Cacophony 2022 Marcus High School Literary Magazine
Cacophony r SPECIAL EDITION r
Dear Reader, We would like to thank you for reading our 2022 Literary Magazine, Cacophony. Our school boasts many talented writers, artists and photographers, and this was reflected in the pieces that were submitted. Choosing which ones to present in our book was no easy task, so we would like to thank all of the amazing students who submitted their work. The name of this year’s theme, Cacophony, usually carries a negative connotation — it signifies a mixture of melodies that differ so much from each other that the overall sound is conflicting. Jarring. Complex, overpowering. However, the word perfectly encapsulates what it is to be a teenager. Our emotions run high, fluctuating between euphoria and heartbreak. There are rarely in-betweens. We find out that the person we like likes us back, and we’re walking on clouds. We get rejected and we’re sobbing into our pillows and swearing off love forever. Our most common mode of handling and expressing overpowering emotions is music. As we get older, our headphones become our biggest escape. Because the right song sums up our angst and exhilaration in ways that we often cannot ourselves. This is why we chose to base this year’s magazine around music — music is a flowing, bursting well of sound, as is the art and writing that we have chosen. The pieces are split into four categories that correspond with different music genres. The result is a Cacophony of ideas and feelings. Again, we would like to thank all of our amazing authors, artists and photographers, as their vulnerability and creativity are what enable us to have a magazine. We also want to thank our readers like you. The magazine would not be possible without your support. Sincerely, The Marcus High School Literary Magazine staff
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2022 Lit Mag Staff s Jennifer Banh Skylar Cahoone Marie Dacunos
Ruby Dilts Emma Dulworth 2
LaJuana Hale Saloni Mistry
Muna Nnamani Zee Nnamani Jay Schoenrade
Alex Thornfelt 3
Table of Contents Hype Any Old Day - Sloane Burpo 08 Beloved - Kaelen A. Reed 10 February - Nidhi Ravala 12 June - Caroline Ferguson 15 My Greatest Treasure - Reagan Jaworski 17 Pop Rocks - Emma Simmons 18 Shades of Yellow - Nidhi Ravala 21 Snowscape - Ruby Dilts 22 The Girl in the Mirror - Ruby Dilts 25 One, Two, Three - Tori Montz 26
Grunge Impaired - Jade Maddox 30 May by Sloane Burpo 33 Mountain Poem - Cat Santana 35 Ponyo My Old Friend - Emma Simmons 36-37 Story of Josh’s Birthday - Josh Neth 38-39 The Spirit of White - Jay Schoenrade 40 Youth is a Concept - Jay Schoenrade 42-43 Respect Your Elders - Nidhi Ravala 44 4
Sad Boi Hours Biting Off Less Than I Can Chew - Sue Ridyah 48 Decay - Oliver Cother 51 isola - Kyla Hughes 53 excitement - Maddy Butler 54 I Can’t - Nidhi Ravala 55 For Abuela - Sloane Burpo 56 October - Jade Maddox 57 Daddy Issues - Jay Schoenrade 59 A Poem For You - Ashley Gamache 61 I lost myslef to a dream - Faith Garland 62 The Lacking Sibling - Caitlyn Aiena 64-65
Chill The Tide - Maddy Butler 68 Nature - Max Yerganian 69 Listen - Tori Montz 70 Eyes of Nature - Caroline Ferguson 72 Unfamiliar Woods - Emma Simmons 74 Golden Tipped Mountains - Catelyn Aiena 75 5
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Leaning back in the passenger seat of your best friend’s car. The sun melts on your face as you belt the lyrics to a pop song that was popular in elementary school. You are sundrenched and surrounded by synthesized sound, and nothing can hurt you.
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Any Old Day By Sloane Burpo
The dirt was purple and the sky was red. The hills were yellow and mossy. Our wooden gate was brilliant orange to match the crimson sky. Cows were pink, cats were green, bees were blue like trees. The ink on the page was stark white and the page was black as the gecko. The house and the boat, made of lavender birch, were both barren and desolate. The shrimp in the water were dark and stormy, but the ocean was pink like your cheeks. The roses were copper and your eyes were gray. We sat on the golden ground near the ocean bank.
It was a day like any other, But oh, my dear lover, You are not any other.
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Art by Mary Hannemann
Photo by Molly Patrick
Beloved By Kaelen A. Reed
she’s a special little thing, how odd to say for how common she is. he’ll never be as grand as a bouquet of roses tied up with a red silk ribbon, nor as peculiar as the skeleton flower; but i adore him anyway. because i remember so many years ago. in that wide grass field with an time-old church settled somewhere in the middle. there were thousands of you, all saying hello from their comfort in the dirt. and then there were the crowns and chains— we made so many of them. not with mystifying silver or confident gold, but with fragile green stems, softly weaved together. not encrusted with bold rubies or glowing diamonds, but with soft petals joined with a sweet yellow heart. really, you’re just a daisy. the most casual of blooms. not really any kind of interesting flower, but it doesn’t matter, because you’re just a daisy. and i adore you. 11
February By Nidhi Ravala
It’s red, pink, and white
Red— velvet, and roses, and eyes rubbed raw.
Pink— cheeks, blushing hard wilted petals, balloons—popped
White— chocolate, dark, and milk handed in boxes, or bags, or bare
It’s pink, and red, and white— It’s February. It’s love— It’s lonely. It’s that time of year.
Photo by Scott Lee
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Photo by Natalie Hildebrand
June By Caroline Ferguson
Oh, this sweet, sweet month This time of is my favorite time of all It’s summer When all the birds are singing-songs You run up and down the streets playing games But run out of the street with cars come Oh, I can’t wait to see June! Come and grace me with your presence Let’s spend all day sipping frozen lemonade Splashing in the pool at night because it felt different when the stars were out Then running back inside when we hear an owl but still get scared Oh June remember when we ding-dong-ditched the neighbors Remember when we had a baking contest Remember when our time was almost over and your sister July would come The hot sun blazing down on us The family vacations you tagged along on The nights we spend star gazing The mornings we begged my mom to make pancakes How when we turned on Disney Channel And it was on the summer-special promotions Oh how I miss you June! I can’t wait to see you this year.
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Photo by Brianna Orlando
My Greatest Treasure By Reagan Jaworski
It’s not something you hold or touch My greatest treasure Is something I feel My greatest treasure Is something I know My greatest treasure Is knowing that I am loved My greatest treasure Is being able to face down adversity with a smile My greatest treasure Is all that I have…
Pop Rocks By Emma Simmons Pop Rocks dance in my mouth, popping and fizzing sending tingle-tangling sugar drops to my white glass teeth Sweet like young love, the reds and pinks of Valentines day gifts, little fireworks dissolve on my tongue. Crystals of red cherry resemble ruby gems, before sticking to my stained lips Nectarous and new, each whiz and fizz sends electric waves of flavor and sensation. The crack and snap of garnet gleaming joy is my beloved
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candy crystalline confection.
Photo by Natalie Hildebrand
by Ben BenCapellan Capellan Art by
Shades of Yellow By Nidhi Ravala
golden nails, chipping at the edges, buttery popcorn, fresh and hot, oil bubbling in a fryer,
about to spill,
#2 wooden pencils, shaved down to half their size, gold medals and certificates, hung on the wall, the fur on a golden retriever,
ruffling in the air as he runs,
the color of joy, reflecting off the burning sun–
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snowscape By Ruby Dilts white, pure white glowing, growing— a glorious sight each minuscule flake binds to the next creating a blanket of innocence, rest what once lay speckled with trees and grass now appears a sea of white glass f
b
a
d
e
s
what was a
w
a
y what is, takes its place what will be, slumbers
the blanket of rest e the sea of white glass n e a t h what is, now what was — blanket tossed away, glass fractured every hue reignited! to something grand, something new.
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Photo by Nick Peters
Art by Erika Fernandez
By Ruby Dilts
The Girl in the Mirror
“I’m lighter!” my best frenemy Brittany said. No response from the studio full of dancers. “Guys! I’m lighter! I think it would be better to lift just me.” My trademark side eye was enough to shut her up, but the words had already been said. Brittany and I had been double cast as Clara, the lead role in The Nutcracker, and our seventh grade selves were rather lacking in maturity and tact. Fast forward to contemporary rehearsal about a month later. We were both lifted at different times in the dance. She frequently complained to our teammates that I was too heavy for the stunt. It wasn’t until an older, elite level dancer pulled her aside that she snubbed the snide comments. I’ve been told my body is a gift. Sometimes I believe it, sometimes I don’t. They say it’s a tool, something to be valued and taken care of. In the dance world though, the opposite is often amplified. Our directors never intervened in these situations. To me, this reinforced the idea that my body was not the ideal dancer body. That it really wasn’t a dancer body at all. My mom had always wanted a little girl who was a dancer, but my dad was adamant that dancing had to be my dream rather than hers. At the time, my dad was a high school principal. My family would frequently tag along when he had football game duty on Friday nights and I’d spend most of the night trailing behind the pretty girls in red lips and sequined uniforms. This fascination was my mom's green light to put me in a dance class. What started as a four year old ballet class ignited into a lifelong passion. I’d ask my mom daily if it was dance day and walk away dejected if it wasn’t. Eventually, every day became dance day, and I was elated. Dance had always been my safe space, but comments like Brittany’s stirred the pot of insecurity. Clad in nothing but spandex in front of
floor-to-ceiling mirrors twenty hours a week, my demise was inevitable. I knew that nourishing my body was the only way it would be able to meet my demands, but my insecurity threatened to boil over like a pot of water. My mom told me that I should be grateful for my body and proud of my muscular figure, but I didn’t buy it. Sure, those muscles were the reason l was frequently referred to as a powerhouse by judges on the competition circuit, but I didn't always appreciate their appearance. I’d never have that graceful Rockette figure, and I hated myself for it. While I wasn’t overweight, I thought my thighs should be smaller. My stomach should be flatter. I needed to be thinner. I’d ignore hunger in the name of thinning myself. Thinning myself to look more like the dancers who found success. Industry ideals don’t favor 5’2”, 130 pound, muscular girls. My own nagging thoughts swirled like storm clouds in my brain. I realized though, that if I’d never have a ballerina body, striving for it was futile. I wasn’t sure I’d ever find a place in this industry, but I knew I had to try. I began to notice dancers who looked like me— short and strong. They were booking jobs in L.A., dancing in commercials, and teaching professionally. I started believing that I could find a place in this industry too. Rather than loathing my body for its lack of ethereal elegance, I began to thank it for the power and strength it allowed me to dance with. I stopped looking at the girl in the mirror with disappointed eyes, and instead thanked my reflection for being exactly what it was. I’m grateful for an industry that’s growing to make room for dancers of all body types, but I’ve learned that my value doesn’t lie in industry standards. My talent isn’t defined by the number on the scale, and I’m just as worthy of food as the next girl.
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One, two, three By Tori Montz One:
Three:
A kid with a mask
A boy with dark hair
Cautious and face clasped
Whining about life unfair
Never close, never near
Rules suck, they really do
Never losing his fear
So why should he follow a rule that isn’t true?
He sees a kid lack
He tries to change the status quo
Protection against death in black
But no one listens to a boy who doesn’t grow
Turns away to hide his worry
So he tries to grow, to try again
Over a kid that is now blurry
Forgets his goal of before and then
Humming a tune
A chorus sings
A funeral song coming soon
“Everybody has clipped wings”
Two:
We all have fears
A girl, brave and stupid
We all have hopes
Hoping for wealth and love from Cupid
We all have dreams
Finds a guy,
We all have nightmares
With golden tan and blue dye,
We never give up
Like a warrior of long gone
We never give in
Strong and brawn
We all want the same thing
Love comes, love goes
Hopes and dreams and fears and nightmares
Tries again, another dried rose
We all just need to listen to the voice inside
Sings a song
We all need to hear the song in our heart
A prayer to love and to belong
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Photo by Riley Moon
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Stomping around your room as music that you didn’t think you were the kind of person to listen to screams through your headphones. You are burning up, and the guitar riffs are the only things that will understand. You grit your teeth with every crashing cymbal.
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Impaired By Jade Maddox
She hates this god-fearing house She hates herself She hates everyone They all are purges to her.
Too much pain and tried taking it away Thinking it's the only way to cope. All she ever gets is screams. The screams are so powerful she cannot fight them, She tried to defend herself but was so weak.
All they ever do is fight with words, There is no love at all for the house. All it is just screams, aggressiveness, and pain. Is this what you call a family
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Oh, wait! too mentally ill for them.
Photo by Van Pui
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Photo by Thomas Cruz
May By Sloane Burpo It is stuck to my skin on the walk out the school— A thick, sweaty reminder of summer fast approaching. It is not just any spring. It is spring in Texas. It is wilting on the bus ride home. It is your laughing bus driver with apparently no one else to talk to. It is PRACTICALLY-summer-we-just-can’t-SAY-it-yet— It is dragging me through the door for three more weeks. It is the last show of the season. It is final projects, final reviews, final notice— PLEASE-make-sure-ALL-your-work-is-turned-in-REMEMBER-your-FINALEXAMS-only-count-for-FIFTHTEEN-PERCENT-of-your-final-grade— It is the last week. It is lunchroom chatter. It is UGH-I-can’t-WAIT-for-this-to-be-OVER-EXAMS-have-been-KICKING-my— It is summer plans. It is fourth period I-can’t-TAKE-anyMORE-of-this— It is short goodbyes, as if we’ll see each other next week. It is a long, late Texas spring dripping into a long, lonely Texas summer. It is the first of many times you text ___________________ ( hey u free this weekend ) \/ And it is the first of many times they respond _____________________________ ( omg i wish i could :*[ im going 2b on ) vacation 4 the next 2 weeks \/ And so it goes. The rot begins.
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Photo by Brennan Bailey
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Mountain Poem By Cat Santana
The chill of the air, The chunks of ice floating In the water, ripples moving slowly Making the water seem still * The wind moving the snow, Across the rocky mountains, And smoothly settling down Fragile to a single sound, The cloudy sky above Just below the peaks, standing high, As loose snow falls below, * An icy cliff standing between Looking as if an avalanche came, With a snow and ice mix slanted down, No sounds but creatures that live there No place for humans to live.
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Ponyo My Old Friend By Emma Simmons
One of my all time favorite movies is Ponyo, animated and directed by the amazing Studio Ghibli. Ghibli is known for its nostalgic and stunningly beautiful movies, and Ponyo has always been with me throughout my life. It follows the story of a Ponyo, a girl who falls in love with a boy, and she ends up sacrificing her magical powers just so she can be with him. One of my fondest memories was even when I was eating cheap ramen with my sister, sitting on her floor. Watching the story of a small fish girl fall in love. The main character in Ponyo is a little boy named Sasuke. Sasuke is naive but kind hearted and always has Ponyo’s well being at heart. Each time I see him, I think of my old friend Noah, an equally naive and kind boy. Upon reflection of my elementary school years, I think I might have been in love with him. But I was only 7 and couldn’t have possibly known anything about complex feelings. Noah was my best friend during the early stages of my life. I lived across from him, in a cushy middle class neighborhood, and we did everything together. We would roam the streets, playing with toy cars and Transformer action figures. I’m not sure if I actually liked playing with those toys. But I did like playing with Noah, so I indulged in his favorite games. Each day we would do what Noah wanted to do. I would push him in a wagon up and down hills, and we would dig through his mothers perfectly curated baskets of snacks for sweets that my mom would never buy for me. My only problem with Noah is that he never wanted to do what I wanted to do. I would want to play with dolls but he hated all things girly, so we played with toy trains instead. This was the most minor of incidents,
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Photo by Miranda Jones
but the problems kept stacking up. It gradually grinded on me for years, reducing my already fledgling self confidence. Seven year old me was content to have her opinions swept away, but my parents acknowledged that this wasn’t the best relationship for a developing person to be in. As I moved through elementary school grades, I knew in my heart that real friends weren’t supposed to guilt trip each other or threaten to not be friends anymore. But I couldn’t leave him. He was my only friend. Fortunately or unfortunately, depending on how you see it, I didn’t get to choose whether or not he’d still be my friend. My dad told me that we were going to move on the last day of fourth grade. My family was going to Oregon, a place so foreign and strange, that I’m still surprised that my dad ever agreed to do it. Regardless, I was afraid of how I would tell Noah I was leaving. I feared that he would hate me, or that he’d cry, but I realized that it was for the best. I was insensitive and immature. On the last day of school, I met Noah on the playground during recess. As the bell rang to announce the end of play time, I faced Noah and said that I was moving. I then quickly turned my back on him and ran away. After that, I never saw Noah again. At the time I was heartbroken and devastated. I spent the beginning of the fifth grade year mourning my old friend, but as I’ve aged I realized that leaving was the best choice for me. If I never left, then I’d probably still be under his thumb, agonizing over following my heart or following him. Growing up is hard.
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Story of Josh’s Birthday By Josh Neth
He strolled through the door of the mobile home, construction uniform dirty and eyes tired, having been gone for hours at one of the few jobs that didn’t require a high school diploma. Now he came in, stomach growling. Normally, he would have asked Shelley to cook him something or just made it himself, but tonight she had other plans. “Scott.” Her words cut through the house, and he turned to look at her, belly swollen with a baby that was due in only three weeks, standing there looking uncomfortable and timid. “What?” He grunted, eying her. He had just come home and was tired and dirty, in desperate need of a shower and food, and craving the warm embrace of the bed. “Scott, I need to talk about something with you. You—I—I need you to stop with the illegal drugs. It’s getting to be too much. And if you don’t stop, then I’m leaving.” He scoffed at that, amused, and beginning to feel that kindling rage that was always just beneath the surface. So she had a problem with his drug addiction. So what? How was she going to stop him? Shelly continued. “If you don’t stop, then you won’t be allowed to see the baby when I give birth. I don’t care what you say, you won’t get to see it.” The rage came out, and he roared at her in anger. “Then I’m just going to cut the baby out of you and keep it,” he spat at her, then the hand came up and struck her on the cheek, not for the first time. She turned to run, but he charged at her and grabbed her, intent on getting that baby. He seized a
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knife from the kitchen and came at her, brandishing the blade. He brought the blade down on her stomach, but she squirmed away from his grasp and ran away from him. He continued to bear down on her, and managed to stab her wrist, then she desperately went into the bathroom, fumbled with the handle and locked herself in. She threw open the tiny window and screamed for help as Scott attempted to break down the bathroom door. “Help! Help! I’m being attacked!” Pounding on the door, Scott rattled the handle and did everything he could to tear it down, and Shelley broke the window and squeezed through, blood dripping all over the sill from the knife wounds, right as the door came loose. She left a crimson trail as she ran to her neighbor’s and they dialed 911, as she needed to go to the hospital ASAP. Scott came in to the bathroom to find it deserted and the window smashed, and he panicked as he realized he was going to go back to jail, almost certainly for life this time. He sprinted through the house and grabbed the car keys, diving behind the wheel and revving the engine, tires squealing as he peeled out of the driveway and tore off into the night. The sirens got louder as he sped onto the road, seeing the police in his rear view mirror. So focused on getting away was he that he didn’t notice where he was going. His vehicle sped forward, then, with a mighty crash of metal hitting metal, slammed head-first into another car with a mother and two children, causing his to spin off course into a side rail, resonating with another crash amongst the wails inside the other car and the flames licking both vehicles.
Photo by Henry Harrell
There were wails elsewhere as Shelley was having an emergency delivery. The blood loss was too much, and the baby would not survive if the doctors waited any longer. Unfortunately, Shelley would lose custody of the baby because she had been living with someone who was on illegal drugs without reporting it and was therefore deemed incapable of raising a child. Shelley always wanted a child. She got her wish.
The baby entered the world at 9:33 p.m., two hours after the delivery began. She named him Joshua, which means “the LORD is my salvation.” He was a baby boy who would never know his father, and the first two years of his life would be filled with neglect, paperwork, and unconditional love from an aunt that wouldn’t quit. Someday that aunt would become “Mom.”
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The Spirit of White By Jay Schoenrade
White, known as peaceful and perfect The innocence of a baby, The purity of undriven snow, False White is stress. White is sad! White is locked in a box. No escape. Too perfect! Don’t contaminate! White is crying out for help. Overlooked until the next time she is shown off as a prize to be won Then she is locked back in her box- trapped. White is discarded after changingDevelopment seen as failure. Seen as mutled. Seen as ruined. Worthless! White known as clean, known as pure, White is locked inside.
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Forced to hide.
Art by Ash Southwell
Youth is a Concept By Jay Schoenrade
At the age of 10, I was too young, Too young to fall in love, Too young to know the career of my dream, Too young to know the value of a crisp one dollar bill. At the age of 12, I was too young, Too young to stay up past 10 O’clock, Too young to get a job and slave away for the
scrap pennnies the billionaires are willing to loan us peasants. Too young to be exposed to the horrors of the world Played on repeat by the news Day after day— Night after night— Week after week— At 16, I was too young to know who I loved,
Photo by Miranda Jones
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Too young to discover my own beliefs. My own values. My own identity. I was too young to plan the life I wanted to live, With the people I wanted to know, And the person I wanted to be. But of course not. Im just a -stupid childToo young with no life experience. Too young to have my own thoughts. But I agree I was too young. Too young to be crushedCrushed by the weight of debt the failing economy has forced onto us for an education I don't even want. I was too young to be forced to grip my keys between my knuckles— Walking back to my car swallowed in the darkness hoping there is no one lurking and hunting me. Too young to be leaned over the side of a toilet puking up the pressure I drank down at the partyjust trying to be cool; just trying to fit in Too young to be crying over missed opportunities and those whom I miss cause I had them bury them in mother nature’s floor. We’re too young to be preaching the names of people shot in the streets by the same officers we were told to trust our own lives with. We’re too young to be forced into activism
because we know goddamn well our elders won't stand up and fight for our basic human rights! We’re too young to be attending funerals of friends that’s won't be able to walk across the high school stage one last time for graduation— The graduation we’ve been working towards for 13 goddamn years of hell! We were too young at the age of 12, Too young to be carving suicide packs into our skinPromises binding us together in the pain twelve year olds should not have. We were to hound the be carving designs into our skin, thinking it made us prettier. Trying to control the internal pain with external pain. Planning our next designs in accordance to our outfits ensuring no one would find out. I was too young when I learned what the word rape meant. How to protect myself from predatory people looking to hunt me and hurt me. I was even younger when I didn’t know what the words sexual assault meant, and when I didn’t know how I could’ve stopped it Yes I am too young. We were too young. But, we’ve been too young for far too long!
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Respect Your Elders
me to my room with the usual speech of, “Respect your elders.”
By Nidhi Ravala
Every time, I ask, “Why should I respect him if he won’t respect me?” and every time, without fail, the response I get is, “Because he’s your dad.” Just because he’s my dad, all respect for me can go flying out the window.
Arguments are inevitable. My most recent quarrel was with my dad. He had scheduled an appointment without warning me, which ended up overlapping with a test I needed to take. When I so much as slightly expressed my displeasure with the situation, I was told to “Deal with it,” and “Be an adult.” I was already grouchy from being woken up early, too. I slipped and made a snarky comment of “Oh, I’m being irresponsible,” which led to thirty minutes of bickering. Thirty minutes of being talked over and called ungrateful, followed by thirty minutes of ringing silence. Thirty minutes of sitting in the car, not saying a word. Thirty minutes was enough time for me to calm myself down, sure. But, as always, the anger of having been scolded for yelling when he was doing nothing but speaking over me simmered for the rest of the day.
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With my dad, the topics of our arguments vary from what to eat for dinner to whether I should be allowed to access my own bank account, but the course of the debate is always the same. First, it starts with a snide remark. Usually from me, because I never know what will get an amused laugh and what will get an hourlong lecture. When he reacts badly, we get to step two. We start arguing. He comes in soft, usually, but I’ve always been terrible in disputes. It takes so little to make me cry, and that annoys him to no extent. The smallest change in tone is enough to make my eyes water. I get overwhelmed by emotion—sometimes, I’ll make myself cry from the sheer thought of what I should say. When that happens, that’s step three. He starts getting louder, so I do too. How else would he hear me? Of course, it doesn’t matter. I’m interrupted every few seconds, and my point never gets across. What I want to say doesn’t matter. Eventually, my mom walks in, breaks up the argument, and sends
When arguments with my parents are as common as they are, it becomes an issue for multiple reasons. When I need to, I don’t have the ability to separate myself from them to cool my temper. Most of the time, the irritation that I feel reignites every time I have a conversation with them for the next few days. It’s more of a reaction to the fact that my opinion is not being heard than the actual subject of debate, which only intensifies when I have to grit my teeth through another meaningless apology. Just so I have a ride to school in the morning. Just because he’s my dad. Which is step four, by the way—apologizing, regardless of how sincere it is. Even the worst of our fights end in me having to apologize to him. It doesn’t matter if I was in the right. Actually, on many occasions, my mother will agree with my stance, but still choose to take his side because he’s the parent. Recently, I was told I should be the “bigger person.” Honestly, that made me laugh—my mom would rather scold me for acting childish as a child than risk a dispute with her husband. For all the preaching about respect I’ve heard growing up, I would think I’d have a better idea of what it is. In my mind, and from what I’ve been taught, respect is apologizing sincerely. It is empathizing with people’s perspectives. It is active listening. In arguments, it is a combination of all of those things, to disagree respectfully. And, for all his preaching about respect, my dad doesn’t like to practice it with me. Just because he’s the parent. But, still, I have to respect my elders.
Photo by Molly Patrick
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Wiping away tears under the thick of your comforter. Your earbuds become tangled in blankets and sheets as the only song that makes you feel completely seen plays on repeat. You’ll be okay in the morning, but for now, you will never love anything again.
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Biting Off Less Than I Can Chew By Sue Ridyah Trigger Warnings: Internalized Racism, Internalized Colorism, Disordered Eating Sloped waist like a pair of parenthesis. Shoulders with the same width of hips, never mountainous. Stomach so flat it could balance a steel sphere, and long, infinite legs. A girl’s beauty is paramount and even as a twelve-year-old baby, I knew I would never be treated the same as those girls. I let this disappointment in myself simmer for a few years. Then at the ripe age of fourteen or fifteen, I declared that this era of self-hatred would end. Always a problem-solver I began to seek the advice of online videos, countless articles that taught a girl to look like the girl society desired and by virtue, I desired. It was going to be over for everyone once I learned to contour my bulbous nose into a pin-sharp bullet. It was going to be over for everyone once the bleach on my skin washed me up, finally letting go of the dirt I’d been so fond of in my early childhood years. And just you wait until everyone can see the sparkle in my mud-brown eyes when I stitch them open, so I’m a mixed exotic spectacle and not a boring freak show. I was going to slice my portions in half because scars on a wrist wasn’t a suffering that could be hidden, but more importantly, it wasn’t going to make me pretty. I wanted to be pretty and I was going to be pretty. Well, I had all the pain, none of the gain. It was going to be over for me if I kept destroying my body, constantly chewing on my emotions and never the food on my plate. My brain was going to rot if my personal, impossible validation quota wasn’t met. My throat and eyes always dry because of how much I cried over things I couldn’t help about myself. Not skinny. Not fair. Not perfect. Not to brag, but I’d make a pretty good spy. Nobody caught onto my suffering. Depressed but
always best-dressed, lipsticks and glosses to glue a smile to my face. I withered alone in my room. Nobody would want the freakish girl who tried to decay her flesh until only bones remained, I thought. You’re just a nobody. But I’ll admit, it’s hard to say if I had a “moment of clarity,” that changed my course, because I didn’t. At some point I was sick of feeling weak and defeated. Some days were easier to feign self-love, while some days were the dark shadows, consuming me once the light days had passed. It took a few years to realize, understand, the notion of “perfect” didn’t serve a purpose. It doesn’t exist. We simply exist and learn to build meaning around that. It’s a matter of what you want that definition is. I’d hold my younger self in my arms if I could. You weren’t ugly, you were just a girl. You weren’t vain, you were sick and you needed help. You were more than what your brain scolded you for, more than the stupid, meaningless reflection on the mirror. You were failed by a society that raised you on praise and approval of your features, but you, yourself, are not a failure. I still don’t know what I think of myself in a definitive, decisive answer. I’m not heaven’s greatest gift to walk the planet, but I’m certainly not hell’s monster unleashed either. Even now, I want to be pretty. I yearn for those impossible standards. But I can find other means to chase first, such as high scores on quizzes and tests, to be the friend and older sister to anyone that needed it. Developing a sense of self-worth through words on a paper. I think I’ll head down this path and see where it leads me. It couldn’t get uglier than my past. Things can only look up from here. Learning to appreciate what I am was an invaluable skill I learned. Everyone else can do it too. We are more than our trauma and hurt. We are deserving of smiles and happiness. We are worthy.
Photo by Chloe McNeil
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Photo Lex Conway
Decay By Oliver Cother
i remember sitting and letting tears fall down my cheeks; those tears soaked my socks as i was sitting-i was sitting cross legged and begging, i was begging to stay at the hospital because even though i hated the smell, hated the cold, hated the looks of pity i got from adults, my mother was there. and for memories so fuzzy they are awfully clear. it’s like wiping down a mirror after a shower and staring at yourself through streaks of condensation, the white of the bathroom wall blaring behind you and everything comes flooding back, and my own tears soak everything. they say home is where the heart is but i really, really i don’t, i don’t think that a hospitable can be a home especially not when you are sitting in the comfy chair of the hospital room
days after your thirteenth birthday. maybe not a birthday, maybe an anniversary, an anniversary of how long you had been with your mom, an anniversary of love, maybe a last. my memories of those days are cracked. maybe just as cracked as the mirror i broke in a dream maybe i might start believing those myths because if watching your mother die on the hospital bed, drool sliding down her fevered skin isn’t unlucky, then frankly, i don’t know what is. one of the clearest memories from those days is also the foggiest. because i wouldn’t stop crying, i wouldn’t stop crying after they told me i was too young, and too young my ass because i was barely thirteen and watching my mother die. they told me to go home for the night, because i was too young to sleep at the hospital but maybe home is where the heart is because my house wasn’t a home without my mother. it wasn’t home, ever again, not after she died.
sometimes i still long for a warm embrace but then i have to remember that she’s not here and it was somehow easier, yet harder, when i could still climb the stairs and visit her room of what was home again when i was chest deep in memories of her, but i can’t do that anymore because we moved and i can’t do it here because she never got to see the new house. and it’s funny, because i didn’t get to see her ever again maybe it’s not funny but people always say that, when somethings not funny so i always say that it’s funny that she passed exactly a week after my birthday. i always say it’s funny she never got to say goodbye to me, because she was already too far gone by the time i woke up. i always say its funny how i wasnt aloud to stay with my mother for her last, dying moments and i wish i fought harder because my memories of her are starting to decay, just like her body not even a month after my thirteenth birthday
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isola
Photo by Van Pui
By Kyla Hughes
sometimes i feel numb numb to the pain of life a pain that passes me by like a child gliding on a bike forgetting every care in the world i should feel more, right? i feel heartless like a lifeless cadaver being prepped for the morgue veins filled with numbing formaldehyde the chemical smell creating a bubble around me so people know: don’t approach her don’t you dare talk to her but i try to break out of this prison i really do i tug and i pull i try to find just the right tilt of the head just the right words and phrasing to please people but my world is still silent. come back i just want you to come back i can come off as abrasive sometimes but i don’t really mean it but they couldn’t hear me so i couldn’t retrieve them thus the cycle continues 53
excitement By Maddy Butler
how do you do this to me? the way i have a ridiculously huge smile on my face when i text you the way my heart practically beats out of my chest before i see you is it really possible that i found someone who understands me someone who has been through the same pain as me someone who makes me feel this good about myself you reassure me you’re too good to be true i want this feeling to last forever our hour long conversations over the phone are not long enough i want you next to me i wish we could talk like this forever but doubt begins to sneak its way in do you really like me? what are your true motives with me? are you going to leave me? i told myself to stop thinking so negatively until i realized the negativity i felt was true and you left me just like i thought you would
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Photo by Addison Fletcher
I Can’t By Nidhi Ravala
I’m narrowly meeting deadlines That are years earlier than they should be, Suddenly overwhelmed by things I signed myself up for, Wanting to drop everything at once. The ever-growing stack of work Is already twice my size, Crushing my arms, making my knees buckle. First it crumbled the desk I left it on for months, The glass snapped in half andshattered. “I can do it later—” It’s later, I can’t. I have the time, I have the energy, I lack the will, I lack the mindset That came to me so easilymonths ago. It disappeared, turned into thin air, Or maybe- into a cloud. Because then, I can wait until it rains, To drink the motivation back into my body, But what ifWhat if it comes down as hail—hard spheres, hard blocks, Bruising my skin, blistering my palms, As I try to catch it, Desperate to find it once more. The pile gets in the way, Keeps growing taller, Until it’s in the clouds, Until the rain can’t get to me anymore, Blocked by the tower of work. I’m constantly waiting—for more, or for it to end I can’t do anything else.
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For Abuela
By Sloane Burpo
If I could say one thing to you, I wouldn’t say I love you. I wouldn’t say I miss you. I wouldn’t say that your house is not the same without you. I wouldn’t ask you for a hug. I wouldn’t tell you about how I’m doing Or what I’m doing Or how I’m feeling Not because I don’t want to. Not because I don’t Love you.
Miss you.
Instead I would say “I’m sorry I couldn’t understand you.” “Lamento no haber podido entenderte.” I hope when I die I get to tell you that.
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Photo by Van Pui
October Falls By Jade Maddox
The October leaves blowThe crunching noises It's a pretty day today But it's school time, can't be out for the day. She saw the school hallways decorations Solid orange pumpkins with face carvings Ghosts, witches, zombies, and masks. She is thinking of the young girl she lost It doesn't feel the same It's not so spooky-chaotic with her anymore She loved the autumn weather The pumpkin spices smell The teenage girl loved it so much, The colors, the smell, and the nostalgic feeling. She wished she was here The sorrows, the leaves dancing in the wind Their Halloween plans The thoughts of them spending time together Sewing their costumes together It won't be the same anymore.
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Photo by Nick Peters
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Daddy Issues By Jay Schoenrade
The smell coats my memories with a bitter tang of anger that resides in my mind when I think of him. I remember as a child, my dad would bring my brothers and me to the gas station—usually the 7-Eleven at the corner of 1171 and 2499. We’d run to the back of the store and fill our cups up to the brim with slurpees. We’d casually ignore our dad asking the cashier for his “special stuff.” It was a touchy subject for our family. No one mentioned it, acknowledged it, or confronted him. We’d pretend like it didn’t happen and my dad preferred that. For a while, he tried to hide his addiction from us. We were “too young’’ and we just “wouldn’t be able to understand,” he’d say. He bought lottery tickets and chocolate to cover the little maroon tins at the bottom of the bag. We knew there was more than chocolate there, but kept to the family rule. It kept the illusion of peace. A few more years, and we’d still go to the gas station. He always felt the need to take one of us. He’d enter one of our rooms and ask if we wanted to go with him. It was always late at night, so we knew it wasn’t a road trip. It was the gas station. Even though I hated it—I hated how my dad acted, I hated how it was the unspoken demon of the house, I hated how my parents argued behind closed doors because of it, and I hated the smell that lurks through the halls—it was never really an offer to begin with. I couldn’t refuse going with him. If we refused to go he’d yell, “Fine, don’t ever ask me for anything ever again. I always do things for you, but you obviously don’t even have enough time to run a quick errand with me.” He would slam the door and move on to ask the next kid. I always felt guilty when I declined the offer, but eventually the guilt
tripping became too much. I just stopped refusing. After years of my parents fighting and thousands of wasted dollars, he tried to break his habit, but his anger exploded. Undeserved wrath ripped through anyone or anything unfortunate enough to cross his path. Ricocheting from one thing to the next, the fiery fury that flared up was untouched. His voice booms off the walls. We learned to make ourselves disappear. With time, we learned how to tell his mood by his footsteps. Weighted, rapid, and iiratical, it was a sign to make a run for the closet or duck under the bed. Heavy, rhythmic footsteps implied it was safe to stay out, but still out of sight. At school, Red ribbon week always had more significance to me. I’d already learned about the addictiveness of drugs from my dad. I’d already learned how it can fundamentally change a person. So, some years, it felt like a burden, empty words teachers were forced by the curriculum to shove down kids throats. But, other years, it reignited childhood emotions and memories. In high school, when friends and other students started falling down the path of drugs, starting with vapes or pills—anything—it drove me crazy. I didn’t want any more of it in my life. I didn’t want to watch my friends fall down the path that caused me so much pain already. I started leaving people. I held it as a value to never be involved with the drugs or the people that did them. If it meant I’d lose some of my closest friends, I lost them. The fear of rapid footsteps was overwhelming. I learned not to risk it. Sometimes the lessons kids learn are lessons they weren’t really taught. I learned from my parent’s experiences and mistakes. Both good and bad lessons. It taught me what I want to pass down to my kids and what I will do differently. I learned a lot from my parents, but the messages I can’t remember being taught are the ones that are the most valuable to me.
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Photo by Chole McNeil
A Poem For You
By Ashley Gamache
They say you have to love yourself before You can love someone else. I say, thats complete bullsitting on the realization that loving you made me forget just how much I couldn’t stand my own company. My own company that sells self doubt, and food for thought. Thoughts of deprecation and loathing loading my brain but You. You washed it away when you ran your hands through my hair, like a rake clearing a lawn of litter and dead broken leaves. You washed it away like the makeup on my face you wiped clean when I was too tired to take care of it myself. You washed it away like the sea caresses the shorewhisking away the sand, and replacing it with delicate shells I collect. Carefully carrying them into the safety of my pockets. Where I’ll forget about them until I find the hidden treasures that bring a smile to my face.
When ‘X’ marks the spot the spot on my face where you kissed my tears away after that fight with my mom. The spot on my face you told me you loved after I had spent the last hour having a staring contest with it in the mirror. The spot on my neck that still smells like you when I stole your cologne. All of the spots you leave when your touches burn into my skin, as the sun kisses down on the earthjust like your smile warms my life. My life that wouldn’t be the same without you, you who carries the warmth of the sun, but the beauty of the stars in the sky, and who I can trust like the moon. You who made me who I am today. You could break every bone in my body, and my teeth would still smile at you. You could destroy the earth and I’d still make sure to stop its rotation if you got too dizzy. I know I’m dizzy when I try to watch you with my eyes, but keep you in my mind. I’ll never lose you in my head. 561
If I lost myself to a dream I lost myself to a dream, Where buildings stretched to the sky— Scraping the surface and leaving jagged gashes Gaping up yonder. I trudged beneath the stars Which were left Dangling from the sky By silk woven alike to spider web. Paws worked the roads instead of tires, The big beady cat eyes your headlights While twitching black whiskers were The steps up to your violet-velvet fur cushion. The streets were busy, Plagued by people The only thing was, A blank slate replaced Where they could once, see, speak, and taste With long, ghastly limbs, Large flat feet… These are not the people I grew up To greet
I lost myself to a dream By Faith Garland
Photo by Additya Ragam
The Lacking Sibling By Caitlyn Aiena
It was freshman year of high school, me and my older brother were starting at a new school. My brother was going into a grade where people had already established their groups. But despite his nerves, I knew he would do fantastic. Being the only sibling I have, my brother was always my ride or die. The first real best friend I had. And as older siblings tend to do, he always protected me from just about everything. Our first year was tough, but we slowly found our way. My brother soon became a star favorite amongst, not just his grade but the whole high school. With his charisma, talent, and humor, it was no surprise that people instantly wanted to be his friend. And I was proud to call him my brother. Even though I did not make friends as easily as he did. I never thought of being jealous, so it didn’t bother me. It didn’t bother me, until the comparisons started. Where my brother was chill and easy going, I took a little more work. I was an independent, assertive, and opinionated
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14 year old. I loved to debate and have intellectual conversations, many of the adults called me an ‘old soul’. In simpler terms, I was not fun or entertaining. At least, that’s how I was described by other people in my grade. Around half way through my freshman year, other kids would start coming up to me and asking about my brother. “What kind of things does he like?” “What can he really do?” “Can you do them too, since you’re his sister?” I would never know how to respond to these questions, or why they were being asked of me. And when I would try to answer that I could not be like my brother, another student would happily respond for me. “No. She is nothing like her brother. He’s less uptight and way more fun.” At first they were just comments, simple questions that I could brush to the side and never think of again. But for months it continued, on and on and on. Kids I had
never met began to talk about me and how I was the ‘lesser sibling’. ‘The lacking sibling’. I began to curl into myself because I was lost as to what to do. Do I stay myself or become more like my brother? Do I become who they want me to be? Slowly, jealousy grew for my own flesh and blood. I never thought I would be jealous of anybody. In fact, I never really cared enough to have that emotion. But life threw a curveball. Fighting this envy was more painful than what I assumed would be a knife to the chest. It felt like I no longer had a sibling. I was alone. But I learned quickly how wrong I was. As I sat inside the dark shell that I had created, my brother began to hear the rumors spreading. And he deeply disagreed. Everyday my brother would start to be more loving and caring to me. Driving me to school. Coming to see me during lunch to make sure I was doing okay. Doing his best to hide the rumors with his truth.
My jealousy for him began to dissipate. Because I learned that it didn’t matter what other people thought about me. He was my best friend and my own personal protector. There was no point in me being jealous. After all, I was the favorite person of the coolest student at school. Though being jealous was not a highlight, I do not regret this moment in my life. It taught me that family is a strong bond. Not so easily broken. Because of this, I believe that me and my brother would not be the same without this test. But that is the way of life. Sometimes you have to travel through the dark night to find the things that make your sunshine. After my brother graduated and I changed schools, I never was plagued with jealousy again. And as for those students, well my brother let them know exactly what he thought about me. Long story short, they never got to be friends with my awesome older brother.
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Watering pots of succulents as wordless music filters through the living room. Your planner is empty and the tea is almost ready. You lower yourself gently into a chair, spread a blanket across your legs—you’ll stay here for a while.
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The Tide By Maddy Butler
It’s quite easy to get lost in the tide Take a brief whiff and smell the saltiness in the air Observe the dark blue colored water slowly fade into clear Listen closely and hear the water crashing into each other When the tide comes, Your heart fills with excitement You watch the water come rapidly at you Then slowly pull away from you And each time it pulls away, You feel a sense of relief A sense of comfort Sitting alone on the wet sand Not a soul around you for miles You close your eyes And feel the sound of the waves close to you You put your hand against the sand And feel a seashell under it When you absorb the beaches beauty, It really is quite easy to get lost in the tide
Nature
By Max Yerganian
Peace. light mOssy green trees, tree trunks thick at their base thinner when you look towards blue skies. a light breeze sweeps at my hair. I listen to water move, birds singing. water painted green with mossPeace.
Photo by Miranda Jones
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Listen By Tori Montz
Have you ever listened? Not to anything in particular, just to hear To listen to peace and not fear To remember life and a reminiscence I double-dog dare you, To hear the voice of the city To hear cars going through the streets To hear restaurants chopping carrots and the cutting of meats To hear shops sell clothes that are thrifty I challenge you, To be aware of ducks that quack To be aware of frogs leaping pad to pad To be aware of water weeping because it’s sad To be aware of alligators going on the attack
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I ask you, To take in the foam coming from the waves To take in the crunch of the sand To take in the horn of the boat- a captain’s hello to land
To take in the inside of one conch, an ocean inside to claim I want you, To gather the leaves of the forest coming down To gather the birds building their nests To gather the sound of paws breaking twigs and stopping to rest To gather even a gunshot hitting a bird till it hits the ground I implore you, To feel rain coming down like you were in a bubble bath getting clean To feel like the sun is about to laugh and smile To feel as if the wind was dancing and trying to encourage you to join for a while To feel the stars sing a chorus of ‘Twinkle, Twinkle,” loving and serene Sound is everywhere Sound is the voice of life Be still in peace and not strife Or else find yourself in the dead’s lair
Photo By Molly Patrick
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Eyes of Nature By Caroline Ferguson A man standing leaning on the rails Stairs that go down to where? I don’t know Two paths you can take One looks calm the other so long One place to sit and take a restFor if you choose one patha long journey you’ll have And for the trees they grow so high The trees so skinny like pencils All around you’ll see the leavesSome big- some small- some close- some farBut all look wet from chill rain aboveA place of nature so calm so quite A place where people can come and the shadows of some The forest still alive with parts of death The cutting and falling of trees lay at the feet Their ghosts still there watching as life goes on For under the pathway who knows what’s leftSo calm so busy all at the same timeFeel alone? Well you aren’tfor nature engulfs us right at the end To come time time again the nature I see so quietly tucked in
Art by Gabi Zasenski
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Unfamiliar Woods By Emma Simmons
Pine trees congregate on dignified blue mountains, surrounding me with rocky walls and delicate swaying grass. Brisk, sharp air fills my chest, like smooth ice water. I’m far from the murky city. The valley is silent, pardon the whispers of misty wind, and the gentle shuffling of clustered pines There is solitude in the majestic unfamiliar woods, and I feel bitter sweet in my new home. Away from my family, fog from high mountains rolls down and engulfs me in its misty vale.
Photo by Addison Fletcher
Golden Tipped Mountains By Catelyn Aiena
golden tipped mountains blue hazy fog curiosity beckons i answered the call crunching dry reeds brushing soft leaves down I head towards the unknown haze sun on my head adventure awaits knowing not what i’ll find in the sea of clouds down, down, down to fading blue mist i forge a path on the tree led trail towards glory or misery i do not know but the path is forward and i must follow
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Cacophony
