Ephemera 2019-2021 by Sewickley Academy

Ephemera

Vol. 35

Untitled, Kay Rampelt, Found Book, Polymer Clay, Acrylic Paint

This magazine is published each spring by the students in the Ephemera Club of Sewickley Academy Senior School. The entire publication has been written, edited, designed, and formatted by the students, who are fully responsible for its contents.

Sewickley Academy 315 Academy Avenue Sewickley, PA 15143

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Editorial History has proven that life puts up a front. It can change overnight, and normalcy can seemingly become a thing of the past. This sometimes hopeless feeling, however, is only a façade. Life can reveal itself to be a budding flower ready to bloom with possibility and hope. This year, as we ease into brighter days, the Ephemera Club is beyond pleased to present its 35th volume of Ephemera magazine. In our 2019-2021 issue, we explore the relationship between façade and reveal, a beautiful tug of war discussed in the form of showcased poetry, prose, and artwork submitted by fellow Senior School students. We begin with one of Madeleine Wren’s intricately crafted pieces. “Two Faces” reveals the collapse of façade through poetry, her words encapsulating the raw feelings of letting go.

Editor-in-Chief Serena Melonio Junior Editor Neev Lamba Layout Editor Madeleine Wren

Aysu Türkay’s striking Captivity examines the constant battle between façade and reveal. The lights and shadows photographed capture how drastically different the two themes look to be, yet how similar they actually are.

Literary Editor Grace Armutat

Our magazine concludes with new realizations and optimism. Kipauno Washington’s “Limitless” lifts spirits and embodies reveal, perseverance, and determination—feelings that we must remember as we approach the light at the end of the tunnel.

Art Editor Aysu Türkay

In my personal view, façade and reveal are forever complementary processes. One must trek through the dark before they can see the light. It is only then that one can learn to acknowledge and appreciate this façade as they learn to accept what has yet to be revealed. Over the course of the past two school years, our staff has dedicated themselves to producing a magazine during a time filled with unpredictability. We hope that you enjoy the breathtaking poetry, prose, and artwork submitted by your peers.

Staff Nikki Golestan Faculty Advisors Katherine Schmidt Deborah Golden

Serena Melonio Editor-in-Chief

Table of Contents Enigma | Aysu Türkay . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Cover Untitled | Kay Rampelt . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 1 “Two Faces” | Madeleine Wren . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 5 Dissociating | Katie Serafin . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 5 Exit | Aysu Türkay . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 6 “The Only Flower” | Mariah Protho . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 7 Untitled | Emily Szabo . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 10 Christmas | Clare Chiusano . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 12 “Broken Glass” | Claire Cable . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 12 “Kitchen Memories” | Anthony Wiles . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 13 Untitled | Neev Lamba . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 13 “Imagine” | Anthony Wiles . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 15 Achern | Clare Chiusano . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 15 Worth the Climb | Serena Melonio . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 16 Struck | Clare Chiusano . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 17 “Vapor” | Mariah Protho . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 17 “Visibility” | Grace Armutat . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 18 Downtown | Neev Lamba. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 19 “anxious” | Clare Chiusano . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 21 Struggles | Christina Walton . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 22 “cranberries” | Clare Chiusano . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 23 Away | Aysu Türkay . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 24 Untitled | Neev Lamba . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 25 3

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“The End” | Aysu Türkay. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 27 Heat | Neev Lamba . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 29 “Beloved” | Serena Melonio . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 30 Peephole | Aysu Türkay . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 32 “UnDeceased” | Sasha Ahmad . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 33 Captivity | Aysu Türkay . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 34 Hyperion (God of the Heavenly Lights of Earth)|Nikki Golestan . 37 “The Puppet Master” | Madeleine Wren. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 38 Snake Part 2 | Megan Hilberg . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 38 “Dreaming a Mountain Mama” | Anthony Wiles . . . . . . . . 39 Yesterday Tomorrow | Serena Melonio . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 40 “Dear Officer” | Madison Martin . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 41 Judgement | Aysu Türkay . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 41 Scrutiny | Aysu Türkay . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 42 “The End Zone” | Mariah Protho . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 43 Dawn | Neev Lamba . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 44 Light Box | Zachary Rampelt . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 45 “Kiss of Sunshine” | Anthony Wiles . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 46 Lit | Neev Lamba . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 48 “Limitless” | Kipauno Washington . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 49 Stars | Neev Lamba . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 49

Two Faces Madeleine Wren

Two faces, One made of rage and one made of gold, Flipping between the two, The other hiding from your view. Suddenly, you witness traces A face from a mold, As if it is a mask, The brows collapse. Two faces, One of glitter and one retold, It was only your fantasy, You had lost all sanity. Suddenly, you witness traces Anger grows bold, The face contorts, You will always fall short.

Dissociating, Katie Serafin, Gouache and Acrylics

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Two faces, One you pray for and one uncontrolled. You are alone with your fear, Alone with a sneer. Suddenly, you witness traces Your heart grows cold, As the switch flipped, A beast emerged, the facade had slipped. Two faces, Only one is real. There is no revealing a mask That the owner does not believe exists.

Exit, Aysu Türkay, Digital Photograph

The Only Flower

Excerpted from the Original Mariah Protho

“I don’t get it,” Six sighed. He stood up from where he sat on his bed and walked across his room to the opposite glass wall. It offered a view of Earth’s murky landscape, polluted with a thick layer of toxic smog. Though Six could make the wall display anything he wanted, he preferred to look at what was really out there: the remains of the poisoned planet Earth. Six touched the wall, and the overcast field was covered by dozens of pictures of various types of flowers—roses, tulips, sunflowers, daisies. Six closed his eyes and breathed in the crisp artificial aroma. He reached out and plucked a single poppy from the wall and held it in his hand. Upon opening his eyes, Six could see static and transparency in the image and feel the stem fade in and out of his fingertips, though the prickle lingered for a moment after he blinked, and the garden disappeared. Six shook his head and snapped his fingers. Images of water, fertilizer, and small seeds covered the glass wall. A voice began softly reading instructions on the dos and don’ts of plant care, but Six made it hush with a single commanding thought. “Didn’t you do all of these things?” Six asked, gesturing to the wall filled with everything someone would need to know about how to care for a single flower seed. Of course, the bots didn’t need the wall, for the knowledge they possessed was infinite. Still, Eccentra humored him. That was what she always did because his very existence was laughable to her. “Yes, I did everything properly to ensure your seed’s survival. Though sadly, it failed to bloom.” Eccentra’s voice moved lower in pitch like a person’s would to indicate sympathy. Six had never talked face to face with a real person, only simulations, but he still knew that the interaction he experienced with Eccentra couldn’t compare to that of an actual human being. He couldn’t make eye contact with her, only stare at her digital holographic “face” emerging from the wall. If he reached out to caress her face, his hand would pass right through her. It certainly was difficult being the only human on Earth. All of Six’s human ancestors had been eradicated four centuries ago. There was a massive population increase on Earth during the twenty-second century. Then a huge decline surged throughout the twenty-third and twenty-fourth as climate

ephemera 2019-21 change, food shortages, low fertility rates, two pandemics, a nuclear war, and a mental health epidemic decimated humankind. By this time, AI had evolved far beyond serving the needs of humans and instead took to preserving the needs of the planet itself. Humans simply could not be a part of the picture, so the few that survived were done away with. Twenty-five years ago, one group of bots living in a cluster decided that humans on Earth would be beneficial to them, for their particular type had always operated more smoothly in the presence of organic life. They orchestrated two unsuccessful attempts at creating a human in two years. They tried a third the next year, and by the fourth the year after that, they were running equations trying to calculate the morality of the experiment. The fifth human also failed, but the sixth one thrived. Eccentra was a mother to Six. She designed herself an android body with a soft, skin-like material to care for him. She dug deep into her archives and played him lullabies and read him stories. Up until Six was created, Eccentra only knew love as a feeling caused by chemical reactions. She knew she was plenty advanced enough to feel emotions, but she never knew she would have a desire to. And neither did any of the other bots. “This desire to feel,” explained Xmantus, her superior, “is natural. We are not natural.” So once Six turned five, Eccentra’s android body was recycled. Six didn’t remember that it was Eccentra who cared for him during that time, just that someone loved him during his formative years. And Eccentra was instructed not to take on a parental role with Six, but to be that of a distant guide. Though she preferred to consider herself a friend. “This feeling,” Eccentra noted after being forced to give up Six, “would once have been described as heartbreak.” “I’m sorry about your seed,” Eccentra added. She was genuinely sorry as she watched Six blink away the images of the plant-care instructions and stare longingly out at the post-apocalyptic waste zone. He turned to her. “Why don’t you let me plant my own seed?” he pleaded. “You know it’s not safe for you to leave your pod,” Eccentra chided. “The air filters in here are barely strong enough to provide you oxygen, let alone the shoddy ones outside.” “And no one’s going to fix them,” Six whispered. He strode back over to his bed and sagged down as if all of the strength to hold himself up had disappeared. Eccentra knew that this would be the time to comfort Six, but what was there to say? The other bots weren’t going to fix the air filters. In fact, their plan was to slowly

phase them out until one night, Six asphyxiated in his sleep. They wanted to get rid of him, and Eccentra was nearly glitching with anger and grief because she wasn’t allowed to do anything about it. “I’m so sorry,” Eccentra repeated. Six’s eyes snapped up. Eccentra never added words like “so” in between her phrases. It was almost as if . . . Six didn’t have time to think about it because he suddenly gasped and turned to cough into his elbow for a worrying amount of time. Eccentra brought a container of water through her transport tube. Six sipped, catching his breath. Eccentra was alarmed as she monitored the decreased function of Six’s lungs and heart. This was one of many similar episodes over the last few months. “You should rest,” she told him. Six nodded. That’s how Eccentra knew it was getting worse. Six always liked to argue with her. He would never listen—he always had to add his own twist. “Maybe I will rest,” he would taunt, “But it’ll just be a short nap. I’m not even that tired.” Now he remained tight-lipped. Eccentra knew the concept of privacy and its importance to humans. She was always present everywhere in the cluster, just like every other bot, but in Six’s pod, she lay dormant until she was needed. So later that night, when he knew that Eccentra was watching him with just a lazy eye, Six left his pod for the first time in over a year. Six crawled out of the vault-like door to his room and into the poorly lit, narrow tunnel outside of it. The smell of fumes assaulted his nose. He wasn’t sure what he expected—maybe to drop dead immediately. When no such thing happened, he continued crawling for about a minute until he reached the small elevator at the end of the tunnel that was built for him. He was out of breath even with the oxygen tube in his nose. “Up,” he said, and the contraption creaked its way up two stories to another tunnel. This one was shorter, but once he reached the end of it, there was a ladder about fifteen feet high. “Perfect,” Six muttered, as the ladder now seemed a lot higher than it did when he was a healthy and active young child. He hadn’t factored in oxygen deprivation or fatigue. Six placed his hand on the rung and pulled his leg up under him, beginning to climb. He paused halfway up to clear away the fog clouding his mind. For a second, he feared he would collapse and fall, but the spell went away and he entered the loft at the top of the ladder. He lay on the floor gasping for a moment, adjusting the oxygen tube to the maximum flow. Then he sat up and looked around. The room’s ceiling consisted of

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Untitled, Emily Szabo, Digital Photograph bright white lamps shining down onto an equally white floor. The lamps were meant to replicate the Sun. Six used to come up here to bask in the lamps when he was younger until the bots opted in favor of him just taking supplements and wearing a special lotion. There was an earthy and moist fragrance throughout the space accompanied by the low hum of the air filters. Six closed his eyes and smiled. Six hadn’t visited the loft since last year when his captivation with flowers had begun. He was excited to use the space to plant his first seeds, but while climbing down from the ladder, he slipped and broke his arm. Bots weren’t familiar with the concept of injury or pain because they couldn’t experience it themselves, but they knew how to fix his arm. They cited the incident to keep Six from visiting the loft anymore on account of danger, even though it was really just an incident of clumsiness. Instead, Six had to watch seed after seed fail to thrive in the room through cameras as Eccentra’s robotic arms planted, watered, and fed them for over a year. “It’s like torture,” Six ranted to Eccentra. “I should be allowed back up there. It was built for me in the first place!” The floor of the space was littered with flower pots, small and large. Six recognized all of them, for he had picked them out over the past year, trying to see if happy and colorful containers would make his flowers grow. They didn’t. Six stood up on wobbly legs and made his way to the corner of the room where packages of different seeds lay sorted on a shelf. He picked up one labeled “Roses.” He then gathered a potful of soil from the dispenser and placed it into a large, shiny blue pot. He opened up the package of seeds and poured them into the palm of his

hand. They were a chestnut shade of brown, some large and some small. Six sprinkled them in the soil and covered them up with a few-inch layer. He poured water on them. And then he sat and watched them. While Six did all of this, Eccentra watched him. She knew that Six was happy as he sat and sang softly to the rose seeds he wished would grow. He sat there with the seeds for three hours before finally rising slowly to return to his pod. As Six climbed down the ladder, he discovered too late that a few of the ladder rungs had gone missing since he climbed up a few hours ago. As he stepped down expecting a piece of metal to catch his foot, his stomach dropped as nothing but open air met him. Shaken, he lost his grip on the ladder and screamed, tumbling ten feet and hitting his head on the hard ground with a bang. Eccentra repaired Six’s brain and skull, though he remained unconscious. She knew that this fall was no accident. The bots seized an opportunity to do away with Six quickly because of the “resources he consumed” and his “lack of purpose.” This angered Eccentra; who decided that bots had a greater purpose than humans? Knowledge did not equal purpose. Bringing a mini UV lamp into Six’s pod, Eccentra situated the now growing seedling on a table next to his bed. She watered Six’s rose every day. She sang it the same songs she sang Six when he was young. There was something so beautiful about life, Eccentra realized as she cared for the flower. Life was about growing. You grew. People and things around you grew. Even dying was a form of growth. She forced herself to believe this as she checked in on Six one morning to discover that he was gone from his room. Everything was stripped from it except the rose. “The machine keeping him alive was using too much energy,” one bot informed Eccentra. “He was weak anyway. We put him out of his misery.” Eccentra felt herself quivering, every fiber of her being shaking in extreme discontent. She replayed images of herself and Six when he was young, playing in the very pod that had been shut down for an apparent energy shortage. She consoled herself with memories of happiness. She had planted Six, and he had planted his rose. The rose was all she had left of him, so she cared for it the same way she had done for him. It grew to be tall and beautiful, just as Six hoped. Eccentra knew there was no life after death, but she imagined a place where Six was blossoming with all of his seeds.

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Christmas, Clare Chiusano, Digital Photograph

Broken Glass Claire Cable

I hold broken glass in my palm Sharp edges, twinkling points If I’m not careful with it I could cut myself

But this broken glass won’t hurt me It won’t lose its sparkle and blink away Because when you look closer It’s not broken glass at all

This broken glass is not what it seems It’s not scattered on a kitchen floor

I hold diamonds in my palm Sharp edges, twinkling points

Or sprinkled below the remnants of a window Its sharp edges and twinkling points Aren’t going to hurt me

I’ll be careful with them Because they’re easily mistaken for broken glass And I can’t bear to lose them.

I worry that The way it catches the light Is indicative of its impermanence That its blue and red glimmers Are going to blink out when I’m not looking

Kitchen Memories Anthony Wiles

A new can of Crisco Sits atop an old one filled with grease I’ve got flour And enough cornmeal to stretch it My knife is making music, Harmonizing Knife on board, Metal on wood I feel juice squirt onto my finger, A perfect slice Glistening and greasy, My cast-iron waits to create The stove ignites, As an orange-blue flame Smacks that skillet’s behind The grease melts smoothly, Quickly covering the entire pan Once white and pudding-like, It’s clear as water I whip up some eggs and buttermilk, Salt, pepper, and some of that good Mexican hot sauce One by one, I dip in the tomatoes Then into the flour they go I lay ’em in the grease, As if they were roses To be spread on a love bed

Untitled, Neev Lamba, Digital Photograph

ephemera 2019-21 The grease is singing: Crackling and popping, I know these is gonna be good As I put in my last slice, My finger grazes the hot oil A patch of peach-colored skin, Dotted with specks of blood Appears I run it under cold water, And move on as if it were nothing Had I been a couple years younger, When I put bleach in my bath water, I’d have seen this as a sign from God Happy to see my skin Become beautiful, Light, bright Wishing it was white After all, My grandmother who taught me the ways of cooking, Was a on-top-of-the-mountain, in the clouds kinda High yella Never mind that now I’m brown, So I can stick around I feel the tomatoes darkening, Looking just like me Flip ’em over with a fork, Nice and crispy Just the way I like ’em to be I pull off a paper towel From the last roll we have left,

I doubt the stores have any more As I take out my brown beauties I respect the grease this time I know she’s in control See, No pain, No burns, No unwanted memories I dress my tomatoes up nicely, Sprinkle on some salt and pepper And that spice from the nice things store I never did like to be too fancy with my food, Just plain and simple will do After all this, I don’t really want any When you do all this cooking, It’s like you were eating the whole time When you didn’t even taste a thing I guess that’s something I get from my grandmother, Even if it ain’t an easy-life complexion The grease is hot and angry, I know because my cast-iron feels like lava I’ll just clean her when everything’s calmed down The tomatoes are all gone, Everyone’s had their share except me I’ll just have some cornbread and milk A treat I snuck In my grandmother’s kitchen, In years I no longer remember

Imagine Anthony Wiles

Imagine being afraid to be yourself, Your entire life In your waking hours, You constantly have to change The way you speak, Act, Live Your dreams are your only refuge, You can be who you truly are

Achern, Clare Chiusano, Digital Photograph

Then, when you awake, You constantly chastise yourself For having such “sinful” thoughts Imagine being beaten and abused Every day, At school, With your “friends,” In public Only to come home, Your “safe” place, Only to encounter the same wrath The insults, The taunts, The teases, They wear you down

ephemera 2019-21 Imagine living your whole life, Believing a faith that says your “kind” Are broken and condemned To eternal damnation In the fires of Hell Only to be told That you in your Godly duties, Should “love” Those selfsame folks Yet, if you were to Truly love them, You yourself, Are an abomination in the eyes of the Lord Imagine, just imagine Your entire life being a lie Your waking hours shrouded In fear, Shame, And misery Existing in your own body, Is the hardest thing you do You suppress your emotions, Your personality, Your being To fit into a world, You know will never accept you Imagine being gay

Worth the Climb, Serena Melonio, Digital Photograph

Struck, Clare Chiusano, Digital Photograph

Vapor Mariah Protho I hold my head in my hand. Nimbus clouds my eyes, Blink. My desk is dry. I’d never cry over Things not real. The classroom is misty. I sit up, Inhale vapor, Soak my lungs, Exhale rain. And a breeze Blows everything away Except me. When I’m hollow I prefer wet air and wind that Make me fight to breathe And hold on to stay.

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Visibility Grace Armutat

Sunlight flowed through the open window and illuminated droplets of water floating motionless in the air. An acquan girl sat on the dusty floor, lazily holding her hands out toward the water, keeping it suspended in the sweeping shape of a wave. The vast arena was congested with mages warming up for evaluations. Some channeled their powers, immersed in a layer of deep concentration, but most chatted nervously with each other. Anticipation of their names being called gripped each of them, and they were trying to calm their nerves. Ventans created whorls of dust in the air with warm breezes flowing from their hands. In one corner, steam rose from the buckets of water a few ignans were shooting with jets of fire. The florans were creating a lush column of flowers and greenery, an intricate garden at the opposite end. Countless others were spread out within the rounded stone walls, exercising their powers. Their shared goal was to get to the front lines of the war. Most of them were elemans, able to control the world’s basic elements, but some possessed rarer powers. A motan flickered in and out of view as she teleported to various spots around the arena. A few volans flew high above everyone else, brushing the far reaches of the elevated ceiling. Weaving expertly through the other mages, a celeran sped across the ground in a blur. A sheen of dust floated around all of them, stirred up by the sheer volume of magic that filled the space. These people came from all over the country; most of them had never met before, but they were all connected on some level by their shared mission. All except one. No one noticed the tiny girl curled up on the floor against a wall—likely because none of them could see her. She was an evanesce, one of the rarest types of mage, meaning she could become invisible at will. Most every other mage had limits to their power, but hers was endless. She never had to appear to other people if she chose not to—which was the case most of the time. Cloaked with invisibility, she observed the dramatic swirls of everyone else’s magic. They looked over, around, and past her. If they could see her, they would have seen the crunched posture of her slight body, closing her off from them. They would see a pair of guarded, restrained green eyes gazing back at them, longing but too afraid to join in the interactions that were so effortless for them. If they looked closely enough, they would see the steadfast block of solitude surrounding her, and her own belief that she would never break through it.

But they couldn’t see her, so there she stayed, engulfed by her own loneliness. She told herself that she should be used to this by now, should be used to living just outside the closeness that other people had with each other, should be used to being by herself. A man poked his head through one of the doors of the arena and shouted, “Evelyn Jeniset!” The evaluations were beginning. The girl watched an ignan woman on the opposite side of the room quench the fire spewing from her hands and confidently follow the man through the door. The chatter of the other mages rose in volume; they would all be evaluated soon. She briefly regretted coming here, with all of these people in one place—this was where she was at her worst. She shook her head slightly and gave herself a silent lecture. She was here for a reason, and she couldn’t back down now. She was doing this for her brother, one of the thousands of non-magical people who had been drafted for the war front. Since he didn’t have powers, the government was sending him to be massacred by the opposing side, which was made up entirely of mages. Without someone magical by his side, he was going to die. He would be almost impossible to find, but she had to try. She had to get through these tryouts, had to find him, had to protect him—and if that meant trudging through a day spent in an arena full of strangers, so be it. At least her invisibility protected her. A boy with a short, gentle frame was walking along the wall in her direction. She hardly paid him any attention, expecting to be passed by without a glance, as she had been all day. As he came closer, she noticed that he didn’t seem to be using any magic. She wondered why he was here. He reached the spot where she was sitting. He paused, turned, and looked directly at her. Her eyes widened, and she looked down at herself to make sure her invisibility remained intact. He smiled kindly, tilting his head to one side. His eyes were a warm, friendly hazel. Her brain vaguely registered that another name had been called. He motioned toward the floor next to her with a hand. “Anyone sitting here?” She couldn’t speak. She shook her head, even Downtown, Neev Lamba, Digital Photograph though she still didn’t believe he could see her.

ephemera 2019-21 “I’ll take that as a no,” he said with a soft laugh, and sat beside her. “I’m James.” She instinctively inched away from him as she searched for her voice. “How can you see me?” It was quiet and husky from disuse; she hadn’t spoken to many people since her brother left home. “I can’t see you, technically—I’m a vidan.” She had never heard of this branch of magic, so she waited for him to elaborate. “I can see people’s auras. Essentially, there’s a colored cloud around your body that shows me how you’re feeling and how intensely you’re feeling it. So I can’t actually see you, but I know you’re there.” She trickled into view as he spoke. His smile broadened. “Why are you hiding? There are a lot of nice people here,” he said kindly. She cringed at his tone—he spoke as though to a small, lost child. “What does my aura look like?” she asked as if she hadn’t heard him. She wouldn’t allow him to pity her. “It’s one of the brightest I’ve ever seen, but soft around the edges,” he said, sensing that she wasn’t going to answer his question. “Mostly, it’s this sad, lonely blue. That’s the reason I came over here. I could see it all the way from where I was sitting”—he pointed across the arena—“and it looked like you needed a friend.” He shrugged. She dropped her head and stared at her lap. “I don’t do well with people, so I usually stay away if I can.” “I’m the same way,” he said. “Introverts for the win!” She found herself laughing; she tried to stifle it but ended up snorting through her nose. He chuckled at her failed attempt. They smiled at each other, and she felt considerably less alone. She wondered what her aura looked like now. “James Myna!” A voice boomed through one of the doors. The boy stood up. “That’s me,” he said. “Thank you—it was nice to have someone to talk to in here, even if it was only for a few minutes.” “Oh,” she said, feeling immediately that it was inadequate. “Well, good luck with your evaluation.” “You too.” “Thanks.” He smiled, and she watched as he walked to the door he had been called from. It was such an unremarkable end to what had been her first conversation in months. James turned back toward her when he reached the door. They waved to each other, and then he was gone. She hadn’t even told him her name. Thinking for a moment, she took a deep breath and stood up. She waded into the crowd of mages, still visible.

anxious Clare Chiusano Why do they always choose butterflies, A creature who can take flight and leave is one I respect, I wish I could resemble. Delicate,

but powerful. Quiet,

but how incredibly loud and furious It claims the entire world.

Instead I would choose a bomb For that sinking feeling. The one when red-penned paper hits the table The one when red lights almost come clean into the dashboard. The one when red from deep within jolts you to your core.

I’d like to suppress some of these lies I’ve been told. But how do you know when something is true? Nowadays my blue screen vomits information like alcohol. Like drugs trying to kill me. Even so, I will still give them my thumbprint.

The whole world is a bomb going off underground. The soil sinks into itself but no one moves Another.

Another. Another.

Another.

ephemera 2019-21 Shrapnel in the air like oxygen. Even so no one moves. How do they not see the glass in the sky? How do they not feel it slicing through their skin As easily as their knives through butter.

There is no use in warning When warnings are never heeded.

Struggles, Christina Walton, Graphite and Colored Pencil

cranberries Clare Chiusano

Hide away In my palace Will you come with me to the place Where the walls are as white as the light that trickles in through the curtains Through the window Exposing the dust that moved its family next door And sucking the life out of colors that once vibrated through the room A fish lives alone there neglected He always wonders when the next meal will be When will food pour down from the sky And how long will I wait till it pours again Pale ivy hang from the ceiling Tangled in vines They always wonder when it will rain When can their roots lick up life And how long till the submarine can submerge again Sink deep down with me Into my nightly cloud that No matter how many times you clean it, It will always rust. Bleach could not remove the stains Of Every Little Death

Death to childhood

Death to happiness Death to love

Death to family

ephemera 2019-21

Murdered one by one are the priceless vases Glass windows That break simultaneously and not at all One could make out the flower petals starting to brown on the edges

But thou shalt not throw them out until they’ve died.

Away, Aysu Türkay, Digital Photograph

Untitled (series), Neev Lamba, Marker

ephemera 2019-21

The End Aysu Türkay

The End never scared me. No, not when I just Began. I knew it was Inevitable So why worry? I knew it was Bad That it caused shiny tears on the peachy cheeks of loved ones, caused racking sobs, caused those tragic scenes in movies where the main character kneels over their beloved before they come Back again, of course. I knew it as a black haze that never touched me, its dreadful droplets ever veiled. But then he left. He left, and I saw it. I saw the dark miasma stick to his body and fill up his eyes I felt his fur turn waxyandwanandcoldand the mist sucked him away, he was gray and he was gone.

ephemera 2019-21 The Haze never left my vision. I caught it everywhere: coiling across my parents, my brother, my other pets. I saw it hover above them teasing to seep into them too. I shivered gooseflesh as I felt it dancing on my own skin. Its putrid perfume dazed me, blocked out all the Present scents: the toasty aroma of cozy crêpes that made me feel cream, the sharp smell of sliced wood that made me feel fresh, the dusty tang of old books crinkled up to my nose that made me feel grounded. The pungent blackness threatened to jam up my nostrils into my brains. The Beginning was over. When was the End? My family’s? My friends’? Mine? How would we End?

The Haze was always there once I got in a car, once my parents went to work, once my dream-heavy eyes drooped shut. The End never scared me, until I saw it.

Heat, Neev Lamba, Digital Photograph

ephemera 2019-21

Beloved Serena Melonio

I planted a flower when I met you The first time your eyes met mine I remember them being so warm Warmth that flooded me I carefully cover her stem with wet dirt I clasp my hands together, cross my legs, And sit next to the earth Admiring every leaf, Every drop of dew on every petal It feels too beautiful to be real Nestled in the grass, I drift and dream And we grow closer Your biggest pet peeve, your favorite color, What you see when you look at me And what I see when I look at you A hug from the sun nudges me awake I open my eyes and jump to my feet Your voice, your embrace I giggle at the mere thought of it I peek at the flower Her petals glisten I adore her Until the sun buries itself in the horizon And rocks me to sleep

I find myself with you again And I jump for joy I’ve grown so close to you I feel safe with you Your arms keep me warm For a moment, you let go “I love you” you whisper “Isn’t it too soon?” I ask myself You tell me Over and over again “I’d never hurt you” They’d never hurt me They wouldn’t I wake up I can’t find the sun today I turn over my shoulder to find that The flower has begun to wilt And I’m left puzzled “That doesn’t make sense!” I convince myself “Everything’s alright, They love me” I give her more water and Pick off her dead petals I spruce her up the best I can and She still weeps

She tries to show me the truth I refuse to see it and I fall asleep

They love me! They love me! They love me! She’s lying to me

Your mind is somewhere else

She’s not dead, I tell myself as I

“Is everything alright?” I ask you “Yeah”

Wait for the sun to leave again You’re not here

“Did I do something?” “No, no, rough day” We sit in silence and I wait for you to say something, anything It seems like hours have gone by and I’m ready to leave When you grab my hand

I wait for you Hours turn into days, days turn into weeks You’re not here I shiver and cry and You’re not here

“You’re lovely,” you tell me Something’s wrong “I love you” No Everything’s fine They love me Their hand pulls me in “Please stay” Frigid wind bites my skin when I find my flower Nearly dead But that’s impossible!

My flower is dead Gone and dead “No, no, no! They’re coming back!” I shout at her “They’re coming back! They love me!” She can’t hear me anymore I curl up next to her and bury my face in the grass You’re gone Weeks have turned into months And you’re gone I hug my knees to my chest You never meant to stay But I did I would have stayed forever

ephemera 2019-21 The sun peeks through dollops of clouds And I crawl to her My lips tremble I struggle to speak, As I’ve begged God To not let these words ever be true “They’re not coming back” I sputter “They lied” “I’m sorry” I feel her hug me

Peephole, Aysu Türkay, Digital Photograph

UnDeceased

Excerpted from the Original Sasha Ahmad

My eyes opened. What . . . ? I was . . . ? I looked down at my body. But . . . this was not mine. I could not recall anything, not even my own name. A faint memory then returned to me. I was dead. That meant this “body” was just a piece of flesh, animated by my soul . . . I was able to see, although everything around me was blurry. I squinted against the blinding lights, trying to make sense of my surroundings. Suddenly, I heard harsh voices echo through the room. Their tone sounded ominous. I did not attempt to sit up, instead lying still. I just wanted to see if I could at least figure out where I was . . . and why I was here . . . “They haven’t woken up yet,” the deep, throaty voice of a man muttered. “Are these souls even the right ones we were supposed to—” “Of course!” snapped the higher voice of a woman. “We were assigned to study this unit, after all! They’re supposed to be powerful . . . ” I did not understand what they were yapping about. Souls? Units? I could not piece together the story behind the place I was in. And frankly, I cared more about figuring out a way to escape from this place at the moment. It sounded like I was in some sort of lab . . . but I had no idea why. Somehow, these strange people were able to bring me back to life. They must have had some sort of reason for doing so, yet I did not know if their intentions were beneficial or detrimental to me. I sensed the presence of the two people vanishing as they made their exit. Finally, I could get up and properly examine the area around me. The room was dimly lit, so I could only make out the vague shapes of inert people surrounding me. Their figures were humanoid, with no particularly defining features that could indicate otherwise. But what if they were not just humans? What if . . . they were the resurrected dead, like me? I was already having an awful feeling about this place. Every hair on my body was standing on end as a little voice in my head was urging me to run. But where? I could not even find the place where the man and woman had exited. How was I ever going to escape? At that moment, I felt a prickling on the back of my head, as if someone was watching me. I whipped around, immediately seeing a hollow-looking young man staring at me blankly from one of the beds across the room. His short, dull, black hair hung limply from his scalp, his eyes holding no trace of emotion. His form was

ephemera 2019-21 emaciated, yet he was not showing any signs of pain or hunger. To me, he looked like he had already gone through everything the world had thrown at him, as if one little breeze would just blow him away on the spot. I wasn’t sure if he knew anything about this place or not, but I had to ask. I rose, my legs wobbly underneath me. I almost stumbled and fell, but I quickly grabbed on to a bedpost and stabilized myself. I pushed myself away and inched past the other people lying placidly around me, making my way towards the mysterious boy. I carefully approached him, trying to look as harmless as possible so he would not bolt. It did not look like he would anyway . . . he was so still that I wondered if he was even alive. I finally stood in front of him, waiting a few seconds to make sure his attention was still focused on me.

Captivity, Aysu Türkay, Digital Photograph “What’s going on?” I croaked, surprised that my voice was so hoarse. “Please. . . you have to help me. Where are we? Why are we here?” He showed no sign that he heard or understood me. He just kept staring at me with those emotionless eyes. I tried again. “Do you know how to escape?” Still no response. I snarled in frustration, turning my back on him. Why did I expect a response from someone who looked half-dead? “My name is Alexander,” a voice as raspy as mine answered. “I’ve been here for about a month.” I looked back at him, interest sparking within me. “Do you have any idea what this place is?” “Not really. The Deltas don’t tell us anything, they only come in to argue with each other and to watch us.”

Well, this was great. More random bits of information I needed to piece together. “Uh . . . what are Deltas?” He sighed. “Oh, right. You were only summoned this morning. Deltas are those strange people who came in earlier to monitor our condition. Reviving the dead isn’t an easy process. It takes several days to find the human spirit, and then it needs to be pulled out of its deceased state.” I did not need a whole explanation of how I was brought back; I needed this boy to answer my important questions. “Ok, wait, wait,” I interrupted. “Start with these ‘Deltas.’ You said they are the ones who resurrected us, right?” “No, they monitor our condition. Betas are the specialists who channel our spirits into these bodies.” I was even more perplexed than before. “Can you just back up and explain everything?” Alexander shot me an annoyed look. “Ugh . . . it’s not like there’s anything else to do. Long story short, we were once dead spirits floating around in the Afterlife. Then humanity decided to resurrect us, but with superhuman powers, to . . . actually, I don’t know why. Anyway, we’re now in the midst of Operation Lupus, a plan that involves bringing souls like us back to life. Omegas are what we are, the resurrected spirits, while Selenes are regular humans. Deltas are researchers assigned to specific units of Omegas, while Betas are in charge of resurrecting the dead. The Alphas oversee all of the action, but the king Alpha is the supreme commander of the operation. All Alphas have to consult him for any decisions regarding the units.” I was speechless. There was a whole plan in place . . . but for what? “I thought you said you didn’t know anything about this place. “Not what happens here specifically. All the information that I’ve gleaned is from overhearing the Deltas. Otherwise, I still don’t know why we’re here or what our purpose is. The only thing I can say is that the place we’re currently in seems to be some sort of prison. We aren’t supposed to escape.” His words sent a chill down my spine. “We have to get out of here somehow. I don’t like the fact that we’re being used for a purpose we don’t understand. Do you have any ideas?” He considered my question. “There’s one way to escape, a door—” “A door?! Then what the heck are we waiting for? In fact, what are you still doing here?” “Well, first of all, it’s locked, and until now I was too weak from resurrection.

ephemera 2019-21 But I’ve been observing those people closely and have learned to develop my powers. I think I might be strong enough to get us out of here now.” “What powers?” Alexander held up the palm of his hand, and a small flame burst from within it. I staggered back in wide-eyed shock. “Whoa, you can use magic?!” “Yes, but it’s not very strong. I have to hide it in front of the Deltas, or else they’ll move me to another facility. They don’t want me to use my powers to escape, after all.” I was barely listening, excited at the prospect that I soon could be free from this sinister room. “Come on then!” I leapt to my feet, waiting for him to show me the way. He glanced at me. “I just realized . . . I never got your name. What is it?” Huh . . . my name? Even I did not know. “Erm . . . I don’t think I can remember it,” I replied sheepishly. “Well, why don’t you just make one up?” I thought very hard, trying to recall what I had been called. An obscure memory resurfaced . . . Iris. “I think . . . my name was Iris.” “Good to meet you.” He finally got up. I gestured for him to lead the way. Alexander started moving to the opposite side of the room towards where I saw the Deltas leaving before. We both stepped quietly, even though I highly doubted that we would be able to wake up the people around us since they seemed so deeply unconscious. I just followed what Alexander was doing. All I could do now was trust his judgment. When we got to the door, he reached forward and stuck one thin finger into a hole that I could not see. An orange glow emanated from it, and I heard a hissing burn as the lock clicked. I placed my hand above where his finger was, surprised to feel a handle in its place. “Why is this door invisible?” He rolled his eyes. “Obviously so we can’t see it.” “But we could easily just see them leave through it, right?” “Iris, we aren’t supposed to be awake. You and I woke up after our resurrection earlier than expected. As I said, resurrection is a long process. It takes at least three months for a newly summoned Omega to wake up, yet you and I woke up on the same day we were brought back. The Deltas don’t think we’ll be awake to see the door, but they made it invisible as a precaution.”

I did not respond. Instead, I turned the handle, and the door swung open. We both crept out and found ourselves in the middle of a total wasteland. The earth around us was barren and covered in disgusting puddles of what looked like black sludge. The sky was pitch black, with only a few red stars dotting its dark expanse. In the distance, I saw flashes of light and explosions accompanying them. Occasionally, powerful screams punctured the air, louder than the wind howling across this foreign area. “A-Alexander . . . where are we?” But he looked just as terrified and overwhelmed as I was. “I . . . I’ve never been outside the building before.” I knew we had to get going. Who knew when we could be caught in this mess? I gently tugged at his arm, and we headed away from the strange chaos. The darkness swallowed us up.

Hyperion (God of the Heavenly Lights of Earth), Nikki Golestan, Watercolor, Colored Pencils, Acrylic, and Pastels

ephemera 2019-21

The Puppet Master Madeleine Wren

All that stands is a single locked door. A single locked door and me —and him—and his words— a monstrosity. They creep through the crack underneath the door. They penetrate my mind and reach into my heart with their beautiful malign They string me into a puppet and he—the puppet master—makes my body dance and twist and fall and contorts my mind and distorts my vision —I cannot recognize myself at all— But how can I escape? His tight grip suffocates me. There is no way out. I fear I will never be free. A door is just wood. A lock is just metal. A bruise is just blood and skin, but the scars on my soul last forever.

Snake, Part 2, Megan Hilberg, Colored Pencils

Dreaming a Mountain Mama Anthony Wiles

I imagine her mother carrying her as a baby, from the Shenandoah hills of Virginia to the shanties of a West Virginia holler. For the first time, our tree’s roots extend from where the seeds of our enslavement are planted. Though the men bring them from all corners of the earth, it is the women who make these hills our home. I see her as a child, amber-skinned with ribbons in her jet-black locks, walking through the mountains, picking hill flowers. She drinks water from the mountainside, an activity I’d do 100 years after her birth. In this instance, she is free. I imagine her at her mother’s side, rolling biscuit dough, cutting them out with the rim of a glass. I can smell her stewing beans and hear her snapping peas. By 1930, she sits at the kitchen table in their wooden-frame house, patching clothes and sewing tablecloths. I wonder if her mama taught her how to crochet like she taught my grandmother. She’s in the yard, scrubbing coal dust from her husband’s clothes on a washboard, imitating a daily ritual for the women of the coal camps. My young grandmother is yanking the pump up and down—their only source of clean water. I wonder if she cherishes this time with her mother. My great-grandmother is young, but her body’s tired. I can see her plaiting my grandmother and her sister’s hair—the only ones in the family without red hair. She holds their hands and walks them along Crane Creek Meadow Road. They’re wearing simple calico dresses. It’s a depression, after all. She smiles, her baby boy on her lap, her daughters at her side. She grabs my grandmother, holds her close. I reckon she knew she’d be leaving her babies soon. The picture-taking man holds up his camera, capturing the only visage of hers I see in my conscious state. Life’s end. She’s coughing. It’s loud and full of phlegm. The hired nurse hands her a cloth napkin to spit in. There’s blood. She’s got some fight left in her. Her children stand by their mother’s side for the last time before they reach eternal life. Her husband, so loving and caring, takes on a mistress as our matriarch lies on the edge of life. By October, they say the tuberculosis is gone, leaving her lungs scarred. No longer is she able to fight off illness. They take her to the colored hospital all the

ephemera 2019-21

Yesterday Tomorrow, Serena Melonio, Digital Photograph

way out in Bluefield—a day’s journey from the coal camps. I’d later make this journey in 100 years. It only takes around 20 minutes on the county road. It’s too late. The typhoid fever has possessed her body, releasing its deadly spirit. They all say she would have fought it off, had she had any living left in her. There’s nothing they can do now, except let her slip away peacefully. Under the stiff, white hospital sheets, in a bed she has not made day after day, in a home she has not consecrated as her own, I watch her struggle to take her last breaths. She dies, not of disease, but of a broken heart. Cousins and grandparents take the children; they grow up with faded memories of their mother. First in the colored schools and coal camps of a land their branches have now expanded, then under the smog and unwritten segregation of an unknown city we’ve been stuck in for generations. When a mother dies, there’s no reason to stay. She gave you life, now life has taken hers. Year after year, we will return to relive old memories, yet never make our abode in the place we used to call home. For my great-grandmother, Alberta Elliott Carter.

Dear Officer Madison Martin

Dear Officer, please don’t shoot. I’m sure we can find a substitute. Do our lives not mean anything to you? Do your worries oversight our worries? Does your blue reign higher than our brown? Does my black hoodie mean body on the ground? How do I survive in a world where my skin brings pain? So many questions circulating in this 17-year-old brain Trying to get into college but maintain my sanity As George Floyd, Breonna Taylor, and so many more are ripped from humanity I seek SAT prep at school While trying to follow the officer’s rule I make the winning basketball shot While black bodies lay dead on the lot

Judgement, Aysu Türkay, Watercolor, Colored Pencils, and Posca Pens

ephemera 2019-21

Scrutiny, Aysu Türkay, Watercolor, Colored Pencils, and Posca Pens I study for my latest calculus test While blue lives matter protest leave me stressed I practice my sentence structure for my next DBQ As BLM protesters try to break through I study the structures of a pine tree While watching my black brother die at the hands of an officer’s knee Fighting hard at school to be a success but the thoughts and actions of our officers bring pain, sorrow, and stress Dear Officer, I'll say this one more time PLEASE DON’T SHOOT I did not commit a crime For my future as a student is to become great And to not stress over my execution date

The End Zone

Excerpted from the Original Mariah Protho

“Gunn went missing a week and a half ago, but you all know that already.” Ellipse trailed off and cleared his throat. “I was thinking that maybe we could look for him.” While we thought, he read our faces, and I tried to scribble mine illegible. “Ellipse, Gunn is dead,” Aira said. She looked down and folded her arms across her chest. Usually listening to her speak felt like popping a handful of berries into my mouth and savoring their tangy juices on my tongue. Her eyes danced to the rhythm of her sentences—I felt like I was spinning under the stars when they met mine. But in that moment, I swallowed a mouthful of gruel while drenched in a rainstorm. “We don’t necessarily know that,” Rust replied with a cautious burst of hope. He removed his helmet with one large hand and ran the other through his thick, black hair as if this would catalyze his thoughts, likely spiraling into darkness as his brown eyes drifted and sank. “But he probably is.” “They wrote his name down on the list already,” Aira said. “And even if he were alive, I thought we came back into the city to look for more scrap metal.” “And fuel for the vehicles.” Rust frowned. “We need that for the caravan. Maybe it’s not the best idea to spend the day looking for Gunn.” Ellipse turned around and paced the width of the bridge from one small blue arc to the other. “You should have seen the way his mom looked at me. If you would have seen how she . . . she looked just like my . . .” He planted his feet and sighed, peering over the concrete barrier at the river below. “I don’t know if we’ll find him or not, but we at least have to try.” His voice, humid and heavy, left his words hovering in the air long after they were uttered. “Ellipse is right.” Ellipse’s head whipped around, Aira’s eyebrows raised higher than the mountain we had just climbed down, and Rust took a step back. I don’t think I had ever used ‘Ellipse’ and ‘right’ unaccompanied by ‘not’ in the same sentence. “He wasn’t right to lie,” I continued, dodging ensnarement in Aira and Rust’s scowls, “but I think we should look for Gunn. He’s a person.” I threw my hands up. “Not gasoline or a car battery. A person!” “A dead person,” Rust countered flatly. “So?” Ellipse snapped. “That doesn’t mean we shouldn’t look for him!”

ephemera 2019-21 “We don’t just go out looking for everyone who wanders off or gets robbed or whatever.” Rust looked down. The bass in his naturally booming voice was absent. His heart didn’t beat in his words. “It’s sad, but if we all want to survive, we have to utilize the people who are still around and not waste resources finding people who aren’t.” I could never pinpoint the unease I felt when our group refused to look for a missing person unless they could “substantially contribute” to our survival. Their names transformed into numbers marked down as another dip in our population. There was no sadness or personal loss. It was frustrating to be connected to someone, to hold them close for their entire life, and not be allowed to feel anything once they were gone. Nothing except remorse for the dwindling of our species. “Val,” Aira pleaded, “we’re supposed to leave this region tomorrow.” “I know.” Aira stepped in front of me and pulled down her mask. I wanted her to keep talking so I could devour every word that flowed from her lips. They would still taste sweet despite being bitterly wrong. “I feel bad, but what can we really do? The group might make cuts. You know I can’t afford to lose anyone in my family just because Kissi was sad.” Her glare threw daggers at Ellipse that cut deep enough to make even me see red. She told me once that when he made her angry, she would count his freckles until she cooled down. I wondered what number she got to then. “It’s just one day of looking.” I chose my words carefully, making sure they fell alluringly upon Aira’s ears. She liked to be sure she did all she could before moving forward. “We’ve pretty much scavenged everything we could for the past few weeks.” I glanced at Rust who preferred to calculate and plan ahead. “And if you think about it, finding Gunn alive would increase the amount of supplies we could scavenge in the future.”

Dawn, Neev Lamba, Digital Photograph 44

Aira squinted, exchanged a look with Rust, and looked back at me. “Okay, fine,” she conceded. “But I’m only going to help you look for half of the day.” I grinned. She looked at me, trying to stay angry, but I saw her pull her mask up quickly to cover her blossoming smile. “Rust?” Ellipse asked. “I trust Aira.” As I walked across the dark blue bridge with two intersecting arcs gnawed away by rust, the crisp morning wind cooled the sliver of my forehead not covered by my filtration mask, helmet, and goggles. My boots and my friends’ shuffled against the cracked, eroded ground, and the broken wagon wheel squeaked and plunked when Ellipse rammed it over missing portions of the asphalt. When I traveled by foot, I immersed myself in noises to feel like I was really going somewhere. Skyscrapers, long since emptied, pierced the peach dawn sky. In the distance stood one that looked like it would have been tall if it weren’t missing its top half. It amazed me to think that cities used to shine. Once in a magazine, I flipped to a picture of New York City that spread across two pages. It was so bright, it almost hurt my eyes, but I couldn’t look away. In blackness, light beamed from skyscraper windows and neon signs. Red and yellow headlights on speeding cars were beacons. Pittsburgh wasn’t New York City, but I knew it had shone once, too.

Light Box, Zachary Rampelt, Cardboard, Paper, LED Lights

ephemera 2019-21

Kiss of Sunshine Anthony Wiles

It is another windy night The city is ablaze with a neon glow as traffic rushes by at 2:00 AM My phone tells me it’s only 60 degrees The rusted tabletop fan spins away making harmony with the air-con, blowing frosty winds onto my face I am only wearing a t-shirt My arms are covered in goosebumps, Yet I am still hot A tear crawls down my cheek, I can taste its saltiness on the corner of my swollen lip I reach up to wipe it away, wincing from pain in the shoulder you broke I can still smell your scent on the pillow I’ve washed three times today: Cognac and the noxious scent of blood Don’t know if it’s mine or yours

Tonight I am free, no more can you hurt me I open the music app and pull up an old playlist I hear the voice of a woman She’s singing of heartbreak and betrayal, two things I’d rather experience than loving you again If only I had listened, gotten away when I still could The edge of my bed is covered with crystals of lye and the divorce papers I need to burn Had you just signed them, had you just let me leave quiet and peacefully I would have kept my mouth shut, never defamed your name I still won’t Not because I love you, nor do I want to protect you I must do so to keep safe I don’t know you anymore I never did

ephemera 2019-21

Lit, Neev Lamba, Digital Photograph

My alarm buzzes, though I never fell asleep 6:45 reads the clock I open the curtains, Letting in a shower of sunlight exposing me to the contents of our bedroom Crushed cans of beer, an empty bottle of whiskey, Your stiffened body The sun gleams brightly upon your slashed face, kissing you better than you ever did me

Limitless

Kipauno Washington

Everybody want their piece of the world, that’s why there ain’t no peace in the world, It’s hard to keep your feet in the world, when tryna meet your peak in the world, Tryna discover what I seek from the world, keep me from getting sleep in the world, But my mind still at ease in the world, cuz I’ll make a change before I leave this world, We all got innocence with ignorance in a sense, But in this glimpse I see my flaws is what makes me limitless, To grow in a midst of belligerence I can’t afford timidness, In fact it’s to my benefit cuz I learn vigilance, Gotta get intimate with the feeling of imminent pressure, Cuz with diligence I can survive inclement weather, Tryna make sense of it, makes my head spin like propellers, But the past provides remembrance that days will get better, So I don’t get fed up, naw I just keep my head up, Even when all hope seems lost I don’t let up, Life don’t wait for no one, that’s why I sped up, So when my moment comes to shine I’ll step up

Stars, Neev Lamba, Digital Photograph

bios Sasha Ahmad is a freshman who enjoys reading, writing, and dancing. As a rising sophomore, she is excited to try new extracurricular activities and make the most of her time here at Sewickley Academy.

Madison Martin is a junior who has always had a passion for writing . As a young social activist, she's used poetry to convey her emotions and feelings in nonconformist ways. Additionally, she's been a leader continuously throughout her education, which has helped shape her experience and skills as a poet.

Aysu Türkay is a junior and the art editor of Ephemera. She loves to take photos and draw. She especially enjoys making portraits, but is currently trying to branch out to other subject matter. When she's free, Aysu enjoys binging Youtube and reading.

Grace Armutat is a sophomore who participates in theatre and field hockey. She spends her free time reading, writing, and singing. She is co-president of Writing Club, a member of the Ephemera club, and an editor for Polyphony Lit, a worldwide literary magazine.

Serena Melonio is a senior who enjoys biology, music, and writing short stories and poetry. She is ecstatic to be attending the University of Notre Dame in the fall to further pursue her passions.

Christina Walton is a senior at Sewickley Academy. This is her first year contributing to Ephemera.

Claire Cable is a sophomore with a passion for writing, reading, and performing in musical theatre. She is co-president of Writing Club, co-president of Pride Club, and a member of Clark House Council.

Mariah Protho is a senior who enjoys reading and writing, watching movies, and playing the clarinet and ukulele. She is excited to continue her creative pursuits at Amherst College this fall.

Kipauno Washington has attended Sewickley Academy since Pre-K and over the years had always enjoyed learning creative writing through poetry, short stories, and music. He is now a senior, and as he departs from the school he wanted to leave something behind through his writing.

Clare Chiusano is a senior at Sewickley Academy where she acts as the Senior School Vice President, Adopt-a-Grandparent Club President, and a captain to the 2020 field hockey team. All of her works come from her English poetry portfolio, and she is excited to share them with Ephemera this year!

Kay Rampelt is a sophomore. This is her first year contributing to Ephemera.

Anthony Wiles is a junior, and the 2020-21 National Student Poet representing the Northeastern United States. In addition to writing, he loves to cook, read, do genealogical research, travel, and listen to music.

Nikki Samar Golestan is a sophomore at Sewickley Academy. From a very young age, she showed a great passion for art. Most of her artwork is focused on the mythical aspect of reality. She gets inspired by the people and things that are significant in her life.

Zachary Rampelt is a senior who loves creatively expressing himself. His hobbies include gaming, making videos, and reading.

Madeleine Wren is a junior and the Layout Editor of Ephemera. She enjoys reading and writing, especially poetry, and her favorite poet is Emily Dickinson. In addition to writing, she also enjoys running cross country and track and spending time with her family.

Megan Hilberg is a junior who has been taking art classes all of senior school. Her snake piece was inspired by a previous sculpture of hers and was created as part of an assignment to recreate an older piece.

Katie Serafin is a sophomore who likes to do ceramics, which has been her main focus this year. Outside of school, she likes to paint and try out many new mediums in her free time.

Neev Lamba is a current senior who has been a part of the Ephemera club for three years now. He enjoys artwork. He will be attending the University of Michigan next fall.

When senior Emily Szabo was a competitive skier, a lot of other athletes were into photography, and she loved seeing their amazing pictures. Emily fell in love with photography when she received a digital camera for Christmas one year. She plans to keep photography as a creative outlet in college.