I can get out of that place and find a nicer apartment somewhere else. It’s so loud with the bustling city just outside my walls. You’re so lucky to have a waterview apartment.” “I have my parents to thank for that,” I laughed. “They have always been there for me. Your parents are still living in that small town in Minnesota, right?” “Yup,” he said, beaming. “The same place where I grew up.”

“That’s so nice! You know how I always had to move when I was a kid. My dad’s job required a lot of travel, so sometimes we weren’t even living in the United States. I loved England, but I’m glad that I came back here and was able to find a job.” “I’ve always been jealous of your cultural exposure,” Joe remarked. “I barely ever get to travel.” “Well, neither do I anymore,” I said, jabbing my knuckles into my hands under the table. “I’m always working.” “I was wondering if maybe you could take some time off of work this week to meet my parents,” he said, with a slightly timid and nervous tone. “They’re visiting this weekend, and I’ve told them so many good things about you. They really want to meet you.” “Um, yeah,” I said, sensing my chest growing tight. “I’ll have to see if my boss will let me.” Wow, he wants me to meet his parents already? I know we’ve been friends for a while. Still. This is moving really fast. I could see the relief in his face as he smiled back at me. “I actually have to go to the restroom if you’ll excuse me,” I mumbled, “I’ll be right back.” I took quick strides toward the hallway in the back of the restaurant. Swinging open the bathroom door, I entered and waited until it had closed. I immediately began to search through my purse. I rapidly turned over the contents, frantically searching for the small orange bottle. Once I discovered it at the very bottom, I gripped it tightly in my hand and rotated the safety cap. I shook one of the miniscule, white pills into my hand, feeling the smooth, reflective coating. Without hesitation, I swallowed it. Breathing deeply, I convinced myself that I would soon relax. Without hesitation, I swallowed it. 31

Breathing deeply, I convinced myself that I would soon relax. I began to twist the lid back onto the bottle, glancing absentmindedly at the label warning people of various side effects and consequences. I had been taking anxiety medication for a few weeks now, but I still felt stressed. I removed the lid again and extracted another pill. Two fell out. I put them both in my mouth, rolling them around on my tongue and tasting the bitter flavor. I swallowed them and hid the bottle in the depths of my purse, heading back into the restaurant. Unlike Thursday night, my mouth was now dry and empty as I sat in the apartment alone. What have I done? I clenched my fist, my fingernails digging deeply into the palm of my hand as panic flooded through my veins. Could this be Joe’s place? I hoped, remembering his comment about the condition of his apartment. Maybe he had brought me to safety after I took those pills. Of course, it was the pills that had wiped my memory. Anything could have happened to me afterward. If it’s not Joe’s apartment… A new and unwelcome sound scattered my thoughts. I could just make out the growing sound of footsteps ascending the stairs outside the door. My stomach dropped. I was on the apex of a roller coaster, suffering from the realization that it was too late to withdraw. I could not escape. Should I scream? But it could be Joe! Or someone who could save me! Or whoever locked me in this room in the first place. A burning sensation numbed the back of my throat as I suppressed my urge to yell. The footsteps were gradually becoming louder. Tears formed in my eyes, but did not fall. A burning sensation numbed the back of my throat as I suppressed my urge to yell. The

footsteps were gradually becoming louder. Tears formed in my eyes, but did not fall. The footsteps stopped abruptly. A disquieting silence surrounded me. For a moment, the only noises I could detect were the sound of my heartbeat and the distant screeching of car tires. I heard keys chiming against each other. What should I do? The doorknob began to wiggle. In one rapid movement, I grabbed hold of the metal lamp next to the bed, arming myself against my possible captor. My sweaty hands slipped down the lamp as I struggled to hold it, but I tightened my grasp and held it against my shoulder, like a baseball bat. The door creaked as it swung open. Before I could recognize the man’s face, I screamed.

little longer than just today.” “How long are you planning to keep me here? What are you going to do to me?” “Honestly, I’m only trying to help. It’s not me you need to be worried about.” “What? I don’t… I don’t know what you’re talking about,” I stammered. “What do you mean?” “You don’t remember? Driving? Last night? I know you were knocked unconscious, but I figured you’d remember some of it.” The lamp slid from my hands and crashed to the floor. The bulb shattered, sending shards of glass across the room.

“Kass,” he said calmly, assuming his artificial Suddenly, fragmented and sporadic grin. “Put the lamp down.” memories bombarded my mind, like scattered puzzle pieces that could finally be Without taking my eyes off of his glasses, I joined. The feeling of the plastic on my car lowered my arm, but did not set the lamp on key. The streaks of light from the the floor. streetlamps. The tall, brick buildings that swirled around me. The blinding headlights “I’ll take it, I guess,” Zac said with a shrug, of the other cars. My decision to take a fully crossing the threshold into the apartment different route. The sickening thud of and closing the door behind him. something striking my hood. One final vision materialized: a terrorized face as it “Why do you have me here?” I snapped. struck the front of my car and flew over the hood. Like a tidal wave, it hit me. My heart “Well, in a manner of speaking, you’re really dropped. The victim in the situation was not the one who has yourself here,” he returned. me. I’m the villain. Oh God, what have I The sarcasm in his voice turned my stomach. done? “What day is it?” I demanded, raising the lamp again. “I swear to God I will wrestle those keys out of your hands and find a place where I can call the police if you don’t tell me why I am locked in your apartment!” “I probably wouldn’t do that if I were you,” he replied. “Relax, it’s only Friday morning.

I glanced back down at the red stain on the floor. Horrified, I slowly raised my eyes level to Zac’s. “Don’t worry. I’ve taken care of everything,” Zac assured. “There won’t be any evidence.”

We stood in silence. My heart fluttered and I went on your phone and sent an email to my head pounded repeatedly. What have I work saying you were sick. I’m missing today done? for you, too. But I think you’ll be missing a “It’s okay. You’re safe…”

tangerine skies Nora Raasch i think of you in colors that don’t exist. you would carry this mesmerizing magic, it was almost impossible to resist. your enchanting emerald eyes reminded me of paradise. they shone brighter than the stars and made it seem as if the world was ours. you were a brilliant blend of an orange and yellow sunrise. it consumed me in its warmth, and took me by a complete and utter surprise. the tantalizing tangerine skies made you impossible to forget. every moment with you created a memory i’d never expect. i think of you in colors that don’t exist. the magnificent magic that you carried was your greatest gift.

Joseph Schutkin Watercolor

Cy Ridley Ink

The Route John Evans It is a sunless gray afternoon in the field, surrounded by trees on all sides. The usual vibrant greens of the grasses lose their luster under the thick clouds. Two masses of men wearing confident and colorful heraldry stand opposite to each other. A chorus of shaky breaths between the sweaty and anxious ranks echo through the clearing. One man on each side, both dressed more formally than their allies, shout in command. In an instant, the two crowds engage, the colors clashing into a sea of cloth and steel. The cacophony of screams and clangs now become the sound of nature’s arena. Such raucous strife and conflict, how it ends so quickly. After minutes of blades clashing, shields ring out like chimes as they’re struck, Sweat, soreness, exhaustion, attrition. All begin to sink into the souls of the soldiers. All of the struggling is about to end so quickly, All because of you. Each footstep echoes like the tolling of church bells, heard by all. The ragged footmens fighting temporarily ceases; they all turn to look. The dark but polished mirror sheen of the metal that bathes your body, The gnarled axe that you hold stalwart in both hands. Draped in tattered clerical vestments that do little to cover your presence; The sole creature on the battlefield whose armor still shines in the pale gray afternoon. You are the death of all men, the slayer of progress, it that halts compassion. You are Fear.

Love is...

Hailey Case Watercolor

Hannah Kenzor Love is ... Love is difficult Sometimes as difficult as trying to get to the moon in a canoe Or as trying to find a daisy in a field of roses Love is tragically beautiful Sometimes it is filled with nights spent alone Or shining, tear-filled eyes on rainy days Love is messy Sometimes it cakes your life with mud And it makes the once clear water into a murky hell Love starts wars Sometimes love brings jealousy and paranoia And it leaves a hurricane of a mess in its wake Love hurts Sometimes it holds people captive It makes them believe they can change the one they love Or that they can fix them

A funny thing happens though When you fall into the deep, dark, wonderful pit Of love Because suddenly, love is east Sometimes love is as simple as a puzzle With each piece falling seamlessly into place Suddenly, love is brilliantly beautiful Sometimes love grows like a flower Budding and flourishing in any climate and through any change Suddenly, love challenges all cares of organization Sometimes love muddies your life with the icing of a wedding cake It turns everything you knew on its head in the most alluring way possible Suddenly, love ends the ugliest of arguments Sometimes it brings out the best in someone who was once a monster And it sprouts buds on a once wilting flower Suddenly, you crave the pain that hurts so much Yet feels so good Sometimes love brings heartache Or the joyful clinginess of a puppy And maybe we’re all romantics who believe in fairytale love Love is awful and painful and disorganized Love is torture Or I suppose we are all just masochists who crave the pain Of love.

Rebecca Yang Pen

We Are Nora Raasch the game shakers the magic makers the world changers who will eventually leave behind a legendary legacy. we are the type of people who cannot manage to stay in one space because then the magnificent magic of it all gradually begins to fade from a world once filled with color to a black and white barren blur.

willing to crash and burn for everything that we have ever known we were born with wild hearts and full disregard for the possibility that we may end up entirely alone. people like you and me take the road less traveled which eventually unravels the hidden and unforeseen beauty beneath the perilous journey. beauty only found by those who muster enough courage to brave the voyage and take a leap of faith.

The Season's First Snow Serena Hodge The crystals of the season’ s first snow crunched under my hooves as I walked onward through the flurries. I passed by what the humans call a cabin. My eyes caught the glow of something within. I looked in and saw the flickering orange and red light of flames. I blinked and was no longer a doe standing outside, still in the quiet winter night. I was a panicked fawn, running around blindly in the midst of smoke and flame that threatened to overtake me. I was tired, my eyes fuzzy...but my mom. Where was my mom? I swore I heard the steady thrum of her hooves running next to mine just seconds ago. All I saw was red. From amidst the red, blurred figures of the other forest animals — silhouettes moving against the backdrop of the crimson blaze — emerged, fleeing for their lives. My ears started to ring, and my breathing became labored. Red tongues wanted to devour me, my home, my life. Orange tongues turned the lush grass crisp and the trees into nothing but charred sticks soon to be engulfed. I closed my eyes to get away from the red. Smoke and flame seemed to fill every one of my senses. I tripped over something like a large rock. I looked down. There she was. My mom, who used to feed me and run with me, who used to protect me lying motionless and burnt.

The flames. The red. They took her. They took her away. As I fled, the blazing fire and the billowing smoke seemed to swallow her. Bits of ash fell around me as I ran. I blinked once more and was present again, standing still in a shower of snowflakes. In addition to snow covering my hooves, there was grass poking through, still green, the tender blades brushing softly against them. As I walked through the green hills, I noticed the same dead area I’d seen many times before, but now growth had begun. I came across the line dividing the fresh grass from the charred forest floor, and gazed at the den that once held my home. I knew every inch of this wood. Yet in a patch that once lay flat, I saw a small grassy mound the size of a doe laying on her side. A singular white lily grew in the center. The stark beauty of the white flower catching the snowflakes against this bleak wasteland full of death told me one thing: My mother had been reunited with the earth. I paused to look, taking in the place where my mother would rest eternally, at the flower that dripped with the new fallen snow, shining against the darkness of the burnt earth. Then I gazed over the horizon, and walked forward through the wasteland. I could have sworn I saw my mother’s silhouette beside me as I traveled along.

Cassandra Szklarz ink and pencil

Elise Rickert Pen and Colored Pencil

The Hands of a Cook Izzy Germano A wood house, almost hidden by the nature surrounding it, projects fumes of spices throughout the neighborhood. I step in. The strong scent of garlic seeps through the cracks of the door. The door creaks open and there she stands, My grandma, slowly cooking the day away. I creep towards her to observe her fine art, something she’s been practicing her whole life. Her old, aged hands run under the cold water, carefully cleaning the tentacled creature. I remember watching this meal being prepared in my youth. There I stood as a small child, gathered with my large Italian family, gazing upon the fish as they were being arranged. Seafood dishes are slowly placed on the big roundtable, one by one: Snails, octopus, eel, clams, mussels, lobster, and cod. The strong scent of the 7 fishes filled the room with an amazing aroma, My family dying to dig in. I grab a cut portion of the sluggy, shelled creature. Terrified to taste it, my grandma douses it with a delicious green pesto sauce, making it look like a whole different food. I quickly toss it in my mouth, scared for how my taste buds will react. As I engulf all the flavors, the fear turns into a savoring sensation. The taste of the snail and sauce mix like a beautiful piece of music in my mouth, waiting to be played so the rest of the world can hear. The art of my grandma turned into a wonderful creation. One of her best creations, served to her family with love.

Curse of Experience Austin Heffernan Those born caged are the lucky ones, Lacking knowledge of what they never had Thwarts any want for the world beyond the bars. Fires of potential passions left unkindled A bird whose wings have never stretched does not miss flight. Never having known the euphoric feel of wind rushing beneath their wings as they reach for the endless sky, striving as high as their passions can carry them, They harbor no fear of Icarus’s folly. A caged bird lives in contentment, a wick unlit. If the caged bird is freed for but a moment, allowed to taste that splendorous freedom, it learns of all of the things it never had and a passionate flame is born, that once lit, always hungers but can never be extinguished. Once returned to its life behind the iron gates, the ravenous flame born within continues to burn, burn away at the bird as it calls out in agonizing remembrance of that euphoria which now lies out of reach. The lucky birds remain caged, wicks of passion unlit.

Rebecca Yang Mixed Media

Those who have never felt love are the lucky ones, Lacking knowledge of feelings they never had Thwarts any wants for such adorations. Fires of potential passions left unkindled A lover whose heart has never filled does not miss love. Never having known the weight of a head resting on their shoulder as their heart nervously flutters, mind filling with splendorous ideas of the future, as they harbor no fear of a broken heart’s misery. The unloved lover lives in contentment, a wick unlit. If the naive lover feels love for but a moment, allowed to taste the splendorous freedom they learn of all the feelings they never had. A passionate flame is born, that once lit, always hungers but can never be extinguished. Once returned to its life of companionless solitude, the ravenous flame born within them continues to burn, burn away at the lover as they cry out in agonizing remembrance of that euphoria which is now out of reach. The lucky lover remains unloved, wicks of passion unlit.

Whole Lotta Red Chance Davis One thing about Playboi Carti is that he’s definitely... different. That’s always been something that I related to and respected about him. For me, what Carti manages to accomplish in the span of his career is a testament to the amazing things we can achieve together, the differences that we can create as a culture, and the barriers we can break sonically. As a teenage black kid, I can say, subjectively, this album slapped. Also subjectively, I can say my culture mostly overlooked what Carti’s long-awaited album, Whole Lotta Red, had the potential of doing for us, our music, our fashion, and the way our culture and artistry are represented in general. Red was filled to the brim with aspects of music that, as a musician myself, can see had the potential to become groundbreaking. Granted, the influence of Red is definitely starting to show, like with Carti’s deal with the world-renowned fashion brand Givenchy, literally making history, or the huge wave of ear-bleeding 808’s and “baby voice” inspired trap songs by “Carti Clones”, engulfing the internet rap scene at the moment. While most think of trap artists as drug dealing, women objectifying, self snitching, chain wearing, social media-obsessed, gangster rappers, Carti tends to stretch the idea of what artistry is, and flips the definition of what it is to be a rapper is on its head, beyond the means of an ordinary trap, to the point where after listening, you have to stop and ask yourself, “What did I just listen to”? Inspired by American and British punk aesthetics of the late ’80s and early ’90s, Carti oozes into the rockstar role without much effort, often seen wearing fishnet shirts, tight leather pants, brightly dyed hair, and rocking punk-inspired brands such as Rick Owens and Raf Simmons. This Carti, it's different. It’s him. It’s genuine. He does it without effort, how he wants, without the fear of sounding like he’s selling out or forcing anything. 45

straight-edge idea of what most people think an artist should be like, more specifically a black artist, is only a wall, that which Sir Cartier himself has obliterated with his latest release: Whole Lotta Red. Personally, that Christmas day where he finally decided to drop the album, I immediately understood what Carti was going for, and loved it, every second of it. WLR is now infamous for the bad rep it received upon its release, due to how different it was sonically from his previous release, Die Lit. Understandably, some people were disappointed that almost no leaks, (unofficially released unreleased music, of which Carti is also synonymous), appeared on the album, and were thrown off by how aggressive the music was, especially for someone as laid back as Playboi Carti normally seems to be. But to me, it signaled a shift in what trap music is and what it can become. As rap music sits as the biggest genre in the world, it's actually surprising how many other genres are present in today's music, and how artists like Carti take inspiration from almost anything. The cover, for example, is a reference to the first-ever issue of Slasher magazine, a popular punk magazine from the late ’70s, or the Bob Iver sample used in the outro track, ‘F33l Lik3 Dyin’, or the sample on ‘Vamp Anthem’ a classic horror composition created in the 18th century I find this whole thing very interesting, especially in this new era of Playboi Carti, because this is so… nowhere near the norm for black musicians. This redhead black kid from South Atlanta, screaming about murder over the hardest trap beats I’ve ever heard, wearing fishnets and chokers, in all black calling himself a Vampire. If I were to promote that to a record label, they’d laugh me out of the room, or call the cops, but for

Zen Grant Digital Art

“Big bro, this sh*t that I do is not just for the ’gram. It’s not just to make people think I’m weird. This is really me. I get a lot of my inspiration from vampire movies because when you see a vampire, he always looks good. He don’t age. He can’t die. He’s beautiful. I won Best Dressed in high school. That’s what I was on. I did the streetwear sh*t. Now let’s see if I can pop this sh*t that they’re wearing on the runway. If it’s a challenge, I’m doing it.” Playboi Carti to Kid Cudi in their interview with Interview Magazine I really believe a lot of black artists should take inspiration from this whole debacle, and apply it to themselves, not only their music, after all, it is practically their livelihood, why not be yourself if you have that option?. This era of music, led by Carti himself, shows me, some kid whose entire life revolves around music and the production behind it, that I really can create whatever I want without the fear of judgment, and be whoever I want to be, fishnets or not.

Just imagine the potential of what a Kanye West album would sound like if he was just himself, free of anything holding his tongue, and without his constant desire to backtrack on projects because of the fear of a bad review from Anthony Fantano or something, or an XXXtentacion album, rest in peace, put together with the intention of being as prolific as possible, something X very rarely even had to try to be. The possibilities are literally almost endless, but because of us, the fans, the fear of being judged, misunderstood and shelved very much holds these black artists back. Not Carti. While many rappers try to be as “gangster” as possible in their music and personas, Carti takes an entirely different route, creating something amazing in the process, which I think is deeply underrated and misunderstood within my community. As an upcoming rapper with a burning desire to create and share, Whole Lotta Red is more than an attestation not only of what I can be, but what Carti can become, and what the culture and experience that we share can morph into.

Disorder Alia Bloomgarden Her eyes burned, but still she obeyed his every wish, fully out of control of her body. No matter where she was, he was always there pointing a gun at her. Loyal, devoted and in complete control, he ran her life. She was nothing, but a puppet for him. His voice echoed in her head, controlling where she could walk, where she could go, how she could live, yet he also warned her of danger. Danger that was not truly there, anxiety that her friends and family were dying around her. He inserted his thoughts over her thoughts, leaving her with fear and paranoia — stricken, scattered. Disturbing thoughts jarred her as the world around her turned into shadows of monsters and demons. Diseased, her mind was no longer her own, infested with lies that swarmed like bullets inside her mind.

Classmates turned to murderers and victims. The fright that her actions would hurt or kill others loomed over her. She yanked on her hair, desperately trying to drown out his voice, begging him to leave her alone. One second is all I ask. Her pleas persisted, unheard. The dark cloud he sat upon followed her wherever she went; the metal gun in his hand intimidated her, and his voice, threatening and harsh, became her own. Her body was just a vessel for him, his thoughts and desires. Her life was an empty, open shell that he cast himself into. Her heart beat, but she couldn’t love the way she used to love. Her mind could ponder, process and think. But the thoughts were not her own. Her body was alive, but she was not living.

Gabe Cicero Acrylic

River's Bend Travis Weber The moss hugs the tree like stars kiss the sky. I lay careless as the brisk air traverses back and forth through the threshold of my conscience, listening to the faint gurgling of the river past the pebbles. It cleanses me of the woes that fill my head. Morning approaches, while the chickadees commence their daily symphony and robins bless the little river bend with their unique echo of songs. So free from intruding thoughts; it’s just me and Her out here. I raise from by burrowed bed of pine twigs and let my dreams from the past night slip into the new day. The first thing I do is close my eyes and see with my ears, letting the sounds of this paradise invite me to another world. Soon, I am drawn to the river, where I see little tadpoles swim and sway; a heron sits and pecks away and away until its belly is full. My feet sit softly on the smooth river rock, and my mind lays lightly on the silky, wet algae. I let the river sweep my legs from under me and lay my back to the warm summer’s brew. Me and myself float down the river, following the path of Vs that She tells me to take and avoiding the deceiving holes at all costs. But alas, a calm eddy chalked full of colorful trout lays ahead. Presence is my reality.

Trinity Otto Ink And Colored Pencil 49

The Skier Rachel Starsky In the mountains, looking out to where the Earth curves, Where the sun still shines bright over the peaks, tips in white, My best friend stood tall in the cold. I wait at the bottom, listening. Miles up from me, I hear ice shredding, Like ripping paper. Starting when he was young, the same ice Pulling, chewing and tearing after every pivot, I wished him a good run. It’s he who pauses at the top of the hill, and I hope he’s thinking of my face as he reaches the bottom, Smiling but pale and thin from the cold. The air is silent, carefully watching, It’s the ice that disrupts the universe’s silence, A small image on the hill curves back and forth. Not long ago, he called. Hearing the crinkle of the paper, I visualized him,

Beaming, waving the thick piece of paper with red scribbles. Tears were held back. Trying to not think about the distance that will soon be between us, I watched his blue eyes fill with joy, making up for the nerves that were held on to for so long. The red words blurred. Trying to make out the message against the pale paper, Unwrinkled and untouched he read, “Congratulations, you have been accepted.” There was no silence. Bouncing and cheerful, How quickly our spirits spiked, Like there was no sky there to stop us. The call did not last long, A short run, racing like his life depended on it, Shouting to the highest mountains on his way down. I know it mattered to us both, my friend, This paper will never shred, no matter how times turn. I hoped for you then, and even more now.

lost in the night Colleen Klocko i lie awake, alone in the dead of the night enchanted by the endless space and time i look out, at the stillness of the pines their shadows outlined by a moonlit sky i look up to see the blinking stars more appearing as my eyes adjust and the scent of crisp, cool air filling my lungs as I breathe in, careful not to be rushed i hear the crickets humming and the occasional chirp of a bird

as I sit there and absorb the quiet beauty i think of the sun shining down on the other side of the earth how the moon is just a mirrorball absorbing and reflecting light what a stunning atmosphere we’re given at night and no matter how hard I try i cannot tear my eyes away from the star filled night sky

Maggie Sehnert Digital

Talking to Plants Jusleen Bindra

I water them. I care for them. I talk to them. I sing to them. I plead to them To please, Please, Say something.

I have no way of knowing If they heed my words, The words I breathe. A rustle in the leaves Is all I need To know they love me. But there’s no wind to carry the message, Deliver it to me.

Shelly Chang Charcoal

Frostbite By Kyle Schoeffler Freezing cold statements pierce through my skin. Icicles form in the dormant, desolate room. It feels like winter. Your soul is below zero. I stand without words, acknowledging it’s 6ft under. I lost you a long time ago. The tears streaming down my face freeze into patches, polka-dotting my expression, numbing the pain those tears had brought to life. Who are you now? What happened to the old you? The one that wasn’t cold The one who’s soul wasn’t below zero This winter may last forever. 53

No Matter The Season

Ana Mendoza Carrasco Pencil

Tori Kraft No matter the season, I wear baggy clothes. I get rid of any outline of my body, I hide under my clothes. No matter the season, I do my makeup the same. Eyeliner for swimming and ice skating alike, the amount never changes. No matter the season, I wear sneakers or boots. Giving me height, hiding what’s attached to my ankles. No matter the season, some hair is in my face. With my hair covering, my face shape is a mystery to others. No matter the season, I change up my hair. Being able to change a constant, gives me the feeling of control. No matter the season, I wear my long sleeves. Using many causal methods, I hide challenges from my past. No matter the season, I am conscious and insecure about things that make me… well, me.

True Colors Fiona Lawlor My favorite color used to be yellow. I’m always told of my bright personality, my warmth and energy. Sunshine energy illuminates my heart But all of this light can’t drown out my shadows. So I focus on my green. Growing and healing, loving and tending to my flowers Because they don’t just need light, they need water Blue I bathe in coolness, Allowing rest and purity to flow over and into my roots So that I can feel the warmth when I need it again Then blue cooling me down from my Red hot fury When something tugs on my skin Pulling out my hair My eyelashes My eyebrows Anything I can grasp to Anything that gives me control When all I want to do is escape this Black space that I’m stuck in. There is nothing but there is everything and I cannot take all of that- none of that All of that At once. I try to find the white Some kind of escape Any speck of untainted ground to rest my feet on as I run from my brain and tire my lungs Breathing in and out until I find my yellow again.

Ana Jaquez Zarate Oils

Ana Mendoza Pen

I will go there someday Colleen Klocko I want to visit the great frontier Where the mountains are near And the cities are farther between I’ll be one with the land that’s vast Where my dreams advance And the depths of my soul can be seen I’d love to walk on the seaside coasts With expectations’ ghosts ‘Til the soles of my shoes are worn I can picture the winding trails that I’ll walk through And envision the thoughts to be born Thoughts of cities urge me to leave I promise to come soon, you’ll see I will go there someday And I’ll explore that land during a long, long stay I keep hoping this moment will come Packing to leave from where I’m from But it’s hard to find the time I need to travel the alaskan plains with the stars above Where the mountains and the sky meets I think about the wide open door That invites me to implore The mountains that stand to be seen I feel this mission burn deep down in my soul Thoughts of cities urge me to leave I promise to come soon, you’ll see I will go there someday And I’ll explore that land during a long, long stay I will go there someday And I’ll explore that land during a long, long stay

STAFF EDITOR-IN-CHIEF

Blair Martin Alia Bloomgarden Sasha Djurasovic Meredith Niedfeldt Lutece Wasko Abigail Maxey Serena Hodge Rita Ferrero Rachel Stein

Angelina Cicero

WRITING ADVISOR

Kat Hustedde

ART ADVISOR

Rachel Rauch

PRODUCTION ADVISOR

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS We thank Mrs. Cicero for her consistent passion for and dedication to the artistic voices that exist within the confines of 5000 West Mequon Road. Her work within this publication and beyond provide a tangible example of what exemplary educational support looks like, and we are all very thankful for her enthusiasm. We thank Ms. Rauch for her unwavering voice of reason and knowledge. Without access to her level of expertise, this publication's staff would not have been able to create this issue and present it to the student body in its real-life, printed form. We thank Mrs. Hustedde for her amazing assistance in connecting the staff with Homestead's visual artists. By helping to weave that thread, she played an integral part in bringing this beautiful collaboration to fruition. We thank the Soliloquy Staff for bringing their fresh and energetic points of view to the table. Their voices allowed the conception and creation of this issue to be a joyful one.

on the

COVER

OLIVE RAMSEY Acrylic

"I build up colors with the different brush sizes (starting large and getting smaller as the painting becomes more detailed) until the painting is finished. I took lots of inspiration from impressionists like Monet and Cassatt because that's the style we were supposed to emulate for this project."