Imagination Spring 2020, Folio 3

imagination

S 3

contents/folio 3 /poetry World Spins Madly On, Mac Bechtol When Alone in Winter, Anika Ayub 719, Ethan Kinsella

14 16 24

/prose The Vanishing, Charlotte Curtin Plastic Stars and Leaving Home, Liv Rubenstein

4 18

/art Divider, Brandon Lozano Seafoam, Gabe de la Cruz Glass Roof, Vikram Shah [untitled], Max Stith Decay, Gabe de la Cruz Limbo, Celine Huang Fallen Leaves, Katherine Nelson Reflecting Sunset, Katherine Nelson Wide Open, Celine Huang

5 6 9 13 17 23 25 25 26

/special feature Max Boyd in conversation with the Editors-in-Chief

28

/cover Max Stith, ’22.

Dear Reader, Thank you for reading the last of three folios that replaced our Spring issue. Despite the coronavirus pandemic, we have managed to publish seventeen pieces of writing and twenty-five pieces of art featuring over twenty-six talented students across all grades. Yes, we are disappointed we could not showcase the full breadth of work we had planned to present in our original print version, but it has been incredible to experience the dedicated and passionate work our contributors, editors, and designers put into these “bite-sized issues.”

There are many people we would like to thank. First, to our nineteen Staff Readers who provide excellent feedback on every single piece submitted to the publication. The editors and designers, for diving into this adventure with us headfirst and helping us become stronger writers and artists. To Max Boyd, our advisor, who kept us on track as time slipped away at a seemingly impossible speed and ensured that our staff could release everyone’s work in some fashion. And, finally, to the writers and artists who submitted to the Spring issue, whose pieces vitalize our publication. We read stunning, beautiful, brave work this semester, and it has been an honor to glimpse into your minds and hearts. Please continue to share your work with us and the world­—your voice is invaluable.

As a final send-off for this entire “issue,” we wanted to share a brief glimpse into our own minds throughout these past few weeks. We have seen creative, collaborative beauty in the depths of isolation and felt as if we should share our reflections with you. At the back of the folio is a conversation between us and our advisor on our recent Imagination experiences and personal writing journeys.

We hope you enjoy reading this in addition to all of the works presented in this final folio!

With love and respect, Alexa Theofanidis and Tyler King, Editors-in-Chief

SPRING 2020.3 • 3

Charlotte Curtin, ’21

The Vanishing T

he sun cooked the pavement, causing the condensation from the air conditioning units to sizzle when it dripped onto the ground. The heat warped the air, causing ripples in vision over the hot pavement. Nothing could hide from the wrath of a June sun. A line wrapped around the block leading up to the community pool: kids wearing floaties, moms hiding under wide floppy straw hats, sweat dripping down everyone’s brows.

Carol, the doctor’s wife, stood among them, her hands covered in sunscreen—SPF 100—making sure to cover every bit of her daughter’s exposed skin.

Her husband would have a fit if Delilah got sunburnt, and Carol couldn’t afford to piss him off now. Not right now.

The line slowly inched forward as the gates opened for the day. Carol buried her nose into the bag, fishing for the club ID card. Delilah whined, bouncing up in down like the wind-up toys found in some old drawer during spring cleaning.

“Mommy I wanna go swimming...”

“I know, sweetie, just one second.”

“I wanna go now. It’s too hot. My feet hurt. This bathing suit is itchy…”

Her voice rattled on and on as Carol tuned her out, concentrating on digging through her bag. She swore the card was in her wallet, and her wallet was in her bag. Maybe it fell out? Maybe it fell to the bottom of the bag? She ex-

4 • IMAGINATION

hausted these theories, knowing if she couldn’t find it, they would have to go home and miss a day of swimming.

Eventually, the line inched along and they made it to the check-in window. With a flicked wrist, Carol flipped the card out of her bag with triumph.

The disgruntled teen scanned the barcode without lifting their head and motioned them to the gates. Heaving a sigh of relief, she moved along toward the pool.

“Come on Delilah let’s go, sweetie, time to swim!” she chirped, reaching her hand back to grab a hold of her daughter. Her fingers hung empty in the air. Carol turned her head with impatience.

“Delilah lets go—” She cut short.

There was no longer a little blonde girl with a pink polka dot bathing suit bouncing on the pavement. Instead, she was met with the winding line inching forward blindly.

Her voice scratched out of her throat but soon it screeched, sounding an alarm to everyone around. Her eyes darted frantically while she listened for a little voice but all she heard was her heart pounding as adrenaline flushed her body. Her face was warm and damp as her hands started to shake violently wiping away tears clouding her vision.

The slowly inching line halted to a stop.

The cement scraped Carol’s knees as she collapsed on the ground, scratches that

Divider. Brandon Lozano, ’23. || Photograph. 2020.

would turn to scars. The teen behind the check-in called 911.

The vanishing of the doctor’s wife’s child in broad daylight was an event so cataclysmic that it forever divided time into the then and the now, the before and the after, and finally the end.

— 9 years before

H

er breath fogged up the window, her forehead pressed up against the cool glass. Carol grinned as her finger dragged out the little smiley face in the condensation. Her shoulders relaxed as her sigh covered the glass, erasing the drawing forever. Carol moved her eyes upward to take in the view of

campus. Nothing she hadn’t seen in her first 3 years here at college, but that first glimpse always made her stop and stare.

“So, are you excited?” Ruby, Carol’s mom, loved college. She was an honors student with bucket loads of friends, not to mention she met the man who would become her husband and father of her only child right here on the same campus, the same campus where Carol was living and learning.

“Yes,” Carol paused, “I am.” The phrase and the feeling were strange, maybe it was the lack of butterflies in her gut or the steady heart rate she maintained, but something felt right.

“This is gonna be the year that changes everything.”

SPRING 2020.3 • 5

The wind tousled her freshly cut hair, pieces getting caught in her lip gloss. Her lips sputtered and spat trying to free the now sticky strands, her hands trapped by overstuffed cardboard boxes piled up in her arms. Ruby was already through the dorm doors, too busy with the three different window curtain options to notice her daughter stumbling across the sidewalk like a newborn doe.

In a feeble attempt to shift the weight of the boxes over to one arm, the flaps flew open and a stack of freshly folded t-shirts cascaded down into the street gutter.

“Shoot–ugh,” cursed Carol. Crinkles formed across her brow as her nose sneered at the sight of her clothes soaking in the unknown contents of gutter: rainwater, germs, beer, maybe even piss

if she was ever so lucky. Her fingers pinched the dry patches she could find and plopped the swampy mess in a pile on the sidewalk. She grabbed her phone and opened up notes, finding the running list of all the things she had forgotten. Stain remover joined the ranks of coffee k-cups, deodorant, and a shoe organizer.

“OxiClean,” said a voice from behind, making Carol practically drop her phone in the muck she had just rescued her shirts from.

“Excuse me?” She turned around cautiously to identify the voice, discovering a man—no, a guy—standing behind her. His hair was that floppy soft brown style that was cute yet managed to always look professional and neat.

To someone with a less educated taste,

Seafoam. Gabe de la Cruz, ’22. || Ceramic. 2019.

6 • IMAGINATION

his fashion sense would appear average, but Carol recognized his designer shoes and shirt within seconds. His clothes dripped with arrogance but his smile glowed kindness.

“OxiClean, it will get out all the dirt and stains,” he said while bending over, gingerly folding the pile of soiled shirts.

“Th-thanks,” she stuttered, “do you always go around giving out laundry advice to troubled strangers?”

He grinned and said, “Oh no, only the cute ones.” His eyes flicked up, locking with hers, before returning to the now neatly folded stack of shirts.

Heat flushed through Carol’s cheeks as she caught herself blushing.

“Well, thank you so much…”

He reached out his hand. “Benjamin, Benjamin Fitzgerald. But you can call me Ben.” Wow, she thought, even his name reeks of money. How does this guy know about the best stain-fighting detergents?

She shook it. “Carol.”

“Carol? Just Carol?”

“Sorry, my full name is a privilege that must be earned.”

“Hmm, well, any chance I can earn said privilege? Say, Friday? 7?” Her instinct said no, focus on school, but her heart and his dimples made her think otherwise.

“That doesn’t sound awful,” she giggled.

“Who knows, maybe you’ll learn a thing or two about me.”

“Oh really,” she laughed, “Is that so?”

Ben sauntered off with a certain

confidence in his stride. “I might just surprise you, Carol. I’ll see you on Friday. Get excited.”

“Wait,” she called, “how will you know where to find me?”

“I’m gonna assume that this is your dorm, am I wrong? I’ll pick you up right here” A slight laugh slipped out of her mouth, she didn’t want to blow up his ego too much but Carol couldn’t help it. Something in his voice sent ice and heat through her spine and down to her heels, catching her breath every time.

“Ok,” Carol yelled, “you know where to find me.”

“Oh Carol,” Ben howled, “I will always know where to find you.”

— 1 hour after

T

he red and blue lights strobed across the wall, setting the scene for the show many had gathered to watch.

Word of the vanishing spread like wildfire through the neighborhood, igniting at the community pool and wicking its way from ear to ear. Every set of eyes that couldn’t turn away from the scene only fueled the flame higher and spread the word faster.

The crowd started to bore, having stood there for an hour with no new developments it looked like time to head home. They were halted and revived by the skid of Mercedes tires on the parking lot cement that signaled the Doctor’s arrival.

“Carol? Carol?” The words came screaming out of his mouth. Some viewers stepped back, afraid the vein

SPRING 2020.3 • 7

on his forehead might burst. Others leaned in, too enveloped to miss any of the action playing out before them.

“Where is my wife?!” He screamed in a rookie deputy’s ear, practically shaking him into pieces. The Doctor didn’t even realize he had grabbed him until he saw the fear in the kid’s eyes.

After what he would feel to be the longest minute of his life, He found her. Despite the sweltering heat, Carol sat cocooned in a space blanket, her sweat and tears pooling together on her cheeks. It took another 20 minutes to move Carol from her spot and then 10 more just to make it to the car.

“H-Henry. What are we going to do?” She cried into his chest in the back of the cop car. Henry, the Doctor, stayed silent, only running his hand across her back trying his best to make her feel safe. They were going less than 10 mph, the cop driving had to weave his way through hoards of people and traffic that had come to watch the spectacle.

Eventually, they would grow bored, but the embers from the fire were only just heating up.

— 2 weeks before

T

he shattering sound echoed through the house, ricocheting off the walls and reverbing through the windows. Shards of glass were sprawled across the floor, creating a mosaic on the kitchen tiles. Carol was the first one to start picking up the shards.

“Look, I’m sorry. I didn’t see the vase there.” Carol’s tone was sharp and cut into Henry, but the somber expres-

8 • IMAGINATION

sion painted on her face reassured him that she truly meant it.

“I just don’t understand. What’s the big deal? It’s a picture. In a newspaper. It’s us, our family. I just, I don’t get it.” The words struggled to come out of Henry’s mouth, his eyes glued to the shards covering the floor, carefully collecting them in the palm of his hand.

Carol paused, “it’s for Delilah. I–I don’t want my picture, or her picture, out for everyone to see. There are certain people, people I knew a while ago, that I don’t want in my life. I like this life, our life, and they don’t belong in it.

Just trust me, ok?”

Silence now echoed through the house, nothing was heard except the clinking and scraping from the little shards of glass being gathered. Sometimes the glass fought back, pinching into the skin, but neither person made a sound. They didn’t dare to speak, too afraid that they might break too.

— 8 years before

T

he apartment wasn’t much, but compared to the last few months it felt like the ritz. There were only so many shelters and motels that she could afford, and only so much time she could spend at each one. It’s not a vacation, she told herself, it’s an escape. Just get away from him, get the baby away from Ben. The bruises were gone after about a month, but her wrist wasn’t better until after about 3 three months. Carol theorized it was sprained, but that wasn’t the priority. Doctors keep records, she

Glass Roof. Vikram Shah, ’22. || Photograph. 2019.

SPRING 2020.3 • 9

thought, records leave trails, trails lead him here. No Doctors. However, the cut on her leg just didn’t heal right. Now, white scar tissue marked the outline of where the broken beer bottle “accidentally” cut her leg. She scoffed at the thought of all the lies she told for him, covering up his mistakes, his sins. Her lungs felt heavy with the memory of it, soon followed by drippy snot and salty tears.

Suddenly, there was a little kick.

Then there was another and another.

Before she knew it there was a dance party inside her belly, bringing a grin to her face as her tears turned from sad to happy. The little melon inside the womb was the reason behind it all and that little melon always knew when a dance party was needed.

Her feet disappeared under the shadow of her belly. Her back arched and if somebody poked her stomach she might just burst. Rounding up on 9 months, her patience was short but her excitement only grew.

“Just a little bit longer,’’ Carol whispered, holding her hand over the little kicks beating on her belly.

The crib sat partially assembled in the corner of the room, a few blankets tossed inside to tone down the harshness of pure wood. Baby monitors still sat in boxes alongside bottles and diapers. The hospital go-bag sat on the counter and her phone was fully charged. Her checklist was complete and everything was working itself out.

She was ready, or at least as ready as she could be. The apartment always seemed empty before, but now it felt a bit more whole.

10 • IMAGINATION

She crawled into bed, rolling and adjusting before sinking in. Before sleep and its pleasures could settle in, she gazed at the empty place next to her.

The sheets felt cold as she ran her hand over the fabric. Goosebumps peaked up and down her spine jarring her fully awake. The darkness of the room was deafening. The ceiling was vastly blank as was her mind, at least until she felt a little bump.

The bumping and moving rippled from her stomach through her body, warming her core and calming her soul.

Her palm traced circles as the kicking slowed and a smile cracked across Carol’s lips.

“I’ve got you, and you’ve got me,” she cooed, her cheeks glowing in the dark with love and pride. “I’m not going anywhere. We’re a team. I’m not going anywhere.”

— 20 hours after

C

offee mugs and paper cups lined the kitchen counter; eventually, the mess would accumulate past cleanliness ,but that wasn’t the pressing issue. Cops crawled all over the house, scanning and searching for evidence that wasn’t there. Everywhere that Carol turned she saw a blue uniform, and suddenly she found herself drowning in the sea of blue. Gasping for air, reaching out for a moment to just breathe. Inhale. Exhale.

Re-center. But there were no moments, there wasn’t a break. Only Carol, deserted on her couch just trying to stay afloat.

Henry returned with sandwiches, something to counteract all the coffee and give her some energy or something. Carol didn’t really hear what he said, instead she just received the plate with a smile and went right back to sitting quietly.

“Honey, they just need a few minutes. They are doing everything they can. It’s just a few questions for us.”

Henry’s voice was reassuring, but she could hear it tremble. It had the same fear in it that she had in her gut, the kind of fear that swallows everything in sight and suffocates all hope.

“Ma’am, is there any reason that Delilah would run away or wander off?” asked a Detective. He was failing to hide his excitement over his first case as lead detective. He was eager, too eager, and Carol knew it.

“No! What kind of question is that?

What kind of parent do you think I am?

You think my child wanted to leave? To run away?” Carol didn’t realize it till she finished but suddenly she was yelling, the sandwich plate still gripped in her hands. Shocked, the Detective scrambled to formulate his next questions.

“Well–uh–is–is there anyone who would want to hurt Delilah? To take her? Estranged family members or friends?” babbled the Detective.

“No, there is no one like that in our family. Everybody loves her, heck, I think my mom loves Delilah more than she loves me, her only child” laughed Henry. His humorous addition did not help lighten the mood.

“Are you sure? Any enemies—” Carol gasped, her hands dropping the sandwich plate and flying up to cra-

dle her face. Her eyes stung with tears as her chest began to heave, soon sobs were echoing throughout the house.

The tide stopped churning as the sea of blue cops focused in on her.

The words felt like a blade slicing down Carol’s throat, unnatural, and unwelcome. “There is one person. Her father. Delilah’s father.”

— 10 years after

C

arol’s feet were sore from the tight heel of her shoes. They pinched her toes and rubbed in just the wrong ways, only piling onto the list of why this day was just so awful.

“17 years,” Carol whispered. Her fingers gingerly brushed the calendar, focusing on the red ink scrawled over today’s date.

Her desk sat in the corner of the room, illuminated by a single shade lamp. Pictures in frames stood all along the edges, filled with smiling faces and happy times. Sticky notes and loose sheets of papers contained scrawled notes and ideas that popped up throughout the day. Every now and then it was good enough to use for work but these days they remained at just that: scrawled notes and ideas on scraps of papers.

She crawled into the middle of the bed and clicked on the remote. The fluorescent TV light forced her pupils to dilate past comfort, but the user guide got lost long ago, so there was nothing she could do. Nothing she could do but sit there and watch. After minutes passed and her eyes burned, she clicked

SPRING 2020.3 • 11

the screen off and turned away, turning to face the closet door.

Carol tugged lightly on the tattered string that flipped the light on, squinting upwards at the top shelf. Straining on her tiptoes and coughing out dust, she grabbed down the periwinkle shoebox. The color used to shine like the sky, but over time the light faded. Her butt hit the floor with a huff as she lifted the lid and cast it aside, revealing the stack of clippings and pictures. Her breath hitched and for a second everything was silent, broken up only by the pounding of her heart in her ears. Sifting through the pile, headlines of articles and quotes from court cases seared her eyes. Heat rushed through her hands and deep into her gut, quickly followed by warm tears

12 • IMAGINATION

pooling down her face. Sobs quickly followed as her chest ached with every photograph, every glimpse of her face.

Delilah’s face. Her sweet little Delilah, the missing member of her team.

She found herself in the kitchen scrambling through the cupboards and drawers in a desperate attempt to find candles: birthday candles. Next, she found a lighter and dug out the plastic packaged cupcake from the grocery bag. With the stage finally set, her tears stopped flowing. Instead, her voice dripped through the air, weighed down with sadness and grief.

“Happy birthday, Delilah, make a wish.”

The worlds struggled to come out before the sobs and tears ignited again.

Max Stith, ’22. || Pen on paper. 2020.

SPRING 2020.3 • 13

Mac Bechtol, ’22

World Spins Madly On grief is a complicated, winding road. you can smile politely at apologies, can pretend to be okay, but at the end of the day, when your head hits your pillow, you lie awake for hours, missing, wishing, your heart aching for what no longer is. you try to find some way to move forward, to get out of bed and brush your teeth in the mornings, simple things that no longer matter to you. you tell your friends “i’m fine, thank you.”, when in reality you’ve never felt more alone, your world spun wildly on its axis. the sadness crushes your ribs, and presses against your lungs, and you struggle to even breathe. grief plays with your emotions, messes with your head. of course, we all know that grief makes you sad. but they never tell you how angry you become. one minute you’re on your knees, sobbing, praying for some kind of reprieve. and the next, you’re screaming, furious, angry at anyone and everyone. angry at yourself, overthinking each and every encounter. angry at your friends, who can summon all the apologies they want but could never really understand. and angry at “god”, at whatever is up there. because no matter how many times you hear “they’re in a better place,” you can’t seem to convince yourself that’s true. it wasn’t “their time.” none of them. they didn’t deserve this. they weren’t ill, they weren’t sad, not dying, not in pain. they were full of life, and had so much of it left to live.

14 • IMAGINATION

sometimes it feels like you’re living someone else’s life. like this couldn’t possibly be real. before, you’d heard about these things, “tragic accidents,” but they’d never seemed as real as they do now. before, you’d never known what it felt like to have the ground fall out from beneath your feet. but that night, and that morning, it did. and now you know. now, you know that your dad does cry sometimes. now, you grip the seat tighter when you fly, and watch for shallow water when you dive in. now, every time you step on the lacrosse field or pass his hospital, your stomach twists and your eyes sting. eventually, inevitably, you learn to accept grief as a part of your life, to let it in rather than push it away and ignore it. to hold your mom in your arms as she cries, instead of running back upstairs to hide in your room. there are times where you almost forget for a moment, and when it comes crashing down, it hurts even more. but you learn to accept the imbalance you feel, the constant disorientation, and you heal from it rather than collapsing from the weight. in the end, you know that no matter how much your heart may ache for them, gratitude goes hand in hand with the sadness. because despite all the years and decades and centuries worlds this universe has seen, their lives, however unjustly short, were intertwined with yours.

SPRING 2020.3 • 15

Anika Ayub, ’23

When Alone in Winter I stood alone in winter, surrounded by the frost.

Dejected and abandoned, I knew that I was lost.

I realized snow was falling and it formed a heap of cold.

Then, to my amazement, to a girl its shape did mold.

She stood up and walked toward me, her hair was long and white.

Her skin was pale and icy; her eyes were like frostbite.

“What’s wrong?” Cold asked me kindly; she understood the gist.

“If you tell me your problem, perhaps I can assist.”

I thought over my options, to leave or to reply.

But nothing worse could happen, so I inhaled and complied.

I told her all my worries, my problems and my fear.

Everything that plagued me and that made my future drear.

Once my tale was over, Cold eyed me with concern.

Her gaze held something subtle that I could not quite discern.

“All right,” she finally told me. “You do not need to fret.

I cannot take your pain, but I can make you forget.”

Forget. The word called to me, a beacon in the night.

Before I knew I’d spoken, I said “Yes, please end this plight.”

Cold looked at me and smiled, our other words unsaid.

She lifted up her hand and let her fingers trace my head.

Quickly, it was tranquil—and out my pain was drawn.

But I did not perceive this, for my memory was gone.

16 • IMAGINATION

By Cold, I’d been deceived, misled, and tricked while I was weak.

Instead, I was her captive, and my new life appeared bleak.

For weeks of endless torture, I had to be her slave.

But magic’s not forever, and soon her spell would waive.

Alas, she was so clever, for her magic was recast.

And thus, an endless cycle of amnesia and contrast.

She’ll reapply her spell soon, and forgetfulness draws near.

But first, I must say something while my memory’s still clear.

Though I am trapped within this, don’t give your sympathy.

Just please don’t do what I did, and enjoy while you’re free.

For those of you who hear me, please heed my words of gold: when alone in winter, never trust the Cold.

Decay. Gabe de la Cruz, ’22. || Ceramic. 2019.

SPRING 2020.3 • 17

Liv Rubenstein, ’22

Plastic Stars and Leaving Home B

efore Hurricane Harvey came, before I lost my braces and started high school, my mom bought plastic glow-in-the-dark stars for my ceiling. It must have been before third grade, or maybe even second because I can’t remember going to sleep without them.

Lying on the bed that my feet never got the chance to stretch all the way across, I would stare at the stars, wishing I was at summer camp or in the woods, where you could really see the sky. Those flat plastics stood witness to dramatic Barbie-doll performances of intrigue and betrayal, my first all-encompassing heartbreak, and later on, middle school sleepovers where we picked apart the universe as the sky lightened. They saw me cut my hair to the scalp and grow it back out, figure out the mysteries of mascara, argue (unsuccessfully) for a dog and Instagram. All these memories walk me to school every morning, sit on my cereal at breakfast, and hide in my shoes at night. They cling to me like cellophane on a muffin, like ghosts to their graves. I haven’t visited my house in a year. It’s too weird, too sad, to walk into that little blue-walled cave and see the pictures of my best friends and I taped up against a clothes-less closet or the Barbies laying face down in the corner, the sketchbooks with unfinished

18 • IMAGINATION

flowers still sprouting from the pages.

What makes me the saddest is to see the stars still stuck to the ceiling. They’re faded now, probably wouldn’t glow if I turned out the lights. You’re supposed to ‘charge’ them in the sunlight; it’s been a long time since anyone’s thought to open the windows to let the light in. I lie awake most nights, on a new mattress in a new neighborhood, wondering if they miss my sleeping breaths.

E

very year, about a week before school starts and freedom goes back into hiding, my former-middle school, Pin Oak, hosts a mandatory orientation called “Charger Camp”. In sixth grade, I had been excited to attend, middle school being the next frontier, the first chapter in an un-creased book.

By eighth grade, however, I was more than a little over it. Spending three precious hours of fading summertime going from class-to-class in a building I already knew and getting a new locker that I was barely going to use was not how I wanted to spend my day. Ironically, I spent the night before Charger Camp reading the weather report, hoping for a freak storm to save me. Harvey wouldn’t come for another two days though, so at 9:45 on Thursday morning, my mom dropped me off outside

school with a locker organizer and a “text me when you’re done!”

I remember standing outside the glaring glass facade of the school as nervous sixth graders wandered about the foyer in clumps. A harried crossing guard yelled for a pack of swaggering fourteen-year-olds to stop, responded to with only boyish laughter. I inhaled deeply, letting my lungs overflow with pollen and sunshine. It smelled like summer. HISD’s iconic Lysol-and-Bleach perfume wasn’t a very seductive alternative. I stood outside for a long five minutes, wondering if any of my friends had arrived yet before trudging my way in.

It was about two hours later when the topic of hurricanes first came up.

My friend Leah Mei and I were standing in the 8th-grade locker hallway, waiting to get our class assignments.

Fluorescent lights flickered above us as we discussed what electives we’d signed up for, if one particularly creepy teacher had been fired yet, and who had moved away during the summer. As we neared the front of the line, my phone buzzed.

It was a news alert, bright red letters splayed across my screen. I remember looking up at Leah Mei and asking her “Do you know what a tropical depression is?”

She looked up from her own phone and gave a quizzical half-shrug. “Isn’t that just, like, a hurricane but worse? I think my mom mentioned something about one in the gulf.”

“I have no idea. Another flood?

Do you think Meyerland might be hit again?”

Leah Mei tilted her head sympa-

thetically. “I me-an,” she said, pulling the word taut, “it always could. But they did widen the bayou again, right? That’s supposed to help.”

M

y neighborhood had been built without much environmental forethought. It was snuggled right between a floodplain and the bayou, so when it rained in Houston, it poured in Meyerland. Rainstorms came frequently and violently, and as much as I loved racing raindrops on car windows or floating boats down our storm drain, they made me nervous. My whole family lived within a mile of the bayou, so if things got bad in the city, they would be worse for us. I had grown up watching gray water rise over the sidewalk from Mommom’s, my grandma, porch swing. Our habits and lives were molded around the flow of the water, like the ancient Egyptians that lived in my library books. Back when I was younger, everything was biblical. Every storm was the great flood, every rainbow the peace of G-d. In fifth grade, our synagogue got three feet of floodwater the week of my elementary school graduation. Watching water seep into holy places made G-d’s wrath, a concept I couldn’t grasp before, seem real. What had we done to deserve this? Were my fights with my sister or backtalk to my mom the straw that sent G-d’s loving fist tumbling down? I’m still haunted by the image our Rabbis wading down the isles, Torah’s hoisted high over their heads. We aren’t allowed to even touch the parchment of the Torah with our bare hands; imagine holiness itself hovering above sewer water. Even then, as

SPRING 2020.3 • 19

an eighth-grader riding the tail end of her first rebellious phase, just thinking about it made me ill.

I blinked away my disgust as I reached the front of the line, thoughts of holy destruction ebbing like bile at my throat. An office worker looked up from her clipboard with a hard smile and tapped her pen to the table. “Name and student ID, honey,” she said as I scrambled through my pockets for the plastic card. I blinked down at her as she shuffled through the papers. Was she worried? That’s what adults are supposed to do. After a pause, she handed over my class assignment sheet with a measured “Next!”

As I walked back to the foyer, I remembered my mom’s request. After shooting her a quick “im done im bored pls come get me” text, I opened the news app on my phone. Swiping past a flurry of articles regarding the upcoming solar eclipse, I pulled up the local weather channel. Sprawled across its main page was a worrying title, dripping red letters spelling ‘Hurricane’ and ‘Houston’.

It looked like this wasn’t just another passing storm. According to KPRC, Noah built his ark weeks ago.

For the rest of us non-prophets, it was time to flee for the hills. Fingers of panic scratched at my stomach lining.

I pressed down on my phone’s home button until the screen turned black.

Lowering my voice so no passersby could hear, I quietly summoned Siri.

With a nervous breath, I whispered: “text Mom,” A white speech bubble appeared instantaneously. Tapping across the screen, I sent her another message:

20 • IMAGINATION

“do we have storm stuff at home?”

T

hree hours later, my whole family was packed into my mom’s fading blue Lexus, inching our way across the highway. My mom sat grim-eyed in the front seat, her cellphone perched beside her in the cupholder. My uncle was on speakerphone, worrying loudly from Arizona. I sat in the back-left seat, watching her knuckles grow white on the steering wheel as my uncle detailed the storm route.

“Y’all need to get as inland as possible today. Conroe isn’t an option. Get to Dallas. Just as far away from the coast as possible. Can you put Mommom on?”

My mom exhaled in that slow way parents do when their insides are boiling. She craned her neck behind the seat for a second, giving me a tight smile. I returned it before glancing back down at my phone. I was texting my friends, our panic blending together as we shared news articles and family plans. We all lived in Meyerland, or at least very close to the Bayou and had seen the news reports, had alerted our parents. Mine was the only family, however, leaving the city. Among those staying was Leah Mei, whose mom had stocked up on canned vegetables and moved their nicer furniture upstairs before hunkering down, willing the storm to pass them by.

As we came to yet another stop, my mom passed her cell phone behind her to Mommom. I could faintly hear my uncle’s nervous voice rising and falling as she attempted to soothe his worries.

“Michael, Michael, we’re together, we’re safe, we’re fine. How are the boys?”

My mom smiled at that, despite herself. It was a very Mommom thing to do to ask about her grandsons as she was literally fleeing a natural disaster. My uncle, apparently, found it less funny, as Mommom shrank around the phone, looking like a beachball suddenly deprived of its plug.

“Okay, okay, Michael, okay,” she murmured, hands twisting the blanket draped across her lap. Soon, the traffic cleared and we were once again moving into the gray.

I slouched down in my seat, picking at the seatbelt. It was hot in the car, even with the A.C. on. Maybe it was the four of us all crammed together, or the sweating bags of groceries we had stowed at our feet, or all of our combined fears pounding at the windows. Sweat slid down my forehead.

I looked at my sister, Meg, who had called shotgun almost immediately as we left the house. She sat leaned over, elbows pressed to thighs, fiddling with the radio. There was a radio game that we played when we strayed out of the Houston radio’s territory and into the country music realms: Love Song or Love Jesus? Currently, it was the latter. As a thick country accent crooned about “being lifted up by His Grace”, I thought about the other times we had flipped through the channels: on road trips, on the drive home from camp, on the long journeys back from strawberry picking. Those were all happy times, good, sweet-smelling days. Not like this. It all felt too stiff, too humid.

It smelled like sweat and fear, like a hot

handful of marbles too large to be held.

I didn’t have the space to laugh at the unfamiliar words of praise I didn’t understand floating past my ears, the halfknown country accent clanging out into the air. Images of Noah and his animals crammed together in that musty ark floated past my mind.

Those hundreds of animal pens must have smelled something fierce.

Probably just as hot as this freaking car, I mused. Did Noah’s kids think of it as a cruise, the whole ark thing? Silently, I reproached myself. No, they didn’t have cruises back then, and it probably sucked for them, too. How could it not? They had to spend 40 days and nights out on that ocean, their whole world drowning below them, no end in sight to their journey.

For five hours, we drove in what felt like a straight line, leaving Houston as the reports of the storm gathered like dust.

In the duffle bag at my feet, between T-Shirts and sneakers, I had packed a tiny siddur, or prayer book.

It was wrapped in an old, white-silk sleeve from a blouse my mom had made into a doll’s wedding dress long ago. I skimmed through it as the sky grayed and the tires rolled, ran my thumb over the minuscule Hebrew letters. I wasn’t really praying, just sort of remembering Torah stories about leaving home. I felt like Lot and his children fleeing Sodom, too scared to look back, like Nahshon, neck-deep in the Red Sea, the hooves of the Egyptians echoing above him. I became Ruth and Naomi, wandering in the desert, became the moon fleeing from the sun at dawn. I thought of my gray-faced ancestors arriving on boats, half-blind with hope. The old country

SPRING 2020.3 • 21

clutched at their coattails as they wore holes into new shoes. My family history, as I knew it, was written in footsteps facing the horizon, so it made a twisted sense for us to be there again, leaving our disaster-plagued homes with packs on our backs. We reached Dallas just as night fell, softly as a pillow. We had just pulled into a nondescript hotel parking lot when the first great raindrops sliced through the heavens.

I

t’s been two years now since my house flooded. Life has continued on. We moved to a townhouse, then an apartment. I grew up, made friends, watched my sister get taller and my mom get shorter, watched seven hundred thirty sunsets from the eighth-floor balcony, baked brownies and cried. I’ve gotten to the point where I can say I’m going home and not think of returning to the red-brick house in Meyerland that now sits vacant. As I write this in my cream-colored rented room, towering high above the city, I feel relaxed, comfortable, even content. These walls are no longer strangers. They have born my photographs and shoe scuffs, have witnessed tears and laughter, have come to walk beside me as I rise in the morning and crouch at my head as I fall asleep.

They are good friends, these borrowed walls. But I just can’t help wishing for the aquamarine ones I outgrew years

22 • IMAGINATION

ago. A little part of me always hopes, as I am falling asleep, that I’ll wake to find them hanging over my eyes. The scent of dust settling on the carpet, the sharpie stains I hid beneath strategically-placed drawings, the Barbie doll my sister had decapitated years before; the idea of returning to those open arms of my childhood perfumes my dreams.

Mostly though, I miss the glow-in-thedark stars. It’s silly, really; it’s not as if I couldn’t buy more and tack them to my new ceiling. I know that if I really wanted to, I could recreate the whole of my childhood bedroom in the apartment. I also know that I don’t want blue walls or a Pottery Barn Kids duvet anymore.

It’s not the stuff in the room that I really miss. More than anything, I want to go to sleep in a room that breathes comfort. Back then, every dream was within reach; there was no problem that couldn’t be fixed, and G-d slept beside me. I spent so many nights lying in that bed, looking up at the stars. There was such a soft power to it. It felt like as long as I looked up at the glowing medallions, all floodwaters would be kept at bay, all the world’s dangers would stay hidden in their shadows. Every night, I went to sleep swaddled in the comfort of knowing that at any moment, I could stand up on my desk chair and alter the sky.

Limbo. Celine Huang, ’22. || Acrylic. 2019.

SPRING 2020.3 • 23

Ethan Kinsella, ’21

719

Summer As the sunlight scalds our little patch of Earth, and the water is waxed off the grass, the trees, whispering the breeze enchant our souls with hollow promise.

We undulate with the sunlight, as you press to my neck, there is no gold on the leaves, and the hours tread on the surface of a dream.

Autumn God peeks through the negative space of the trees and His angels pluck the cracked leaves from their stems and on the bayou I sit drifting North to where the water isn’t so brown and I can see myself clear.

Winter I see a can crushed floating in a sea trash and piss and junk in a gutter where a grey-haired man stumbles and pukes his guts by the factory and the soot turns the snowflakes dark and coats my memory in smoke my ears go steel and metallic and I can no longer hear you through the clattering of the machinery as my legs grow stiff and my breath can barely hold a light.

24 • IMAGINATION

Spring The ashes of the dew drip drip off the trees and the branches reach to God in the scorned air.

I’ve lost your face from the school by the park where the water evaporated in spirals and the trees, exasperated, sighed with the current, and the streets were rare for activity.

In a dark requiem that memory waits, through perspired glass and lighted moonbeams thrown by gods.

L: Fallen Leaves. Katherine Nelson, ’23. || Photograph. 2019.

R: Reflecting Sunset. Katherine Nelson, ’23. || Photograph. 2019.

SPRING 2020.3 • 25

26 • IMAGINATION

SPRING 2020.2 • 27

Wide Open. Celine Huang, ’22. || Acrylic. 2019.

Special Feature Max Boyd in conversation with Tyler King and Alexa Theofanidis, Editors-in-Chief of Imagination

Max Boyd: This issue has obviously been a different experience for Imagination than in the fall or any previous issues that you all have been a part of. Have you all seen any surprising or rewarding elements because of this change?

Alexa Theofanidis: I would certainly say being able to publish more color images was really valuable. We had a lot more available to us in terms of design, layout, and format. One of our goals for these folios was to predicate all of them on a theme, upping our cohesiveness, and I’d like to think it positively affected our readership. Students might cull an overarching message from our mini-issue even if they don’t necessarily spend as much time on each piece individually. It’s just nice to have a smaller selection of work that we can really hone in on.

Tyler King: Definitely, I would agree with Alexa. Going off of that idea of having a smaller feature—it’s allowed us to personally get to know our writers and their pieces throughout our process. We’ve been able to have conversations with them about their process, their vision, and their goals that we weren’t able to have, for example, in the Fall issue. So I think it’s been really nice to have that creative connection between us and our contributors, especially because we have more time to do that now.

MB: What would you say Imagination and other literary arts journals, or perhaps writing in general, have to offer to, say, a student body, or teachers, or other readers during this time period?

AT: Writing is a contact point with our own humanity, and it’s strange right now because we define ourselves by communication. I think these pieces amplify emotions in a way that a lot of students are lacking at the moment, as most days dissolve into apathy or monotony. For that reason, I’d say writing itself is more of an engaging coping mechanism than any sort of social compensation. But, as a literary arts journal, we do fortunately benefit from both via our active creative community.

TK: And as we said in the first folio, we wanted writing to always be a touchstone for everyone, so I think being able to share students’ voices with other students and faculty and our larger community is really valuable. Being in conversation in that way, even if we can’t talk face-to-face, is something I think we benefit from emotionally and socially. So, the fact that we’re able to conduct this sort of creative dialogue between people even though we’re not on campus is really, really cool.

MB: Yeah, those are great points! Has any part of this process of creating these three folios—and that includes everything from reading pieces, determining

SPRING 2020.3 • 29

what to select, revising and editing, to conferring with the authors—has any part of that affected your own creativity, or influenced you, or caused you to think about your own artwork or creativity in a different way?

TK: Talking to the writers and seeing their creative process has been valuable for me because I’ve been able to reflect and discuss how I go about writing with them. I think society has this image of high-schoolers writers as staying up and writing at midnight and listening to sad alternative music, but that’s not accurate.

AT: Most of the time! I do those things, though maybe not all at once in a stereotypical teen angst dump. And, sometimes, I don’t stay up writing...I stay up scrolling through memes about John Keats.

TK.: And, if we’re being honest, I’ve drafted some of my best work at one in the morning. But it’s also cool to see the diversity in how people write, rather than just what they write about.

AT: For sure. It’s fun to learn from each other’s techniques and sometimes testdrive a new approach. It’s also been really interesting to observe how people take in work. To see what they’re examining a piece for and how their goals vary. It led me to consider things I wouldn’t have otherwise when touching up my own writing.

TK: One-hundred-percent. I’ve learned so much from our editors as well—understanding how other people read works from a critical perspective, rather than as a consumer of literature.

MB: Do you have any advice for people who might want to work on something that summer but don’t want to necessarily create something because, again, that’s more work? What type of encouragement would you give them to proceed with their creative endeavors? Or just tips about writing generally?

TK: Just sit down and start writing! Don’t overplan, don’t overthink, and especially don’t judge yourself for what you put down on the page. Often, I just force myself to start because I personally can get bogged down in pre-planning and outlining. I just might enjoy doing that stuff personally, and it’s nice because you don’t actually have to write, but getting to a place where you feel comfortable and confident just sitting down and putting whatever on the page is really liberating.

AT: First, please, don’t take rejection personally. Holding an editorial position while trying to get work out—and, Tyler, I’m sure you’ve experienced this too— has made me more aware of the selection and judging process. I can’t stress

30 • IMAGINATION

enough how subjective it is. Eventually, you’re going to find a publisher or judge that admires your stuff.

TK: Alexa is completely right. Definitely write what makes you happy, not what you think other people want. If you feel like your writing process is too stressful or not making you happy, then I would really think about why you choose to write. For me, writing is an act of self-discovery and self-understanding, but above all, I really enjoy the process and craft and write what makes me happy.

AT: Yes, and I’m going to echo Nikki Giovanni for this second piece of advice.

During the lunch Q&A AAAG hosted, I asked her what she would recommend to aspiring poets, and I remember she said something like, “Don’t compare yourself to others… There will always be people who get their faces on the cover of Time Magazine instead of you!” My first reaction was… Oh my God! She’s talking about Toni Morrison! Then, eventually, that helped me realize that diminishing my own work while reading others’ is really self-destructive behavior. I think I needed that comment, especially coming from such a legendary writer.

Also, she mentioned that writing for her stemmed from a place of loneliness, from sitting by herself on the playground, and I think that reminded me of why I started. I took everything she said to heart.

TK: You know, that’s really interesting, I think—just going back to why we started writing. And I think that what Alexa just mentioned is really important.

My first experiments in creative writing were actually collaborative, but I always made sure that I wrote what felt right for me. Starting in high school, though, I think I did exactly what Alexa’s warning against—wondering why my work didn’t win an award, or why it wasn’t accepted somewhere—and it affected how and what I wrote. Honestly, I think I went a full year without really feeling happy about or fulfilled by any short fiction I produced. And it was really tough, but eventually I forced myself to be honest with myself and realize I didn’t need to make art for other people—just myself. I guess that’s a bit heavy, but I think it’s important for writers, especially at our age, to keep in mind.

AT: That’s so true. I think that’s such a common experience, especially for young writers in this formative stage. To combat this, find someone to bounce ideas off of, a mentor, an English person you trust! Talk to creative people who make you happy and restore your love for your art. That’s just been so essential to my writing well-being.

TK: Like us! We’re always here to support writers!

AT: Of course! A judgement-free zone! And if joining our student-run circle

SPRING 2020.3 • 31

intimidates you, if you’re an underclassman, at least, I promise we’re really chill.

Plus, the English faculty at St. John’s are so kind and approachable. Express some passion; they’re such incredible resources for small things. Shoutout to all my teachers that have made a difference!

TK: Speaking of which, what about you, Mr. Boyd?

AT: Oh, yeah!

TK: I know you’ve been in this sphere for a long time, and I also know you’re passionate about writing in general, creative writing, or whatever Imagination might be doing. Is there anything that you’re working on or any advice you’d give students?

MB: I will admit that I don’t get a lot of creative efforts completed during the school year. The way that I like to think about it, though, is that during the school year, I’m putting all my effort toward helping other people realize those goals.

Writing and photography and art can all be fairly solo endeavors. But whether in my creative writing classes or in Imagination, I enjoy helping students begin to realize some of their dreams as far as creating new things, guiding them along that path, and being a resource.

MB: Then, writing becomes something that you can do with someone else to get their advice, receive some sort of guidance, and gain a new perspective on something. You can get inside your head for so long and think something is either really excellent or really terrible, but that doesn’t do you much good—you need to think of your viewers and readers and get their perspective on it to some degree. That doesn’t mean comparing yourself to others. As Alexa said earlier, I think it’s a great policy to avoid doing that. But instead, it’s realizing that it’s good to get to that point where you get feedback from people. So I really enjoy serving that sort of function for others during the school year.

MB: During the summers I end up spending a bit more time reading what other people are creating to see what else is out there. I’ve got a couple different fiction and nonfiction projects that I have been working on over the past couple of years, and it ends up going a little slowly, but I don’t think that’s any reason to stop doing it. It just is something that then you look forward to, and I often feel reinvigorated to return to those projects after reading and viewing everybody’s work and seeing all the creative stuff that students have produced throughout the year.

It’s really inspiring and makes me think, “Yeah. Now I want to go do that myself in the summer.”

32 • IMAGINATION

MB: So I’ve got one last question for you both. We’ve talked quite a bit about writing, but art and photography are big components of literary arts journals like Imagination. So thinking about all those things together, what elements do you feel like make something good and particularly worthy of inclusion or a good fit in Imagination? In terms of trying to guide people who, say, in the fall, want to submit to you, what sort of advice would you give them as far as common commonalities or certain traits that you think make really great work and that people should aspire to?

TK: For me, above all else, I search for the voice of the piece. It’s the first thing that I notice when I read something, so I ask myself: can I picture this narrator, do I understand this author, can I get a clear sense of why this piece was created?

And I think that plays into a lot of other things we talk about in our selection process, like craft and having writing that seems polished and refined. But really, I see all those things as contributing to this idea of voice. So I’d maybe ask our contributors to ponder, “How does my work capture my own voice?” Because I think for me, writing is all about that.

AT: Maintaining a sense of individuality and making sure your piece has a distinct voice is definitely an important factor. I think Imagination is unique in that, while we make selections based on merit and craft, we also like to take chances on pieces we think have a lot of potential. Even if we don’t accept it, we remember especially provocative work and try to pay their writers special attention next cycle. With art as well, although, Tyler and I aren’t as familiar with that domain.

We’re trying to work on expanding our facilities for that genre. I guess, in evaluating new work, we often refer to older pieces written by the same author and consider how they’ve improved. And, truly, I’m always awed by the development of everyone’s voices from issue to issue. Personally, though, I’m interested in how someone manipulates the language-imagery tie. Innovation and artfulness are key.

TK: Yeah, I completely agree, and we love to see how writers bend language to their advantage.

AT: Well, that’s a wrap! Thank you, Mr. Boyd, for your thoughtful questions!

MB: Definitely.

TK: But enough of us talking about writing! To anyone reading this—go write!

Capture your voice, try something new, and know that our Imagination is here whenever you may need it.

SPRING 2020.3 • 33

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 last 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.

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

S 3