2017 Literary Magazine by The Eyrie

human nature. {n}

The explosive, elusive, uncorrupted state of mankind that stands at the crosshairs of countless studies, philosophies, and doctrines. After centuries of debate, the true nature of humanity remains unresolved, and the same universal questions that were introduced centuries ago persist: are humans born with an inclination to love? to hate? Perhaps art, a form of expression that transcends the concrete realities of time and matter to explore another realm entirely, offers an answer: humans nature is neither to love nor to hate. Rather, human nature is to create. In this edition of Eden Prairie High Schoolâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s literary magazine, we aim to display human nature unfettered and unspoiled. -Lit Mag Team

Table of Contents

Photo by Clara Bartnik, senior

Photo by Matt Nash, senior

Poem by Noah Pettit, sophomore

Poem by Emilee Jacobson, senior

Poem by Jason Sandeen, science teacher

Poem by Eliza Nebeker, freshman

Photo by Grace Porter, junior

Photo by Ally Cottrell, senior

Poem by Aisha Mahamud, sophomore

Drawing by Rachel Johnson, senior

Poem by Rolf Olson, English teacher

Painting by Allison Nguyen, junior

Photo by Clara Bartnik, senior

Short story by Sydney Lewis, freshman

Short story by Joanna Besselievre, freshman

Poem by Sumeya Aidrus, sophomore

Drawing by Shruti Somasundaram, sophomore

Poem by Tala Alfoqaha, senior

Poem by Gaurav Basnet, junior

Drawing by Julia Eldridge, freshman

Painting by Tatum Gunderson, sophomore

Poem by Rolf Olson, English teacher

Photo by Grace Porter, junior

Photo by Dominic Kirkpatrick, English teacher

Poem by Kate Stager, senior

Drawing by Annika Peterson, senior

Photo by Anika Pai, junior

Short story by Davey Rivers, senior

Poem by Di’Vada Ka’Mia Wilson, sophomore

Photo by Lalyn Yu, junior

Photo by Anika Pai, junior

Poem by Nia Colebrook, senior

Short story by Ally Cottrell, senior

Photo by Clara Bartnik, senior

Poem by Charlotte A.J., freshman

Poem by Bob Thibodo, paraprofessional

Photo by Jenna Dykes, freshman

Painting by Colleen Schneider, child nutritionist

Short story by Robbie Breese, freshman

Poem by Noah Pettit, sophomore

Photo by Lalyn Yu, junior

Poem by Eliza Nebeker, freshman

Photo by Grace Porter, junior

Poem by Jake Anderson, senior

Photo by Emma Swanson, junior

Photo by Matt Nash, senior

Poem by Anna Larionova, sophomore

Poem by Sachidanand [Aviral] Pandey, senior

Poem by Avery Bartnik, sophomore

Photo by Grace Porter, junior

Poem by Gabrielle Knight, junior

Poem by Aisha Mahamud, sophomore

Photo by Roshina Mohamed Rafee, junior

Photo by Dominque Prince Points, senior

Cla ra Ba rtnik

4 4

Human Nature Noah Pettit To be occupied to the brim Yet expel so little of that which occupies The mind is the very reason we cry. Though comfort is scarce provided from it There is something to be said of The beauty in the act. A tear shed is but a story From the eye of one morose in mentality Yet ever hopeful of a cleared conscience, For to cleanse that which has been contaminated One must bring an end to such antagonism And reside in a world of tranquility prevailed.

Grace Porte r

Late Night Walk of the Dog

Jason Sandeen 6

Late night walk of the dog spring ground crisp underfoot silhouettes of trees abound in filtered light which attempts to cut through pitch black to little or no avail as images still stand as grotesque figures unresolved by the eye A friendly sight now emerges in the night soft wispy pine boughs with outstretched arms welcome me in to their sheltered places The wind now speaks as it cascades through needle-laden branches as opposed to before when it slapped my bare skin and howled in my ears Now, serenely it transports

me to other times and places where memories abound spring forth in my mind as a branch pushed upon then released as I sojourn through this thicket Pausing to consider memory impulses imparted, I wonder what is more desired the event memories evoke, or the remembering itself having now lived longer with more to remember Momentary mental wandering now abruptly ends Iâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;ve lost track of the dog seems he has his own wanderings to consider

Wallace’s Jest ‘Finite’ Rol f Olson

Certain parties are Provokable to some different emotion Maybe not even objectively accessible In the Work itself --who perilously, progressively lean Like something far away that means Him harm, like two clouds Moving back and forth like sentries Traumatically scarred. You proceed to mastery through plateaus And hatred of all the work Is part of the Work.

Nature’s ashes Aisha Mahamud Burnt orange leaves fall Crumbling into the ground Corpses of what they were

Cla ra Ba rtnik

Midnight Jordan Belliseme re

“Psst. Hey.” Lovino slept on. “Hey.” Something prodded his shoulder, and Lovino jolted awake. “Oh my God-- I’m awake! I swear! I’m awake!” He gasped as he scrambled up. “I’m protecting the Prince--” Hearing devilish snickering, he stopped and whipped around to see the Crown Prince standing behind him on his bedroom’s doorway, smirking at his previous panic. “Gilbert!” Lovino snapped. He immediately hushed his voice, as to make sure no one else woke up. “That wasn’t funny, I thought you were Antonio! He would’ve skinned me alive for sleeping!” “Then why were you sleeping?” Gilbert whispered back, grin still there. “And you and I both know that Antonio likes you too much to fire you. And he won’t be able to find another ‘personal bodyguard’ for me.” Lovino grumbled, fixing his red beret and smoothing his pink guard uniform. He then noticed Gilbert’s nightclothes, and his eyes narrowed. “Wait a minute…” Lovino glanced around the hallway suspiciously. Darkness shrouded the hallway, except for the occasional candle glowing with warm, dim light and muted, silvery light through the windows. “Is it still night?” “Yeah?” Gilbert replied, as if it was the most obvious thing in the world. “I can’t sleep, so I woke you up.” “So I could share your pains?” Lovino deadpanned, sliding down the wall and crossing his arms. “I might as well continue sleeping.” “But Lovi,” Gilbert sighed as he prodded Lovino in the shoulder again, “my brother would just complain, Father would also complain, and you’d murder me if I woke up your brother.” “I actually don’t care,” Lovino snapped back. He pulled his beret over his eyes. “Bother my idiot of a brother and make use of his duties as a Jack. Or? You know what?” Lovino removed the beret briefly to look Gilbert straight in the eye. “Go bother that future Queen of yours. Get to know him better.” He pulled back the beret. “Go.” Gilbert blew out an exasperated breath. “He’s too quiet though. I

don’t really like him.” He frowned. “Hey, don’t you think it’s kinda odd?” “Hmph.” “Queens, usually, are supposed to be girls and stuff. Why do I have to marry a guy?” “Because politics,” Lovino grumbled. “Jesus, Gil, I’m younger than you. You know more about this than I do.” “Okay, fine, I know that Hearts and Spades has had a rocky relationship over the years and they think that marrying me to some Spadian royalty is gonna help. But seriously, Lovi, why did they send over a guy? Why not a girl?” “Go to bed.” “But I can’t! Just talk with me, that’s all I ask.” Lovino stayed silent, determined to not say a word in the hopes to deter the Prince’s efforts. When Gilbert didn’t continue talking, Lovino smiled slyly to himself. Finally, some peace. He was close to sleep when his beret suddenly disappeared off his face. “Wh-- Hey!” Lovino yelped, feebly grabbing for his beret. The pale hand that grabbed it disappeared behind the door, and Lovino heard raucous laughter as he smacked against the closed door. “Give back my beret!” He mentally smacked himself when his voice almost rose to an uncomfortably loud volume. “And quiet down a bit!” He hissed through the cracks of the door. “Better come back and get it!” Gilbert quipped cheekily. Lovino grit his teeth. “I’m not allowed to go inside, you idiot! Protocol!” He snapped. He then glanced warily around him, suddenly aware of the possibility of people waking up to his and Gilbert’s arguing. “Gotta break some rules in life to get what you want, Lovi!” Lovino pursed his lips, weighing his options. All guards had to be in full uniform and look presentable in morning inspections, and all articles of clothing, from the beret to the boots, needed to be present. Even if Antonio was a bit lax on the rules, it still wasn’t the greatest idea to get on his bad side. But entering the Prince’s chambers was a big no-no to the guardsmen. Lovino would rather get an infraction from missing his beret than possibly losing his job by going in Gilbert’s bedroom.

With an exasperated sigh, Lovino turned around and leaned on the wall by the door, standing guard. He now regretted his choice to accept guarding the Prince at night; usually, that duty fell on some other guard. But that guard just happened to be sick, and Antonio asked if he could do it. The door opened up a crack. Lovino didn’t turn, instead frowning. “Lovi…” Gilbert muttered, opening the door a little wider. “Can we still talk?” Lovino grunted. Gilbert took that as a sign of approval and leaned against the doorframe of his bedchambers. “Hey… How come you became part of the royal guard?” Lovino turned, slightly curious as to where this was going. “What?” “I mean…” Gilbert shrugged. “I thought you would’ve done anything to escape royalty, what with your brother being taken away from your family because he happened to be ‘destined’ to be Jack. He was taken… How long ago?” “Six years,” Lovino muttered, picking at a thread on his uniform. “Six years ago.” “That must’ve sucked.” “Yeah,” Lovino agreed. He sighed, rubbing the back of his neck. “I don’t know. Really, I wanted to rescue my brother after he was taken away, but now…” He shrugged. “He likes being in the castle. Likes you, likes the other staff, likes serving royalty as a Jack. I’m just your bodyguard to be closer to him.” “Aww…” Gilbert lightly punched Lovino’s shoulder. “You actually do care about your brother.” “I’m also here for the money, so shut up,” Lovino retorted, but he couldn’t help the smile on his face. “And can I have my beret back?” Gilbert sighed dramatically, but he handed the beret back. Lovino snatched it and replaced it on his head. “Now are you ready to go to sleep?” Lovino sighed. He needed his own sleep, dang it. Gilbert rolled his eyes. “Maybe,” he muttered. “Night.” “Go to sleep.” Gilbert grinned, and then shut the door. Lovino slid to the floor. He still had no idea how late in the night it was, but that still didn’t excuse that he needed to go to sleep as well. Sliding the beret over his eyes once more, he fell asleep.

Shruti Somasunda ram

Galilei 9

The Moon Gaurav Basnet Little by little the moon comes out And I leave my warm bed to hear it shout, “I, master of the heavens, decree, the spectacular Sun has left me be to rule the world in her stead so all creatures must be off to bed!” I don my red coat and set off in the night The moon in its gentleness sheds a pale light The trees, mysterious, beautiful, sway in a breeze Sway to a music that comes to all with ease. I wander a countryside, the rest are in bed They sleep and they dream and they smile as they tread an ethereal trail with fairies in their head. I come across the mouth of a cave It swallows the night and deters the brave But even its secretive nature cannot hide The glint of an old world just inside

Tatum Gunde rson A mound of snow sheltered by the den Glittering brilliantly in the night when The moonshine causes white sparkles That would humble the most stoic of men. I walk this worn path into a grove And sit on a rock as nighttime creatures rove; A pair of yellow orbs passes me And ascends a tree with grand agility As invisible leaves flutter in the dim white light of the moon, A soft glow that filters through the treetops and gently alights on a loon Bobbing silently on a nearby pond The water around it shimmering like a star atop a silver wand. As I lie in the tall grass and look up at the sky I spy a sea of twinkling tears as if the sun were to cry In an empty void and fill it with points of light. I close my eyes and surrender to night

Lulled to dreams by the sound of feathery owls taking flight ‘Till a moonlight fairy whispers in my ear And sings a song about a twinkling tear. I wake to its music and follow its tune And stumble upon the leathery body of a man. His rags are wrapped tight about his body And his clothes are torn. His eyes are closed and his hair is unkempt He has a sad face. His lips are parched and his skin is rough Like sandpaper. His shoes are broken His body is broken He is broken and it is my fault. He was never smart or clever He could never make a friend He made mistakes He had questionable morals But he was my responsibility

Grace Porte r Not the moonâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s. And I cry as I realize that the moon will not help him. I cry as I realize the trees will not help him. The music, the dreams, the fairies, the sparkles, the yellow orbs, the leaves, the stars They will not help him. I walked a path and I saw beauty And this beauty did not help him. He is my responsibility Not the moonâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s. I lie down beside the man and keep him warm until dawn. A twinkling tear falls from above and lands on the grass.

I was fourteen when I was told that swearing wasn’t lady like. So I swore a little louder and made sure my voice was heard. I was fifteen when I was first told that dressing like a whore would get me the wrong kind of attention. So I wore my skirts a little shorter and my tops a little tighter. I told myself that I am NOT the problem. I was sixteen when a teacher told me to cover up because he could see my “shoulders”, while his eyes were on my chest, I was furious. Because the problem was not that I was wearing a dress, the problem was not the size of my tits, or how straight I sat up when I thought I looked like a goddess. The problem was that he, a 40 year old man, with a son and a wife was sexualzing a child, without her consent. Without MY consent. I was told that no boy would ever like me if I kept dying my hair and putting holes in my face. So I bleached my roots and changed my color.I became bolder, Louder, Angrier. I was made to believe that my job as a woman was to obey, and comply. My job as a wife and a daughter was to give, and hope that maybe, I was given something in return. Because ladies don’t ask. Ladies do not demand. They say, “yes sir, right away sir, anything else sir?” I am not a lady. I am a warrior. I am a fighter. I am a survivor. I was told by a stranger on the street that it was a shame I looked like such a dyke. So I chopped my hair a little shorter, and I held murder in my eyes As I walked down the street late at night, Because it doesn’t matter What I wear Or how I look Or who I am. I am the problem. Because I will not be silent and I will not be complacent in my own destruction. So please, Do not tell me I am a lady, because I never tried to be one.

Kate Stager

Without my Consent

Anika Pai

REMEMBER WHEN WE WOULD LAUGH AT EVERYTHING JOKED AROUND PLAYED AROUND BUT NEVER ADMITTED WE WERE IMMATURE TOO INSECURE MAYBE WE JUST DIDN'T CARE ABOUT HOW THEY SAW US OR MAYBE WE WERE JUST SO DEEP INTO THE FANTASIES OF BEING WITH EACH OTHER LETTING OURSELVES FOOL EACH OTHER INTO THINKING WE WERE HAPPY NUMBED AND BLISSED BY THE SYNTHETIC HAPPINESS OF OUR NIRVANA OUR MULTI DIMENSIONAL HIGH WE WERE ONLY MATTER IN SPACE TINY PARTICLES EASILY ERASED PLACED BY ELECTROMAGNETIVITY OUR LIVES OUR WORLD WERE BARELY IN EXISTENCE A THING CREATED IN OUR MINDS AND THEN I WOKE UP……………

Scream

Di’Vada Ka’Mia Wilson 13

Walter was a small boy of ten. His hair teetered on the edge between red and dirt brown, and his large ears were always visible beneath his choppy bowl cut. He didn’t have many friends, and none of them were close. Most of the time, he would stay in the corner and read during recess when the other children played outside. Ms. Kinde would often forget him there and turn off the lights, lock the door, and head off to lunch while Walter was still in the classroom. He didn’t mind it much, as it was quieter without all of the other children, but the shadows often turned to monsters, and some days he had to squeeze his eyes shut against the oppressive dark. It was on one of these days when Walter felt a tap on his shoulder. He ignored it, thinking it a figment of his imagination, a consequence of reading too many adventure stories with the pirates that were almost too nice not to be scary, but not quite. The tap came again. Walter stiffened, his breath quickening and snot slowly emerging from his trembling nose. “Open your eyes, you dingus.” Walter peeked one eye open, making a quick swipe at his nose with the end of his red sweater. A girl was in front of him, one he had never seen before. Her thick, black hair curled up around her chin, and her eyes were a muddy blue. She was crouching in front of him, her face about an inch from his. Walter shot backwards, and his head hit the spot where the walls met behind him. He sat rubbing his head and eyeing the girl with a look of doubt. His book lay askew and forgotten by his side, the pages crunched against the spotted carpet. The girl poked him again. Walter grunted. “Do you not talk or something?” Her voice was low and cutting, echoing around the empty classroom. Walter opened and closed his mouth a few times, his brain operating at a slow stumble. He settled at a timid, “No, I talk.” She frowned at him, her small lips pursing. “I’m Kate,” she said before standing. She looked him up and down before nodding. “I’ll see you tomorrow.” She, in her smiley-face print skirt, faded out of sight and out the door. The click resonated around the room. Walter sat for a few minutes before realizing how much his head hurt. He picked up his book and started straightening out the pages, one by one. The words melded together into a blob of ink squiggling across the page, pirates lost to Walter’s wandering mind. The door clicked again, and Walter jumped up, his head spinning. “Oh, Walter,” Ms. Kinde smiled and set her purse on her cluttered desk. “You’re back early,” she drifted off, her gaze sliding to her buzzing phone. She gave a small gasp before composing herself. Walter saw the words “DO NOT TEXT BACK” followed by things Walter had heard his parents utter when they thought he was sleeping, but never said to him directly. Ms. Kinde pressed the lock button and sat

down at her desk with a humph. Walter shuffled back to his desk, his mind fuzzy with disbelief. The rest of the day passed with regularity. The bus ride was slow, his homework was tedious, and his bed was warm. He was the first one in the classroom the next day. Ms. Kinde wandered in late, her eyes puffy and shirt on backwards. She tossed some worksheets onto one child’s desk before plopping down at her own and taking a nap. Walter stared at the clock. It ticked by at an infuriating pace, the space between each dash a mile and the second hand taking a nice leisurely walk. He had picked out one of his best sweaters, the blue one with the grey stripes. It was a little tight around the elbows. He had considered changing to his new t-shirt with the pirate on it, but he still wasn’t sure whether he liked that one or not. He didn’t think this was the day to try it out. Ms. Kinde jerked awake a little before lunchtime, standing up and leaving in a silent trudge. The children looked at each other in confusion before filing out of the room in their customary line, one by one. Walter sat upright at his desk. He aligned his feet next to each other, heel next to heel and toe next to toe. “Hi.” Walter startled. Kate sat down on the desk across from his. Not on the chair, but on the desk. She curled her fingers around its edges, crossed her legs, and rocked slightly back and forth. Dirt fell from the bottom of her shoes and splattered the surface of the desk in a spotted pattern. “You like stories, huh?” she said. Walter nodded his assent. “Do you wanna hear one?” Walter began to form his response in his mind, but Kate was already off and running. She closed her eyes and moved her hands as she talked, as if she was watching the story unfold on the backs of her eyelids and simply relaying the information through her hands. Her voice filled the room, but it did not echo. The walls hummed. “There once was a classroom much like this one. Actually, it was maybe even the same. This was a while ago, but I heard it from my brother. I’m not sure I believe him with most things, but I know this one’s true,” Kate nodded to herself. “Yeah, I know it for sure. In this classroom, there was a chair. It wasn’t a very noticeable chair. It looked rickety enough so nobody sat on it, but not so rickety that anybody would ever wanna test it out. Something was wrong with the chair. Nobody knew for sure what it did, but they knew it was bad.” Walter balled his hands in his lap. He didn’t like scary stories. Adventure, yes, but scary stories gave him nightmares. His mind changed his clothes into creatures and bumps into burglars, and his parents slept too soundly for them to wake up to his whimpering. Kate was talking faster now, her voice rising in volume, but her words still didn’t echo. The walls sucked them in and held them tight with its

yellow embrace. “What they didn’t know was that this chair,” Kate paused and her eyes flashed open. “This chair could eat you.” “N-no it couldn’t,” Walter stuttered. “That’s n-not true.” Kate licked her lips with a small tongue, and she leaned back on her desk. The smiley-faces on her skirt seemed to frown. Her eyes flicked to the corner of the room. She grinned, her teeth shining in the faded light. Walter became distinctly aware of the chair that sat behind him. He hadn’t noticed it much before, but it sat in the corner opposite of his usual reading corner, and if his book got too scary he would sometimes look up at it to calm him. It was brown and smallish, in between the size of an adult’s chair and that of a child’s. Its cushion was ripped, but only in one spot, and it was really quite a small tear. Walter gripped the underside of his desk. Kate’s eyes shone, the color wicked and dancing in the dim room. “Do you wanna test it out, Walter?” Walter’s heart thrummed his response. He stood up while Kate did the same. Time fluttered in its speed, indecisive and cruel. Kate reached her slim arms out, palms forward, one leg back, and she leaned towards Walter. Their eyes locked. Walter held his breath and sat down on the floor, squeezing his eyes shut and covering his face with his hands. He felt something thump against his shoulder and heard a small snarl followed by a yelp. He peeked an eye open and turned around, his rear still planted firmly on the carpet. Kate was nowhere to be seen. The chair let out a small creak, and Walter thought he glimpsed a fluttering of dark hair disappear into its wooden seat. He scuttled backwards in a crab walk, away from the chair, panting. Dirt fell off of his shoulder and onto the carpet in brown flecks. He lay back against the floor and stared at the ceiling. The tiles blurred together. He tried to count them, one by one, breathing in and out on each count. Once the beating of his heart had slowed to the speed of a small train, he sighed. Adventure stories, Walter thought. I think I’ll stick with adventure stories.

Clara Bartnik

All y Cottrell

Walter and the Chair

Clinging To A Vanishing Wind

Colleen Schneide r

Bob Thibodo

Blow strong the loving wind Filling the sails with passion and desire Together, working for far ports Forever was the avowal Oh! So sweet that vanishing wind Misplaced deeds that resembled love Untethered bachstays* caught by the breeze Broken, ruined the binnacle* With no Bosun* in sight Those things held secret by both Swelled the malicious storm Strong was the Mast Alas, not strong enough Shaken and lost without a sail Maps with only unknown ports Such became the loving wind Stolen! The dreams that were treasured The Devil! Towards the siren who dashed them Yet! Love’s benevolence binds to such beauty Gives shape to the confession of opposites Damn the dominance of the soul Damn the spell casted on well being Damn this love of lost reason Damn this need to hold a gale It is through the scars on our hearts That one clings tightly to a vanishing wind

*Bachstays – Ropes that hold to main mast and the stern *Binnacle – the on deck cabinet that houses the compass *Bosun – a petty officer in charge of maintenance of the ship

Coffee and a Scone

Eli za Nebeke r

Masks Noah Pettit

We all have our masks Our faces we portray When the sun is shining bright And the night has turned to day When we can be seen beyond our differences Is when we truly fall below the standard

The expectation that we all are sane Of the same name for which we shame Ourselves, we all are dames and damsels in distress To not be dressed in our disguise Is when the eyes can truly recognize Who we are So look beyond the surface Understand who I really am As far as the eye can see, I can see Can you see the way that you treat me affects me The treating is what matters no tricks The day we come full circle is the day we notice this

I could look like you if I wanted to. I could be your strong silence. I could learn your death stare. I could absorb every part of you. I could be you, but I’d never want to. You are too strong for me, like bitter imported coffee. I am the scone in the window, not the product of a barista’s lack of attention. You are the drink with the misspelled name And I, I am the snack that is considered but left behind. Your smell fills the room, and I only fill the stomach. “Coffee, and uh, how about a scone?” Clearly, you are the coffee and I am the scone. Maybe we belong together, Maybe not.

The Golden Rule Ever since first grade I’ve been treating Treating others the way I want to be treated Good on some days, bad on most and yet Some part of me expects respect to be passed upon me Permit my heart rest The moment when we set our differences aside Stow away our pride Look beyond the outside Is when we can truly connect No prejudice no judgment passed No eyes on the trophy for we will always come in last So heed this advice Until you have looked into the eyes of a peer And seen what troubles they have encountered Do not assume that they don’t saunter That they have a basis of support to hold themselves up When you tear them down We all have our masks Our faces we portray When the sun has set below the horizon And we’ve still not seized the day I ask of you to see beyond the differences So as to rise above the standard And understand Who we are

Delicately and Silently The time of day when The houses and trees have golden crowns Theyâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;ve earned for their patience. Below, their gray bodies are still and silent. Shacks and saplings look up to the Winter-gold crowns and wonder. The houses and trees look only to The Sun, which ordained them. Nothing moves. The crowns are removed, Delicately and silently. All is blanketed in gold lamp-light, buzzing When the armor appears eternal. By morning all is returned to quiet and the Houses and trees are crowned again, Delicately and silently.

Jake Ande rson Matt Nash 18

Grace Porte r

Autumn Bliss I wake up in the morning, in the woods Thinking what will happen next Not what I dream not when I am at rest I dream of possibilities far after I am awake I dream of color and light But I myself stand in the shade I make a fool out of myself To make others laugh I act like a slave clown to see those cheeks become red

I dream of a lovely day Yet I myself live in pain I dream of life Yet I am dying away But I will start to live Because life is too precious I will not take but give I will become audacious I dream of an autumn bliss

Sachidanand [Avi ral ] Pande y 19

The Lights Aisha Mahamud the feeling when those red and blue lights Light up my night As my breath quickens And my pulse races The sweat dripping against my mother’s fear stricken face “What’s the matter officer” Her voice shaking Her eyes quivering as she tries to muster up the strength to look the man with the revolver by his side In the eyes My brother in the backseat Too young to understand Why my sister is holding tears in her eyes The collective relief that sweeps our minds When the officer says that we can pass The reminder that this time we were lucky But next time we might not be so fortunate As those lights that lit up MY night fade into night Forever red and white blue

Matt Nash

The Parts She Hated He loved all the parts of her that she hated, and he reminded her of them almost every day. And maybe that’s why she drifted each time he told her that he loved her. Because each time he did she was reminded how much she couldn’t love herself, and how much she desperately wished to be able to. He gave her a love she hadn’t felt before. That scared her. It made her want to run. She believed she was the epitome of destruction. So, that’s exactly what she sought out to be. Whenever things seemed to be going too well for her own good, she found a way to ruin them. She pushed with such a force that anyone who dared to love her would want to run away. She waited for the day that someone would push back. The day that someone would tell her to stop. To tell her that they weren’t going anywhere no matter how much she tried. But at the end of the day, no one stayed. No one pushed back. They just left. Because of that, to her, love would always be a lie. And each time someone walked away, the words meaning became less and less.

Emilee Jacobson

All y Cottrell

Fallen Water The music flows to my brain, like water dropping from a cliff. Itâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s beautiful, the roaring of the waters.

We posed for a picture in front of a waterfall once. I thought we could capture the sound of it, the spray, the smell, into a single camera shot Foolish was I, missing the point entirely. No, the point was not the physical sense of the water but what it meant to you take a picture in front of it. For you, it was stunning to be so close to real wildness and to take something tame out it. But I wanted something tame to be wild. I wanted a waterfall and you wanted the picture of us.

Eli za Nebeke r

The music pauses from one song to the next. The bandâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s percussion fades in as one anotherâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s fades out. Is it like a sunset turning to a moon rising? That one moment where the two exist together? Maybe we were like the sunset turning to a moon rising. Your life was ending as mine was just beginning. You were my favorite grandparent because you understood how to make the time where we were both in the sky matter. You were the sun and I tried to rise and be just like you. But I came out a moon. A pale reflection of the bold fireball that I had the privilege to call Grandma.

Rachel Johnson 23

Allison Nguyen 24

In The Shadows of the Theatre Sydne y Lewis

A wave of darkness swept past the streak of light above the desolate stage. I turned my head swiftly in the direction of the shadow. The darkness was gone and the light shone too bright to see behind it. I canvassed the seats, but it resulted in finding nothing. I let myself get enveloped by the murky shadows behind the stage. The immortal being began producing feedback from the speakers. I edged toward the stage door and jiggled the handle, only to find out that it was locked. A shiver rushed through me as the ghost breathed easily through the Auditorium. Finding myself cowering in the stage right wing, I grasped for the work lights. When I found where the switch was, I pulled the electric wire loose with a slight tug. I heard chuckling at my attempt to escape. Behind me, I encountered footsteps and one of the rigging cables being released. The lighting structure came soaring down like an eagle scavenging for its prey. The cold, metal system missed me by inches. I tried to scream for help, but my vocal chords froze when the creature breathed down my neck, seconds away. Running wasn’t an option since the lighting system was in my path. I turned to face the music and was confronted with my greatest fear. The darkness was there, reaching into my soul. I could feel joy being pulled from me like a dementor. Relapse crept closer until it could touch me. Thoughts in my head swirled faster in a whirlwind of emotion. I thought of my family, my friends, being whipped around in my head like a tornado. The wind picked up and I felt it again, the coldness against my body. My old friend came back to visit, and this time, he wouldn’t let me escape. I was held despite my cries for help; no one heard me; I was left alone, empty. All of a sudden it was quiet, I looked down, only to reveal the cherry liquid running from me being subdued only by my rope-burned hands. I knew I would get pulled back in. I collapsed to the ground in a heap, wondering what I had done to deserve this. The terrible thoughts in my head never halted, although the whirlwind did. I thought about who would miss me, who would cry when I’m gone, who would suffer as much as I have. The ghosts that I thought inhabited the room were my prosecutors, and me, the helpless convict. I resided on the floor, shaking tremendously, remembering what it is like to be overcome, once again, by depression.

African People Sume ya Aid rus

African people.... keep your head up, for your golden skin should reflect with the sky. Speak with pride, don’t let the media norms try to be your tour guide for you are amongst the African people. Smile with joy in your heart and intelligence in your brain. Don’t think you have to go through so much hardship, so that these Western folks won’t have to experience pain. Your success is their discomfort, your happiness leads to their terror. Gain the knowledge and rise above what they have set, take their threats and use it as foundation to create something that has never been done yet. Let hate be the reason you wake up with a positive mindset, speak with a soft tongue to those who are from the ignorant for you are among the African people. Grip onto your culture and faith, love each other, welcome your neighbors with open arms and be sure to collectively eat with one another for we do not believe in superiority, rather equality. No dark skin is better than the light, no light skin is better than the dark, for Motherland sees no color rather the softness of the heart. For you are among the African people. Motherland has taught us to exercise the soul, for it is what leads us to our designated path. To speak in kindness, or to vow in my silence to respect my elders, even though I may not know them. To never look at what I have, but to look at what I don’t have because next time I try to throw away a pair of shoes, I must acknowledge there’s a child, with bare feet, not having the chances I had. And next time you ask your parents for something and they say no, just let it go, because raising families in 2 different continents is already hard alone. For we are amongst the African people. We must stay grateful, we must stay positive, and we must stay humble for Motherland will soon renovate. For we are amongst the African people.

Tala Al foqaha Our love of rain lies in the respite between each droplet. You see, we havenâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t quite learned to dance amid oceans yet.

Julia Eld ridge 27

Child and Man Rol f Olson

As the years go by I find I’ve lost More than I have found. Even home Plays tricks by haunting me with memory Of past days changed by passing from child To man. What we have before our eyes Can often take another unseen path, And disappear until the wandering path Brings us back to what we thought we lost. The years go by and change our eyes So that we can no longer recognize home Or see it as a prison we escaped. Child, You try to hold back time by delaying memory. Young one, turn your tardy memory And find a different, unworn path That leads to both man and child. I cannot compensate for what is lost. When you turn away from the home That once you saw through unjaded eyes. In your dreams do you see eyes Staring out at you through memory? Do you see the windows of your home Reflecting the emptiness of the wandering path? Can your dreams help you when you’re lost, And what were you when you were a child? I want to run again as a child Seeing the world with eyes Unclouded by what’s been lost Or distracted by unfaithful memory, To travel for the first time, again, the path That leads away from home. We must leave what we know as home. Only then can we know the child Who is born of the one that takes a path And leads himself with open eyes To be remade through feats of memory. Only then can we value what’s been lost. The home once lost is found in memory. The grown child turns his eyes to the prodigal path.

Dominic Ki rkpatrick

Annika Pete rson

Shots of Urgency Dave y Rive rs

There’s nothing like a bullet wound to put things in perspective. As I slowly bleed out in an alley behind my favorite bar, I can’t help but marvel at the series of events that led me to be here. I had no intention of winding up in this position, but does anyone really? A phone call from Larry saying he’s onto something big woke me up at exactly 1:42 in the morning. He’d always been a bit excitable but something about his tone led me to believe it was for real this time. He was always looking for the next unnatural occurrence. He referred to himself as a ‘paranormal detective specialist’ but the rest of us from the Marsh just called him a spirit chaser. Eccentric was a polite way of describing his obsession, but when you’re as smart as he is, people tend to turn a blind eye. He told me to meet him at his ‘lab’ as soon as possible. His ‘lab’ was a trailer that he parked just outside the city limits. I showed up there with a cup of bad gas station coffee and drooping eyelids that perpetually reminded me of what I should be doing. His news didn’t seem any different than the last time: a random occurrence that couldn’t be easily explained so he went to investigate. It was what he discovered that was the reason he called me: significantly high levels of ectoplasmic gas in the air. Frankly, I didn’t believe him—ghosts aren’t real. But the guy was desperate to tell someone so I listened and nodded in the right places, just to keep him going. The longer he spoke, the more excited he got. He had to stop on multiple occasions to catch his breath and drink some water. When his explanation was done, he started packing some of his ‘instruments’ into a bag and hopped into my car. He wanted me to chase some spirits with him. I chuckle at the memory until blood starts to spurt out of my wound again. Gasping for breath through the pain I press my palms against a wet, warm hole in my chest. Oh god when will the bleeding stop? The rising sun turns the sky into a gradient of reds and oranges: truly breathtaking. The pain ebbs as I get distracted by the spectacular view above me. Determined to

block out the pain as long as I can, I turn my focus back toward a couple hours ago. Larry directed me toward the industrial district, behind a construction zone. There was an old building that might have been relevant once, but it looked like it would be next on the demo crew’s hit list. All the doors and windows had been boarded, but Larry directed us straight toward one of the windows and pushed. The boards swung inward; they were hinged. I didn’t even want to ask how he discovered this particular disaster zone. There were broken beer bottles, old condoms, cigarette butts, a lot of ash, and what might have been a makeshift bong. And that was just what I saw in the first glance. Larry led me on a winding path through the broken remnants of the factory. There was a small room in the back that had some lights in it. Larry’s big discovery, evidently. It looked normal to me. Well, normal for an old rundown factory that was now a druggie hotspot. Larry pulled out his scanner and pulled some goggles over his eyes. After twenty minutes of walking in circles, Larry let out an anguished cry and told me it was gone. We got back to my car, and I got ready to drop him off. I had work in a few hours and was a little grouchy. No such luck. We weren’t driving for more than five minutes when his scanner started beeping like crazy and he started spitting out directions. After a few dead ends the trail led us to my favorite bar: Shots of Urgency. While the sign said ‘closed,’ I knew the owner pretty well and saw him cleaning up for the night inside. While Larry busied himself studying the area for traces of ectoplasmic gas leaks, I knocked on the window of the bar and Harley let me in and started mixing me a screwdriver. Harley always knew just the right drink to get me. He might not have much in the way of smarts or looks, but he makes some damn good drinks. The man was born to be a bartender. I could still taste vestiges of orange juice from the screwdriver through the coppery taste of my blood. The exhaustion from waking up early was overtaking me, but I knew if I fell asleep I might not

wake up. I need to keep focused. I thought back to the bar as a strangled gasp escaped my lips. Harley doesn’t like Larry, most people don’t. So when Larry burst into the bar rambling about gases and ghosts it wasn’t before Harley went to the back for some “manager stuff.” Larry told me the gas was centralized behind the bar outside and he wanted me to help him force it to manifest. If it manifested, he could take samples to study and then he would finally be renowned as a scientist instead of a lunatic. I left some money on the bar for Harley, and we exited the bar. Larry laid a large circular net that had lights of all different colors at each intersection on the ground. He told me to stand back and then he crossed to the opposite side of the apparatus and pressed a button with his foot. He produced a weird kind of spotlight from his bag and powered it on. He set it on a trash bin and shined it toward the air above the next. The lights on the net started to glow and there was a humming in the air. This was not normal; Larry’s stuff isn’t supposed to work. No, no, no, this is not right. A fuzzy shape appeared over the net and the humming turned into a rumble. Larry yelled in triumph; I, in terror. The shape was starting to take form and it was unlike anything I had ever seen. In my terror I slammed my eyes shut and started to back away. When I heard Larry scream, my eyes snapped open and the shape—the monster—was floating out from over the net toward Larry. Larry’s device should not have allowed it to move that far; this was the part that had failed. The monster completely obscured Larry from my view before a loud noise tipped everything sideways. I was slammed backward and only barely remained on my feet before two more invisible forces launched me into the bins that had been supporting the light. Lying on the ground I had a better view of myself and finally realized that I had been shot. Shortly following this realization, the light fell off the trash bins and onto my head. Without the light, the spirit could not manifest and disappeared. The last thing I saw before I blacked out was Larry’s white face and the gun falling out of his hand. I didn’t even know he had a gun. I woke up in the alley some time later, still bleeding and with a killer headache. Heh. Killer. Irony. Larry was nowhere in sight and my car was gone, so I guess I had been abandoned. Now here I am. Alone, dying, and still shocked with the sight of the spirit. I let my head rest back on the trash bin, no longer able to keep my head up. As I shut my eyes I could hear sirens in the distance.

Lal yn Yu 31

A Poem on Death Nia Colebrooke

I have a turquoise thumb Green mixed with mortal blue I can watch a sprout shoot up But I never see it flower Once, I had a dream A count in a cape And a dead tree with a face Told me I never let the little things grow When I die, I want my ash To become a big, strong treeâ&#x20AC;&#x201D; But it seems very odd That I must die to learn To let the little things grow

Dominque Prince Points 32

This is Living Cha rlotte A.J.

Life is short so take a risk, Though it may take work remember this: Die living, live bold and strong, Spend life singing, make life a song. Take a chance, see what you can find, Life is like one long dance, do it all in time. Though you may be young, you time is now, There’s so much yet to be done, dream your way up to the clouds. Not all who wander are lost, not all here are found, Every choice has a cost, and every voice make a sound. Every drop makes a splash, every wind makes a wave, Life is like a lightning flash, a mere second before it fades, But not without a boom and crash, from all the lives you’ve changed. Not all that’s good shimmers, and not all hope is lost, Not all that’s worn withers, and everything comes with a cost. So live life to the full, all is possible for those who believe, Not all goals require skill, don’t give up till you achieve. For life is short, but Hell is hotter, So go out and make disciples, and live life for the Father.

Jenna Dykes 33

Made Up Robbie Breese

“-And so, with New Year’s Eve just around the corner, we would like to take this opportunity to look back on just what fulfillments and heartbreaks made 2099 such a unique year. First, the-“ I slam my fist down on the dial, killing the annoyingly upbeat radio host. Radio. Radio, radio, radio. Nearly a hundred years from the turn of the millennia and we still have radio. Still have cars, too. I remember all those scientists and environmentalists going on for days about how we could still turn global warming around. In the end, humanity couldn’t be stopped, so we just invented better air conditioners. The asshole in the silver car cuts in front of me, and so I brake, earning a good ten seconds worth of horn honking from the assholes behind me. Everyone so eager to get home after working their boring nine to five, five days a week, year after year. Eager to get home to their parlors and wash the day’s makeup away. Makeup. I pull down the visor and check my face in the mirror. Still intact, still flawless, despite the drizzle that’s persevered all day. Leaving work early due to a cancelled meeting was an unexpected bonus. Means I get home to Charlotte a good hour earlier than usual. Shrugging to myself, I turn the radio back on, but quickly flip to a new channel. Commercial break. Typical. “-line-up of fantastic foundations, toners, and blushes available in stores near you.” New line-up, perhaps? I’ll look it up when I get home. Something fresh could revitalize my look. But only check once I get home. Not like… well, not like the asshole next to me, who’s facing downward and lit by the glow of a phone. On a 70mph stretch of freeway. Asshole. But what else do I expect in the middle of the city? Damn kids, that’s what. Driving through the traffic with their faces glues to their devices, too busy snapping friends to pay attention to the road. There’s the exit to

downtown. Not the nicest place to live, but we get by. 27 years of marriage and one kid, graduated and working for a law firm other side of the city. Nice enough, if you ignore the neighbors yelling through the walls and the bar down the street. Pull the car to the side of the road, make sure my clothes are on the right setting to be outside, and make the dash for the front door. I’m sweating as I slam it shut behind me. Really is getting hot out there. A strangled gasp comes from upstairs. Not from my parlor, to the left, nor from the bedroom in the center, but from her parlor, to the right. The only area of my house society forbids me from entering. “Charlotte?” I call upstairs, putting my tablet case down on the hall table. “Honey, is that you up there?” “Yes! It’s me! Paul, you weren’t due home for another hour! What happened?” There’s an accusatory undertone to her shout, which pisses me off, but I do my best not to let it show. “The meeting got cancelled.” I yell back. “Is everything alright?” This time it’s not so much a gasp as a squeal of panic I get in response. “Yes, yes, yes! Of course it is! Why wouldn’t it be?” She’s shrieking now. My heart starts to beat more quickly, and I start climbing the stairs. “Are you sure you’re fine?” I shout back. “You don’t sound okay.” “Yes! Goddamnit, Paul, I’m fine! Don’t come in here!” She’s screaming now, and I start sprinting up the stairs. “Paul! Do not come in! Paul!” There’s a slight moment of hesitation at the door to her parlor, but screw society, she’s in some kind of trouble and“PAUL!” The creature roars. I stagger backwards, in shock. This… this thing is in her parlor. It speaks with her voice, but it’s not her. It can’t be. My heart beats even faster. It’s the same shape, but her- no, its face isn’t Charlotte’s. She- it’s crying now, great wracking sobs, shaking its whole body. “P-Paul, oh Paul! Y-you’re not al-allowed to see me like this!” That’s when it hits me. What this thing in my wife’s parlor is. Who it isno, what it isno, who is it? I ask anyway, just to be sure, but the words will barely come out of my mouth. “Who… who are you?” I stutter, already knowing, already dreading the answer. She cries even harder now, and her next sentence physically pains me. “Paul… It’s me, Charlotte.” A punch to the chest. I go reeling out of the door, down the stairs, out of the house, barely remembering to chill my clothes before running outside and down the sidewalk. The door is open behind me, and her wailing is getting the attention of the whole street. I don’t look back, I can’t. That thing, Charlotte, but not as I’d ever seen her before. Freckles, on both cheeks, lips that weren’t bright red, eyes unaccented by liner and mascara. Her face, completely devoid of makeup. I’m outside the bar now, and it all comes crashing down. I trip, and fall, and now I’m retching, my half-digested lunch on the sidewalk for the world to see. Sounds of laughter from the drunk people standing there, but one soberer than the others comes over to help me. “You alright, pal?” Southern accent. I look up at his face, and it’s like cont. on next page >>

a switch is flipped. I can see the lines he uses to make his nose look smaller, the layers that hide his age lines, the shadow that makes his eyes pop. I stagger to my feet, bile down the front of my shirt. “Stay away from me!” I shout at him, arms out like I’m warding away wolves. “I can see you! Stay away!” The look of concern is replaced by one of confusion in his eyes, his fake eyes in his plastic face, the one hiding who- what he really is. “Calm down, pal.” He drawls, every word attacking my ears. “I’m only tryin’a help.” But it’s too late, and now I’m running again, away from him, away from her, away from everyone. All I can smell is vomit, but I keep going. I can’t go back; I can’t face her again. There are flashing lights up ahead. Someone must have called the police, either after Charlotte started screaming or the patrons of the bar thought I was delusional. There’s a side alley to my left and I sprint down it, not caring where I go as long as I don’t see anyone. Another uneven stone, and I go flailing to the ground, right into a puddle. Soaking wet, reeking of sick, my clothes are torn, and I can’t feel the heat. I try to pick myself up, but something in the puddle catches my eye. I fall again, backwards this time, before realizing it’s my reflection. My reflection, as fake as the rest of the. Covered and covered in makeup, ever since I was a few days old. Old enough to hide everything behind a mask, and make my way through college, and get married, and have sex, andNo one has ever seen what I really look like. No one except my parents and the doctors at the hospital. Then I realize I’ve never seen what Charlotte really looks like. Or, hadn’t, butIt’s not the same Charlotte. It’s not my Charlotte, my girlfriend, then my fiancé, then my wife! I’ve never seen what my parents looked like beneath their masks, nor my brother. None of my friends, none of my coworkers, no one. The rain starts pouring heavily now, and the puddle beneath me starts changing colors. I look at it, just as confused as the man in it staring back at me, his makeup slowly dripping away. My makeup slowly dripping away. Slowly revealing to the world who I am. “No…” I whisper. “No, no, no…” Eventually, no more is left. The man staring at me from the puddle is flawed, blemished, human. He’s not me, I refuse to believe that. But the police officers recoil when they find me kneeling, staring into the muddied rainwater. They recoil from this thing that isn’t perfect, like they are, and utterly broken by the weight of the world. The weight of the knowledge that no one, not even him, is truly perfect.

Lal yn Yu 35

Grace Porte r 36

Emma Swanson

Politics Anna La rianova

Save me from the scary stairs That go down and never up. They say they make repairs, But personal prisons “lock her up.” No black, no brown, and no rainbow, And all terrorists are Muslim. There’s no place for women to go, But all the riches are for him.

Gymnastics is Life Gabrielle Kni ght

I look around People clapping so loud My ears drum. Chalk dust lands in my eyes, Blinking uncontrollably My eyes are cloudy like a fogged sky, You look at the beam, Only 4 inches wide. How can I do this? How am I calm inside? You picture and go through in your head, Having it on replay, Like your favorite song you love. Stuck in your head 24/7 Hoping this will be the winning one To go forward and strive on. I step foot onto the floor, Excitement ready to overflow.

Hoping to land all my tricks Hoping to stay on the floor, Hoping to land on my feet Hoping to smile more. The contests last for moments, Though the training has taken years. It wasnâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t the winning alone that was Worth the work and the tears The applause will be forgotten, The prize will be misplaced, But the long hard hours of practice will never be a waste. In trying to win you build a skill, You learn that winning depends on will. You never grow by how much you win, you only grow by how much you put in. So any new challenge you have just begun, put forth your best and you have already won.

Outfield Ave ry Ba rtnik

I looked up, thinking, Why is that baseball growing? And then it hit me.

Roshina Mohamed Rafee

Lite ra ry Maga zine S taff: 2017

Tala Alfoqaha

Inika Shetty Emma Swanson

| thank you |

To all the students and staff that created this publication with us. We will continue to strive to produce quality compositions that illustrate the diverse creative expressions of the EPHS community. For the continued years of this publication, we hope the support and acceptance will persist.