Mosaic 2018 by Santa Catalina School

mosaic The Publication of the Arts SPRING 2018

Student Editors

Jessica Almos ’18

Tara Mann ’18 Erika Schwerdfeger ’19 Faculty Advisor

Dr. Nancy Hunt

Staff

Rosa Aguilar ’18

Emma Leamey ’19

Rowan Azhderian ’18

Rosemary Lee ’20

Dylan Barry-Schoen ’21

Joanna Lin ’20

Claire Burrow ’20

Ana León Nuñez ’18

Corinne Christian ’20

Sophia Leonard ’18

Sylvan Free ’18

Jenna Mann ’18

Molly Gilbert ’19

Grayce Nichols ’20

Sum Yue Guan ’19

Emma Roffler ’18

Abby Gunter ’20

Ariana Trueba ’19

Heidi Hansch ’21

Katalina Villarreal ’20

Katherine Kim ’18

Laurel Wong ’19

Design & Production

Communications Office

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Untitled, Iris Kang ’18, acrylic painting, 15”x12”

SPRING 2018

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Latte, Sum Yue Guan ’19, digital painting, 5”x3.6”

Table of Contents Art, Family Portraits......................................................... Lucinda Swearengen ’18............................ Front Cover Art, Untitled..................................................................... Iris Kang ’18................................................................1 Art, Latte......................................................................... Sum Yue Guan ’19......................................................2 Photograph, The Kiss...................................................... Rachel D’Agui ’18........................................................4 Poem, A Good Book....................................................... Tara Mann ’18..............................................................5 Prose, Is This on the Test?............................................... Damiera Cruz ’20.........................................................6 Poem, Auction Number 18,369....................................... Olivia Gebreamlak ’19..................................................7 Art, The Geisha’s Kiss...................................................... Sum Yue Guan ’19......................................................7 Art, Untitled..................................................................... Christina Kwon ’21......................................................8 Prose, The Things She Remembered.............................. Cayleigh Capaldi ’18....................................................8 Art, Untitled..................................................................... Grace Young ’18........................................................11 Photograph, Untitled....................................................... Charlotte Gerzanics ’18.............................................12 Poem, Six and a Half Ways to Notice Her........................ Ariana Fadel ’18.........................................................13 Poem, Untitled................................................................. Georgina Burton ’20..................................................14 Art, Untitled..................................................................... Sum Yue Guan ’19....................................................15 Art, Untitled..................................................................... Emma Roffler ’18.......................................................16 Prose, Untitled................................................................. Ariana Fadel ’18.........................................................17

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Prose, Tempting Fate....................................................... Grace Young ’18........................................................17 Poem, D.M.’s Lament...................................................... Cleo Kent-Davy ’18...................................................18 Art, Inferno...................................................................... Molly Gilbert ’19.........................................................18 Prose, Before I Go........................................................... Grace Young ’18........................................................19 Photograph, #736........................................................... Dana Zeng ’19...........................................................22 Art, Untitled..................................................................... Maddie Oh ’18...........................................................24 Poem, Frog Song............................................................ Cleo Kent-Davy ’18...................................................25 Poem, Fire....................................................................... Caroline Stewart ’18................................................. 26 Art, Light in the Darkness................................................. Molly Gilbert ’19.........................................................26 Poem, To Me, You Will Forever Be the Wind.................... Ariana Fadel ’18.........................................................27 Poem, Laceneck.............................................................. Tara Mann ’18............................................................28 Art, Malala....................................................................... Christina Kwon ’21....................................................29 Prose, Purgatorio or The Routine..................................... Rachel D’Agui ’18......................................................30 Art, Dancer at Barre......................................................... Ava Owens ’20..........................................................31 Poem, The Cracking of the Spine.................................... Gracie Gaon ’21........................................................34 Photograph, Belajar Berenang..................................................Fila Oen ’18......................................................................... 34 Poem, The House............................................................ Lucinda Swearengen ’18...........................................35 Poem, The Orchestra’s Entrance..................................... Cayleigh Capaldi ’18..................................................36 Art, Untitled..................................................................... Rosemary Lee ’20.....................................................37 Prose, Selfish for Success............................................... Damiera Cruz ’20.......................................................38 Photograph, Xiang Zi....................................................... Angelia Shi ’21...........................................................40 Art, The Instant................................................................ Ari Trueba ’19............................................................42 Poem, O, How You Shall Be Remembered...................... Ariana Fadel ’18.........................................................43 Prose, Luck Be a Lady..................................................... Tara Mann ’18............................................................44 Art, Self Portrait............................................................... Marina Butler ’21.......................................................47 Poem, Nine Ways of Listening to Music........................... Tara Mann ’18............................................................48 Photograph, Untitled....................................................... Michelle Lau ’18.........................................................49 Photograph, Untitled....................................................... Lulu Fang ’18.............................................................50 Poem, Starry Night.......................................................... Georgina Burton ’20..................................................51 Art, Untitled..................................................................... Maddie Oh ’18...........................................................52 Poem, Manifestation of Beasts........................................ Olivia Gebreamlak ’19................................................53 Poem, Buglove................................................................ Cayleigh Capaldi ’18..................................................54 Art, Untitled..................................................................... Vivien Yip ’18.............................................................55 Poem, We....................................................................... Georgina Burton ’20..................................................56 Poem, Ex Machina.......................................................... Grace Young ’18........................................................57 Poem, Deceiving Pleasures............................................. Audrey Nixon ’19.......................................................58 Photograph, Shajin.......................................................... Dana Zeng ’19...........................................................58 Poem, Santa Catalina Exit Exam...................................... Grace Young ’18........................................................59 Photograph, Swimmer..................................................... Sarah Sheetz ’21.......................................................60 Photograph, The Ody-sea............................................... Cayleigh Capaldi ’18..........................Inside Back Cover Art, Submerged............................................................... Sum Yue Guan ’19......................................Back Cover

To experience more of Santa Catalina’s creativity, please enjoy Mosaic 2018, an album of music written and performed by students. It is available for download at: soundcloud.com/santacatalinaschool/sets/mosaic-2018. To listen on a mobile device, you must install and log into the SoundCloud app.

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The Kiss, Rachel D’Agui ’18, digital print

Acknowledgments Ms. Meg Bradley Dr. Kassandra T. Brenot ’87 Sister Claire Sister Christine Mrs. Michelle Avery Ms. Crystal Boyd ’89 Ms. Katherine Burkhuch Ms. Jeannie Evers Ms. Claire Lerner Dr. Gerry Kapolka Ms. Liesel Kuehl Dr. John Murphy Ms. Jen Rocha Ms. Akemi Ueda Mr. Fred White …and all the students of Santa Catalina who submitted their work.

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A Good Book By Tara Mann ’18

A good book is a nap after the day, With long and restful peace to calm your mind, And take you on a journey, slow and gay, And show you worlds that you will never find. A good book is the life you want to know, Without all the pain and woeful heartbreak. Like warmth at the end of the winter snow, And friends with which to watch the last snowflake. A good book is like nothing else you’ve seen. In its crisp pages you’ll soar like a dove, Then in your heart there is no in between, When you at last find a book that you love. Like the summer that always ends too quick, A good book is the one that you will pick.

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Is This on the Test? By Damiera Cruz ’20

Sophomore Bertha Robinson has the real questions.

cramming four weeks of material in during my free before this class.”

Classroom 15, in the building that everyone has classes in but no one knows the name of.

Bertha’s Apple Watch showed it was 2:20. She contemplated convincing Dr. Smartt that today was a special schedule. Her hand shot up.

Dr. Smartt had been lecturing about logarithms, until sophomore Bertha Robinson interrupted, “Hey, Dr. Smartt, is like this stuff going to be on the test next week? Honestly, I haven’t really been paying attention. I’ve been on Buzzfeed taking the quiz ‘Which Shakespearean Pick-up Line Are You, Based on Your Rap Preferences?’” “No, Bertha, this will not be on the exam,” he replied smartly. “I just stand up here for fun. Now that you mentioned it, logarithms are just a metaphor for life.” Bertha returned to her quiz; she was having difficulty choosing between Kanye West and Drake. He continued rambling about how his time at Cornell had taught him how grades and studying did not matter in the long run. Once again Bertha interrupted, “So is that like a yes or a no? I want to know if I have to pull an all-nighter the day before the exam, but actually end up watching a Wii music compilation on YouTube, then

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“Yes, Bertha?” She put her notebook in her bag, “I think you were supposed to let us go 5 minutes ago. It’s a special schedule.” “I don’t remember that… Let me check my email.” He opened his inbox which was displayed on the whiteboard. A flood of lost item emails were clustered at the top. The most recent read: Lost motivation; plz help I have 4 tests. Followed by: Looking for all the shade thrown in my math class and Looking for friends! I’ll pay. “Hmmm. I don’t see it.” Bertha frowned. Dr. Smartt sighed, “You know, I really would just like you girls to be engaged in the material and learn it for the sake of learning, not because it’s going to be on the exam.” “Then don’t put it on the exam lol.” She was still clueless, but she figured, hey, there’s always SparkNotes!

Auction Number 18,369 The Geisha’s Kiss, Sum Yue Guan ’19, acrylic painting, 18”x24”

By Olivia Gebreamlak ’19

I’d rip out your heart and soul Rearrange it in a bowl I’d spit on it What a fiend I am Take it and never give it back What a thief I am For our soul if putrid a vile concoction I am the Grim Reaper and your life is for auction

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Untitled, Christina Kwon ’21, digital media, 13”x8.5”

The Things She Remembered By Cayleigh Capaldi ’18

She kept the photograph underneath her mattress, and took it out and looked at it every night before the siren cried out and her Head hit the pillow. The picture was taken years ago, and of this She was well aware, for nothing on the Ship looked so ornate, or so easily discarded—but every time She looked at it, felt its fraying edges, read every one of its yellowing words, She could leave her sleeping berth and roam around in the ever-shrinking valley of her Memories. Her Memories of yesterday seemed to dwindle every day, as new ones took 8 mosaic

their place and left her past homeless. The wake-up siren, sounding every morning promptly at 6, would turn her Dreams to ashes, and her Imagination was caged when She walked into the workroom. The beds were hard, planks of un-sanded wood, and sent splinters shooting into her Consciousness. She would always dare her Mind to wander, bounce off the two-way mirrors and pad softly across the glass floors. She was shackled and transfixed until 6 at night, when the second siren of the day blasted through the speakers and her Imagination was freed. Now She could

think openly, and set her Mind to the task of Remembering what She was slowly Forgetting. The task of Remembering was aided, somewhat, by the yellowing picture underneath her mattress. When She looked at it, after leaving her compartment door ajar at the enforced angle, her Imagination stopped on its treadmill and kept still, so that the Truth could sneak by and make its way into the center stage of her Brain. Then, She’d think; feeling herself getting closer to unboxing what had happened Before, the tumultuous volleys of butterflies soaring around her Stomach and eventually ripping her Insides to shreds. She would then always shove the yellowing picture back under her mattress, and wait for the evening siren to shock her to sleep. There was one person who kept incessantly getting in the way of her Remembering. Whenever She encountered Pryce, her Consciousness would slip into Obedience, and She would surrender to Forgetting and to him. One day, She decided to take a morning walk. Suddenly Pryce materialized in front her. He looked at her with condescending eyes and

spoke to her with a smirk tangled in his breath. “What are you doing outside, She?” said Pryce. “Morning exercise, sir,” She said. “And what makes you think you could partake in such activities?” Pryce said with his sarcastic enunciation. “I thought it pleasurable, sir.” She could feel the after-sting across her Cheek before Pryce even lifted his hand. “Watch yourself, little lady. Who knows who might cross paths with you next time?” His dark chuckle reverberated across his chest as he whispered in She’s Ear, “There are many on this Ship who would do anything to get a taste of your Insolence.” And with that, Pryce left, but not before scanning the barcode on She’s Lips. That night, She began to feel a new emotion. She was scared, but exhilarated—scared, because She had deliberately Forgotten this feeling; exhilarated, because She was beginning to Remember. She thought of the yellowing picture underneath her mattress. It would help the Emotion to show its face, She thought. She did The Publication of the Arts

not know how well She could discipline this new Emotion when awakened. But the Emotion was coursing through her Veins, and, feeling this, She snatched the yellowing picture from underneath her mattress and held it in her trembling Hands. She stared. Hard. She didnâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t let her Eyes blink, even when She felt the burn set in. She felt the Haze clearing from her Mind, slowly, slowly. What felt like hours passed. She began seeing hues. Orange. Yellow. Crimson. Deep red. A crystal night, no stars. Light pollution. The sound of crunching gravel and the bite of static dust clouding her Lungs. Heat, pressed against her Face, and nowhere else. Her Cheeks became wet, and She was suddenly Remembering. The door of the house in the yellowing picture and her Memories opened to her, and She walked inside. She saw a living room, furnished, and on a television screen in the corner of the room, She saw a woman in a pantsuit walking into a stately white house, a flag pinned to her lapel. There was a man, cooking in the kitchen. He wore a black apron and his hair was meticulously trimmed. He did not look like Pryce, nor any other man on the Ship. She tip-toed 10 mosaic

toward the opposite side of the room, desperately trying not to draw attention, and saw a valley of green vines. When She turned around, She caught herself in a mirror, and She jumped. It was framed with lead, the sunlight streaming onto the surface and turning it into stained-glass. She saw her Face. There were no Scars. It was Pretty. And her name was Zara. The evening siren shrieked and Fear replaced the Curiosity in her veins. She was no stranger to this Emotion. She placed the yellowing picture under her mattress, but this time, She did it so delicately, as if it were a fresh blossom, waiting to be scorched. Had any of the others gone this far? She dared to Wonder if any of the other Shes had kept a relic from her past life, when each woman was still captain of her own Ship. She thought the others looked unchanged; they dressed in the same uniform, they called each other by the same name, their Bodies remained commoditized, their Emotions hijacked. But maybe they had their Secrets, too. When She rested her Head on the pillow that night, She did not feel her Eyelids droop Obediently.

This was odd, She thought. That was different. Maybe She had taken the Remembering too far. She shivered at the consequences.

her, something that had been taken away when She boarded the ship,

They had taught her that the Forgetting was Good, and the Remembering was Evil. The Remembering dwelled on the past, and the Forgetting ushered humanity into the future. A safe future, She recalled being instructed.

Nothing was safe about what She felt in her Bones, when her Eyelids did not droop. She Remembered that this feeling was called Rebellion. The yellowing picture gave her Strength, and She decided that, when the morning siren sounded, She would not Obey.

Untitled, Grace Young ’18, digital painting, 4”x7”

Something new was pulsing inside of

something vilified and whipped into obscurity. Courage.

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Untitled, Charlotte Gerzanics â&#x20AC;&#x2122;18, digital print

Six and a Half Ways to Notice Her By Ariana Fadel ’18

1. 2. 3. 4. 5. 6. 6½.

watch her sit one row in front and two seats to the right. accidentally make eye contact with her, then look away, as you were. see her turn around waving, excited; spot her friend beside you waving, delighted; and realize, too late, you’ve begun to wave back, uninvited. daydream a magnificent, far-fetched fantasy and lose all sense of this dismal reality. hear the teacher call your name with sudden clarity and watch her laugh to herself, quietly. count the remaining minutes and see her do the same, and together engage in this class’s waiting game. turn to the dust lining the window frame, but then look back as your feelings inflame and wish desperately that you knew her name. just before class ends, notice her raise her hand and her smile as she talks that only grows as she stands. look down at your feet, your heart loud as a brass band, and wonder if anyone else could possibly understand how it feels when you are stuck having no command over the crashing emotions you can barely withstand. but, as you look away from her at the door to the nervous tapping of your shoes on the floor, you miss her eyes flick back, searching longingly for yours– somehow, despite the odds, it is you she has fallen for. The Publication of the Arts

Untitled By Georgina Burton ’20

Nature was the endless sky, to grass and grains below. Nature was the loving clouds with rain and hail and snow. Nature was the icy peaks on mountains that touched the sky. Nature was the balanced sun that kept our pathways dry. Nature was what God gave, from sea to sandy dune, From reaching trees to all we pleased was all that mattered soon…

Nature is the dying winter, the longer reign of fall. Nature is the rising waters on the arctic’s melting walls. Nature is the rain delay from west coast to up north, Nature is the hurricanes from 2 to 3 till 4. Nature is the toxic air we created one by one, We’re pointing fingers, giving blame, when the fault is everyone.

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Untitled, Sum Yue Guan ’19, pen drawing, 5”x5”

16 mosaic Untitled, Emma Roffler ’18, graphic design, 4.5”x6.5”

Untitled by Ariana Fadel ’18

Slumped against a set piece offstage, he reluctantly watched her perform the closing number. He tried to look away, but, bathed in blue light, she was a living dream; meanwhile, submerged in darkness, he was merely a shadow. If only this were the first time, not the last, that he’d hear her sing. “Probably better this way,” he thought wryly. “Recurring heartbreak can’t be good for you.” As the conductor’s baton slowed, the lights dimmed, and applause filled the auditorium. But, just before the stage went dark, she turned to him … and smiled. And, in that moment, his heart finally shattered.

Tempting Fate By Grace Young ’18

He couldn’t remember when he had started closing his eyes on dark highways. It was a game he often played, throwing rocks at God’s window, daring the universe to lead the car astray. True believers have always needed God in unholy ways: seconds before a red light turns, in the dripping aftermath of a bar brawl. He felt his wheels drift. Behind his lids, the oncoming headlights blazed violently. He yanked the wheel, coasting into his own lane, laughing to himself. True believers needed fear the way most people need God: in the roaring blaze of headlights, seconds before the unthinkable.

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D.M.’s Lament By Cleo Kent-Davy ’18

and oh, although, I say it with a sigh, the handbook has no rule that says you can’t, so go ahead and roll the stupid die. of all this, oh I just wash my hands. oh dear, is that a nat 1 that I see? I fear, my friend, your fate is in my hands. perhaps you’ll come to regret testing me when up you come to meet your fiery end. be ready as I roll to seal your fate. it’s such a shame your character must die... oh god! I see that number that I hate! it seems, my friend, you get another try

Inferno, Molly Gilbert ’19, digital painting, 15”x10”

again you roll the 20-sided die— a natural 20; oh why do I try?

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Before I Go By Grace Young ’18

The trees of the valley were beginning to straighten their spines and exhale after a long day of hunching under the sweltering sky. The midsummer wind carried a smell of dust, honey, something neither Angel nor Treelore could name but loved the way it sparked laughter on their lips. In the cab of Angel’s truck the radio sung hazy and low. Treelore sang much the same way, his voice sweet and unpredictable. A young man of seventeen, his wide eyes framed by round glasses, his spindle fingers twitching to reach out and grab the world whole. Where Treelore was wirey, Angel, nineteen, was strong. His tendons snaked down his arms like creek beds, his dry laugh was a baked desert. They felt unstoppable, their skin drank in the starlight. When Angel killed the engine outside of the old house, Treelore grinned with excitement. This was a night for drinking, for watching the way Angel’s eyes crinkled up when he smiled, for kicking around a skeletal house. The house was a falling down mess. Where it once was sheltered by a black shingle carapace, its roof was now

riddled with skylights. The floor sagged beneath their weights, its old planks sighing as they walked. In what the boys guessed was the parlor sat two mothbitten recliners that faced out into the backyard. The wall that once was there had since rotted away. The parlor was filled with sweet summer air and fireflies that worriedly bumbled about. Angel and Treelore settled into their seats without bothering to brush away the dust. Both boys had come bearing gifts: Treelore a pack of Luckies cigarettes, “borrowed” from his father. Angel sat a six pack of warm beer between the two chairs. There was a gentle quiet in the valley, a reverence paid to the boys and their tradition. Each Midsummer’s Eve, they sat in these chairs, they drank, smoked, and surveilled their kingdom of wildflowers that ran wild in thickets. They were gods of summer. They were Angel and Treelore, fast and wild. Except something was different this Midsummer’s Eve. There was a flatness to Angel’s eyes, a sense of desperation in the way he pounded beer. Eventually, Treelore stopped nudging the conversation along. He watched Angel The Publication of the Arts

down his fourth beer and a sense of dread welled up in Treelore. The light faded, leaving two smoldering smoke cherries, lightening bugs, and a dark void that swallowed all else. Treelore was summoning the courage to ask Angel what was wrong when suddenly Angel was up out of his chair. He watched, stunned, as Angel vomited from the edge of the parlor into the backyard flowers. His heaves wracked his body. Treelore cautiously got up, and laid his wide hands on Angel’s back, fearing he might fall from the house face first into the jungle garden. When Angel was finished, Treelore steered him away from the edge. “Angel, let me take you home.” Angel nodded minutely and allowed himself to be guided from the house’s bones out into the night. Treelore half lifted him into the truck cab, buckled him in, and went around to the driver’s side of Angel’s truck.

“What do you mean you’ve been drafted, Angel?” Treelore’s voice was barely above a whisper. He was not looking at Angel. Treelore wanted to cover his ears with both hands and stomp and sing to drown Angel out. “Treelore, I’ve been drafted. I’m shipping out for basic in Kentucky today. They’re sending me to Vietnam.” “No, Angel, you’re—” “Treelore—” “No! Angel you listen! You’re not going anywhere. It’s fine, this is all just a misunderstanding. It’s…” “It’s happening, whether you or me or anyone wants it. Treelore, I’m leaving.” Treelore felt the pinpricks of heartbroken tears. He scrubbed them away with angry fists, furious at himself for showing Angel his hurt. “But you’re my best friend, Angel…”

Treelore brought Angel home, and walked the two miles back to his house. The air was alive with the chirruping of insects but Treelore felt a chill run through him.

“I know, Treelore, and you’re mine. I’m so sorry. Look, there’s something…I have to do and if I don’t do it now, I’m afraid I never will.” Angel looked down at his shoes, his voice dropping to a pained whisper.

…

“What is it?”

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Angel took a deep breath, as if deliberating his next action. He leaned forward lightening quick and crushed his lips to Treelore’s. Treelore was frozen, eyes wide, the static in his head dialing up in volume. It lasted for a long second, before Angel broke away. “That.” Treelore was speechless. “Stay in school, Treelore. They’re not drafting college students…” Treelore waited, all his words sunk down to his stomach. He wasn’t sure if he was about to choke or throw them back up. Angel turned, and walked back to his truck. He drove away without another word. Treelore was consumed by the silence. … Five years later, Treelore was in his junior year of college. He was a prodigal son returned home for the holidays. His mama had almost forgiven him for going to college across the country. She sensed her son was running from something. She always said, the ghosts in your attic will drive you mad long before the skeletons in your closet will. Treelore always wondered if ghosts and angels were interchangeable. He

was sitting in the overstuffed La-Z-Boy by the window. Pale amber Christmas lights dripped from the gutter. The house smelled of nutmeg. Christmas was four days away. Treelore watched moths beneath the lights, watching the subtle dip of powered wings. The shrill ring of the phone lurched him from reverie. “Hello?” He asked. “Treelore?” Treelore felt his stomach fall dead away. He knew that voice. “Angel.” There was a soft, tired laugh. “Yeah, man. I’m home. I’ve been home. Can you come see me?” Treelore managed to choke out “Yes, of course, he’d be there in ten.” He called to his mother in the kitchen that he was going out and he’d be back by dinner. He ran out the door, nearly forgetting his thick, downy coat from the peg by the door. Winter in the valley was biting. It breathed soft ice into your joints and left your lips blue and cracked. His father’s car engine sputtered before flaring to life. He sped off toward Angel’s house. Angel’s mother opened the door and invited him in. Treelore found Angel sitting on a raggedy couch in his The Publication of the Arts

parents’ living room, the TV whispering. A cane was propped against the couch next to Angel. Treelore almost couldn’t believe this. Angel, alive and sitting before him, with long unkempt hair and sad, tired eyes. Angel, who Treelore had spent nights dreaming about, his mind painting pictures of him dead in a jungle trap, dead in a rice paddy. Dead, dead, dead. Angel spoke first. Angel always spoke first.

“Is it yours?” Treelore asked, cocking his head toward the cane. “Yeah,” Angel said. “I have to walk with it now. My knee was shredded up in booby a trap. I waited three days for a medic. When they found me I was delirious with infection, burning up something awful.” “Oh my god. When did that happen?,” asked Treelore. Angel hesitated.

#736, Dana Zeng ’19, digital print

“Hey bud. I missed you. Come, sit with me.” Treelore somehow willed his legs to carry him around to the couch

and gently set himself beside Angel. Treelore’s eyes danced to the cane and away and back again.

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“Six months after I shipped out…I was sent home after they fixed me.” Treelore felt a cold feeling settle in him. It was soon replaced by blistering hot anger. “You left me hanging for five years Angel! I thought you were dead…” “Treelore, I know I’m—” “No, don’t—”

chest. Angel took Treelore’s spindly hand in his own calloused one. They were seventeen and nineteen again. They were Angel and Treelore, wild boys who had never seen a jungle beyond the thickets outside the bone house. Maybe, Treelore thought, tomorrow they’d drive out there. Maybe he’d hold Angel’s hand as they drove. Just maybe.

“Treelore listen, when I got back, I couldn’t see anyone. I couldn’t talk to anyone. I just slept. I wasn’t me when I came back. I needed…I needed time, Treelore. You can understand that, right?” Treelore felt the anger leech out of him. He looked at Angel, and felt a wound that had refused to drain for the past five years. “Yeah, of course I can. We don’t have to talk about it tonight.” There was a soft silence that seemed to swallow the static cooing of the TV and the clatter of cooking activity from the kitchen. “Your hair’s long now,” Angel said tentatively. He reached out and with a gentle hand tucked a lock of Treelore’s natural hair behind his ear. “I like it.” Treelore felt a rush of warmth in his

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24 mosaic Untitled, Maddie Oh ’18, acrylic painting, 7.5”x9.5”

Frog Song By Cleo Kent-Davy ’18

Before I can remember I filled a jar with pollywogs and watched them turn the water clear, from green taken from that half pond place of life built atop a plastic sheet I searched out frogs in a swamp made from abandoned fields in a 200 year rainstorm I heard them singing sweet but couldn’t find the source I caught them at a wedding once, with a boy I didn’t know and who I’d never meet again They leapt from our hands and we watched their watchful eyes among the lillypads It was Sunday and I met a girl with Toad Eyes and brown hair Her face was cratered like the moon and as constellation-splashed as the night sky and she laughed like somebody who understood It was a Sunday, in the forest down in the old reclaimed gully by the frog pond she was a field biologist and my heart was desperate for a wild place She opened her hand, with a smile that split open the sky, and showed me the tiny frog in her palm “It’s frogs all the way down,” she told me and I have never been the same

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Fire by Caroline Stewart ’18

She is the light On your darkest night And the spark who Gives comfort when due She brings joy to rooms Filled with gloom And keeps you warm In times of storm With one glance You begin to feel the dance And with one feel It becomes surreal

Light in the Darkness, Molly Gilbert ’19, digital painting, 9”x5”

Her name is fire And she heats your desire From one spark to the next She settles the hex

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To Me, You Will Forever Be the Wind By Ariana Fadel ’18

To me, you will forever be the wind – You are the summer’s merciful cool breeze, Providing solace after clouds have thinned And brutal Sun has brought me to my knees. You are a righteous gale along the coast Who throws herself against morose cliffsides To save those at the edge who seek their ghost. If not for you, strong wind, I would have died. For you, my love, are the air that I breathe – You are the inhale of a new pure day, The exhale as the fierce night is unsheathed – Reviving me, you take my breath away. And, just as wind is pointless to pursue, He has ordained that I cannot have you.

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Laceneck By Tara Mann â&#x20AC;&#x2122;18

Webspiders made of lace Crawled up her throat and face, Her fingers reaching in vain for the far off bowrain. She stood tied-tongue, Clearly overstrung, The thought of him sweetbitter As she began to shiver. He flitted off like a bee, That provided honey for her cup-tea, As they began to move apart, Her pain wrenching-heart. Down the streets they both fled, The ache in her heart fulldread, And as she looked in the mirror, Her misery became so much clearer. The memory of him began to fade, But never would his marktrade, Of ink imprinted upon her skin, Contrasting like yang-yin. Webspiders made of lace Crawled up her throat and face, That she never needed to check, To see the permanent laceneck.

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Malala, Christina Kwon ’21, digital media, 5”x4.5”

Purgatorio or The Routine By Rachel D’Agui ’18

The sins of the day weigh heavily on her. The unexpected exhausts her, and she feels droopy and heavy from the happenings of the day: a surprise visit from a friend, running out of milk, the car needs gas, an unplanned meeting. Someone had messed with the items on her desk; they weren’t the way she’d left them. She’d had a brief adrenaline rush when she couldn’t find her notepad and favorite pen, which usually reside on the left side of her desk, approximately 5 inches from her water glass. The instantaneous fear subsided when she noticed them on the other side of her desk, the wrong side. The janitor must have moved it, she thought. She shouldn’t have needed to worry, because she always buys the things she likes (or rather, is used to) in multiples. There are three of the exact same notepads in the bottom right drawer of her desk. But if her notepad went missing, and she had to use one of her replacement notepads, she’d have to replace her replacement notepad, in case she lost another, which would mean having to make a special trip to the store that same day or continue to suffer the anxiety. So she was gripped 30 mosaic

with intense worry when she noticed its absence. Her heart rate increased, she became short of breath, and she started to sweat. And she breathed a sigh of relief and began to come down from her anxiety high, when, ten seconds later, she found the notepad and pen on the other side of her desk. This specific kind of stress was a common occurrence for her, perhaps even a daily one. It came hand-in-hand with each surprise, each unexpected occurrence. So with the day’s surprises weighing heavily on her shoulders, she got in the car. Well, first she placed her bags in the trunk. Loose objects in the car made her uncomfortable. She hated to hear things shifting or rolling in the back seat. When she arrived home, after hitting unexpected traffic from an accident, she was relieved. Now, she could begin The Routine. First, shoes come off. Now, reader, you may be picturing a woman, just come back from a long day at work, kicking off her shoes haphazardly, letting down her hair, and jumping onto the couch to lounge. I hope it does not disappoint you that this is not what The Routine

She didn’t bring it back from the office, she has three of them at home. After she completes her journal entry, it is time to shower. It is Thursday, which means that she must wash her hair. Her skirt is still clean. She puts it on a hanger and puts it away. The rest of her clothing is dirty, so she brings it immediately to the laundry room, puts it in the machine, and sets it to quick wash: thirty-five minutes. It will be ready to come out as soon as she gets out of the shower. She heads to the bathroom. Shower on. It takes fifteen seconds to heat up, in which time she takes off her jewelry and lets down her hair. The water is warm now, and she enters the shower, turning on

Dancer at Barre, Ava Owens ’20, magazine collage, 13”x10”

consists of. The shoes go in the hallway, in a closed wooden shoe rack. These shoes, black kitten heels, go in the leftmost slot. Next to them are an exactly identical pair. Next to those are another identical pair. Next to those are two pairs, also the same shoe, but tan. Next to those are two pairs of boots, identical in style, one brown, one black. All of the shoes are real leather. She polishes them every Tuesday at 8:15pm. Her next stop is her bedroom. She sits at her desk, opens her journal, and begins to record. She doesn’t mention many emotions, only writing a factual and detailed account of her day. She writes her journal entries with her favorite pen.

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the light and vent. First, she shampoos her hair. Next, she splits it into two sections. She puts conditioner on the right side first. Then, she grabs a comb and detangles this section, starting from the bottom. She repeats this on the left side. Her frustration with the day’s unpredictability falls away like the tangles in her hair. The conditioner needs to sit now, for the exact amount of time it will take to finish her other shower routines. Finally, she rinses her hair and turns off the shower. First, she dries her face with a white towel. Second, she wraps her hair in a grey towel. Lastly, she dries off with a black towel. Next, she goes back to her bedroom, where she pulls out her phone to check the weather. When it is below sixty-five degrees, she wears warm flannel pajamas, always a matching a set. When it is warmer than sixty-five degrees, she wears lighter, cotton pajamas, also a matching set. Her phone says that it is sixty-four degrees. She puts on the flannel pajamas. She walks back to the laundry room, just as the washing machine alarms. She pulls out today’s work clothes and hangs them to dry. It is now 6:45 p.m. She heads to the kitchen and pulls a bowl of soup out of the refrigerator. She had made a week’s worth, seven servings, on Sunday, and 32 mosaic

placed them each in seven individual matching bowls. She pours the soup into a saucepan, already on the stove, to warm it. In the meanwhile, she takes her medicine. She swallows three pills, one a vitamin. After this, she turns back to the soup. When it is hot, she pours it back into the bowl. She takes the saucepan and runs it under cold water in the sink, quickly cooling it, before washing it. She dries it, then places it back on the stove. She brings her soup to the living room and clicks on the television. It is now 7:00 p.m., and Jeopardy is beginning. She enjoys her soup and a can of seltzer water while watching the show, tallying her score on the notepad that sits next to her favorite spot at the table. She finishes her dinner just as the show ends, as usual. She glances at her score. She won. People always suggest that she should audition, and sometimes she thinks to herself, “That is a good idea!,” but when she thinks about the practicality of the venture, the plane rides (and surely, delayed flights), the waiting rooms, the unpredictability of the entire matter, she balks, and contents herself with The Routine. Now that Jeopardy is over, she brings her dish and spoon to the kitchen. She washes them and puts them in the cabinet. She returns to her room to prepare for the next day.

She lays out her clothing, organizes her briefcase, and updates her agenda, attempting to catalog all the events that tomorrow will hold. Soon it is 9:00 p.m. Bedtime. She slips into bed, content and happy. She is no longer plagued with the anxiety of an unpredictable day. She has reached her safe haven, her paradise, where all things are timely, predictable, and harmonious. The Routine will continue in the morning. Her alarm will ring at 6:30 a.m. She will sit up and catch up on the news on her cell phone for 10 minutes. At 6:40 a.m., she will get out of bed and head to the kitchen. She will grab a pan, also already on the stove, and heat some butter in it. While the butter melts, she will place two pieces of bread in the toaster oven and grab two eggs from the fridge. She will crack the eggs into the pan and consequently turn on the toaster. When the toaster dings, she will flip the eggs. Leaving them on the stove, she will

butter the toast, put it on a plate, and pour herself a half cup of orange juice. By the time this is done, the eggs will be perfectly cooked. She will slide them onto the plate and immediately wash the pan, placing it back on the stove, next to the saucepan. With breakfast, the finale to The Routine, complete, she will venture into the real world, exposing her vulnerabilities to its innate unpredictability. And when she comes home, undoubtedly shaken by the day’s events, she will repeat The Routine and reach Nirvana again. The Routine is harnessed harmony. It is a series of cooperating tasks, perfectly timed to fit together, which results in minimal wasted time and maximum completion of the night’s duties. It doesn’t change. It doesn’t falter. There is no surprise or mystery. It is constant. It is reliable. Most importantly, it culminates in her soothed and happy mind and soul.

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The Cracking of the Spine By Gracie Gaon ’21

Grab it off the shelf Place it on the counter And give the cashier your money Driving home, thinking, I can’t wait to crack the spine. Take it out of the bag, Moment of truth, I open the hardcover book, And the spine cracks. Oh, how I can’t wait To read a new story, Something about the smell of a new book, Like smelling the fresh snowfall in the wintertime, It gets me excited,

Belajar Berenang, Fila Oen ’18, digital print

I place my glasses on my face, And begin.

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The House By Lucinda Swearengen ’18

The house as old as time itself Perched upon the cliffside shelf Peering over the people below Basking in the sun’s warm glow But in this castle that looms above Composed of what memories are made of It creaks and sighs from what it can see And in its heart grows jealousy The gnarled trees reach towards the sky Grasping the moon and birds that come by Wishing to hold the clouds that pass And embrace the people that lay on the grass But once in a while with the pulls of the tide A few weary travelers walk on inside To marvel the beauty that man had created The house stands tall feeling elated But then the nagging begins once more And the resentment grows bigger than before It closes its doors and shuts the shutters The house’s old heart suddenly flutters The imprisoned people drop through the floor And gaze on the house’s deep rooted gore The gnarled heart reaches for those who fall And with a swift motion, devours them all And so the house stands looking new as day The old phantoms seem to fade away The welcoming hands open its door Beckoning breakfast, hungry for more

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The Orchestraâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s Entrance By Cayleigh Capaldi â&#x20AC;&#x2122;18

The strings lead the way into the sound, They are the brave and dauntless sword Silencing the boisterous audience with a bow of steel, Demanding hushed respect and wielding dynamic authority. The french horns follow and ride the wave of vibration, Carrying the history of kings and galloping in a lower octave, Bowing to the balcony with a rush of noise That bears a resonance felt in the smallest platelets of the blood. The flutes and woodwinds flit in gracefully, Playing in the watery din that has arisen, Gently floating upon a charged breeze, Softly weeping cries of joy. The timpani awakens the rhythm section, Disgruntled by the sudden noise surrounding them, Animating the body that is the orchestra With the driving heartbeat pumping energy through the music. Finally, the silent leader emerges, The conductor brandishes his mighty baton like a wand, Mesmerizing the instruments and silencing them with a single flick, Hypnotizing and commanding as the body of music leaps up and dances.

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Untitled, Rosemary Lee ’20, magazine collage, 10”x13”

Selfish for Success By Damiera Cruz ’20

I sunk into the sand letting the mist embrace me. The gloomy Monterey weather always made me consider everything, though I didn’t have anything to contemplate. I had a bright future ahead of me anyways, at least that’s what they always said. I guess I knew it was true too, yet these feeling of doubt still manage to surface. These feelings are ridiculous; I just needed to snap out of it. I was acting ungrateful since I had gotten what I wanted, next fall I was heading to Cornell to study premed. Which would put me in a fantastic position to get into Johns Hopkins’ med school, all of this leads me up to my goal of becoming a pediatric surgeon. With my knowledge, I could go on and change the world; I would go off to developing countries and create cures for diseases plaguing the children in these areas. I would make the world a better place. Opening my eyes, I looked up and met a familiar pair of blue ones, Jack. The grey skies made his eyes stand out even more; they were striking. I sat up clutching my knees to my chest. Jack plopped down next to me and smiled. I 38 mosaic

could smell the faint traces of salt water. He had gone out earlier today. Jack pulled me into his lap and enveloped me in his warmth. With every breath he took, I could feel his firm muscles contracting and releasing. “You’re thinking about something. I can tell.” His voice was hot against my neck. “How was it out there today?” I stared into the vast ocean. Jack clicked his tongue, “I went out around six this morning. It was too choppy. I probably got about one good ride.” Though I wasn’t looking at him, I could see his eyes looking out into the waves searching for that perfect ride. He intertwined his fingers with mine. “Anyway what’s up, babe?” I clenched my jaw, a small part of me wished that he never asked this so we could stay like this forever. I wouldn’t have to worry about the future whether or not my plans would work out and I could just feel normal. No sleepless nights due to studying, I could just be in the moment with Jack. “Nothing.” The longer I stayed like this

the closer my façade came to cracking. If my façade cracked, I knew I wouldn’t be able to pull the trigger. “Jack.” He laughed, the same cute chuckle I fell in love with, “Yes, Delilah?” I inhaled sharply. I have to do it; it’s best for us, it’s best for me. Jack started massaging circles into my hand, that was his go to when he knew I was stressed out. I hated that he could read me. “Jack, I don’t want you to go to Ithaca.” I deadpanned. He rose to his feet, coming closer, hurt flashed in his eyes, “What do you mean?” “I’ll tell you my plan again—” He was stumbling. “If that’s what you need. I can do it, I really can. I’ll move with you to Ithaca but, I’ll live outta my trusty van. While you go to school, I can check out the Ithaca surf scene and maybe teach some lessons for some money. I mean only until you finis—” “No Jack, I don’t want you to go with me. Listen, Jack, it’s better for us, I promise.” “Give me a reason.” Jack, why did you have to be so stubborn? I’m trying not to hurt you.

“I mean I’m just some stupid girl you’re dating now—I’m not worth it, following me to Cornell would be stupid. You got into the Harvard of surfing the University of Hawaii, and you should take advantage of your opportunities. Going to Hawaii would be the best thing for you. It will be an important step in you becoming a professional surfer.” I didn’t realize I was yelling until I noticed Jack had taken a step back. He looked as if he was about to fall. He forced eye contact, “What if you are all I care about, Delilah? What if I told you that you, Delilah, are the best thing for me? And what if I said that you are worth it, Delilah. And that I would happily sacrifice everything to be with you.” I wanted to cry. Jack was so stupid! Can’t he see that we can’t be together if we’re going to accomplish our goals? One person would abandon their life for the other. I was doing this for him. Panic overtook my system, “I… I.. don’t feel the same. You knew from the start that my goals would always trump our relationship. Don’t you remember the first thing I said when you asked me out? I said that if you were to get involved with me that you would only get hurt.” I wanted to kick myself. I didn’t mean this at all. I don’t know what I’m saying The Publication of the Arts

anymore—it was all coming out so fast. Why was I lying so much? “Do you remember what I said? I said I would gladly take that risk if it meant us being together,” he said through gritted teeth.

Xiang Zi, Angelia Shi ’21, digital print

“Jack its over.” I turned my back to him. I didn’t want him to see that tears were threatening to spill. His voice cracked, “Maybe you were selfish this whole time, Delilah. I thought I knew you. I thought I loved you. I guess I was wrong. Did you even actually care about me?” I felt like he had just slapped me. I wanted to run to Jack’s side and tell him that I just didn’t want to get hurt. I loved him, but I liked my goals more. I wanted to say that he is the best and hardest working person I know. I firmly believed that he had the potential to do groundbreaking things in the surf world. I didn’t want him to stop because of me. It wasn’t fair I was making an executive decision to hurt him so he wouldn’t hurt me. More than anything, it was about me. I knew that I wouldn’t be able to achieve my goals with Jack at my side. I was in so much pain. God, it hurt. But of course, my pride wouldn’t allow it. So I did what I could only do and left. 40 mosaic

—————————— Costa Rica was the total tropical paradise. However that meant diseases such as dengue fever, yellow fever, and malaria ran rampant. Delilah was now Dr. Delilah Finley and she had graduated top of her class at both Cornell and Johns Hopkins and had become a successful doctor. Currently, she was working in Costa Rica treating disadvantaged locals who had caught diseases from mosquitoes. She had also been researching ways they could prevent the mosquitos from carrying such diseases.

Delilah had just finished another 12-hour shift; she was looking forward to taking a run on the beach then grabbing some breakfast. She changed into a tank top and running shorts. Though she had been living in San Jose for four years, the humidity and heat still surprised her. She looked around as she strolled towards the exit of the hospital until a small blonde child crashed into her legs. She looked at the child’s face, and something seemed so familiar about it. “Delilah, come here.” Dr. Finley’s head shot up, the child was still clinging to the top of her calves. A couple appeared laughing, the man had his hand wrapped around her waist, a wedding band on his hand. She instantly recognized him. “Jack?” Her face flushed. Jack had become more handsome, his jawline had defined even more, and his physique was that of a Greek statue. Granted she had seen pictures of him on various newspapers since he had become a legend in the sport of surfing; he was the first man to win a gold medal in the new Olympic sport of surfing. Jack was more impressive in person. Delilah Finley felt like she was in high school again, crushing on him.

eyes were tired. Delilah snapped back to reality. He laughed, the same laugh, “Delilah? Delilah Finley? I see you’re still wearing the same Cornell tank.” Jack had gotten that for her in their senior year. “Yeah,” Dr. Finley smiled at the child, “Hey there little one, my name is Delilah, too.” The woman extended her hand, “You’re Dr. Finley? Your research has saved our little one here. She had a terrible case of dengue fever. Thank you.” “Anyway, this is my wife, Amber, and my daughter, Delilah. Whom you already met.” He smiled. Looking at his watch, he inhaled, “I’m gonna be late for an interview. Catch you later, Delilah.” Dr. Finley smiled. Jack looked so happy with his family. She was glad. Now Dr. Finley just wondered, “what if?” And laughed at the sacrifices she made for success.

“I’m so sorry.” The woman smiled, her

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42 mosaic The Instant, Ari Trueba ’19, charcoal drawing, 14”x14”

O, How You Shall Be Remembered By Ariana Fadel ’18

O, how you shall be remembered – For you radiated with the dauntless energy of salty port air And possessed the deep hidden power of ancient castle sand, Yet were as absurd and magical as the slow-swimming fish sun of the sky. You drank the summer nights’ moon honey While shaking your snake rattle to the drunken song of the hot fly fire and the bright beam moon – And, once the night week ended, You ignored your night fort and slept in the swaying grass, In your dreams walking space and breaking day, Wielding your light lime and mint spear, All the while riding your radish horse As you raced towards the sun path war. At the final tick of the dial sun, You would be born anew – Your child brain spinning like a wheel daisy, Relishing the morning’s wise clock, Savoring the tap root of the bank river, Riding the surfing wind of the golden side country, And living the dream day that struck awe Cast broad across the lark sky. For you had made home in this hop bell life – No longer susceptible to the searing stick slap Or the ruthless rag wash; Freed from the ward way of the held house bird And the bootless bowl fish; And unshackled from the buried beat heart And the concluding crow scare in the final fall night. You shall be remembered, for you did not live a line life – Your’s was a natural super existence, Powered by the work fire Of the changing ever ever when.

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Luck Be a Lady By Tara Mann ’18

“I wonder what happened here,” Callie mused as she drove by the house. I turned in the passenger seat. The old Victorian-esque house looked the same as it always did. Red and tan paint covered the wood only in uneven splotches, revealing a dull gray and brown color beneath. Loose shingles on the roof had previously fallen off and lay in heaps on the ground. Glass fragments stuck out of empty window frames. The doors had mysteriously vanished years ago. The front steps of the house had been gone for a long time. The walls lacked a few planks here and there, giving me a wonderful view of the empty house. There was no furniture, and no walls separating the house into rooms. In fact, it was rather small. Behind the house sat a luscious expanse of green. The house was located just off the highway, where the farms operated. I wasn’t sure if the same crops were still grown there. Callie drove on, but the image stayed with me. I held my wife’s hand, trying to ignore the memories. I moved away to forget, but coming back . . . they refused to be neglected any longer. “Come on, Leo, truth or dare?” Maddie asked me. She was of medium height, 44 mosaic

with brown hair, green eyes, and a knack for manipulation. She giggled drunkenly, “It’s your turn.” We were about to be juniors in high school. My parents were out at a friend’s for a party, and they had left me in charge of the house. My friends came over for one last hurrah, and to celebrate my birthday. I looked out the window, seeing the farmland behind our house. The rich smell of strawberries had filled my childhood. I used to play out there in the fields, but my parents always said to stay close to our little house. The paint was perfect, and so was the construction of the house. It was almost entirely made out of wood. Polished glass sat in the window frames. An intricately carved wooden door opened and closed without so much as a tiny creak. There were two bedrooms, a living room, a bathroom, and a kitchen. The tasteful choices of furniture eliminated the cramped feeling of the small house. I had lived here with my parents ever since I could remember. They led simple lives as a car mechanic and a restaurant manager. A tiny shed behind the house held my father’s tools, along with a small table for little projects. Money was

usually tight, but the house was never one of our worries. It had been in the family for generations. It was our pride and joy. Whenever my friends wanted to hang out, they always volunteered me to host. We talked, played games, ate snacks. Everyone had fun. Maddie snapped her fingers, drawing my attention. I answered distractedly, “Uh . . . dare.” Alex and James cheered, and Laila threw popcorn at them. Alex, James, and I had been friends for a long time. Alex was a big buff guy, as a result of his position on the football team. James was the opposite of Alex—short, skinny, a lightweight, and a math genius. Alex, James, and Maddie were a dangerous combination together.

I cursed and Laila laughed. She leaned in and kissed me. When we separated, Laila sighed and rested her head in my lap, putting the bowl of popcorn on the floor. “I’m excited for you to open your present.” Laila grinned. A small, carefully wrapped box sat on the table in front of us, next to a few empty bottles of vodka. Laila had been smiling all week as she waited for me to find out what it was. “Let’s go!” Alex boomed as he, James, and Maddie ran past us and out the door. “Uh oh,” I gulped. “Come on, ‘Daredevil,’” Laila teased, getting up.

Laila was different, with blonde hair, blue eyes, and an easygoing attitude— until something went wrong. We first met and became good friends in middle school, but it wasn’t until our sophomore year in high school that we confessed our feelings for each other and began dating. She was always the responsible one.

Laila helped me stumble to my feet, and we followed the others outside. Alex, James, and Maddie stood in front the house, giggling to themselves. A large stick lay on the ground in front of them. Something smelled strange. Alex’s hands were behind his back.

Alex, James, and Maddie went into the other room to discuss my dare. Laila plopped down on the couch next to me. I smiled weakly.

The three of them exchanged a look and Alex held out one of my father’s welding torches. “Use this blow torch to light that stick on fire.” Alex said.

“Should I be scared?” I asked her.

My head buzzed. I wasn’t as wary as I should have been. “Piece of cake. Doesn’t seem like much of a dare.”

She raised her eyebrows, looking at me sideways. “You should’ve gone with truth.”

“Okay, what’s my dare?” I stammered.

Maddie tripped on her own feet and The Publication of the Arts

Alex caught her. “We want to see if you’ll do it.”

“Leo, are you okay? Are you hurt?” She asked, taking my hands.

I looked at Laila, who bit her lip. “I’ve got a bad feeling about this. That smell—”

I sucked in a breath, pulling my hands away. When I looked down at the hand that had held the stick, it was bright red, steaming, and blistered.

James interrupted, “You’re just burning up a stick. What, are you too chicken?” I grabbed the stick in my other hand, “Not a chance.” I sniffed the air and recoiled. “It smells weird. And it’s wet.” “So it won’t catch fire.” Alex added, grinning mischievously. “That smell, though.” Laila worried. “What?” I said. Laila shook her head. “Never mind.” I turned on the torch, holding it far away from me. A tiny blue flame sputtered to life at the end. I brought it closer to the stick. Just as the flame made contact, Laila gasped and shouted, “Gasoline!” The stick caught fire extremely quickly. When the flames raced towards my hand, I panicked. The welding torch hit the ground and my arm spasmed. The stick landed next to the house. “Are you crazy? Dousing it in gasoline?” Laila was screaming at Alex, James, and Maddie. “He could’ve been seriously burned! What is wrong with you?” The three of them only laughed while I stood frozen. Laila turned around. 46 mosaic

Laila’s face turned crimson and she faced our friends. “He burnt his hand! Why would you dare him to do that?” She whirled on me. “And why would you be stupid enough to go through with it?” I shrugged, dumbfounded. My hand stung. My voice slurred. “It was a dare.” “It’s a minor burn, he’ll be fine.” Maddie said, laughing. “Besides, now it’s your turn, Laila. Truth or—” The sound of glass shattering interrupted us. When I looked at the house, I was horrified to see that the fire had spread. The right side of the house was already in flames and the window had exploded. “Someone call nine-one-one!” I yelled, grabbing my hair. “My parents are going to kill me.” James immediately began dialing. Alex and Maddie backed away. She was muttering hysterically under her breath, “What did we do?” “Your birthday present!” Laila shouted, running for the door. “Laila, no!” I ran after her.

Self Portrait, Marina Butler ’21, pen and graphite on dictionary page, 16”x20”

She was already through the door and in the house. I jumped through the door after her, but a wooden beam covered in flames stopped me in my tracks. I went down hard. When I came to, I was lying on a stretcher and people were talking all around me. Firemen and policemen dominated the scene. Bright lights flashed and sirens sounded. Someone stood next to me. “Leo? Leo, can you hear me?” It was a girl. “Laila?” I blinked, my vision slowly clearing. She shook her head. “It’s Maddie. Are you all right?” I struggled to sit up. “Laila, where is she? Is she okay?” Maddie held me down and bit her lip. “Leo . . . The firemen didn’t get here in time. She . . . she didn’t make it. They found this.” She handed me the small box Laila was so excited for me to open. My hands shook as I opened it. Inside was a real, small, green, four-leaf clover encased in glass. Laila was always saying how I needed some luck, especially once we left for college in a few years. It was our little joke.

I looked down at the clover in my other hand. I squeezed my hand closed, the edge of the glass digging into my skin. “Yeah,” I said softly, rubbing my thumb on the back of Callie’s hand. I buried the memory under years more in the back of my mind. “I wonder what happened here, too.”

Maddie held my hand as I began crying. “I’m so sorry.”

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Nine Ways of Listening to Music By Tara Mann ’18

I On repeat. II Two in the morning. Utterly alone. III Standing in the shower, Singing into a comb, And trying not to slip and fall. IV Glaring across the car at each other, Spitting out lyrics, Holding back an insult. Pondering who will speak first. V After a long day With no hope of rest, The only escape available, Is in the form of The worst song ever written. VI Sitting in a coffee shop. Wondering where it all went wrong. Considering the next step,

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When the speakers crackle to life. A high-pitched whine fills the air. Like a sigh, it begins. VII “A thousand years ago, A powerful king ordered his band To play The Beatles—” “They didn’t exist a thousand years ago,” He reminds me. “Oh.” My pen scratches the paper. VIII Pressing play, Choosing the line-up, To turn around, And see their faces. A melody floats through the air, And smiles light Up the room, As we sing. IX Together.

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Untitled, Michelle Lau â&#x20AC;&#x2122;18, digital print

50 mosaic Untitled, Lulu Fang â&#x20AC;&#x2122;18, digital print

Starry Night By Georgina Burton â&#x20AC;&#x2122;20

A lonely night among the stars, breathed a man with a lonely heart. Tortured in captivity, some might say, He suffered at night for his sanity by day. His canvas spoke of better times, When his words spoke truth, but paints wore crime. His soul was broken, in his art it lies, For the people and peasants let his dreams die. But he rose from his fear and hatred of all, Painted the sky and the stars that fall. With the violet haze and swirling clouds, In his china blue eyes, his torment drowned. But when the painting was dried and done, His heart and soul had truly shone. the wind and skies were lined with pain, from his loving hand that died in vain. And when no hope was left in sight, on that starry, starry night, he took his life to live in that painted sky.

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52 mosaic Untitled, Maddie Oh ’18, graphite pencil, 9”x8”

Manifestation of Beasts By Olivia Gebreamlak â&#x20AC;&#x2122;19

Listen well For every woe, tragedy and betrayal there is a story to tell To present what had before not been created Let us return to when the earth as she lay bare, naked Within a tower that gleamed a glow that reflected a divine air Stood a being who created three boys fair The first possessed a crown of gold But held a heart of night alone The deeper of which increases the realization ten fold That this King Midas had a touch of mold The second was poor not needy Plagued pride became reids that stretched wide With the body of a cactus flower in the middle of a pond His ever stretching limbs seed the present greedy The third tugged at a loose noose He wanted control of which time his chair would be kicked For those who defy the grip of death Shall be rewarded with lack of breath Do not spite those who are not to blame For it was of bone not heart we came

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Buglove By Cayleigh Capaldi ’18

“Where to?” he asked. “Whereany,” she said. He took her to the bankriver to bathesun, And she brushed her hair with combhoney, And the beehoneys flocked around tresses. They gathered wild plumsugars and berryhuckles, And she picked flowerwilds and dragonsnaps, And watched them sail streamup. Then he took her to the shoresea, And they watched the fishstars waterunder, And her hair became salted caramel shinesun. She slept on the sand while he collected shellseas, And when she awakened they watched the pipersands, And the setsun on the horizon as the fishswords leaped over the crashwaves. The lightmoon flooded the sucklehoney as he took her hand, And they ventured into the conepine forest, And they listened to the brookebabble as it sang them into dreamnights. The tailcottons rustled the leaves as the dropsnows bloomed, And the air froze as the fallsnow began, And their breaths mingled in the airchill. He followed her to the meadowgreen, And the flyfires danced around the bladegrass, And he painted her face with berryblack juice on a canvaswhite. They felt the sparkling crackleheat through the air, And the stormthunder broke above them, And the berryblack painted washed away. She was his rosewild soul, naturalsuper and as carefree as birdsongs. He was her birdblack boatlife, promising timelifes of endless glasslooking. 54 mosaic

The Publication of the Arts

Untitled, Vivien Yip ’18, acrylic painting, 7”x9”

We By Georgina Burton ’20

They say that fear’s the liquor of the fool, So we’ll drink until the glass isn’t full. With fear in our liver and our stomachs full of regret, we live in a world that we hope to forget. The sun is above and our eyes can see, but our sight is limited to what we believe. We’ll burry our past and refuse to learn from all the trouble where lives took a turn. The earth is heating while we’re disagreeing because no one seems to agree with their heart. While hurricanes crash and houses burn, we can’t look away from the people that mourn.

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Terror strikes from country to state, and terror makes ignorance and ignorance fuels hate. With religion, gender, equality, and race, we can’t see past the labels on our face. We still sleep with gunshots and live in the dark, forever questioning, ‘How did it start?’ With hate, my dear, hate brought us fear, and hate, my love, is why we’re all here. We can follow along the path of regret, and live in a world to purely forget. Or choose life with a song in our head, and give up that glass of liquor we dread.

Ex Machina By Grace Young ’18

In an an engineer’s lab

It shudders and stalls and stops.

Sits a boy with a bionic arm.

It behaves more like a heart

His body runs on oil, lipids, petrol.

Than the lost limb of a boy

The synapses spark and pop

Ever erratic, easily broken.

White lights crackle and flash

It drinks in the sun and blinks happily

over exposed wires and frayed nerves.

With tiny green lights, fully charged.

When they attach the machine

The boy has learned to fall asleep

Where his left arm once hung

To the sound of a warm motor purring

He cries like a scared young animal,

His bionic arm gleams like dull chrome

He rips the casing from his bicep,

Every scratch is an artificial scar,

And tears wire capillaries with angry teeth

The arm is engineered to mar so he will not

Until the doctors pipe him full of fog again.

Be without a roadmap of where life has touched him.

The engineers weld him whole. The palm of his hand has since fallen away Leaving a bed of crossing wires Like soft tissue, almost flesh, No future can be read. But a girl could almost hold that hand. A boy could maybe fall in love With titanium tendons and Silicon skin that is not so easily pried off. The arm ticks like his mother’s clock

The protective caps over each knuckle joint Have long since been jimmied off. His left hook could crack skulls. The chip on his shoulder could break hearts. When the doctors and engineers Rebuilt the man from the machine, Anger was coded into the mainframe, Forgiveness was written in later.

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Deceiving Pleasures By Audrey Nixon ’19

Despite all your crimes all your lies Your heart still resides inside

My possession my toy To use to toil in disguise

The power inside reaches out of sight inside your mind

How long can you handle it? The pain that you hide deep inside

Looking down at your thighs Dripping the sweat of your last breath Holding your thought of mind

The power you have so forgotten Between your mind

Do you wish to be free You’re stuck in your mind To be on a clock To no given time Life is burning and So is mine

The power I took from you The thought of it has drifted The endless things you do for me Such a treat such a lie If only you wouldn’t lie, And hide all your little crimes That are deep inside

Shajin, Dana Zeng ’19, digital print

The want of knowing knowing you’re not mine

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Santa Catalina Exit Exam By Grace Young â&#x20AC;&#x2122;18

1. Math is: A) a dark, arcane magic B) a liminal truth C) a fever dream D) secretly written in Sanskrit E) answer not provided 2. Student announcements must be: A) spoken in a known human language B) subliminal C) both a confessional and a pulpit D) given by three students or less 3. During study hours we must: A) open and close our windows three times to expel trapped spirits B) try to ignore the creeping fear C) mainline coffee and keep going D) prop open our doors for the proper supervision of dark magic 4. True or false: there is a world beyond the fog 5. Circle one: Falling asleep during candlelight mass will result in: A glimpse into the beyond/ the gentle whisperings of melancholic ghost/ a work hour 6. Proper mass attire excludes which of the following: A) a nervous feeling that preludes happiness B) pants C) your favorite blue dress from the fourth grade D) a plague doctor get up 7. Calculate the probability youâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;re in love with her. 8. True or false: a college will find you, no matter where you hide. continued next page

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9. Showering late at night: A) opens an inter-dimensional portal B) is the only quiet part of your day C) reflects poor time management D) will heal you 10. What do you fear? Categorize by type of tea required to assuage it. 11. If you built a world for every hour of lost sleep would you ever find your way home? 12. Describe the last four years in rose colors and rain sounds.

Swimmer, Sarah Sheetz â&#x20AC;&#x2122;21, digital print

Extra Credit: If time allows, calculate the velocity of their spindle fingers playing piano. Hint: (It is directly proportional to your heart rate the night you woke up smiling.)

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The Ody-sea, Cayleigh Capaldi â&#x20AC;&#x2122;18, digital print

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