The Signature Magazine

Aiden Hahn, 12, "The King"

QR code to the film

Ansley Stibbs, 12 Untitled

Saigal, 10 "Open Wound"

Naya

Ansley Stibbs, 12

Untitled

Alex Chen, 11 Untitled

Finny Roach, 12 "Wheeling Rig"

Ava Brown, 11 "Planet Disco"

LEILA BEAVER

"The Mound" "44"

Ella Turner, Hadley Young, 10 Untitled

Anne Bost, 10, "Family Tree"

Deep brown branches stretch out towards the sky and come back to a strong unbreakable magnolia tree trunk. Its roots burrow into the ground and twist around soil sustained by decomposing organisms.

Magnolia flowers sit coolly in the hot southern weather. The white of their petals is browning and has gone soft and limp. They’re covered in almost human-like bruises that prickle with the dust of the crisped flower when pressure is put on them. A birth divine can fall to rotted glory in such a short time. A fate good as death sped along by the poison that feeds its growth. Rain and wind have weathered the surrounding ground as decades passed atop those rolling hills. There’s one specific magnolia there, wilting and dangling dangerously close to snapping off its vine and falling to the plump green grass. It squirms in the wind but seems its own proprietor. Trying constantly to separate itself from the pack, but something keeps it in its place because there is no leaving the magnolia tree. Its wilted petals droop lower until there is no fight left in it.

"Roosevelt"

Jillian Lee, 12,

Identity"

Christine Lee, 11, "Academic

Lauren Novellas, 12, "Himeric"

Rayna Walkins, 10

(Dear

Rayna,

We're sorry that last year we made you leave this artwork at school for a whole month so we could take a photo of it and that we never took a photo of it. In return, we're giving you this whole page. Please forgive us).

Lydia Wilson, 10, "The Tiger"

As one might assume, it is always good to have a tiger with you at the doctor. They will calmly sit next to you while they intimidate the frightening nurses, and they will let you hold their tails during the needles. For John, a child who had been plagued by a brain tumor his whole life, it was no different. On a Sunday afternoon, sitting in the waiting room once again, John had a realization. He spent every waking moment of his life afraid. Every day he was frightened and scared, unsure of who he was or wanted to be, or rather if he was living the life that he wanted. He felt he was losing himself to his sickness which consumed him.

Three years prior to John getting his tiger, he was being wheeled in for his tumor reduction surgery, something which had been digging at his mind for a while. He couldn’t quite find the strength to wake from the anesthesia, and that one week he was in the coma, most thought he wouldn’t make it. Yet again, he was weak and helpless just lying in his rickety bed while his parents waited and cried next to him.

The tiger was John's idea. He was sitting on the crinkled, leather couch which still smelled of the fruit loops he spilled last week, and he was watching the Jungle Book when he saw Sahere Khan. To John, it didn’t matter who Sahere was, but rather what he was. He was strong and powerful, two things John couldn’t be. He looked at this tiger with hope, a feeling that was new to John.

It is always a good idea to sleep with your tiger as well. Every time you have a nightmare, they will come to sit at the foot of your bed and wait until you are sound asleep. John used to have many nightmares, and his tiger was always purring softly under his bed, just loud enough for John to hear him.

John’s father left soon after the tiger came, leaving his mother to raise her 10-yearold son alone. Although she tried to hide it, John saw her fear, the same emotion he had once felt. After his dad left, John took it upon himself to become the man of the house. Although ill, John tried his best to do all the things his father used to do, to an extent. He couldn’t reach the green shelf where the wine glasses went, even if he was standing on his tiger, but he could run a pretty mean load of laundry while his furry friend played in the piles of dirty waitress uniforms on the floor.

It was sometime later that summer when his tiger turned 5 that John had his last surgery, but John wasn’t fearful this time for he knew he would wake up when the doctors wanted him to. He counted backward from ten falling asleep with blinding lights shining into his foggy, blue eyes.

Naya Saigal, 10, Untitled

Nastassja Panos, 12, "Veil"

Anika Valia, 11, "Taylor Swift"

Naya Saigal, 10, Untitled

Anne Bost, 10, "Clouded Perception"

Hunger nests in the valley of my stomach where birds sound alarms as their wings flap and squawks screech from their beaks. Sorrow rests on the crinkled skin between my quirked brows. It puts its bag down and makes its home there. It layers bricks and builds walls that hold down my crest fallen face and forces my eyes into a half-lidded position. My blue eyes are a boat riding the waves of regret. A clear ocean void of meaning. Hope sits on the creaking wood of the deteriorating boat. It’s the only thing that stands between hope and the threat of drowning underneath meters of weighted self-hatred. Uneasiness burrows lines into the peach-colored skin of my cheeks, lips tugging to a frown. Curiosity floats through the air and reaches my nose with the rushing wind. Acid seems to pool in my mouth, and I wonder, is any of this real? The screaming of my stomach steals my focus and distorts the surroundings into black and white with a flickering of red. I fear I’ve begun rotting before oxygen has left my lungs. My hand reaches out to catch the fleeting sunlight of the day. My skin is darkening and decomposing. My nails are withering and falling off. My bones are becoming weaker by the second and they shine through the thinning layer of skin andI snap back to reality.

Maybe I should eat something?

Sterling Halad,11 Untitled

Bennett Cauwenberghs, 12, "Brigona Capreolata"

Alicia Kim, 12

"An Escape"

Wells Stribling, 9, "Green and Yellow"

Andres Sosa, 11, "That Which Stares Back"

The war against the Darkeyes had been going on for 150 years. The grasslands of Terminus had become entirely barren and in some cases molten, fires spreading across the land and a singed glow illuminating the ground in the black nights. In the distance, the Darkeyes’ city let off a faint orange glow, and many of the skyscrapers had been reduced to rubble and iron bars.

I rested my head on my backpack, lying behind a wall of what remained of a Terminus home. I faced away from the scorched city, the towers of what we called home reaching tall into the sky and letting off a lighthouse gleam as the sun bounced off their peaks. A ray of light hit my eye, and I turned away from the city, blinded.

I shifted for a better position out of the sun, my rifle slipping off my chest, when I heard a rustling in behind the wall. The sounds of the rushing wind became muffled, and my ears could hear nothing else but the footsteps. Bm, bm, bmbm, bmbm, bm, bmbm. The steps lacked rhythm, I could not trace the location. Bm, bmbmbm, bm, bmbm. My heart exploded through my ears, the bright sun continuing to disorient me. Panic overcame, the sweat feeling heavy on my uniform, my hand on my trigger.

THIWP

A bullet slid through the wooden door, scraping the side of my leg. I fell to the ground and fired along the wall, the steps reaching around the house. I tumbled under a table in the house, loosening my grip, listening. Bm, bm, bm, bm. Rhythm. I aimed two inches in front of the steps, BAM.

I heard a tumble behind the wall. Blood seeped through a crack in the base of the wall, flowing into the floorboard where I was resting. I stepped out from under the table, and found my way to the door. Cautiously, I rounded the corner of the house, finding the body laying against the outside wall. I approached it, slowly. My heart pounded in my ears, and my chest was tight as I reached down to turn over the body.

Dark irises lay open, staring through me. Tears dried up on the boy's face and his breath was short. He beckoned me closer, letting out a soft whisper.

“It was not always this way, bright eyes”

A sharp pain pierced my leg, sending me back. A needle, half empty and full of brown serum, the Brighteyes emblem engraved on the glass.

“Wha- what did you do to me?!”

“One of us now… one of us…”

His voice trailed, his final breath seeping through his dry lips. One of us. My eyes began to twitch. One of us. A throbbing pain enveloped my head. One of us. I fell to my knees, my hands landing in the pool of blood. I stared at my reflection, but it was not the same. An abyss filled the eyes that stared back. Dark eyes.

Sylvie Heiner, 12, "Portrait"

Cleo Wynn, 10, "Panda"

Tyler Lamberson, 12, "A"

Ridley Richert & Spencer Hough, 12, "Mural Segment"

Would you look at that! Another QR code!

This one takes you to Ridley and Spencer's short documentary on the new mural in Rollins Garden! Cool!

Preston Lusink, 11 "Lake Pic"

Caroline Wood, 11

Maddy Demenkow, 10, Untitled

Anika Valia 11, "Ocean"

Ella Williams, 10, "On The Mourning Train"

I sat there, legs crossed, a book on my lap and my bags overhead. The weekly journey back to school should have become normal by now, but I found each time as tedious as the last. The chug and chuff of the train had become a constant rhythm as I stared out the window, watching the world go by. Snow fell outside, covering the world in a white blanket, creating an unsettling silence. The train screeched to a halt, interrupting the perfect rhythm to which I had become accustomed, and compartment doors opened and closed. Footsteps were heard on the platform outside, the quick impatient stomps of people with somewhere to be.

Three more stations to go.

The snowfall had turned into a blizzard, beating on the windows, trying to force itself into the carriage. I wrapped my coat tightly around myself and picked up my book as the wind howled through an open window some distance down the train. The chug and chuff of the train slowed as we approached. Doors opened and closed as the ritual loading and unloading of passengers began once again. Two more stations to go.

A man hobbled into my compartment, his hat pulled down over his face. He was wearing a long black jacket which was covered in specks of snow and he held a leather briefcase in his left hand as he gripped a walking stick in his right. He walked with the manner of a man who was accustomed to the many glances he received. He sat down across from me and made himself comfortable. Placing his briefcase and coat on the rack above; removing his hat to reveal a bony face, covered in paper white skin. He caught my glance and turned his head towards me, staring with beady eyes that popped out of his skull-like face. I returned quickly to my book to escape his glare. The train chugged on.

After some time had passed, I looked out the window, surprised to see that the snow had stopped to reveal jagged cliffs. But, this is not the landscape of my usual journey, I thought. My heart quickened, taking a long breath to become composed, convincing myself that this was merely a different route. Eventually, I summoned the courage to ask the old man where we were going.

“Excuse me sir, do you know where this train is heading?” I inquired. He slowly looked at me and replied, “nowhere”.

“Nowhere? What do you mean by nowhere?” my heart started to pound at his answer. His cold and suddenly sad eyes stared into mine, he sighed. “Nowhere. This train never stops, there are no more stations. You ride until your time is over.” He scratched his nose, unsettling his papery skin.“I have sat here for many years, so many I have lost count. Merely another soul the train has claimed.”, he paused regretfully, “Eventually you become a part of the train; discard your ticket, this is our final destination.”

Mary Mitchell

Lester, 12, "Drop Dead Gorgeous"

"Crazy in Love"

Watch these talented dancers in action by scanning this handy QR code!!

This awesome number was performed by:

Ella Williams (10), Yveliz Ortiz-Dennis (9), Anne Bost (10), Caroline Stratton (10), Lane Caldwell (10), Imani Kenner (11), Lyla Nelson (10), Katherine Aide (10), Georgia Hayes Kimberly (10), and last but not least... Katelyn Nixon (10)!!!

Myers Green, 12, "The Bitter Night"

Darkness comes with sorrowful sight

As subconscious creeps over the horizon projecting us towards the ‘might’

Failing to make us wisened. Sleep rules the being conquers life with stillness.

Takes away the seeing

To feed the one within us. We dream beyond our logic: ‘Beyond reasonable doubt’ returning from the exotic Back to gravity on the ground. The brain fails to fight invitation to a chanceless void with cliche bowed abroad the bitter night.

Gabi Janis, 12, "Fear Project"

The Signature loves its senior citizens!

Though a common misunderstanding, the underclassmen of the Signature staff LOVE their seniors! All three of their seniors, to be exact. The following few pages showcase super special senior student skill, from sculpting to sketching!

Aiden has been on THE Signature since 2021 and introduced to the publication (this year) QR codes so that the display of art is more accessible to everyone. She's been involved with Lovett film since freshman year, working under Mr. Silverman. Next summer Aiden plans on working with Quentin Tarantino not as an apprentice but as a collaborator and co-director.

Finny Roach. Finny ROACH. How to describe Finny Roach? Mr. Roach is not only, truly, one of the finest abstract artists in this institution,, but he's also a proud "self-taught artist" (Mrs. Story disapproves of this self-proclamation).

Signature staff since 2020

"Big Three"

HERE HE IS!!!!!!!

check out his senior project!

As a multi-year visual arts student, Finny Roach is not only the fastest worker that this school has likely ever witnessed, but also one of the most memorable. During a typical class period in Honors Visual Arts Period 4 (HVAP4), it is not unusual to walk in the room to Finny aggressively dumping paint on a canvas (literally - and lots of it), or concocting a vicious plan to prank one of his fellow students. We love Finny Roach!

Untitled "Charlotte"

Ansley "Ansely" Stibbs has been involved with Lovett's Visual Fine Arts since 7th grade. Even though she has an awful habit of never naming her pieces, Stibbs maintains impressive artistic skills, with her untitled piece of a hand study was selected to be displayed in the Dogwood Art Festival this year. No one would've guessed!

Your mere existence is an ax to my sanity. When we met, I was young. Younger than one should remember this type of pain. Glass shattering in bathrooms just down the hall From where I tried to sleep. Mirrors cracking along the walls Of where you once combed my hair with a gentle hand, And a loving glance.

Your mere existence is an ax to my sanity. When we played you would laugh, but it was nothing more than a hoax. A brief pause in our existence, trying to say Help. We should not have met. I did not really have much of a choice though, did I? Neither did you. The same mirrors you once looked in Laughed in your face.

Telling you it was time. Your mother’s shadow still looming over U

Your mere existence is an ax to my sanity. When I tell you I love you, it happens in halves. Halves that are unsure. Halves that are sure. Half of this soul is mine, the other one is yours. We are one in the same. Maybe that’s why you can’t stand to look in the mirror Because you know my half belongs to me. Not you. Your mere existence is an ax to my sanity. Yet I find myself here. Bleeding. Crying. Running. Hiding.

But I still call out for you to come and find me. And when you do, just for a secondI see in your eyes, a half of your soul that I will never know, Never understand, But choose to love anyways. Even as you tear me to pieces. I am the ax you hold And the branch you split. Your mere existence is an ax to my sanity.

Caroline Liu, 10, "Ax"

Eva Rouland, 12, "Ava"

Sterling Halad, 11, "Helping Hand"

Christine Lee, 11, "Untitled"

Sylvie Heiner, 12, "The Game of Life"

Rayne Hicks, 10, "Red Solo Cup"

This beach, unnamed, maybe named, sat in a private corner where the passion of the Pacific Ocean embraced and collided with unchanging rocks and pale sands. The sands welcomed a foot ardently, providing a soft, heated cushion for any lone wanderer. Oftentimes, however, the footprint of even one stranger was a rare sighting. The citizens of the nearby town kept their distance as the currents of the water tended to tug the unfortunate far out to sea. The rocks only sealed their fate. Her dad brought the family here back when they were like a stock image. All smiles and a dog. She’d pranced around the beach playing with her siblings while her dad played “Red Solo Cup” on repeat. Her father was the type of man to do that: play obscure music with a booming laugh and inviting smile. He would grab his own cup, embracing it comedically, and sing along, saying, “ believe me that I am not the least bit sarcastic, When I look at you and say, Red solo cup, you're not just a cup, You're my friend.” His charisma glued them together, and it was his charisma that she, as a young girl, copied. By the end of a day on the beach, she could’ve performed a one-woman Toby Keith show with the same booming laugh and inviting smile, and as the song placed the family under blissful elation, the memory seared into the sands and water. Today, she sat on the same sand at the same beach. She brought only herself and her speaker. Her family had abandoned their stock image glamor and divided into two households. Dad’s charisma got too ambitious. The memory on the beach, just like the beach’s usual visitors, now stood in solitude. Sitting in the sand, she placed her speaker nearby and played “Red Solo Cup.”

The voice thundered the same lyrics her dad once had. The song’s course swept by quickly, and the girl was once again in the sands in quiet solitude. There was no blissful elation, booming laughs, or siblings to play with. She didn’t sing along with the music and instead felt the beating of her own heavy heart as she realized the beach where she sat was a facade of the one she once knew.

Still, the beach’s wind embraced her, but she began to walk away, observing the water. She was a strong swimmer and thought of swimming, just for a while, just to be, for a moment, consumed. However, she decided against it, not wanting to be pulled further from safety than she already was. Her thoughts quieted, and she celebrated the beauty of the beach that she did once know. The alluring, dangerous crashes and the hum of the wind-carried sand filled her ears. Its beauty, however, was no longer hers. Leaving the speaker behind, she departed, unlikely to return, and walked back to the town where her mother sat waiting for her.

Ava Brown, 11,

Ava Vinci, 12, Untitled

Cleo Wynn, 10,

Eva Rouland, 12, "Sunbathing"

Maddy

Demenkow, 10, Untitled

Scarlett Rouland, 9, Untitled

Maddy Demenkow, 10, "Untitled"

Walkins, 10, "Untitled"

Rayna

Ansley Stibbs 12, "Reckoning"

He was told the children understood English. It was the first day he realized the lie in this. Taking this job went against his usual logicality – he knew this. Back in the States, he had a stable existence, though usually monotonous and somewhat drab. His decision to leave took but a moment, when he found himself standing inside his house completely alone; the dazzling afternoon light through the windows mockingly illuminated him, taunted his personal shortcomings. He felt there was a thrill, a disorder to life he did not understand. So he left.

The school, located outside of a small, multicultural European town, needed a teacher. If they couldn’t find one, it would be disbanded. So they took whoever they could find, and who they found was him.

He gave a personal introduction, one he thought children may enjoy. Quickly, he understood the futility in this. He believed their expressions to be enrapturement towards his unfamiliar face and accent, but that wasn’t the case. They simply did not understand a word he was saying.

He panicked. Each wave of uncertainty he had suppressed for weeks bubbled up in his chest. He continued with arithmetic, which went less than smoothly, but nothing could have prepared him for the disaster of reading comprehension. Accepting defeat, he raised his arm towards the door, signaling lunch. When the last child exited, he realized he had sweat clean through his dress shirt.

He trudged into the courtyard, dizzy and perplexed. But then, the situation’s miraculousness struck him. Of course they had not understood me, he realized, watching the children play silent yet elaborate games of Pictionary. Of course they didn’t know what I was saying, as he watched their faces contort as if putting on a play. There were giggles and half-words, but no sentences. He looked at their features, the color of their hair, the movement of their limbs. He gaped at their stark dissimilarities. Fifteen different children, fifteen different cultures, fifteen different languages.

It got easier. He learned their language of pronounced movements and expressions. He became a far better artist than before. To the outsider, the children would have appeared simple. The directness of their communication is read as non-academic, unintellectual. Perhaps weeks before he would have thought this, but no longer. That was before he witnessed tears shift to fits of laughter through the deliberate movement of an arm, or the sworn seriousness of a pinky promise.

It was never meant to last forever; his bags were packed, his flight booked. As the children filed out of the room for a final time – grasping his shoulder, flashing him bittersweet grins – he turned to his desk with faint tears in his eyes. There was a large sheet of paper with a single heart on the front; he opened it. Inside was a portrait of the sixteen of them – him in the middle –drawn with such care and beauty that his breath caught in his throat. He found he was unable to speak.

Trick Marshall, 12, "Rosemary"

Daley Bowman, 10, Untitled

Madison Walker, 12, "The Possible"

Tyler Lamberson, 12, "Sunday Drive"

Jennie Matos, 11, "She's Lost Inside the Lens of Paris"

Naya Saigal, 10, "The Remnants"

What stood in front of Jane was a mutilated version of Axel, whose uniform had been stretched and torn to expose grayish green skin. His teeth had fallen out of place, his incisors sticking out above his lower lip. There were human bite marks in his neck where teeth had torn him open. The most unsettling part of his disheveled appearance were his eyes. A hazy white fog showed through his corneas, making him seem not completely there, but rather focusing on something in the middle distance. Even though his messy dark hair was now soaked with blood, somehow Jane still managed to find it attractive. Her crush had become infected with a virus that extinguishes all brain signals except for the primal urge to feed, mentally killing the victim.

Axel used to sit across from her in chemistry class, making it hard to focus on the whiteboard. Jane vividly remembered the times he had asked for a pencil or charger, and how after every class he would ask what period was next (even though every time it was 3), hoping that he wasn't just forgetful and that really he just wanted to talk to her. But, she knew that her hormones were just making her delusional. Now, the two stared at each other, paralyzed. The door to the classroom was wide open, yet Jane stayed put. Instead of launching after her, even though Axel was more than close enough to get a good bite, he simply stood there, eyes lazily pointed in her direction.

Jane wondered if the boy she had liked for just over three years still remained within. Did he recognize her? Was that why he did not devour the meat standing before him? Or was this just a delayed reaction to the virus? Did it take a minute for it to fully hijack the brain?

Surely these could not be the same beautiful black eyes that she had spent so many class periods staring into (making sure to look away whenever he looked back towards her). Finally, her instincts took over and she stepped into the hallway. Standing just beyond the threshold, she took one last look at him then ran, hearing the door shut behind her.

Jane dashed across the hall and down all three stories to get to the basement, wondering where this speed was when she was running the mile.

Oddly, she didn’t hear footsteps following her, not understanding why she wasn’t being chased. Did Axel save her, even without consciousness? Or did Jane just choose to believe he did?

As she slammed the metal door shut, listening to the faded groans and screams of her classmates, she remembered that she wasn’t the one who closed the door to the classroom; Axel must have shut it for her, protecting her from himself.

Sterling Halad, 11, "Untitled"

Graysen Stratton, 10, "Beatrice"

I look around and I see white everywhere White walls White floors and a whole bunch of White people

I grew up with White walls

Back then I didn’t care what color the walls were I was thriving I was happier Until my environment changed

But now It seems I'm in the same hallways With different walls

No one can see what I see Or hear what I hear

But I’m surrounded by walls So I get why no one can sense me

I find it quite a struggle Trying to bridge the gap between the old me and the new one

All I need Is to go back to how thing used to be

And when I could just be Me

So I wrote a letter to the past me In hopes of finding myself again

Dear old me, Without you I feel empty A goal With no net Feels

My life was Broken, Shattered, Like puzzle pieces In my head

I can no longer fit Will you Help me heal

Stay with me

Let’s enjoy life

Like we used to Like a star

Stealing sun

Shooting through the sky

Burning up together

Jennie Matos 11

"Yeah, I Guess the End is Here"

Corinne Davie, 12, "Atlanta"

Maddie Boatright, 10, "Doll Shop"

“Welcome,” I heard a friendly voice say as I entered the doll shop with my mom. My dad wanted to take me to get a new doll for my birthday, but my mom insisted that she should take me so my father could finish packing for our upcoming vacation. I was glad that my mom wanted to take me, because my dad told me that she was jealous of the amount of time he’d been spending with me lately.

“Hi, I’m here to buy a doll for my daughter,” my mom said as we entered the shop before turning to me. “Go pick out a doll you’d like, sweetie,” she whispered before disappearing to go talk to the man who greeted us.

I walked around and looked at all of the beautiful dolls, only focused on how excited I was that one of them was going to be mine. But, there was one in particular that drew my eye. She had almost human-like features. Just when I went to pick her up, she grabbed my hand with her smooth porcelain one, and in a low voice she said to me, “whatever you do, don’t go into the back.” In the blink of an eye she was a doll again; I couldn’t help but feel like I was imagining things. Just then my mother approached me. “How’s it going,” she asked. “See anything that you like?”

“This one’s pretty,” I answered.

“She is,” my mom agreed. “But don’t decide on one just yet. The owner got a new shipment of dolls this morning. He’s offered to take us to the back to see them.”

My stomach dropped as I thought about what the doll told me. I didn’t want to risk anything, so I said, “No mom, that’s okay I really like this one.”

“We can’t turn down his offer, it would be rude,” my mother said in an almost threatening tone. I felt her cold hand grip mine as she rushed me into the back where I finally saw the face of the friendly voice.

“Hi little doll. I need to go grab the shipment, don’t move,” he said with a creepy smile, causing an unsettling feeling to rush through my body. “Would you two like some water while you wait?”

Before I could decline, my mother responded for both of us. “We would love some.”

The man grabbed two cups and handed them to us. I was pretty thirsty so I had a sip, noticing that the liquid in the cup tasted funny.

“Give me one second to grab those dolls,” the man said and disappeared rather quickly.

In an instant I heard my mother whisper to me, “I’m sorry honey, it looks like it’s just going to be me and your father on this trip,” and then everything went black. ***

As I woke up I heard a voice say, “I told you so,” and looked over to discover the doll from earlier on the shelf next to me.

Parker Vedell, 12, "Nicky"

Isabella DeNapoli, 12, "Lake pic II"

Emory Black, 10, Untitled

Corinne Davie, 12

"Waco, TX"

Ava Vinci, 12 "Lush"

Olivia Pryor, 11, "She Wears Many Hats"

Kamryn Washington

12, New Orleans #1

12, New Orleans #2

Nick Roesel, 11, "A Heart That Gave Hope"

Hope always seemed to be my greatest weakness.

Deflated balloons, stuffed animals, and cards exhibiting the phrase “get better soon” cluttered together covered in layers of dust as they sat near the window, which let in a dull misty light into the children's hospital room. It’s been 14 months since she was declared to be in a coma; everyone had already given up on my baby girl…Iris. “Jacob, look at me.” Enzo, my husband of nearly 7 years, woke me from my daze of listening to the beep of the monitor, bobbing my head in cadence to make sure there was no deviation in its rhythm. Beep, Beep, Beep.

“You need to eat something. I can stay up here while you go down to the cafeteria; I heard there’s apple pie.” There was concern in his eyes, but he smirked, anticipating that it would somehow prompt me to leave the chair that I’d sunken into for the past 9 hours. Beep, Beep, Beep. I shifted my gaze from him toward the monitor and then to Iris, to affirm that the ventilator was still breathing for her. Enzo tugged at the sleeve of my brown zip-up hoodie that I’d been wearing for the last 3 days to grasp my attention.

“Don’t touch me!” It was a contentious tone I hadn’t used since the accident; he didn’t deserve that. “I’m sorry… and you're right.” I gripped the handrail as I slowly left the room and stepped down the stairs with stiff legs into the cafeteria. There wasn’t any apple pie, but I ate anyway, and soon, felt like I could breathe again. At an even heavier pace this time, I shuffled back up the stairs into Iris’s hallway. I stopped. There were doctors rushing into the room, and my husband was bawling right outside.

2 hours passed when my husband finally found me hiding from the truth in one of the pews of the chapel struggling to breathe. “Brain death,” he whispered. Enzo didn’t say anything else except, “There's a boy with congenital heart disease 5 rooms down from us. He needs a heart, and,” he paused, “our Iris is a match.” You could see the wet residue path that his tears made on his face, but he wasn’t crying anymore. I opened my mouth to speak, but nothing came out, instead, I shook my head. “We should see her,” he said in response. We both escorted each other up to the room, but I couldn’t enter. In the doorway, I was still able to see the same scene I saw 3 hours ago: my daughter's eyes still shut, the ventilator still breathing for her, and the “get better soon” cards still dusty and useless. I turned my head to the left at the sound of sobbing and noticed 2 parents hugging 5 rooms down from Iris’s. I recognized the look in their eyes - hope. Slowly, I turned my head back at Enzo and nodded in approval to say our final goodbyes.

Addison Scott, 12, "North GA"

Graysen Stratton, 10, "Lifeguard Stand"

Malia Allmon, 10, Everything Matters

Logan Schwartz, 11, Untitled

Caroline Liu, 10, "So Long"

Even from down the block, Este could still hear her mother’s pleading with her father, but it was too late. “Too late, too late. Too. Late,” she muttered to herself. Este had gone for a walk, even though it was just starting to rain, and she’d inevitably be clomping around in the mud, turning her dark-green shoes a disgusting shade of brown. She stopped at a friendly-looking park bench- not yet too damp from the rain. It was the perfect place to avoid studying for her history test. Then she heard it- an engine coming to life, a quick left turn, and a dream saying goodbye.

It had not even been one year since they first moved to Chicago, and her father had already left. Before they immigrated to the US, her mother had told her that they would leave at the first sign of trouble, but this was a lie. There were months of ‘trouble,’ but Mom continued to ignore it, even as they watched the protesters march down their street from the window, the military tanks that rolled after them, and soldiers opening fire on the crowd. It was only when one of their guns was pressed to her forehead, that her mother decided it was time to go. Two feet, armored in dark green sneakers her aunt had given her for her 15th birthday, braved the blood-caked soil, searching for something new.

Parting was easy, but living through was hard. “In America, you can do this, in America, you can do that,” but nowhere in her father’s hopeful words when they first reached the immigration offices could she sense the sad, cold truth, which she now knew: “In America, you can do this, if you have the money. In America, you can do that, if you speak their language. In America, you can do anything- if you fit their mold.”

Este watched as her father’s car flew by, her world becoming smaller with each passing second. It was almost like a piece of her left in that car. Not a piece of her that was tied to her father, she was never quite fond of him anyways, but perhaps, something else. It was her past. Summers filled with fresh fruit and giggling cousins. Days in the tropical heat, small beads of sweat pooled on her forehead. Even now, in cold Chicago’s winter breath, she could feel home, reaching out to grasp her hand.

The leaves could change, snow could fall, and her father could come back, but Este would continue to long for her past, where she wanted to be.

When she returned from her walk, Este was met with the dull sight of her history textbook, taunting her from the desk. Somewhere between its pages, thoughts became tattoos on a reeling mind. Parting was easy. Parting was quick. In America, life should have been easy. Happiness should have come quickly. Living through was so long. Forgetting herself was so long.

A note?

From the editors?

Oh boy!

Signature Staff 2023

A note (from the editors):

Thanks for reading The Signature 2023! We got some really great art in this edition. We hope you enjoyed these arts – we certainly did. Art is great. Especially when it's made by Lovett students! You guys should keep making art... so we can keep putting it in The Signature. Ok that's it. Bye!

INDEX

A: Maria Allmon (73)

B:

Leila Beaver (6)

Emory Black (67)

Maddie Boatright (64, 65)

Daley Bowman (58)

Anne Bost (8, 18)

Ava Brown (5, 50)

G:

Myers Green (34)

H:

Aiden Hahn (2, 38, 39)

Sterling Halad (20, 46, 53, 61)

Lia Heard (50)

Rayne Hicks (48, 49)

Spencer Hough (27)

C: Bennett Cauwenberghs (20)

Alex Chen (4)

Isabelle Cheroff (47)

D:

Corinne Davie (63, 67)

Maddy Demenkow (15, 29, 54, 55)

Isabella DeNapoli (66)

Nicholas Holland (62)

J:

Gabi Janis (35)

Davis Jones (25)

K:

Alicia Kim (21)

Elise Kuzniak (52)

L:

Tyler Lamberson (26, 60)

Christine Lee (10, 14, 19, 46)

Jillian Lee (9)

Mary Mitchell Lester (32)

Caroline Liu (44, 77, 78)

Preston Lusink (28)

M:

Trick Marshall (58)

Jennie Matos (65)

N:

Lauren Novellas (10, 25)

P:

Nastassja Panos (16)

Olivia Pryor (70)

R:

Ridley Richert (27)

Finny Roach (5, 40, 41)

Nick Roesel (72, 73)

Eva Rouland (45, 52)

Scarlett Rouland (54)

S:

Naya Saigal (3, 12, 13, 16, 17, 32)

Logan Schwartz (76)

Addison Scott (74)

Andres Sosa (22, 23)

Ansley Stibbs (3, 4, 42, 43, 56, 57)

Greyson Stratton (63, 74)

Wells Stribling (21)

V:

Anika Valia (17, 29)

Parker Vedell (66)

Ava Vinci (51, 70)

W:

Madison Walker (59)

Rayna Walkins (11, 55)

Kamryn Washington (71)

Caroline Wood (28)

Ella Williams (30, 31)

Lydia Wilson (12, 13)

Cleo Wynn (26, 51)