The Mini-Marque 2024

M A R Q U E m i n i

Editor’s

What makes someone different? What can one do to impact the world? What makes one worth remembering? These questions drew us to the idea of tagging and street art and the motivation to leave a mark. Forming an identity is a process that involves revisiting, reconnecting, and revising. Spread over three sections of "The You," your personal being, “ The Mark," the action you take that represents your being, and “ The Legacy,” how your mark is perpetuated, we believe that these pages represent the painstaking process of revision that is required to create one's mark.

We hope you enjoy this year’s Mini Marque: Marqued.

The YOU Table of Contents

Golden Dreams 8-9

Lego Brick 10-11

Crystal Clear 12-13

Cornered in a Dream 14-15

Rotten Delight 16-17

Never Give Up 18-19

Friends 20-21

A Dream Come True 22-23

The Broken Watch 24-25

The e MARK LEGACY

A Spark of Hope 28–29

A Lonely Winter 30–31

A Single Molecule 32–33

Eye of the Eagle 34–35

An Empty Room 36–37

Out of the Darkness 38–39

Man Down 40-41

A Walk in the Spring 42–43

Charging 44–45

Baby Bird 46–47

Orchidian Oeuvre 48–49

Power 52–53

Trapped in Time 54–55

Lounge 56–57

The Comic Book 58–59

A Woolen Sock 60–61

That Peaceful Quiet 62–63

Ouroboros 64–65

Art Piece 66–67

THE YOU

I dreamed I was a golden ring,

Secluded, far from view.

Set with diamond, bright and bold,

A gem of sapphire hue.

Cuddled by a pearly chain,

By ancient coins embraced.

When I was once a golden ring, In velvet, I was placed.

I dreamed I was a golden ring,

From Africa's rich land.

Worn by people, young and old,

Passed from hand to hand.

Amber, jade, and ruby red,

On diverse fingers danced.

When I was once a golden ring, In velvet, I was placed.

I dreamed I was a golden ring,

Beneath the ocean's wave.

Lost among the shipwreck's spoils,

A pirate's hidden grave.

Glinting in the water's light, Awaiting in the ground.

When I was once a golden ring, In velvet, I was found.

Brick

One of many pieces

Some were tall or square

All fit in small places

To leave space for other things

We are made tiny

When I was once a LEGO Brick

All together and plenty

Fully built together

Close with other kinds of bricks

Combined altogether

There are quite a lot of bricks

I am now a lost LEGO Brick

Nowhere to be found

Under the washing machine

With no one around

No one will ever find me

On a ceramic floor

No light coming in at all

Could you open it

Crystal Clear

Poetry | Archer Winn | 5 Photography | Toby Hyun | 7

I dreamed I was a window

I lay vertical, clear

I open on a pulley

I do not need a gear

I can let a nice breeze in

Or keep a heatwave out

When I was once a window

I saw what life’s about

I dreamed I was a window

Outside me, games were played

Not all players finished each game

But I always remained

I can see a nearby trail

It looks like a tough route

When I was once a window

I saw what life was about

I dreamed I was a window

In a family’s home

I saw into their garden

Filled with a little gnome

Outside me, their children played

They were once so small

When I was once a window

I got to see it all

Cornered in a Dream

Literature | Fletcher Keel | 5

Photography | Jensen Wilson | 7

Jason stumbled into the musty convenience shop. He looked at his shaking hands and realized there was nowhere left to run. His legs felt like they were about to give out and his vision was blurring. All he could hear was the blood pounding in his head and his heart thudding. All of a sudden someone was tapping him on the shoulder. His eyes opened faster than lightning striking. “Time to go to school honey,” his mom said.

Rotten Delight

Poetry | Bennett Driesse | 5

Photography | James Weselka | 7

I dreamed I was a piece of food

I tasted like a fry

Hungry patrons loved my taste

Eaten with apple pie

I lived in a McDonald’s

Some found me curious

When I was once a piece of food

I was so delicious

I dreamed I was a piece of food

I tasted like some leaves

Healthy bodies loved my flavor

I was some celery

I lived in a grocery store

I looked conspicuous

When I was once a piece of food

I was so delicious

I dreamed I was a piece of food

I tasted like the dirt

Textured like a squirming worm

I looked so bare and plain

Everybody hates my taste

Like a slimy piece of spam

When I was once a piece of food

So nasty and so canned

Never Give Up.

Photography

Bowers

Tired and frustrated, Bill sat down on the barren soil disappointed in himself that he struck out again. Bill wanted to be like Bryce Harper, the first baseman for the Phillies. Bill was 11 years old and the biggest baseball fan you would ever meet. Bill did not make the school team or his club team, but Bill practiced every day for at least an hour with his dad. All the other baseball players, like Wilt Palmer—the star first baseman for the school—just played video games after school with their friends. Bill went on every day practicing with his dad until he got to high school tryouts. He drove up to the park where the tryouts were being held. All the other kids were laughing at Bill coming to the park. Bill believed in himself, his family believed in him, his private coach believed in him, and even his dog believed in him. During the tryout, Bill dominated. He got three home runs, one grand slam, seven outs, and four people home. His whole team was so proud of him that they started chanting his name. Or at least that is what he was dreaming about during math class.

friends

Poetry | Cameron Douglass | 6

Photography | Bryan Li | 8

I stepped outside, to a beautiful day

The wind is blowing, while the trees shall sway

I put on my jacket, and took in some air

Goodbye to my home, I say for a while

A Dream Come True

Photography | Chase Kitson |  Poetry | Mateo Patel | 

A magical sport

One that you should not abort

Playing it is like a dream

It is better than eating ice cream

This sport is soccer

It might be a big shocker

It is the best

No matter what anyone says

Playing this for hours

I have superpowers

I don’t know about you

But you have something due

Play soccer tonight

Or else we must fight

The Broken Watch The Broken Watch

“That Dilworth workout was tough,” I muttered to myself as I trudged through the commons, half-dead. “I wonder what I have for my last period.” As I rummaged through my very disorganized backpack and got to my schedule, I winced in despair. “A Spanish test!” I exclaimed. “I thought that was tomorrow.” As I walked to Farburg, I thought of all the possible scenarios in which I could fail. When I finally got to the classroom, 5 minutes late, I noticed something odd. There was nobody in the classroom, the door had a note saying: Señora Gill had to go to an emergency meeting. Enjoy your free period! “Yes!” I shouted as I danced down the stairs. I looked at my watch: 2:48. Perfect! I thought. I am going to have the nap that I deserve.

And that is when I woke up in the same spot where I first laid down for my nap.

I decided to go to the back field to take it. I settled down on the warm grass that smelled like sunshine and closed my eyes immediately. After some time, I woke up. I looked at my watch that read 2:43. I stared at the sky which had darkened noticeably. “What the heck?” I said out loud.

How had my watch gone backwards? I sprinted to Centennial to look at the analog clock. “6:37!” I observed. I’m screwed, I thought miserably. My mom was supposed to pick me up at 4:00. As I scurried to the carpool line, I saw what I had expected, there were no cars. I started thinking in a downward spiral. What am I going to eat tonight? How am I going to sleep? What will my parents say when they ever pick me up? I sat down on a bench in the Grandparents’ Courtyard for an hour, my knees tucked into my chest and rocking back and forth. Before I went all neanderthal mode and started rummaging through the teacher’s lounge for food, I decided to look at the carpool line one more time. I saw nothing again. Then I walked a little forward and saw a glint of a silver bumper. I ran forward delusionally. It was my mom’s car!

I went to the window to apologize and touched the rear mirror. I suddenly felt a tug in my gut.

And that is when I woke up in the same spot where I first laid down for my nap.

THE YOU THE MARK

a spark of hope

Poetry | Liam Calder | 6

Photography | Grant Bowers | 8

My eyes go red

Burning like the sun

Stinging like a scorpion

Yeah, not fun

I feel crazy

Losing control

Slipping, tripping

Got to stop, drop, and roll

I don’t feel anything

Everything goes dark

Searching for something

Like a spark of hope

To rest my soul

Return to light

To make me whole

A L onely Winter

Photography| Grant Bowers| 8

Poetry | Finn Fisher| 6

One winter day we were outside He got hit and he cried His friends left him alone and lonely and They thought he was a nobody In pain and alone and lonely ...but little did you know he enjoyed the snow. alone.

A Single Molecule

Literature | Max Cao | 5

Photography | Rohan Yadlapalli | 7

Here I was again, floating along in the Mississippi River, slowly bobbing along until I finally reached the Gulf of Mexico. I would then sit there for what felt like eons, and finally evaporate into a gas, trailing off into the clouds. After that, I was most likely going to rain down, and restart my journey. I envied the solids, who had full control over their life. They got to hold their own shape, and not have to constantly get thrown around by other naughty molecules who just randomly move around. Oh, how much I wanted to be a solid! But maybe… I had heard stories about how the lucky molecules got to drift across the world in their clouds, and then they would get to a particularly cold area, and when they fell down, they came down as snow. Or maybe even ice. Just the thought of it made me envy the solids even more. Suddenly, through my daydreaming, I was getting very hot, and then I realized; I was evaporating right now! I knew what was going on: it must be a particularly hot day, because right now, the sun was so hot, it was heating us up, and we would evaporate. I started rising out of the water, and I saw the others who also got heated up too much. Then, I saw it: I got a clear view of the city, a beautiful sight! The view was full of solids, all happily conversing, all around me. Then, a gray mist covered me, and I knew I was in my cloud.

I spent two days floating in my cloud, when, as I was getting ready to rain down, the cloud lurched and started drifting away! I watched in vain as I drifted away from all that I ever knew, headed for something new. New. Maybe, just maybe, I would drift to a cold patch of land, and there, the cold would freeze me, and I would fall down as precipitation, only I would finally be a solid! I was itching with anticipation, if you could call it itching; it was more like a weird wriggling that I was doing.

Just then, a bunch of other molecules crashed into me, and I was about to fling them away, when another clump of molecules flew right into my clump. As I strained to see what was going on, I caught a glimpse of the ground, and it was as white as snow, and then I realized I was looking at snow. A quick scan of the area told me I had drifted to a snowy mountain. I realized I was condensing, and in this area, that meant I was going to fall down as either snow or hail! As more and more little water molecules clumped together, we got heavier and heavier, until the cloud finally couldn’t hold us anymore, and we precipitated from the sky. As a dropped down, I finally wasn’t a liquid anymore, but I had control over myself, holding my own shape along with many other molecules.

Finally! My long lasting dream had become true, and I was finally a solid!

Eye of the Eagle

Poetry| Brennan Bosita | 7

Sketch| Ethan Hsu | 5

The

ceaseless form

Spread across the clouds

Stopping for no one

Yet so patient

Its piercing gaze

So stronag but gentle

All knowing,

Yet so naive

It soars around the earth,

The king of the world

The master of sky

Yet subject to all

It scans the ground,

Eyes like lasers, Leaving nothing unsearched

Yet everything remains hidden

It fnds its prey.

With talons of steel,

It tears in like lightning, And fnally, it feasts.

An Empty Room

Illustration | Brennan Bosita | Script | Adam Zhang

Nathan, just like the previous day comes out of the elevator. He walks through doorways, as if he was in a drunken stupor.

doctor grayson (v.o.) (whispering): If there are any adverse side e ects, call us.

As if he is stuck in a loop, he walks through another line of hallways that looks the same. He looks at a door he has never been into, and enters.

int. large empty room –afternoon

Nathan slowly walks into the room and looks around. He takes out the orange bottle of pills, and takes one out. cut to black.

Out of the Darkness

Photography | Chase Kitson | 

Poem | Grant Bowers | 

Into the light I climb

Ever higher, ever longer

The dark tries to pull me back

Ever lower, ever shorter

Into the dark I fall

Entry 62:

Another man was down.

Not the first casualty we've experienced.

As the commander, I visit the hospital once a week to check on my fallen troops. Day by day, they get sicker and more vulnerable. We have experienced over three-hundred casualties a day at the hospital. As we lose more personnel, we contnue to cede land on the eastern front of our homeland.

I've also noticed strange occurrences in the hospital... paranormal even . Lights flickering, with no power outages or storms.

Notably: Someone has remarked on the peculiar oil leaking from the ceiling...

Man Down

|

| Alex

| 8

Photography

Marczewski

Concept Writing

Evan Kaufman & Mukhil Ananth | 7

A Walk in the Spring

Poetry | Bennett Zambrano | 7

Photography | Grant Bowers | 8

The sweet smell of the breeze drifts through the air,

The wind tickling my fingers and swooping into my hair

And back into the sky again.

Squirrels bound throughout the field,

And students walk through the pathways,

Into the buildings and out again.

The sticky humid air is broken apart by the breeze,

Which in turn ru es my hair

As students chatter.

The loud sound of construction fills the air

Blotting out any quiet sounds in the sky

As I make my way through the grass.

I breathe in the clean, crisp air

And I sit and breathe out again

While my walk comes to a close.

Charging

Poetry | Sebastian Garcia-Toledo | 

Sketch | Tripp Brady | 

Breaking ground

Footsteps of raw power echo down recesses of the stadium

Stampeding beasts of unearthly might

Nothing will break their will

Strength only dreamed of Kinetic energy so potent

Nearly tangible

The chaos is necessary

baby bird

I dreamed I was a baby bird

Flying through the sky

I’d soar above the world below

Agile, fast, and spry

Flying through the rainforest

Passing jaguars by I would feel so wonderful

Exploring, flying high

I dreamed I was a baby bird

Flying over ice

Swimming with some waddling penguins

Catching fish so fine

Flying through Antarctica

Over bergs of ice

And I would feel so wonderful

While moving so precise

Now I’m an old and dirty bird

On a powerline

Hurt, abused, sent out the door

Eating trash and grime

No one wants to love me now

Since I cannot fly

I wish I could go back in time

And live another life

Poetry | Anindya Kandregula | 5

Photography | James Weselka | 7

Orchidian Oeuvre

Haiku | John Hunter

| Faculty

Photography | Brennan Bosita | 

Symbolic flower

Celebrating life’s moments

Imprisoned in vase

THE YOU THE MARK

THE LEGACY

Power Prose | Grant Bowers |  Illustration | Grant Bowers| 

The opposite of truth is not fiction, but power. If you want power, you must disseminate lies, and if you want truth, you must reject power. After trivial positions of power, your job is not to create policy, but rather to pick what the inevitable policy will be about. You are no longer a do-er, nor are you a thinker; you are merely the cause of change, not the changer. To maintain this position, you cannot use facts. A community bound by facts is not a community; a citizen does not need to vote for you to believe the sky is blue. At some point, you must start creating myth, stories that bind people to you. These stories need not be fabulous stories of blatantly false ideas, but typically are smaller, ideological ideas: “This war is pointless” or “Legos are good for children.” If you can get millions of people to believe this or at least give it a spot in decision making (it doesn’t have to be a powerful spot, but at least a legitimate spot) you are now more powerful than anyone else, even if they have onehundred times your number, their followers have less conviction. If one is only faintly devoted to a cause, they will not be willing to do much for the cause. If one is extremely enrapturd in a cause, they will be willing to do anything for it. This was how Imperial Japan was such a power; the entire population of Japan was e ectively a cult, the emperor a god, and everyone else an animal. This is why Japan was such a powerful nation: even though it had no food, resources, or

If you want power, you must tell lies. If you seek truth, you must renounce power.

soldiers left at the end of the war, the people still wanted to fight. If you want truth, you must shun lies and myth and fiction and false stories. All of these are needed to get power, or even to be in power. For this reason, you cannot have power if you are devoted to truth. “Wait,” you may think, “what about the community of scientific atheists who believe no lies?” This community does, in fact, have a guiding myth that is remarkably well hidden and disguised as fact: that science can explain everything. Science cannot reliably explain every phenomenon everywhere. It simply cannot. There are those who think this is not true, that science is only limited by its instruments, and we merely need to invent instruments to, for example, measure consciousness or measure the presence of God. If only we had these, they say, we could solve the problems. Galileo, widely credited as the Father of Modern Science, is to blame for this shift of science away from qualitative data. He proclaimed mathematics the language of the universe, and science the dictionary. Galileo, however, believed that the smell of a rose, or the colors of the rainbow could never be quantitatively shown; I cannot give you the equation of smell, or the formula of sight. These problems are the domain of philosophy, not the pure sciences.

L ounge

Poetry | Luke Nguyen| 8

Photography| Grant Bowers| 8

You, who raided my heart without weapons, A thief of soul, your charm beckons Your words echo throughout my wind, A reminder of moments kind, I’ll find a way, Love will defy and shorten the distance, But now I sit and rest

The Comic Book

Photography | Rohan Yadlapalli | 7

Poetry | Rayaan Sadruddin | 5

I dreamed I was a comic book,

Fighting you feel and see,

Heroes and villains in this book,

They’re all just like me,

Stuck on the back library shelf,

I hoped to get checked out,

When I was once a comic book, Unable to be found.

I dreamed I was a comic book,

Power and villains here

They fly, fight and run around.

All amongst their peers.

I like other fantasy books.

Dragons and knights about

When I was once a comic book,

Unable to be found.

I’m now an old and homeless book,

My owner was so mean.

My pages ripped, my cover torn,

My ink is rubbing clean,

I wish I was a new book.

Dust gone with just a blow

How I was once a comic book

So very long ago

Unified

A Woolen Sock

Poetry | Corbin Reed | 

Photography | Lucas Herrera | 

I dreamed I was a woolen sock, I lived in an old shoe, Hudson was my owner, My color is ocean blue. I was made by Adidas, My wool was soft as snow, When I was once a woolen sock, A couple days ago

I dreamed I was a woolen sock, I’m hanging from a fan.

My blue is bleached, I’m moldy, I live in a trash can. I have shrunken in the dryer, It’s clear I’m not a beau,

When I was once a woolen sock, A couple days ago.

That Peaceful Quiet

Poetry | Sebastain Garcia-Toledo | 

Oil Painting |Lucas Pei | 

Peace is not found easy

It is born of chaos

It is forged through strife

And it is achieved through revelation

Before solace, came cacophony

A knowledge as unceasing as the time it stops

That feeling of still air

Of strings suspending the world on its axis

Peace holds you

Floating in a bubble of unbroken haze

Time is an appendix in this place

Numbers run down

But you remain in peace

That feeling

It protects and envelopes

Its mist of tendrils suspend you

It takes the anarchy of life and glides it o as rain

Ouroboros

Poetry | Caleb Zhang | 5

Photography | Evan Kaufman | 7

A stable cycle,

But never the same

Infinitely changing, Yet played like a game.

Somehow it feels

Like your choices don’t matter

Like your voice is just another Unheard in the chatter

Yet if you try,

Maybe reach out to a friend

You’ll find that just like anyone else, You matter in the end.

Go live your life,

The best life you can,

But just remember

Things might not always go to plan

And keep in mind,

Right when you fall

You can try again, And restart it all.

Art Piece

Poetry | Ethan Hsu | 5

Art | Andre Hamghalan | 6

I dreamed I was a piece of art

Painted by an expert

With many shades and colors

I was admired by the others

Full of speckled dots and lines

Brought beauty to the eye

When I was once a new art piece Beautiful, wasn’t I?

I dreamed I was a piece of art

Shining oh so bright

Bringing joy to human kind

The world in di erent light

Green valleys and butterflies

Dancing in the sky

When I was once a new art piece Beautiful, wasn’t I?

I used to be a new art piece

But now that I’m so old

Framed in a dark basement

I watch the growing mold

Dirty, dusty, and unsold

I fear my life runs out

I wish to be a new art piece

Not to be worn out

Thank You

Special thanks to the members of the administative team who allow us to produce this magazine: David Dini, John Ashton, Dean Clayman, Jason Lange and Danielle Maxfield. Thank you to the humanities and fine arts departments for encouraging submissions. Lastly, thank you to our advisor for pushing us to publish this magazine.

Team Members

Advisor: Danielle Maxfield

Editor: Grant Bowers

Co-editors:

\ Sebastian Garcia-Toledo Nathan Peng

Brennan Bosita Aaron Choi

Akshat Bansal

Nathan Bisrat

Dexter Canham

JW Erxleben

Toby Hyun

Evan Kaufman

Elijah Kim Chase Kitson

Caden Lim

Alexander Marczewski

Lucas Pei

Cyrus Saberan

Dylan Tyler

James Weselka

David Xiao

Rohan Yadlapalli

Bennett Zambrano

Adam Zhang

Memberships and Awards

Columbia Scholastic Press Association (Membership)

National Scholastic Press Association (Membership)

CSPA Gold Crown 2016

CSPA Gold Crown 2017

CSPA Gold Crown 2018

NSPA Pacemaker Finalist 2018

CSPA Gold Crown 2019

NSPA Spread Design of the Year 2023

Mission

Inspired by its upper school predecessor, The Marque, the Mini-Marque aims to showcase the literary and artistic talents of the Middle School. The Mini-Marque is a student-driven elective that meets during the school day. The elective accepts any interested seventh and eighth grade student, regardless of experience. Submissions are encouraged in fifth through eigth grade and are judged blindly and equally for publication. The club is responsible for reviewing and selecting submissions, editing text, and creating spreads as a team. Each member is responsible for cultivating their design skills, collaborating with other members, evaluating modes of writing, and teaching other members as they develop their editing and design skills.

Colophon

The Mini-Marque is a multimedia magazine created by the St. Mark's School of Texas Middle School. The magazine cover is printed 4/4 in 4cp on 130# Polar Bear Velvet. The body text font is ITC Galliard Pro and the title font is Futura. The sta used Adobe InDesign, Illustrator, and Photoshop to create the magazine content. Publication was done on personal laptops. 300 copies were printed for distribution to students, sta , and families free of charge.

Copy Number of 300