Albatross - COLOPHON Vol. 54 - 2020

ALBATROSS

COLOPHON VOLUME 54

It was deep, they said on the

When it happened, I was

news. Deeper than any man-made

almost asleep to the sound of them

body of water, deeper than most

throwing rocks at the dam like they

natural ones too. No one had seen the

had every night since its construction.

bottom since they filled it up.

Kids, mostly, looking for something

They built it because because of the flooding, or - I’m

terrible and new. I was one of them a long time ago.

not quite sure I remember. It had

We should have seen it

been there for forever, though. We

coming - it was in the way it groaned,

would have picnics there when I was

the awful creaking, the waves, the

younger, but then the water tests

ships that set sail and never returned.

came back worse and worse and we

It crumbled from the top down and

couldn’t go swimming anymore.

filled the whole world with water,

That dam was nightmare fuel for a child. I used to dream of dying there - sinking to the sand - resting

left you and me here, lost at sea on a mattress.

If I die like this, don’t give my

at the bottom of a ravine until my

body to the ocean, that son of a bitch.

flesh and bones were gone and I was

If you can help it, find the driest spot

nothing but a soul trapped at the

you can and leave me there to rest.

bottom of the lightless canyon.

I’m sick of all this damn water.

JaunPaul Marshall, Daydreaming, Line Drawing

COLOPHON

A CREATIVE ARTS MAGAZINE

VOLUME 54 - 2020 TOWSON HIGH SCHOOL 69 CEDAR AVENUE, TOWSON, MD 21286 (P) 410-887-3608 (F) 443-809-4271 THSCOLOPHON.WEEBLY.COM

Literature

TABLE OF CONTENTS Nightmare A Sunflower So Dark The End of the World on Public Transportation Vultures Haussman the Destroyer The Rhizomatic Theories Concerning Our Wormlords Reservoir The Witch Trials Adrift Totally Similar The Lady of the Dead Lyon France, 1941 The Widow’s Stains Cement Shoes A Sincere Confession Garden Perla Village My Secret Society Free Fall Welcome to Walmart Glass 2002 Honda Civic Galveston Island Ni L’Un Ni L’Autre When I Wake

4-5 6-7 9-11

Irene Sung Kristine Shell Jane Kastner

13 14-16 18-21

Cole Sommerhof Casimir Moreau Jack Watkins

23 24 26 28 31 32 37-38 41 42 44 46-47 49 50 53-54 57 58-59 60 63 65

Dyllan Baldus Annie Cullinane Blythe Petit Kameron Merkerson Gabriella Cox Sofia Grose Rebecca Kleeman Elizabeth Tomasetti Ari Faraday Sophia Johnson Youssef Tewala Lydia Walker Melissa Grogin Elise Chang Skyler Orendorff Reilly Hylton Toshi Davis Adjoa Baidoo Kayla Yup

Staff Michaela Acton Adjoa Baidoo Hope Byers Sara Carney Elise Chang

Natalie Gimignani Melissa Grogin Laura Hemingway Audrey Jones Faith Murdock

Advisor Kristine Shell Lydia Walker Eleuthera Wang

Nick Busselman

Managing Editors

Art Editor

Becky Glessner Kayla Yup

Jenny Glickman

4 6-7 8 11 12 15 17 19 20 22 25 27 29 30 33 34-35 36 39 40 43 45 46-47 48 51 52-55 56 59 61 62 64

Anya Joseph Sam Birkenthal Jenny Glickman Jennifer Tabet Samantha Ryan Anna Franz Emily Traband Jacob Krebs David Hutch Domenic Brooks Brendan Berger Hadia Maqsood Elliot Broussard Arsa Morina Steven Gabel Mason Moore Jennifer Lee Isabelle Zhang Julia Buttarazzi Amanda Barton Patrick Sheridan Kojo Baidoo Sarah Law Faaiz Ibraheem Hannah Malitzki Sophie Merbaum Abigael Coburn Andrew Jenkins Dariush Aligholizadeh Piper Jackson

Art

Warm Waters Butterflies In Amber Gloom Hanahaki Disease Prehistoric World Netherlands Midtown If Trees Had Eyes Shocking Ivy Change Scarlet Stares Oil The Breakdown The Bella Vista Outgrow Miroirs No. 3 Preconceived Opinion of a Man Nimetimia Colorful Lady Red Fox Persephone Universal Kitchen Words Bird on a Wire A Small Adventure Generative Waveforms Floating

Associate ASSOCIATE EDITORS Editors Sophia Johnson Rebecca Kleeman Hannah Lechtzin Kameron Merkerson

Casimir Moreau Irene Sung Annie Cullinane

Anya Joseph, Warm Waters, Acrylic and Oil on Wood

NIGHTMARE

by Irene Sung

Grandmother’s apartment is open

Last night’s dinner was gejang.

on both sides, with two balconies covered

Savory-sweet in all the right ways, it

in sliding glass windows for plant keeping

melted on your tongue until all you could

and laundry. From the East-facing

think of was the glisten of the shells,

window, you can see how the city melts

translucent flesh.

into the coast; sandy earth covers more

and more of the asphalt until it is purely

and thought about marsh grass and

forest, where beyond which you know the

the ugly pots that the crab boats threw

sea lives.

in the water in March. The ones that

4 | Colophon

You looked at the halved crabs

sometimes pull off their lines and wash

rivers, shining and wet and awful.

up somewhere, full of starving, rotting

crabs and the stink of waste.

until its great yellow eye shines through

the night fog. It sees you - you know it

You looked instead out the

The Behemoth turns its head

window to the sea, and the sunset was not

does - the glass doors are wide open,

so spectacular as it was back home.

you are prone on the ground, and the

huge eye looms forward until it fills your

It’s too hot for you to bear in

the bedroom, so you sleep on the living

field of vision. Force wells up from the

room floor. The sound of water trickling

pit of your stomach to the back of your

in the fish tank is quiet enough to be

throat and it sticks there; you cannot

soothing, and the balcony door lets cool

move. You cannot make a sound, cannot

air and moonlight in. The view is a little

turn to shake your sister awake or hide

romantic, especially as the streetlights

underneath the table like your heart

come on and everything is framed against

pounds in terror to do.

the glimmering night sky. Even in the city,

on the 12th floor, everything is silent.

thunderous step closer.

Something in the middle of the

It takes one awful, slow, You blink together, and then the

night makes you blink your eyes awake.

monster is gone.

Hana is peaceful beside you, the mat easy

on your back, and the water filter is still

happened. Your scalp blooms with heat,

humming. You turn over onto your side,

prickling as the capillaries under your

ready to slip back into sleep, and you see

skin open and flush with blood. The water

it.

from the fish tank is still running. Your

Behind the row of trees across the

You feel drunk on whatever just

throat is dry, sticking as you swallow.

lot is a figure - a giant - so huge that you

cannot tell if it is humanoid or not. You

face warm - the night returns to stillness,

cannot see anything of it but the way the

and you fall back asleep.

light reflects on its skin and runs down in

Just like that - heart still racing,

by Kristine Shell

A SUNFLOWER SO DARK In the depths of the sunflower field, Surrounded by yellow giants and orange skies, Sat a girl who soon revealed She was all but wise.

Surrounded by yellow giants and orange skies, She lay, tears filling her eyes till she became blind.

She was all but wise, Confined in the thoughts of her own mind.

She lay, tears filling her eyes till she became blind.

Always seemingly filled with dread, Confined in the thoughts of her own mind, She knew not if she was dead.

Always seemingly filled with dread, Sat a girl who soon revealed She knew not if she was dead In the depths of the sunflower field.

6 | Colophon

Sam Birkenthal, Butterflies, Acrylic on Cardboard

Translated into Russian by Kristine Shell

ТЕМНЫЙ ПОДСОЛНУХ

В глубине подсолнечного поля, Средь желых гигантов, оранжевых туч, Девочка сидела, узрев поневоле Осознания первый луч. Средь желых гигантов, оранжевых туч, Она ждет, слезы слепят глаза, Осознания первый луч, В застенках тем дум, что создала сама. Она ждет, слезы слепят глаза, Страх внутри оставляет свой след, В застенках тем дум, что создала сама Ее смерти неясный свет. Страх внутри оставляет свой след, Девочка сидела, узрев поневоле Своей смерти неясный свет В глубине подсолнечного поля.

4 | Colophon

7

Jenny Glickman, In Amber, Digital Photograph

THE END OF THE WORLD ON PUBLIC TRANSPORTATION

by Jane Kastner

The only available seat on the bus

adolescents did not know each other.

that day was directly across from a boy

Their lives had been parallel lines up

with a navy jacket and thick, Coke-bottle

until that July, when they both boarded

glasses. The seat provided a view of the

that very bus. The bus, that if it were not

city passing by and was only a step or two

for the road work plaguing the streets,

from the bus door. The girl who had just

neither of them would have taken.

Once the girl had taken her seat,

boarded the bus, when faced with the options of sitting there or spending her

she fixed her eyes out the window and

four-and-a-half-minute bus ride being

watched the city slide by. She would pick

jostled and clinging to the hand rails for

out one person in a crowd and speculate

she had never developed a strong sense

as to what could be on their mind.

of balance, chose to take the seat. That

Where were they going? Who were they

summer it seemed that every street in

meeting? What would they miss the most

the city was being operated on. Large

once the day didn’t end? She continued

construction vehicles, great big creatures

this for two bus stops until hers was

of black and yellow with swinging jaws

next. She looked away from the window

and giant feet that roll across the ground

and found the boy with the Coke-bottle

could be seen disturbing the peace

glasses watching her. And when he had

at every turn. Along curbs there were

been caught, he didn’t look away. Because

trenches dug into the road, partitioned

he had seen the storms on the horizon.

off with caution signs in every language.

But she hadn’t and didn’t understand why

If one peered directly into the pit, they

this boy was watching her like that. But

would see the street’s organs in the way of

she didn’t look away. The bus slowed to a

water and gas lines open to the air. Things

halt.

that any respectable street would rather

“This is your stop,” said the boy

be hidden away. And these obstacles

with the navy jacket. It wasn’t a question,

existed on every street, creating a difficult

although they didn’t know each other,

situation for anyone who wished to drive their car through the city.

Not that the girl sitting on the bus was old enough to drive. Nor, for that matter, was the boy with Coke-bottle glasses sitting across from her. The two

9

and the girl hadn’t made to leave.

The girl wasn’t sure he was

turned a corner, changing lanes to pass a stopped car in the middle of the road.

addressing her. They were strangers after

His eyes passed disinterestedly over a

all. But they were still looking at each

suddenly deserted city. The bus made

other and who else could he be talking

another stop. The doors slid open, letting

to? “Yes, it is.” She was certain this was

the cool air fall out. Neither occupant

where she planned to get off but couldn’t

moved, save the girl meeting the

think of why. Or where she was heading.

mournful gaze of a woman alone on the

Or which bus they were on right now.

street through the open doors. And a few

So when the doors opened and other

seconds later, they closed. No one got on.

passengers got off the bus, the girl just sat

Another stop passed just like this.

there. Outside the bus, an old man was

Then another. The wind started to blow

rolling down a gate, closing his store front

gusts into the bus each time the doors

with a metallic clang. Other people were

opened. Between stops it made the glass

rushing to unlock their doors. No one got

rattle in the windows. The girl twisted

on the bus. She looked to the sky. This

the ring on her finger; the boy tapped his

time she saw the storm clouds forming

fingernails on the plastic seat, until he

and wondered why she hadn’t felt it

could no longer hear the noise over the

sooner.

wind. Then he spoke. “What will you miss Two more stops passed them by

most?” His voice barely carried.

before she spoke again, to the boy. “This is

The girl looked back at him and

your stop.” It was. She was looking at the

he realized that she had brown eyes. She

boy; he turned back to her and nodded.

twisted her ring again. “I think I’ll mostly

The bus stopped, opened its doors, and

miss what I don’t know. The life I have yet

the last three people apart from the girl

to live.”

and the boy exited. No one else got on.

The boy nodded his head. She

The boy just looked back out the window,

noticed that he wore a cross around his

eyes glued to the horizon. The bus started

neck. “We’re too young.” He spoke quietly

moving again with a wheeze of the engine

but she understood him regardless. The

and the girl finally said, “The storm is

wind turned into a gale.

coming.” It was.

“It is,” said the boy. The bus

10 | Colophon

“And you?” the girl asked. He had to read her lips to understand.

“Everything. Nothing.” But he

were gone. He felt blood dripping, warm

spoke too softly to be heard. And the

and wet, down the side of his face. The

wind was too loud to talk through. The

wind was inside the bus now, whipping

storm was closer. Minutes away. The bus

between them pulling at their clothes like

stopped again. Rain was blown in through

grasping hands pushing through a crowd.

open doors, the world impressively loud

And the rain. A great volley of droplets

for a second before the doors closed and

coming nearly as hard as the glass had

muffled it again. The windows were now

seconds earlier.

clattering harshly against the frames, the

Their eyes were squeezed shut

bus letting out creaks and groans, tilting

against the rain and wind. Sound had

in the gale. Rain was hitting the roof like

already been lost to the storm, so loud

bullets, streaking down the glass faster

they couldn’t imagine they’d hear another

than lightning. The girl slipped her hand

sound in their life. Now sight was gone

into his.

too, taken by the bite of the wind to

The windows broke. Glass

their faces. But they could still smell the

shattered around them, bringing with it

sulfurous air. And they could still feel

the sound of the storm. Shards bit at their

their hands together, clinging to each

skin and the boy found himself holding

other like it was the end of the world. And

tightly to the girl’s hand. His glasses

it was.

Jennifer Tabet, Gloom, Digital Photograph

Samantha Ryan, Hanahaki Disease, Ink and Watercolor on Paper

VULTURES

by Cole Sommerhof

When she moves, The eruption of flash follows her.

On the secluded beach sandstone, On the colossal, overflowing highway up the coast, Even in the isolation of her dreamy garden.

She can’t shake them.

No getaway far enough.

No room small enough.

Vultures picking at her voluptuous figure, Indulging in her as if As if her appearances were fresh air at The top of a mountain peak that They would do anything to bottle up.

I would even drink the blood out of her Bleeding cuticles if I had the chance.

But who wouldn’t?

13

HAUSSMANN THE DESTROYER

by Casimir Moreau

From 1852 to 1870, the Emperor Napoleon III of France commissioned the Baron Haussmann to modernize the capital. His renovations were drastic and legendary, creating the Paris that lives today. nose had. Isolation seemed to have the same preservative qualities as resin.

Only the flowers were gone, Philippe’s father used to bring them every time they visited. The vases hadn’t moved, his father was their emptiness.

“Look Madeleine,” he explained, “it’s not my choice.”

“Hah!” Madeleine’s laugh was “Madeleine, please, it’s

accusatory, “You’re not the one that

time to go. There’s

brought the demolition crew who’s

nothing you can do.”

waiting outside to break my walls?” Her

Philippe was losing patience. He

age had left her skin dangling, and

had taken off his bicorne hat and was

soaked her eyes with a milky gloss that

sweating under his police uniform.

made Philippe unsure how well she could

Madeleine snorted in response, and crossed her arms in her worn plush

see him.

Her chair groaned with her when she gesticulated. She didn’t seem

chair.

As he looked around,

to listen anymore, and in between

Philippe realized Madeleine’s house

the creaks of the chair she brayed,

had not changed since his last

“your father’d be damned before he let

visit fifteen years earlier, in 1843. The

you do this to me.” Her age had left

crevices in the floorboards were still

her arms limp and there was no one to

filled with the same ashen dirt, the lamp

fight for her now.

still hung as crooked as her husband’s

14 | Colophon

Philippe burned. His father

Anna Franz, Prehistoric World, Ink on Paper had made him promise to take care of Madeleine, to bring her flowers and keep

can pick you up and carry you out.”

Her eyes bulged, and she fumed

her company. Philippe came a few times

at his words. Philippe thought she might

after his father’s death. Then he stopped

explode. In a blunt moment he thought

entirely. The dead were dead, the old

it’d be practical since it would clear away

were nearly there.

the building in one blow. Her throat

“You’re lucky I heard about this

scraped. It was coarse. Finally, she fell to

before the police station did. Any other

tears. She poured torrents. It dug deeper

officer would’ve torn the building down

channels in her wrinkles.

with you inside it by now.” Philippe

“You can’t take my life away from

sighed, feeling the uniform tightening as

me.” She was begging. It spilled from all

he exhaled, like a boa constrictor around

sides. She couldn’t contain it anymore.

its victim. “They aren’t stopping their

From the street below,

plan for an old woman who doesn’t want

Philippe heard the voice of his station

to leave her house. Who would care? We

capitain calling up to him; “Philippe!

15

The second officer stopped in surprise at the scene, but the capitain What the hell’s going on up there? You

stepped up immediately and freed

got her to come out yet?”

Philippe from the old woman’s fingers.

Madeleine’s desperation reached

Madeleine slapped him with the

out with her hands and grasped

full force of her bones. The capitain fell

Philippe’s face in her fingers.

backwards. His cap toppled off. Fury

“Look!” Madeleine shrieked,

boiled away the tears on Madeleine’s

turning his head towards the vases

cheeks. The entire congregation seemed

beside her. “For the Lord’s sake can’t you

dazed. Madeleine eyes rolled in all

remember your father? Can’t you see him

directions. Soon she was laughing. It

in those vases? They’re his lilies!”

exploded from her, it scared them. It

The shock held Phillipe in place.

echoed, Philippe thought the room

He stared at the empty vases. His father

seemed to be laughing with her, the

had been a beautiful man. He handled

ceilings were folded over in hilarity, the

petals with delicacy, primping them to

stairs giggled, scrambling for breath, the

relieve the room of its decay.

curtains howled with laughter. It was as

“We’re coming up!”

Clattering broke out in the staircase, men striding up like

if the entire the forsaken alley had been reanimated to laugh at its own end.

The momentary paralysis

hounds approaching a solitary

wore off, and the second officer

sheep. Philippe barely noticed

stepped past his dazed capitain.

their stomping, he was transfixed,

Following the officer, the horde

as if Madeleine's milky sight

stalked its prey. They were on the

had glazed over his eyes. His

hunt, not for meat but simply a

father was adhesive to the vases.

diversion, to satiate their boredom.

Two officers with

Philippe did not ponder

moustaches as felted as their

over his actions. There was not

coats trouped in, followed by

much of his father left here,

a roaring horde of demolition

but Madeleine’s gnarled hands had

men. Their patience had been

let him see her memories scrawled

burnt out, and they were ready

over every surface of the room,

to tear the house limb from limb,

perfectly preserved. He moved

throwing all of its occupants

between the Madeleine and the

through the windows.

officer, and brandished his baton.

16 | Colophon

Emily Traband, Netherlands, Watercolor on Paper

THE RHIZOMATIC THEORIES CONCERNING OUR WORMLORDS

by Jack Watkins

For thirteen days the worm

pictorial representation. The Body

had ravaged the village. We polyvocal

without Organs. The order of things had

intellectuals hypothesize that it arrived

long since abhorred into something else

on a Sunday, a day much in dispute

still unexplained, beyond scope: extra-

amongst the villagers as to whether it

familial, extramarital, extraterrestrial.

was the beginning or the end of the

The Death of Civilization, some neo-

newly hegemonized week. Without

Spengler might intrude.

the cathartic aid of recently-vanished

spirituality that tends to syncopate

referential drama of representation that

to realms individuated, without the

followed—a disjointed chorus, an aria

aggregating properties of organized

of Capital Tears. Mountains of Routine,

deviations such as violence and religion,

falling.

their wage-slaved week never quite

ended to our elite advantage of scrutiny.

they fervently had denied all effort in

Nonetheless, it was all a succession

attempting to recode this anthropological

of involuntary desire to the villagers,

account long-redacted by the Powers

who were but atomized segments of

That Be, had discovered that it was a

trajectories displaced... lives not quite

breed of desire of mechanizations quite

sequenced in literal chain links of being,

spectral and unknown for an analogous

nor assorted in any sort of innate form

deviant of hidden time, perceived so

that existed within a semiotic sense of

eternal that it was held in repose within

genesis wrought in their village hardware

the Unconscious Factory. Then, we

all the way back from the hereditary

cumbersome intellectuals believe, it was

womb of existence.

traumatically repressed, this abstraction

of a need for lack, by the Powers That

Things were no longer familial

This is the following self-

Deleuze and Guattari, though

or marital in the village, as it had

Be, of course. It regressed inward

originally been recorded upon the

towards a conscientious Pineal Pit of

geodesic surface of the hills like waves

Being, into a manifolded masochistic

suspended momentarily, speaking in

instinct projected like a vision upon

18 | Colophon

Jacob Krebs, Midtown, Digital Photograph which the wormlords came riding in

villagers’ bodies passed in notions of time

over vertiginous horizons of myth

momentarily, images entangling through

from chained-in and –out territories of

space, wires dangling upwards, much like

desiring-production. A long time reigned

a multifold panorama of conversational

untended in this simulacrum—peaked

voices speaking harmonic tongues,

huts of straw, sticks, bricks riddled with

mosaics of acts and scenes upon scenes

vacuous creatures’ hollow-egged nests

of ciphered dialogue vibrantly echoed

of varying intensities, composed in

in spiderwebbing threads of schizoid

primitive near-revelation, laying emptied

progression upon the hieroglyphed walls

before the weeks and weekdays now

of a universal cave.

(forever) imposed by foreign means,

We assume so, that is.

outliving the decaying structure of any

When the wormlords came in

sort of origin.

their gear-toothed chariots exhausting

solemn sighs of eco-decimation in

Once, in a pre-colonial, organic

apparatus of collective dissociation, the

hierophantic reverence, they made the

19

David Hutch, If Trees Had Eyes, Multimedia on Wood

calendars and the wailing sun follow

convoluted intellectuals can never wax

its methodical course, always to pass a

crude simplicities like slothful Gods,

second unaccountable for.

not to mention the worm’s monolithic

arrival, rising like a writhing temple from

The villagers, before the worm, yet

under the dictation of its lords, had tilled

within the ravaged land, interrupting

their fields, fed their despotic captors

the stasis of the village as the mass-

of psychosophosexual, technocapital

production of artificial unintelligence

totality—tightening the potential

coagulated the spinous particulates of

slipknot of civility that had once been

its aura, because soon enough they all

tribal, communal perhaps. We can only

locked themselves, voluntarily, finally,

do our best to fabricate the dense vortices

into the local moving-pictures theatre

of timespace. Then there came the desire

where they metamorphosed, the moving-

for technology, which broadened the

pictures them, disorienting hieroglyphs,

borders illimitable, limited the reaching-

the theatre an organ of desire tumescent

machines, the Hegelian Spirit’s grip,

with hollowed potentialities where

resulting in ontological automation

the wormlords spied a monumental

behind the disjunctive circuits of an

opportunity for a Dionysian toast to

austere iron curtain not just of territory,

the villagers, who were compounded

but of the Being.

like factory-farm cattle all on their own

terrified whim to play out Oedipus Rex

The villagers’ agronomically

invasive production seemed to have

one day, Hamlet another, and then maybe

relinquished the wormy microfacists;

some other incestuous Jacobean Revenge

their industrial doom-device kept on

much dated which they might have been

chuggin’ along, mind our lapse into the

playing all along to, for time indefinite,

colloquially comedic, choo-chooin’ upon

in ode to the interest of the worm, which

systematic tracks primordially graphed

was still ravaging. Was this a tragedy? The

onto the world the villagers had inscribed

easy answer shared amongst Capitalist

into before their own involuntary desire.

Kings, Queens, and Freudo-Marxists,

after thorough torture and interrogation,

For thirteen days the worm had

ravaged the village. It was hard to assort

was yes.

the days in a linear fashion, since we

21

Domenic Brooks, Shocking, Digital Photograph

22 | Colophon

RESERVOIR

by Dyllan Baldus

I stand out on the old wooden deck, as the beat of rain Plays light airy notes against the porch’s glass table— Breathing in deeply as I take in the world around and falling Back, to the rainy spring day from many years prior.

Hours, walking along the hiking trail, my eyes red stinging, Legs and hair soaked with water, feeling heavy atop my head— Tiny streams trickling from my forehead and down my face Indistinguishable from the raging storm brewing in my eyes Discomfort from the ring of sand and dirt laced around my ankle.

Trees darkened along with the sky as water seeped into the Bark, falling weak branches and littering them along the trail— I felt my own limb grow heavy as well, my sleeves and pants Absorbed every drop, my feet glued to the ground exhausted.

I take a minute, a break from the heaving of my breath as the Earth caves beneath my feet to take in air through my nose— I could taste the world, the pungency of wet leaves mixed With spice of pine, the decaying wood that thickened the air.

The brief and intimate moment in which I experienced the smell Of green, the smell of leaves, vines, grass, growth and decay— A connection to the past, an experience unjustified by writing, The treasure of becoming the forest.

23

THE WITCH TRIALS

by Annie Cullinane

Do strike a match, for I was made to burn Stiff wooden puppet limbs with strings of smoke They layered sheets of pale paper skin artfully. How weak can we make her bones?

I envy the torches. How brave must one be to light oneself in front of a crowd?

To make hushed death a town-spread spectacle?

Raising cries of one’s own charred body The holes in their hearts were mercy-shaped And the graves in their minds were always full They cling like children to rage and cruelty Drawn to ants and to the afternoon sun It is silent here. When death comes, it shall be silenter still And we cry, and we cry at the fire It is silent here But the ashes always whisper on the pyre And the old smoke paints its seeds in our lungs And the fumes wrap their fists around our throats Coughing is a wracking reminder of times when our knees bent by superstition Maybe I was not flammable But society around me was soaked with gasoline, Oil in the black eyes of judgement And kindling stuffed in every wanting pocket The rotten hearts of the watchers will burn beautifully.

Brendan Berger, Ivy, Digital Photograph

25

24

ADRIFT

by Blythe Petit

When my mother died, she left me a plant.

A huge leafy fern that had loomed in her living room throughout the whole length of my life, casting a protective shadow over my small shape when I sprawled across the blue shag rug.

She never seemed to tire of telling me, “Why don’t you water that plant?” even though I poured countless gallons of filtered rain across its dry dirt.

In her house, it was majestic, the chandelier centerpiece of a castle, though in mine it just seems to melt. Bowing its feathered leaves to the floor, this fern asks me how could I have let it end up here?

Answerless, I ignore its inquiries, blaring her old Stevie Wonder records to block out the belief that I’ll never be the caregiver that my mother once was

26 | Colophon

Hadia Maqsood, Change, Clay Scuplture

27

TOTALLY SIMILAR

by Kameron Merkerson

My melanin makes Other men afraid of What I might do once The clock hits midnight.

They assume I’m mid-fight In my hood with neighbors Holding flashlights, but my hood Is the same as your hood.

I go to pray on Sundays, I’m Not gang bangin’ on Mondays This isn’t a rap song but it’s Poetry.

Cause my melanin makes Me a threat to society, and Most days I get afraid too, I’m just scared of Different things than you.

I wonder if on Sundays God sees my praise and Helps me get through the gazes Of those who don’t look like me And guides me to a place where A badge isn’t an enemy.

28 | Colophon

Elliot Broussard, Scarlet Stares, Acrylic and Pencil on Cardboard

29

Arsa Morina, Oil, Acrylic on Canvas

30 | Colophon

Her hair shines bright like the center of the universe, her crown adorned with flowers that have long since died.

Her bare feet are soil ridden despite being a queen.

Alone, on a throne in the land of the dead.

She waits, slumped upon the chair which is meant to hold her husband.

by Gabriella Cox

She waits all night and all day and all week for her husband, her king, to return to her arms.

Upstairs, all the flowers she loves will die.

All the people she loves will starve.

All the firewood will burn and the food will be scarce and the rivers will freeze over as winter rages on.

She has smuggled a piece of summertime into her suitcasethe taste of fresh wine, the olive branches, the scent of poppy flowers, the music of the lyre.

It is all she owns of the world above waiting for the warm season’s return.

But here, in the dark, cold dungeon of the underworld, she sits on the throne of her husband: The lady of the dead.

She watches the dead flow through the river Styx, And waits for spring to come again.

31

LYON, FRANCE 1941

by Sofia Grose

Outside the tunnels, rain shot out

He could just barely see the washed-

of the sky and lighting blasted through

out river in the distance, the beloved

the afternoon air. Inside, the air was

red bridge that rested over it, the sad,

thick with tension and the damp smell

chipped paint of a mural made ages ago,

of mold. Jean-Luc clutched the rusty

and his home: beautiful, antique, and

metal grate, the only barrier between

welcoming, which he longed to return

him and the dangers of the city. The

to. A balcony light flickered on slowly

floor was coated in a layer of filth which

somewhere above him. The light caught

his children lay trembling on top of. A

an edge of his ruby RĂŠsistance ring, and

swarm of uniformed boys sauntered by

a muted red line flashed against the

on the opposite end of the street. Their

wall: a harsh reminder that it was

rosy faces and troublemaking grins

no longer safe to return home.

were a stark contrast to the red symbol of death that marked them as Gestapo.

From his vantage point, Jean-Luc could see them making their way through the rain to the green-terraced CafĂŠ Amelie.

Steven Gabel, The Breakdown, Digital Photograph

33

34 | Colophon

Mason Moore, The Bella Vista, Wheatpasted Print on Wood

35

Jennifer Lee, Outgrow, Acrylic on Fabric

THE

WIDOW’S STAINS

by Rebecca Kleeman

I. The white of her mother’s wedding dress is still tucked away in her closet.

It is the same white of the napkins on the dinner table, placed meticulously by her mother while the beloved thundering voice demanded they be refolded.

It is the same white of the sour glare blinding her vision through the cathedral, sculpted centuries ago, by gods.

Her hot feet squished in the pews at her sister’s wedding.

It is the same white of her diary pages, tucked away in a leather journal. A flood of melancholy and frustration bound only by a string.

It leaks, dripping onto her sheets but is wiped away like the torrent tears of a toddler.

37

II. The blue of her lover’s eyes got lost in the crowd, taking her with them.

It is the same blue she wore on their first date, a toasted coffee shop with silky jazz mixed in with her warm giggles. The pearly concoction of innocence seeped in and stained her roots.

It is the same blue of the snow piled up in their driveway, on their first Christmas. The fireplace sang a crackly melody to put them to sleep in one another’s arms.

It is the same blue of the ponds which swelled under her eyes as she watched his lungs empty to never fill, wondering if she’d lost the brilliant blue forever.

III. The orange of her marigold garden still sprouts every spring only to die in the winter.

It is the same orange of the milky sunrise when she escaped to the balcony to breathe in air he never touched. “A tarnished clear blue sky,” she called it.

It is the same orange of the sunburnt rocking chair, where she spends her concluding hours, listening to the neighborhood children’s chuckles wash out the radio’s fading jazz.

It is the same orange of the fireplace’s embers still breathing in life after she stomped on and rinsed out the flames.

Never ignited again, but swelling and shrinking like the beating of a collapsed heart.

38 | Colophon

Isabelle Zhang, Miroirs No. 3, Chalk Pastel on Paper

Julia Buttarazzi, Preconceived Opinion of a Man, Acrylic on Canvas 40 | Colophon

by Elizabeth Tomasetti

CEMENT SHOES

Uomo Condannato they call me.

A shoemaker all my life, The craft torments me.

I prefer Fiorentino leather, But am obliged to work with Calabrian cement.

Blood and tears stain my hands, All because of these cursed shoes.

Shoes no one will ever wear with a smile.

Making shoes, Our family tradition.

Generations of lives wasted.

Taking the good from others, And exploiting what little they had.

I swore I’d never do the same, But I am here.

Making cement shoes, Each customer’s last pair, Each one a weight crushing my heart.

41

A SINCERE CONFESSION

by Ari Faraday

with the exposure to others and to time,

You were born an almost-perfect

child. You arrived with blue fingertips, the

our photographs aged differently; we

only flaw preventing you from a perfect

were lighter at different angles, frayed

Apgar score. Two years later, I arrived

at different ends. My picture is framed

with the same healthy qualities you had

and edited, perched perfectly at eye-level

arrived with, plus the pristine pink fingers

so that, hopefully, anyone and everyone

you did not attain.

will see and approve of my image. Your

original picture is tacked on the bare

Your blue fingertips couldn’t build

the Lego buildings quite like my pink

wall, where, although you could not

ones could, so you stopped building with

have intended, people of unmatched

me. I couldn’t understand why. But when

authenticity gravitate toward.

you started to play football with Dad, who

preferred your strong spiral on the ball

your blue fingertips, for maybe I could

over my dainty toss, I understood.

have loosened my grip on perfection and

instead been in touch with the sincerity

As we grew, we saw the differences

I often wish I were born with

between us more clearly. Before, we

my pink fingers will never be able to fully

were prints of the same photograph, but

grasp.

42 | Colophon

Amanda Barton, Nimetimia, Digital Photograph

43

GARDEN

by Sophia Johnson

The past is a captivating mistress, my mind was fixated on her and her only.

Pining over every single “if” and “but” like I was plucking weeds that she had sprouted there.

My life was spent recounting my hazy memories.

It made my body rot like a flower deprived of sun, my rosy face lost its sweet hues and was left faded and dry.

Until one day I looked up and I was no longer restrained by her.

My stem stood strong again, steady and full of color.

I didn’t look back painfully anymore.

I could live without her, I broke free from her prison and I grew my garden back again.

44 | Colophon

Patrick Sheridan, Colorful Lady, Gouache on Paper

‫ﺗﺟذب ﻋﻘﻠﮫ‪ .‬أﺻﺑﺣت اﻷﺧﺑﺎر اﻟدوﻟﯾﺔ ﻣﺄﻟوﻓﺔ‬ ‫ﻟﻸب ﻣﺛل إﺟراء ﻋﻣﻠﯾﺔ اﺳﺗﺋﺻﺎل اﻟزاﺋدة اﻟدودﯾﺔ‬ ‫ﻟﻠﺟ راح‪ .‬ﻛﺎﻧت طﺎوﻟﺔ اﻟطﻌﺎم ‪ ،‬ﺑﺟﺎﻧب اﻟﺗﻠﻔزﯾون‬ ‫‪ ،‬ﻣزدﺣﻣﺔ ﺑﺎﻟﺻﺣف اﻟﻣﻔﺗوﺣﺔ ﻟﻘﺳم اﻟوظﺎﺋف‬ ‫وﻋدد ﻛﺑﯾر ﻣن اﻟﻛﻠﻣﺎت واﻷوﺻﺎف واﻟرواﺗب‬ ‫‪ ، Tewala‬أﻗﺎﻣت‬ ‫راق‬ ‫رﺧﯾﺻﺔ‪ .‬إﻟﻰ ﺟﺎﻧب ﺟﺑل اﻷو‬ ‫اﻟ‬ ‫‪Translated into Arabic by Youssef‬‬ ‫ﻛوﻣﺔ ﻣﺗﻧوﻋﺔ ﻣن اﻟﻣﺗﻌﻠﻘﺎت‪ :‬أﻗﻼم ‪ ،‬أدوﯾﺔ‬ ‫ﻣﺧﺗﻠﻔﺔ ‪ ،‬اﻷرﺑﺎع ‪ ٦ ،‬ﺑﯾ رات ﺑﺎ ردات ﻣﻧﮭم‬ ‫ﻋﻧدﻣﺎ اﻧﺗﮭت اﻟﻠﻌﺑﺔ ‪ ،‬اﻻب وﺟد ﻧﻔﺳﮫ ﻣرة‬ ‫ﺑﯾرﺗﯾن ﻣﻧﺗﮭﯾن ‪ ،‬و ﺻو رة ﻻﻣ رأة ذات ﻋﯾون‬ ‫أﺧرى ﻋﻠﻰ ﺟﮭﺎز اﻟﻛﻣﺑﯾوﺗر‪ ،‬ﻣﻣﺗﺳﻔﺣﺎ اﻟﻣواﻗﻊ‬ ‫‪.‬داﻓﺋﺔ و اﺑﺗﺳﺎﻣﺔ ﻣﺷرﻗﺔ‬ ‫واﻟﻛﺗﺎﻟوﺟﺎت اﻟﻣﺗراﻣﯾﺔ اﻷطراف‪ .‬ﺑﯾن اﻟﺣﯾن‬ ‫واﻵﺧر ‪ ،‬ﻛﺎﻧت اﻟﺿوﺿﺎء اﻟﺛﺎﺑﺗﺔ ﻟﻠﺗﻠﻔزﯾون‬ ‫اﻷب ‪ ،‬اﻟذي ﻛﺎن ﯾﯾﻧظ ر ﻓﻲ ﺟﺑل ﻣن اﻟوﺛﺎﺋق و‬ ‫ﺗﺟذب ﻋﻘﻠﮫ‪ .‬أﺻﺑﺣت اﻷﺧﺑﺎر اﻟدوﻟﯾﺔ ﻣﺄﻟوﻓﺔ‬ ‫اﻷو راق اﻟﻣﺟﻌدة ‪ ،‬ﺷﻌ ر ﺑﺄن ﻋﯾﻧﯾﮫ ﻗد ﺳﺣﺑت‬ ‫ﻟﻸب ﻣﺛل إﺟراء ﻋﻣﻠﯾﺔ اﺳﺗﺋﺻﺎل اﻟزاﺋدة اﻟدودﯾﺔ‬ ‫رض‪ .‬و ﺗزال ﻋﺿﻼﺗﮫ ﺗوﻟم ‪ ،‬ﻻ ﯾزال‬ ‫إﻟﻰ اﻷ‬ ‫ﻟﻠﺟ راح‪ .‬ﻛﺎﻧت طﺎوﻟﺔ اﻟطﻌﺎم ‪ ،‬ﺑﺟﺎﻧب اﻟﺗﻠﻔزﯾون‬ ‫اﻟرﻧﯾن ﯾﻼﺣﻘﮫ ﻓﻲ أﻛﺛر اﻟﺳﺎﻋﺎت ﺻﻣﺗ ًﺎ‪ .‬وﻣﻊ‬ ‫‪ ،‬ﻣزدﺣﻣﺔ ﺑﺎﻟﺻﺣف اﻟﻣﻔﺗوﺣﺔ ﻟﻘﺳم اﻟوظﺎﺋف‬ ‫ذﻟك ‪ ،‬ﻋﻧد ﺻوت اﺑﻧﮫ ﯾدق ﻋﻠﻰ اﻟﺳﻠم ‪ ،‬أدرك‬ ‫وﻋدد ﻛﺑﯾر ﻣن اﻟﻛﻠﻣﺎت واﻷوﺻﺎف واﻟرواﺗب‬ ‫‪..‬اﻷب أن ﻣﮭﻣﺗﮫ اﻟﺟدﯾدة اھﺦ ﻣن أي ﺷﻲء آﺧ ر‬ ‫راق ‪ ،‬أﻗﺎﻣت‬ ‫رﺧﯾﺻﺔ‪ .‬إﻟﻰ ﺟﺎﻧب ﺟﺑل اﻷو‬ ‫اﻟ‬ ‫ﻛوﻣﺔ ﻣﺗﻧوﻋﺔ ﻣن اﻟﻣﺗﻌﻠﻘﺎت‪ :‬أﻗﻼم ‪ ،‬أدوﯾﺔ‬ ‫ﻋﺎﻣت اﻟﮭـ َواء َأﻟﺑﺎردة ﻋﺑر اﻟﻣﺣﯾطﺎت اﻟﺷﺎﺳﻌﺔ‬ ‫ﻣﺧﺗﻠﻔﺔ ‪ ،‬اﻷرﺑﺎع ‪ ٦ ،‬ﺑﯾ رات ﺑﺎ ردات ﻣﻧﮭم‬ ‫ﺑﯾرﺗﯾن ﻣﻧﺗﮭﯾن ‪ ،‬و ﺻو رة ﻻﻣ رأة ذات ﻋﯾون‬ ‫واﻟﺷواطﺊ اﻟﻛرﯾﺳﺗﺎﻟﯾﺔ ﺣﺗﻲ وﺻﻠت إﻟﻰ ﻗرﯾﺔ‬ ‫‪.‬داﻓﺋﺔ و اﺑﺗﺳﺎﻣﺔ ﻣﺷرﻗﺔ‬ ‫ﺑﯾرﻻ اﻟﮭﺎدﺋﺔ‪ .‬ﻋﻠﻰ اﻟرﻏم ﻣن أن ھذه اﻟﻘرﯾﺔ ﺗﻘﻊ‬ ‫ﺑﺟوار ﻣﻌرﻛﺔ ‪ ،‬إﻻ أن ﺳﻛﺎﻧﮭﺎ ﻻ ﯾﻌرﻓون‬ ‫‪.‬ﺻوت اﻟرﺻﺎﺻﺔ‬ ‫اﻷب ‪ ،‬اﻟذي ﻛﺎن ﯾﯾﻧظ ر ﻓﻲ ﺟﺑل ﻣن اﻟوﺛﺎﺋق و‬ ‫اﻷو راق اﻟﻣﺟﻌدة ‪ ،‬ﺷﻌ ر ﺑﺄن ﻋﯾﻧﯾﮫ ﻗد ﺳﺣﺑت‬ ‫داﺧل أﺣد اﻟﻣﻧﺎزل ‪ ،‬ﺗرك اﻷب أﺧﯾًرا اﻟﻛﻣﺑﯾوﺗر‬ ‫رض‪ .‬و ﺗزال ﻋﺿﻼﺗﮫ ﺗوﻟم ‪ ،‬ﻻ ﯾزال‬ ‫إﻟﻰ اﻷ‬ ‫ً‬ ‫ﺑﻌد اﻟطﻠﺑﺎت ااﻟﻣﺳﺗﻣرة ﻣن اﺑﻧﮫ اﻟﺑﺎﻟﻎ ﻣن اﻟﻌﻣر‬ ‫اﻟرﻧﯾن ﯾﻼﺣﻘﮫ ﻓﻲ أﻛﺛر اﻟﺳﺎﻋﺎت ﺻﻣﺗﺎ‪ .‬وﻣﻊ‬ ‫ﺧﻣس ﺳﻧوات‪ .‬ﻛﺎن اﻟطﻔل ﯾﺣﻣل ﺻﻧدوﻗًﺎ ﻟﻌب‬ ‫ذﻟك ‪ ،‬ﻋﻧد ﺻوت اﺑﻧﮫ ﯾدق ﻋﻠﻰ اﻟﺳﻠم ‪ ،‬أدرك‬ ‫اﻟورق ﻷﺑﯾﮫ اﻟﺗﻰ ﻛﺎﻧت واﺣدة ﻣن رﻓﺎﻗﮫ اﻟﺑﺎﻗﯾن‬ ‫‪.‬اﻷب أن ﻣﮭﻣﺗﮫ اﻟﺟدﯾدة اھﺦ ﻣن أي ﺷﻲء آﺧ ر‬ ‫ﻋﻠﻰ ﻗﯾد اﻟﺣﯾﺎة ﺑﻌد ﺧﻣس ﺳﻧوات ﻣن اﻟﺧدﻣﺔ ﻓﻲ‬ ‫اﻟﺟﯾش‪ .‬ﺑﯾﻧﻣﺎ ﻛﺎن اﻷب ﻣﻌﺗﺎدًا ﻋﻠﻰ اﻟﺗﻘﻧﯾﺎت‬ ‫اﻟﻣﺎﻛرة اﻟﻣﻌﺗﺎدة ﻋن اﻟﻠﻌﺑﺔ ‪ ،‬ﻓﺈن أﻋﯾن اﺑﻧﮫ‬ ‫ااﻟطﻣﺎﻋﺔ وأﻓﻌﺎﻟﮫ اﻟﺳرﯾﻌﺔ أﻟﻘت ﺑﮫ ﺧﺎرج‬ ‫‪.‬اﻟﺣراﺳﺔ وﺟﻌﻠﺗﮫ ﻣﯾﺎل ﻣن اﻟﺧﺳﺎرة‬

‫ﻗﺮﯾﺔ ﺑﯿﺮﻻ‬

‫‪46 | Colophon‬‬

PERLA VILLAGE

by Youssef Tewala The cold wind traversed vast oceans and crystal beaches to reach the tranquil village of Perla. Though this village lies adjacent to a battle, its inhabitants do not know the sound of a bullet.

Inside one of the houses, a father finally relinquished his laptop after the nagging requests of his five-year-old son. The pouting child held his father’s beat-up box of playing cards. It was one of his only surviving companions after five years of service. While the father and obvious tells of the game, his son’s mischievous eyes and fast actions caught him off-guard and made him certain to lose. found himself on his laptop once more,

the static noise of the TV dragged his

procedure of an appendectomy to a surgeon. The dining table, next to the TV, was crowded by newspapers open to the job section and its monotonous slew of words, descriptions, and measly salaries. The strenuous highlighting had created grandiose valleys in the papers. miscellaneous pile of belongings: chewed pens, various medicines like Glipizide and Prozac, dimes and quarters, a cold six-pack with two beers finished, and a crinkled, Polaroid print of a woman with

When the game ended, he

and catalogs. Every now and then,

become familiar to the father like the

Besides the stream of papers, resided a

was used to the usual sly techniques

scrolling through sprawling websites

mind. The international news had

warm eyes and a flowery smile.

The father, staring at the mountain of unfiled documents and crumpled papers, felt his eyes being dragged to the ground. His muscles still ached, and the ringing still haunted him in the most silent hours. Yet at the sound of his son pitter-pattering down the stairs, the father realized his new mission was more worthy than anything else.

Kojo Baidoo, Red Fox, Digital Photograph 47

MY SECRET SOCIETY

by Lydia Walker

I had feared morphing into one of them.

Hidden behind their painted masks, they dreamed that with their charade, their holes would hem.

But drowning in the grey sea, a voice inside them screamed.

I had feared becoming ordinary.

Blending with the grey clouds of bleak faces, but I found something extraordinary and the normality, it erases.

I had feared opening the door to the mist, to the snake’s crossroad, expecting our trust.

As he rips the buds from their stems whilst he hissed in the haze, degrading bright stars to dust.

Sarah Law, Persephone, Ink on Paper

I had feared the world, but I no longer do.

I belong to a secret society.

We meet in the sunlit clouds where there’s a golden hue, and the peace we find destroys our dubiety.

We lift the weight of the world above us.

For a while it feels like a paradise.

Time there is paper-thin, almost precious but not in the way that demands a price.

One day, you should take a trip to the sky.

And in the sunlit clouds, you will learn how to fly.

49

FREE FALL

by Melissa Grogin

One breath, and then another.

A pebble tumbles down the cliffside into water below, And feet shift nervously on the edge of the drop.

Clutched close to me are my Tiny yellow life jacket, And cheers from twenty feet down, None more likely to protect me from the fall than the other.

Eyes squeeze shut, Behind the little sky-blue goggles that cling so tight, Like the toes gripping and barely peeking over a sheer cliff side, Stuck in the moment between solid ground and plain air.

Standing for too long, fists balled, Nails scraping, digging, in the soft skin of delicate palms.

Heart thrumming, pummeling, the young ribs that cradle it.

Ears wide open. They catch the chirps and calls Of birds that soar above.

Eyes open slow, and a curious stare follows The creatures through their tour of the sky.

A shaky arm extends to grasp those gentle feathers, And gay songs that chase each other just out of reach.

A look shot down the cliff face to the murky pool, Another nervous shuffle at the end of the earth.

Arms raise, wings stretch, prepared for fall or flight.

One breath, then one more, And I jump.

50 | Colophon

Faaiz Ibraheem, Universal, Digital Photograph

51

Hannah Malitzki, Kitchen, Cardboard and Felt Sculpture 52 | Colophon

WELCOME TO WALMART

by Elise Chang To: Head of Multiverse, Sector 39J11Q From: Clementine Vortex Head Anthropomorphism Researcher Reporting Back for Week 4 Subject: Odd Temple Within Human Community Hello, Master!

I hope you are finding everything

their humanity slowly sapped away, like a wertrak draining the Dripping

well within our sector. Here on Earth, I

Hejaflaf Tree back on the homebiome.

have successfully blended in with society

It was 7:00 p.m., and the people were

by mimicking the human’s appearance

growing more frantic and angry. The

and behavior. I believe more of the

mother units started snapping at their

Glzrop race would be able to blend on

child units to, “Let go of the candy,” and,

Earth, too, but they will need training

“Stop touching your younger brother."

and experience to completely meld and

The small humans gravitate towards

avoid raising suspicion.

the aisles with the most colorful and

You must already know; Earth

outrageously weird artifacts. A little

is rather bland in comparison to our

female unit refused to let go of an even

gorgeous homebiome. But while walking

smaller human with unblinking eyes,

around and drinking a latte— I will send

and a stiff body. I immediately ran

a report on the latte later— I stumbled

away, fearing this new idea that humans

into a building called, “Walmart, Open

collect tinier, lifeless humans and play

Twenty-Four Hours.” It was a fascinating

with them. Perhaps the child units are

building, very large and colorful, most

trying to save the lifeless versions of

likely an embellished temple. Naturally, I

themselves. When more of the Glzrop

stayed for many hours. I arrived at about

arrive, we can further our studies on this

4:30 p.m. (human clock system) and left

behavior, but for now, I shall stay out of

at 12:30 a.m.

the small human sections.

At 4:30 p.m., I was having a

The time here changed to 10:00

pleasant time, wandering the aisles,

p.m. and more strange events followed.

and many other humans were doing

The adolescent humans came in, and, I

this as well. But, as the sky grew darker,

believe, they are the omen of death for

human society, for many groups of them

please, allow me to justify such a strong

arrived, and created chaos. It appears

claim. I was in the dried food aisles,

adolescent humans are capable of mass

and I watched a human male open a

destruction, for they chase each other

box of dried pasta and dump it on his

around, screech louder than the child

head. Another human came in wearing

units, and loiter around fire exits, as if

nothing but feet protectors. Once again,

they want to prevent the others from

I went to get raw meat, but there was

escaping a fire.

a human lying on the floor, most likely

I calculated if I was going to stay

in hushtime mode. At first, I thought

here for 24 hours, then I must satisfy

he had died, so I ran away. I came back

the strange emptiness in my stomach

a bit later, only for the human to grab

these weak humans deal with. I went to

my foot protector and curse at me again

the meat aisle, and was eyeing the raw

and again. I kicked him off and skittered

pigs’ feet, when I saw the adolescents

away.

slapping the raw chicken in its package.

I am currently writing to you,

I was confused because I had never seen

Great Master, from behind the rolls of

such a ritual before. But, when the male

paper that the humans wipe their hands

adolescent picked up the chicken again,

on. I didn’t know where else to go,

he dropped it to the floor and kicked it.

and I saw the adolescents doing it, so I

The others around him gave a guttural

figured it’s not an uncommon behavior.

hiccupping noise of approval, similar to

I will sleep here for a couple hours, then

the wild crogtogrin’s yelling. We must

quickly leave, as to not attract any of

note the ritualistic necessity to play

the odd humans to me. I can confirm

around with food before eating it.

the human community I am currently

A human channeled his

residing in is safe, however, this,

screeching into a bellow and came over

“Walmart, Open Twenty-Four Hours,”

a speaker of some sort. This was how I

is not a safe temple, and truly strange. It

learned it was midnight in the human

should be investigated by the Bureau of

world. The humans cannot function

Oddities during the following weeks.

without hushtime. Trust me, I’ve watched the ones deprived of hushtime

My TrembleFlemblest Regards,

close their eyes in random places. This

Clementine Vortex

explains why the ones stuck in “Walmart, Open Twenty-Four Hours,” are insane.

I know this may sound crazcaz, but

54 | Colophon

Sophie Merbaum, Words, Marker on Paper

56 | Colophon

GLASS

by Skyler Orendorff

The first time I saw her As someone else, Her eyes were glass.

When she looked at me, I could tell sickness Had broken into her house And dragged her out into the night.

Taking her somewhere far, far away.

Her eyes were wide, overflowing With panic and distress.

When I finally looked within her eyes, She wasn’t inside them anymore.

It seemed that if I were to touch her, The glass would break into millions of pieces, Crumbling to the ground.

They would lay there, Wanting to be put together.

To form the woman That used to laugh by the warm lake And smile while making cookies.

The woman that used to Spend hours in her colorful garden And read long books on the boat.

The glass was pleading us to save it, But we didn’t know how to.

So we sweep the glass up, Lay it out on the table, And attempt to put them back together.

Piece by piece.

While watching the woman become less Of the person we once knew.

2 0 02 H O N DA CIVIC

by Reilly Hylton

Me and my sister drive around in my Oma’s car.

With her ripped end war stickers on the bumper.

It still smells like wet dog, her dog, Tucker.

And the light gray seats have stains all over them from when I spilled Sprite or when Tucker peed all over them.

We pull up to a red light and my sister puts on her turn signal.

Click, click, click.

A familiar sound that sparks a memory – The four of us back in Bloomington, Indiana. My mother, sister, Oma and me. Back when there weren’t any stains, when her clothes weren’t baggy and her glasses didn’t fall off her face.

We’re leaving my Oma’s house.

I’m holding her little tote bag with the bouquet of flowers on it and her pillow in it.

The chairs in the restaurants were always too hard for her so she would always bring a pillow to sit on.

We all get in her car, my mother drives, my sister gets shotgun and I kick her seat while me and Oma sit in the back.

I don’t remember exactly what was said in those precious car rides but, I remember the feeling, the belly-aching laughter, the jokes made, the reminiscing, the love we all had for each other, the looks we all exchanged, and all the happiness we all felt in that moment.

58 | Colophon

As I’m sitting at the stop light waiting for it to turn green I think of all of this. And although I smile at the memory, I frown at the present.

As I realize those are all memories in the past.

They can never be recreated because we’re missing the most important part of that memory: Oma.

Abigael Coburn, Bird on a Wire, Oil on Canvas 59

GALVESTON ISLAND

by Toshi Davis

Time moves on, but Galveston

and yellow to satisfy the people looking

Island never falters. Even when the

up from their homes, as if they were

hurricane struck, this small community

raised to be closer to the beauty of the

rebuilt itself in the blink of an eye. The

night sky.

houses stand tall and proud to protect

their people.

all over the world. Whether from South

America, Europe, or just a different state,

Walking down each house’s path,

Summertime brings visitors from

you can see why they’re special. These

the island welcomes them. Here, the

homes whisper their gratitude to the

different languages bouncing around the

people on the island. They mourn over

air all sound the same. “Is this our house?

those lost in the hurricane. All smile

We’re finally here.” The houses gladly

as the town recovers, back on its feet as

open their doors for those who cannot

if nothing happened. As if all that has

wait to settle down.

changed are the houses, seventeen feet

higher now. Ready to hold their ground

hurricane comes around again, it is

through any storm.

celebrated. The townspeople gather at the

newly built seawall, bathed in artwork

The people of the island embrace

When the anniversary of the

the return of peace. Shirtless men walk

from a community project. A moment of

out of the homes with no shame. They

silence spills into a bonding of families.

head down to their backyard since they

This town has healed. The houses and

were born. A beach that is theirs until the

people stand tall together.

sun falls.

Island, the island on stilts.

Their houses always welcome

them back. The sky blends orange, red,

60 | Colophon

This is the legacy of Galveston

Andrew Jenkins, A Small Adventure, Oil on Canvas

61

Dariush Aligholizadeh, Generative Waveforms, Generative Art

62 | Colophon

NI L’UN NI L’AUTRE

by Adjoa Baidoo

my gender is jazz music: ain’t neva been no straight eighth note, no pearl-necklace-voice of an opera singer, nah. I is sensible nonsense solos at 300 bpm jasmine perfume songs of streetwalkers and the wedding ring of their disciples. my gender be like autumn-type ambiguous: the wildfire’s kiss scorches my tongue, but blizzards ain’t got my back. Instead, the burning cold of November wind weaves me a halo out of oak crimsons, maple golds and sunset scarlets.

My gender be sey cyborg sey alien; sey supanova; like this world can’t hold its magic. like Earth ain’t neva gon’ be enough.

63

Piper Jackson, Floating, Digital Photograph

64 | Colophon

WHEN I WAKE

by Kayla Yup

today I woke to the sun already blooming, to Apollo dangling off his chariot, to fingers stroking wispy clouds like soft feathers, as if Icarus never fell and as if it’s safe to kiss the sky.

I yearned for it, pressed my palms against it, but the horizon wavered cruelly until it was gone, and I remained, tangled between my sheets. if every day the sun sets and resets to new dawns, why can I not be reborn? I wish the morning would replace this hollow ache with a newborn’s hunger, let the Earth crush grapes into bitter wine, press fresh buttercups to my chin until it reflects yellow. yellow like a jaundiced baby, yellow like the light seeping through my lace curtains. let this yellow burn me until my yellow skin peels crimson, until my mother stops calling me dark and it is as if the sun never kissed me. sun, I beg, do not rise yet. let the alarm clock ring for another.

I plan to lie in my fenced off cradle, I want to be swaddled, let mother spoon liquor down my throat, remind me that time is relative and age a matter of seconds.

I want my mother to kiss me goodnight one last time before the moon usurps the light and she is gone. mother, know that I am slow to rise because I like to savor each breath in and out as if I have never tasted air.

I am alive again. please, just five more minutes and I will be ready to empty from my mother’s belly. to Artemis, to Gaia, if I have not risen before the sun sets, do not wake me.

65

ABOUT OUR EDITORS BECKY GLESSNER

Becky has been a member of Colophon for four years, an editor for three, and a managing editor for two. She is endlessly grateful for all the experiences she has gained from working on this publication, as well as the loving, creative, and hilarious community it has allowed her to be a part of. Colophon will always hold an extremely special place in Becky’s heart and she can’t wait to be a patron when she’s a rich old person.

She will be attending the University of Maryland next year and plans to major in linguistics.

Pages designed: 2-3, 30-31, 52-55, 62-63

JENNY GLICKMAN

This is Jenny’s fourth and final year with Colophon, after three years as an editor and two as art editor. Colophon has been such a huge presence in her life and she will miss it deeply. She has loved meeting all of her amazing friends and advisors through this club and making fantastic books every year with them. She will fondly remember Colophon and bring the memories and knowledge with her to Drexel University where she will be majoring in Entertainment and Arts Management with a concentation in theatre.

Pages designed: 12-13, 24-25, 40-41, 4243, 48-49, 58-59, 66-70, Inside Covers

KAYLA YUP

This is Kayla’s third year as an editor of Colophon and first year as a managing editor. The Colophon community is tastefully eccentric and teeming with creativity. From her first year as a shy freshman editor to now, she has learned how important it is to embrace the arts,

and find people who share those common passions. She is grateful that the writers and artists of Towson High are proud of their individual voices and visions. Kayla looks forward to another great year of Colophon in her senior year.

Pages designed: 2-3, 4-5, 18-21, 22-23, 60-61

SOPHIA JOHNSON

Sophia has been a part of Colophon for three years, and this is her first year as an editor. She is endlessly grateful for all of the kindness from her peers and advisors over the years as she has grown and learned about design. She throroughly appreciates all of the special memories Colophon has given her, including the rewarding feeling of holding a book created from scratch in her hands. She will be attending University of Delaware next year.

Pages designed: 6-7, 44-45, 56-57

REBECCA KLEEMAN

This is Rebecca’s second year in Colophon and her first year as an editor. Within just two years, she has learned so much about design, collaboration, and all the hard work which goes into creating the best literary arts magazine within 150 miles of the (albatross-free) Chesapeake Bay. She’s gained a wonderful group of artists and friends through Colophon and as a junior, she hopes to continue into her senior year.

Pages designed: 1, 6-7, 8-11, 26-27, 34-35, 36-39, 64-65, Inside Covers

HANNAH LECHTZIN

Hannah has been a member of Colophon for four years and an editor for three.

Colophon has been one of her favorite

high school experiences and she cannot wait to continue designing in college.

Hannah is extremely grateful for the amazing friends and memories she has made throughout her time with this group. Next year she will be attending the University of California, Los Angeles where she will study biology.

Pages designed: 18-21, 50-51

KAMERON MERKERSON

This is Kameron’s fourth and final year as a Colophon editor. As a young man living in a crazy world, he has been able to ascend to new heights while remaining humbled and supportive as others try to reach his level. He has been a committed member who has bled Colophon literally and spiritually. Busselman has often said Kameron is his favorite which is understandable. Some would say he brings the party and laughter to the group and is the backbone of our beloved enterprise...but he always says, “I’m just one of the guys...” He hopes to bring these skills to California State University, Northridge this fall and build a legacy his admirers can be proud of. Shalom.

Pages designed: 28-29

CASIMIR MOREAU

Casimir has always been an editor for Colophon. They have loved spending so much time devouring oreos while the rest of the editors debated art and writing, and they will miss the friends and advisors they have learned, grown, and laughed with so often. They are so thankful to have been part of such a creative group which shares artistic passions, and has been able to combine their talents to put together a wonderful book. They will be going to Emory University to study Biology and Creative Writing.

Pages designed: 14-17, 32-33, 46-47

IRENE SUNG

Irene has been a Colophon member for four years, and an editor for three.

Colophon has taught her so much about the process of creating things and the beauty of collaboration. She will miss the community that the club has built and the friends she has made over the years, and plans to pursue other creative endeavours in the future with everything she has learned here. She will be attending Case Western Reserve University in the fall and is majoring in Environmental Engineering.

ANNIE CULLINANE

This is Annie’s first year as a member of Colophon. She will hold the knowledge and expirience Colophon has given her all the way through high school.

She values each and every member who gave her advice, and helped her through her editorial beginnings. She plans, for the future, to go to college for creative writing. On her way to that goal, Colophon has played a major part in helping her hone her craft. She wants to extend a thank you to everyone who’s helped her improve through her time as a freshman.

Pages designed: 46-47

67

PATRONS Due to COVID-19, we thought it best to put our tradition of gaining patronage for Colophon from local businesses on hold. However, the generosity of our past patrons does not go unrecognized. We wanted to thank all of the families, businesses, and individuals who have been patrons over the years, supporting Colophon and helping it become a reality.

Additionally, we are extremely thankful for the individuals and businesses who have supported us at our fundraising events this year and in years past, including our annual pancake breakfast and our concessions stand for the fall and spring drama productions at Towson High School.

Thank you to the many families, businesses, and individuals who have been patrons in the recent past: Anne Henslee of Cummings and Co. Real Estate AutoBahn of Towson Inc. The Balin Family Sheila and Ron Bellamy The Blinkoff Family

Forge Creative

Kim Kryzewski

Kelly Freeburger

The Lauring Family

Emily Friesner Marcia Glickman Gordon Florist The Hartstein Family The Henderson Family

Kim Studeman

Laura Long

Jill Talmage

The Maples of Towson

Towson Bootery

Leeannah McNew The Miller Family

The Carass Family

Herring Run Associates LLC

The Moreau Family

The Carney Family

The Hylton Family

Carol Newill and J Brough Schamp Photography

Greg and Carole Jackson Cochran

Musotto Sports Memorabilia

The Byars Family

Kim Culbertson Cheryl Della Sega The DuChane Family

Anya Joseph Kim Barton Group The Kleeman Family

Maya Montgomery

The O’Connor Family Physical Therapy First Joan Shaughnessy

Timothy Evers

The KleesGlickman Family

John and Barbara Shaughnessy

The Faraday Family

Rachel Kopeck and Noah Belt

Vincent Shaughnessy

68 | Colophon

John Stevens

Kenneth W. Long Jr.

Henslee Conway Real Estate

Brooks-Huff Tires

The Silber/ Lammes Family

The Sung Family

Towson High School Student Government Association Uncle Wiggly’s Ice Cream and Sandwich Shop Union Craft Brewery Steve Wonnell Teresa Wonnell The Wonnell Family York Cleaners

LETTER FROM THE SENIORS Voyager, The senior editors of Colophon thank you for reading this far, whether you are viewing an online version or a physical copy of this year’s magazine! We are writing to you from a social distancing compliant Zoom call, though nothing can match the creative energy of a real Colophon meeting. Between game nights, diner trips, hunts for patrons, deep concessions chats, and apparently latenight video conferencing, Colophon has become more of a family than a club for this group of seniors. We want to take a moment to look back on everyone who has encouraged us through endless hours of design, review, fundraising, laughter, and everything else that’s gone into this magazine these past four years.

The person we have unanimously voted to thank first is Mr. Busselman, who once fell off a motorcycle in Thailand.

Although we do have some questions about the whereabouts of your #1 Dad license plate, we thank you deeply for allowing us to create this magazine these past four years, this year especially.

Your unwavering support and slightly begrudging patience have always been the guiding forces for us as creators and students.

Our past advisors and fellow staff have also been incredibly valuable to our Colophon experience. We want to thank Dr. Freeburger helping us with literature and handling our finances for our first three years in Colophon. Thank you to Mr. Belt for teaching literally every one of us how to use Photoshop and InDesign, and for leaving his weird green chair in the library. We also feel compelled to credit all of our past editors and leaders Shayna, Hannah, Oscar, Anna, Rosemary, and Morgan - for inspiring us to love this publication as much as they did.

Next, we wanted to acknowledge Ms. Valsing for her artistic contributions and guidance this year. To Mr. Ickes, who is a little bit scary a lot of the time and rarely wears shoes: thanks for being our surrogate advisor and letting us deconstruct your library at random. We are eternally grateful for all the Towson students who submit their works of art and literature each year; you are what makes this book possible and consistently award-winning.

Finally, to Kayla, Rebecca, Annie, and all of our wonderful staff: we are so excited to see what you make next year.

Becky, Jenny, Sophia, Hannah, Kameron, Casimir, and Irene 69

EDITORIAL POLICY & MISSION STATEMENT The extracurricular club begins by assembling returning staff and incoming members to a preliminary meeting. Here, the club clarifies the purpose and need behind Colophon, identifies the direction envisioned for the year, and outlines general meeting times after school. A standard is established and clarified to all Colophon staff for the evaluation of creative works.

The club members promote submissions to be judged anonymously, encouraging all students to volunteer any work they have through the Colophon website, thscolophon.weebly.com.

Literary submissions are divided into anonymous sets. Each piece is evaluated individually by all Colophon staffers, and given a grade for their techinque, expression of emotion, and unique insight. Similarly, art submissions are also divided into anonymous sets, which are evaluated by the entire staff through democratic voting. Criteria for artwork centers around the quality, originality of thought, and innovative use of the medium. As the year progresses, editors narrow down the list of accepted works.

A meeting is called to discuss common themes, drawing from the submissions in hopes of attaining a central vision for the magazine.

As the club moves into the design phase, editors consult with writers to suggest edits for syntax or literary development in their writing pieces. Art pieces are photographed or scanned to ensure high quality images. As final edits are made, the layout and the pairing of art and writing pieces are organized through a general meeting.

70 | Colophon

The Colophon staff creates and designs spreads on Adobe InDesign and Photoshop CC 2019 and 2020 before electronically sending the book to be published, and launching a digital version on Issuu. Finally, copies are distributed in person or via mail to those interested for $10 each, while they are handed out free of charge to patrons as a show of appreciation.

For decades, Colophon has had a singular focus that has driven it to publication: giving people a voice to exchange emotion and express personal insight into our common human experience. It has been over fifty years since its foundation, and as the community that shapes it have evolved, Colophon too has grown, passing through temporal portals to adapt to its new environment. The creative arts magazine’s annual efforts have culminated in a haven of creation, to protect, feed, and display to the world the minds of students.

Colophon lives through its student body, a collection of 1600 minds, and 93 dedicated faculty members, without which there would be nothing to publish at all. The organization accepts submissions from all grades 9-12 for consideration, but to ensure that the school is well represented, only one work is published for any one artist or writer.

The student body is diverse, harbouring multilingual students, therefore as a tradition, Colophon has published at least one work of literature in a different language.

SUBMISSION POLICY Colophon is currently accepting submissions for its 2021 edition on its website, thscolophon.weebly.com. To submit, fill out the information required in the form on the submission page of the Colophon website, and attach the file containing your piece. Acceptable submissions include, but are not limited to, painting, photography, drawing, poetry, prose, sculpture, and music.

Contact Colophon at thscolophon@gmail. com. More information on Colophon and its history can be found at the Colophon website, thscolophon.weebly.com.

COLOPHON All body text is printed in 11 point Constantia, with 14 point Constantia bylines. Titles are printed in Constantia at varying sizes. The Arabic body text on page 46 is printed in 11 point Arial, with a 30 point Arial title. All layout, typesetting, and artistic design is executed using Adobe InDesign and Photoshop CC 2019 and 2020. The 2020 edition of Colophon will be printed in a limited edition by HBP, Inc. in Hagerstown, Maryland at a later date, after a launch on the digital publication platform Issuu.

TOWSON HIGH SCHOOL