Soliloquy Homestead High School • Vol 1 Issue. 1
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Soliloquy Volume 1 Issue 1 Winter 2017
Odyssey
“And suddenly you know: It’s time to start something new and trust the magic of beginnings.” - Meister Eckhart
Homestead High School 5000 W. Mequon Rd. Mequon, WI 53092
2 // Title
Table of contents Poetry
Tormented by Sullivan Prellwetz
Lightning Strikes by Sydnie Horne The book and the bird by Erin Lipkowitz America, A Nation Divided by Jullian Stechschulte Sheep by Jessie Adix Trilogy by Bella Scaffidi Dad by Connor Mason What Lies Beyond the Known by Danny Levy Pretend Happiness by Sullivan Prellwetz Synthesized Sunset by John Baker Lost by Kaylee Norris Sometimes I Wonder by Will Slawson Love and Hate by Bella Scaffidi The Community by John Baker We by Andrea Greuel Struggling to Breathe by Hallie Kent When I say I’m a Swimmer by Sydnie Horne My Friend John by Will Slawson
Non-fiction
Coloring Book by Silma Berrada To Stoke a Fire by Sean White
3 // Table of Contents
05 07 09 11 12 13 17 19 21 23 25 27 29 33 35 37 39 41 43 45
Untitled by Issac Vincent Sunny Sands, Stromy Seas by Max Kroft Colorless Confidence by Teah Marks Untitled by Nathaniel Peterson
Wave by Robin Ermitano A Game by Elisa Carranza Drifting by Max Kroft Emma by Elisa Carranza Harlem by Zachary Dahl Estella by Julia Pawelec Lighter by Max Kroft Clara by Olivia Herzog Pots and Plants by Clara Huskin 2D Imagination by Teah Marks Life Support by Olivia Herzog Jellyfish by Katie Ferguson I Don’t Wanna Waste My Time by Robin Ermitanio
Silma by Olivia Herzog Unexpected by Clara Huskin
TW
l e
s
Fiction
The Offering by Danny Levy
Harvey and the End of the World by Hannah Bentley I Come With Open Arms by Erin Lipkowitz
Art
The Collection Between Love and Hate by Bella Scaffidi Abstract by Kyle Anderson
47 49 53 59 61
In My Mind by Teah Marks The Ride by Kyle Williams Rated R by Elisa Carranza Untitled by Nid Wanwanich
TW: Some content deals with sensitive topics such as suicide, mental health and depression.
letter from the editor
I have a confession to make; I have no idea what I’m doing. When my adviser told me that we were taking over our school’s literary magazine and completely revamping it, I was excited but also terrified. I have design experience, but creating an entire magazine was new territory. However, a few months later I suddenly found a 64-page deadline, 10 giddy staffers and a blank InDesign document staring back at me. So armed with passion, unwavering support from my adviser and a boat-
load of misplaced confidence, I went to work. Taking over this magazine felt a little bit like falling off a cliff. All of the work was based solely off of my intuition, so for better or for worse that’s what I did. I decided to go all out with bold colors fonts and design. I based this magazine off of the learning experience it was, for me, for my adviser, for the staff. So that’s how I came up with this theme; this issue was the first step in a long journey. It’s our odyssey as
a school to find new ways in which to describe ourselves and grow collectively as a student body. Going through high school is a difficult time for anyone, now more than ever, this magazine is serving as a medium for self-expression and revelation. And as we step off into the unknown and try new things, we will fall and soar and learn together. And within that growth we will more fully understand ourselves and hopefully this magazine. - Frances Mackinnon, junior
4 // Letter
Tormented Sullivan Prellwetz, senior
Tormented in my own mind. I aimlessly wander through the abyss of thought, Contemplating what is right and what is wrong. For so long memories and thoughts suppressed. Because of resentment or misunderstanding? In the sun’s light of tomorrow, I accept what was once denied, a truth not frightening but liberating. While part of me begs to return to simpler times, dragging me back to the past, tomorrow always prevails. And for that I am grateful.
5 // Poetry
UNTITLED by Issac Vincent, junior
6 // Poetry
Lightning Strikes Sydnie Horne, senior
There is the old saying, that lightning never strikes the same place twice. But we all know that’s a lie. Lightning is Powerful, Beautiful, Radiant, Resilient and Free. Nothing tells the lightning what to do, It strikes where it pleases And isn’t concerned with what’s in its path, It has an easy elegance about it that mesmerizes the mind. But sometimes it decides to strike onto the sandy shores of our souls. Burning everything around, But lightning never strikes the same place twice, right? Wrong, Lightning may strike the same place again, But the difference is this time my soul is prepared Fool me once shame on you, Fool me twice shame on me I won’t let myself be fooled by the lightning again.
7 // Poetry
Sunny Sands and Stormy Seas by Max Kroft, senior
8 // Poetry
9 // Poetry
the book and the bird Erin Lipkowitz, senior
You tore through my pages like a wicked winter wind. My guts lay between the shredded sheets, steaming, writhing, tethered only by their battered binding. You circled the strewn fragments of my soul with vulture’s delight. You could not resist devouring the scrambled words that lay scattered below. Unaware, your beak and talons were no match for the crush of my hinged covers As they slammed shut upon your fragile feathered form--
Colorless Confidence by Teah Marks, Sophomore
10 // Poetry
America, A Nation divided Jullian Stechschulte, senior
America, a nation divided. “Unarmed black man shot by police.” The headlines list another name, But before the judges assemble, do any examine the facts? And before the excuses are issued, do any consider the stats? I say we must come together as one, But who’s right? Who’s wrong? America, a nation divided. “NFL players kneel during the National Anthem.” The headlines name another controversy, But before the spectators cry,“They are disrespecting our flag!” Do any ask why? And before the defenders explain, “It’s their first amendment right!” Do any wonder if there could be another way? America, a nation divided. Friends, family, and coworkers all split, A fractured assembly a disunited union of selves. We think differently, it’s true, But thinking differently is who we are. At the end of the day we’re Americans together. 11 // Poetry
UNTITLED by Nathaniel Peterson, senior
SHEEP Jessie Adix, junior
Follow the leader Obedient sheep You sweet little sheep He’ll lead you to Slaughter If you don’t make a peep All we, like sheep Are easily led astray Spending our days In lovely pastures of hay It’s so easy To just follow the leader Mindless, almost asleep The sheepdog herding the sheep The docile and the meek The wolf in sheep’s clothing Leading the weak.
12 // Poetry
13 // Poetry
trilogy
Bella Scaffidi, senior
1. You see me as a punctuation mark in a sentence that has already been written-my identity is bound to the dichotomies you fill between the blue infinities that line your notebook page yet I am not your poetry.
Your words leave marks like broken bones bruise, so now, pale purple painted galaxies tint my skin like black ink stains the pages where you write But my suffering is not poetry.
My individuality is not up to your interpretation. I am worth more than any stream of adjectives you write, or any extended metaphor you think yourself clever. While you attempt to define me by the lines of my passion, my gender, and by the melanin in my skin you allowed melancholy to divide you, not me.
I am a punctuation mark in a sentence that is not yet written And despite your best efforts, I will never stop writing.
Slowly my body learns to absorb the gaps you once filled with bruises Closing galaxies and parts of me that will never be retrieved. Leave your notebook pages blank, Fill them with positivity rather than hate And learn to become your own Poetry.
Waves by Robin Ermitanio, senior
14 // Poetry
2. Everything is new under the moon. For a different light illuminates a never-before-seen macrocosm of warm, soothing and oozing sweet cherry wine, and old forest pine.
A child’s dream exists all wild and mighty. Its limits surge across the Earth, wrapping all its edges tightly like cling wrap holds your leftovers. but only under the light of the moon.
A tired, weary-eyed mom stays up late on a Sunday night with dad, trying to scrape up money for deadlines that always come too soon. In the daylight, the child will awake in a warm bed with food on the table. She will be content with the blandness from under the light of the sun, but unaware of what is under the light of the moon. Under the moon, Mom takes to the street corner while Dad sleeps alone in the bed they’ve shared since college except she shares a bed with someone else that night. The man on the moon is good at keeping secrets; nothing new is ever under the sun because it only happens during the times when no one is around to see--except him. Dipping down from his throne, a million light-years away, he will touch your cheek, pulling back into a sunrise when Mom comes home. And a child’s dream retreats back into con sciousness, only to be remembered under the light of the moon. 15 // Poetry
3. The volume of wilderness feeds an inescapable void; a black hole of emotion, filled with the sweet scent of cinnamon pine and crystallized maple sugar.
The flavor of experience, a symphony sweeter than the most beautiful violin, sweeps into the rich, lustrous earth and the moss-thriving on the forest floor breeds life for rats and grasshoppers alike. The beatles and dead bugs pile up like dirty socks on a bedroom floor, like toxic algae builds on the Great Barrier Reef.
The birds, fish, wind, lakes, sun, sky, mood grow claustrophobic in their existence like funky, rotten apples clogged under the fridge. Polluting bulldozers cause decimals of decimation to the wonders of the great forests.
But the wilderness Is irrevocable. Its existence, yet also transcendent of human beings has a hunger, mesmerizing, In its own macrocosm of a void.
16 // Poetry
dad
Connor Mason, senior At the stern of the snipe Where the water is splashing, My dad stands as the skipper. We pass through the start buoys. He is screaming commands, “sheet in the jib” and “hike out.” I yell back at him, “got it.” But, I am only the crew. I know his hand lies on the tiller So he is the only one who Controls the course of the sailboat. I must respect what he says. That Sunday morning we took sixth place, Not bad out of eight racing sailboats. When we crossed the finish line buoys, His hand returned to the tiller for the next race. Always looking forward to the next competition, He rigs the snipe Sunday after Sunday Sets another course, takes his place, raises the sail. Never giving up, he seeks the first place trophy. I respect the intention in the call of his commands On the sailboat as we race and in my everyday life. I only want the best for him, on and off the water, My father, my skipper, and my role model in life.
17 // Poetry
A Game by Elisa Carranza, senior
18 // Poetry
What lies beyond the known Danny Levy, senior
It’s always there; Hanging. Above everyone. Everywhere. Right above me. I speak quietly so it can’t hear me. Not like it cares what I say anyway. Or does it? Some believe it listens intently. I disagree.
It’s a chandelier that sucks in light, rather than give it off. It rusts with time. A thin, delicate chain. Please, no one cut it. Don’t let me cut it. I hope it doesn’t consume me. But it will when the time is right. Once it falls there’s no coming back. I fear the unknown–Doesn’t everyone? They think they know. But they don’t. How can they? Sometimes I wish the chandelier didn’t exist; that it didn’t consume my light. They hang like daggers. Sometimes I crouch down and ignore the jingle of the diamonds. I build my light as big as I can within the shadow that forms under the umbrella of my mind. Its glow can illuminate an entire room. At least up to my lowest hanging diamond. It glimmers as if taunting me. It tells me to lift my light just a little higher... But all the others are watching me. They tell me that if darkness didn’t hang, my light would become too bright. Everyone would be blinded. They would close their eyes. Still, under my mind under the chandelier, I bathe in my own shadow of light. Because, after all, I don’t know what lies beyond the known. 19 // Poetry
D
Drifting by Max Kroft, senior
20 // Poetry
Pretend Happiness
Emma by Elisa Carranza, senior
21 // Poetry
Sullivan Prellwetz, senior The only remorse I have is that I waited longer than a lifetime to shatter the dark depths with my body. New light shone through the dark when you dragged me under. On the shore, our bones begged us to be humans again. Every soul our bodies touched a home, every shadow a new hell. Excuses to drift closer to one another. I drew deeper into the depths to see you as the darkness couldn’t see: cut in half by the light, stiff body struggling, the rest of you glistened. Instantly still, a lightened view of what you knew we needed to see opened. When I touched light, sly grin, knowing glance; we sank back under. I tried to be happy, before darkness consumed us both.
22 // Poetry
Synthesized Sunset
John Baker, senior
Let’s go see the synthesized sunset. Where its yellow and orange streaks slowly set upon the horizon. Let’s go see the glimmering rays of the neon oceans And the colorful star-scattered skies. Let’s sit and listen to the snares and saws of the past, And feel nostalgia for a life never lived.
23 // Poetry
Harlem by Zachary Dahl, senior
24 // Poetry
lost
Kaylee Norris, junior 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...
25 // Poetry
Where am I?
Estella by Julia Pawelec, senior
26 // Poetry
Sometimes I wonder If there were people chosen to be happy And then the rest of us, Damned to this lifeless subjectivity. Sometimes I wonder, If she was so afraid to lose me, Why she didn’t try harder to keep me From leaving her, and everyone else’s lives? Sometimes I wonder If maybe I was meant to find happiness Not from within the arms of that girl, But from the acceptance of others? Sometimes I wonder If the acceptance of others really means Acceptance of my faults, Or acceptance that I will end it all. Sometimes I wonder If anything will ever change, Or if it’s my fault that it won’t Ever be the way life should be. Sometimes I wonder How different things would be If I suddenly slipped away, Away into endless sleep. Sometimes I wonder How long it would take For everyone to get over me, And live a sane and normal life. Sometimes I wonder If a sane and normal life is Not thinking for a second about me, That kid who didn’t make it, Sometimes I wonder If she ever loved me, Or if I meant nothing To her cold and shallow heart. Sometimes I wonder If jumping now will evoke in her A realization that maybe, Just maybe, she felt for me, too. Sometimes I wonder If leaving will affect her at all, If losing me will cause her to experience Any emotion at all. My empty heart falls apart like a cloud in rain. Where is she to save me from this pain?
sometimes i
27 // Poetry
Will Slawson, senior
s i wonder
or
Lighter by Max Kroft, senior
Sometimes I wonder If there were people chosen to endure Hardship at the beginning of their life, So they could be happy for the rest. Sometime I wonder, If he loved me so much, Why he had to leave me And everyone else who cared for him? Sometimes I wonder If maybe he was meant to find happiness Not from within my heart But from the love of someone else? Sometimes I wonder If the love of someone else really means The love of another girl Or just someone to stand by him Sometimes I wonder If anything will ever be the same, Or if it’s my fault that he’s gone And life will never be how it should be. Sometimes I wonder How different things would have been Had I been as true to him, As he wanted me to be Sometimes I wonder How long it will take For me to get over the loss of him And live without an endless responsibility. Sometimes I wonder If my endless responsibility is To think forever about him, The first kid to ever love me Sometimes I wonder If I truly did not love him Or if I was too afraid To open my cold and shallow heart Sometimes I wonder If before his jump he thought of me. A thought that maybe, Just maybe, I felt for him, too. Sometimes I wonder If rejecting him affected him at all If refusing him caused him to experience All his overwhelming weight of emotion My heavy heart carries his memory like a chain. Where is he to save me from this pain?
28 // Poetry
29 // Poetry
the difference between love and hate Bella Scaffidi, senior
love first you feel it in your palms. microcosms of water puddle like a downpour in the amazon but you hold her hand anyways. second you feel it in your knees. the first time she laughs at one of your jokes they’ll begin to shake like two tectonic plates taking turns playing tug of war but, do not worry, you will stay standing anyways. third you feel it in your eyelids. sleep eludes you like the moon misses the sun in the night, but you keep staring, fearing if you blink she will be gone. finally you feel it in your lungs. as if she was the fresh air before your last breath, you keep breathing her in until your palms can no longer sweat your knees can no longer shake your eyes can no longer stay open and your lungs can no longer expand anymore
Clara by Olivia Herzog, senior
30 // Poetry
31 // Poetry
hate first you feel it in your palms. your hands become fists, filled with all the rage and fire of a volcano about to erupt, but you keep them at your side. second you feel it in your knees. standing strong like a tree, your posture does not waver with the wind, but you shake inside this time. third you feel it in your eyelids. after your tears have dried, sleep decides to stay up for a slumber party like girls do on summer nights. your thoughts run wild with anger, rage, and fire, but you are not tired. finally, you feel it in your lungs. when she breaks your heart for the first time and it feels as though there is not enough oxygen left in the world to sustain you, but somehow you keep breathing anyways.
Shade by Charles Meyers, junior
32 // Poetry
the community John Baker, senior
The flaw of community is lack of individuality. To lose oneself in the mindset of the mob, Is to become less than human. A drone in modern society. Not driven by intellectual curiosity, But driven by the will of the hivemind. The flaw of community is lack of eccentricity. To the hive, the mind must be monochromatic. Alien thoughts must be cast out, blocked, or erased. To the hive, uniformity is prosperity. The flaw of community is lack of imagination. The soggy algae of invariability looming over, Clogging the swamp of the mind. The fog of complicity blocking the creative waters. And without creativity, there is no passion Without passion, there is no humanity. The flaw of community is lack of progress. Eventually, the hive reaches the brink, Where the lack of new ideas and perspectives Causes the once steady mental structure, holding millions hostage, To collapse and tumble under its own weight. And all within its walls, to perish. So, where do you want to be? Buried in the rubble, gasping for air, Free of the hive but only for a moment, Wondering how such a catastrophe could occur? Or a bystander, an observer, watching the hive collapse, Free, away from the chaos, feeling sympathy but only for a moment, Wondering how anyone could fall for such a seemingly obvious trick? The choice is yours, so choose wisely. 33 // Poetry
Pots and Plants by Clara Huskin, senior
34 // Poetry
we
Andrea Greuel, senior We are not your heroes. We are not your salvation. We are not knights in shining armor Come to save you from the wars you beget. We do not ride in on mighty steeds to slay The dragon you thought tamed. We were not born to heal the scars you carved On flesh of friends And foe And errant lover. We were not made to fix the broken mess You tore with hand and weapon. You cannot sway our ear With a plea for mercy, For we were born to your Cry of war. No innocent can stand in your path For in the eyes you gave us, All are guilty. So, bend your knees, Raise your hands in supplication. We may be your children, But we are not your soldiers. We are not your saviors. We are not the ones you pray to when you have given up. For you have made us in your image. 35 // Poetry
2D Imagination by Teah Marks, sophomore
36 // Poetry
struggling to breathe Hallie Kent, senior
We fish for satisfaction Pushing the boundaries of humanity Always longing for acceptance Likes determine who we are Comments control our emotions Shares create our popularity Communication is no longer face to face Virtual jargon is the new language We limit ourselves to 140 characters Relationships are forged Swipe right You’re instantly satisfied We connect through our fabricated facadés Not knowing who we are Or how we changed We’ve become cyborgs Accepting the spiked chain of society Attached to our necks We all seem perfect Plastic smiles and perfectly poised photos But we’re just chipped plates barely glued together Some may not realize We’re drowning Struggling to breathe
37 // Poetry
Life Support by Olivia Herzog, senior
38 // Poetry
when I say I’m a swimmer Sydnie Horne, senior
When I say I am a swimmer I’m not shouting I love swimming back and forth, back and forth day in, day out I’m whispering I couldn’t live without it That’s why I choose this sport without a single drop of doubt. When I say I am a swimmer I don’t speak from the perspective of a typical highschool girl I’m confessing that I am drastically different I never really gave high school a whirl When I say I am a swimmer I’m not trying to say it’s easy I’m professing that it’s the hardest thing I have ever done And deeply understand that it makes many people uneasy When I say I am a swimmer I’m not bragging about my success I’m admitting that I’ve failed before And have paid my debts When I say I am a swimmer I don’t think that I know it all I submit that the pool still has much to teach me Asking for it to teach me its lessons no matter how small When I say I am a swimmer I am not claiming to be the perfect athlete My flaws are evident and real But my coaches have always believe that I could handle the heat When I say I am a swimmer I still feel the pain of that last twenty- five I will forever radiate the scent of chlorine, and wear the scar across my foot But at the same time I have never felt more alive When I say I am swimmer I do not wish to change anything I have no authority to do such a thing The pool is my home and I know that deep within
39 // Poetry
Jellyfish by Katie Ferguson, senior
40 // Poetry
My friend John Will Slawson, senior
I miss my friend, John. We used to play ball together as kids. He wore blue shoes and white shorts, So you could never mistake him. He hangs out with a new crowd now. I haven’t seen him in a month. I always wonder, though, How different things would be, Had we stayed friends, Long into our adolescence. At twelve he loved his mind, And everything it desired. Until everyone stepped back, Then there was nothing left to think. At thirteen he quit baseball, His one true passion. He couldn’t find his drive anymore, And needed to gain some perspective. He looked to his friends, Reaching out for support. Instead he got backs turned, And he became invisible. At fourteen he couldn’t get out of bed, Motivation long gone. He resorted to his dad’s bottle, To bring his personality to life. At school he made no noise, But that was just fine. After all, who cares about the quiet kids? They’ve never mattered. At fifteen his parents sought him help, But they didn’t realize He’d been reaching out for years, And it was far too late. Soon came hours of therapy, And mountains of antidepressants. Neither had an effect That could replace human connection.
41 // Poetry
He began to call his old friends, Desperate for one last chance To mend old relationships, And possibly begin anew. They never gave him a chance, however, For they didn’t want to be seen With the quiet kid who used to be, John with the smiley countenance, And the blue shoes with white shorts. At sixteen he lost all hope, And drew back away From the people who never cared anyway, For his absence would have no effect. He stopped going to school, And took to the pills. No one noticed for weeks Until he was on the news. Maybe his new friends are nicer, Flying through the heavens. They buried him in his white shorts, But they mistook his color of shoes. I still wonder, though, How different things would be, Had someone been there for him And shown a little empathy. It could have been you, It could have been me. Anyone would have been enough, To be just what John needed.
I Don’t Wanna Waste my Time by Robin Ermitanio, senior
42 // Poetry
coloring book Silma Berrada, senior
Silma by Olivia Herzog, senior
43 // Nonfiction
A speech addressed to the student body at the beginning of the “Highlanders Together� campaign.
On October 1st, Stephen Paddock killed 58 people and wounded nearly 500 at the Route 91 Harvest Festival in Las Vegas. A few days later, police uncovered that the same “Vegas shooter” had “booked a room overlooking Lollapalooza in Chicago” this last summer. He had reservation for a hotel overlooking the four day festival less than two hours from here, a concert I attended. Those were the best four days of my life, but had he taken perch in that hotel instead of waiting for Las Vegas, those may have been the last four days of my life. This coincidence made the way I processed the news of the deadliest shooting in America more personal. I flashed back to Chance the Rapper singing at the colorful music festival, “Don’t believe in the kings, believe in the Kingdom.” To me this means: I don’t believe in people who rule over others’ decisions, but rather in the ones who want to build their own path. To me this means: I don’t believe in gunman, but rather individuals like Jonathan Smith who got shot and still helped save people after the man opened fire on the crowd in Las Vegas. To me this means: I don’t believe in chance, but the choices we make. To me this means: I don’t believe in elevating certain people to the status of kings, but I believe Kingdom means community. When individual people like Paddock put themselves on a throne, we create an image — us versus them. But at the end of the day, we may be Democrats or Republicans, White people or Black people, Men or Women. Yet, at the core, we all have a shared humanity. We are a concoction of kaleidoscopic cultures. We are a coloring book. The pages within our coloring book cover shootings spanning the globe, disasters consisting of all four elements, harassment in the hallways, terrorism and torture, poverty and policies. But, the pages are also filled with images of truth, hope, compassion, freedom, and optimism. These pages may or may not be chance but it’s definitely our choice to color them. We can fill in the lines with bloodshed or we can fill in the lines with peace. We can flip through the pages in pity or we can flip through the pages and do something to create a better story. And in these last few weeks, we chose to do just that. Our country may be full of broken houses and broken bodies, but our hearts are full of generosity. Our country may be full of broken crayons, but we can still use them to color. Together we raised a copious amount of money, but that is not enough. Our number is not equivalent to our compassion; it’s our actions. Our number is not our end. Our number is our beginning. Together we can continue to color a brighter future as we attempt to page through our Kingdom.
44 // Nonfiction
Unexpected by Clara Huskin, senior
To Stoke a fire Sean White, senior
Whipped by wind and rain, I persuaded my dejected legs to keep inching towards an opening I had long since given up on. Each emotionless step wore down both my spirit and my C7 vertebrae. This portage was the longest that our camp had ever taken out, and getting lost proved not to be a shortcut. Nature continuously shot unexpected problems at me, hiding the solutions in ways that prompted discoveries about human nature. Despite not seeing the sun all day, I haven’t experienced anything more enlightening. 45 // Nonfiction
In “The Road Not Taken,” Robert Frost mentions two paths that, despite their varying degrees of being traveled, are at least recognizable as paths. Not to one-up one of America’s greatest poets, but our path to the entry point of the river was completely nonexistent. With young jack pines as thick as mud up to my waist, I trudged towards a hill off in the distance. Optimistically, I looked towards the hill as the beginning of the end of the portage. The other side of this hill would have been beautiful in any other circumstance. Leaves overlapped on the soil, forming an untouched quilt of past autumns. Newer jack pines sprouted ankle-high, rebounding from the forest’s past burns. Mystery surrounded both, hiding among dark woods. All this densely-packed beauty, however, left no room for signs of direction. Hours passed like years as I searched for a path. My hunger slowly tugged at my motivation as I jadedly searched for a sign from nature. When Brian suggested a stop for a snack, my head jerked up and my mouth watered more than the sky over us. However, I became confused upon seeing Brian break his Powerbar into five pieces. As he distributed his only calories of the day, I realized the empathy nature attempted to impart on all of us. The celebrations that ensued once we found our entry point were obviously deserved. However, the intensity and length of the rapids we put into caused them to be short-lived as well. The rain became relentless, further impeding my vision, pelting my exposed cheeks with bullets of water. And, while there was more than enough water in the sky, the river could have used more. My friend, Jake, had left his Tevas at the first campsite, and nature decided to test our selflessness again. Stuck on shallow beds of sharp rock, I chose to sacrifice any chance of my boots being dry, desperately pulling Jake and the canoe towards a fleeting memory of dry land. If Brian could forgo his heavenly, delicious Powerbar, I could trade damp feet for wet feet. When we finally landed on the first inhabitable island we saw, our morale was surprisingly high. Two of my friends struggled with hypothermia, barely having eeked out a word since the end of the rapids. Every obstacle we fought that day we had fought together, so my tent partner and I got the others in their tent first before setting our own up. Following a day of teaming up against the portage and rapids, sharing Powerbars, packs, and canoes, joining forces against their hypothermia was natural. Overcome with a wave of exhaustion, but not defeated, I finally crashed to the rhythmic pattering of rain on our tent. Obviously, none of us came away thinking the portage was a fun experience. However, I still look back on that day with fond memories. Nature set pitfalls born of a desire to see us grow. By pitting us against its elements, nature lovingly threw us down the gauntlet. Day nineteen of a twenty-one-day trip in rarely travelled waters is no time to become selfish. Punishing downpours in the Saskatchewanian wilderness do not concern me anymore. When the clouds finally part, camaraderie and togetherness shine through. The breaking sky is assured by nature’s desire to challenge our fires, internal and external, without letting them fade. 46 // Nonfiction
the offering Danny Levy, senior
I walk alone. In a snowy wasteland. Everything’s frozen. Where there should be towering buildings there is ice. Where there should be beautiful parks there is ice. Where there should be blood flowing there is nothing. I don’t know where I am. But only I am here. I’m naked. Stripped of anything that could possibly be used as a weapon. I’ve been wandering this place for decades. I don’t know how or why I’m here, and I don’t remember anything before being here. But I wasn’t born here. I know that for certain. My hand is frozen, clutching a dying rose. ••• When I entered this world I knew nothing but I saw one rose, and I had to take it wherever I went because it was something rather than nothing. Its thorns pierced my skin but I ignored the pain. I walked with it for a year. Watching it slowly die. Painfully. But I couldn’t kill it because it was all I had. I walked. Searching for a way to heal it but there’s nothing here so I just watched it die. I knew I wouldn’t be able to revive it but I carried that dead rose for years, not ready to remove the thorns from my skin. Until one day I found a new rose. Alive. Beautiful. Perfect. I ripped the dead rose from my own grasp and watched as my infected wounds began to bleed. So I picked up the next rose. Its thorns pierced new places on my skin. The pain was refreshing. Exhilarating. A fresh start. But it was only a few months before it began to wilt as well. But I continued walking with it. ••• It’s been so long. Or maybe not. I keep track of time by the amount of thorns that have been in my skin. But I don’t have any good skin on my hands anymore. No matter how many thorns stab my hand, I can’t feel that beautiful pain anymore. I’m growing old. My skin can’t heal as fast as it used to. Hundreds of roses have been held in my tight grasp but none stay for long. The roses I find now are gray. They’re no longer the unique color that I find in this world. But as I take one more aimless step I find one last rose. It’s black. It has no thorns. I pick it up. It’s lack of color entrances me. The shocking beauty of no pain. No color. I’m intrigued by its ambiguity. Its omnipotence. It offers me all of this for my heart. I gladly accept the offering.
47 // Fiction
In my Mind by Teah Marks, sophomore
48 // Fiction
49 // Fiction
harvey and the end of the world Hannah Bentley, senior The Ride by Kyle Williams, sophomore It is just past midnight when Harvey receives the transmission. He’s sitting at his desk at the radio station on a plush swivel chair, long, unwashed curls nestled snugly against his face. He looks as though he hasn’t shaved in weeks. The transmission, he sees, is from a radio news station close by — which is odd, considering that they are technically competitors (not that the news station Harvey works at is a competitor to anyone, exactly), but he opens it anyway. He expects whoever will be talking to gloat about the new ratings the network has received, to ask earnestly that this station will merge with his-- but, alas, it is not. Instead, it is a woman’s voice, paranoid, confused. “You need--“ she says, and then her voice cuts off and then it is back again with: “ — tell them to find shelter, safety — help them — you need to — you are their only hope — it is the end of the —” and then her voice cuts off again for good. But Harvey continues to listen to the silence that fills his ears until the 50 // Fiction
transmission has been depleted. He nods at the device the voice has come from. “Damn,” he says. He turns on some pop music from the 80s for the radio’s listeners. He decides, then, to go into the kitchen and make himself a sandwich. His radio station is currently the only one running, for some reason — he can tell by the tiny blinking lights on the little machine he had had set up a while back when he had actually cared about beating out competitors. Based on the transmission that he has received, this is most likely because the world is ending. Apparently, he now holds in his hands the only way to inform the general public about this phenomenon. He makes himself a ham and cheese sandwich with extra mayonnaise on the kitchen counter, cuts it into two triangles, and puts it on a plate along with four Girl Scout thin mint cookies. He stares at the food for a little while, looks from the plate to the box of thin mints, and decides to take out a couple more cookies for his meal. After all, you only live once. He takes it to a small metal table, sits down on a folding chair (which is also made of metal), and begins to eat his meal. He realizes, at this point, that he should probably call his ex-girlfriend, because he still loves her and has wanted to get back together with her for a very long time. He should probably tell her, if anyone, that the world is ending. He walks quickly back to his desk, grabs his cell phone off of the top of it, and walks back to the kitchen. He is sitting down on his folding metal chair
51 // Fiction
once again. The clock above him ticks away quickly. This, he realizes, is the first time he’s truly ever noticed it there, and now it is staring at him, glaring at him. He takes a bite of his sandwich, wolfs down two thin mints in one bite, and stares right back at it. He turns to his phone then, opens it up, dials his ex-girlfriend’s number. Christine. He says it in his head, over and over again: Christine. What a beautiful name. He says it out loud: “Christine.” The name rolls nicely over his tongue. He takes another bit of his sandwich, closes his eyes. His hands shake. He remembers the fight. He remembers the Other Man. He wants to cry, but he doesn’t. “I still love you, Christine,” he says. Then he shuts down his phone. He takes another bite of his sandwich. “This is the life,” he says to himself. “This really is the life.” He hopes that the Other Man won’t survive whatever is to come, and then he eats his last cookie.
52 // Fiction
53 // Fiction
I come with open arms Erin Lipkowitz, senior Rated R by Elisa Carranza, senior
“So--” said Lana with a lingering tone of uncertainty that floated up in the aromatic air of the restaurant. “So--” replied Phil automatically. I sat between the two 8th graders. I caused their pupils to dilate, their hearts to beat to the brink of exploding, their palms to pool with sweat and their feelings of affection to almost burst at the seams holding them together. They poked and prodded at their bowtie noodles and gourmet mac and cheese. First dates were always so bittersweet and coated with sheer awkwardness. But, alas, I savor these occasions—so innocent 54 // Fiction
and well-intended. In the blink of an eye, motives change, children mature, and I insinuate less and less of a presence, so I always consider myself lucky when I find myself in the realm of pre-pubescent boys and girls. After their meal, I walked wedged between the naive lovers with my arms draped over both of their shoulders. They walked briskly, observing with fresh eyes their suburban Cincinnati street. The kids approached a fairly large house, constructed of pale powdered rose bricks, diagonally latticed windows, and ivy sprawling across the walls. The ivy, they both thought, seemed to be consuming the very essence of the home. Phil shifted his weight to the tips of his toes, saying, “here we are--” and dipped back to his original stance. He dropped his hands into his pockets. Lana inched closer, hesitantly fidgeting with her slender fingers and exposed the time bomb her friend had given her, leading to their date; it read “1:17 pm.” Lana released my hand for a moment and said, “I really like you, Phil.” Phil desperately pulled me into his grasp; he was lost for words, but his heart said he liked her desperately with every beat. The house was dark, and the sound of crickets resonated throughout the yard—tranquilizing. A single beam shed by the motion sensor light at the front door offered little more than a glow. Phil looked up at her, lost in Lana’s emerald green eyes; his vision blurred; she was leaning in, her lips pursed and eyes shut. Phil loosened his grasp of me and kissed Lana, his
55 // Fiction
middle school sweetheart. My job there was over. Maybe I would see Phil or Lana in the future, but my mission had come to an end. *** Suddenly, I got another call, requiring me to transport to Australia, to the surface of the ocean at 8:24 p.m. The sun was setting, and Kyle Wade’s voice was beginning to be taken over by rasp. The people at the beach, distracted, remained immune to his S.O.S shouts. Previously, he sat at the local pub, Parson’s, drinking liquid luck by the shot glass in an attempt to find a loophole rather than paying me a visit. He needed leverage to build the courage to ask his dream girl Violet out on a date. But, the liquor had another idea. With a mind filled with booze, he decided surfing was his best option, well, better than embarrassing himself in front of Violet. After about an hour of swimming, he found himself too far from civilization and looking Death in the eye. I sat at the edge of his neon surfboard, allowing my feet to dangle in the clear sapphire ocean; below us a frenzy of Great Whites stirred. Breathing heavily, his white knuckles gripped around my collar, his eyes stricken with terror, and a mindset full of negative thoughts and “what if’s” assaulting his consciousness. He didn’t dare expose a single sliver of a body part to the water, knowing the worst case scenario. But, to his dismay, he knew he was correct to assume, for looking down, he prepared for reality. With menacing looks and beady eyes
56 // Fiction
aching for hunger, the sharks bumped his board and thrashed about causing unsteadiness on the board, until his worst nightmare became actuality. The waves tossed him in the water, and I was dragged down with him. I see these cases every now and then. Usually, they consist of the same motif: some idiot thinking he or she is invincible with the help of a drug, and that’s how you end up above starving sharks. I pity the daring, idealistic fools. I always have and always will. Kyle let out one final shriek for help as his voice soon became only bubbles in the water, lost in the murky crimson red that leached into the deep abyss of the ocean. His surfboard gained mobility and washed ashore with a silent story to tell. *** For my final adventure, I wound up in a hospital beside 93-year-old Henry Jenkins, who lay wide awake contemplating his not-so-everlasting future. No one had come to visit him while he was hospitalized, not one of his three daughters, nor a single one of his nine grandchildren. He was a lone wolf, but he wanted love, needed affection, and could have used a dose of compassion. “Not even one,” he muttered, staring at the darkened window. We spooned while his mind raced to the thought of oblivion. The peaks of his heart rate monitor became more frequent and close together. How could I become irrelevant? he pondered. His life flashed through his gray drooping eyes like scenes from a film strip. He had been a troubled father who struggled with the devil in a bottle, which
57 // Fiction
led to violence towards his daughters, but he protested, that wasn’t the real me. Under the pain lay a sensitive old man in the palm of my hand. Time on Earth is limited, so, in their last few days, many people admit what makes their hairs stand up, causes goose bumps, and ultimately invites my presence. After all, who wants to live a lie? Mr. Jenkins sighed and shivered. Alone is how he was, alone is how he is, and alone is what he’ll be--forever. This was the kind of bitter reality that made the grown man, Jenkins, curl up in the fetal position and beg me to hold him, as I had done once before, the day he was born. Accepting his fate, he straightened out a little bit and I released my hold. Acceptance set me free. *** You have most likely met me before on a street or on the water or whey you lay alone. I appear invisible to your human eye, yet your conscience greets me as an old friend. Many believe they will respond to my presence in two ways: fight or flight. So cliche. But, the real stories occur when my victims embrace me, need me. Eventually, I get sent away and onto the next adventure. I am Fear, your friend who is misunderstood, expressed in the uneasy stomach before an exam, the tingly feeling behind every first kiss, and the uneasiness of the uncertainty of the future. Welcome to my world. I presume we will see each other in the near future. Until then, remain brave.
58 // Fiction
the collection between love and hate Bella Scaffidi, senior Untitled by Nid Wanwanich, senior
59 // Fiction
The house was old. Built over one hundred years ago, its walls held the secrets and stories of generations after generations. The roof caved in and the wallpaper was torn; the floorboards were weak and mold grew on what was left of them but Abigail always said: “A house is still a home even after it’s been left alone.” No one lived there anymore, yet it remained at the corner of Hillshire and Pioneer-- a shell of what it used to be. Abigail always had a fascination with abandoned things. She called them “bando’s,” and the Hillshire House had always been her favorite. I had never been. Despite the fact that I was with Abigail on a daily basis, I refused to ever enter a building that has “NO TRESPASSING” posted about a million times in a million different places. But when I had asked Abigail what she wanted for her birthday, all she wanted was for me to at least come visit the house with her. She begged me for hours, “Max, come on, seriously-- you never do anything fun with me like this! I learned how to play Halo so i could spend time with you. Can you please, please, pretty please with a cherry on top come with me?” I was broke at the time, having spent all my money on an Xbox 1, so I figured it was the least I could possibly do for her. “Oh my god, Abigail, fine! But we are not staying out once it gets dark” Abigail beamed with joy and squeezed my stomach so hard I thought I might puke. “Finally! Thank you thank you thank you!” And you know, just for the record, having a twin is way harder than it seems. You live in the shadow of someone else; Abigail, being the creative, spunky, adventurous, and “fun” one, and I, being the quirky, nerdy, introverted, and couch potato one. I wanted to break out of my shell a little bit, and have some fun. So that’s why I went. When we arrived at the house, just before sunset, it wasn’t as horrible as I had imagined it was going to be. She gave me the full tour; showed me the garage, the upstairs, the kitchen, and even told me stories she had made in each room. It was like she was an entire different person-she was actually happy. Just as I was beginning to warm up to being in a new environment, we heard the screams.
60 // Fiction
61 // Art
A
Abstract by Nathaniel Peterson, senior
62 // Art
Staff
63// Colophon
Frances Mackinnon
Editor-in-chief
Hannah Bentley Will Slawson
Writing Editors
Andrea Greuel Emma Straszewski Emma Como Grace Franks Danny Klein Lexy DeFord Menaal Nasir Kaylee Norris Margaret Mackinnon Margaret Berger Abigail West
Staffers
Angelina Cicero Rachel Rauch
Content Advisor Publications Advisor
Thanks to...
Mrs. Rauch for your constant support and guidance. You allowed us to make this magazine more the 50¢ of printer paper with black and white ink. You gave this magazine a true voice and presence in the school and for that we thank you. Mrs. Cicero for your unwavering passion and love for everything this magazine does. You gave us a home in your room on Monday afternoons and allowed us to grow not only as a community of writiers, but generally as human beings. Soliloquy has become a safe haven for us. Thank you. The staff for all of your hard work and the laughs. You have worked hard and it shows in this lovely magazine we created together. -your editors Caitlin and the Sashas for looking over every page and dealing with every metal breakdown. You have been the rock that anchors me to sanity. Thanks for always making sure the text was 11 pt. The pieces were submitted by students in the creative writing club, creative writing classes and the school at large and were selected by a commitee of students on staff. Art pieces were submitted by AP Studio Art and the school at large and were selected based on the connection to the previously selected writing pieces.
COLOPHON
The type in this magazine is Times 11pt. Titles are a combination of Bebas Neue and Blackout 40 pt. Credits are Devangari Sangram MN 14 pt. Varying sizes of Devangari Sangram MN 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:
Lend a Hand By Elisa Caranza, senior