soliloquy
Diversely One; We Are Homestead
soliloquy diversely one:
we are homestead Vision Statement: Soliloquy seeks to develop young writers and artists and to showcase their talent. Mission Statement:The mission of Soliloquy Literary Magazine is to create a studentdriven, sophisticated, in-house publication,
blah
by liz k homenkov
Volume 3 : issue 1: winter 2020
5000 w. mequon rd. mequon wi
Table of
phase one: Youth
7
lost generation by zabrina carson handle with care by parus tunio
9
a clean shave by clara huskin dripping point by teah marks
11
tug of war by ethan schlesinger enigma by drew brateen
13
milkyway by serena stewart galaxy by sophie chudnow
15
etiola ted by clara huskin nightfall by jack cannon empty/butterf l y by sasha winter
17
messy room by chris golden us by drew braaten
19
the truth by noe clavier one by drew braaten
21
the letter by chris golden melting by ava meester
23
4 am by rohan kaushal empty by siyu lu
25
the rising rose by ben kittleson world by abigail giesen
37
my persona by riley taylor overcome by sin by emily inman
39
branding by jada f l e m m i n g society by kelley elliott
41
mixed masterpiece by audrey wycklendt the girl by eryn greuel growing older by taha badani
crash by jack wypiszinski 43 the upset by ava meester
45
once in a blue moon by logan hisle her by adri nelson
49
growing up by alexandra grosso 24/7 by kameron westbrooke
phase three: 47 Experience
phase two: growth
29 31 33 35
51
together we glare by liz khomenkov the iceberg by chris golden we too by dylan bradley three by kameron westbrooke
by rohan kaushal vulnerability by drew braaten 53 fatherhood ehhhhhrmn by drew braaten
55 summer at the seine by bella cicero keys of the seine by bella cicero
57
truth about me by peter airapetyan overthinker by rebecca yang
59
birds f l y by zach zens envy by liz khomenkov
how lucky we are by burke simpson battle by therese giersch
61
good girl by logan hisle red by liz khomenkov
ode to the present by jackson rusch the class a team by savannah buttermore the beach by ethan schlesinger
63 acknowledgements/colophon
my sail by ariana adalpe los angeles by ethan schlesinger what society takes from us by savannah buttermore the womb by kas iverson
staff page
3//letter from the editor
contents
letter from the editor When deciding upon a theme for this year’s Soliloquy, our 5th volume since the magazine’s inception, our core desire was to celebrate the idea that diversity is an asset — that in any setting, a wide array of perspectives and experience, outlooks and values, enriches a culture. Each of the writers and artists featured in Soliloquy offers a unique point of view, and their contribution enriches our school as a whole. Centering our magazine around the concept of diversity aff i rms our belief in celebrating every individual voice. Diversity is the backbone of our society: in our differences, we f i n d strength; in our conversations with others different from us, we f i n d solutions, clarity, and hope. Likewise, Homestead thrives
as one because we are able to independently exist as individuals who come together to work, to create, to challenge ourselves and grow. The decision to split the magazine into phases came later. The interruptions set readers up to encounter each section through a specif ic lens. We as Homestead are a community of artists, of poets, of authors, of dreamers. Our experiences make us stronger, our growing pains make us wiser, and our willingness to grow allows us to contrbute and to form a greater community. We hope you enjoy the variety of works from a diverse array of unique individuals, and are also able to see a bit of yourself in each page.
-Alexandra Grosso, Editor-in-Chief
youth.
"I am convinced that most people do not grow up... we growing up. I think what we do is mostly grow old. on our faces, but generally our real selves, the 4//Youth
Faces
by kelley elliott
marry and dare to have children and we call that We carry accumulation of years in our bodies, and children inside, are innocent and shy as magnolias."
-Maya Angelou
5//Youth
handle with care by parus tunio 6//Youth
lost generation by zabrina carson
Welcome to my generation Where teens are depressed Students are stressed And the air of our society reeks of anxiety. Welcome to my generation. Where drugs have replaced hugs And those who hate this world bask in their sorrow While silently praying for a better tomorrow Welcome to my generation Where kids pretend to smile But their pain inside runs deep as a mile Welcome to my generation, where giving up Is how we solve our problems And the details of our pain are written in the lyrics of XXXTentacion albums. Welcome to my generation Where we compete to succeed All while neglecting our mental health needs.
7//Youth
a clean shave.
by: clara huskin
8//Youth
I didn’t know. That the razor hidden in my closet Deep in the back corner Beneath a box Would mean that at age 14 Small circles, Filled with mystic powder, Tumbilng over the brim Of an orange container Would be my only vice. I didn’t know. tell me TheyThey didn’tdidn’t tell me impact HowHow muchmuch impact Growing Growingup uphas hason onyou. you. And, And, I guess, I guess, Yourealize don’t realize You don’t Until you’re your skin, Untilsurfacing you’re surfacing your skin With the knife, With the knife Ofrazor. a pink razor. Of a pink Yet, I’ve chosen myself. Chosen to love myself. I see beauty, I seek comfort, In this, In myself, I know: the only healer is me.
Lips
by teah marks
9//Youth
enigma
by drew braaten
10//Youth
I remember when I used to play a lot of silly games as a kid: hopscotch, four square, kickball, tag, and my personal favorite, tug of war. For many years, my friends and I fought on the b a t t l e f i e l d we called the elementary school playground. These intense battles sometimes resulted in bumps, bruises, and blisters all over our scrawny bodies. The other kids’ scars eventually healed, but mine never did. I remember the f i r s t time when I fell to the ground, the tug of war rope dragging me all across the rough gravel. The other kids screaming at me: “GET UP! GET UP! YOU’RE GOING TO MAKE US LOSE THIS ROUND,” and I screamed back “I can’t!” I never could get up that day because I wasn’t strong enough. That day, life had enough of these silly little games, that the rope I was pulling wasn’t enough
learning basic math, f i g u r i n g out how to walk in a single f i l e line, but discerning the difference between f i v e and ten turned to counting how many inches I’d have to grow to hit 5’10”; and learning to leave the hurt behind on the bus at the end of the day when things didn’t go my way. Now, I spend my time at school worrying if my growth is on track. My textbooks aren’t the only things that I carry with me in my backpack, but their weight tugs me down to the ground, showing me the strenght that I lack. It leaves me wondering, will I ever be as tall as the other kids, will my growth ever make a comeback? But, I AM NOT SMALL. I am not small. If only you could all see, I wear my heart on my sleeve, but its only there to cover up this pain. My mother always told me, “This isn’t forever, one day it will all go away.” by ethan schlesinger
to suffice to the pressure I was feeling, that it needed more. Despite my best efforts to feed its hunger, it was never satisfied, never full. But I wa s always full. Full of anxiety meds, with names I could never pronounce: clonidine, sertraline, diazepam, f l u v o x a m i n e, I was never clean. This tug of war game, it seemed, was never ending. Just the right dosage would make the world come together; a spoonfull of clonidine helps the sugar go down, but don’t worry, It’s a normal side effect to feel under the weather: EVERY SINGLE DAY! The world would tug and pull at my heartstrings. Every psych visit would bring new things, instilling hope in my dreams at night, which used to be just nightmares. I remember when my biggest worries were getting to school on time and
But how am I supposed to wait a long time for that one day to come? Three years ago, I didn’t even think I would make it to my eighteenth birthday. I remember when tug of war used to be a children’s game, but the one I’ve been playing my whole life isn’t the same. It’s full of blisters, bruises, and bumps, but I’m only 17, how would I know? There is only so much I can reap and sow, well that’s bullshit. Because of all I know is what I’ve been through and that’s it. And I’ve decided not to play this game of tug of war anymore, because progress is progress, and everything will work out for the best. Finally, as I stuff this f i r s t chapter of my life on the shelf, I am sure that I am completely and utterly myself.
TUGof WAR
11//Youth
galaxy
by sophie chudnow 12//Youth
milkyway
His world was black and white, quiet as a cookie cutter, but he wanted to be a twinkling constellation, scatttered through the sky, exploding with light and passion, upredictable and beautiful.
by serena stewart
Then, she became his galaxy. The f i r s t time he saw her, she looked like a winter evening, cold, unappealing, and dark, but when she f i r s t spoke, his vision exploded with purple and blue, meteors cascading across the horizon, and he was in love with her scenery. The sunset hue set from there. Her name was Violet, like the f l o w e r, but she was no pansy with soft petals. He fell in love with the moon she walked on because she took his breath away and suspended him at zero gravity. She was stronger than a lion, brighter than the sun And more beautiful than Orion and his excuse of a belt. But he didn’t know how soon she would disappear, because despite his world being colored, hers remained dark. The sun never rose for her. It was impossible for it to. Violet’s mind was clouded. She never saw the stars. And the chronic cloudiness concluded her cycle. She was no mark in the sky. She exploded into supernova: a dead star, never to be seen again, in this life or next. He always watched her but never her symptoms, paid extreme attention to her speech, but not to what lay masked behind her words. There was no way to. How could he? He took shots of dopamine, but no chaser would soothe the burning sensation of his melancholy. Drunk on pointless nothing, his bright world returned to grey, and so he lost his milkyway.
13//Youth
empty
etiolated by clara huskin
14//Youth
you said you would leave the light on, so that i could go to sleep. but mom, it’s dark. and you’ve been gone for so long and dad?
by sasha winter where’ve you been? it’s late and i can’t seem to remember where you sleep. my room is cold. this house is messy. and we’re hundreds of miles away from home. i don’t think the dog has slept since.
butterflies
by sasha winter
nightfall
by jack cannon
They walk through the vibrant green meadow, I see them as a joyful mirage, just a shadow. By me they ran in circles and skipstepped, With joyful laughter and excitement, Playing around like birds with wings f l a p p ing, And when it nears dark they pitch their tent. I leave the meadow before it hits dusk, For the night there leaves me a hollow husk.
15//Youth
us
by drew braaten
16//Youth
messy by chris golden
ROOM
If I told you my room was messy, you would know something true about me. Freshly-washed clothes nest on my papasan chair begging to be put away. Empty glasses, once holding water now hold staring contests with my alarm clock. The comforter started a f i g h t with a bear and lost, horribly. The pillows tried to save the comforter, but instead they were f l u n g off the bed in war, all waiting to be picked up by the maid. This messy room r e f l e c t s my life. A visual representation of school, work and sports all battling each other to be the number one priority in my life. The bedroom has never won a war, forever residing in last place.
17//Youth
one
by drew braaten
18//Youth
the truth.
by noe clavier
I want you to know that I’m honest And that I care about the truth, No matter how sad it can be. I live in an imaginary world, Surrounded by lies, Where everything you can touch, Everything you can hear, Everything you can see is fake. I will always remember that morning, Before I f i n a l l y found out the truth. That day, the sky was blue, Birds were chirping, And cotton-candy clouds were disappearing to let the sun shine inside the house. But once I heard the truth, The sky suddenly became dark, Without any emotion but melancholy. The birds left and rain replaced the sun. This is the power of the truth, When all you knew were lies. A dark truth is better than light lies.
19//Youth
20//Youth
eyes
by ava meester
the the letter letter by chris golden
‘“This party is a bust, it’s over man,” Tanner complained to his friend Sam, taking another sip of a Natural Light. Tanner peeked through the aperture that peered into the living room and saw his ex-girlfriend Rachel messing around with another guy. Tanner reached for his back pocket and pulled out an envelope with a name on the front and stared for an extended moment. “I can’t get her back, why am I even trying?” He opened the drawer to reveal the garbage bin and gently let go as if he didn’t want to hurt it. “Tanner, it’s over bro, she’s with that
creature of a dude over there. Now let’s go downstairs and go crazy. I hear Carti playing,” Rick said begging him to come with so that they could have fun. Rick patted Tanner gently on the back and they walked downstairs. ----“Jerry, get up quick, I think I’m going to puke!” Rachel threw Jerry from the couch and bolted to the bathroom. The lights were off but the door was locked, so Rachel made a quick search for a garbage can. Jerry sported a nervous look on his
by rohan kaushal
4 am.
I answered a call, to help a friend 21//Youth He spoke quietly, asked me pleadingly face and avoided herhim as see he made To help clearly his ple of minutes of uneasiness, she liftway downstairs. “Uh, Rach, youyou’re ed her head and saw a couple walking He begged with pain in his voice gonna be alright. Jus’ le-tit all out. And out of the bathroom. Giggling to themuh I’ll bee wa-iting in the headed downstairs. Rachel His words camebazement,” haltingly. Heselves, pausedthey often Jerry slurred,Healoof. As he walked stood and wobbled towards the c o n f i d e d in me, “I can’t do it up anymore. downstairs, heI didn’t beganknow spreading what bathroom. who else to call just happened to everyone; Everyday feels like“Rachel’s a monotoneShe blurshut the door, dropped the envepuking everyone hahahaha she can’t lope on the ground, turned the sink on handle ‘er alc.”I miss when we were younger with cold water and drowned her face Rachel frantically scrambled around, in the stream, fruitlessly attempting to Only worries on our minds were DOA searching for What somewhere to extinguish sober up. She dried her face off and sat new bases we made in Clash of Clans her stomach.The Finally, she found the the f l oMull o r next to the envelope. She hours we spent reading on Brandon cabinet holding the garage can and reached and picked it up, staring at the pulled it out. As she lowered her head, letters Nostalgia overwhelms me from dayswith pastdrunken eyes, questioning she quickly read her name on an enveif the letter actually said Rachel. She slid In Kinloch park, on the riverside, lope and grabbed it before it crossed g eBlack r nail under Summer days spent on bike her ridesf i nand Ops 2the lip and broke paths with gastric acid. She held it in thetimes seal. She found a letter inside foldInching towards more complex her hand and let it all out. After a cou- ed into thirds and began to read: I answered back, “I don’t know. Dear Rachel, I don’t know how to make the despair go away It’s been a rough REALLY rough Backweek, then ita was me who c oweek. n f i d e d in you After our breakup, I haven’t been the same. Myyour mindear? is all over the place without Didn’t I always ask for you to lend you. I’m lost, like a voyager stranded in the ocean. I’ve never felt as warm as you made me feel when I met you. I remember whatYou youwere did, the sunshine that woke me up and brightened my day. I am after day of your Youreminded gave me aday shoulder to lean on absence as the sun sets and hides away from the darkening night. Not many ever did That f i g h t a week agohelped was nothing more All that was your lovethan a dumb argument. It was wrong for me to yell and get worked up over So Isooffer you the samenothing, and I’m terribly sorry for that. I never meant those words and I wish I could take everything back and start over. Things Share with me your burden. happen and f i gLet h t sme break out, your but this lighten loadshouldn’t have been the end of us. This isn’t the end of the All road; this isn’t as far as iteverything goes. I need you, Rachel, like the spark to I ask that you tell me my f l a m e as I shiver in the frigid night. Please forgive me. I love you, Every instance of turmoil in your head Tanner Talk to me brother Don’t bottle up this darkness inside Tears trickled onto letterwe andshall memsobbed, “I need you right now.” Little the by little, overcome ories of Tanner f l o o d e d her mind. Her As her words left her mouth, the door eyes shut as she Thepictured hours f lthem e w bytogeth- opened, and there was Tanner with a er, missing every they spent. Manymoment a sleepless night I had glass of water in his hand and some paHer heart began to ache and she beper towels. Days were logged into FaceTime I answered a call, to help a friend.
empty
by siyu lu 22//Youth
by rohan kaushal
4 a.m.
I answered a call, to help a friend He spoke quietly, asked me pleadingly To help him see clearly He begged with pain in his voice His words came haltingly. He paused often He c o n f i d e d in me, “I can’t do it anymore. I didn’t know who else to call Every day feels like a monotone blur I miss when we were younger Only worries on our minds were DOA What new bases we made in Clash of Clans The hours we spent reading Brandon Mull Nostalgia overwhelms me from days past In Kinloch park, on the riverside, Summer days spent on bike rides and Black Ops 2 Inching towards more complex times.” I answered back, “I don’t know.” I don’t know how to make the despair go away Back then it was me who c o n f i d e d in you Didn’t I always ask for you to lend your ear? I remember what you did, You gave me a shoulder to lean on Not many ever did All that helped was your love So I offer you the same Share with me your burden. Let me lighten your load All I ask is that you tell me everything Every instance of turmoil in your head Talk to me, brother Don’t bottle up this darkness inside Little by little, we shall overcome The hours f l e w by Many a sleepless night I had Days were logged into FaceTime I answered a call, to help a friend. 23//Youth
The Rising Rose
by ben kittleson
The sunlight piercing through the leaves, While moonlight grieves, The rising rose and its red Petals dance above the rocky soil To a song that nature sings, fed By the light’s royal, Generous hands. Birds, living in solitude above lands Many miles away, Singing pleas for the sun to rise Above the horizon line of the bay From which the water who feeds the rose lies. They bring hope for life and green Colors more beautiful than a queen In her opulent dress. Never again will the rose See the light From the sun who has fallen, and frozen The world, making death seem all the more bright.
24//Youth
world
by abi gisen
25//Youth
Growth.
"the years teach much 26//Growth
together
by drew braaten
which the days never know" -Ralph Waldo Emerson 27//Growth
los angeles
by ethan schlesinger
28//Growth
by ariana adalpe
my sail
You are the sail that holds my boat straight. Even through hurricanes. From our shared time outs, To catching alligators in the basement, To becoming fort-making masters, We’ve been inseperable for years. I began to realize you were growing up. You knew mom and dad’s marriage was far from perfect, You got your license, Turned 18. You didn’t mean to leave me behind. I believed that nothing could ever come between us. But then I realized I was growing up too, And I didn’t need you to stand up for me anymore. Now, I’m able to check my own blind spots. I still think about when we would bury each other in stuffed animals. About the 18 years you lived across the hall from me. But now we are sailing on, And the futures we p[ayed out for ourselves with Barbies Are becoming real. You are still the sail that holds my boat straight, Even through hurricanes.
29//Growth
30//Growth
what society
takes from us by savannah buttermore
the essence of innocence coats the little boy’s tongue his naive outlook on life paints a soft picture of ease and love he molds like clay aiming to please his parents sweet boy he f i n d s cotton candy in ominous clouds and pretty f l o w e r s in the rain his youth framed with bliss a smile full of hope
womb
by kas iverson
31//Growth
32//Growth
battle
by therese giersch
“ how lucky we are. by burke simpson
The world is not what it used to be. 40 years ago, the idea of facetime was inconceivable, unbelievable, not dreamable. There were no snapchats or computer hacks. People had to f i n d their way from point A to B using a
paper map! And saddest of all, they couldn’t google the answer to question 37 on their history f i n a l.No, they weren’t as lucky as us. At least, that’s what they always say.
Lucky. Is that the word that describes Faith from gym class? The girl with a slash on her arm for every classmate who didn’t follow her back on Instagram. For every day she goes home without a text or call or Snapchat from anyone. For every post on Instagram that didn’t get enough likes. And every story on Snapchat of yet another party she didn’t get the invite. No, instead she bleeds the truth of the internet we all don’t see under her sleeve. They say the world’s moving forward, but is it worth moving forward if we aren’t going in the right direction? A direction drowning people like Jake. A high schooler who let the world know he was gay. The guy who cries from hate messages that fly through his phone. He tries to hide the scars in his mind. Blinded by hate
headed at Faith with every n o t i f i c a t i on t elling her she’s a disgrace. No. Faith can’t fight anymore. Tied down by digital rope with her thumbs cut off by the voices in her phone. She has been a prisoner of this war since the day she stepped online. Imprisoned for war crimes of being labeled a slut and not skinny enough. Now she is forced to rely on those who f i g h t her battle for her. The ones who are accepted into the internet’s trust. Undercover operatives wagering a war on the unjust. Fighting in a battle to help those who have been cussed and beaten and shot at many times. Helping with every Instagram post and every website made to prevent parents from f i n d i n g another suicide note. Caskets are lowered for new victims of this war everday. Just one more casualty
as people around the globe message him death threats, leaving “kill yourself” tattooed on the back of his mind. But Jake is strong. He has learned to figh t in a world where the internet has become a b a t t l e f i e l d. Where soldiers are constantly fighting a war on two fronts using keyboards as guns and words as bullets. Sharpening their knives with each new word made to tear people apart. A battle between hate and acceptance. Hate, growing in soldiers everytime a new apprentice writes a sentence attacking people like Jake. Creating a titlewave
taken down by keyboard bullets. Each one of them who told themselves its ok it doesn’t matter what they say. Day by day we go on like this Moving forward. How great. The world is moving forward. They tell us how lucky we are to have technology. But they did not warn Jake and Faith and the countless others who stepped online that suicide rates have increased 30 percent since the world met the internet. So in the end, how lucky are we? 33//Growth
“
but they did not warn Jake + Faith and countless others that suicide rates have gone up 30% since we met the internet.”
ode to the present by jackson rusch
what we need, she holds on to she will come and pass her voice rises in the new place soon gone forever still we pass for prospection, later regardless we all amass such a low chance we care; far from her obvious treasure how arrogant? in a world of i n f i n i t e people she’s our hidden communicator we’ll never see her through what we want, she cannot equal but once we f i n d the person we seek we’ll see she was the most unique
the beach
by ethan schlesinger
34//Growth
35//Growth
hate
sandwich
by blair martin
Wash your hands, sit down, and get ready to eat A super special treat Self-made and full of rage It’s a HATE SANDWICH. Yes, that’s H-A-T-E HATE, and in your current emotional state, It’s going to taste like the best thing you’ve ever ate. It’s full of fear, insecurity, anxiety and can-nots It’s bound to mess up your body, making it hard to connect your internal Dots— all those disjointed thoughts You’re going to feel sad, solemn, and even a little bit blue But listen up, perk your ears, because I’ve got some advice From me, to you Chew it up, swallow down, and, Darling, let it pass Because the storm you feel inside of you, sis not going to last Let the waves come through, let the tears fall And allow the nasty things you’re feeling To be felt. Nastiness, and all I need you to eat the sandwich,
and while you eat, to think, Think about the mistakes you’ve made to bring you to this melancholic brink The missteps that you stepped, the slips that you slipped And the errors that now, you must f i x Once you consume and contemplate, And have felt all that you feel without trying to escape You can think about the burden of all you just ate That Fear, Anxiety and Insecurity are no longer on your plate So stand up, rejoice, let the tension dissipate Will determine your future state What you do with your resolved hunger Is up to you to choose, and my Dear, I invite you to Have some passion pie, take a sip from a sincerity shake, or maybe a slice of conf idence cake So when next your stomach starts to rumble And the sky feels as if it may tumble Take the steps you need to take To once again clear your messy, angry plate By taking a bite out of your Sandwich of Hate
my
PERSONA
by riley taylor
The truth is I- hesitate, Every thought scrutinized. Like an inspector, I eliminate any defects, any way to shun me. Freezing like ice, I melt when the heat of the spotlight burns me.
My head teaming in hair, yet my mind is rusted over. The gates of my homemade prison leave me constantly trying to f i x my appearancean i n f i n i t e mirror of self-pity. The key isn’t thrown away, only hidden. The path to the heart of a prisoner, who’s heart gleams with c o n f i d e n c e lies just beyond the bars. Ignite me, and watch the ice melt off my worry.
36//Growth
overcome by sin by emily inman
37//Growth
society
by kelley elliott
B
38//Growth
39//Growth
BRANDING by jada flemming
The old The new The rich The poor The gucci The fucci The hard-working The “spoiled” We’re all equal We’re all the same Without these things you’re poor But you try not to care what they say anymore You can only take so much Until you realize Without money you’re an outsider Without money you’re “the odd one out” Without money you’re alone Without it you’re empty
mixed masterpiece by aubrey wycklendt
One great stroke, then color! It’s blue. Lightskin is the right skin Is what is new. Another brush, now with green. Can’t choose a side cause then It’s demeaning. In the paint, now splattered on. Since I’m mixed, It’s hard to be strong. Black and white, you’ll be seen As one or the other, Try and try to change their minds, But then get a different color. We have our nicknames, But we must give them meaning Layer the paint in all directions, Then hold it up And see it gleaming. Make a buck, They still don’t recognize. But the painting sold And the work’s all done. Brushes washed, table cleared. Two colors made us, And all we can do Is paint how we persevere.
40//Growth
the girl
by eryn greuel
el
older
growing
perplexed
by liz khomenkov
by taha badani
Growing older, There’s more to accomplish. There’s more responsibility.
Hardships await us, as we grow into adulthood. There will be no back to lean on. Together we would complete tasks. Together we would eat. Together we would tackle problems. Pack your things and lace your shoes, The discomfort zone awaits. Now, there won’t be Any beams holding us up. The concrete is f i r m and The structure is ready. The foundation is built And ready to stand alone. Growing older And crossing the bridge, The new and improved you lies ahead.
41//Growth
CRASH
the by jack wypiszynski
The rain pounds against Brantley’s Jeep and begins to collect in a circular puddle around the stopped machine as the broken headlights raggedly illuminate the descending liquid. It’s coming down so fast that no one could see the lifted SUV unless it was right in front of them. Brantley stares forward through the spiderweb-cracked windshield, his typically kempt hair loosely falling straight down off his chiseled face. He begins to stir, and a bombarding headache hits him like a bulldozer through a wall. The world ahead of him seems upside down, though. Of course, it’s so dark, that it’s impossible to tell. He slowly begins to lift his head, and he can feel his long legs reach through the tattered canvas top, right onto the frigid wet earth below.
tries to exit his ruined Wrangler, his hands scraping across the side of his car, trying to f i n d anything to grab onto. It would have been hard enough for him if he was sober, but with the rain and crash, he found it incredibly d i f f i c u l t. . As his hands run across the wood grain of the custom made side panel, he eventually f i n d s the insert. The handle.
The door slowly creaks open as he crawls out, cutting his hands on the glass shards littering the rocks his Jeep had come to rest upon, the river roaring in the back. The rain sears his cuts like salt in his eyes. He drunkenly climbs up the rocks, trying to get away from the river and to f i n d out what the hell just happened. He can’t get that far, as the texture of the He had come around the rocks turns from weathered bend too fast. He slowly to soft. Suddenly, he sees 42//Growth
the lifeless baby blue eyes of a little boy. Brantley jumps back in shock, and it all hits him. The party, the drinking, him swearing to Sam that he was ok to drive, the bass bumping in his car, the speeding, the curve he hit too fast. The car sliding, the little boy at the side of the road, his passengers screaming, and the sickening thump as his car rolls over and hits the innocent child. The passengers. Brantley then remembers them, as he gazes across the dark riverside. He sees a few dark shapes in the river. As he painfully walks over to it, he realizes exactly what he’s done, as he sees Sam and his friends f l o a t i n g in the water. He walks back, lifts the body of the little boy, and they all sink twenty feet into the river.
Upset
by ava meester inspired by Frank Ocean’s “Blonde” album cover
43//Growth
O N C E I N A B L U E M O O N
by logan hisle
Let’s have our feet dangle off that building Take me out once for a warm sunset. Let’s watch the sky ignite in orange, with f l e c k s of pink underneath the clouds. Let’s watch it fade to purple and become sprinkled With tiny, sparkly stars. Join me once for a warm sunset. Let’s climb to the top of an abandoned building or maybe just the emotional equivalent and take in the view. Hold me once for a warm sunset. Let’s stay here until sunrise, talking about absolutely nothing or absolutely everything if we so choose. Let go for me once for a warm sunset. Let’s feel the calm evening breeze caress our faces, the colorful light making our eyes glint with gold. Let’s revel in this feeling. Sit with me once for a warm sunset. Recline on our hands and feel the calescent concrete beneath us. Stay with me once for a full moon. Let’s enjoy the cooling of the empty building as our laughter joins the crickets’ song and we’ll listen to the music until dawn.
44//Experience
her
by adri nelson
45//Experience 45//Growth
Experience.
"Life isn't about finding creating yourself." 46//Experience
eye
by adri nelson
yourself. life is about -George Bernard Shaw 47//Experience
24/7
by kameron westbrooke 48//Experience
48//Experience
UP
growing growing up is a f i ck l e illusionist,
tricking the mind into believing that a soul ages with time and wrinkles with memory, yet in sixteen years i haven’t lost my taste for sweet watermelon lollipops, the sensation of sinking my toes into summer sand, a dash resulting in crisp wind whipping into burning lungs, and there’s not a sidewalk puddle that i don’t ache to pounce in. it’s as though suddenly the passionate life of adolescence turns to watered down recollection buried behind the shelves in closets hidden by new possessions.
by alexandra grosso
and do ache to feel older, and the need we feel to prove our maturity has only morphed, from f i r s t looking at the gentle new dips and curves on our skin, to cramming it down the throats of adults. we’ve run and we’ve played and used step stools to reach the bathroom sink, and then we traded childish pasttimes for a more grown up step stool, the meaning of growing up has shifted, a rocket to launch us into our adulthood in the form becoming something like moon phases of drinking and trying and buying. to satisfy our craving we want an illusory thing, for validation in the form of proven and we’ve always done so by trading, measures of growth. when we’re younger, bartering our young souls for an old one, growing up means peeking our heads above ruler to wear like a skin-tight dress. ticks but i think we’re more made of puzzle pieces to be able to ride the ferris wheel at the state fair, than evolution: every single piece of us, hiding teeth under pillows and watching new white the things we’ve done and did, inch its way into our mouths, and the gradual are all attached to form the strands of our soul’s decrease in the amount of “cannots” and “not old DNA. enough’s yet” we heard from our adults. we are not continuously new byproducts of growth, new people with each candle now, growing up is a middle f i n g e r blown out on a birthday cake, to those same adults. it’s in the foggy windows but instead within us our souls like Russian nesting in the back seats of that new boy’s car dolls: one within the next within the next, or the sting of clear f i r e sliding down our throats, that still love the taste of sweet watermelon lolliand there’s not enough mango vapor in the world pops, ust as they do the taste of a f i r s t kiss. to prove that every cannot is a meaningless obstacle in the path to an adulthood that growth is a thing achieved by every soul in us is somehow the enemy harmoniously humming the tune of a new desire, a of parents and teachers and authority f i g u r e s. new want, a new goal, once innocent desire for aging turns to spite not a device by which to s a c r i f i c e and a cravingfor a new freedom that is sandwiched our old onesies for crop tops and skinny jeans. between paper bills and fake IDs. learning holds the baby’s soft hands like somehow the idea of “adult” will perfume from and kisses into existence a new layer of thicker skin. the ashes of each broken rule and latch itself we are just as similar to our old selves onto the hems of our petite shorts. as we are different, as, after all, every single breath we’ve ever taken its funny to see how we’ve changed and yet haven’t has been inhaled from different air by the same changed at all. every bone in our bodies has ached lungs. 49//Experience
night sail
by savannah buttermore the boats roamed on 54th street, a playground dedicated to her, the red boots ate up nightly shadows, collecting stares with each turn.
dark alleyways where very few play, musty bars where desperate men tend to overstay, the red boots didn’t heed danger, She knew her own way. Her soles met many, Yet she never stayed for long. Her heart collected dust, The red boots leaving by birdsong. 50//Experience
we, to
by dylan bradley We, too, see America.
We are the younger siblings. They have us wait in the hall. When it’s time to discuss and decide, But we listen, And read, And learn, And grow wise. Tomorrow, We will sit at the table When it’s time to talk.
Three
by kameron westbrooke
, too Nobody’ll dare Tell us, “Wait outside” Then. Besides, They’ll hear all we know And be ashamed--We, too, know America.
religion
by taha badani
If I told you about my religion, you would understand a big piece of my life. The inspiration it brings me and the things it teaches me Shape who I am today. Important people in my life all come together and learn from each other. Close family and friends are brought together as one while we pray. We sit as one and move swiftly together. It has enabled me to speak more than one language. It has enabled me to understand what people are saying in different ways. It has enabled me to learn letters of an alphabet different from English. As we pray, Any doubts or guilts, Any grudges or feuds, Are blown into thin air like they never happened. From the truths you learn, to the prayers being spoken, to the different ways I speak, my religion is a major part of who I am.
51//Experience
fatherhood
by rohan kaushal
I grasped his hand, loosening the tension in my shoulders He remained mute, he just stared A warm softness emanated from him His forehead wrinkled. His f i n g e r s tightened Then in my head he said, “Hello, Strange and scary looking being. Who are you? Why am I here?” Generations before me had done The same task The same ideals pushing them forward Hoping that they were up to it Hearts and minds trembled In India, Uttar Pradesh My father’s father worked and toiled For his own betterment For those dependent on him Now it is my turn No longer am I just the Son My role has expanded past f i r s t b o r n and loving brother I am scared of this task Tiny eyes look into mine Two hearts beat in sync I say “it’s just me and you Just me and you” My child smiles He doesn’t seem frightened His gaze nevers leave mine and I grasp his hand, the tension leaving my shoulders 52//Experience
ehhhrnnnm
by drew braaten
vulnerability by drew braaten Men aren’t supposed to cry. Yet, on June 11, 2019, I found myself surrounded by a group of soon-to-be senior boys, all sobbing their eyes out. School leaders, star athletes, top students, all brought together by a sudden unleashing of their repressed emotions.
This past summer, I was fortunate enough to attend Badger Boys State, a weeklong mock government program in Wisconsin. On the fourth night, I experienced the Man Box, an encounter designed to “discover what healthy manhood is truly about.” The night started with four alumni counselors sharing four unique perspectives on their experiences as a man in America. Each perspective granted me an eye-opening opportunity to think, especially about my emotional front. After seventeen years of simply existing as a male, I was f i n a l l y granted a golden opportunity to understand the basis of healthy masculinity, to be comfortable with being vulnerable. Once the four speeches were f i n i s h e d, everyone separated into their individual “town” (the small group of boys I lived and worked with for the week). In each town, every young man was given an opportunity to break his own masculine emotional front and speak freely. Heartbreakingly beautiful, for the first and maybe the last time in my life, my 31 “brothers” and I were able to speak without hesitation. As our once-suppressed stories f l o w e d, uninhibited, I began to understand the immense value of being real. We all have a story to tell; all we need is the vulnerability to share it
53//Experience
summer at the seine by bella cicero 54//Experience
keys of the by bella cicero I tossed my key into the Seine, As throngs of people passed me by. I watched my shiny silver key Touch the water with a sigh. If I could reach into the depths Beneath these waters blue and clear, I’d pull up countless handfuls Of others’ keys tossed o’er the years.
They all speak different languages, But each across the bridge have strode. Their locks remain upon the rail, One of their keys beneath the Seine, The other in their native land. The travelers, too, go home again.
Never will the locks be opened, Never will the keys f u l f i l l Each key that rests beneath the Seine Their purpose on the bridge o’er head, For underwater, they are still. Peacefully in its watery bed, Possesses a power all its own One of my keys sleeps in the Seine, To open a lock far overhead. The other in my bedroom. My lock, still sealed upon the rail, Upon the bridge above the Seine, ‘Till I return there someday soon. Always in their steadfast hold, Forever fastened to the rail, A home to many hundred locks, Are the bridge’s locks, silver, gold. The bridge atop the river Seine, Keys of the Seine have long lost twins. Possesses the secrets, the promises, Of trav’lers young and old and dead. Their sisters live in distant lands. As far off as the seven seas, Though time continues passing, They stay in cities, small and grand. And seasons ravage the silver and gold, The people to whom the keys belong, And the owners live their far off lives, Are likewise scattered o’re the globe. The keys and locks remain, strong and bold.
55//Experience
56//Experience
truth about me
by peter airapetyan
I want you to know the truth about me. My life is a mess and sometimes gets worse throughout the day. Sometimes by my friends. Sometimes by my school. Sometimes by my grades. I’m trying hard to live by societal norms, Appropriately. Sometimes I get ecstatic in my soul. Not happy, ecstatic. Often by my friends. Often by the school. Often by the grades. I try hard to live my life to the fullest in a life of happiness. My mood can change in an instant. I try to get the best out of the days, but sometimes I fall short. My mood can change faster than a bolt of lightning. Sometimes by my teacher. Sometimes by my school. Sometimes by my grades. I have a purpose, but for you to know the truth about me, It means you have to love me for who I am.
overthinker
by rebecca yang
57//Experience
The day broke coldly over the hospital windows with the dew blinking carefully down the panes. Birds f l e w abashedly in the air trying not to call attention to their playful f l i g h t. Inside the mist shrouded building, a shrill, low, solid tone permeated the room. I let go of a now limp and battered hand, and it fell heavily upon the bedsheets. My dearest and oldest friend had died. Gastric cancer had made a husk of the dancing, singing, and marvelous man that Peter once was. I still remember the gentle summer walks where Peter clutched my hand, and I felt that nothing could harm me, nothing could touch me, and the ring of his deep Sicilian vibrato crept into my mind and made me feel at ease. Peter was like a grandfather to me as mine had drowned before I was born, and he took it upon himself to teach me the important things that grandfathers are supposed to teach their grandchildren: how cook the best eggplant parmeasean, how to name each
of high school, I helped a local f i r e f i g h t e r named Kristin pay for some of the crippling treatment osts associated with cancer, raising $4,000 for her and her family. Unfortunately, Kristin passed just a year later, and the lethal shadow of cancer once again struck my heart. As time passed, the scars and pain tempered. Peter still came to mind in the quiet moments when I walked our gravel drive and saw the larks swooping gently past. My junior year presented a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity. I joined LLS (Leukemia & Lymphoma Society) as a co-candidate in their Student of the Year Campaign. This seven-week fundraising initiative allowed me to blossom while leading a team that I knew shared my passion for making a difference: thus, four high school students mobilized their community, family, and friends to raise over $46,000 for cancer research.
BIRDSfly
by zach zens
songbird gliding by, and how to mend my scraped knees when I fell on the gravel drive. The pain of losing someone so deeply attached to every f i b e r of your being is d i f f i c u l t to capture in words—impossible even—it was as though the whole weight of the world had collapsed onto my heart and locked happiness away in some distant tower. I cried, sobbed actually, for days on end; so much so that my stomach ached with heaves during long sleepless nights. For a while, the world seemed to dazzle less, grow dimmer. I scarcely noticed the birds sing while I continued in the daily metered procession of life; however, I quickly realized that deep inside, there was an ember that still burned, and the spark of his i n f l u e n c e called me to make a difference. I knew that others, even others that very day in that same moment, had felt the same pain I felt. Though my pain was severe, I developed a keen awareness of others’ suffering and my capacity to do something about it. During my freshman year 58//Experience
The campaign revealed to me what it meant to be a leader while also r e f i n i n g my acute sense of passion for charity and strengthening my connections to my community, friends, and family. I knew that while I never thanked Peter for all that he had done, deep inside, I am at ease knowing that others now face a brighter future. I am once again embarking on the LLS campaign, with another lofty goal and Peter tucked into my thoughts. I know that there are many obstacles to come, but I am assured that I can face them with the same tenacity and resilience that has colored my past. Thus, I open the window to sunshine, let the warm breeze graze my face, my eggplant parmesan cooking gently in the oven, and I bask in the resounding song of birds fluttering past.
envy
by liz khomenkov
59//Experience
red
by liz khomenkov 60//Experience
good girl
“Ur so pure and I don’t wanna ruin it,” he said. While it was over text, I feel like he could see my face f l u s h. Whether it was out of frustration or embarrassment, I don’t know. All I know was that it was yet another person who noticed. “Ur a good girl lol”
by logan hisle
Good girl. The one who’s never been anything but sober no matter how hurt she feels. A pain submerged so far it claws at her nerves and she’d rather feel burning in her throat than burning in her eyes but that would ruin her image. Good girl. The one whose grandma’s voice rings in her head. No matter how deeply she loves, a touch more meaningful than a friendly embrace is too much to receive. Her tangible body too pristine to give because that would make her an object. Good girl. The one who holds her tongue within the household No matter her age, a child much too young to have a considerable opinion, yet an adult too old to be without such responsibilities. She gives respect not to where it’s due but to where it’s expected and is unable to ask for any in return because that would make her ungrateful. Good girl. The one who puts more tears than words onto paper, no matter the burn out, she possesses a work ethic never s u f f i c i e n t enough to appease whom is most important. She aims solely to satisfy them because that is the only way she’ll get by. Good girl. The one who is outcasted by most. No matter how many missed opportunities to enjoy life, one without experience is worth it if it’s innocent. She simply deals with the loneliness and monotony with the hope that someone will come break the mold that makes her the good girl.
61//Ex[perience
staff editor in Alexandra Grosso chief:
Content advisor:
Angelina Cicero
PublicATIONS Advisor:
Rachel Rauch
Staff:
Blair Martin Ben Kittleson Bella Cicero Anna Head Eryn Greuel Manaal Nasir
colophon Acknowledgements
To the Staff: Thank you for your commitment to coming in each week and working hard to create and edit pieces. Your dedication is what has allowed for the creation of this magazine to be possible. To the Artists: I don’t have anything other to say than just, wow. The pieces included in this magazine absolutely blew me away, from the moving and at times tearjerking poems to the incredibly detailed and visually stunning art pieces. Thank you for your submissions. To Ms. Rauch: Even when I was losing c o n f i d e n c e in my design abilities, you were always there to put me right back on my feet and had me get back to work. I am the designer I am because of your teaching. To Ms. Cicero: For your tireless editing and dedication to making sure that each writing piece in the mag was polished to perfection, thank you. To Ms. Hustedde: You have been an invaluable help in ensuring that each art piece was represented in the best way. Thank you. For the readers: Your support for our magazine is what keeps us motivated to keep creating. We are all eternally grateful for all of you. All pieces were submitted by members of the Homestead Soliloquy Creative Writing Group, Creative Writing and English students and the student body at large. Each piece was selected based on a series of deliberations between the editor-in-chief, staff, and advisors. Art pieces were submitted by AP Art Students art students of a variety of other art-based classes, and pieces were selected in regards to their connection to the afforementioned selected pieces. Students are encouraged to use their own creativity. The views expressed in writing pieces are representative of those students’ views.
The type in this magazine is Coves in varying sizes. Titles are typed in a combination Marion, Moon, and Sequel in varying sizes. Credits are a combination of varying sizes of Marion and Heiti TC. Sequel, Coves, and Marion in varying sizes are used in the Table of Contents and Letter to the Editor pages. The magazine was designed using Adobe InDesign CC 2018 and Photoshop CC 2018. The magazine as printed in Milwaukee, WI by American Litho with body 70# offset and 10pt CIS for the cover. The book has Stitch/Box binding, and is printed using 4/4 ink and 4/0 on the cover. This book is 6x9 with 67 pages and a cover. This issue was printed 500 times and was distributed at no charge to the student body.
On the Cover:
This Girl by Ava Meester
winter 2020 Soliloquyonline.com
