FLASH Spring 2022 The blake school literary and visual arts magazine minneapolis, mn
Editors-In-Chief Betsy Fries Frederick Leow Zoë Nutsford maia SchifmaN Clare WagneR
Faculty Advisor Elizabeth FlInsch
Editing Staff kelly Dayton ZELLIE OLSON ALEXA HATCHER Anika Rodriguez RYKER KEMBERLING ELLIE SCHIFMAN SONIA LERNER EVA STEGIC
Table of contents 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9/10 11-13 14 15 16 17 18 19 20 21 22 23 24
False Perfection by Alexa Hatcher Vase, Tea bowl By TObin Spiller Spectacles by Julia Zhang yoshimi, They Don’t Believe Me by Eva Stegic Profile by Lauren Mohan A Phenomenon Called Phosphene By Rossalyn Moore Let It Snow By Alexa Hatcher You’re So Much Prettier Than Your Friends By Carly Shoemate A Cherry On A Spoon By Rabi Michael-Crushshon Trinkets And Troubles By Creative Writing Club Mirror Selfie By Lauren Mohan L’epicerie De Ginette By Eva Stegic Reflections ON France By Eva Stegic 3 Cheese By Tobin Spiller Foggy Parking By Zac Gartner Welch’s By Maia Schifman Off the Coast of Cape cod By Mitchell Canfield Britney The Beta By Alexa Hatcher Kevin The Kingfisher By Alexa Hatcher There Is no ONe coming by Sonia Lerner A December Night By Naima Michael-Crushshon
Table of contents 25 26 27 28 29/30 31-33 34 35 36 37/38 39 40 41 42 43 44 45 46 47 48
House Plant #1 By Eva Stegic House Plant #2, House Plant #3 By Eva Stegic Floaty Bunny By lauren Mohan On Suicide, Entanglement, and Butterflies by Zoë Nutsford & Ishan Khurana Emulation of Stuart Davis, Zoë Nutsford, Frank, Individualism By Cece Dobbertin Obituary By Nico Valiente The Plant and Her two sides of the sun by Zoë Nutsford & Ishan Khurana Late Night Drives by Genevieve Gellerman Melody by Cece Dobbertin Adam Vs Entropy By maia Schifman Nora with Horse By Molly liston Nora in Hand by Molly liston Lounging by Julia Zhang Folding the Laundry By Sonia lerner Sisterly Love by Alexa Hatcher Odyssey By Eva Stegic Giraffe By Ellie Schifman Save the Rainforest! By Maia Schifman A Vista Da LisBoa Perfeita By Sage Marmet Reflections On Costa Rica by Frederick Loew
49 50 51 52 53 54 55 56 57 58 59 60 61 62 63 64 65/66
my houseplant from another dimension by cece dobbertin What I’ve Been Thinking Lately By Sonia Lerner Cold Fried Chicken By Frederick Loew Green Paint by Eva Stegic FLowres by Julia Zhang Susan by Cece Dobbertin Chilly Squirrel by Carver Wambold Mushrooms By Ellie Schifman Frida in her Natural state by Eva Stegic Meredith By Frederick Loew Conch Shell by Maia Schifman “Don’t Tell Me Things Can’t Change” By Maia Schifman The Perks of Being by Carly Shoemate Shadows on the wall by Zoë Nutsford Goat by CHizo Nwokocha Monkeys by Chizo Nwokocha Neon Lights by Julia Zhang
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False Perfection | Alexa Hatcher
Vase | Tobin Spiller
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Tea-Bowl | Tobin Spiller
spectacles | julia zhang 3
yoshimi, they don’t believe me | eva stegic
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Profile |LAUREN MOHAN
A Phenomenon Called Phosphene |Rossalyn Moore
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Let it snow | alexa hatcher
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You’re So Much Prettier Than Your Friends Carly Shoemate 8
spectacles | julia zhang 9
A Cherry on a Spoon |Rabi Michael-Crushshon
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Trinkets and Troubles
Creative Writing Club
The reflection of the sunlight displays the features of a coin. The coin consists of an indistinguishable president, as well as the date “2008.” The coin didn’t spark something within me, so I chuck it across the crackled-cement street. I tug up my overalls carefully ensuring that my ripped right suspender wouldn’t snap. The coin was not worthy of being a trinket of mine. I collected trinkets that were a variety of colors and shapes, each pixelating a unique mosaic. Every trinket harkens back a specific memory, idea, emotion, or feeling. Unzipping my bag, I look upon the single trinket from today, a single metal hairpin lined with repetitive pictures of Clifford the big red dog, reminding me of the moments of childhood. I skip across the sidewalk -- one step into the first square, two into the following one, repeat. The stomps vibrate through my body, delivering a soothing satisfaction to my prefrontal cortex. My watch reads 5:56. Now running, I place one foot into every other cement square. The similar noises of the block now travel across my ear: the insistent hum of each individual AC unit, the voracious bark of Mr. Colfax’s Bulldog, and the filtration of the wisping wind through the many maple trees. I am at my house. Gradually, I walk across the sidewalk squares which contain an amalgamation of minerals, agates, and simple sedimentary rocks - some of which I have unearthed to add to my collection. With rhythmic leaps up the round edge-stairs, my feet stall upon the obtusely fitted door frame. “Maybe I could unhinge the screws and place this door frame into my collection.” My brain stutters, “But could it fit? Maybe not, but doors are obstacles anyway.” Perplexed by the impromptu thought experiment I veer away from the hypothetical and shove the unorthodox door open. On the inside of the door lies an
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unusual keyhole. Stepping inside, an invisible damp cloak similar to chainmill layers me. Any possible scent becomes ephemeral to the nose. The warped wooden clock reads 6:00. As my legs hop over two stairs at a time I listen to the “click” of my joints at the precipice of each upward step. Upon reaching the top I go to the white medical cabinet that has most obviously been painted over multiple times. Inside the cabinet door were various unspecific jars and generic white bottles with miniscule text. I grab the bottle titled: “Treatment for Motusinordinatio.” Under the title reads the subtext, “Swallow at the necessary time slots.” and “Dole out necessary colors depending on patients’ hereditary emotion-loss (sadness, happiness or anger).” The disease was exclusive to my family, but I have not experienced its symptoms. I move towards the nearby white door which pours out an inky shadow. I twist the doorknob. Across the room a figure is splayed upon the intricately carved gothic bed frame. A viewer would see a phantom figure. For me the figure was a callous, harsh, and unconcerned man. A man that is my father. An angry father. I give two pills to my father ensuring that they match the corresponding deficiency: blue and yellow. He asks gruffly, What about the red pills? “I wouldn’t want you to overdose.” I respond harshly. He swallows the pills. Looking at me blankly, his eyebrows beginning to furrow,“Whathave you been stalling for? I need my pills at 6:00! You must have been playing around with those dumb trinkets!” This routine of berations seemed almost elementary to me, repeating at a daily interval. The noises stop and suddenly my father asks, “Where is your mother?” Where is your mother? How would I know? He never mentions her. I rush towards my room, and open the bottom drawer of my navy blue “trinket” cabinet. I look inside: an aged multicolored leaf from last fall, a cardinal stamp de-
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picting an old letter, and a bloodied Looney Toons band-aid. The mere glance upon these images releases a sudden pulse, sudden spontaneous memories, thoughts, and feelings that seemed to fuel my emotions. Finally, I rest my eyes upon a bronze key. Fragmented images flow through my head, my brain billowing with sudden, but also intermittent signals and sensations which lasp into my mind. My mind grasps one of the many images. I remember, I remember her warm smile beaming towards me. Taking the key into my hands I skip down the stairs unable to recognize the rhythmic movement of as I did before. Locking my eyes upon the inward keyhole of the front door I fit the key into the lock. And rotate...The door falls outwards. From the top of the door crack twenty locks all connected by a spool clacker onto the doorway entrance. All locked by her. My mom. Each lock had the same key pattern, the key I hold, she held. The moment clicked in my head. I have used a different treatment for the same disease. Trinkets. Mom locked away her anger. My dad swallows his happiness and sadness by taking pills. My nose seemed to unplug as different aromatic smells sifted into the house. Smells of the maple leaves, the bustling Thai restaurant down the street, and the differing flowers from neighbor’s yards waft into the house. Stumbling up the stairs I move towards my cabinet of trinkets and begin draining each particular drawer of its trinkets, stacking the trinkets into a misshapen pile. I jaunt down the stars and begin filling the edges of the door with the various colorful, intricate trinkets. I fix the door back into place. Emotions and memories pixelate my mind and thoughts. They’re colorful, joyful, painful, but most importantly natural. I walk up the stairs and into the room where my dad lays. I place the key into his hands. A tear rolls down his eye as a gentle smile appears across his face. “I remember now, I remember her now,” he whispers.
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Mirror Selfie | Lauren Mohan
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l’epicerie de ginette | Eva Stegic
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Reflections on France | Eva Stegic
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untitled|Tobin Spiller
Foggy Parking | Zac gartner
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Welch’s Maia Schifman
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Off the COast of Cape Cod
Mitchell Canfield
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Britney the Beta Alexa hatcher
Kevin the Kingfisher Alexa hatcher
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There is no one coming Sonia Lerner
there is no one coming there is no purpose in waiting it is known – this bluntness and i am sorry but the inevitability of misfortune will not be greeted by costless pardon– mountains are dug as often as they are built and i will learn to build my own no matter who has made it necessary 11/10/2021
A december night | Naima Michael-crushshon
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Eva Stegic (opposite) House PLant #1 (Left House Plant #2 (Below) House Plant #3
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On Suicide, Engtanglement, and butterflies
Zoë Nutsford And Ishan khurana
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zoë nutsford Emulation of stuart davis
by Cece dobbertin 29
frank
individualism 30
obituary nico valiente I know myself well but you know me better Than I think you do I often find myself in a state of non-being Where the laws of time are obsolete and Where I know my “true worth.” I’m planted atop a grand foolishness, Surveying the plateau of fate. I know myself well but you know me better Than I think you do Strands of my hair wrap around the sun While I drink the bees you gave me, I lose myself in a sort of evanescent dream Infinitely flirting with temperate solitude, And while the daily train passes lifting family and Peers across the river basin I’m confronted: I’m not sure why I stayed. I know myself well but you know me better Than I think you do
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Reminiscence is my worst enemy, It stares me down searching for a vice In the chains that bind me to the ground. I’d remember your name in the books Of a psychotic slumber and maybe I’d stay For the lust of a whimpering joy. But for now, while the sirens begin And the coriander blossoms from an Overbearing frost: my pockets are full And I’m the one who’s wrong. I know myself well but you know me better Than I think you do June is a strange time for a shower So why do I feel drops re-emerge from my skin As the tambourines play from the sound of singing Fawn & stoic dream & silk & gold And I know my worth. I know myself well but you know me better Than I think you do This is my final thought don’t worry,
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obituary (continued) nico valiente Because I know how it bothers you so. I know myself well because I’ve sold The mixed realities and un-realities of and about Your loose knots (which have no grasp on me) Becoming lost and muddy, why did I stay? I shrink at the thought of vengeful nightmares And a nostalgic/colloquial past. Obviously I lay in the wood knowing my solace, But all the meanwhile: I know myself well but you know me better Than I think you do.
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the plant and her two sides of the sun
zoë nutsford & ishan khurana 34
Late night Drives | Genevieve Gellerman
35
Melody | Cece dobbertin
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Adam vs EntropY
MAIA Schifman
Nora with horse Molly Liston 39
Nora in Hand Molly Liston
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lounging|julia zhang
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folding the laundry sonia lerner i love doing the laundry folding the laundry because at some point some amount of time ago i never folded the laundry because i didn’t see a reason to fold the laundry-and now when i do the laundry i am reminded that i am able to do more than i did at one point a while ago; 11/2/2021
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Sisterly Love | Alexa Hatcher
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Odyssey | Eva Stegic
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giraffe | Ellie Schifman
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save the rainforest!|Maia Schifman
A Vista da Lisboa Perfeita
Sage Marmet 47
RefleCtions on Costa Rica | FREDERICK LOEW
It’s all blurry | Bernadette Whitley
What I’ve Been Thinking Lately Sonia Lerner so often are we consumed by the telescoping eye of our created reality. so rawwrely are we let go into the world by ourselves, left to flourish in the depths of our existence, our earth, and our companions. if only these weights bared the same, would we be able to have quality and worthwhile reason for our actions.
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Cold fried chicken | Frederick Loew
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Green Paint | Eva Stegic
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Flowers | Julia Zhang
Susan | Cece Dobbertin
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Chilly Squirrel | Carver Wambold
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Mushrooms | ELlie Schifman
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Frida In her Natural State | Eva Stegic
Meredith | Frederick Loew 58
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Conch shell | Maia schifman
Maia schifman
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The Perks of Being | Carly Shoemate
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Shadows on the Wall zoë nutsford
Isolated from the outside world I sit in silence ruminating The empty crowds into the abyss Loneliness pushing my mind past a familiar threshold The pit in my stomach constantly getting bigger I push my friends away Remote from the world I am at peace But solace has its caveats The presence lingers in the corner
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Goat | Chizo Nwokocha
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Monkeys | Chizo Nwokocha 64
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Neon Lights | Julia ZHang
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