V o lu m e 1 I s s u e 2
SOLILOQUY
5000 W Mequon Rd. Mequon, wi
Volume 1 Issue 2 • Spring 2018
SOLILOQUY TRANSITIONS
2 // Title
Poetry
Trigger Warning: Sensitive content relating to and including violence
Ta b l e o f C o n t e n t s
Beautiful People Don’t Think Ahead by Carla Ferrer Garcia Break A Leg by Joe Hadcock Suffocated by Frances Mackinnon Ocean by Margarthe Berger Meditations in my Parent’s Backyard by Rebecca Helmstetter Ruin and Rising by Hannah Bentley Valentina by Andrea Greuel Lost by Kaylee Norris See Me by Jessie Adix Dinosaur by Renee Schwarz I’m Ready by Margarthe Berger Winter Sparrow by Lexi DeFord Steps to an Ugly Rebirth by Grace Franks
3 // Table of Contents
7 9 11 13 15 17 19 20 21 23 25 27 29
Deteriorate by Alyssa Bokotey Together by Anthony Kimm Technology by Ethan Leaders Artist Emulation by Giyoo Varh Head in the Clouds by Julia Pawelec City Glich by Robin Ermatanio Yanny and Laurel: A Love Story by Emma Rachum
Lights Out by Emma Straszewski Elephant by Molly Plamann Master of Everything by Shelby Parker Mountains by Robin Ermatanio Untitled by Kailey Carbone
The Scam of an Ice Cream Man by Megan Hagerty Sweet Resonance by Anvesha Mukherjee Nutcracker by Rebecca Helmstetter WoMAN by Megan Hagerty My Name Is by Emma Rachum Blind Fish by Josh Kloss
31 33 35 37 39 62
Hands by Tessa Nemcheck The Bride by Robin Ermatanio Photo by Isabella Scaffidi LGBO Tribe by Robin Ermatanio Innocense by Michael Schallert
fiction
43 45 47 49 51
Heart & Soul by Gleb Murashka
multimedia
Bruises to Birch by Erin Lipkowitz Blood Moon by Sam Laferriere The Girl from New York by Hannah Bentley Space Station by Betsey Bowen The Singing Tea Kettle by Danny Levy Checkmate by Sam Laferriere Walkout by Will Slawson Blue Street by Ben Griffin Her Eyes by Julia Pweleca
55 57 59 61
A Dance by Gabi Martin Blackberries by Zack Zens Drip by Elizabeth Khomenkov Awake by Hannah Malicky Bubbletopia by Sam Laferriere Maeve’s Theme by John Sellars
Letter from the Editor Frances Mackinnon, editor-in-chief A constant reality in human experience, change and the ability to navigate transition challenges some and motivates other; stasis points seem few and far between. As we embarked on creating Volume II, I decided it’s never too early to push forward; thus, the Soliloquy team and I found inspiration in striving to
offer new experiences and to realize a fresh vision. By exploring new technology and choosing a somewhat avant-garde design scheme, this issue of the magazine reveals the evolution of Soliloquy. I hope you enjoy the writing, art, audio-visual links, and overall aesthetic experience. 4 // Letter to the Editor
POE 5 // Poetry
ethan schlesinger, sophomore
ETRY 6 // Poetry
7 // Poetry
D e t e r i o r at e b y A ly s s a B o k o t e y, s e n i o r
Beautiful People Don’t Think Ahead
Carla Ferrer Garcia, senior
Beautiful people don’t think ahead. Why would they? They are young, bewitching, divine. The world is a petit little bird in their hands. Jonquil feathers, soft wings, big heart. And they can either help her fly, or clench their fists and wound her. The problem with beautiful people is, you don’t realize that you are the bird, until it is too late. Without anyone noticing, they smile, bright eyes, they charm you. They don’t even realize that they own you, that they play you like a lyre, from the moment they breathe near you. And that, is part of the charm, because they are innocent, and reckless. If both of you knew what was about to happen, you would walk away. Because when you open your heart, your hopes and dreams, they clench their hands. And your heart, your soft wings, your jonquil feathers, become ashes in the wind. They didn’t want to hurt you, they never did. They just didn’t realize. Beautiful people don’t think ahead. If they did, if they knew the pain they’d cause, they wouldn’t smile. And little, soft, jonquil yellow birds with big hearts, would fly away.
8 // Poetry
Break a Leg Joe Hadcock, Senior
Dad said to me, “break a leg,” Only for good luck of course. Today I didn’t have luck, I broke my leg. While on stage I stepped and it cracked, Now I only have half a leg. And I can’t search for it, My foot is on it. And I can’t run after it, My leg is gone. I can’t even ponder about it, My legs can’t cross. So I guess I’ll sit on this Stool and rest A minute.
9 // Poetry
Together by Anthony Kimm, Senior
10 // Poetry
Suffocated
Frances Mackinnon, junior The world is too much with us; late and soon, Getting and spending, we lay waste our powers; — William Wordsworth
The world is too much with us When LED screens and glossy magazines Buzz and ping to drown our curiosity Until we are struggling to breathe Suffocated by subliminal messaging Sliding into dms of toxicity Becoming controlled by divisive devices The world is too much with us When girls cry in shattered mirrors Clawing at their skin Praying that photoshop worked in real life So they could blur their imperfections and cut out a thigh gap To look like those ads they see of plastic preteens The world is too much with us When a flashing heart determines your self worth When open triangles fill us with dread And we are terrified of being left on read The world is too much with us When other people’s thoughts that used to exist behind Cupped hands and chilled whispers Now take the shape of double taps and double texts When our disconnected souls connect in a subtext of a subculture that no one understands And all we know is how to talk with our hands
11 // Poetry
T ec h n o lo gy by E t h a n l e a d e r s, j u n i o r
12 // Poetry
13 // Poetry
A r t i s t E m u l at i o n b y G i y o o Va r h , sophomore
OCEAN
Margarethe Berger, freshman last night I became an ocean I splashed onto the floor a wave, a flood bursting forth and I grew I grew until no one could ignore me anymore I became endless, my Great Whites still hidden beneath the surface
14 // Poetry
Meditations in My Parents’ Backyard Becca Helmstetter, junior In these wishful warm hours, the nip-at-your-heels discomfort of coolwet grass and sun-spotted lids brings loving you back to me. Your knee against mine, just there, knocking gently; the chafing silence of your dark eyes. When, once, you wore a frayed grey shirt, and the sky gathered its clouds close, as if it wanted to share your colors. I shift as my eyes’ insides fade to black, that lemon-like lamp having left me here, in the patch and the evening. Lightning bugs drift to my edges and back; I slap them off and reach for my key— untroubled. I’ll always be the one leaving.
15 // Poetry
H e a d i n t h e C lo u d s by j u l i a pa w e l e c , s e n i o r
16 // Poetry
FH ai nrnea h ab enndt l eRy,esbe ni iro rt h i. The Fire she still walks by candlelight into the depths of this dark cave far-reaching breaths tangled up in her esophagus, illuminated by fire, heard through the drip-drip of water leaking leaching into her and from her putting out the sparking beat-beat of her heart until all that remains is soot but she carries weapons she holds cloth bags of wool to warm her, to soothe her damp heart she extinguishes voices with a hose filled to the brim with holy water, brightens all that is good with the sun above until she grows tired, uses up all her water, all her sun and wilts: a pink flower, an unhinged door, a candle flickering, about to go out a sanctuary caving in on itself until all that remains is a bed of rocks and remnants of soot from an abandoned fire. ii. The Remnants she wades through the blackening night in bare feet light coming only from the eyes around her, surrounding her they tell her tales of what is supposed to be, what life should be for her if only if only if only in the morning she comes out caked in soot speckled with any light breaking through her skin and she looks like a starry night 17 // Poetry
City Glitch by Robin E r m ata n i o , s e n i o r
she looks like midnight in a clearing no one around to bother her, to tell her what they think but still, she is dirty and worn and sometimes her breath stops and her heart stops like this. and she wonders where it’s gone where everything’s gone because matter cannot be created nor destroyed it can only be reshaped, reformed and so she wonders if her heart has turned to soot, if her breath has turned to light she wonders if she is wearing everything all of this caked over her numbing body. iii. Rebirth but she disrobes herself cleanses her limbs of the night she shackles stilts to her toes so she is heightened and she takes a match and lights a fire in her heart right where the flame is supposed to be, right where it’s always been and it is misshapen flickering like it wants to go out but it doesn’t it never will not if her heart stops like this. not if her breath turns to soot not if her limbs quake not if she wades through the night with darkness seeping through her toes like sand does in heat and she knows if she is here the fire is here and will forever burn inside her, among the rubble of bones buried in her chest. 18 // Poetry
Andrea Greuel, senior
Va l e n t i n a
Your love is like rainfall Dripping down my face Lingering at my lips and Sliding down my neck. Gentle hands that caress And smooth away my hurts Until, like sunshine, my skin Is hot and safe. Eyes that hold me steady Pull me in and touch me In all the broken places I thought too scarred to feel. Every desperate breath that Leaves your mouth for mine Carries promises unbroken For a future uncertain.
19 // Poetry
Lost
K ay l e e N o r r i s , j u n i o r In the depths of the winter night, where could I find you? In the fog of a winter storm, how could I see you? It’s like an involuntary pause—that affect you have on me. Everything hides as you step outside to walk the marble desert path you have made. I see your footprints, yet I can never get to you. I hear your warm laugh—intoxicating and sweet—a bitter contradiction from my freezing toes and fingers. My cheeks are red and burning from your very touch; my ears ache from your constant whispering that I have to strain to hear. But where are you? I turn around once, twice, until I no longer know where I am. And yet I still look for you. Soon, your touch has brought me to my knees and I feel broken and cheated— Where are you? But in the depths of a winter night, in the fog of a winter storm...
Where am I?
Ya n n y a n d L a u r e l : a lov e sto ry by emma rachum, senior
20 // Poetry
See Me Jessie Adix, senior
Turn around around and see me I’m the one Who you Wonder about Opposite of this world I live in what you might call A tunnel The people around me Are a tricky maze To figure out I jump and flap and talk To myself You wonder what’s going on In my head Most people think I’m not smart I have a different kind of mind One you cannot imagine It’s a joy and a curse Of course I’d rather be normal And not a very Autistic boy I may be very different but I also am very much the same As a lot of you
21 // Poetry
L i g h t ’ s o u t by E m m a Straszewski, junior
22 // Poetry
R e n e e S c h wa r z , s e n i o r
The Dinosaur
An occupied journalist sits at his desk, away he goes typing clickety-clack on his Apple keyboard. His cheeks wrinkle with smile lines, or are they frown lines? A strand of gray hair sinks between his eyes, another nuisance as he tries to rein in his reality, and mummified mane. He is typing up an article: “Millennials are Killing the Napkin Industry.” His furrowed gaze never leaves the screen as he stretches a right hand toward the fatigued coffee cup. It spills, dripping and flooding onto the old-fashioned, dark maple desk. A clueless, hovering fist, forceful to find an absorbent fix clenches onto whatever is closest and has the least value— a newspaper. The black ink bleeds across the ancient parchment as the wadded paper, lined with history and nostalgia of the last generation, sops up the mess. The distorted title: “Baby Boomers are going extinct—Help save the boomers by harassing the Millenials!” His angry, overworked fingers keep typing, Punch, punch, punch, on the keys, Too quiet for him, a man who misses his typewriter. --millennials don’t eat cereal because it’s too much work- --millennials don’t know how to talk to each other- --millennials’ lack of manners are killing class-He continues to inscribe, needing to wipe those smug looks off their faces with a [napkin]. The former dictator sobs quietly at the sight of his worn crown left in the dust of his baby-faced co-workers. The dimmed office brightens as his inexperienced boss opens the door to her modern throne. “Great article on millennials falling out of love with diamonds, it got a ton of views. Keep up the good work!” she says sincerely. “Thank you,” he says. “Don’t stay too late and get some rest,” she advises with care. “I won’t,” he quipps. The last strand of his auburn hair turns silver with jealousy as his eyes follow her youthful stride. His invalid, hyperbolic argument blurs, Drying in a warped wad of crumpled paper.
23 // Poetry
e l e p h a n t b y m o l ly p l a m a n n , j u n i o r
24 // Poetry
I’m Ready
Margarethe Berger, freshman You breathe in breathe out and I am prepared. I’m ready for the storm of self-pity. I’m ready to keep my mouth shut. Because you’d rather drone on about your privileged “problems” and remain blind to real plights. You want to feel important and strive to earn validation for everything good you do, wanting all to hail you as the new messiah. Therefore you take up empty causes that cause no change. You rope others into your white knighting, and have the audacity to inflate your pride. After you hop up onto your high horse, you look down on the rest of us and trot on, to invalidate our scars and trample our bruises. Resigned I’m ready to hear you talk to smother our voices and shrug off anything I say. I’m a really good listener. I’m ready.
25 // Poetry
master of everything B Y S h e l b y Pa r k e r , s e n i o r
26 // Poetry
By: Michael Rolfs
Winter Sparrow
Lexi DeFord, junior Nothing so Saddens the sparrow As a light falling of snow The crystals dance and twirl Never dreaming They bring the downfall In a more serious sense, Laying the world to waste The empty fields do weep And the staid movers do sit still For no divinity brings Life anymore Those machines should save They should heat the land and bring back the warmth But they cannot do that As they are not the ones Who created The sparrow sits at the birch tree branch and thinks of spring
27 // Poetry
M o u n ta i n s b y R o b i n E r m ata n i o , s e n i o r
28 // Poetry
Steps to an Ugly Rebirth Grace Franks, freshman step one: denial. you are happy. nothing has changed.
step one: denial. denial. denial.
step two: bargaining. if you cry enough nights in the shower the spiderwebby corner in the back of your mind will tear away from the walls — the dark will go away.
step three: anger. ignore the blood. pry open the ribcage. feel the mulch and the rot come apart, fall away and coat your hands in dust. brush the cobwebs out of the chest cavity. take out the heart.
step three: anger. “we love you,” they say. “we will always love you.” you do not need love. you need a scalpel. if they won’t make the incisions, you will have to make the cut yourself. either you excise the stringy rot hanging in your throat and clogging your ribcage or you bleed out on the operating table, and really, which outcome are you hoping for? (don’t answer that.) “we love you,” they say, “no matter what thing you become.” step two: bargaining. please let me be normal. please let me be normal. step four: depression. the rot colonizes your lungs. static numbs your head. rot and static — nothing else.
29 // Poetry
step one: deny. deny. deny. step two: bargaining doesn’t work. step five: feel the heart pulse in your palm. memorize that rhythm, hold it there, and breathe. step five: acceptance, somewhere still distant enough that you can barely see it. you grip the heart. the pulse isn’t a lullaby, it’s a battle hymn. it’s saying: someday. someday.
untitled by Kailey Carbone, sophomore
30 // Poetry
The Scam of an Ice Cream Man M e g h a n H a g e r t y, s e n i o r He attracts women like the ice cream man does children on a miserably scorching day. They run to him in an attempt to feel any happiness that he can provide for them. They sit there and indulge themselves in the irresistible treat, giving up everything they have for just one more bite. But the second they have nothing else to offer, he is gone, cruising down the street on the hunt for a new naive customer, each victim left with nothing but hope that he will come back someday as he promised so genuinely. They sit and wait for him to return. With every passing moment, their spirits are slowly and painfully torn to shreds, until finally, they are entirely drained by the conman’s deception and tricks, even so, the next time the sun scorches the earth making the blacktop hot enough to burn a hole in the ground, the silly girls come running the moment they hear that enchanting jingle, giving themselves away to yet another ice cream man.
31 // Poetry
Hands By Tessa Nemcheck, senior
32 // Poetry
T h e b r i d e by R o b i n E r m ata n i o , senior
Sweet Resonance Anvesha Mukherjee, junior
Oh, wretched and unrelenting society, tortured by thyself, to Lift your oppressive thumb from the silenced nylon strings, And mourn thy lack of humanity through the unsullied truth of music. Resonate your dejections and elations through this delicate instrument, Unburden thyself of thy restrictive ironclad manacles of morality, Free thy tightly woven fingers and lift them swiftly to the fingerboard. Rotate the tightened pegs that curtail our freedom and make our fingers bleed. Fine tune the stringent strings of our digressions from morality to near perfection. Dust away the residual fragments of our regressive ideals, For with every vibration of the string, and every melody, A new harmony is born. I ask you to stop taming the strings with unrelenting and turgid callused fingertips. Loosen your yellow fingered and bloodied grip. Learn acceptance from the hollowed depths of a flawed instrument. Conduct sweet and melancholy harmony, Music, Our only elusive escape. 33 // Poetry
34 // Poetry
Nutcracker
reBecca Helmstetter, junior It wasn’t for love of dancing that I took ballet. Rather, I simply wanted to move like water, quick over rocks, and not stumble; and ballet seemed the easiest way to do it. I wanted to be remembered for my grace. But I did not consider how much it would take from me. In December, the local theater runs The Nutcracker with each ballerina turning slowly on one arched foot: If you can walk, you can dance. Suck your belly in, reach your hands up.
35 // Poetry
isaBella Scaffidi, senior
36 // Poetry
Wo M A N M e g a n H a g e r t y, s e n i o r
Let’s focus on his brain How he thinks How he applies himself How he creates something out of nothing Examine his every idea and help foster his growth
Let’s give her a Barbie Doll Skinny as a twig Smooth as butter Pink and perfect head to toe Let’s give him some Legos Colorful and intricate Putting his mind to the test A little Einstein in the making Let’s teach her how to apply her makeup Show her how to cover up the unacceptable Teach her it’s better to be pretty and fake rather than natural and unique Ingrain into her mind that “Beauty is pain”
Let’s look at her future One where she is pushed aside One where she is seen as “just a pretty face” One where she is scorned for speaking her mind One where she has to fight for respect
Let’s look at his future One where he is lifted onto a pedestal One where he is seen as intelligent and innovative Let’s teach him how to throw and catch One where he is praised for telling it Show him how to work as a team Teach him to always have his friend’s back how it is One where he is automatically on and off the field respected Ingrain into his mind that “There is no I in team” They both play the roles assigned to them Allowing others to write the script Let’s focus on her image No one even stops to think about How she walks how different everything would be How she talks How she breaths if we had given her some Legos Examine her every detail and ridicule any little flaw
lg b o t r i b e by robin ermantio, senior
37 // Poetry
38 // Poetry
39 // Poetry
My Name Is emma Rachum, senior My name is Stoneman Douglas, but you can call me a bloody abyss of madman bliss, and with 17 less. And the NRA accuses me of lying, but they won’t stop the bullets from flying or my classmates from dying, or their mamas from crying. They wear a target around their necks. Am I next? And it’s people like Emma and Eminem who say the NRA is in our way, and it was just your typical Wednesday, and not your typical automatic gunspray, and the clips like projectiles in single. file forced ignition, and they travel through the barrel straight for the light at the end of a tunnel, no specific target in sight. Three million made signs you didn’t try to rhyme with. Three million marched that you didn’t waste your time with. And the fog and the smog couldn’t satiate your twitter blog. Fingers flying, like hashtag triggered. LaPierre like hashtag cheers. When will this trigger more than tears? You’re looking too comfortable in your White House crib. Preaching to America like God bless. Nikolas Cruz like hell yes. But now we’re calling BS. Because you’re uncomfortable with the right to remain silent, and you’re too comfortable with your second amendment right to remain violent. And it was on February fourteen, and there were seventeen, seventeen shots that rung out, and now it’s your blood that’s run out. It was an AR-15 and a glock 9.
Ban the gun, so I don’t have to cock mine. My name is Stoneman Douglas, and it was just your typical Wednesday, and not your typical automatic gunspray. I never believed in God but right now I’ll pray, I just stepped over my sister’s body in the hallway. Everything fading but I can’t cry out, and I can’t die now, and I can’t die now. And I’m becoming more familiar with my eyelids, with that salty taste, and with your fraudulent face. And I don’t want to see my mama wearing all black, crying over hard facts, careful not to overreact. She sings, ain’t no one safe in this happy city, it’s too soon to see my baby casket pretty. My country ‘tis of thee ain’t no longer a sweet land of liberty, but now it’s looking like a red sea seeping through children’s white tees. And I don’t want to see school hallways like a melted cherry icee. I’m tryna say this politely, but we’re talking about taking life, obituaries and epitaphs, next to tear-tinted photographs. And parents wondering where their kids might be crying nightly, their old pillows held tightly. My name is Stoneman Douglas and no way am I gon’ take this lightly.
I n n o c e n c e b y M i c h a e l s c h a l l e r t, j u n i o r
40 // Poetry
FICT 41 // Fiction
isabella scaffidi, senior
TION 42 // Fiction
B r u i s e s t o B i r c h e r i n l i p kow i t z , s e n i o r I couldn’t fight the magnitude of impulse emanating from his connect. Each time we parted, another strip of innocent white, Birch tree skin was removed, and soon I would be a sole twig unable to bear the Midwestern spring. He was a strong native pine that gave me no room to grow, shielding me from the nourishing sun and quenching rain. With each gust of north wind, I was tormented and mangled, bruised and scraped. It wasn’t long until I got used to the scabs and scars until they were a part of me now; I felt more beautiful. I remember the first night he took a small sip of my soul. “Just a taste,” he murmured under his breath. And suddenly my eyes became a little less amber and splooshed with grey tint. His hands were magnets–always spider-crawling and sprawling across my tethered cobalt skin. My rings would slide on and off at his wish; each one would eventually make its way back to its sanctuary. But, he took a special liking for my gold rose quartz band, which he managed to grip onto with his teeth as I spoke. At times, I found myself along the lakeshore capsizing with every rush of a new foamy cascade. Beside me, sway bland smooth pebbles and a few shards of sea glass. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw radiating armour of the abyss–my very own knight in shining fear–him. He was my onyx shattered love. Taken into his cloak, his shadowed fingers were all I sensed. He coiled his knuckles around my fragile, ribbed neck. His intentions, though distorted, ended with my release, and all I saw was his contrasted, jagged face–almost two dimensional. Suddenly, my head bobbed to the surface and
43 // Fiction
B lo o d M o o n by Sa m L a f e r r i e r e , s e n i o r the air, though musty, was the purest dopamine I have ever known. He watched me bask in euphoria at the banks of the lake. I was easily manipulated–a naive cirrus cloud unable to effect the weather, serving no life purpose. He, on the other hand, was the engulfing dense fog of the night, which consumed the spirits and manipulated them to gloom, sheet-like. I was told to come to earth, to ditch my fine feathered form, and join the grey aerated ocean. So, I did. Upon my decent, he greeted me with a papery kiss. Taken aback, I searched for his eyes but saw a maquette with empty eye sockets and a crooked smile. Ruffling through the pages of his existence, I was defiant, seeking to uncover life in this being. However, all I got was a warning–a papercut. It tore through my skin leaving a barbed trench in my middle finger. I jerked back and sucked my own salted plasma. A grin stretched across his pointed teeth. I wished I had been a cut by a keen knife. I wished I was left with a clean cut and minimal pain. Please, please release me. I made a mistake. After I managed to wriggle my way from his cancerous grasp, his infectious kisses, and his poisonous love, I regained my initial form, a stooping Birch tree. But, this time my pure, sweetly smooth bark was raw and pink. Though the most vulnerable I had ever been, I existed in the most robust state of life. I inhaled the tender carbon dioxide, and with one exhale, I gave up treasure, pure oxygen.
44 // Fiction
“I promise it won’t happen again,” the girl said. Her eyes flitted between the man and the woman, her hair in a wet and tangled bun above her head. Her lips, which she bit profusely whenever she wasn’t speaking, were chapped; her hands were stiff, and the fingernails dug into her skirt-laden thighs with a claw-like intensity. “I’m very sorry,” she said to the couple. “I know I was late, and…” She paused, looked down at her hands and then up at the man specifically. “I am very, very sorry.” She clasped her hands together on the table in front of her. The woman sitting across from the girl bit her lip, looked to her husband and then back at the girl. The woman had known from the very beginning that she was dirty— a washed-up stripper from New York who couldn’t even seem to make a living in Seattle. Her husband had wanted to take her in, to help her, but she’d known all along that the girl couldn’t be helped. If you go to the bottom of the ocean, she always said, you can never come back up. “We let you into our home,” the woman said to the girl, “and this is how you repay us?” The girl looked as though she was about to cry, and when the woman turned her eyes to her husband, she saw that he looked surprised-- sad, even. “Lila, honey,” he said to her, “what are you doing?” But Lila didn’t answer, and instead opted to look back at the girl. “Pack your bags,” she said. “You’re leaving.” “They attacked me,” the girl said. Tears were coming out of her eyes now, big ones, and her voice was shaking. “It’s why I was late,” she said. “You have to understand, it wasn’t my fault. I--” “That’s what you’ve always said.” “Please. Please. I--” “You’re done.” The girl was silent, looking from the man to the 45 // Fiction
The Girl from New York H a n n a h B e n t l e y, senior
S pa c e s tat i o n by betsy bowen, senior
woman; her voice was small, quiet, defeated, when she said, “Okay.” “What are you doing?” the man asked again. “I’m taking our lives into our own hands, Harold,” Lila told her husband, and she smiled at him. Harold looked to the girl, who was now standing up and running to the nearest bathroom, hands enclosing her face in an effort to stop the tears, and then he looked back to his wife. “Why do you do this?” he asked Lila, his furrowed eyebrows drawing lines into his face. “She is only a young girl. Seventeen years old, honey,” he said. “Seventeen. You can’t just kick her out of our lives and make everything better. You know that. I know that. Why can’t you believe it? Why can’t you believe her?” But his wife turned away, still smiling, and asked if he would like some tea. “Have you taken your medication yet today?” he asked her. “I’ll make us both some English Breakfast tea,” she said. “Honey--” “A spoonful of sugar and a bit of milk for both of us, right?” she said. He did not respond. “It’ll all be better in the morning, when she’s gone,” Lila said, her voice quiet. “She’s staying, honey,” he told her, “at the hotel on Main Street, with me. She will always stay. Have you taken your medication yet today?” he asked again. “I’ve already packed her bags for her,” she said. “I knew this was going to happen from the beginning, but you didn’t believe me. Well, now it’s happening. Now it’s too late for her. You see? I’m always right in the end.” Lila breathed, in and out. “You never believe me,” she said. Silence maneuvered throughout the room on tip-toes. Lila sat in her chair, hummed a song that she had heard on the radio earlier in the day. Harold placed a soft hand on his wife’s shoulder, and then slowly stood up. Around them, the facility hummed with business; this small, apartment-like room was an oasis in the middle of it all. An oasis provided only for Lila. Voice soft as the hand on his wife’s shoulder, Harold said, “Kathryn. Our daughter’s name is Kathryn.” But Lila only looked through him. “You never believe me,” she said for the second time as her husband walked away and out the door. She sat, staring down at the white tile flooring, and she shook her head at the table. “You never believe me. She is only a girl from New York.” 46 // Fiction
C h e c k m at e b y s a m l a f e r r i e r e , s e n i o r
Td ahnen ysl ie nv y,g si enngi o rT e a K e t t l e The young boy has been staring at the tea kettle for years. He does not know if even a drop of water resides in the kettle for it does not steam, but he likes the scalding warmth of the fire. He sits the perfect distance from the menacing flames, slouched in his chair which stands at perfect 90-degree angles facing the kettle. Staring at the kettle, he knows every crevice and ethereal color of its surface. It hangs over a massive fire, refusing to fall in. Its beautiful ancient design shines with a dull luster. Its spout stands strong, 45 degrees above the horizontal. Over the years the boy has come to know the exact orientation of that kettle. It is perfect. But it does not steam. And when you enter to ask him to look at you and tell you what he has seen, he falters for a moment, questioning everything for half of a moment. “Why, the kettle steamed and screamed and cried out!” he exclaims, knowing his response is the right answer because that is what a kettle full of water is supposed to do. And you, with your manufactured definition of happiness, praise him for reciting the right response. You tell him how the kettle steams only for those who believe it will steam and that he has passed as a man of truth. You tell him this even as the kettle sits in your field of vision, quiet as death, as the fire roars beneath. You guide the boy’s gaze back to the fire where he hopes and waits for the kettle to cry just for a moment, because he’s sure that it eventually will. Satisfied, you move to the next room where you find me. I too sit in front of my empty kettle, but with my last plea for steam gone. I have bent the back of my chair such that I sit relaxed at about a 100-degree angle. I have waited. And waited. And waited. Is a decade not long enough to wait for a kettle to let out a cry. There is no water in the pot. You say I can’t prove its vacancy. I can’t surely know if there’s water in the pot unless I
47 // Fiction
step into the fire, knowing very well I wouldn’t come out alive. But since you were told that the kettle contains water, you believe the spout will steam one day. And though some have told you it has milk in it you say it’s absurd. But how much more absurd is it that there would be milk in a steamless kettle than water? I have to say both you and he are fools, but equally absurd. So you can keep your kettles and your steamy imagination. Burn your 90-degree chairs. Just as you have a right to watch your kettles, I have a right to testify that your kettle is empty. Because I won’t wait for the kettle to scream anymore. I won’t act like it sang a short whistle, when I know that the whistle came from my own mouth. After years of false hope and imagination, I have chosen to rise from my stagnant position in my rotting chair. I stand and look back at the absurd idea that a kettle would magically scream after decades of silence. I walk into the next room and find the boy staring into his fire with tears in his eyes and a large, dark figure standing behind him. I cannot see its face, but the shadow has a hand on the boy’s shoulder; his fingernails dig into the poor child’s skin. I ask him why he is crying. And he responds, “But the fire dries my tears!” The dark figure releases his grip slightly, letting some blood trickle down the boy’s back. He wipes his bloody fingers on his lips and savors the donation. Taking a step closer I can see that the dark figure is you, and put my hand up my sleeve to my shoulder. I feel the scars from years of your grasp, and I finally understand that this boy will never leave his seat. Turning to leave, I feel the heat of the fire lessen. I hold back my own tears knowing I no longer have a fire to dry them. I exit through the opposite side of the room and find myself in a daunting and wide circular chamber. It is dimly lit by a weak flame hanging from darkness. Doors coat the circumference of the room, each with their own romantic design. But on the opposite end of the chamber, I see an opening to a staircase. It spits out darkness, but I know that I must go there, and my eyes will adjust. I move quickly across the chilling, quiet floor and find myself at the base of the first step. After one final look back at warmth and promises, I ascend one short step. And the soft, cold floor of the chamber behind me crumbles into a deep abyss. The darkness exhales a gust of wind sending a chill up my spine as I return my gaze forward. A few steps up into the darkness lies another door. There is no design on it. I take the final steps and turn the handle. The door opens easily, and white light spills out. Blinded, I quickly stride in. Inside, the temperature is not hot, but I feel no chills. My pure white surroundings dilute into forms. I find myself in yet another circular chamber surrounded by doors. The light source is not a flame, however; it comes from something I have never seen before. It’s made of glass, and the brilliance that it emanates is too bright to look at directly. People walk from one side to another, sometimes talking with one another. Doors open and close constantly, their designs unfamiliar, but enticing. As I stand there in awe, my fear dissipates like steam. As freedom permeates my eyes, the tears I have been holding back escape. In response, a man with the same pride and confidence as you appears before me. He wears color, however, and softly places his hand on my shoulder as his other hand offers me cloth. I hesitantly grasp the gentle fabric and wipe away old tears. He tells me to look at him and tell him what I saw. I look up into inquisitive eyes and speak: “I saw an empty kettle,” I say. I wait for praise for my response, but he looks at me instead. “A steamless kettle is not necessarily an empty kettle. Did you look into your kettle?” he asks rhetorically. “I came from a room similar to the one you came from. We only know one thing about the kettle: it does not steam, and therefore it is useless.”
48 // Fiction
walkout
w i l l s l aw s o n, s e n i o r
“N-R-A! N-R-A! How many kids did you kill today?” We chanted louder as we strode toward city hall. I hoisted my sign, which read: “Books Not Bullets,” above my head with indignant passion, ready to take on the morally deficient scum running our government. “Charlie!” a voice called from behind me. It was Lindsay; she had gotten out of her chemistry test after all. Holding her hand and following her, a little boy no older than ten trotted in her shadow. I figured it must be her brother, Luke. A wave of anxiety flushed over me; if I wanted to have a chance with this girl, getting her brother to like me would definitely help. “I’m so glad you could make it!” she said when she caught up with me. I could not help but admire her passion. The duct tape that covered her mouth during the silence now stuck to her shirt, and the word “enough” had been written across her forehead in black marker. An adamant soul, she looked at me full of energy to change the world. “Is this Luke?” I asked. She nodded. “I called him out of school pretending to be Mom. He wanted to support his big sister in the big march.” “As long as the Trump-loving gun nuts don’t bring their rifles to meet us,” I replied, “I think it’s a good idea to expose him to what is happening in the real world.” She grinned. “You’re absolutely right!” Luke eyed me suspiciously; I figured the whole march overwhelmed him. “Don’t worry, buddy,” I said. “What we’re doing today will help insure that you never have to be afraid to go to school. We care about you, kid. Your safety is important to us, especially your sister. I hope you appreciate how much she loves you.” Lindsay smiled at me, her eyes shining in the sunlight. Then her expression grew solemn. “It makes me sick,” she began, “to think that every day we’re in school, an ill and delusional maniac who should not have been allowed to obtain a gun could enter Luke’s school at any time. It terrifies me!” I couldn’t help it. I had to make the bold move. I grabbed her free hand. “We’re going to fix that,” I assured her. “Luke, and every other student will be safe because we were not afraid to speak up.” Slowly, her smile returned and she squeezed my hand. The three of us, all hand in hand, continued down the street on the March For Our Lives. Once city hall came into view, the front line froze. I knew this couldn’t mean anything good, so I dragged Lindsay and Luke with me to catch a glimpse at what halted us. A student force almost three-quarters the size of ours had gathered to break our movement. Marching toward us, they wore conceal-carry rights t-shirts and hoisted their American flags in an effort to match our voices. I even saw a few Confederate flags in the back of the crowd. Once they came close enough, they stopped. Our two mobs stared each other down in a stand-off, with a hush falling over both crowds. Calvin Campbell, the leader of the anti-movement, walked forward by himself. Our student-body president and future valedictorian, Maya Bailey, went out to face him as representative from our side. “Calvin, you have no business here!” Maya called. “We’re peacefully protesting!” “So are we,” Calvin replied. “We have just as much of a right to be here as you do.” Maya sighed. None of us could move. We were all enthralled by the possibilities of what was about to unfold. “What do you want?” she asked. Calvin sneered. “I want you to start thinking for a second. You’re screaming about gun control, but you don’t know anything about guns.” “I know they’re dangerous in the wrong hands.” Calvin’s best friend, Ricky Morris, stepped forward from the conservative crowd with his hands up to indicate his innocent intentions. Calvin, noticing him, surveyed the crowd on our side. “Wow, Rick, look at all those male liberals. Such snowflakes, if you ask me.” Maya, taken aback, retorted, “You and your posse don’t have to deal with us. You can just go home. As for the boys, I’m sure they would rather be snowflakes with hearts than inconsiderate assholes with guns.” Ricky put a hand out. “Maya,” he began. “It won’t help--” Calvin cut him off. “Snowflakes with p*****s, more like.” 49 // Fiction
Maya stomped her foot. “You stupid hick!” “Stop!” Ricky yelled. “Both of you, you’re not going to solve anything by insulting one another! We’re here to express our own beliefs, not to deride each other’s!” Calvin laughed. “I’ll respect her when she respects me.” “What?” Maya shot. “Please, you and your Harvard-bound clique of snobs look at us like we’re morons because we have different opinions than you!” The entire crowd watched in silence. I looked to Lindsay, but she didn’t look back to me. This situation captivated her complete attention. Ricky pleaded with his friend. “Look, Calvin, I’m on your side, man, but this is getting out of hand. Let’s stop this now.” “Listen to your buddy!” Maya added. “Retreat back to the trailer park you came from!” Calvin clenched his fists. “Maya, please!” Ricky yelled. “Don’t make this worse than it is! If he won’t be the one to keep the peace, back off yourself before someone gets hurt!” Maya stopped. “I’m sorry if what I said was inappropriate, but we’re not backing down. Gun violence has gone on long enough, we won’t go home quietly and let more innocent children die.” Ricky turned back to his friend. “Calvin--” “SHUT UP, RICKY! I’m not letting this bitch win! She can treat me like white trash all she wants, but she can’t infringe my rights!” Maya rolled her eyes. “Your rights to what? Own deadly tools of murder?” Calvin exploded. “My right to defend myself from shitbrains like you! Go back to your lazy friends at Black Lives Matter and whine with them because I’m sick of hearing it!” Maya threw her palm across his face and a loud gasp could be heard across the crowd. Calvin froze as Ricky begged them to stop their fighting. I snapped back to reality when Lindsay let go of my hand. I turned to see red and blue lights flashing behind the mob. “I’ve got to get Luke out of here!” Lindsay called as she needled her way out of the crowd. I turned back for one last glance at the leaders. I looked in time to see Calvin reach out and shove Maya to the ground. Once she hit the pavement, the entire crowd around me charged forward. I tried to make my way back to Lindsay, but I lost her. Calling her name, I rushed back toward the police and ran into a charging student. Bouncing off him, I hit someone else and went straight to the ground. I curled up to protect myself, hopeless for recovery. It ended in seconds. I don’t know how long the rumble actually lasted, for the police intervened quickly. Hazy and in pain, I reached my feet when I regained my strength. Everyone was yelling, and multiple students were in handcuffs. Maya leaned on the curb with a few cuts and bruises talking to the officer squatting in front of her. I could not be concerned about her, though. I had to find Lindsay. Before I turned around, a screech filled the air to drown out everyone else’s yelling. This one wasn’t anger; it was agony. “NO!” It called. “He’s DEAD!” Everyone rushed to see, and due to my proximity, I reached her first. There she was, kneeling on the street and holding him in her arms in front of her. “Luke, no! Please wake up!” she cried. In addition to being covered in footprints, Luke bled from every area of his body. None of this mattered once I discovered his head wasn’t shaped correctly. It had been deflated, and no one needed to see any more. Several students moved to comfort Lindsay, but she pushed them away with blame and threats. Only a few feet from me stood Calvin, tears in his eyes and his hand over his mouth. “I never wanted--” he started. “No one wanted--” Ricky put a hand on his shoulder. “Let’s go home, Calvin.” He took one last stare at Luke’s disfigured skull and left. As the paramedics arrived, the police began to clear us out. Before they moved me, though, Lindsay caught eye contact with me. Her eyes, which once shined in the sun for me, now dripped in anguish for Luke. The look on her face was not one of anger or grief, but one of guilt. I never forgot that look. The rumble that broke out became national news, and our little suburban city became a hotspot for the media. Luke’s death, however, served as fuel to both fires. Social media pages martyred him as an innocent victim of the opposing side’s brutality. The liberals blamed the conservatives; the conservatives blamed the liberals. But I guess, as they say, no drop of rain considers itself responsible for the flood. 50 // Fiction
Blue Street
Ben griffin, senior
It was a quiet night on Blue Street. A neighborhood of cream coloured houses roofed with navy shingles basked in the dim light of the moon. The road was cleanly paved with no imperfections; even the manhole covers were flush with the road. All except one. Peeking up over the edge of the asphalt were thin little eyes. Behind those eyes was Rex Tillerson, the hairy, muscular drummer for the underground band, Rock Bottom. “Those bastards left without me,” he whispered to himself, “I’m going to be freakin’ late.” He scanned the horizon filled with identical square houses that lined the road, and not a soul was in sight. Lifting the cover up and to the side he climbed out of the underground, a 51 // Fiction
h e r e y e s b y j u l i a pa w e l e c , s e n i o r
subterranean city where filthy masses were banished to do manual labour. Rex placed the cover back over the hole and took a look around, getting a face full of moonlight. “Damn moon, going around blinding people. How do the Surfs live like this?” he asked to himself. He slipped his aviators out of his pocket and onto his face, easing the light on his eyes. He walked down the road, looking along the houses to spot any surface dwellers that might stop him. People from the land down under weren’t allowed on the surface, they were too unsightly, and often dealt with by the local police. Distracted looking at the similarities in the buildings, he failed to hear the footsteps a woman on her nighttime jog. Dressed in a neon blue, reflective tracksuit, she rounded the corner and got a face full of rex’s chest, covered only by a sweaty t-shirt. She recoiled in disgust. “Ew! What do you think you’re doing up here subby?” She yelled, “ Are you too dumb to know where you’re goi-” Rex grabbed her by the mouth, and lifted her into the air. “You’re makin’ too much noise,” he said gruffly, “I don’t got time for trouble, so drop the sass and forget you saw anything.” The woman screamed at the top of her lungs; a blood curdling scream that could have raised the dead, had his hand not been there. Unfortunately for Rex, her husband, who was dressed in an identical track suit and quite a lick behind her, had now caught up only to find his darling being held up by a dirty, hairy, subterranean. “Damn,” Rex said, quickly, before throwing the woman to the ground and sprinting past the man as he rushed to the aid of his dear wife. The houses blurred as he sped past them. He felt a sharp pain on the back of his head and he slammed face first into the street. Standing up, he turned to find that the man had managed to catch up to him. “Go back to your hole, you pale sack of crap,” The man commanded. Rex rubbed the back of his head where he had been struck. “That’s a hard punch for Surf, are you sure you shouldn’t be working the mines?” he joked. “You’ll eat those words, paper-face!” The man lunged forward, drawing his right hand back, clenched in a fist. It landed squarely on Rex’s jaw, sending him back in recoil. He spat out a newly dislodged tooth. Rex ran forward and jabbed with his right fist, which the man dodged to his left, kicking Rex’s leg backwards, sending his chin to the gritty road. The man towered over Rex, and put his foot on Rex’s head. “Into the ground, where you belong,” The man chuckled to himself, “I think I’ll keep you here until animal control comes to pick you up.” Rex felt around the ground, trying to get back up, then he remembered his drumsticks sitting in his right hand pocket. He reached forward, grabbing the man’s foot off his head and twisted it, sending the man spinning to the asphalt with him. The man let out a cough as his breath escaped his body. When he regained his senses, Rex was ready for him. Rex took his drumstick in his right hand and struck him across his temple, sending the tip off into the night. The man remained motionless for a solid seven seconds before he crumpled down in the middle of the street. Rex pocketed his drumstick, brushed the blood off his chin, and spat on the man before turning and running off to Top Down Records, his recording studio. Rex arrived at the Top Down, the bright lights nearly blinding him even with his sunglasses on. His bandmate, Alec Mills, the bass guitarist was in the lobby, waiting. “You look terrible, man,” he said, turning to face him, “what happened?” “I tripped.” Alec raised his eyebrow, and Rex smiled. “The other guy? He tripped harder.” They laughed and bro hugged, then Alec crossed his arms. “You’re still late, bruv.” “Shove it.”
I’m just teasing you man. Come on, we’re all waiting.” 52 // Fiction
M U LT I M 53 // Multimedia
MEDIA bella milbeck, sophomore
54 // Multimedia
REVEAL
In this issue there is a new feature known as HP Reveal. This new feature will enable readers to have a new experience utilizing technology to allow readers to scan photos to see video content relevant to the image. Accessing these videos is simple by following these simple steps: 1) download the HP Reveal app 2) make an account, it’s free 3) Go to the link http://auras.ma/s/qLX4e and follow the account @SoliloqyMag 4) scan the images in this section and enjoy the work done by Homestead students
55 // Multimedia
A Dance
gabi martin, sophomore photo by bridget melan, sophomore
56 // Multimedia
Blackberries I look out at my audience. An audience that will on average spend 7 years 8 months watching tv. We’ll spend five years four months on social media. Yet our true sin is own acedia. That same person will only spend 1 year three months socializing. Each of us immobilized, paralyzed and desensitised by the phones in our pockets. Blackberries. Eating Blackberries. Let me text you on a Blackberry. Sorry we don’t eat blackberries anymore or text on them for that matter. Now it’s just apples. Apple Iphone, Ipad, I me, I you, I miss you. Let me text you that I miss you. Sorry no cellular data that text did not get through. Bad connection splits us two. It splits you to. It splits society in two. But that’s ok we’ll just change data plans and hope for a better connection with us two.
zack zens, sophomore
He seemed so happy, so full of light. He smiled with that voluminous smile of his and the world for just a moment seemed small and close. Peter was far more popular than me. Commanding an army of thousands of friends and followers. To me and others from the outside looking in he had many who adored him. But for Peter from the inside looking out was alone. No one knew peter was empty or that his heart was yelling, yearning and burning for someone to hear his silent screams over the deafening yammerings of the world. Because he would just smile with that smile of his and snap that photo and post it for instagram. He would get 500 likes and it seemed from the outside looking in that he had host of friends. When really he was just alone. Surrounded by 1s and zeros in a digital world that couldn’t, wouldn’t hear his plea to be heard.
We can’t simply dismiss that there is a social crisis. I’m no different than you. Where me and you are just six degrees apart I am #livingmybestlife and it is #lit that I get to from being connected to the whole world by speak to you. relation, yet the creation of connectivity leaves Maybe later I’ll make this a quick instagram story us feeling more meaningless. about how i’m just “shook to he here.” More alone. When really all this is, is a fantastical charade More friendless in the age of friending. that I mistook for socializing. These problems are compounded by our technology driven, ritalin ridden society. See we can’t talk to each other, a great abyss People who like to talk are shunned, beaten forms in which we all reminisce on our social down and belittled. duties as we dismiss that friend sitting right next That’s not in the social order anymore. to us. What’s normal is quite, reserved and devoid of Where I worry that if a blackout occurred the a vibrant energy. world would go dark and the world would go Tyrannical teachers prescribe a dose of pure, silent. and definite silence, because silence is timeless, and talking is inconvenient... I knew a kid once. His name was Peter. To hear the poem, scan the image to the left. He had bright auburn eyes with a warmth like To read the whole transcript, go to autumn. soliloquyonline.com And he had a peppermint personality that endrip by elizabeth ticed people. 57 // Multimedia
k h o m e n k o v, s o p h o m o r e
58 // Multimedia
59 // Multimedia
bubbletopia by sam laferriere, senior
AWAKE Sometimes I feel like our world is trapped in a coma. Caused by some unidentifiable illness as we are seeking to escape, not knowing how to wake But wishing to be free. Free from the disorder we brought upon ourselves. Free from the damage we cause ourselves Free from the anxiety ridden existence we’ve sentenced ourselves to. Unable to stay awake and never sleeping. At night, Children lay in bed, eyes wide open to the horrors of their future Trapped in rooms with open doors to every friend and foe they know And nowhere to go down this open road Where the voices of the world can’t reach them. As they coax themselves into a realm of nightmares, Riddled with the echoes of gunshots and car bombs, Of fathers deployed and women toyed with by the groping hands Of powerful men who should know better, Of hurricanes and chronic migraines and five thousands new medications To treat what ails them, but no one can seem to be able to get the prescription right. So one long night not unlike a coma ensues. They’ve fallen victim.
H a n n a h m a l i c k y, senior
And there is no cure for the continuous slumber we have clothed ourselves in. All we can do is wait. In the streets, Veins are filled with a makeshift antidote Attempting to combat the all too real feelings Begging them to stop and Forcing their own comatosed state. While parents cry over their child who will not wake Anthems scream the need for change Another body in a resting place As death’s shadow looms overhead, waiting to proclaim us all dead, but not quite—
Our world is trapped in a coma. And the IV drips poison into our bloodstream. I’ve started to pray for this burden to go away. And my hope has run low as more shield their eyes from the reality Because what is really happening scares them. Doctors meant to shelter their patients from suffering Turn away and let the machines stop working Until the helpless slowly suffocate without realization. Tick tock, tick tock Hours tick by, Gone. Faith put into the hands of a neglective caregiver, Lost. Who will protect us when those meant to help only do harm? Our world is trapped in a coma. Because it’s hard to dream when you lose And in our vegetated state we dream of a hope better place Theirs are the thoughts of a generation that Watch as headlines of war shift into headlines have forgotten their promise for a better of peace tomorrow. Rape is no longer a game of fear and power, Their nightstands a resting place for no longer a word worthy to describe a whole flowers foreshadowing their fall and heart culture monitors Gender and race are no longer a question Systematically counting the beats of a heart over who’s chemical and physical make up it does not understand is broken, Are the best... Until the silence of the machine masks all internal screams To hear the poem, scan the image to the left. Our world is trapped in a coma, To read the whole transcript, go to 60 // Multimedia soliloquyonline.com
Maeve’s Theme John sellars, junior
This past spring Homestead High School put on a production of the play Blue Stockings. Blue Stockings follows the story of four ladies and their pursuit to garner graduation rights from Cambridge University in 1896. Throughout the course of the play, one character, Maeve Sullivan, battles with her socioeconomic standing, for she comes from a working class family. At the end of Act I, Maeve experiences a personal tragedy — the death of her mother. Unfortunately her death causes Maeve to have to return home and not complete her education. Inspired by Maeve’s tragic story, John Sellars, junior, created the following piece of music as a part of the score for Homestead’s 2018 live production of the play. He composed the piece in its entirety. Scan the images below to hear the song.
Scan this picture for Part 1
Scan this picture for Part 2
photos by sasha shapsis, sophomore
61 // Multimedia
Blind fish
By: J o s h K lo s s Late to lunch, I set my tray down next to Ashley. I yawned, and she grabbed a fry off my plate. We had gone to a concert the night before, and we were both tired. She pointed across the room towards some girl I didn’t recognize who was sitting alone at a table in the corner of the lunchroom. “Look at that girl,” Ashley said. “Isn’t she ugly?” I didn’t know what to say. Ashley could be mean sometimes, so I just shrugged and said nothing. “She’s in Honors Geometry with me. Surprising, I know. She’s so dumb! Always asks the teacher exactly what she just said. She sat next to me yesterday.” “So?” I responded. “So? So I had to cover my nose and breath through my mouth the entire class period because she smells like a rotting fish.” I squinted in confusion. “Not that I spend a lot of time smelling rotting fish or anything. Oh, and I even said to her: ‘Hey, you. Fish girl. I can’t smell myself over here,’ but all she did was look around the room as if she couldn’t tell I was talking to her. Had this blank stare. So she’s like a… like a blind fish!” Ashley began to laugh. “That’s what I’ll call her. A blind fish!” At this point I sat up straight and pulled my tray closer to me, but my attention shifted back to a soft sniffling noise. It was coming from the “blind fish”. Ashley’s always loud when she rants. That girl — she might’ve been a blind fish, but she sure wasn’t a deaf fish.
Heart & Soul by Gleb Marushka, senior
62 // Multimedia
Staff
Frances Mackinnon
63 // Staff
Editor-in-chief
Will Slawson Hannah Bentley
Writing Editors
Sasha Shapsis Thomas Hadcock
Designers
Laura Wagner Drea Greuel Margarthe Berger Josh Kloss Margaret Mackinnon Emma Straszewski Lexi DeFord Caitlin Geurts
S ta f f e r s
Angelina Cicero
Content Adviser
Rachel Rauch
P u b l i c at i o n Adviser
Colophon
Acknowlegments
To the staff: Thank you, all of you, for coming in every Monday and creating beautiful art together. You all have reinvigorated the community of writers at Homestead. Thank you for making the experience such a lovely one. Special thank you to Chapstick and Thomas for with putting up with my craziness and for generally being awesome. To the artists in this magazine: Thank you for having the courage to put your work out there and letting everyone experience and cherish your words, pictures, music and dance like they deserve to be cherished. To Mrs.Rauch: For teaching me all I know and comforting me when I am over designing. To Mrs.Cicero: For leading us as writers to push and challenge ourselves in new ways and having faith in our ability to create something amazing together. To Ms.Hustedee and Mrs. Nowak: For being so kind, patient, supportive and helpful in our attempts to create this magazine and serving as liaisons to the talented visual artists in the school. To the readers: Thank you for your continued support and affirmation, not only for this magazine and the artists in it, but for writing and art at large. The pieces were submitted by students in Soliloquy Writing Group, Homestead creative writing students and the school at large and were selected by a committee of students on staff. Art pieces were submitted by AP Studio Art, a variety of other art classes, and the school at large and were selected based on the connection to previously selected writing pieces. Soliloquy is a literary magazine committed to the open sharing of ideas with no agenda besides offering poets and visual artist a way to share their creativity. The views of the artists are their own.
The type in this magazine is Fairfield Light 9 pt. Titles are a combination of Bebas Neue and Brandon Grotesque in various font sizes. Credits are Uni Sans Thin Caps 12 pt, 150 kerning. Varying sizes of Uni Sans, Brandon Grotesque, Fairfield Light and Bebas Neue are used on the title and table of contents. The magazine was designed using Adobe InDesign CS6 and Photoshop CS6. The magazine as printed in Milwaukee, WI by American Litho with body 70# offset and 10pt C1S for the cover. The book has Stitch/Box binding, and is printed using 4/4 ink and 4/0 on the cover. The book is 6x9 with 64 pages and a cover. This issue was printed 500 times and was distributed at no charge to the student body.
64 // Colophon
On the cover:
Untitled by Issac Vincent 65 // On the Cover
spring 2018 S o l i lo q u yo n l i n e .c o m