The Cardinal Review Vol. 4 No. 2 - Verse

Cover Photos by Colson Struss

Note From the Editor:

On behalf of the Literary Magazine Club, we hope you enjoy this collection of student writing. We want to thank everyone who put themselves out there by submitting their work and applaud them on their new status as published artists! Sharing your art with others requires a commendable amount of bravery and we are so proud of each of you for taking that step.

The theme of this issue is “Verse,” a consistent element in the works we received. We hope that reading the pieces in this issue allows you to connect in some way with the language and style they discuss their subjects in.

If you are inspired by the work in this magazine, please submit your own work for the next issue. We hope to work with you soon!

Thank you for reading and enjoy!

- Rocket Davis

The Man Who Got Lost on Purpose

By Harlan Grady

Harry Yount left his house because he wanted to go home.

Harry Yount brought his rifle because he wanted to go home.

Harry Yount climbed, and climbed, and climbed because he wanted to go home.

Harry Yount continued to climb because he wanted to go home.

Harry Yount found the valley beneath him, rolling skies as far as the eyes could see. And he simply said, “I’m home.”

Harry Yount didn't know where home would ever be, eternally wandering, but he found a rock, heard the void of deafening silence, and knew it was home.

Harry Yount was a man who never left his house without finding a home.

With roses for cheeks and a lethal icicle in hand, with a beard as soft as sand, Harry Yount would keep exploring.

Because Harry Yount would walk for a million years and never find a house he liked.

But a million homes he loved.

The Quiet Exhale

By Campbell Ressler

The laughter in the boat fades, quiet, I wait, each exhale becomes increasingly more opaque in the cool air, were on, I rush up to the catch diving my blade into the water, my hamstrings tighten as I push away from the stern, with each stroke, my hand gets covered in new spots of red and pink. The flesh that has been ripped from my fingers hangs, as if trying to catch the air as it goes by.

My stomach starts to growl in search of nutrients, my intestines cave, cutting in like a sharp blade.

My eyes glisten, wet from the wind that passes by. Sweat and lake water pool making puddles in the boat, reflecting the faces full of pain. Looking past the ponytail in front of me, I start to gaze upon the shimmering lake, holes of white and yellow break the inky sky, shining warmth on our cold and achy bodies.

The coxswain calls us to a stop, the oars sit still as water envelops them, it's quiet, except for the heavy exhales, produced to slow our pulsing hearts. Then as if the coach knew, we sit, ready to do it all over again.

James Whistler’s The Falling Rocket

A Social Experiment

By Henry Ackerley

Smells of blood

Taste of smoke

People dropped like flies

Death has become the norm

My crew still stalls

People rage like bulls

Guns roaring

Nerves running high

My friends worry

Adrenaline reaches cruising altitude

Yet no seatbelts will be fastened

Can taste the violence on my tongue

Slaughtering continues

Sirens sound

Sense of danger aroused

Mask on my face

Though nothing to hide

People running for their lives

Face hot from fire

Feels unsafe

Embrace the chaos

A social experiment

Helen Levitt’s New York (Children with Masks)

Holy Ghost

By Henry Achak

The light that shines and opens my eyes Brought me to this place. For in the dark, I saw a spark, a glimmer in the inky black. It brought me to this place of Yew, which tastes so strong of sulfur.

And within A little canoe, mirrored in the green stinking swamp. A man sits-– babbles, and rows at speed. Guided by a woman, a woman cloaked in light, whose golden gleam makes shadows longer.

And in my fear, the swamp pulls my feet into the muddy tar. And in my awe, I lean to a yew that seems to sink. Startled, I retreat, and at haste, I flee From this place of stink, of mud and ink.

Of sulfur and Trees that bend And weave

And of a woman, a woman whose golden gleam Will surely lead this man to misery. In the oily black where frogs croak

I turn my back one last time, and the canoe sinks only deeper.

Mark George Washington’s Dismal Swamp

By Sydney Lennard

The zoom of the bus it brings me from the city to brush. Screech to a stop, a lurch and I step off.

With the whoosh of the wind a new picture formed.

A shop made of tires stacked from the roof to the floor.

A whiff of oil and the clank of a wrench.

I stay at the bus stop. and sit down on the bench.

I pull out my camera. and wait for the click.

The worker turns with a subtle smile and I begin my walk through the dust for another mile.

I pull out my camera. and wait for the click.

The worker turns with a subtle smile and I begin my walk through the dust for another mile.

Lee Russell’s San Marcos, Texas

The Clay Canine Eyes of Fire

By Freddie Slade

As I wander around the house again, an unusual scent captures my nose: the scent of clay, of slowly drying clay, beckons to my nose and feet with power.

I find its origin inside a room with one window that ushers in the sun. A clay bust of a dog lies centralized. The ears sit low as mine, like fruit on trees, but the eyes fly high and set my mind ablaze.

The eyes jump open wide and capture all. All that sees their might draws close to them. Their vigor vaporizes souls and minds. Reaching out, the eyes pull me in strongly. I want to leave but still I push forward.

I reach a tall and dusty wooden box that stands directly across from the bust whose eyes still radiate and burn my soul. I let myself be engulfed by them now.

The daggers of the eyes reach through my soul to ask me “Who are you?” and “Who am I?” And as I stare ahead, my claws dig deep

to suffocate the wood beneath my feet, as though a predator lurks close to me.

The eyes strangle both my brain and my body. I cannot move, nor think, for anything. I think just for the bust in front of me: the bust whose eyes terrify and shock me.

At last, a noise escapes from in my mouth: a bark, whose sound strikes through the chilling bust. My open mouth inhales the wooden dust. my nose encounters shriveled and dried clay, and my mind cools and falls back down to Earth.

And as they land softly back on the ground, my mind and soul and body now walk free. My nose wanders towards the smell of food, and my feet follow into the kitchen.

William Wegman’s Man Ray Contemplating the Bust of Man Ray

Poetic Demise

By Ripley Vernoy

With each stroke, I keep the pace, my paddling quick with rhythmic grace. Sweat clings to my skin and clothes, as water droplets, to my limbs impose.

The wind begins to swirl and moan, and sends a shiver through my bones. This misted swamp seems like a dream, or something from a horror scene.

Trees sway and bend with the wind's wild dance, as if urging me forward, giving me a chance. In the darkness, my lover's light shone bright, a comforting presence in the endless night.

I swished my head to ensure she remained, but found only emptiness in her place, unexplained. Still, a smile crept onto my face, as I sensed her spirit, full of grace.

For soon we would be reunited, forever to stay, together in love, come what may. But the waters below try to hold me back, as if trying to push my courage off track.

I falter for a moment, but regain my will, knowing I must continue, through water and chill. For she is both my future, my friend, and when it's time, my final end, but oh, what beauty and what grace, to end it with my lover's face, in a final embrace.

Mark George Washington’s Dismal Swamp

The Quiet Woods

By Joey Oshins

In this quiet wood the snap of a branch is as loud as a gunshot. I walk as if the ground is laced with mines, choosing each step with pinpoint precision.

The golden light is growing dimmer, but still breaking through cracks, in the study green shield above my head. Cold evening air sends sparks running down my spine.

With a rifle in hand, the rumbling in my stomach reminds me of my task. As I trudge on I see a pond, so still and calm It could be frozen.

The opening the pond creates in the forest canopy, allows for rays of sunlight, to reflect off the still water, and dance in the yellow leaves.

As I spot a pair of Doe by the water, peacefully relieving their thirst, my heart rate quickens and adrenaline fills me. Instinctually the iron of my rifle’s sight finds the eye of the Doe.

Is filling my stomach, worth killing such an innocent creature? With fur that gleams radiantly in the light, and dark eyes that can't see me cast in shadow?

The rifle finds my hip, and I take a seat by the pond shore, unbothered that the noise sends the Does darting, into the impenetrable forest shadows.

By the pond bed I see flowers like little yellow fireworks, ants that march like soldiers.

I hear birds singing sharp melodies.

I realize this woods is more than just trees and animals, it is a explosion of life in all forms, as complex as a raging storm, this pond is the eye of the hurricane.

Marilyn

By Parker Schweickert

Red lips to match her earring, blonde hair to match her kin, blue eyes to match the background, the world is hers to win.

Los Angeles, the early years, confinement is her fate. And signing ‘way her destiny, she steps onto the grate.

While over air she stills her skirt so nobody will peep. But cameras snap, and people clap, their photos they may keep.

With each new Joe DiMaggio 16 cries from within, tossed back to 1942, desired for her skin.

And after many mini Millers, it’s no surprise of late, she slugs a glass of water to ingest barbiturate.

Shoes tap on ground, Los Angeles, into her house, she’ll creep. And when she steps in through her door she’ll sleep, and sleep, and sleep.

Andy Warhol’s Marilyn Monroe

Fragmented Night

By Henry Osler

I took my seat by the twisting river. The sand shifted below me, embracing me. The water marched forward like a soldier; steadily, it closed the gap between land and sea. The silence of the night was solemn and desolate.

The screech of the rocket grew intense, it flew into the gods’ domain, and detonated. The silent sky had disintegrated into shards of heavenly bodies and debris which pummeled the face of the Earth. Filled with millions of stars and an eerie cloud of smog.

Slowly, surely, the night ebbed back into full, like the waves that slowly enveloped me. The broken pane was now whole. The world that hangs above my head is now in one piece, and quiet.

James Whistler’s Nocturne in Black and Gold: The Falling Rocket

The Thought of Everything

By Jordyn Ellis

Are we okay?

Repeated words I often say; excuse the neediness, I just rather not be led away. You embrace me closely, reminding me to be sane. Just to go and leave my mind wandering that same day.

Are we okay?

You ask why I need to be reminded, although you often say our love is timeless, I’m seeing your time less visioned our future with love but instead blinded by your silence–

Are we okay?

I'd rather not be left alone. As the thoughts often consume me. Longing the promises we promised would be kept. I am Alone.

Basquiat’s Untitled (1981)

Jean-Michel

Worn Out Model

By Jordyn Brathwaite

Head filled with nothing but noise

No longer vital or valued

Ruined from top to stop

Coarse and dry

I want to die

Muted yet colorful

In no way beautiful

Stitches and lines

Till the end of time

Ghastly and vile

Put me on trial

The medicine will help

Fix your face with a yelp

The teeth long gone

Flesh and skin

Take me in

Just like a bad day

Disgusting and smelly

Like meat straight from the deli

Raw and weak

I wish to speak

How I do wish for belle

I

I’ve created hell

believe i fell Only time will tell Coarse like a shell

Jean-Michel Basquiat’s Untitled (1982)

Marilyn Mon-dead

By Johan Freeby

Coffin shut, faces of sorrow

as lads leave with no happiness to borrow, no one left standing till the end of tomorrow. Yet immortalisation came in as a savior.

Dawn struck as everything did

The coffin now a frame for the corpse, it is smiling, rejoice! Tears raining down Sockets wet like the flesh painted on The one who did, joining the crowd.

Dawn struck as everything did

The folks came just as they went, sorrowing was the default for the artpiece None disputed its apathy towards them Dusk came unlike the emotions of the people.

Dawn struck as almost everything did

The children of the sorrowful came and went Reason for emotion left in the memories of old, as fossils and bones alike berried to be forgotten However, the artpiece still remains, may sorrow fill your soul.

It is getting dark.

The Diner

By Elena Newton-Day

I saw her sitting all alone. Only an empty chair as company. Her straw-colored hat drooped with melancholy, and her pine green jacket hung loosely like leaves ready to be blown away.

Even though my diner sat hot with commotion, her jacket stayed on. Perhaps because the commotion never touched her solemn corner. She swept her gaze around the diner. Stopping as her eyes landed on me. I recognized the dull brown. They had once been a bright hazel. She did not look up again.

Not when I brought her coffee. Coffee which she held in an ungloved hand, never touched her rose red lips, simply held stiffly by her slender fingers.

She stared into the cup. her face drawn, her sigh almost audible from across the diner, her eyes squinted at the liquid. As if it held the answer to whatever question she asked,

as if it was the answer itself.

And she was too afraid to take a sip. As much as she stared, the coffee never answered her, simply sat stoically in her hand.

Why she chose my diner to sulk, was an unanswerable question. Perhaps she knew who owned it. Perhaps she did not.

The patrons sang with sounds of conversation. But not her.

She sat, never looking up. And did not drink from her coffee cup.

Edward Hopper’s Automat

The Letter Never Opened

By Taya Dukes

I am stuck in a house full of people who don’t understand who he was. All they know is what they hear.

I escape the room full of fake smiles and go up to where my desk waits.

I begin to write with a white-knuckled hand while in a dress made of silk.

The sunset, so bright and beautiful, brings a sense of warmth. The fresh air comes through the window and dries the tears down my face. Trees rustle, not loud enough

To cover the sound of sobs escaping me.

I write at that desk while people dance down below.

The music has a taunting ring to it.

What the taunting music means, I do not know. They probably wonder where I am, but I do not care.

The hatred I feel for my one love, Though he’s the one, who’s gone. He did not have to leave. He did not have to go. And yet he did

I write until no ink remains.

I now know what I must do. The rough paper, now filled with a sea of ink and tears, makes the letter wet and wrinkled.

I put his station address on it, but I know my letter will never reach him. And the letter will never be opened.

Thomas Wilmer’s The Spinet

Surgery

By Arnold Tian

I lay upon worn wood, my head reclined. The surgeons surround me, wrap me in dull, colorless robes. They blind me, shield my eyes, a ceaseless void clouds my vision. They strip me, my body bare on display for my audience.

Suddenly, an incision upon my skin, followed by an audible gasp. Among seas of murmuring voices, a womanly shrill can be heard. I am ripped open by cold, gleaming iron, held down by cold, calloused hands.

My blood pours, drenching my bed linen in warm, crimson ichor.

Thomas Eakins’s The Gross Clinic

Needle in a Haystack

By Declan Rule

Dry heat fills the air, overtaking my sense of smell, and the heat starts to dry up my throat, leaving no comforts except for my surroundings.

The colorful reflections of the sandy mountains beam on the water. as I look down, leaning my body over my small boat, and I see creatures swimming in the depths of the water.

Then I push my focus toward my surroundings, making me feel like a needle in a haystack. Sand blowing off the Dunes, thin Branches are blown by the wind, and the wind blows waves across the water, all across the black sandy beach. I start to notice my peripheral vision as I see the colorful mountains, the birds soar in the sky, and the fish jump out of the water. Now I notice that I am not alone, even in a place as deserted as the desert.

Campfire Songs

By Paisley McCoy

The pocket of sunshine crackled and hissed

It stretched its arms to its home in the sky; Amber logs cough up new stars

Specters find home in the silver smoke And an old couple hides from the cold.

It was a silent night with cloudless skies

The crickets and the bats had gone to rest But the couple sat by their captured light, Watching the tentacles reach For the heavenly night.

The woman had left herself long ago; Leaving a husk in her husband’s care. Her mind a forgotten paper note Dropped in the river and washed away

She sang to the sun in its iron cage, No lyrics or words to ease the pain

A haunting tune like the whistling wind; A bellow like the owls in the trees overhead.

The man begged the doctors “One more year More time for the hummingbirds, for warm toast in the morning. One more year so she might smell the flowers And see the fawns in the spring once again.”

James Whistler’s Nocturne in Black and Gold: The Falling Rocket

Packaged

By Ellie Walters

Solid glass walls and labeled sculptures and paintings fill the house. Papa says he is a collector.

He paces about, surveys his work. His attention to detail superb noticing every hair out of place left by the brush, every crinkle in canvas or murk in color.

He sees everything in the house as if a wall has been cut away. He always knows when we are near the work, tarnishing the order and pristine.

We like to please him so. Never a hair out of place, a crinkle in our clothes, or depth hidden in our porcelain faces.

We line up for him like toy soldiers and don’t dare move, for fear of disappointment or damage, as he pierces with his eyes.

Sometimes I think he wants to collect us, to keep us, remaining still and flawless.

John Singer Sargent’s The Daughters of Edward Darley Boit

The City

By Ellis Goldbas

The people in this dreadful city are even worse. Even the constant rain is unfit to wash away its sins. The mantle I bestowed upon myself is a curse. I accepted this job to enforce change, but there is no hope for this city. In the dead of night people still crowd the street, all seem to seek profit from the weak.

Everyone forgets but I am forced to remember. Noting the stories told within the confines of this city. The events of the night disappear with the sun, I sit at the diner deep in thought. Drowning in my glass. Thinking … waiting.

I go to take a sip once more. The dim light from the ceiling make my shadow stretch across floor My phone buzzes, vibrations bring life to the table. There is a body on 4th and staple.

Pellets of rain pound onto the windshield, the rumble of the engine makes the city seem soundless. All that is on my mind is who?

As I approach the victim, dread washes over me. It's another officer, now there are three who are dead. Is it because of me?

I am sick of seeing chalk silhouettes. The more I try, the worse it gets.

Tonight They Drink

By Rory Leonard

The streets are quiet now, alone. A soft wind kicks a lone wrapper around, like a kid playing soccer with a stone: kicking and chasing it across the ground.

He is not seen.

The caffeine bounces inside his mind, a businessman trying to pass the time. Hoping to be found or to find his place in time and space, reason and rhyme.

He is not seen.

The fluorescents hum a simple song, a robotic hymn of mystery. The coffee machines play along, harmonizing in unity.

They are not heard.

Separated by a sheet of glass, their conversation can not be discerned. Perhaps a great question will they ask. The watered-down coffee no longer burns.

They are not heard.

Now the lunch counter is bare, with not a single trace remaining of the people sitting there, in that very place.

It is not felt.

But still, they sit and talk and think about their pain and sorrow. Change the world later, tonight they drink espresso into tomorrow.

They are not felt.

I Never Liked

By Jayna Fink

He smiled and poured me champagne. His coarse mustache crept upwards above his mouth. But I never liked champagne.

And so I placed the glass on the white tablecloth. And I let the glass sit between my fingers. And the champagne probably lost its elegance. But I never liked champagne.

Four men enter the room and make their way to the ten times painted worn out wooden stage. Everytime they sneak behind a patron whose voluminous and vibrant dresses, or shiny black vests and pressed white button ups adorn them, an “Excuse me!” follows it.

The four men ascend the stage, mindlessly plucking their stringed instruments, forcing soft whispers to fill the air.

Staggered staccatos and crooked crescendos soon embody a wistful waltz. And as I look over, it’s as if I can see dancers sway, twirl, leap, and kick the air under them.

And as I look over, I can’t help but wish I too could manipulate my body in the air.

Instead I’m stuck to this dark cushioned seat that can barely fit me and my dress. My baby blue, or pale blue, or whatever blue one would like to call it, dress that strangles my arms and waist.

My dress that spills over the seat and stifles my feet’s desire to copy the wistful waltz.

And sometimes I have the urge to undo everything. Undo the buttons to my dress, and slash the seams, rip the ruffles, and yank off the embellishments. Cut away the collar, break open the bodice, and hack apart the hem. And all that would be left is red splattered upon blue and white, mutilated scraps of what used to be the dress I never liked. But undoing everything would be a waste.

So instead, I watch the coarse mustached man glued to my hip full of admiration and laughter.

Instead, I hold between my sweaty fingers the champagne I never liked. Instead, my blue dress seemingly made with love, commodifies and suffocates me.

So why should I love a dress that restrains me until I bruise?

Why should I like a dress, even when it never liked me.

William Glackens’ At Mouquin’s

Pride on the Delaware

By Wolfgang Ambach

From dusk to dawn hounds hunt their musk. From dawn to dusk we curse most brusque. 13 stars sewn and 13 stars remain against the whispers of the dark, and the red British mane.

No worry in his mind trembles on his breath; he hungers for freedom like the Scott, Macbeth. His silver hair shines his worth. His might glows bright among the moon up high at night. His knee stands strong as a bannerman, waving his colors since birth.

No oar stops churning as we slither most silently, and in the morning when it’s pouring, the reds will wake most violently.

The misfit army, a farmer to my left, stone mason on my right, may her lady America give grace to us because not the roar of a crown or the march of a red can keep this young cobbler out of the fight.

To My Daughter, From Mom

By Nandiniy Velayudhan-Dhamrait

My daughter, you were 16 when I finally told you the whole of our immigrant story, how I came to the ‘land of the free’ on a Delta plane without enough money to afford an American fast food joint. How your dad was deported because when he lost his job, he lost his visa, and how I waited here with you in my belly until he found a job ticket into America to bring him back to you, me, America, freedom.

My daughter, do you remember your aunty Swati who would only marry an American man for his green card ticket out of India, or your two cousins Pardeep and Vijay, who tried to escape India through the wheel bay of a British Airways plane?

You ask who Vijay is—he froze to death before he reached the freedom of the UK that his brother did.

The things our family will do for freedom, hope, the things that I will do for your freedom, freedom of the American dream. But still, day after day,

I look at you to remind myself of why I stay in this country despite everyone here and my own mind telling us to go back to where we came from. My daughter, my immigrant story is for you. I will brave oceans for you, raise a mountain for you, murder a nation for you, and you will never know because you are not here to carry your parent’s pains, because I expect you to carry dreams, because that is what this world will expect from you too it is why you are in America, it is why they call you the first generation and not the daughter of your immigrant parents.

I built the American dream for you with my bare hands, so take our culture, our tongue, our food, our clothes, our celebrations, and throw them in the trash if you want, but do not forget my story, because it is yours as well.

The Last Dance

By Ayile Locoh Donou

It was the last time I would be here, alone, as I sat there looking at nothing but this black wall, sitting peacefully in front of me like a body moments before passing.

The sound of nothingness resonated through the room, bouncing off the walls, there I was, alone with my own thoughts, you could almost hear a pin drop.

The sound of my heart breathing slower and slower, as time progressed, the feeling of my heart pumping blood through my veins, struggling to keep me afloat.

I could

still smell her

perfume, it resonated with me, even though she wasn't alive for long, she smelled like a breath of fresh air, tempting me until I finally gave in and took her breath away.

Towards the Home of the Free

By Chaney Wampold

In the bitter cold of night, the wind howled and moaned, a man stood tall and proud, on a boat that was his own. He was a leader among men, a general of great renown, Washington, brave and determined, crossing Delaware to win. With fierce determination, he led his troops to war, sweat seeping from pore to pore, though weary and worn, they fought with all they had in store.

Icy and rough, the river flowed, the wind blew strong and cold, but Washington's steady hand guided them through, young and old.

Washington’s boot, wet and withered, slammed the bow, wisping wood chips speered the air. Land looks at the brave brunch, easter and faster, the men continue to paddle through great despair.

Emanuel Leutze’s Washington Crossing the Delaware

Guardian Angels

By Lourdes Gonzales

The taste of satisfaction lingers in my mouth their sleep is ruined, their beds are empty, their minds are ours.

We steal and ruin, waiting for our lives to be better for them to be clever.

Angels we are, but it can’t be far. The mindless pitter-patter makes me wonder, do they need us when they’re under?

When they’re under, we protect, and they project, they project their feelings we are meant to guard, but we are far.

Their sleep fills the room like water, sad and gloomy. For we are taking them under, stealing them from their sleep, but I can’t help but take a peak.

Dorothea Tanning’s Guardian Angels

Aching Darkness

By Sienna Stiefel

The darkness hurts, hurling through the void, licking my fingers like the flames of a fire.

But this is no fire, no, this is just cold. A burning, turning wheel of mold.

The musk is overwhelming, awaiting a time to finally jump and take this trembling body of mine.

The path it leaves, dead and dry, drifts away with one breath of cry.

Its sneaky tendrils poke and prod, searching for a break in my thrown-up walls.

“Stay strong, my dear”

I tell myself, as my mind and body give into this self-doubt.

It has found my weakness. Now all is done, my life has been clouded like a broken camera lens.

The Woman in the Mirror

By Lucia Lopez

The crystal chandelier chimes, blown by a breeze I do not feel. The book in my hands slips, and my eyes dart around.

But the house still slumbers soundly; the windows lay shut and locked. The old furniture stands proud even in shadow but over in the corner, the mirror glows.

The moonlight must be playing with my tired, dull eyes, but for a moment, I am sure that there is a woman in the mirror.

She floats by the chandelier, which lazily lights her pearly skin. Her eyes flicker dark as the night sky but with a spark like a single star.

A flower crown is fitted to her flowing hair woven of color foreign to this house. Her silk dress flows, fine and free, a lost beauty stolen from the past.

I stand and slowly creep forward when the chandelier suddenly falls silent and when I reach the mirror, she is gone; I alone stare back at my dull, dark face.

Clarence John Laughlin’s The Mirror of Long Ago

The Boy Was Too Young

By Liam St. Clair

The meaningless Monday mosied on around, and another day at work gave me but another frown. The door swung open.

A man with a camera hobbled out.

Behind him in the room, a young boy held a child.

The loft of smoke arose from the room like a recent fire put out. The boy was smoking.

My nose curled up tight as the stench of the odor hit me like a punch. The boy was too young.

The boy was too young.

A child on his chest, and smoke in his breath.

The radio as ambiance in the dimly lit room.

The neighbors roared from the hall like a typhoon.

The boy was too young.

Photographers hunting him down.

Taking pictures of him; crowding the young struggling boy. The boy had no smile, no smile and nothing but a frown.

The boy was too young.

The boy was too young, to watch this child, to feed this mouth, to live all alone, all alone down on South.

The boy was too young to live on that street.

Poor men yell and fight. Danger lurks at every corner. The smell of alcohol fills the sidewalks. Trash on the pavement, and a drug stash in the alley. This boy was just too young, to have that child on this street.

With one sharp look I walked away. I left the building, smoke in my lungs, all while thinking, that boy was too young.

New Lines

By Tessa Hendry

The snow blankets the trees

Keeping them warm in the cold

My skis rest on my shoulder

As I make my way up the incline

I glance over the edge

In search of new lines

My skis click and approach the lip

I drop in

For a second I leave myself behind

Then I hit the ground

A breath of the cold crisp air

As I billow down the mountain

The wind whistles in my ears

Stinging my face

All worries withdraw

I find small pathways

Old trails altered by new skis

Dodging ice, roots, and rocks

Too many close calls

Him and Her By Carolina Guerrero

Shifting white wine in my glass, petals of delicate pink roses sing to my breath. The clattering and chattering ring around my ears. They hush, the sting of the wine batters my nostrils, and She walks in.

Head turn, bodies yearn for Her beauty. His eyes follow Her every move. She's perfect, pale face, emerald eyes; her smile turns heads: it turned His head.

My heart shreds into a million petals, falling down my body. My fingers feel faint.

The taste of shame engulfs me, Drowning me, Burning me, Killing me.

Men launch at Her like predators to prey. I peer at him; I am nothing, I am invisible, I could never be her.

The rings, which once meant love, now meant ropes chaining me down, but he could never be chained down.

The smell of roses, which once filled the room, wilted, barely reaching me; He grins at Her. She looks, and the sliver of her perfect lips shine to the sky, calling Him. trapping Him. But I am nothing; I am worth nothing, for I will never be Her, the one He yearns for.

Adam’s

By Kate Eleveld

A sudden gust of wind

Whips my hair across my face, In my ears it rings, A constant and consistent tune, As if to remind me where I am

I watch as my breath fans out beyond me

Billowing into white mist, It is the heat that continues to escape me It betrays me,

Just as my heart does

As it races rapidly

A fresh morning dew

Beads upon the tall reads

Same as the wetness that creeps

Just along my hairline

The absence

Of human activity makes my hands tremble, My knees shake

And my body itch

The clouds have been my only

Constant companion

A shapeshifting friend,

Occasionally my closest, But generally my greatest enemy

My footprints are the only proof I was ever here, Soon to be covered again

As my tracks are slowly concealed

Containing my secret within

The cavernous, white topped rocks

Remains untouched by man

The range cuts

Across the horizon

Like the evergreen trees

Once did, Near Adam’s house

It is him I carry with me

In my heart, And in my hands–My humanity I allow myself

One more moment,

And then, I begin my ascent

Ansel Adams’ Adams

Masquerade

By Abby Kvart

Behind the door, there is another world where the room’s heartbeat beats slower than the theatrical party out there. Eerie music fills the room, creeping up our spines like spiders.

The photographer’s chilling directions bore one twin while the other one strains.

The veins on her neck fight against fragile skin. Their hands hold on to each other for dear life, like a widow holds her child’s hand at a funeral.

They are two parts of a whole that cannot be broken, these women, these victims, are fused together literally.

The mourning dove sits still as a statue; it could fly away but does not.

Masks hide the faces of the suffering, only their eyes peer piercingly out, annoyed at the objectification and stares.

The bouquet in one twin’s hand is like a bride’s, but hard and harsh; it should be wilted but refuses

to do so.

White dresses hang on the women’s bodies, made of innocent lace that has seen too much.

The door clicks shut as the camera clicks into action, leavinging the twins trapped once again without autonomy. And the bird never moves.

Joel-Peter Witkin’s Siamese Twins

Control

By Carolina Guerrero

Dark veins twist beyond my neck. Unable to speak my language, my mind stops fighting.

Dark creatures control me, people I once loved, silence me when I speak, leaving me unable to express.

They believe I can morph into them, change who I am, alter the color of my skin.

However, the truth is I will never fit in. For the ones who silence me never have spoken my language.

Gasping for air, my lungs push against the ropes that bare me down. They aim to control me like an animal.

The language of truth, my language; forever silenced by them, the betrayer.

The truth sinks, my heart slows, for my skin nor my language will ever belong.

Frida Kahlo’s Self-Portrait with Thorn Necklace and Hummingbird

A Stagnant Winter

By Julian Brown

Calm and collected, I stand up on the empty hill

My coat sways, and my hat shifts

I wonder how many days it's been, Since my father took the kill

The dead wheat struggles within this season

My path is marked with footsteps

It's been long enough alone

I wonder when it's my time to rest

My shadow stands behind me, lying on that empty hill

I would stare into the distance for hours, bracing wind

My father's passing is buried here deep within

I stand up on that empty hill

The story told with unwanted remains

He forced pain without complaints

His heart felt cold on that fateful day

Andrew Wyeth’s Winter 1946

The Death of Art

By V Curran

I don't enjoy art anymore. It bores me.

Uninspired pieces by An uninspired corporation by Uninspired people.

Symbols mean nothing when they Symbolize some experience That you won't have, A book about a life you won't live, Cosplaying as a starving artist, Satirizing what you create you lazy, Pathetic, money chasing

Corporate.

An artist is like a child. In constant need of attention, Affection at every junktion. This means this and that means that.

How about you shut up?

Your ink splat in the corner is a mistake, There is no shame in it,

There is shame in not taking blame.

You rhyme on time and say it Is prime not crime, A rhyme for no reason, A crime against art.

And you cover it up like a child from their mom. You say it has meaning. Child. Oh!

You know that the scallop was made in rice, Cooked for forty five?

A little deep dive into the cooking experience, You deconstruct their art.

Rip it down, destroy the beauty. They shouldn't care, they made the food. A seven out of ten.

A seven out of ten.

Publish your private critique, Make a public publish.

You have lost what you love Like a lover cheating you cheat yourself.

Self critical but not enough. Hold yourself to your standards, you Critic.

Why am I writing this?

I am making a piece of art.

I am criticizing myself.

I am falling into the self referential pit. The very thing I am writing about here

I fear that I may be perceived as pretentious.

I am.

Me acknowledging it makes it better right?

No, I know it doesn't.

Is it fun that I am referencing myself again, And again, And again?

I get a kick out of it.

I am so smart because I recognize art as a medium, Over and over I understand myself. It makes me feel so much worse; The lowest form of art is meta.

Shut up and do my job.

I want a piece of art without art. Meta.

A crying man, stabbed in a hallway, a man smiling over him in awe. The man looks happy, he is enjoying the art he just made, art no one else will ever understand. There was no reason, no inspiration, he stabbed me just to watch me die. This random red-lined apartment complex will enjoy another death. Maybe a serial killer is the purest artist.

Masks

By Aiyana Abbott

Who am I?

I don't know.

I put on a mask to cover my faults, I put a mask on so others are proud and satisfied.

All of these masks cover my face consuming my being, And now I have lost who I am.

I am lost.

I am lost.

As I take off the masks layer by layer, A piece of me comes free.

I try to escape my masks but they force themselves back on. I am lost.

Over time the masks come off.

Two masks left as my heart begins to race and my mouth begins to quiver.

One left, my hands shake in a seizure-like pattern. As I reveal my last mask there is nothing but an empty soul.

A Wave of Peace

By Julieta Ortiz

Glistening, gleaming sunshine slightly touching my face, lighting it up with joy. Rolling over on our warm towels, my cousin and I soaked the sun up like sponges.

The sound of the waves was like music to my ears, the peaceful laughs of the people and children something I adored. I breathed in and realized I was at peace.

The sand felt so pure beneath me, keeping me toasty like a marshmallow. The slight breeze touched my face, keeping it cool like the late night.

A sense of relaxation hit me

as the sun went down, putting itself into a peaceful sleep as the warm breeze brushed up against my skin. I was at peace.

The Woman I Wish I Could Be

By Bella Jones

She walks into the room

Taking a seat with the shadows hiding her image within the mirror

She becomes one of the shadows

Slowly fading into the background

The dust thickens the air

Almost as if a fog has obtained the space between the walls

Goosebumps arise on her arms

As a chilling draft dances throughout the room

Setting aside the battle within

She lets her thoughts drift away.

Illuminated by the shadows

a woman appears in the mirror

Her Beauty is beyond compare

A slickened dress lays on her skin

Crowned with the flowers of a joyful life

The woman's eyes rest on her and she quickly looks away.

The clock chimes in the background

Sending a slight tremor to her hands reminding her that she must leave her mind and return to her real life

But for now

She lets the woman in the mirror live within her mind for a little longer

She knows the woman is free within the mirror not a care in the world

The woman is who she wishes she could be

She knows the woman will always be there in the back of her mind

The woman she wishes she could be

But she knows she'll never see a day of life

The woman she wishes she could be

Clarence John Laughlin’s The Mirror of Long Ago

Street Scene Fun

By Dylan Koa

Sing nights

Dance fights

A white light

Tints the scene

And sneers at the crowd

Clip-clop, Tip-top, Bip-bop, Sit, stop

The chalk

Stalks

The scene

Happy smiles

Stretch for miles

The man is beguile

Forges free

The warm air

Mocks the wear

The double vision

Filled with derision

They wrangle up

The crowd

Like cows for slaughter

Music, laughter, Playful, banter

The men hate

The sound

Sing, shout, Guns pow! pow!

The dream fills with screams

Crawfish, Brass colored-lips, Mouths drip

Blood

Cleaners, gleaners

Collect the dreamers, And mop

The disgusting Mud.

Rip the seams,

Work in teams!

The world, bathed

In white cream!

Not safe, friend

Until then

We must Buy them, fry them

Emmett Till them

Put them

Six feet under

Only their Plunder

Will satisfy This hunger

Archibald Motley’s Street Scene, Chicago

Spectacle

By Javier Cavanaugh

Numerous loud explosions draw me out from my home to see new suns in the starlit sky. I step out and begin my march toward the noise, every other step followed by a deafening clap. I reach the riverbed where others rest, their eyes held up like those of puppets. Fireworks shine like the brightest supernovae. Sparks fizzle out like dying stars. The moon shines upon black smoke like a spotlight. Truly a spectacle to see.

James Whistler’s Nocturne in Black and Gold: The Falling Rocket

Strangers

By Anna Marquardt

Innocence: the state, quality, or fact of being innocent, of a crime or offense. Her brown, bulging eyes, full of curiosity and joy. Unknowing of our reality, her smile creates a sudden beam of sunlight, and brightens my darkness. Shattered glass within puddles of spilled liquor, mix with the essence of charred cigarette butts. A disorderly, destructive life. This child both a product, and a victim.

We are strangers.

Vulture

By Laith Cutler

To have nothing but the endless rustle of empty. To be blazed and scorched from the drought. To be waiting patiently over the homestead, for the final cow to drop dead. My last meal, it could be. Before I fly away.

To be trapped within eternal sky and forever desert. Alone and helpless, getting desperate. All that moves is the mill’s shadow, save the ever shifting dunes. How much longer must it be?

I want to fly away.

Alexandre Hogue’s Drouth Stricken Area

The Symphony of Footsteps

By Andreas Buneci

Smoke’s cloudy silhouette pushes through the horizon. His footsteps are light yet distinct in their path along the tail of our ship.

The chilly sways of the arctic winds pierce through my ocean-felt coat, as the rumbling racket of ice glides along our wooden fortress.

Every hour our footsteps crack the air, tipping from stern to bow, heaving and pulling, pushing our ship through the starch of the sea, never stopping.

Eyes glare at us from all around.

They are perturbed and black as midnight's darkest hour. Yet, the caramel gleam of the distant snowy peak pierces through them, reaching out its hand as if the arctic’s lands are turning their cheek.

But all the while, the ice still breaks because of the symphony of footsteps.

With the pounding bass of our steam engine and the percussive hints of our bells and belts we march, in the anthem, for the Black nectar.

As the gulls flock away, as the gray-tipped seals cautiously stalk, as our pitiful gray smokey tail shuns out the lavish mango light, and the fields of white ice turn into ravines of night, and as our footsteps lead this perilous sight, for the ice crown of our sapphire mother, sacrificed for our people’s own, is off balance: cracked and delicate.

The Pale Hores

By Teka Smith-Bates

A rotting road is broken, a path previously plowed hidden, an unclear journey taken drowned with mystery.

Harsh heavy hanging toxins scour the skewered sky, and with each breath taken, one would breathe a bounding breath of death.

In sight no end found. Winding up wind, warranting no rest for the weary. No sight for the eye, but enclosed in an eye, inflamed trapped tornado taunts my view.

As one hears their horse, they ride. Screech with every rattle he hears, rumbling feet move rapidly upon the sounds of riddling rattlesnake.

Time of day unclear, downward events spiraling around. One's mind forgets the smells of nature, a senseless body darkens with heavy mustard gas sweeping dust on a path previously plowed. Ryder Albert’s The Pale Hores

Our Team

Editor in Chief:

- Rocket Davis (2024)

Faculty Advisors:

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Hannah Conn

Patti Crouch-Cook

Contributing Editors:

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-

-

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Dao Ming Chau (2023)

Colson Struss (2023)

Elena Skirgaudas (2023)

Cory Gennari Pratt (2023)

Nura Ali (2024)

Aleah Ham (2024)

- Michael Rosales (2026)