The Lovett Signature Magazine, 2018 by The Lovett School

2018 Lovett Signature Magazine

COVER ART BY ABBY SHLESINGER AND BRACKETT HARDY

Le er From the Editors

ear Readers,

As we were describing The Signature, recently, to a classmate who had never read it, we were asked, “So, why are you putting this together?”

This led us to ponder the efficacy of spending hours painstakingly formatting and editing works that we have to beg Lovett students for the use of. Well, the end result this year is a magazine that students will hopefully read and enjoy. However, can it be something more? We think it is.

In our opinion, the end result of putting together this literary magazine is a reflection of our community. Even in snapshots taken for photo assignments and tiny, five-hundred word short stories, the editorial staff of The Signature saw Lovett in all of its thriving, conflicted, and evolving community. There’s a lot happening.

Conventional wisdom means almost nothing to teenagers. That’s why our themes and submissions run from fairy tales and dreamscapes to ultramodern cityscapes to short stories about patriotism. We are new, we are learning, and we are The Signature.

Much love,

The Editors

Brackett Hardy, Abby Shlesinger, Mimi Norton, Kendall Greene, Katie Krantz, Emma Ellis

SPECIAL THANKS TO:

KAREY WALTER, AMY LEE STORY, ASHLEY SCHICK, KATY MCDOUGAL, AND MARK MAY-BEAVER

.................................................................................................................................................................................................... 1

Is Life too Peaceful? Get confused and excited by

The Signature

By Suzanne Hollis

Contents 34

39 42

STEPHI HOWARD

6 Imagination or Illness? by Lillian Whittle 12 Plague Worm Pickings by Katie Krantz

Forgot

by MacKenzie Lee

16 The Cheesecakes by Penny King

Breath

by Irene Chang

The Seasons of Time

The Barrier Between Us by Emma Ellis

Swimmer's Army by Brandon Beck

A Lady's Revolution by Megan McGean

Like Stones Under Rushing Water

Red Clay

50 52

by Sarah Hardy

by Will Abdallah

Omniscient

by Richard Nolan

The Girl and the Bird by Lillian Whittle

For Deaf Ears and the Loveless Eyes

The Whiteboard

by Harrison Darby

by Joanna Lummus

My Little Sister's Smile by Palmer King

An American Film by Sarah Packman

by Ashley Wright

SARAH FOLLOWILL

Dedication to Tom Zwierlein

We dedicate this copy of The Signature to Mr. Z for his continual devotion to Lovett's Fine Arts department over the last thirty-one years. In addition to contributing to the Lovett community, Tom Zwierlein is a former University of Kentucky ceramics instructor and has been a visiting artist at many craft schools and colleges, including The Penland School, the Hambidge Center, and The Georgia High School Governorâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s Honors Program at Valdosta State. Mr. Z was a founding faculty member of the Anderson Ranch Ceramics Program in the late 1970s under the direction of Paul Soldner and is a contributing writer for the international ceramic magazine Clay Times. Throughout his time at Lovett, Mr. Z has mentored generations of students, sharing his love of ceramics with the Lovett community on a daily basis. We are truly going to miss him and his influence on Lovett's artistic community in the years to come, but his presence will always remain. This magazine, this visual and literal culmination of the year, would not have been possible without his vision for what the art program could be. 5

Imagination or Illness? When fairytales come to life.

IRENE CHANG

lice has a box of crayons. She draws hearts, caterpillars, and rabbits carrying pocketwatches on the stark white walls of her room. I constantly remind the cleaning staff not to remove her artwork; the last time it happened, she fell into such a dark pit that an emergency call to Doctor Carroll was more than necessary. Wendy is convinced she can fly. We had to put padding on the 6

By Lillian Whittle floor after the bed-jumping incident. She always asks me how my shadow is doing today, and I always answer that she is doing quite well, thank you Wendy, darling. Ella loves shoes. She loves them so much, in fact, that she used her favorite pair of spiked stilettos to make her Stepmother and Stepsisters finally leave her alone. During our talks, I often have to placate her demands for better footwear and re-explain why the Center cannot allow her to wear anything more than her soft sock-slippers. Aria cannot walk. She often sits in her room, in her wheelchair, staring out the barred window and talking to her aquarium of mechanical fish; I think she’s convinced they’re alive. Sometimes, when she is happy, she sings to the other girls. It brings such joy to all of them. Rachel used to have exceptionally long hair… until she tried to loop it around the nurse’s neck like a strand of pearls. She screamed when the men in white cut it off, her distress upsetting the other girls. She doesn’t paint anymore like she used to; she just sits on her bed, staring at her lap, rocking back and forth and running her fingers through the short, golden strands atop her head. I try to get her to talk to me, but all my attempts have been in vain; unfortunately, I may have to recommend her for a more rigorous cognitive therapy program.

STEWART HAMMOND

Rose sleeps for disturbingly long periods, but when she is awake she tries to stay awake for as long as possible. She tells me about her dreams; they all feature fiery briars from the view of a tower window, and a terrible roarscream coming from behind the flames. I am concerned that her nightmare disorder has worsened. The treatment I recommended doesn’t seem to be helpful. Bianca has a debilitating case of malusdomesticaphobia. She is no longer allowed to eat in the cafeteria with all the others, because, unsurprisingly, there are apples there, and they throw her into such terror that I fear for her safety. Ruby has been diagnosed with paranoia. She’s particularly afraid of a wolf

eating her while she sleeps. When she arrived at the Center, she was so small and frightened. During our first talk, I gave her a soft, cherryred blanket as a comfort item. She hasn’t been seen without that little red blanket over her shoulders since.

Wendy is

convinced she can fly.

I love each of the girls with all my heart. But sometimes, when things go wrong, I secretly wish I wasn’t a psychologist in the Grimm Psychiatric Center.

ZELLE WESTFALL

ASHLEY GUMPERT

IRENE CHANG

RUTH MCCRADY

WELLS KAMERSCHEN

lague Worm Pickings by Katie Krantz

STEWART HAMMOND

In June, when the sailors come ashore They tend to fill the pubs with lore. They spin: such golden yarns as have ever been seen Though they themselves are naught but unclean. Flea-bitten. I wait in the dark, Unseen; in corners of rooms I myself do park. They cough and spit and sweat before Black boils do appear. They knock on deathâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s door. I hoarded these fresh berries in the tomb. As I glutted myself, for more I made room. Plague-rotted bodies piled by the day. The juice was stinking too. Men would pray For me to go. I leave sweet flesh behind. I always reveled. It bends the mind To steal a third of Europe. The rest Iâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;ve saved for later, though they still hold hope.

GABBY ELVE

Forgot

by MacKenzie Lee

I’m scared… of what happens… when you start to forget… It starts… with little things…I’m told…it doesn’t come… all at once…where is my phone…what is that ringing… what is a phone…what is that screaming…i’m scared… you see…it runs in my family…i’m terrified…what if it… happens to me… my great grandmother… forgot me… she told me… she loves me…she just… doesn’t know… who I am…

ABBI GOLDBERG

ANNA BRAY

MEG MCCARTNEY

ISABELLE JOHNSON

HOLDEN BROOKS

DOTSIE JONES HALEY ZOELLICK

CHLOE PARK

ISA WILLIAMS

AIDEN CAMILLO

QUINN BUCZEK

THE CHEESECAKES

WRITTEN BY PENNY KING ART BY SOPHIA YAN

eannette stared at the frozen aisle with worried eyes and a wrinkled forehead. She might have looked strange to the people passing by if they had been paying any attention to the woman of thirty five with frizzy red hair. What was she going to do? The raspberry cheesecake was a classic, but the chocolate was bound to be daring and impressive if her guests deemed it delicious. If only she wasn’t so indecisive. Or maybe she was having a hard time choosing under the pressure. She was, after all, hosting a brunch for her new neighbors. Jerry had told her not to sweat it, that anyone could see she was friendly and worth talking to. It’s just that she had never done this kind of thing before. Their neighbors at their old house hadn’t bothered to make friends. Jeannette wanted to be different. She wanted to meet her new neighbors for brunch every other week, to gossip in each other’s kitchens, and to raise their children together as friends, not acquaintances. A passing employee brought her back to the decision at hand by asking if she needed help. “Oh, no, I’m fine.

Thank you,” Jeannette replied with a smile. The employee had barely moved on before Jeannette’s head was turned back to the cheesecakes in question. She raised a hand, prepared to chew on a fingernail, but quickly stopped herself when she remembered her goal to break that habit. The cheesecake on the left was pretty to look at, with raspberry sauce drizzled on the top, and some whipped cream and real raspberries, paired with your good old graham cracker crust. The chocolate cheesecake looked rich with shaved chocolate and its own dollop of whipped cream. Jeannette let out a long sigh. Which one would her guests prefer? After another few long seconds of staring, Jeannette took a step back and considered coming back to them. But if I leave them now and come back later, I really won’t be able to make a decision, she told herself. Of course, that was only part of the reason why she didn’t want to leave them. The other reason, the bigger reason, was because she desperately wanted to be accepted into the inner circle of neighbors, even if it turned out to be a cult. Her old neighbors were cold and reserved, barely uttering a hello in passing, and certainly not stopping to chat in the middle of the grocery aisle. It reminded her too much of her days in high school. Days she too often spent roaming the halls alone and searching for people’s acceptance. Then it hit her, and she realized that she never had to walk those halls again. I’m a grown woman, she thought, I’ve spent too much of my life trying to be accepted. I don’t even like cheesecake! “I’m getting key lime pie,” she said aloud. And if these neighboring moms didn’t like it, they could find some other neighbor to buy them a cheesecake.

KAYLA PATEL

SARAH FOLLOWILL

JOANNA LUMMUS

MINA DERNBAIL

LIANA MALINOWSKI

Breathe

WRITTEN BY IRENE CHANG ART BY ABBY SHLESINGER

he word was there, but air wasn’t. Or maybe it was there, and his raw, chafed throat couldn’t feel it. His whole body grew numb like the time he had watched a piece of steak be filleted into ten pieces before sizzling onto a hot grill he was too afraid to get close to. Man up, said his dad. That’s how the inside of his chest felt. Like a filleted piece of hunted veal burning by his father’s words- words that he wasn’t even sure that he knew what it meant. Okay. Never mind. Focus elsewhere. Breathe. She put her hands up to her bleach-scented hair and pulled at the yellow until it hurt. Almost as much as the time her mother told her that eating chewy caramels from Uncle Frankie’s would make her fat, and by God, she couldn’t afford to gain another ounce if she were to ever find a husband. Right? Yes ma’am. Straight afterward, she stole nine of those little caramels. And when she had heard her mother’s steps, she got so panicked she mashed those caramels right up in her tiny palm. Before she knew it, they had gotten all tangled up in her rosy gold curls. A

tearful afternoon followed in which she spent trying to brush out the caramel before her mother noticed. Breathe. Why were his arms tingling? He wanted to pretend that he was swimming through soda, but it only reminded him of trying to put his football helmet on before his shaking hands gave away that he was the one listening to Frank Sinatra’s slowest love song in the locker rooms before eight other boys busted in. They’d already caught him listening to Edith Piaf oncesomething like that couldn’t happen again. Breathe. There was only seven more minutes left of school left, but her back hurt so much from the heels she wore to the pageant last weekend. Nothing on this test made sense except for her own name neatly written at the top of left of her page. It taunted her and told her that she was a fraud. She was so hungry. Breathe. He had written a series of six poems once, and his cousin Louie had told him poems were for girls. So, he assumed that the beautiful words going around and around his head were lame, and he pretended to not have them at all. Breathe. he wanted to scream and cry for five minutes but that would ruin her tan or worse- her reputation.

His whole body grew numb like the time he had watched a piece of steak be filleted into ten pieces before sizzling onto a hot grill he was too afraid to get close to. Man up, said his dad.

Breathe. He reached under his desk and tried to type into his cracked phone screen four times before sending a text asking for something that could dull his mind. Breathe. She picked at her third nail until it bled and hoped no one could smell the smoke in her breath. Breathe. He looked at her. Breathe. She looked at him. Breathe. They briefly wondered what the other’s perfect life was like. Breathe. Then, they went back to theirs.

CHARLIE HIGGINS

LILLIAN WHITTLE

BRACKETT HARDY

The Seasons of Time 1. When bones are chilled, noses ripe and rosy, before the sun has creeped into the sky, before the brief glimpse of the day and light, I must begin. For time is precious. Sparse. But days endure. The days like months while months are more like days As though each equinox of the sun slips from tips of my fingers, holding loosely while each new wakening only comes each Eternity. 2. When skin gets kissed by the sun, I melt and making time appear to be endless and possibilities are infinite. I go explore. For time is splendid. Quick. A multitude. The days like months while months are more like days As though each equinox of the sun slips from tips of my fingers, holding tightly. Each new wakening comes only after An adventure. Hours make days, days make months, months make years, Yet years are really quicker than the days

WRITTEN BY ASHLEY WRIGHT ART BY KAYLA PATEL

CAROLINE SMITH

HARRISON JONES

GRACIE WOMACK

KAYLA PATEL

The Barrier Between Us By Emma Ellis

BRACKETT HARDY

The goo is harder now, and rubbery.

Can you hear me? There’s this thick, sticky substance dividing me from you, and now you are just this blurry shape that I want to take my eyes off of but can’t. That red hair, the distinct color that only the two of us share in this crumbling, mom-and-pop town, is blurry too, and subdued. If I press my fingers hard enough, I can escape through the goo, and I can be unfocused like you. Unnatural, together. But I don’t look like me anymore, so I draw my hand back in. Can you hear me?

The goo is harder now, and rubbery. I can’t break through and try to glimmer like you anymore. I multiply across the walls that divide time and space between us. I’m shrieking, I’m begging, I’m gasping, but you don’t seem to notice any of them, of me. I’m standing in the center now, looking at how these walls have enveloped and immortalized me and wondering how they have seen more of me than you. Can you hear me? Color—a metallic, icy gray—is sprouting up from the corners

now, taking away even that muddled collection of blurred motions and breath that I know was you. I haven’t seen color in such a long time. We were six when I saw my first rainbow. Our science teacher sent that burst of light through a glass prism, and all the colors clung to your face, your pale, iridescent skin, seeping into the crinkling eyes that stared at me. You were so beautiful. You still are. The color is just as mesmerizing today, but now it’s carrying you further away from me. These bursts of color are swallowing you up, and all I can hear is the muffled sounds of your laughter. Can you hear me? I’m scared now. The icy gray is darkening into a black, and I can no longer see you to pretend I’m not alone. You may not have been much over the years, but you were always there. Nineteen years of your presence. It’s all I’ve really had. If I could just break through, maybe we could be us again. But I’m so tired. It’s cold, so cold, in here, and quiet. Can you hear me? My fists are banging against the wall because air is getting caught in my lungs, and I don’t know how to push it out. Each suffocating breath is matched with so much darkness that I can no longer

ART BY SUZANNE HOLLIS

TRUE GERALDS

distinguish reality from my mind. I know you don’t need me anymore, maybe you never have, but I need you now more than ever. Can you hear me? The stillness has overtaken me, and my voice is no longer leaving my throat because I understand now that it will never reach you. I know you can hear me. You just don’t want to.

MARY ANGLIN TOOLE

ABBY SHLESINGER

STEWART HAMMOND

Swimmer's Army King Swimmer commands his army’s sight His scepter’s crack fills the air’s only sound The infantry is assembled bearing arms upright Two stood together, souls shouting bright With a love forbidden that must not be found Yet the Two stood together bound in each other’s heart’s light King Swimmer’s army rode forward to win the fight With no opposition but the Oceanside to toss them around And the infantry is still assembled with arms upright The sun set on great Swimmer’s birthright Now struggling to perform in the many battles they were found Yet the Two walked together bound in each other’s heart’s light The Two soon split from the weight of love’s plight Tightly wound The unconcerned infantry still assembled with arms upright Neither emerged, fallen to jealousy’s might No sound The living now blind to the fallen’s heart’s light From the loss, new music within the band did incite With horns raised upright blew a melody profound A song that resurrected the fallen from the night Evermore the Two ran together bound in each other’s heart’s light

WRITTEN BY BRANDON BECK ART BY MIMI NORTON

AVERY HAGER

JENNA BROWN

MIMI NORTON 41

A Lady's Revolution

WRITTEN BY MEGAN MCGEAN ART BY ABBY SHLESINGER

adame Amélie sat in the parlor, trying to read Les Misérables, but despite its engaging plot of thievery and barricades, she simply couldn’t bring herself to read. She usually revelled in the secret talk of insurgency that the redclad leader and his group of rebels engaged in, but tonight, she was planning something wonderful. A four page long monologue of liberation was too much for her to read right now, too romanticized. A simple murmuring of “To be free” suited her just fine. As if to refute her feeling of independence, she heard the front door open and loud footsteps stomp through the foyer. Her husband Pierre— holding a bottle of whiskey —shuffled past the parlor and made his way straight into the kitchen. She heard him stop dead in his tracks. “What is it, daring?” she asked, loud enough for him to hear her from the next room over. But she knew what was wrong, and she didn’t hesitate to jump into action. Amélie grabbed a chair and set it down as silently as she could in front of the fireplace. “Why is dinner not prepared?” “Oh, dinner!” she exclaimed, now standing

level with her prize. A Charleville musket, .69 caliber, gifted to Pierre’s great-grandfather in 1766. The wood was glossy and polished, the silver metal even more so. All, of course, thanks to Amélie’s domestic handywork. “I must have forgotten, darling. How silly of me,” she said, wrapping her fingers around the carved wood. It felt like an ivory statue in her hands, a trophy that held the key to her life. Her heart reverberated off of her rib cage like the sound of battle drums. She heard Pierre throw his bottle against the kitchen tile, but her husband’s bout of anger did nothing to quell her own. The sound of the shattered glass filled her up like a precession of cymbals. This was the crescendo. She lifted the musket from its place above the mantel and hopped off the chair. When she entered the kitchen, Pierre was leaning over the island, his back to Amélie. Shards of glass littered the floor and flickered in the candle light. The golden gleam of spilled liquor reminded her of a godly dinner party gone wrong. She nestled the butt of the musket into her shoulder and lifted it as if it were extension of her, like a wand in which she might concentrate all of her anger into a singleblow. “Forgot?” he whispered, head lazily lolling back. This was a man who worked in a bank and who enjoyed hunting and who loved pride more than life itself, and he was no fool. But he was a monster. Amélie cleared her throat. “Most certainly.” Her red lips formed into a unbreakable line. She cocked the gun, cocked an eyebrow, shot. A final boom filled the orchestra that was her mind, and then everything fell into silence. To be free. An intoxicating feeling.

Like Stones Under Rushing Water Now those black bells do find it time to toll, And in hunched men process with faces bleak, Each man and woman - every ragged soul, Hold tight onto those near, alone and weak. As music starts to play they stand to sing, Their eyes turn up in hopes to see my face, The words when said so faintly fail to bring A lasting form of much desir’d embrace. Yet little do they know to shed no tear, For just beyond I’m clad in sparkling white, And in my heart I lack the faintest fear Of things supposed to hide in this dark night. You weep and leave me deep beneath the ground But don’t look for me there - I’ll be around.

WRITTEN BY SARAH HARDY ART BY SUZZANE HOLLIS

HENRY SHARP 46

HENRY SHARP

Red Clay

Two socks sit on the counter next to the washing machine. They know they will never be white again. The red clay of the earth has stained their fabric. But they are happy because the kid is happy. The kid looking down, proud of his new red socks. A culmination of the perfect day. One of about seventy hot, humid, perfect days.

They can see that the mother is frustrated. She has to clean the socks, but she canâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t be mad Because she remembers the days when her socks turned red, too. And she is now just thankful for the sweet smell of a storm, The clouds that turn five oâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;clock to midnight. One of the many storms that would explode out of the sky for a few hours. Attempting to knock down the trees, flood the creek, and scare the kid. Until it subsides. The culmination of a hot, humid, perfect day.

Two socks sit on the floor of a Midtown apartment. They fear they will never be red again. They are concerned as they look at the kid now. Dressed in a suit and tie hunched over a desk like a statue. Stuck in a cycle of worry and pressure. The kid is not sad but not happy. Just nostalgic because of the memory of that red clay. Those hot, humid, perfect days.

WRITTEN BY WILL ABDALLAH ART BY SOPHIA CARRANO

OMNISCIENT

WRITTEN BY RICHARD NOLAN ART BY SOPHIA CARRANO

strong opener. This is the story of Little Billy Jenkins. A simple young man with a heart of pericardium, he planned on spending tonight like he did most nights, alone and pre-pubescent. At his bedroom desk he sat, his meek mental capacity struggling to -- “Whoa! Who said that?!” he rudely interrupted. “Huh? What is going on? Who is this? Hello?….Is this God?” he yelled to the walls of his worn-down, shambolic home. “Shambolic? What does that even mean?” he asked while standing three feet away from a rarelyused dictionary. “Why am I hearing voices? What is going on here?” Billy’s lack of openmindedness and fictional creativity came as a result of his failure to adhere to the postmodern trend of not being an idiot. It had not yet dawned on his feeble mind that his actions were being narrated by a higher power, one with charming wit and the voice of a demigod. Though Billy thought himself master of his own domain, he contained as much control as an ant in a pond. “But…this makes no sense! How can you just…

narrate me?” he stumblingly asked with unnecessary italicization, a product of his grammatical shortcomings. “And that! Every time I say something, you just use it to throw some lame insult. I mean, if you’re going to make fun of me, at least do it creatively!” he shouted in a stupid voice with his stupid face. Suddenly, an incredible event occurred elsewhere in the cosmos. The gravitational tides of the universe, grandiose in their scale and natural mystery, brought the Solar System’s seven other planets into an alignment with Earth, allowing for an unprecedented miracle from the heavens: Billy developed an original thought. He decided it would be best for him to shut up and submit. “Oh yeah? Well, what if I don’t want to?” Billy punched himself in the face. “OOOWW! What was that? That hurt like hell!” he pitifully cried out in a religiously-denominational whimper. Billy’s insurgence towards his creator was most likely due to his traumatic childhood. “Not true.” He suffered from a simple case of madness, the kind that instilled itself in his early years, quietly growing more and more dominant with each episode of adolescent torment he received at the hands of his older, post-pubescent brother. “Don’t have an older brother.” These exploitations, nothing short of hilarious, left severe emotional scars within Billy that often brought the onset of audial-receptive hallucinations. “I’m not hallucinating. You’re just being a stuck-up, bullying prick!” Alright, Billy. You asked for it. Billy then left his house, turned himself into the authorities for schizophrenia, and let both his mind and body rot in a cell for thirty-six years. “Shut up! Shut up! Shut up!” he yelled within his padded cell. Just as before, the walls around him were his only audience. Had he not questioned his reality, there wouldn’t be such a drastically rushed ending to his story. A strong closer.

The Girl and the Bird “Why is it,” said the girl with the little pink dress to the bird with the bright bloody patch on his breast “that the people must talk, while birds only sing? Surely singing has plenty more pleasure to bring than plain words on plain tongues with a flat sort of sound. I simply must know, for this question’s profound!” Then the bird smartly chirped out a sentence or two, saying “Well, little girl I’ve the answer for you!” “See, people know nothing, though they think themselves smart, they don’t know how to make any sound from their heart. My song is my soul and my soul is my song, to say anything but, would simply be wrong!” “I see,” said the girl, who was questioning still, “but I don’t understand why my words have no thrill. I can sing, yes indeed, but I’m lacking finesse And this notion, indeed, brings dispute nonetheless! For how can I sing from my heart and my soul, if thus far I don’t know I, myself as a whole?” Yes, this was a problem, the bird clearly saw but in her thought process was one final flaw “That, my dear girl, is what singing is for! Don’t expect all self-knowing to knock on your door. With a song and some time, you’ll soon know yourself well! To me, this seems clear. You have no need to dwell.” So off went the girl, and away flew the bird And from over the hills, the entire town heard The girl and the bird each singing their own It was beautiful, glorious, and mind-seeds were sown All the people in town, each then started to sing His or Her very soul in a sound that would ring Up and out of the hills and through every front door In one lovely, sweet song that they sang evermore.

WRITTEN BY LILLIAN WHITTLE ART BY CATHERINE SHERLING 52

ANNA HOWELL

ANNA MIELE

AAYUSH DIXIT

LILY POPE

For Deaf Ears and Loveless Eyes By Harrison Darby

nother day, another knife in the heart. Isn’t that the credo of the age? What truly is life if not the perpetual repetition of pain, deep and mortifying, until the psyche and body both can no longer handle it? My, what a depressing start to a love letter. I suppose that is the curse of unreciprocated love. Or, I suppose in this case, love once reciprocated, a dead flame. That heat, that fire that once was shared and mutually fostered, mercilessly extinguished by its very own creator, doused with a loathsome water of fear and self doubt. “Once reciprocated.” That’s the kicker, isn’t it? Getting a peek through a window which is then cruelly slammed shut on the unguarded heart. The trauma, devastating in the short term, consuming in the long. How does someone continue to love another who refuses to love them back? Delusion, I suppose. Seeing

The trauma, devastating in the short term, consuming in the long.

CAELYN KELLY

brief glimmers of hope, and flecks of that once rapt love in the eyes of the beloved, praying to gain insight into their thoughts to see if perhaps a brighter, connected future is possible. Hopefulness that that flame may yet be rekindled. Those momentary yet unending stares tearing apart the heart. The delicate and evanescent eye contact, in which I see the fleeting desire and yearning once upon a time exposed. Does it still live? Can it ever be resurrected? How euphoric it is to pine for one for what must have been well over a year, for them to reveal their own love, and in an act of passion express mutually something which cannot be put to words. How harsh it is for that breath of delight to be immediately followed by the

LILY POPE

suffocation of that newly discovered intimacy. Love smothered by a pillow of insecurity. A new dawn rising after a long winter’s night, only to be immediately overcast by dark and violent clouds. The tenseness. The immediate stiffness which overcomes the lost love’s body when they realise they’re sharing a room with their most shameful secret. The facade of distraction and interest in blank walls which betrays the knowledge of an abandoned love’s presence. The rhythm of the dance of avoidance which eventually becomes their heartbeat. The separation of metres which feels like miles. Both of us putting between us physical space which stings like a knife. How puerile these metaphors

are. Whenever will nature make a proper man of me? I loved him. He loved me shortly. Then he loved me not. Continually the poetry flows out of my mouth, only to fall on deaf ears, as I stare into loveless eyes in which I once saw that curse which is desire.

MIMI NORTON

SOPHIA YAN

The Whiteboard The only thing left is the countdown That should say 87 DAYS TO GO, but DAYS is nearly erased, The entire board draped with stars and a bolt of lightning. Yesterday, the board was filled with ivy, and Before that our faces in expo marker; Poorly drawn caricatures hurting feelings, both intentionally and not. What will be there tomorrow Over the shadows of what is today? We lay claim to the board and the room, Denying that that weâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;re transient, That everyone else has their eyes on the next Band of semi-permanent kings, That our faces will slowly be erased from memories As they were from the board. When will we realize that life wonâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t stop when We are gone? Soon 87 will become 0 and The grass will grow back where We stood on the field, and All in white, we will join a wall of photographs, and the stars and lightning will disappear, and where will we be?

WRITTEN BY JOANNA LUMMUS ART BY KATHRYN MARSHALL

My Little Sister's Smile

WRITTEN BY PALMER KING ART BY LIANA MALINOWSKI

y little sister has such a pretty smile. Before she did, it was hard for a while.

My father went to war and our mother was a whore cause the second that he left she invited in another man. My little sister cried, I decided to ask her why, and she said that the man had touched her.

I asked her if she was sure of what she said and of course she nodded her head, because my little sister never lies. I went and talked to my mother but she could care less about another and so I decided to take care of it myself.

My little sister went to school with the tears still in her eyes, I wiped them away and made her laugh, not cry. When she laughs, she smiles, and when she smiles, all the while I cannot help but see how happy she can be.

Once she had left the house, and once I was sure she was gone, I counted to three, and grabbed my dad’s old gun. The man was in the living room and my mother on the floor, but I didn’t help her up because she was the one who let him through the door.

I called out to the man, who got up to beat me, shot him right through his gut, and boy was it filthy. Splattered out on the floor, my mother wailed by his corpse, but I couldn’t care less, she was hopeless at best I dragged her out by her hair, and split her wide open, said ‘this is for my sister’, who’s heart she had broken.

Then I cleaned up the bodies, disposed of the trash, hid from my little sister, the gross aftermath. And when she came home, we ate by the tv, just us two, happy as could be.

Dad died in the war, but she will not know, cause as long as I can help it, she will be happy and grow; Into a bigger, strong girl, still happy as can be, I’ll make sure she always smiles, always for me.

I love my little sister, so I’ll make sure she’s a happy child, I’m doing whatever it takes. No one will ever again her defile. My little sister has such a pretty smile.

An American Film By Sarah Packman

STEPHI HOWARD

O If you move the sand, it'll ruin the effect. 64

kay, try it again. We’re going to need you to jump a little higher and only step where there isn’t any sand, okay? If you move the sand, it’ll ruin the effect,” called the director. Nelson couldn’t see him due to the glaring spotlights that transformed everything beyond the edge of the set into a wasteland of painful white. Nelson, not knowing precisely where to look to make his reply, faced in what he hoped was a noncommittal direction and chirped back, “You got it, boss.” Nelson lumbered back through his route, which consisted of sections of gray concrete, roughly the length of his feet, peeking

through spots where gray sand had been cleared away. It wasn’t sand exactly, more like sand mixed with water and gravel and chewing gum. Behind the pseudo-sand was a black backdrop, painted here and there with tiny white dots. Nelson, who’d been admiring the scenery, told himself to focus. This was his first major role in a movie, and he was so terrified of wrecking it that he berated himself for not staying in character at all times. He reached the ladder toward the back of the set and started up. The ladder led to nowhere, but you couldn’t tell on camera. Nelson, being unjaded as he was, thought that was just magical, that a ladder could lead to nowhere

in real life but lead to somewhere on camera. “Ready to go, son?” the director barked, growing impatient. It was difficult for Nelson to move quickly in his puffy, white suit. “Yessir!” Nelson hollered once he reached the fifth rung. His exasperated co-star in the film was perched on the seventh rung, convinced they’d never get to the part of the scene where he actually entered. As the director bellowed “Action!”, Nelson started back down the ladder. “I’m gonna step off to land, now,” Nelson announced in a slightly southern drawl, proud of how he’d perfected his accent. His white, marshmallow-like boots made contact with the ground soundlessly, and he delivered the most crucial line in the whole film: “That’s one small step for man, and one giant leap for mankind.” ~~~~~ Later, after Nelson had gone home and the spotlights had been subdued, the director sat in the cutting room with several members of the editing team. The light from screens in front of him made the plastic NASA badge clipped to his collar gleam. There was no other light in the room. “Looks fantastic,” beamed the director at the head of the editing crew. “You think so? You really think it’s good enough to fool ’em?” “Oh, positively. People are so desperate to beat the Soviets, they’ll

HENRY SHARP

pretend they see anything at all,” stated the director matter-of-factly. “Gotta feel terrible for that actor guy, though. He was awfully excited to be here. A shame it would be too much of a security risk to let him live.” “A means to an end, my friend. A worthwhile means to an end.”

KATHRYN MARSHALL

KENDALL GREENE

NATHAN CHANG

2018 Lovett Signature Magazine