imagination
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contents/folio 2 /poetry Noise, Anna Leigh Clearman Forgettable, Celine Huang Penny Poem, Eve Kroencke burn and i love her with her hair down, Len de la Cruz
11 12 16 19
/prose Lake Life, Nat Larsen Free of Charge, Ananya Agrawal Jung, Eliot Aiman
4 18 20
/art Fractured Primaries, Gabe de la Cruz Subsist, Jon Collins Deal Splash, Alejandro Garza Memory Holes, Sophie Lesniak Sails at Sunset, Vikram Shah Summer in the City, Lauryn Kapiloff drip, Gabe de la Cruz Kiss of Judas, Celine Huang
3 6 7 15 15 17 18 20
/inserts [untitled]. Angela Xu ’21. Pen on paper. 2020 /cover Her. Celine Huang, ’22. Charcoal. 2019
Dear Reader, While the world has been constantly changing, we’ve stayed connected through our love for writing and art. Over the past few weeks, it’s been incredible to see St. John’s writers at work, crafting and editing pieces. Each conversation we have with our authors gives us new insight into how and why we write. We’re hopeful that we can continue to expand our support for writers during these uncertain times, providing them with platforms to share work and receive feedback. If you’re interested, our Writing Circle will welcome you with open arms. This second folio reflects a diverse range of voices and visions taken from our Spring Issue. Whether it’s pain, hope, loss, or contentment, we hope that you will feel the emotion of the pieces featured within. That’s why we tell stories — through writing or through art. We’re here to support you in any stage of your creative journey. With love and respect, Tyler King and Alexa Theofanidis, Editors-in-Chief
Fractured Primaries. Gabe de la Cruz, ’22. || Ceramic. 2019.
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Nat Larsen, ’21
Lake Life T
he oldest house on Crescent Beach belonged to Esther. It was dark red with a bell in the driveway and decorated with thousands of cat novelties, each tackier than the last. Behind the pawprint curtains, pedestrians could catch a glimpse of Esther in her kitchen window, usually baking sugar cookies with her granddaughter, Margot. A wrinkled hand cupped the small child’s, guiding the ingredients into the ceramic bowl, which much like everything in Esther’s house, was very old. The two of them cooked every Sunday until Margot returned home to Grand Rapids. It was around 6 o’clock that the red Volvo pulled up under the bell outside and there was a kerfuffle as the girl shed her apron, slammed the door behind her, and sprinted outside into the arms of her mother. “Mom!” Esther’s granddaughter screamed, hugging her mother around the waist with enough force to topple an elephant. Esther’s daughter laughed, “Well, hello to you too.” She turned to her mother. “And hello to you, Mom.” She pulled her mother in for a hug. “Thanks for taking care of Margot this weekend.” “You know it’s my pleasure,” Esther said. Esther’s daughter transferred the overnight bag into the backseat, opening the door for Margot to leap in. “It’s nice having kids around. Gets a little lonely sometimes.”
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“I know it does.” Esther’s daughter strapped the child into the car seat in the back. Esther followed her daughter to the car door, and Esther’s daughter flipped the ignition. “See you next week, Mom. Stay safe.” Esther waited in the driveway until the car disappeared into the distance and she could no longer hear the rumble of the engine. She stumbled outside to her porch and rocked back and forth on the swinging bench, clinging to her light blue sweater against the breeze that blew her cloud of white hair into her furrowed face. The sky turned from pink to orange to blue to black, and Esther watched it all in the reflection on the water, which looked bigger and broader than ever before. The lake would be empty until next weekend, when her granddaughter would return and run towards the water screaming, “Watch me jump, Grandma!” Her splash would mist Esther a little bit, but mostly disturb the duck family that would honk and fly off in a fuss. Esther would wade into the water a little bit, reaching for the girl’s extended hand, but Esther’s knees are seventy-three years old and she can’t go too deep. So she stays near the edge, surrounded by the noise and the life of a child on a lake.
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onight, the only sounds were the occasional sweep of the wind, the crash of the waves, and the chirping of the cicadas from the trees. But Esther was not alone. She spotted a figure swaying under the tree with the ironically cat-shaped birdhouse nailed to the nearest branch. She put her glasses with the circular frames over her blue eyes and squinted. Yes, there was definitely a human under that tree. Esther picked herself up and hobbled down the steps to the lawn, gripping the wooden railing as she went. “Hello?” Esther said. The figure did not respond. Esther looked around, but there was no one there. Still uncertain, she leaned over and checked for a pulse. Nothing. There was a dead body in Esther’s backyard. In seventy-three years, Esther had never actually encountered a dead body before. Except for Uncle Jerry’s open-casket funeral in 1981. Esther still shivered thinking about the fat old man’s frozen body, pale and bloodless. It was also the first time she met Albert James, head of the Hickory Corners Police Department. “First time seeing a dead-y?” He asked her. Ester adjusted her navy sweater. “A dead-y?” “You know,” Albert loosened his tie and adjusted his suit. Esther got the impression he was more comfortable in his usual officer attire of jeans and a khaki shirt. “A dead body. It’s dead, so I just call them dead-y.” Ester nodded along. “I guess you would encounter enough dead bodies in your profession to give them a nickname.”
The two of them looked at the dead body. “I could tell you more about it if you’d go to lunch with me,” Albert said. Esther noticed that Jerry was missing his watch. “Um, things to think about, Officer,” she clapped his shoulder and disappeared out of the church. And now, thirty years later, Esther and Albert looked over another dead body. Maybe nothing had changed--except that now Albert had a white mustache. He was still a good head taller than Esther at 6’2” with deep eyes and soft features. This time around, he was wearing his typical uniform, complete with aviator sunglasses despite the dark. “What do you want to do with him?” Albert asked Esther. “Why are you asking me?” Esther asked. “You’re the cop.” Albert smiled and pointed a finger at her. “You’re right. I am a cop.” Esther sighed. “Officer, there’s a dead body in my backyard.” “Yeah. You told me when you called.” “Any chance of getting rid of him?” Albert stumbled back. “You mean to tell me that you want to get rid of him?” Esther rolled her eyes at his dramatic antics, but she did crack a smile. “We haven’t even gotten around to figuring out what happened to him! Esther wants to get rid of a mystery? Next, you’ll tell me you hate cats!” Esther put her hands on her hips. “Alright, sir. What do you think happened to him?” “Well,” Albert’s back cracked as he took a knee to examine the body closer. “This here,” he pointed to a massive bruise on the body’s forehead, “suggests that someone hit their head, but this,”
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he showed Esther the body’s raw and cut-up wrists, “suggests that maybe it wasn’t so innocent.” Esther helped Albert to his feet. “Are you suggesting, Officer, that there was foul play involved in this man’s death?” Albert looked at Esther with big brown eyes from behind his glasses. “Yes, that is exactly what I’m suggesting.” The two of them shared a look of grimace and then broke into laughter. “All right, Esther,” Albert put a hand of her shoulder. “Get some rest. I’ll be by at 9 tomorrow.” They walked to the door of the
porch. “Goodnight, Albert.” “Goodnight, Esther.” Esther slipped into her nightgown with kittens on it and drifted off to sleep with impressive ease considering a man was just murdered in her backyard.
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sther woke up to the chimes of the cat-shaped alarm clock. It was 8:30. Esther barely got ready before she heard the firm knock at the back door. Albert was right on time. “Good morning, Esther.”
Subsist. Jon Collins Deal, ’22. || Photograph. 2019.
6 • IMAGINATION
“Good morning, Officer. Are we investigating today?” “We will, but I figured the crew could help get us started.” He gestured to the display of pretty much the entirety of the small-town police department. Esther’s neighbors up and down the beach poked their heads out the window at the unprecedented sight of so much law enforcement all in one place. Esther led the team down to her yard where the body was. Jeff, Albert’s right hand man, started loading the evidence bags while another officer called the station. “Yeah, I’m looking at a white male, about 6 feet tall, blonde hair, couldn’t be older than 30. No ID. No wallet. All he has is a red swimsuit and a navy swim shirt. Head injury and attire suggest drowning, but we can’t identify the real cause of death until we get him back to the station. Looks like he was tied up judging by the wrists, so Albert decided that we’re treating this as murder.” “Plus, it’s a little more fun to treat it like a murder than just a standard death,” Albert whispered to Esther. Esther looked at the body for the first time in the daylight. Something about him felt oddly familiar. She turned to Albert, “I think this is Rodney from the Gull Lake Marine.” Despite their skeptical glances, Albert directed the other officers. “Look up Rodney from the Gull Lake Marine.” A woman disgruntledly pulled out her phone. Sure enough, Rodney was a “key member” of the wakeboarding staff, matching the same description of the body except he was smiling and looked a little bit alive in his picture.
“Great!” Albert exclaimed. “You guys get this body back to the station and Esther and I will follow this lead.” As the two of them walked stride in stride towards Albert’s car, Esther remembered the first time she and Albert had ever investigated anything. It was Uncle Jerry’s watch. It was an openclose case since it turned out her Cousin Marty was enough of an idiot to wear his uncle’s stolen watch to his uncle’s funeral. Esther and Albert got lunch afterward. “Alright,” Albert turned the engine on. “We’ll go down to the Marine and see if they know what Rodney’s been up to.” “Have they reported him missing or anything?” Esther asked. Albert pulled out of the driveway and started following the small country road that surrounded the lake to the Marine. “No, we don’t know anything about Rodney at the station. Little background check on Facebook suggests he’s a Traverse City local traveling the state a little bit giving wakeboarding lessons. No clear significant other or anything. Hopefully, the Marine has enough information that we can alert his family of his passing.” “Oh. That’s really sad.” For the first time, Esther thought of the body not as an object, but as Rodney, the vivacious, extreme sports fanatic with parents and siblings. Albert pulled into the Gull Lake Marine. It was a relatively new building, made out of hideous metal that the lake residents protested, but ultimately the presence of young, fit water sportsmen won everyone over. Esther and Albert
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hopped out of the vehicle and found their way to the front desk. “What’s poppin, Officer?” The man asked. He looked about 24 years old, with dark hair and tan skin. His name tag read “Jack.” “Do you know Rodney?” Albert asked. “Oh yeah. Guy’s a beast.” “I have some bad news about him.” “He’s dead isn’t he?” “How’d you know?” Albert asked, nearly falling over. Esther wandered over to the display of ropes. “You’re a policeman and Rodney lived on the edge, Officer.” Jack put his head in his hands. “I’m completely devasted to hear that. He was a genuinely good dude. Really talented at wakeboarding. I thought it was a little weird he didn’t go to the championship yesterday. There were real people there. He could’ve been noticed. Then maybe he’d get out of this town and make in Lake Michigan.” “Hold on,” Albert pulled out his notepad. “When’s the last time you saw him?” Jack scratched his head. “He was here yesterday morning, up until noon actually. We closed shop a little early since most of us were headed to the championship, but then he didn’t show. Rodney’s a little scattered sometimes. Honestly, I thought he might have forgotten about it.” “Do you know anyone who would’ve seen him later?” “Sorry man. Everyone here was at the championship from 2 to 5 last night. And then we were at Ned’s until 2 am. Free drinks for finalists.” Jack shrugged.
8 • IMAGINATION
“Albert, come look at this.” Esther waved him over. “Don’t you think these ropes could’ve made the marks we saw on his wrists?” Albert smoothed his mustache. “Yes, it could.” “Do you think this could’ve just been a wakeboarding accident?” “Yes, it could.” “Then, do you think Jack isn’t telling us something?” “Yes, it could.” “What?” Albert’s phone started ringing. “I gotta take this,” he said, jogging out of the store.
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he Marine staff was taking lunch in the Ice House Deli next door. The bell rang as Albert and Esther entered and pulled up chairs on either end of the booth. “Hey boys,” Albert said, “I was wondering what color the boat was that you were on when Rodney fell, hit his head, and you left his dead body to wash up on my dear, dear friend Esther’s yard.” Jack and his associates looked around the table in confusion. “I think you’re a little mixed up, Officer. We were all at the championship. No one was here.” “I think Rodney had rope burns on his wrists because he took a bad fall and cut himself on the line. He hit his head and my associate confirmed the cause of death was drowning.” Albert shook his phone. “She also placed it between
Splash. Alejandro Garza, ’22. || Photograph. 2019.
noon and 2, which is exactly when all of you were not at the championship.” Albert took off his hat. “I’m just looking for the truth, fellas. If this is what happened then this isn’t murder—none of you killed him. It was an accident.” The table exchanged glances. Finally, Jack spoke up. “Ok.” He took a breath. “Before the championship, we wanted to warm up a little bit, because it was really big. Winning this… you could get a deal to travel and it’s hard to make it as a wakeboarder. So yeah, we went out and Rodney was with us. He tried something new and it did not work at all.” Jack put his head in his hands again. “Happened just like you said. He didn’t come up. We hovered in the water waiting for him to surface, but
he didn’t. Finally, Ethan jumped in.” The tall, muscular man next to Jack spoke up. “Rodney was dead. So dead,” Ethan said. “And I was driving the boat,” Rodney added. “But I’m not a murderer, Officer! It’s a dangerous sport and Rodney pushed the boundaries. That’s all it was.” Albert laughed. “You kids are such goons. You can’t get in trouble for any of that! In the business, we call that a boating accident. Yeah, you should’ve called the department and let us take care of it, but instead, you gave Esther a heart attack last night! I’m glad we cleared this up.” Albert and Esther pushed in their chairs. “Are you sure there’s no consequence for leaving your friend’s dead
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body in the lake?” Esther asked. Albert shrugged. “Can I buy you an ice cream?” Esther got butter pecan, and Albert got chocolate. Albert was over-themoon excited, skipping a little bit as he and Esther walked the dock. “Oh man, Esther, already a mystery solved, and it’s not even 2 o’clock.” “It’s a little disappointing, Albert.” Albert stopped. “What are you talking about?” “What do I do now?” Esther moaned. “Go home and mope around until Margot comes home next weekend?” “How is Margot?” Albert asked. Esther sighed, smiling as she thought of her beloved granddaughter. “She’s so amazing, Albert.” Esther shrugged. “But any granddaughter of ours would be.” After Uncle Jerry’s funeral, Esther and Albert got lunch at the Ice House, but it wasn’t called the Ice House then. They bought ice cream—butter pecan and chocolate—and they came down to the dock and dangled their feet in the water back when you could dangle your feet in the water without worrying about touching the oil on the surface leaked by the Marine. In those days, Esther had long, brown hair that the wind blew into a tangled mess, and Albert
10 • IMAGINATION
gave her his suit jacket to keep her from the cold (and because it was tight in the shoulders and he was sick of wearing it). They watched the sunset from the dock. Then, they got married and watched the sunset from Crescent Beach. Albert painted the house red, and Esther decorated it with the cat novelties because Albert was allergic to cats. Life is long, and love is fragile. They no longer loved each other, but they loved their kids, and now they love their grandkids. Albert comes by Esther’s every once in a while to eat sugar cookies and hang out with his granddaughter. Sometimes, he stays over for dinner, even after Margot leaves. Esther and Albert sit outside on the rocking bench to watch the sunset. “Thank you for getting rid of the body in my backyard.” “It is my job, Esther. It is, on the other hand, a pleasure to see you.” The last of the pink and orange disappeared as the dark of night obscured it. The cicadas hummed, and the waves gently crashed to shore. Two old people drifted off on the bench outside the oldest house on Crescent beach.
Anna Leigh Clearman, ’21
Noise
Deafening waves of excitement, hatred, and desire join together in a relentless pounding cry, crashing over my mind, mercilessly muting my thoughts. Strangers brush past incessantly. Carried by the stream of mindless drones, like salmon swimming upstream, controlled only by the traffic’s pitiful promise to never stop moving past the misfortuned people sitting on cardboard along the walls. And those covered with mere paint clinging to folds of their naked bodies, hoping pocket change will be thrown at them. With each strange touch, my skin crawls, searching for somewhere to escape to. The lights, the signs, the screens assault my eyes with bright advertisements — too many to process. Still they wait for my consciousness to be pulled in, hypnotized by the LED screens, to join in the wanton procession, to prove that 2024 is exactly like 1984. Yet my mind tells me to run to escape the noise the contact the lights the lies of a better tomorrow that are promised in Times Square where they create prisoners of longing.
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Celine Huang, ’22
Forgettable her wrinkled fingers intertwine with my younger, smoother ones as we drift down the sides of a crowded mall. she’s telling that story again the one about her neighbors back in the mountains of taiwan the ones who beat their wives when the porridge wasn’t salty enough. she doesn’t remember when she taught me how to count staring up at the speckled ceiling in our old home in sandstone on those lazy summer days before august arrived and took me away. she doesn’t remember when we marveled at my first rainbow through a toy telescope on our white porch in suburban louisiana pastel colors just peeking through a clear blue sky as clear as my memory. she doesn’t remember when I ran into the stair railing in our new houston home and pouted on the carpet when she told me to apologize to the unfortunate wood.
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she left when I was eleven fresh out of elementary crying when we hugged goodbye before the drone of the plane blocked all sight of her. five years later a year ago I flew to her and cried again when she didn’t remember my name. I’d heard the stories of her slipping memory how she wakes up in the middle of the night searching for something she can’t quite grasp. how she blends memories time and space into a jumble of hazy screens tongue-tied in her brain. but some part of me was selfish, arrogant, believing that even though I was her youngest granddaughter that we’d spent so many years together the first eleven of my life too many for her to possibly forget. but when she saw me she called me “mei-mei” safe, unspecified a pronoun for someone she should know. waiting for the subway to taichung in a bustling tunnel I asked her who am I? and my heart cracked when she couldn’t answer.
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I turned away to my mother smothering tears in her soft, cotton shirt you can’t ever forget me, I said voice tearing into uncontrollable sobs gasping like a fish deserted by the water. she knows that she’s meant to know me but by context not by name that there are holes in her memory where I used to be. I know that it’s the disease that she didn’t choose to throw away our precious memories with nonchalance. but as we walk down that mall swarming with strangers lost in a sea of people faces, memories the warmth of her hand slips a little further away.
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Memory Holes. Sophie Lesniak, ’22. || Photograph. 2019.
Sails at Sunset. Vikram Shah, ’22. || Photograph. 2019.
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Eve Kroencke, ’22
Penny Poem I count my happiness in pennies Plopping them in the jar I keep by my windowsill Smiles and hugs and rainy days Friends and family and chocolate cake A penny for each one Until the jar is almost too full to put any more in But it never overflows Always stays right below the top As if waiting for the day When I decide happiness can’t be measured I’ll spread them out along my bed when I’m sad Or lonely Or wishing for something more And feel them in my fingers Rubbing the copper between my forefinger and my thumb Hoping to absorb its joy I do it on the days when I can’t go any longer When the sun beats hard on my back And nasty words seem to spill into me Poisoning the pennies I had held so close to my heart In that jar Resting on my windowsill I’ll hold them close on the sad days And kiss the copper Hoping Praying
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Tears sometimes fall on the bright copper Distorting lincoln’s face Hiding the words “in god we trust” I have to get the blue towel from my powder room And carefully dry them off As if they are worth more than a cent More than a thousand And then scoop them back into the jar All used up for the day My hands smell like copper when I go to pin my hair back Looking towards the window Where the bright rays of today sit But the diamonds of sunlight So carefully crafted in the sky Mean nothing to me compared to my pennies My little droplets of happiness Waiting on the windowsill Resting Until I need them again
Summer in the City. Lauryn Kapiloff, ’21. || Photograph. 2019.
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Ananya Agrawal, ’22
Free of Charge A
s a drop of red liquid fell, staining the ground, I heard a weak whimper. Another splotch joined the growing crimson puddle, and I heard the same voice start to outright bawl. I glanced up quickly to see scarlet juice running down her fingers and arms, red smudges joining mud and grass stains. Turning back to my work, I clenched and unclenched my fists, willing the image away from my mind before I did something I would regret. The five-year old seemed to be physically pained, but I
Drip. Gabe de la Cruz, ’22. || Ceramic. 2019.
18 • IMAGINATION
worked to quell my growing sense of sympathy. I moved away with great effort and tried to ignore the small sniffles, but it was all in vain. There was another choked sob, and I could not take it any longer. Giving up in my internal struggle, I turned towards the red-eyed child. With a glance around, I called towards her quietly, waiting for the girl to approach me. I cleaned her up, wiping the sticky liquid off her hands and face, then handed her a new popsicle, free of charge.
Len de la Cruz, ’21
burn
she counts my knuckles as we knock fists I’m just another cigarette between my ex-lover’s teeth a scar of rose petals peeled off my wrist Mr. Brightside won’t let me go
i love her with her hair down I love her with her hair down. Wisps of fairy floss falling down, down Out of her face and into mine. Streams of sunlight turned them golden, Brought my eye to the strand between her parted lips— Lips I chase— But she rears back, Eyes blown black, mouth quirked up. I pretend I don’t love her little games.
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Eliot Aiman, ’22
Jung L
ove. Four letters. One word. There’s so much dedicated to love: a holiday with all things pink and red, a genre of movies and books, handwritten letters, poems written by hopeless romantics, ballads that win album of the year. Why is there so much talk about love? I love Taylor Swift. I love chocolate. I love to dance. I love dogs. I love so much, and yet, does this mean I have love? The thing about love, true human love, is that you have to leap. There is no in-between. You either have it or you don’t; you’re either loved or you’re not. I’ve had love before. I don’t mean romantic love. I don’t mean familial love. I mean make fun of each other’s quirks love. The deliver your friend a cake when
she’s sick love. You can communicate without words love. You can show every part of you and not be embarrassed love. I had that love. I lost it. We lost it. I miss it every day. I miss the trust, the compassion, the care, the friendship. What’s scary about loss is not that you won’t have love; it’s that you won’t have closure. Not ever getting to know. Was it all fake? Every time they casually said “I love you,” were they lying? Every hand-made, specially drawn birthday card I got, every late-night facetime — were they just pretending? If what we shared was love, then why was it so easy to leave? Wait. It wasn’t easy for me. Was it easy for them? Is this the fate of having love? If they knew my heart would be broken, would they still do it? Would they choose to give up our love? Would they choose to give up our friendship? I was thirteen; I am sixteen. I had love; I lost it. She was my best friend; she’s isn’t anymore. I have love. I have jung. jung: a korean word describing the connection between two people that cannot be severed, even when the love between them turns to hate
Kiss of Judas. Celine Huang, ’22. || Papier-mâché. 2018.
20 • IMAGINATION
Masthead Editors-in-Chief Tyler King Alexa Theofanidis Managing Editor Sacha Waters PR Director Izzy Andrews Poetry Editors Nyla Hartigan Liv Rubenstein Prose Editors Ethan Kinsella Sophie Lesniak Art Editor Celine Huang Design Editors Russell Li Ian McFarlane
Staff Readers Max Beard Natalie Brown Emily Burnett Owen Butler Ella Chen Laney Chang Len de la Cruz Charlotte Curtin Fareen Dhuka Karli Fisher Sophia Groen Nat Larsen Ariana Lee Afraaz Malick Camille McFarland Meridian Monthy Julia Rae Elizabeth Reed Faculty Advisor Max Boyd
The Writing Circle Through this program, Imagination seeks to provide the School’s creative writers with a place to improve their craft and collaborate with their peers. The Writing Circle primarily facilitates workshopping between students, allowing them to give and receive constructive feedback on their writing. These meetings are modeled on traditional workshopping techniques, but carried out in a more informal setting to encourage active conversation between authors and readers. Our hope is that we will organize a cohort of passionate writers that will uplift and support each other. Any student interested in joining the Writing Circle should email Tyler King (tking@sjs.org) and Alexa Theofanidis (atheofanidis@sjs.org).
About Us Imagination is the student-directed literary journal of St. John’s School. We welcome the work of all students, especially those who push the boundaries of conventional writing and language. In line with the School’s Statement on Community and Inclusion, we seek to provide a place for free creative expression, where students of all backgrounds and perspectives can have their voices heard. Imagination is dedicated to providing a creative environment free from discrimination based on belief, religion, race, ethnicity, age, sex, gender, disability, or sexual orientation. Further, we strive to be a resource for developing creative writers at the School. The ideas expressed within the pieces of this journal do not reflect those of the School, the faculty, or the Editorial Board.
Our Selection Process Pieces are submitted by students and selected through two anonymous rounds of judging. Staff readers first read our pieces, providing preliminary feedback and rankings. Due to the volume of submissions, staff readers are separated into different sections by genre for this task. Using the responses of staff readers as a guide, the Genre Editors work with the Editorial Board to select pieces within each genre, before the issue is finalized by the Editorial Board. Imagination guarantees that at least seven people will review each submission, provide feedback, and engage in discourse before decisions are made.
Minutiae This is the second of three folios that will be published in lieu of the 2020 Spring Issue. The submission window for writing featured in the 2020 Fall Issue will open at the beginning of next school year. Art and photography are accepted on a rolling basis. Copyright 2020 by Imagination and St. John’s School. Authors and artists retain the rights to their individual works. All rights reserved. St. John’s School 2401 Claremont Lane Houston, Texas 77019
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