Agathon 2024

Agathon: definition, as in greek for “Good”

The Agathon is The Barstow School’s literary and arts magazine. First published in 1966, the magazine comprises a year-end review of student work in short form writing (short stories and poems) and visual art (sculpture, pottery, drawing, painting, and photography.) Compiled from the 2023-2024 academic year, the 58th edition of The Agathon showcases the works of students from Kindergarten to 12th grade. This is the first printed edition in over a decade and could not have been possible without the support of Ralph Myers at Mpress.

Thank you for giving us this opportunity.

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Dear readers,

It takes a village: 56 student contributors, 7 Agathon staff, 1 Mr. Holmes, innumerable Barstow faculty, support from the President of the Barstow School, and our publisher, Ralph Myers. A year of dedication and hard work has culminated in the first print edition of the Agathon in over a decade. We are so thankful for this opportunity.

We have had the utmost pleasure and privilege of seeing our vision actualized in a magazine reflecting The Barstow School’s diverse and talented creative minds, but most of all we have been honored in getting to know our community. The people of Barstow. The individuals who have made this year’s publication possible.

Our student contributors have offered us their artistic voices with intention, passion and trust. Whether in prose or paint, voice is power—power with which all change is possible. We are all the more grateful to share these voices with you with the hope and confidence that the people behind them will choose to use their voices here and beyond to effect change—in service to others and to the world.

From the staff who have worked compiling, designing and editing this magazine, a sincere thank you to our readers, contributors, and publishers for supporting the creation of the 58th edition of Barstow’s Literary and Arts Magazine: The Agathon.

Enjoy!

-Agathon Editors & Staff

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The Waves

by Ava Adams-Huang

A symphony amongst nature

Controlled by the moon

The push and pull

The dance of nature

A waltz in a whirlpool a hidden orchestra on earth it all comes and goes everything comes in waves they crash in my head they crash in others swishing amongst my brain and theirs thrashing about we all see the moon

and we all see the waves we all know the calm and chaotic we all know the waves that carry the sea and we all know the waves that live in our brain we all know waves. we all know.

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CeramicBowlbyAlexandra Huynh

Come Back by Cole

Mueller

When I shatter the cold and fragile air

I discover a chasm between you and my idea Of you

But I return again

And again

A fool to the sticky sweet trap Of your indulgence

You reel me in

I grab on

Another scale wiggles loose

And I persist

The hook pierces my soul

Another wound on my trust

But I push it away

You yank out the line and Recount the cold floor

The tile trap and The impossibility of crossing it

But you forget your strength

You forget they are not your enemies

You forget they have no bearing on you

You tell me of the back and forth

The pendulum that looms over your life

You tell me it doesn’t matter

That it’ll be fine

Because it’s Always Fine

Nothing’s wrong.

I’ll be ok.

Why are you worried? Stop that.

Wanna get ice cream?

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Art by James Knoflicek

Autumn Breezes

by Joseph Giocondo

I walk through the woods.

Early fall wind swims through the foliage, washing away the heat of summer.

Leaves are changing, like a chameleon, adapting to the new season.

A wild crane honks, he is the vigil of the wild. He is poised for his cold weather migration to the south.

A frantically foraging fox burrows into the previously sun-scorched earth, searching for berries under the ground.

All is tranquil and beautiful, a majestic waterside paradise. Time does not always move in straight lines. The ground is frozen over.

I shiver, for the air is freezing. It is winter.

That majestic crane is long gone, away in the south for the cold season. The fox, vanished, probably in a hole under the ground. Most branches are bare, their leaves are trampled and withered on the frosted land.

All traces of fall have disappeared.

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“

Dusk”byLilly

Kennedy Gregg

The Watch Figure

by Dorothy Buckner

In the dead of night, when shadows loom, I feel it watching me, in my room. A presence cold, a whisper near, Sending shivers down my spine, I fear. It lurks in corners, unseen by day, A silent predator, ready to prey. Its eyes, like coals, burning bright,

Haunting my dreams throughout the night. I dare not speak its name aloud, For fear it'll come dark and proud. But in the darkness, it beckons me near, A chilling embrace, filling me with fear.

I pray for morning's light to come, To chase away this terror, numb. But until then, I'm trapped in its grasp, A prisoner to its sinister rasp.

“All Hallows Eve”

by Helton Walker

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Mirror of History

by Kat Somogie

When did it start?

Although I ought to ask,

When will it end?

If the party stops

When will they

If they should

If you can’t hear them

When they shout Can you run?

Canyourun?

Whentheyshout

Ifyoucan’thearthem

Iftheyshould

Whenwillthey Ifthepartystops

Whenwillitend?

AlthoughIoughttoask, Whendiditstart?

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~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

PhotobyJoelSiegel

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Ceramic Disks by Rian Jacobs

Vantage Point

By Rachel Jacobs

Fribbling, trotting, In circles abounding, Our smidgens of forms

Are so dear, yet so far.

We click and we squabble, Enwrangled, surrounding, By godlies, by froundies, By tresses of star.

They drift and they float

And they sweep up the foundlings, Who live in their castles, Their dreamy memoir.

They follow, they peer at We short-sighting groundlings, And ‘member it all In their mountains on par.

When angry, we quarrel, With teeth, steam abounding, When they do, they weep, As they know what we are.

We’re boorish, we’re legged, We’re scraggle-pip-thounding, We’re dirty and little and thoughtless, wind-scarred.

They weep and they roar, Erupt, all propounding, They do so as schedule

Makes bare who they bar.

For us, we’re the peasants, scavenging, scarounging, And them all the kings, and the chiefs And the tsars.

We imagine a vastly Built ever so rounding, For us in the center, The jam in the jar.

Truly? It’s facting?

We shriek, throbbing, pounding,

For deep’st we know’st

Our knowledge off par.

The clouds, are our windows, From here to the bounding, Old boundary of here

To the great world their from,

The clouds are our windows, From here to the bounding, Old boundary of here

To the great world to come.

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Little bottle cap by Loch Beagle

Little bottle cap sitting on the sidewalk

Dust coated and mud caked

Kicked to the side and discarded

Edge fluting falling out of alignment

Little bottle cap flipped over in the dirt

The rain washes out the mud

A chipped flower painted on the inside

Forever condemned to the side of the road

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Art by Bella Paul

Fish to bird

by Gavin Vissers

Fish, Scaly, Colorful Swimming, Jumping, Eating

Sushi, Water, Egg, Nest

Flying, Screeching, nesting, Feathery, Singing, Bird

Art by Nora Thurman

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“The Royal Pair” by Phoebe Martin

Mountain Poem

by Ezra Jacobs

Deep, shifting shades of blue, Hidden behind veils of shadows.

Bright, painful aura of light coming off of the snow. Sharp, jagged rock face. A mountain, strong and tall, With a cappuccino.

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Art by Leilani Galles

The God Called Dream: by Dillon Dixon

What is this God called Dream?

This God called Dream who fuels our ambitions Through adversity Through flames

Gives hope and goals

What is this God called Dream?

Rarely appearing in sleep

Yet ever present when awake

The God we sow whose rewards we reap

What is this God called Dream?

Is it some law to which we abide?

Or an idea that, for some, starts to subside?

What is this God called Dream?

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Art by Leili Deshmukh

Memories

by Shria Malay

In the corners of my mind, dust gathers, Settling softly on the forgotten frames

Of photographs, relics of another time.

Each speck a memory, a fragment of the past, Whispering stories of laughter and tears, Anger and joy, like they almost feel real.

But these memories won’t stay forever.

I trace my finger over the faded faces of the past, Frozen in time, yet so alive I feel their presence.

Their smiles like echoes, lingering in the air.

Each photograph a portal, a window to the past, An escape from the everyday world.

Hand-Forged

Metal Rose by Sean Holmes

Other Side of the Glass

by Charlotte Turner

Sometimes I wonder

If the parakeets in the petco

Know there’s more than just wood chips and glass.

I wonder if they look past the isles of dog food

And see a pigeon staring in.

Sometimes I wonder

If the pigeon outside the petco

Knows there’s more than just asphalt and telephone poles.

I wonder if they look into the petco

And see a parakeet staring out.

Sometimes I wonder

If they look at each other

Through the doors

And wonder if it’s better

On the other side of the glass.

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Art by Wilson Estling

Anatomy of a Centipede

by Finn Waymire

cherries on top of the vanilla scoop sprinkles falling down Down down

waffle cones breaking in small hands mounds of banana and rocky road cookies and cream birthday cake and cereal milk peppermint chocolate and ghost pepper blueberry and Pet Bird rust and centipede legs of rust and an exoskeleton forged from the cries of the damned welded with the Virgin Flames of greece the pendulum sways back forth back forth

the gong Echos and the isochronism begins again bird eats Chilopoda Scolopendromorpha rat eats bird hawk eats Rat mouse eats hawk

Scolopendra eats mouse in amaranthine succession cherries on the whipped cream of a milkshake straws held by small hands sprinkles falling down Down down

Art by Vanessa Qiu

The Beauty of Nature

by Daniel Wang

In fields of green, the sun portrays a gleam, Birds sing songs, harmonizing a joyful stream Flowers bloom in colors so bright, A gift of nature's delight

Underneath a sky so vast, We find the beauty that forever lasts.

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Spike by Gia Khan

Hands together

Feet planted

Pass it forward

Hands up

Feet planted

Push, push, push!

Up, up, up!

The ball soars as high as a kite

The round ball sees the ceiling

It ﬂies to the perfect spot in the air

All eyes fall on the ball

A head quickly turns to it

Two special eyes lock onto the ball

Run, run!

Squeak! Two special feet stop in a hurry

Bend down, down, down

A perfect, powerful, pretty jump is what everyone sees

With an arched back, a hand ﬂies back SMACK!

The ball was hit

Dive, dive, dive!

It was too late

The ball slams right on the ﬂoor over the net

That caterpillar has turned into a beautiful butterﬂy

For that spike was perfect.

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Art by Trevor Trieu

Capitalism

by Noora Fatima

I work how many days a week, For you, my dears, but the paycheck reeks, Of crushed souls and broken hearts, Namely mine, just to add to cart.

I have no money, Someone help, I am not talented like Michael Phelps. I live off trinkets, my loves I adore I am a crow, feed me some corn.

Useless or not, my eyes still sparkle, Now show me the price tag, what a debacle! I am broke and tired, I have but two dimes. It seems better now to commit monetary crimes.

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Art by Gabe Chanos

My Glorious Verbs

by Joel Siegel

To be or not to be, That is the question. Shakespeare can do it, So why can’t I?

Who gets to decide whether, Tis nobler in the mind to suffer Or not?

At the end of the day, We must be bellwethers amongst Hoi polloi, and use most pulchritudinous verbiage. *Sung

They are am, is, are, was, were, being, been, and be

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Art by Tasso Kalliris

Ophelia women of genteel manners

A maiden who died in those deep waters. Hamlet, your love, treated you unjustly. You went crazy for their lack of respect but died a death fitting your serenity.

Sweet Ophelia, with innocence given, you were a rare beauty, even in demise. Ophelia, even after your solemn death, we mourn. Your memory lives in a mellifluous dance.

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Art by Harlow Graham

Night Sky

When I look up at the sky, every night

I cry, looking at the spectacular sight.

To my delight, the spots in the sky dance, Never fight.

They move and sing, enough to put me in a trance.

Specks in the sky deserve more than just a glance.

They compose and create together, for each other they enhance.

Makes my heart flutter like a feather.

I stay on the ground tethered. Wishing to be there forever.

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Art by Liam Groden by Aditya Rastogi

Sunrise gives way to

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Eyes of Spring Haiku by Robert Waldeck Day, flowers bloom with new hues. Clouds turn into spring. CeramicBowl by Meera Al-Rajabi

The Library

by Mateo Rose

That incredible feeling walking in Where nobody is talking in Reading a book

Hidden in a nook

Just enjoying herself

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Art by Lasya Maganti Meadow by Alec Seidel

Thousands of tiny bells

What do they wilt for?

What do they weep for?

Why they droop I’ll never know.

They say blue but they don’t look so

They look purple.

Maybe they’re blue on the inside. Maybe that’s why they look sad.

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Ceramic Bowl by Max Moore

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Ceramic Pieces by Sydney Georgie

A Dream’s Antonym

by Duha Azaz

The girl sat on a bench

Dreaming of her home and ice cream cones

Bliss surrounded her imaginary world like a Glass orb. Shattered. The ice cream melted, her home swept away in the wind.

Ring ring

Her phone

chanted in its persistent tone

Snapping her back to Her seemingly desolate

Un-dream.

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Art by Abby Cardarella

My Many Moods

By Charli Williams

On blue days, I am feeling serene like a preschooler taking a nap right after a kooky day of school. It is just what you need to make your school day complete. It is just what you need. On blue days taking naps are on your to do list. When blue days are here, it is just what you need.

On yellow days, I am feeling upbeat like a youngster going to the zoo on a hot summer day. When yellow days come it just feels like you need to have the sun beating down on you. On yellow days you need to do just what is right for you and not for anyone else. On yellow days doing what is right for you is just what you need to do. When yellow days drive into my mind it feels like I can do anything.

On orange days, I am feeling sprightly like a cheetah hunting his prey. I am feeling powerful. Like the king of the jungle. On orange days being in charge is just what you need. When orange colored days come around you feel like you could reach up and touch the sky.

On coral days, I am feeling affection like a newborn puppy just coming home. When coral days come around you feel like a superhero. Coral days seem to make you feel unstoppable. On coral days you know whatever you need someone will be there for you. When I feel a coral day coming I jump out of bed and paint a smile on my face.

On purple days, I am feeling melancholy like a child when they gazed their knee. When you feel like you cannot do anything. On purple days there is no way to get you out of your mournful mood. When a purple day comes around you want just howl all day long. With purple days coming along you just need to see a loyal face all day long.

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Ceramic Pot by Avalee Flores Ceramic Piece by Ali Wood Ceramic Piece by Katherine Cheung

Military Time by Dawood Qadeer

for our product’s deployment.

I’ll follow up later, I won’t let deals pass me by, but it’s 13 at the moment and I work a nine-to-five.

Steven can you cancel my three-o-clock appointment?

I’ve had 20 meetings today and I find it’s quite annoying. I look out of my televised windows and wonder if she still remembers me?

How much do my kids know?

When climbing the corporate ladder, when you reach the top, there’s nowhere else to go and so it’s still a dead-end job.

Steven can you honor me when I pass away?

My back, it’s really hurting and it’s worsening every day. I’m going out into the real world because this isn’t working.

Where they call it conversation instead of more networking. Where it’s not tactical suicide to not know what you’re doing.

To see what I’ve spent my entire life accruing.

Steven when I leave you

I hope you’ll be alright, because I’m only working a single tonight.

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Snowfall

by Elliott Osman

As the first snowflakes fall,

All with their own unique, intricate designs, Landing on the green planes

The snow increases, covering the grass.

Within homes snowmen, snow angels, and snowballs are created

As the town’s people erupt into games and fun.

The first snow they have seen in years

The show continued until dusk, covering the previously plowed roads.

As night turns to day the ground becomes wet, What was once a lush show filled neighborhood

Is ridden with gloomy puddles and patches of mud.

As quickly as it started it has ended. Nothing but silence filled the town

The only remembrance of the day is leftover sticks and buttons

Of the disappeared snowman.

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Art by Lucas Shustek

Art by Sylvia Bittel

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Art by Rowan Platt

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Agathon 2024

Table of Contents

The Waves

Autumn Breezes

The Watch Figure

Mirror of History

Little bottle cap by Loch Beagle

Mountain Poem

The God Called Dream: by Dillon Dixon

Memories

Hand-Forged

Other Side of the Glass

Anatomy of a Centipede

The Beauty of Nature

Capitalism

My Glorious Verbs

Night Sky

The Library

A Dream’s Antonym

My Many Moods

Snowfall