The Tartan Literary Magazine 2020 - McLean High School by The Tartan Magazine

LXIV

TARTAN

THE

2020

Dear Readers, The four years of high school are pivotal in fostering human identity. Students enter as children and come out as adults. Though they still reside at home and are dependent on their caretakers’ benevolence, each year more and more responsibilities get placed upon their shoulders: first jobs, drivers’ licenses, college applications, etc. Each child encounters more and more novel experiences that shape their progress: first relationships, the birth of new friendships, the end of old ones, etc. Unique to this year, McLean faced a global pandemic and an unprecedented shift to online learning. Students have had more time than ever before, for better or worse, to be home, to think, and to grow. The experiences in these four years nurture immense growth and one’s adult identity begins to become more concrete. In this year’s edition of The Tartan, we sought to capture that growing focus. While students hardly leave high school with their whole persona defined, these final teen years begin the pathway to their ultimate destiny. With elements like the off-kilter frames surrounding “Death’s Kiss” and trailing typography in “Burning Out,” we hoped to capture that fluid transition from naïve to mature. As always, there is still room for growth. Yet, the art, writing, and graphic elements we hand selected represent the approach to our adult life. This edition acts like a camera lens, embodying our community’s future coming into focus.

With Love, The Tartan

Designers Editor-In-Chief Emily Chopra Melanie Chan Hyohyun Jung Staff Tigo Amaya Marina Qu Advisers Manuela Delfino Perez Lindsay Benedict Libby Eick Seth LeBlanc Zane Kidwell Address Elena Klenk Lily Neusaenger McLean High School 1633 Davidson Road Abby Powell McLean, Virginia 22101 Lauren Scott United States Miles Wilson

TABLE

CONTENTS

Cover Art Donâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t Let It Melt Away | Photograph | Eliana Durkee 1

Carlin Hall Front by Dasha Makarishcheva

Southern Summer by Cassidy Gersten

The weeping magnolias Of southern summer They call me toward them In the humid night The moon in beams Around us I run through their branches Hopping from leaf to leaf Reaching up Through the white petals The stars They dare me To jump higher, farther To follow suit Of the grasshoppers In the dewy grass below I reach, and reach, and reach And yet I cannot catch it The dreams, the hopes, The memories Of a southern summer Hidden amongst the stars Out of reach Yet written across the sky In harmony With the chirping crickets

Ode to Melancholy by Serena Wang

Fulfillment by Annika Harley

Iâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;m tired of asking questions that donâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t have answers Calling for the constellations to show me a sign in forest breezes Whisper to me my purpose so that I can again be made whole Show me what I am to worship, not a church or a holy book But the truths that one finds among the trees The sanctuary of a godless place that is the thicket A congregation of sinners and saints line up along the forestâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s edge Seeking sanctification in every crooked trail Those willing to become lost are the first to be found

Alone by Riley Harris

Alive

by Libby Eick

very day for the three months of summer, the boy who lived across from me would leave his house at ten in the morning and lie in the street between our houses. And every day at ten I would sit at my front window and watch as cars effortlessly swerved around his tiny body without a second glance. Not once did a driver look back at him. Not once did anyone stop to make sure he was alright. It was as if all the roads in all the suburbs of the world were filled with little boys lying in roads just waiting to be hit. I never missed his daily entrance into the bright, hot world. At precisely ten o’clock, the boy would stand on a small patch of dead grass at the edge of his lawn. Deliberately, he would make his way out into the middle of the street and sink slowly to the ground, not uttering a word. His voice was the trees’ occasional rustling in the damp breeze, the twittering of birds, the creak of the nearby street sign that would one day fall in a storm. He wouldn’t speak, so nature spoke for him. Once the boy was settled, he only moved once, around noon, to shift his hands from his sides to underneath his head. The only other movements were that of his eyes, which aimlessly followed the clouds lingering in the sky. The boy never left the road until five minutes to six, when his mother >

returned home from work. Nothing else could rouse him, not his fatherâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s call for lunch, nor my sister, who would repeatedly venture into the middle of the road to ask him to ride bikes with her at the end of our driveway. She did it every day, despite the lack of response. To me, the boy was obviously bored out of his mind. I always tried to find ways to entertain him. When it was time for me to practice piano, I opened all the windows so he could hear the melodies from the clumsy stumble of my hands. When my sister and I wanted to play dolls, we carried our mess of dolls into the middle of the street, placed one in his limp hand, and played on his stomach or by his side. When we went out to him, clutching our dolls and doubling back to pick up a stray shoe or brush, our mom came out as well, usually with lemonade or cookies for the boy. He always ignored her offer. Carefree, my sister and I would play in the street as the boy stared blankly at the sky. We never asked him why he was lying in the middle of the road. He wouldnâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t have answered anyways.

He never moved or flinched as the black tires of the cars rolled past him, sometimes coming alarmingly close to his head. He only stared up at the wild blue. Thinking of what? I wish I could know. But I guess that was between him and the sky. On the last day of summer, the boy stayed out late into the night. I watched him silently from my bedroom window. His father came out. They talked quietly, their voices masked by the trees rustling in the evening wind. After a moment, the father started back to the house. The loud, echoing smack of a door being shut with annoyance soon followed, radiating out into the quiet night. A few stray cars wandered down the road, moving cautiously in the darkness. Each approaching beam rested softly and tenderly on the boy, illuminating his small frame, his shoulders lightly heaving as though he were crying. Then the beams would narrow, becoming luminous mice that scurried over the boy and through the yard, jumping into the surrounding trees and leaving the boy to slowly sink back into the darkness.

THE SKY IS F

Falling by Miles Wilson

by Izabela Firlej should I have kids despite knowing they may be like me knowing they may go to school and never return home to be indoctrinated under the flag 0f a country they may not even believe in one that did not fight for their future one that threw away their opportunities for the sake of pleasures unknown to them to make a housewife on Prozac feel safe and her children on Adderall feel calm so they can all work to pay for healthcare and an education overpriced, undervalued, overrated would bringing those kids into this world hold me liable for their misery knowing they may end up like me

King Midas Touch by Sapphira Thompson

# by Andrea Yao Joy

We do not fault the stars for lacking luster Or the rivers for running dry We do not fault the forests for scorching A massacre of leaves and bark Or the dissolving glacier Much too weary to remain upright It reaches out and embraces the sea until it is swallowed And no one is left to speak of its existence or mourn its loss

SPHERE

by Briana Alma

Yet we are reluctant to accept responsibility All we have is a raised finger, pointing Accusatory and rigid Seeking the culprit we share a body, a home with All we have are empty promises That reach into the lungs of blameless children, choking them We have robbed them of their youth And we smile about it Pretend that we cannot hear their shrieks Or see the gleam of hope in their eyes Looking to us to be the valiant knight that slays the dragon The brave soldier who stays on the battlefield until the last shot is fired The dismantled cradle lies at our feet We tore their nursery apart with our calloused hands But who is to blame Certainly not us A war is not what we want but we hand out munitions Like pieces of intricately wrapped candy So here we sit Searching with blind eyes for answers we do not want Like a deer in headlights As the walls around us begin to crumble Green giving way to ash To decaying dreams deep beneath the soil

Rhododendron by Ivy Sun

ath the black log, em >Bene bers do ere to shake, to w kin e h s f I stir, d le to u e a F r t d e y a r d e s n ot pse , red An relin t qui , to t ho h a t t g e o n f t k e s c rs th h i urn em y, thi ts k c a i u o l d h nd she bl at t ke wind, s : W ho o w h T th Li h lose the battle, tha roug at r a na e h F sh er es ath

n cinders remain. hidde t few during smolders. tha he en t uch gor the fading light. it s ith vi blurs sh w hat ui ess has sealed, sav ite gs, t e fo f succ ign lun r wo is no t t e o a y e h t l o th st? crack ind use w s. e w nd ro e fl ame is burn th a s, en th in g wh ou rs t. t te

ed so bright. But t ce burn ime, n o t mis tha a s w l e t f t a , h t h for w n e l air o io vea tun s e r s f l d a i g n f s i l n t c o t ee e p a t a h h t e w s g e g k o in, t ou x ti lo kf th c i e l h h d s at t t h n the time has a g ng e h t a er t acky, h w r a pass ved ov a t ed? eaten in chie a â&#x20AC;&#x201D; e h l t o g h , t e W f a s i nd w ld he bene nb h er n ks, ca c s p e a a r r k a o f is all r , i aste ec tha t bu th tm nw i a lie

Burning Out by Emily Chopra

Cry Me a River by Serena Wang by Abby Powell

remember watching my aunt do her makeup. It wasn’t anything extravagant—a single red pencil for her lips, the wood going soft with age, fished out from the back of the wardrobe, a tint for her eternally pale cheeks, and a pencil to fill in her eyebrows. Her fingers would shake slightly when she penciled in her lips with careful precision, staring into a tiny mirror that distorted her elongated features. I always thought she was beautiful, with her snowy skin and bony, delicate hands. I didn’t understand why my family would laugh a little when I expressed that, why they got that complicated look on their faces.

My mother tried to help her, in her own way. She chided in raucous Shanghainese, “The lips are too red, you look like a paper doll!” She received only an eyeroll in response as my aunt ignored her, heaving herself off the bed onto the chair, while my grandmother glared. We weren’t supposed to talk about unlucky things such as paper dolls—those were used at funerals, and there was enough misfortune in the household. They kept bickering when they picked out her outfit, my aunt insisting on putting her shoes on herself, struggling to pick up her skeletal feet to slide them on, as one would a doll. My father stood around awkwardly, not understanding anything they were saying, and held the door open while my mother wheeled her out.

People stared when we passed on the sidewalk. I remember thinking it must have been because of how pretty she looked—it wasn’t often my aunt had the chance to get dressed up like this, nowadays. She used to dress up all the time, according to the faded photos I found in the closet. She had flowing dresses and long, glossy hair, with a lovely smile. I wondered why she didn’t smile like that anymore. I still didn’t understand when one day, they put her in a box and nailed it shut, each ringing bang of the hammer like a strike upon my grandmother’s back. Before the lid was closed, her face looked odd, not like when she drew it. She looked waxy, not like herself. I wished she would carefully, slowly sit up so I could watch her do her makeup.

Orange by Manuela Delfino Perez

Slicked & Suspended by Lars Rosen

Transubstantiation by Lars Rosen

Deep by Cassidy Gersten A pool, a lake The calm waters of the ocean They live inside me Bubbling gurgling words That cannot escape That cannot float through the air On the backs of wind spirits Into the rounded ears Of close beings Their brain would register Ignore my pleas Fault the emotional part Of my personality They ignore the sadness Upon my arms My tear-stained cheeks The bruises on my body The scars on my brain I close the gates

I lock the doors Against the tsunami of words The thick, sour water Dribbles down my nose Into my throat Down my esophagus And into my lungs I canâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t breathe I canâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t think I flap my arms A bird with broken wings I cannot push Against the waterfall Down I go My eyes clench Red with effort I pray for the whirlpool to subside And drown in the depth Of my mind

Surprise by Yeonho Gil

Xertz

by Izabella Johnson

everberating clicks resounding, the clocks gorged one after another growing gaping maws and rows of teeth, and to one’s mouth I inserted a bribe Curled fish hooks, pearl-touched, scrolled, dipped sweet they’d snack where filaments mapped a parchment, rolled tightly and bundled tucked snugly under the doormat, waiting like a key to his door

o be consumed by the gullets of a clock, knuckles on the wood and parchment hand I knocked three times, till he smiled past the keyhole through the cockpit, small gears churning, to the swell of my cheeks creaking, biting, repeating so forth till the white crow cocooned past the blaring sun, door cast wide

nside I stepped, black cats rousing with backs hilled and furs pricked swiveling numerous heads, the beasts vaulting to his shoulder a fish-hooked figure, gilded limbs, honeycomb eyes striking volumes of fingers, numbers customed to his forehead’s crown twelve, six, three, blackened charcoal bits dripping acid drops

ime, little to no less, grinning volatility at flesh and paper key awaiting the quill’s drop, ink dipped, squiggles signed and the hungry coo of its stomach, bubbling a hoarse, grinding hiss It’d hear the bell chime, my last second spent and crumple me away, fold me, burn and bury

and consume hastily

The Boxer by Amanda Mullet There is a boxing match in my mind David vs. Goliath Every day they brawl Fists flashing, knuckles bruising Every day the little one loses He falls in the end, be it after Two rounds or twenty Ten minutes or ten hours They fight until they can’t anymore Until their arms weaken And their legs shake Every day they do battle Every day the behemoth cries “You could end this. Just give in.” And every day my David rises, and every day He falls, inevitably, Back to the dirt he came from Some may call him foolish Others may call him brave But I call him human, Bound to his fight Bound to his fall Bound to his fury in spite of it all

East of Zion by Isaac Lamoreaux It’s always been cold in the chapel. Every Sunday I’m greeted by the same cold building, frigid white cinderblock walls with the only color coming from the religious paintings that hang in a perfectly straight line down the hallways. I pull open the cedar doors to the vast meeting room, a sea of red-cushioned pews that line the room facing the elevated stand and podium. Chattering voices and a few cries from the newborn babies being held in the laps of their mothers fill the air. The room always gets colder when I walk in. Sister Smith shoots a glare and whispers to her husband. I sit with the rest of my family in the back row as the other families in the congregation talk amongst themselves. It’s like when you pass a fancy restaurant and look in from the outside. You can be near them, but you will never be a part of them. The fluorescent lights shine from above and make the congregants glow. The bishop takes his position atop his podium and peers down. I sit between my reserved father and my autistic older brother. All around us churchgoers have conversations with each other, talking about how perfect their crystal lives are and occasionally shooting a glance over at me. It’s always been this way, I guess. The introverted family with two “not normal” sons sitting at the back, ogling the lives of those who sit on more comfortable pews and walk on cleaner ground. The next hour is usually filled by people discussing the biblical topics assigned to

them. Some use the time to talk about different aspects of what we believe, and others use it as an opportunity for selfpraise. For as long as I can remember, I have been taught that church was a refuge from the turbulent world that exists outside of it. While I found solace in my beliefs, I always found the chapel a hostile place. Being a member of the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-Day Saints (better known as LDS or Mormon) has been such a big part of who I am. Most of my life was spent outside of the United States. I was never really sure what to answer when people asked where I was from, but I could always call myself a Latter-Day Saint with pride. My first introduction to people in the LGBTQ+ community was not positive. My church peers would laugh about boys who liked other boys. The topic would not come up regularly or positively with my family either. One discussion in particular was hard to forget. “What is your opinion on gay people?” my mother asked as she pursed her lips tightly and adjusted her grip on the steering wheel. “I mean… I guess it’s their decision. I don’t support it but it’s their say, not mine,” I said hesitantly. My mother peers at me in the rear-view mirror and nods in agreement. “You’re like them. You know that,” a small voice whispered in my head. The voice didn’t go away for years. I decided that the best thing to do was >

Handful of Happiness by Elena Klenk

ignore it. It was getting in the way of the Mormon Dream: go on a mission, go to BYU, find a wife, graduate, and have many children. I could see the glass sculpture of the cookie-cutter, white-subway-tile-future shattering into thousands of shards like stars on a clear winter night. After two long years of hiding, I began to take off the mask of the perfect Mormon that I was taught to be. My freshman and sophomore years were spent coming out friend by friend, learning about the

Touring by Riley Harris

community, and eventually confronting my parents. They were concerned but, to my utter surprise, accepting. A really good reaction. Other Mormons arenâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t so lucky. I moved back to the U.S. my junior year. This meant that the church would begin to play a larger part in my life than it ever did before. The church building is now only a five-minute drive from my home. Like all other Mormon teenagers, I start the weekdays learning scripture in the early morning from overzealous teachers.

“Let’s talk about a hot button issue,” Brother Parker said one morning, clapping his hands together and making a few drifting kids jump in their chairs. Some who were awake leaned forward with interest for the ensuing argument. “Gay marriage.” Whenever anything about the LGBTQ+ community comes up in church, the room begins to spin and I feel like I’m skydiving. “What do we believe about those who experience same-sex attraction?” The class seemed to stare back blankly, but most of the kids slumped over in their chairs knew what was coming. “We don’t accept their sinful lifestyle, but if they live the gospel, then they can stay in the church.” Eyes from all sides of the room darted quickly in my direction and then back at Brother Parker. “We must accept our same-sex attraction brothers and sisters,” Brother Parker continued, “but they must abide by our standards.” He straightened a little and turned towards me. “Or else they are barred from eternal progression.” The concept of the afterlife in my faith is a little abstract, but one of the main factors of it is that we are able to keep progressing through repentance to the highest degree of glory. According to Brother Parker and so many others in the LDS church, LGBTQ+ members will not gain the same mercy as everyone else. I felt the blood rush to my face. The idea that I must conform to the standards of others and change something about myself that I have no control over overwhelmed me. I ran into the nearest bathroom stall as my eyes began to well. I stared at the

perfectly slick, cream-colored cell divider. Is he right? Do I not get the same right to love as everyone else does? Do I have to spend my life locked up in a far off monastery on a hill, forever trying to forget this part of myself? Was there a future for me here? These thoughts haunted me for weeks but didn’t come to the forefront of my frustrations until one particularly cold day of what should have been spring. My breath fogged the air as I got into the small minivan, a carpool from our early morning seminary class to school. My friend Daniel sat next to me, and we shivered together. I laughed and sat closer to him to try to get as much warmth as possible. Having a friend like Daniel in the church is a blessing for me. While most of the other boys share in their masculine comradery, my only friend was Daniel. I was friendly with other people, sure, but it wasn’t the type of relationship where I could trust them with a secret or with a tear. His eyes were a relief; other eyes weren’t as caring. I caught a few disdainful glances from Brother Murphy in the rear view mirror. His eyes pierced mine. I smiled a little awkwardly back at him and scooted away from Daniel a bit. Brother Murphy is what you would call the perfect Mormon husband. He makes at least six figures, if not more, and is the epitome of what the Mormon church wants their fathers to be like. A strict, blonde buzz cut, unforgiving pale blue eyes, and tall. He has the photo-ready family; four children and a stay-at-home wife. His personal life is a mystery, but he tries to stand out as the most righteous. “Isaac, I got a very disturbing phone >

call from someone at the church today. Do you have any idea why?” My dad’s bluntness caught me a little off guard. I had just gotten into the passenger seat of our clunky black van. “I haven’t done anything wrong, Dad. What was the phone call about?” He seemed uncomfortable. Something was not right. “Someone called and said that you were publicly displaying affection with Daniel. I don’t know what is going on between you two, but you made him and his daughter feel very uncomfortable this morning.” I felt like I had leapt from a plane and was hurtling down to Earth. After some silence and uncomfortable conversation about how I was not romantically involved with Daniel we finally pulled into the driveway. “It was Brother Murphy who called you, wasn’t it?” I asked quietly. “Isaac, I want you to apologize to him.” “What?” “Isaac, you were in his car, and you made him and his daughter uncomfortable.” “Dad, I didn’t even touch Daniel in a suggestive way! Why should I ask for his forgiveness for something that I-” “Isaac, next Sunday you will apologize to him and his family. It’s the right thing to do.” Two weeks later I received an email from the then-newly appointed bishop of our ward: Isaac, The bishop would like to meet with you after church next Sunday, will you be able to see him? Thanks, Marcus Taylor

My heart pounded against my ribs. I didn’t know if Brother Murphy had reported me to the Bishop and if I was going to be reprimanded. My mind swirled with horror stories of conversion therapy and excommunication. Bishop Collins greeted me with a wide smile and shook my hand before inviting me into his office. Bishop Collins had been our priest quorum advisor before he was called to his position, so he knew me pretty well at the time. Bishop Collins is pretty young for a bishop. He and his wife have several special needs children in their care. He has a tired face, but he is always smiling. He radiates a sense that you are somehow always welcome to talk with him. I sat down in a chair facing him, nothing between us. To my surprise, he asked me how I was. I don’t get asked that question much. I told him I was doing fine, and he asked about my interests and hobbies, especially how the play I was in was going. “How do you feel you are doing spiritually?” he asked in a way that didn’t feel judgmental. He was asking because he wanted to know the answer. I stared at my hands in my lap and rubbed them together a little. “Probably not where it should be, I just feel like I’m at this point where I’m stalled spiritually.” “Why is that?” I sat silently for a while. “I want to tell you something, Bishop. I’m sure you already know this because I don’t try to hide it anymore. I experience samesex attraction.” My eyes began to well up. “And because of that, I try to avoid all the Lobster Man by Riley Harris

extra activities that we have here because I feel like a burden, like something that doesn’t belong here.” Hot tears rushed down my cheeks. After a little pause Bishop Collins opened his mouth. “Isaac, I have no experience with that, but what I do know is that you are a son of God, and you are loved for who you are. I know that there are a lot of different difficulties that you face that I cannot begin to imagine, but I want you to know that you are loved here and that we care about you.” I gave him a broken smile. It’s another response that I get a lot, but he meant well. I began to tell him about my encounter with Brother Murphy, to which he replied, “I know about that Isaac, and, to be honest, it

shouldn’t have happened in the first place. I’m sorry that happened to you.” His kindness lifted a huge weight from my shoulders that day. Although I stand at the crossroads of what I want to do about my membership with the church, I do know that there are people there whose views are beginning to change. My parents, who knew very little about the LGBTQ+ community, understand that my sexuality isn’t something that can be changed. I can feel the tide turning. Even though my religion and my sexuality stand in opposition to each other, I feel that I will always be a member of LDS, and if I choose to stay, maybe the chapel will become a little warmer at last.

I Reach Out by Umran Koca I reach out To touch the unknown; A silver hue glistens on the sleepy water. Yet to be awakened, It stirs in its sleep, Unable to wake up As an icy breeze carries silence to my ears. I reach out. The misty heavens cover its burning gaze, The light illuminates my eyes, Wrapping me in a warm embrace, Forcing me into consciousness. I reach out. A single drop of crystal ripples the murky waters, The crack of a lone branch under the weight of the anxious sparrow, The laughter of the dancing daffodils. The breeze picks up, Whispering a light promise in my ears. I reach out, Storm waves crashing on the sand dunes, Water erasing the lone footsteps on the beach. I reach out Into the cavernous belly of the unknown, Breathing the damp air, One hand on the cave walls. I walk, Engulfed in a fiery blaze, I reach out. I touch the sun.

Skies by Dasha Makarishcheva

asmine is sweet. The heady aroma casts a gentle enchantment over the streets each spring, its tiny flowers snowing down, littering the pavement and catching in your hair when you walk your bicycle down the path. Every year, from training wheels to a full-sized bike, always with familiar, reassuring footsteps behind you. Gradually slowing over the years, until the addition of a walking stick. Jasmine is peaceful. Jasmine floats in a tranquil cup of tea in the summer, while weathered hands teach you how to write, or paint. Only reluctantly absent when youâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;re older and snap for them to go away, Iâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;m busy. You taste jasmine in a steaming bowl when you get sick in the winter, listening to the elderly voice chide you for not taking care of yourself. Jasmine is bitter. The smell of jasmine fills a van, where everyone is wearing black. Silent except for quiet sniffles and muted weeping. Among bundles of overbearing and sickly pale white lilies, jasmine whispers a loving farewell. So every time you walk past a small stand selling jasmine wreaths, you stop and buy a woven bracelet, so that the scent of jasmine follows you for a few days, bearing memories of gnarled fingers carefully clasping one just like it around your wrist.

Summer by Jiaying Li

Me Time by Zane Kidwell An entire planet spinning on a single pin, a billion burning trees for the million burning souls, leading Devastation home to meet with me on another Sunday after lunch. It leaves a trail of empty and scarred earth; veins of bloody lava and sun-baked skin that have seen better days and better years. Up to my abode and a single knock just like before. Out on vacation, said the neighbors. Been for twenty years, visiting different places, ones better than the human spirit. They left me with the keys. Oh! A distant thought pulled forward: I should feed the dog, a little terrier affair. Nah. Iâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;ll just go tomorrow. Another knock. Devastationâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s here. Go home, Devastation, I can wait another day! It leaves me alone for an eternity with myself. Just donâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t go outside. Inertia keeps the planet spinning, a wobble here or there, might tip over any minute now, but I think I can wait another day.

# Scream by Andrea Yao

Metamorphosis & Antirrhinum by Ivy Sun

Death’s Kiss by Jerrick Bravo

She wiped the silent stream off my face Rosy red flowers once dotted the land Now a barren grey crisis lay in waste But comfort had arrived at the borders of my lips Blessed with one short, gentle kiss Sharing a love pure enough to tempt Aphrodite But no goddess would dare set foot near her terrain For hordes of hell would set her ablaze No one could withstand the heat of her pain Save for me “Pick your poison,” she whispered softly in my ear

Formative Moments by Emily Chopra efore my eyes, I see my face. The sable strands, eyes locked in familiarity. The mirror shatters. Sharp speckles cascade in an iridescent wave. Each piece, a memory. Focus. The sun hangs low, sending amber footpaths across the sky. The syrupy, sweet smell of honeydew blossoms wafts through the air, sharp enough to stick to the tongue. Laughter rings like a whistle, overwhelming and apparent. My nimble hands, made burnt umber by the brazen summer sun, grasp the broad width of the ancient magnolia tree. Up higher, higher, and yet higher until I can almost walk those

footpaths in the sky. Icy crystals slice through the air, kicked up by bouncy black inner tubes and feet dragging in their wake. Frost permeates thick woolen socks and creeps beneath layers of down. Blood pumps quickly, coloring cheeks like little rosettes. Exhilaration, down the steep snowy slope. The lazy river weaves around the timeworn stones, a rhythmic sloshing. Beneath my feet crunch little shells and gravel from the sky-scraping bluffs now scattered about the secluded alcove. A forgotten shore, off the path and away from probing eyes. A place to watch, to listen, to think.

Fleeting Moments by Libby Eick

Gather around now Stand tall and throw your rifle over your broad back Cool metal seeping into your skin, into your veins Walk through the battlefield with your head held high

My Yout h

Pay no mind to your crimson-colored boots Or the stains on your fingers Like berry juice, you can wash it away in your sink Watch it disappear down the drain as if it were nothing Nothing That is exactly what this means to you Nothing Is the price you place on a beating heart

ta Al m m

On a crooked smile On a shrill laugh Gather around now and lie to my face Promise to make it better, if only to rip the rug from under my feet when it suits you

To watch the smoke rise and see the shells fall The ground is still raw from the last grave dug Mothers and fathers have their shovels at the ready They are in mourning before morning has begun

Br ian

Te s

This is the price of freedom, you tell me What makes our nation great Land of the free and home of the barrel Go outside at your own peril

Gather around now With your sharpened pencils And sign away my future Tell me that the bullet lodged in my chest is worth it

Behind the Mask by Yeonho Gil

When It Suits You by Sophie Camus

he cozy slush between my bare toes is violated. I jump, trance broken by icy froth from the incoming tide. It occurs to me that the sun has retired to its fleecy pillows and the sky, steeped in earl grey, has gone cold. The waves had churned themselves into a fitting hue, somewhere between amethyst and sludge. I remember just today when the sun-baked beach had played host to placid sheets of undulating glass. Had they truly been glass, the waves would be shattered by their current somersaulting fury. Half a mile down, a congregation of specks are lighting a bonfire. They laugh at their drunken attempts before the ember bursts and they revel in the glow of each other’s company. Someone tunes a guitar. I smile at the ashen sand, trying to distract myself from the vicious echo of recollection. “What did I do to you?” “You know full well what you did.” “How does that impact you?! Truly, how?” “Because you’ve cheated me! This is not what I asked for! All I wanted was for my girl to love the Lord, get married, and have grandbabies for me to care for. It was a simple dream—an attainable one! That’s all ruined now.” “What the hell are you talking about? I said bisexual, Mom. Meaning I don’t know what will end up happening.” “But that’s even worse. You were so close and yet you turned.” “Is that what the problem is? Believe it or not, I can still have kids if that’s what you’re so obsessed with! Or adopt! You knew it was never safe for me to get pregnant with my body the way it is.” “It’s not the same.” “Well, tough shit. I’m not responsible for this sick vision you have of me!” “Sick? Do you think it’s sick for me to value a proper family? I’m not saying a relationship with…with a >

Soul Searching by Serena Wang

woman wouldn’t be easier. But that doesn’t make it right.” “What about Uncle David, then?” “That’s different. This just...isn’t what I wanted, okay?” “Mom. You can’t just choose to love me when it suits you. That’s not a choice you get to make.” “I wish it was.” I sigh, trying to undo the stiffness of my joints. I stand, give my right knee a little wiggle, and it snaps back into place with a crisp clack. Granules of sand tumble down my thighs. I’m drained to an extent I didn’t realize was possible. The drunken caravan down the way has taken to impersonating Freddie Mercury, singing something about “flying away.” Must be the P-Town crowd. Despite my perturbed snort, I allow a smile to melt my cheeks, eyes giving a habitual roll. I’m drawn to the scene while my tendons reanimate. The fire’s tendrils roll into the inky sky like a scarlet-draped belly dancer, blazing, unapologetic, and free. “Hey.” Of the three friends by the fire, the androgynous one with a shaggy bob speaks first. “Oh. Sorry,” I blurt, “I didn’t realize where I was going. I’ll be on my way.” “No, you’re fine,” says a skinny boy with brown locks, his tattooed arm sprawled over a guitar. “What brings you here this late?” “And why do you look so sad?” The third voice belongs to a girl with caramel skin and a mournful face. Her white Gunne Sax dress shimmers in the flickering light. “Bad day,” I mutter, preferring to keep as tight-lipped as possible. With that said, I can’t look away from the musician’s mossy stare. “I’ll bet. Was that your mom here earlier?” “Yeah.” “Figures. She looked upset.”

“Why do you care? You don’t even know me.” “Don’t need to. It’s all the same. People get caught up in their expectations. It just doesn’t work that way...” “I know. The problem is I get where she’s coming from. She had a hard time and what kept her going was a simple idea of what would fulfill her. I broke her heart.” “Doesn’t seem that simple,” the Gunne Sax model says. “Her dream required the submission of a vibrant soul.” My face sours. “God, you’re making me wish you guys were my parents.” “It’s all luck, dude.” The guitarist begins strumming C major, lost in his own little world. “You’re worthy of the good stuff whether or not you get it.” “Thanks. I mean it.” I punctuate our exchange with a curt smile and a sigh. I turn to make my escape, when a new voice, raspy with disuse, calls after me. “Don’t listen to these two idiots.” I grant them a sharp exhale, still lacking the heart for a laugh. Gunne Sax Girl slaps her arm and turns to me, earnest eyes shining. “For real, though, she’ll come around. More importantly, you will too.” My naked feet pad along the still-warm asphalt, headed toward my uncle’s house. A calamitous flower bed indicates that this crushed-shell driveway is indeed his, so I step along the mugwort and starflowers. Crisp shards of seashells jab into my pale feet, ripping through calluses as though they were rotting cocoons, done protecting the rosy larvae underneath. The home’s periwinkle shutters swing in the breeze, ancient eyes blinking languidly. I loudly gulp the lukewarm New England air. There she sits, my mother, perched in a rocker, next to two steaming cups of tea.

Diversity by Katie Jeong

utside

Thick thighs stacked, her long legs most respectfully crossed Hands cradle a glass in her lap while relaxed arms connect to squared shoulders

Her back is straighter than her hair will ever be If you measured, you’d probably find that her spine is perpendicular to the chair The chair which has been graced with her God-given fullness And by His great compromise, her chest isn’t much but it’s agreeable enough He added ample melanin to warm a cold winter night, to complement a sunset, to embody luxury

by Lauren Hill

A tornado wouldn’t be sufficient to tip her crown Every curl in place spiraling together to adorn her aura Besides black lines on her eyelids, emphasizing her eyes, and color painted on, accentuating her full lips, her face is otherwise bare of false features Displaying true self-contempt, her polite smile of enjoyment hides her teeth until a familiar face passes or a joke is shared

Silhouette by Emily Chopra

To occupy less space, I fold myself by crossing my legs I clutch the glass for dear life while resetting my upper body to appear relaxed Then I straighten my back to regain my composure If you measured, you’d probably find that my breath is shallower than my facade I burden the seat I’ve taken with the weight of my thoughts And by His great power my chest hasn’t collapsed under the copious pressure He’s allowed enough troubles to fuel an anxiety attack, to keep me on edge, to personify calamity

A tornado can’t compare to my mind Every thought out of place, spiraling out of control to feed my uneasiness I drew on my face to exaggerate my features in hopes that it would distract from my face baring false expressions Displaying what I think true self-contempt would look like, my small smile of effort hides my thoughts until a familiar face recognizes me or a knowing look is shared

Colophon All art and writing was contributed by McLean High School students. The Tartan was printed by Printing Center USA, and 300 copies were distributed to the student body and faculty free of charge. Pre-press was completed by the magazine staff using Adobe InDesign and Photoshop CC. Titles, author credits, and artist credits are in Lucida Sans. Copy is in Sitka.

Selection Policy The Tartan literary magazine is a public forum for student expression that accepts literary and artistic work from all McLean High School students. Each piece is reviewed by the Tartan staff and evaluated on its individual merit. Students may submit their work in person, via Google Form, or through the clubâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s email: tartanmagazine@gmail.com

The Fisherman by Libby Eick