UTH O Y L T S
JOUR S T R A
n u 0 202
NAL
d e p p wra
table of contents MASADA SUNRISE
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EARTH TO DUST
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FACES EVERYWHERE
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SALAD DAYS
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WOMEN UNITE
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BREAKING THE CYCLE
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CELEBRATING THE BEAUTY OF BLACK WOMEN
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THE DEAD SEA
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VISIONARIES AND CYNICS
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THE FACES IN THE STREET
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PORTRAIT
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GROW THROUGH WHAT YOU GO THROUGH
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CLOSED DOORS
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REFLECTION ON: CLOSED DOORS
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ABOUT US The St. Louis Youth Arts Journal is a student-led literary journal that accepts art, writing, and everything in between, all year round. It is published by the St. Louis Youth Arts Coalition (STLYAC.) The purpose of this journal is to provide teen artists and writers a safe and accepting platform to see their work published and make their voices heard. Whether you’ve been published five times already, or are just submitting a school project for fun, the St. Louis Youth Arts Journal is a place that will always be happy to support and publish your work. STLYAC is a platform for teen artists and writers to learn, grow, and connect. It holds meetings, publishes a literary journal, and has a current events and culture blog that provides a space for students interested in the arts to explore their interests and have a platform for their work.
ABOUT this issue This second publication of the St. Louis Youth Arts Journal is a mini-issue summing up and looking back on the year 2020. Artists and writers have submitted work that reflects on an aspect of their year, work they have made during the year, etc. We decided on the name “2020 Unwrapped” because we wanted this to both “wrap up” the year, but be one last memory of such a historic year to “unwrap” and look back on through different lenses. Submissions to the journal are open year round––fill out our main submissions form (or, when applicable, the form for a specific mini-issue) to send us your work! We are always excited to see it. For any questions, comments, concerns, or things you think we can improve, email us at stlouisyac@gmail.com, or even DM us on Instagram at @stlouisyac. Thank you so much for taking the time to read this issue, and stay tuned for the next one!
- STLYAC
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MASADA SUNRISE ALEXIS BAUMGARTEN | parkway central high school
EARTH TO DUST EVA KAPPAS | john burroughs school The planet runs its course... We came from dust, we came from The granola crumbling dirt eroding From hillsides beneath our toes Leaning into the wind that sways through the tall grasses With closed eyes and eagerness Cinnamon sunsets cycled with spices Toasted and enveloping, with a blanket of humidity. Rolling over on our side Into mango daybreaks like citrus We drank it up like orange juice and said thank you Where along the way did we bite the forbidden fruit And as the pomegranate tarts exploded on the tongue, Feel the pressure welling up beneath a carpet of pine needles Of a bubbling, roiling spring of oil And call it potential. Why did we gaze into the clear watery eyes Of a crackly honeycomb cavity walled by thin shears of sparkling rock Geometric hexagons hollowed out by the drip, drip, drip, And looking at the water cradling our reflection, See a resource and call it mine When did we coil our metalloids into powerWas the snake in the garden of Adam and Eve A shining, copper cable? Plant the computers above So the metallic wires hang down like roots Dripping liquid electricity into mercury pools below. When did sticky stalks of grass
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Start plastering wrappers to our ankles along with mosquitos Neon popsicles cooling the hope beading on our skin Into a refrigerated complacency. Our society strained like broccoli in a colander: already too far from its roots in the dirt. hey, do u think you could stop with all that doom and gloom stuff... it’s kinda annoying Sure! Let me spoon-feed it to you slowly. Slurp it up, oozing over the silver linings Dark molasses spoonfuls of petroleum Don’t let it drip down your chin You’re doing great, it’s fine, just little changes at a time I’ll make you a smoothie of your daily greens Spinach and lime and greenhouse gases A healthy dose of methane along with your daily multivitamin We have time, anyway Loads and heaps of it, like wheat baskets overflowing Come find me in the dust someday We’ll all be blowing in the wind While the waves roll seasick and the mountains choke on the sky Tupperware containers spin by like tumbleweeds Because not everything returns to dust.
FACES EVERYWHERE ALEXIS BAUMGARTEN | parkway central high school
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SALAD DAYS SARA CAO | john burroughs school Calcium hardened bones are no longer strengthened by chocolate milk in paper cartons. A cruel coming of age awakening peels your skin out of innocenceNakedness has never felt so demanding, out of luck and out of remembrance. And as your nose stuffed with nostalgia exhales, you sniff in the sourness of politics and violence. Your fingers twist from their racks, soaring down a screen of luck and remembrance, of politics and violence. Finally face-to-face with fractures of failures, of facets of facts, and of fabrics of fables, You’ll sew together your salad of reminiscence, planting your raw leaves of heyday and homesickness. But no matter how hard you try, you cannot bring yourself to consume your greens, because whenever you put your memories in your mouth, you’ll recoil as you crunch on the fragileness of it all.
WOMEN UNITE! GRACE BRADLEY | st. joeseph’s academy
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BREAKING THE CYCLE TOLA ALUKO | weddington high school I used to drink coca cola religiously; I loved it. However, when I drank coca cola, I gained weight. When I stopped drinking it, I lost weight. But I still craved it. I craved being able to open it and hear the fizz. I craved being so close to it that I could feel the bubbles popping on my face. And when it burned as it cascaded down my throat, it was a state of euphoria for me. Then it gets empty and I’m left with nothing but an empty bottle of what I used to have. When I chased people who didn’t value me, I suffered not only physically but emotionally. My self image changed and of course my weight spiked. It was constant fighting. Old drama. New drama. The coke had gone flat, but I still wanted to drink it. Until the coke was thrown away and we weren’t friends, and I was somewhat fine, I was thinking of trying something new. Until I let the cravings creep in. Until I imagined the bubbles popping again. Until I fantasized about that burning sensation, again. I felt bad because I was told it was my fault that the coke was flat and I believed them. So I wanted to make things right. I wanted their attention again; because they would give me one small sliver of their coca cola that would keep me satisfied, for a little while. They would throw me away like an empty coca cola bottle because of something I said, something I did, something they didn’t like about me. I apologized. I changed my whole persona for them. I gave them my small drop of coca cola, when it was all I had to give. They gave me a sip of coca cola, when they had a full bottle. I chased after that burning sensation for 9 straight months and always came up empty. Always came up with an unquenched thirst from that little bit of attention that I used to get. Until an early morning when I was finally satisfied. They told me they wanted to be friends again. That they realized I was there for them. That they miss our friendship. I did too. I’ve known them for years. Why would I want to let that go? Why would I want to let something that was so important go? They dangled that coca cola bottle right in front of me, knowing I was thirsty. I was 9 months thirsty, my throat was so dry. I
longed for some coca cola so bad I could taste it on the tip of my tongue; but it burns, it burns every time. After they said they wanted to be friends again, I didn’t hesitate to open that coca cola bottle and drink what they allowed. Then they got mad at me again and the coca cola bottle was dwindling. I was growing thirstier, yearning for a taste of that detrimental acid, even though I knew there wasn’t enough for me. Even though I knew it was getting flat and I shouldn’t be drinking it. Then they started to ignore me, they put a lid on that coca cola bottle as my tongue bathed in dehydration. They were preparing to throw me away like trash, again. I stepped on the scale just to find my weight had gone up, again. My clothes were tight, again. They were mad at me. Blaming me for all the problems with the coca cola and I almost believed it. Until they dangled that now irreparable, broken bottle of coca cola in my face. The acid had eaten its way through. The same acid that I thought was good and was burning my throat, broke through that glass coca cola bottle. Something changed, something had to give. I knew drinking from that bottle would cut me. I knew drinking from that bottle would burn me. I knew despite all that, if I drank from that bottle, I would be thirsty again. No! I don’t want to go down this road. No! I’ve been doing it for years. No! I’ve thrown myself away for them. I’ve done everything for only a drop of coca cola; but it wasn’t enough and truth be told it never will be. The problem wasn’t me. It was the fact that they’re thirsty. They call me at 7 am in the morning when they know that no one else will answer. They keep me on the phone for 15 hours, with their issues, because they know that no one else will do that. They come crying to me for all my coke when people only give them the same pitiful amount that they gave me. I’d soothe them with my coca cola. I’d give them all of mine to get some of theirs; but I let them hinder me. I let them get into my head. I became conditioned to only want their coca cola. When another bottle was dangled in my face. I turned my head away. I wanted to be their friends, no one could quench my thirst like they did. No one could spend nights in my head, rent free, like they did. ‘Why did they want to be friends with everyone but me? What was wrong with me? What did I do for them to throw me away… again?’ Yet, it wasn’t me.
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It was that addictive temporarily thirst quenching coca cola that they gave me. I had never had better and I wasn’t willing to try. I wasn’t willing to throw away what I thought was years of strong friendship. Which was actually years of toxicity. We hadn’t even been friends for half of those ‘years’! I had been conditioned since before I was a teenager to think that the burning sensation was okay. I knew I was a good friend to them but they weren’t to me. I wanted so desperately to be their friends but they didn’t want to be mine. The information that took me 2+ years to share with them, took me weeks to share with another after tasting from a different bottle. I was confusing the length of the friendship for the strength of the friendship. It was time to throw away all broken coca cola bottles and move on. Give true friendship another chance when I didn’t just have that abysmal coke in my mouth. It was time to break the cycle… and I did.
CELEBRATING THE BEAUTY OF BLACK WOMEN JANAE HARRIS | john burroughs school
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THE DEAD SEA ALEXIS BAUMGARTEN | parkway central high school
VISIONARIES AND CYNICS EVA KAPPAS | john burroughs school after 2016, There’s a structure for idealism—fruit juice— In a bright-eyed glass bottle; it’s not novel, but spit with such sheer righteousness it is misrecognized as feasible. I have misunderstood friends’ animated assertions—colorful concentrates— as the only option if you don’t want to be a complacent; not flights of gravity. The enemy being a private school student coming to the defense of their access to antibiotics just for infected earrings. Does my new pragmaticism come at the expense of moral progress? Or is this moderate assertion voiced in order to call into question what a communist country looks like? (That’s my problem with the literature these days.) (Half the liquid in my cup has evaporated- the pulp at the bottom is tangy.) But maybe there’s a solution here, if I titrate it out: Tongue studded with sugar, crackling with pops of white teeth Sugar sizzles in the veins of the country and the appeal is undeniably sweet. Give us a container, a flavor, and in the end we all drink it up: Pink dreams and vaccines sipped from tall cool glasses on marble countertops blessedly preventing the mouth of the homeowner from regurgitating tax returns-Cartons of peach memories chugged down at school lunch bringing the momentary relief of orange citrus down the gullet to slosh around in empty stomachs. And in a shallow dish left out
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Time presides over the the dregs of the violent vibrant juice The everlasting observer, watching to see if it will accumulates flies or ferment into something stronger.
THE FACES IN THE STREET ALEXIS BAUMGARTEN | parkway central high school
PORTRAIT ELLA GALVIN | john burroughs school
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GROW THROUGH WHAT YOU GO THROUGH GRACE BRADLEY st. joeseph’s academy
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closed doors ESTHER POTTEBAUM | john burroughs school My husband is a good man. But he is different. Our lives were created at the hands of one Victor Frankenstein. I’ve been told Victor made me to be a companion for my husband, so he could have someone to empathize with and love. We privately joined in marriage in an attempt to feel human in the sight of God. Never have I received more joy from nurturing our lovely daughter in the early stages of her youth. Stretches of golden days passed. I’ve seen my husband’s bitterness beautifully softened by this little girl’s touch. He channeled the hurt from his past towards fatherly efforts to keep her from this same pain. The only solution, he thinks, is utter isolation from humanity. But why couldn’t this golden hour last longer? Why couldn’t my husband control his ambition and restrain from visiting Victor one last time? Did he have to go back to Geneva just to see Victor blossoming with his family in the acceptance of society’s folds? Peering through Victor’s kitchen window, he wistfully gazed upon those idyllic moments with his family—Victor re-telling an old story, Elizabeth slapping her knee in belly laughter. Then my husband recoiled. He gritted his teeth. The bitterness residing long in his heart transfigured into seething envy and ugliness. Hysteria twinkled in his eyes as he recalled his every abuse from fellow humans. He continued his killing streak, murdering Victor’s best friend and promising to take away his dear wife. Only then, his work would be complete. I found out my husband was going to Victor’s house on his wedding night. I heard him leave, and after waiting several minutes, began following, constantly tracking the speck of his figure in the distance. I quickened my pace as I saw him approach a small inn with chimney smoke billowing into the blue night. He was on a hunt, scouring all windows of the building until spotting his culprit. When she was nowhere to be found, he breathlessly mounted a nearby tree and peered inside the second story window. He stopped. By this time I was still far from reaching the inn. I felt as if my life was at risk, that I was trying to save myself. I was in a dream. The world
was sluggish and sleepy. Blurred lines everywhere. Why couldn’t my legs go faster? I shook my head, crudely smearing the tears out of my eyes. Almost there. Almost... I watched his face contort into a villainous sneer as he gently creaked open the window. “NO!” I cried, stumbling up the hill towards the inn. He shot his head back and his feet almost tottered off the tree branch. “Wha?! Why are you here?!” he hoarsely whispered. I winced with pain at the cramp forming in my lower rib, but walked on and reached the base of the tree. “Don’t do it,” I said plainly, craning my head back until our eyes met. “She doesn’t deserve to live. He, HE, of all people,” he stammered, “doesn’t deserve to have her.” Seeming to remember his mission, his face returned to its original mold, brows furrowing with passion. My head fell back down with a sigh. I turned away and crossed my arms, pensively surveying the frosted peaks of distant mountains. I turned back again. “I know...” “--and YOU think you know what you’re talking about?” he chuckled. “You have no sense of what I’ve been through. I’ve protected you from this cruel world for a reason. Don’t you know we will never be accepted? Don’t you know the world hates us, and we did nothing wrong to deserve it??” “But she did nothing wrong too. I know people have done unspeakable things towards you, but why must she be held responsible for the actions of her entire race? We don’t know her character.” “But that’s exactly why...she could be the kindest, most beautiful person in the world, and still she would see us and spit. Don’t you understand? No matter what I do...I can save children from drowning, I can serve people with zero recognition...NOTHING will change the fact that we will always be outcasts.” “So you’re just going to kill her? Is that right? Is that your solution? She’s a wife just like me, and what would you do if I were taken away from you?” His eyes flitted at the idea. “It’s hard enough knowing we have to hide ourselves because we’ll never see someone like us. Do you think this will change anything?” “I’ve told you a thousand times before, I’m trying to protect you!” I paused for a moment and raised my chin again with imploring eyes.
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“And what will our daughter think knowing her own father murders innocent people? If not for anything else, do it for her! Her life will be eternally marked by your legacy resting on this single decision.” He opened his mouth to respond on instinct, but no words left. He looked through the window with restless longing, then down at me. He glanced once more at the peaceful figure lying on the bed and turned his back on her in defeat. The window shut itself gently again.
REFLECTION ON: closed doors ESTHER POTTEBAUM | john burroughs school Through this scene, I tried to draw the connection between the roles of the female creature and Elizabeth. Both women are strong characters with the ability to influence their husbands. The Creature and Victor have deep affection for their wives, but they fail to truly show their love by allowing ambition to take priority over their families. Victor’s passion is fueled by his longing for glory and adoration through his scientific feats. But the Creature’s passion is fueled by the hurt from his past and his anger towards humanity’s inability to show empathy towards those who look different. With no other coping method, he seeks to inflict this pain on the loved ones of Victor, who brought him to life. But the female responds beautifully, as she recognizes his frustration while logically defending the innocent life of Elizabeth and slowly breaking down his deranged arguments. The climax of the story occurs when she reminds her husband what their daughter will think knowing he’s a murderer. I hoped to convey the power of this traditionally feminine quality of motherly love. This quality appeals to human emotion and can be used to stir people’s hearts and bridge gaps in times of conflict. When the Creature chooses to exhibit tenderness, he is at his strongest hour by exposing his weakness and living for others. His eyes are opened to his callous behavior in disregarding his own daughter and murdering Elizabeth out of personal gratification. He releases this burning desire for vengeance and gently closes the window to Elizabeth’s room, acting as a symbol for the finished scene.
© STLYAC 2020-21 ALL RIGHTS ARE HEREBY RETURNED TO CREATORS
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