"Thalia" 2017-2018 by Trinity Valley School

THALIA 2017-2018

Staff Editors-in-Chief: Tom Bosworth and Amanda Fisk Fiction Editor: Kamryn Dow Poetry Editor: Serena Gandhi Nonfiction Editor: Maggie Shipman Artistic Director: Erin Johnson Events Coordinator: Emma Stack Director of Social Media: Flavia Lima Editors: Alex Pitre, Brinkley Pauling, Chris Pezanosky, Connor Browne, Dacy Distler, Daine Holsteen, Emma Dalley, Emma Bedward, Emma Stack, Ethan Lisenby, Jackson Key, James Stupfel, Jolien Hidalgo, Jule Lopez, KayLynne Midgley, Lulu Wu, Maaike Sommers, Margaret Shumate, Maya Kalaria, Rachel Baker, Reagan Fitzgerald, Sabra Belott, Sarah Clark, Shruti Sahu, Sophia Castro, Taylor Matthews, Tina Bajramovic

Note From The Baristas Trinity Valley School has been a quiet factory of art for decades. Superb English and Visual Arts faculty and endlessly creative students make for a productive and rich industry. Our hope is that Thalia makes art at Trinity Valley just a little bit louder. Not buzzsaw-and-heavy-machinery loud, but perhaps the gentle hubbub of a street corner café. Your latté is ready, and there is a cozy spot for you by the bookshelf. Allow yourself a few minutes to sit back and sink into the noise.

Table of Contents Cover

Poetry But He Doesn’t Hear It Pancho’s Restaurant, Empty as of 2009 Nadir Aphelion Primer on Ancient Torture Thirlwall Before The Battle of Bosworth, August 21st,1485 Glassy Eyes, Cloudy Waters A Little Lone Plant To Bathe or Not to Bathe Celery Sticks or Something of Nothing Treasures The Elegant Swim Grandpa’s House Fall Fields and Funerals Goodbye Sun, Hello Grave Cows Eating Grass in a Graveyard in Oklahoma Dying Dreams Public Service Announcement Awake

Creative Nonfiction Capturing Infinity Life with Living Colors

Art Coyote Fabric Drawing Wax Fruit White on Black Schools Seeds The Eyes to the Unknown Peace, Please 9 to 5: the Musical Final Vectorworks Rendering Abstract Ball of Fabric

Erin Johnson Charles Maxwell Stucker Serena Gandhi Daine Holsteen Daine Holsteen Tom Bosworth Gemma Goss

6 7 8 9 9 10

Serena Gandhi Brinkley Pauling Luke Bogle Margaret Shumate Brinkley Pauling Tina Bajramovic Sarah Clark Amanda Fisk Sarah Clark Reagan Fitzgerald Amanda Fisk

12 13 14 15 16 17 18 19 22 23 24

Reagan Fitzgerald Tom Bosworth Amanda Fisk

25 26 28

Megan Hayward Jules Lopez

29 31

Dacy Distler Rachel Baker Emma Dalley Brinkley Pauling Erin Johnson Rachel Baker Addie Guin Emma Dalley Jackson Key

33 34 35 36 37 38 39 40 41

Brinkley Pauling Eesha Muddasani

41 42

Free Flowing Umbrella Etch Winston

Fiction Mrs. Almont’s Garden Getting Rusty Odd House Reverie There’s no WiFi in Foxwood Valley Pennies

James Stupfel Erin Johnson James Stupfel

43 44 45

Emma Bedward Serena Gandhi Sarah Clark Amanda Fisk Charles Maxwell Stucker Serena Gandhi

46 48 49 51 53 55

Judge of John Graves Award

Blas Falconer is the author of The Foundling Wheel and A Question of Gravity and Light as well as the co-editor of two anthologies, Mentor and Muse: Essays from Poets to Poets and The Other Latin@: Writing Against a Singular Identity. The recipient of a poetry fellowship from the National Endowment for the Arts and a Maureen Egen Writers Exchange Award from Poets and Writers, he teaches in Murray State University’s low-residency MFA program and is a poetry editor at The Los Angeles Review.

But He Doesn’t Hear It

Charles Maxwell Stucker

An orchestra of ivory and string Erupts from its mahogany compound. The maestro busy as his music rings To audiences captive from his sound. Although they cannot hear nor cannot see The maestro’s inner demons cloud his mind. For every note brings doubt instead of glee, As art and self-worth become intertwined. As little mistakes cloud this song of his, He cannot help but dwell where others won't. He isn’t good enough. He never is. His mind tears him apart when others don’t. As notes are struck and beaten without pause, He’s lauded with a deafening applause.

John Graves Award Winner

Panchoâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s Restaurant, Empty as of 2009

Serena Gandhi

We were both born childish and colorful and infinite. The restaurant owners polished the concrete floor to be so smooth and so slick that little ballerinas like me could sloppily do prima pirouettes in pink cowboy boots. Now, I am the meek color-faded mural of a parrot with clipped wings, whose dull green feathers dissolve into the grease and lard-ridden air to reveal cracks in the deep red brick. I am the motionless ceiling fan whose blades droop beneath their own weight, preparing for the chains to rust and the wires to snap, leaving me to sit devastated on the floor that now sparkles with glass dust. Stray wires and pipes are strewn about the equipment-less kitchen like short curls and long wisps of hair covering brown doe eyes. The dumbfounded fluorescent lights and white walls subsist on oblivion, stunned by every tear of water that drips from the neglected pipes. The abandoned restaurant seems to throw rocks at its own windows to watch them break. It has become the cutie pie who drops her china doll so Daddy might hear it break too. The tired walls listen to the low whistles that cry from the windowpanes, echoing through the emptiness that turns footsteps to gunshots. With its squeaky hinges, the front door hangs open, grieving over its inability to close into the small doorframe and welcoming the unlikely and occasional visitors who wonder how the poor place is even still standing.

John Graves Award Honorable Mention

Nadir

Daine Holsteen

The smoke and rain and fog tumbled alone, Blended in the dark. The streets which glowed A cacophony of color, bled bright as they shone On fleeting ships. Light broke tears as they flowed. The symmetry of steel and aluminum, A blackened city, labored with decree And cold Eastern Winds. What sort of sum Is this? Dead space between stars? A dead tree? And listen to the engines rumbling. The stygian breach in the vault of the sky. That bloody stem, of night distinct and tumbling, At lowest your point, when you understand why. And the city will crumble and shatter, And by the end, none of this will matter.

John Graves Award Honorable Mention

Aphelion

Daine Holsteen

And when the sun ceases to rise at dawn, And the night arrives and pours upon you, And the waves rage unto a fiery faith, And lives and loves from all before wither And beneath dirt and toil below, And when the bloodblack darkness so does spin, And the hearth lays anguished, alone, alight, And evil bleeds you dry, an ossuary, And all your hope is tucked under the shore, All your worlds will know obliteration.

Primer on Ancient Torture

Tom Bosworth

A man invented an elegant device for execution. The victim was locked inside a metal bull while fire lapped at the hull from beneath: a machine to reduce person to meat slab to ash. The myth omits searing skin sticking to brazen walls spit boiling, eyes and ears popping, limbs melding, all while guards and executioner stand solemn. It is said that the creator of the device was sentenced to death in his own creation. It is not said whether or not he screamed or bucked as the contrapasso became literal. He designed it to be elegant. I wonder if he felt pride at its design, its elegance, as he burned and begged for Lethe.

Thirlwall Before The Battle of Bosworth, August 21st,1485 Gemma Goss The steeds were stamping at the ground, their hooves A din quite like the beating of a drum. He’d been born in this war and proudly served The Yorks the white roses, as one of their knights. Thirlwall, the standard bearer of Richard, Looks over to the field where blood would spill. Will dawn bring me my death or carry life? He wonders. If my death tomorrow brings Where shall I go? To heaven or to hell? I have been close to horrors and malign, I have seen the wheat fields burned to black ash The bodies of good men hurt, broken, dead. Upon a branch a crow sits, watching him As though it knows some secret. Speak to me Are you the Devil? The black crow doesn’t reply Tomorrow, I will bear the white rose flag For King Richard. For him I shall fight or Die. The dark crow let out a cry, a screech, That chilled him to the core. Then doubt crept in Soft as a cat. But there it was. Had he Killed the young boys? The heirs? Killed them To take the crown? Not out of love but spite Locked them in the old tower to die? They Had not been seen for years. I pray they live He thought. The black crow looked at him, with coals For eyes. Are you my death? he asked the crow. Will a sharp sword pierce my good heart? Or will I grow old and die an old man? His thoughts, his doubts, returned to King Richard. If he fled, ran from here to Henry’s side He would be welcomed there. They needed all The men they could get, so few were left from Years of harsh, brutal war. Knights, nobles killed In droves, their castles left in ruins. If he Fled and was caught he would be killed. They would Say treason and behead him or burn him If they thought, they could. And so many guards Swarmed the king’s camp that there was little chance

Of flight. He could always die fighting, sword In hand and striking, parrying. A grand death For all to see. But what would that get him? Would it win this torrid, endless war? No, no. To try and leave would give him only death. To fight, to kill, to die with honor was More noble than to die a fleeting, and Weak, coward. To do such would bring dark shame To him. And he had no want to die as A traitor. Better to die a brave man, Than kill his knightly brothers, fleeing to A life that would be filled with regret and pained doubts About the choice, he had made, who’d he killed, When he’d killed them why he’d killed them. No, no He couldn’t have such thoughts as those, plaguing him In his nightmares. I’ve never had the choice. I must kill my good friends my joy too dead. He thought looking up to the rose flag that he Would bear in battle, bear with pride for there Was no way other he could. He would fight For what it stood for, not for what it was.

Glassy Eyes, Cloudy Waters After Greg Williamson

Serena Gandhi

My mother’s arms coddle me in an embrace The rhythmic lullaby, just gentle cooing, fades in and out. As I see beyond the deep pools of her eyes The pond ghost, the proud belter, stalks, hidden by Frail, knit brows, gentle hanging lips, marred by Muggy water, which reveals only the opaque marble eyes, reflecting Disdain, for I, her helpless baby, limply, fall into Dampened sickness. The toad is bound by leather skin, is stuck in A little puddle, with all refusal to leave The water, simply out of fear of drying up, Until, of course, I was torn from it. Being left to moan a groggy ultimatum before giving in.

A Little Lone Plant

Brinkley Pauling

A little lone plant, planted all alone, strives to liven up the place, but sets a dreary tone. A little lone plant, planted all alone, aches to do his part, but canâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t until heâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s grown. A little lone plant, planted all alone, aims to change a life, but cannot change his own. A little lone plant, planted all alone, wants to meet some friends, of which he has but none. A little lone plant, planted all alone, dreams to go beyond his pot and all the seeds heâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s sown. A little lone plant, planted all alone, tries in vain to stay upbeat, until his faith is blown. A little lone plant, planted all alone, whiles away his days till all his days are gone.

To Bathe or Not to Bathe After Hamlet

Luke Bogle

To bathe or not to bathe, that is the question Whether ‘tis nobler on the body to suffer The strain of standing and of harsh water Or to lay down daintily in the bath? But by taking this bath, be weak. To bathe, to relax No more--and by this bath we will end The strain, and high water pressure on my back Relaxing is all I want while cleaning myself. To bathe, to rest--to bathe--ah to look like a wimp For in that bath of relaxation What rumors may come after We have ignored the haters of our baths? This ignoring them might worry us. That, That is what makes us scared to step into the bath. For who would want to deal with this strain and harshness?The body builders, rude the manly men, The pain of Tony’s lack of love, Mrs. Wheat's discipline, Mr. Bhatt, or the good kids with demeritsWhen all it takes is a bath bomb and to hop in. For who wants to stand in strain a deal with pain Unless they fear what might come from the bath The skin that prunes if there too long Scared of being called a child or worse… To be called a woman, that scares men This unknown of what we might be called scares us This makes up cowards Cowardness makes us change our way The way of how we clean ourselves This makes us not bathe at all Now we only shower to clean ourselves But this is not for yourself ‘tis for others Please hear these word the next time you ask To bathe or not to bathe

Celery Sticks or Something of Nothing

Margaret Shumate

Crunch, crackle You, like crisp celery Thin and green Chewing fruitlessly on nothing Tick, tock You, like the other times Frantic and blighted Trying restlessly for anything Hiss, little miss You, like a snake in winter Cold-blooded and ghastly Slouching lifelessly towards everything

Treasures

Brinkley Pauling

Here’s to life’s little treasures, the random gifts in every day, like memorable laughs over trivial things that arrive and don’t fade away. Here’s to life’s little treasures, the unexplainable feats of ability, like catching something as it falls with superhuman agility. Here’s to life’s little treasures, the times we learn something new, like figuring out the meaning of a joke or a unique way to tie your shoe. Here’s to life’s little treasures, the brief beauties of humanity, like catching a smile from a stranger amidst day-to-day insanity. Here’s to life’s little treasures, the best parts of what we do. I try my best to find them all, and I hope that you will, too.

The Elegant Swim

Tina Bajramovic

The waves boom as they hurl into the white soft sand, the salt spray in the air. The clear blue water makes it easy to see like a bird eyeâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s view of the city. The ocean a never-ending oasis for many creatures. Fishes swim by, the glittery scales and their white fins shimmer. One slides by touching my leg, The tickling feeling of the elegant swim. The uncertainty caused, droplets of saltwater flying through the air by my urge to run away. The ocean a never-ending oasis for many creatures.

Grandpa’s House

Sarah Clark

The cream carpet is soft as a spider’s web. In the corner, a senile, white piano has rested in solitude for a long time. The keys have all attained a buff color, like un-brushed teeth beginning to decay. When played, the out of tune piano sings an old hymn: “It is Well with my Soul”. The chords are empty. A cream doily protects the top of the piano, an oxygen mask attempting to resuscitate the broken instrument. The next room might have been considered a garage once. Brown shelves line the walls, covered with important junk: a mini bubblegum machine, rows of boy scout patches, and a slightly bent, brown-tinted photograph from Vacation Bible School, 1968. A tarnished trash can rests in the room, sorely failing at its job. Waste is spilled over the floor. McDonald’s fry boxes and old newspapers cluster around a comatose dark green SUV. Dust is on everything in the house. Dust is in the air. Dust and the home were married. At the back of the bedroom, a door leads into a small closet filled with perfectly spaced old suits. A shelf on the left supports an old, worn bible. Several pairs of black loafers sink into the carpet, resting like a coffin drowning in the Earth. The house sits alone atop a small hill, in complete isolation. It was once a cozy, little home shrouded in dark brown bricks. Grass and weeds flowed in abundance over the curb, thin fingers calling for help. No one could hear their hoarse, cracking voices. Everyone forgot about grandpa. The haunted melody of wind flows through the cracking bricks. It is Well with my Soul.

Fall

Amanda Fisk

I. I stop and sit outside for a moment, Letting the world continue to Whirl around me and fan out. The lives of people I will not, Nor ever will, meet, Walk around my table on the corner. I am quiet. Leaves fall around me and I can only pause to wonder. II. I am not the kind of person who Makes New Year's Resolutions in the hope That I will actually stick to them. I make my promises to myself in the fall. By the time October has come around, I have finally gathered up my courage In my tired arms, and decided To pick it up and let it fall around me In a brilliant cacophony of colors. III. I know that more is too come. In joy, in laughter, in hope, in sorrow, Fall is the mother month. It is the month that wraps you up tight, But does not suffocate you trying to keep you warm. It is the month that allocates just enough To fill you and then a little more. It is the month that allows for moments, That are a little more perfect and forgiving.

IV. The dregs of my coffee stare Up at me. Watching me typing, Judging me for the work I have not done. The warmth has seeped from my mug And although I wrap my hands around it, Trying to gather the last bit of heat in My fingertips as they brush across the cooling Ceramic. It is a fluttering defeat. V. The songs I listen to in the fall are all Tinged with the feeling of melancholy. The knowledge that I will be listening to these, Years from now, to remember Everything that was truth at the time. With a gentle nostalgia That has not yet earned its place. My Memory is faulty but I desperately Cradle it with both hands pressed tight. VI. There is a fig tree outside my window. I think it sprouts a little bit everyday; A new branch, a new fruit, green and unripe. There are also, however, those That are bruised purple and rotting. Swaying fat on the lowest branches. The two look so alike some days. The only difference is that the one That I will desire is much harder to obtain. VII. Autumn is when everything is

On the cusp of dying. The cusp Of complete rebirth to something New and familiar to nature, but Not recognizable to me. There is no way to put a term, Or definition, to anything that has no Definite shape in its manifestation. There is only what we try to call it.

Fields and Funerals â&#x20AC;&#x2039;After Greg Williamson

Sarah Clark

Like thin, pale ghosts, All the gathered gaze upon her body, Holding hands. And I become angry at how few people cared for her. The dandelionâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s frail pappi reach out, I trace my ring, Creating an imperfect sphere. And I see that they took hers off. The interior is a nest, Like the withering carnations her family brought, Desperately holding onto the straying pieces. I feel as though I am the crumbling sandcastle I never got to build with her. The dandelions dance as the wind tells them, While the clouds pass slowly overhead, Stopping as the wind ceases its music. Everyone gradually leaves her. Each is an individual in the herd. And she is lowered into the ground.

Goodbye Sun, Hello Grave

Reagan Fitzgerald

I hear the frightened screaming in your head. But you’ve fooled them with the smiles they bayed. Nothing can help when you’re already dead. As the hours pass, your laughs turn to dread. When the sun goes down, you drop the charade. I hear the frightened screaming in your head. Under starlight, words cut you ‘til you've bled. They won't let you off the hook ‘til you've paid. Nothing can help when you're already dead. The demons inside just want to be fed. I remember the sentences you prayed. I hear the frightened screaming in your head. Can you recall the stories you have read? Escape to them before those worlds can fade. Nothing can help when you're already dead. You call out to the stars with tears stained red. But they left you alone and without aid. I hear the frightened screaming in your head. Nothing can help when you’re already dead.

Cows Eating Grass in a Graveyard in Oklahoma

Amanda Fisk

Patterned, fat lumps of brown, White, and black, wander around On top of the graves. Casually brushing against stone, Cold, wiry fur on soft flowers; Forget-me-nots. I drive away. But I wonder, Are the cows ever driven Off the graves? What about the families? Do they know? What if they donâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t Allow it? Is that grave Sectioned off from the rest? Isolated and sacred, but What even is sacred? Are the cows sacred? Am I Sacred? Is my body sacred? At what point Does being sacred not matter?

Dying Dreams

Reagan Fitzgerald

Narrow minds see only the tunnel. They can't see the birds flying high, The endless crystal-blue sky, Or hear the haunting lyrics sung by the wind As leaves and petals dawn their colorful fabrics And step out onto the dance floor Accompanied by feathered wings and sharp beaks. They merely see the dull bricks And the hanging lights That went out a long time ago. They stumble and reach out, Only to scrape their bleeding fingers on that Reassuring stone. That safe, boring, suffocating, protective barrier. They can see the world around them - Both the crazy truth and their fabricated lie Yet they still choose what is familiar. And can you blame them? As children we all dream of exploring and exploiting, Of witnessing unbelievable and strange lands. But we're taught to ignore the thoughts that clash With the ideals of those stuck in ancient times. We have all learned to hide our inks and quills Because we fear the voices of the inexperienced, the inadequate, The people who laugh at the noose And shatter light bulbs. But there are few who Are able to climb out of that tunnel And fewer still who Were never in there in the first place. Society cultivates our imagination Until there is nothing left to harvest, And they have the audacity To complain when winter comes That there is nothing on the table.

Public Service Announcement Tom Bosworth After Georgia O’Keeffe’s Radiator Building Night—New York Please do not set foot inside the Radiator Building It is not for people to enter this city is not for people Ignore the lights atop the roof those are not lights Do you wonder how the Radiator Building is so tall It is because people set foot inside the Radiator Building Do not walk on that block there is nothing for you there Do not look at the Radiator Building it has eyes Do not think about the Radiator Building it will become your brain Do not fly over the Radiator Building it is a no fly zone Hey, some of us are stuck inside the Radiator Building. Virgil waits outside the Radiator Building Fall you dark tower Earth holds you up like Atlas Loom elsewhere Stop eating people Or will you grow until you bat the moon away And probe the sun Please, come help us. I said do not set foot inside the radiator building It will hurt like acid on your bones The United Nations strongly condemns the Radiator Building Our lights are still on. Do you see how smoke recoils from the Radiator Building Praise the smoke the smoke shows good judgement Let’s incinerate ourselves together let’s become smoke Find the author turn him to smoke Do not become ash the ash cannot float away

Do not listen to the Radiator Building. Do not do what it tells you to. You must trust me. Delete this poem this poem mentions the Radiator Building

Awake

Amanda Fisk From a line scribbled in the bathroom stall of a coffee shop thatâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s no longer home

All the good people are asleep and dreaming, until they all wake up into the brillant cacophony of life as a whole. Contemplating existence of a different vein; a life that is lived in coffee cups and unspoken travels into the depths of daydreams. Delving past sight, past touch, past any sense of what exists in black and white. Technicolor expanses of universes and possibilities not yet explored float, in the unknown dark expanses of the galaxies that exist on the edge of a pillow.

Capturing Infinity

Meghan Hayward

The girl is watching the dancers. They are stretching on stage, preparing to practice their dance. The music starts and she is caught. She watches the stage, falling in love with the song, with the dance. She stands, goes to the aisle. She follows the unspoken commands of the music. She is unpracticed, untrained. She jumps, kicks, turns, falls over herself, loses herself in the spell of the dance, despite her lack of experience. Infinity times infinity. The singer’s voice is soft. Clean and clear. The song is light, like rain caught in a sunbeam. The girl is proud when she manages to turn around twice. Onstage, the dancers launch into a series of turns called fouettes. We are infinite as the universe we hold inside. They turn and turn, and it is as if they could spin forever. Eventually, they arch their legs behind themselves, in an attitude. The dance and the song continue on, sweeping the girl with them.

It happened like this: our whole universe, unformed, erupting from the initial singularity. An infinitely dense, infinitely small, speck. Spinning. And then– a burst in the darkness. It is best to think of the Big Bang not as an explosion, but as a sudden, rapid, expansion. Very little, if anything at all, is known about the actual moment that the singularity began expanding, or anything that happened or existed before that. Some scientists even theorize that there may have been trillions of big bangs before the one that created our universe, because if anything had been just the slightest bit different, if gravity had been a bit stronger, or a bit weaker, if the expansion had happened any slower or faster, the universe could have collapsed, or remained a scattered void. ……………... Mama? Yes, Chiquita? Did you love me before I was born? Yes, I did. Did you love me before you were born? A beat. Yes. –I think so. I’m sure I did. How? Well, love is forever, Chiquita, and the past is part of forever. ……………... I grab my pointe shoes and head to the dance room. I don’t have time for this, but on days like today, I make time. I tie my hair up into a bun so it won’t fly into my eyes, sit down and put my pointe shoes on. I start the music. I prep and propel myself up over one foot, over my toes,

and turn. I watch my eyes in the mirror as long as possible before I whip my head around to look back at the same spot, leading the turn in a maneuver called spotting. I don’t think about it when I do this, but I’m turning by generating torque, rotational force. My turn is going to be slowed by friction, between the floor and my foot and, to some degree, between my body and the air. When I have made it around once, I come down off my toes onto a flat foot for just the tiniest moment. Pulling my lifted foot forward, my supporting leg goes back up to full pointe, and in doing so generates a small amount of torque to make up for the speed lost to friction. Simultaneously, I am pulling my other leg from in front of me, out to the side, and the pull it back in, beneath me, generating momentum. I am still spotting, my arms are still pulled in and rounded, and I am always over my center of balance. I could go forever. In theory. In practice, I spot poorly, and lose my center of balance after going around twice. I fall, barely catching myself. Fouettes are more difficult and confusing than I imagined when I first saw them. They require absolute precision. Otherwise, instead of keeping you up, the laws of physics will pull you down. I don’t have to understand them though, at least not beyond having everyday experience interacting the world. The most important thing to keep practicing. To work and work and work, until your muscles know the movements and positions so well that they make their own miniscule adjustments without you noticing, keeping you up. So, I prep. And turn. Over and over. I’m getting better with every try. I have to remind myself not to close my eyes, because I’m so lost in the feeling. I almost always slip into that habit, closing my eyes while I’m dancing. And I dance, turning around and around and around. I will practice until I can turn forever. Until I master the fouettes. And when I do, I’m turning, on and on. In that moment I’m both that initial singularity, everything in that will be the universe held in tight, and the universe, existing for only a few moments, expanding into existence forever. I am pulsing, turning forever. I am an infinity, and I arch my leg behind me in an attitude.

Life with Living Colors

Jule Lopez

Act II - Elementary School I sat on the rug in the kindergarten classroom, paying full attention to what the teacher was saying. “There are seven days in a week,” she told us. As she told us what they were, I envisioned colors for each of them. Monday was a deep, velvety red, Tuesday was American cheese yellow, Wednesday was grass green, Thursday was holographic indigo, Friday was cherry red, Saturday was dark brown with a mix of red, and Sunday was sky blue and bright yellow. I saw those colors, and they felt right. I could never imagine any day of the week as any other color than what I had envisioned. They just are those colors, and you couldn’t tell me otherwise. They made us play math games in elementary school to help us gain a better understanding of learning. We used a website called IXL Learning. They color coded each of the school grades, and I grimaced. All of the colors they used were wrong. It was obvious to me that one is white, two is orange, three is yellow, four is lime green, five is cerulean, six is indigo, seven is brown, eight is dark green, and nine is grey. But clearly, the website didn’t have any respect for my personal taste, and the color of the numbers didn’t correspond to how I knew them. The website had four as purple and seven as green. It wasn’t right. It was, to say the least, disturbing. I sat in my desk in the second grade classroom. Our teacher passed out tests, reminding us to write our names on them. As I wrote my name down, I thought to myself how much I hated it. Jule Lopez. The colors were disgusting and didn’t go well together at all. Indigo and yellow and black? Seriously? I could not have been disgraced with a worse name than that. As I sat in that hard, blue chair, I glared at my name on the paper. I hated it. Nothing at all could convince me that my name was pretty.

Act V - Living With Synesthesia Synesthesia does come in handy though. I can easily remember birthdays, names, and specific dates. I can also easily remember math solutions (I know that 7 x 9 = 63, because I visualize it as brown x grey = indigo and yellow, and I can’t see it any other way). To clear up any misconceptions, I should probably add that I don’t actually see the colors on paper. Cytowic and Eagleman, two scientists who study synesthesia, put it perfectly: “Number-color

synesthesia goes something like this: when a synesthete sees a 6 printed in black ink, she knows it is black and sees it as black, but she also has the experience of greenness.” David Starr Jordan, a Stanford psychologist, wrote: “It has been misunderstood by writers, who have imagined that the peculiar individuals having this trait actually see the color on the letter, which is not the fact. It is a mental association, not a false vision.” Synesthesia is a confusing topic, especially for a person who doesn’t have it. There are some minor drawbacks to having synesthesia. 76% of synesthetes report being bad at math and having a poor sense of direction, neither of which I think apply to me. However, it has been reported that some synesthetes experience migraines more than the normal person, which might explain why I get them so frequently. Also, synesthetes tend to confuse left and right, which I do almost always. Synesthesia has definitely become a huge part of my life. I mean, it would be hard to blatantly ignore it. I experience it every day. Rather than keeping it a secret and being ashamed of it like some synesthetes have done, I embrace it! I’m not ashamed and I love to tell people about it. It’s something I was born with and can’t get rid of, so I might as well enjoy it. I’m an artist. I make art in almost all mediums, but I especially love painting. It’s a huge stress reliever for me. Back in mid-April, I made two paintings. They were both what I call “synesthesia paintings,” which is me trying to put onto a canvas the colors I see when I hear a song. Both of them are lovely, and my mom proudly hung them up in the loft for all to see.

Coyote

Dacy Distler

Fabric Drawing

â&#x20AC;&#x2039;Rachel Baker

Wax Fruit

Emma Dalley

White on Black

Brinkley Pauling

Schools

â&#x20AC;&#x2039;Erin Johnson

Seeds

Rachel Baker

The Eyes to the Unknown

Addie Guinn

Peace, Please.

Emma Dalley

9 to 5: the Musical Final Vectorworks Rendering

Abstract

Jackson Key

Brinkley Pauling

Ball of Fabric

â&#x20AC;&#x2039;Eesha Muddasani

Free Flowing

James Stupfel

Umbrella Etch

â&#x20AC;&#x2039;Erin Johnson

Winston

James Stupfel

Mrs. Almont’s Garden

Emma Bedward

Exactly two weeks and a day after Delph died and Mrs. Almont was looking for a replacement sago palm. Eager for the distraction from her grief, she researched for hours at a time, sitting bent over her laptop and books like a wilted rose in need of water. After finding a way to buy a palm, she started researching more about the plant itself. Of course she loved her extensive garden and prided herself on knowing more about botany than the average person, but she hadn’t come across the sago palm in her research except in passing. When looking around for general information about the plant, she found one article titled, “Why Pet Owners Shouldn’t Grow Sago Palms”. At this point, Mrs. Almont had lost herself in the hunt for the rush that came with learning new plant facts, and, instantly curious, clicked on the link. She pulled her legs up into a pretzel and started eagerly devouring the article. After reaching the fifth line she let out a sob that seemed to make the white-flowered tree outside her window shake with anguish as petals fell like tears. Time passes like in a dream. Mrs. Almont lies curled in a ball on the couch having fallen into the deep sleep that comes after a torrent of tears. The tree stands, it’s branches all but empty, looking disheveled and weary. Delph’s grave lies hidden under a blanket of snow-white petals and the garden appears dull in the late afternoon dusk. Piercing sun rays splinter through the bare branches of the tree and shine through the window. As the light hits Mrs. Almont, still asleep on the couch, she moans like a groggy teenager and slowly sits up. Slowly waking enough to form complete thoughts, she recalled what she had learned the night before. With the image of the article printed clearly in her mind, deep anger and hatred swelled within her like a wave. Unable to hold all of her emotions back any longer, Mrs. Almont stood and marched to the kitchen with a determined look on her wrinkled face. The cabinets in the kitchen are painted light blue to match the front door and the shutters. Mrs. Almont flings them open, one by one, until she finds what she is looking for. Gripping the handle of the red gasoline bottle by one hand and clutching a book of matches in the other, she stomps her way out of the front door and into the garden. She stands, facing the front door and the two sago palms. One palm stands tall and proud, whole and healthy, and the other droops, a chunk torn from its’ side. Mrs. Almont’s hair is knotted, her fingernails still covered in grime, and her hands shake. The book of matches land on the grass with a soft rustling as she drops them to unscrew the bottle of gasoline. Moving forward enough to fully douse both palms in the

noxious-smelling liquid, she maintains enough sense to screw the top back onto the bottle and place it far away from the plants. She retreats momentarily to grab the matches from the ground before striking two matches and tossing one onto each sago palm. Two bursts of flames immediately shoot up to the clear blue sky as the leaves catch fire. After the green fronds disintegrate into black ashes on the porch, wisps and little clouds of smoke in the shape of puppies dance through the air as Mrs. Almont stands with her face turned upwards, taking it all in. The neighborhood stares in disbelief and horror as the nutty old lady stands between two pillars of flames, grinning at the sky.

Getting Rusty

Serena Gandhi

Waking up after the car crash was difficult for Ailani. The cold tiles of the hospital room sent chills up from her wide, bare feet as she got out of the bed. Ailani cracked her neck. Her eyebrows scrunched up; she hadn’t expected that to hurt so much. As she started walking to the room’s door, a nurse ran in the room, begging her to sit back down, to put the covers back on. Ailani just sat back down on the bedside, waiting for the doctor that the nurse promised would arrive. Ailani took the moment to look at her body. Her right arm was robotic. Muscularly, it replicated her right arm perfectly, fully-functioning without hesitation or skipping. Every joint she had in her arm was made of black hinges or joysticks. And the tendons and muscles of her arm were royal blue. It looked unnatural. She looked at her right leg. It was also entirely robotic, black, and royal blue, but still fully-functioning. Ailani didn’t appreciate this departure from organic beauty. Her own body was very muscular. Deep amaranth veins showed through her smooth olive skin. The doctor entered. “Ms. Pohano?” Ailani looked up at the man in the lab coat “I’m Dr. Hoapili. You’ve probably already seen your new arm and leg. Those were unable to be kept after the accident. Do you remember what happened?” Ailani strained to think. Her brain grew dizzy and achy, spinning in circles. All she could remember was driving to the port to help ship off fruit for her father’s company. The doctor continued. “No? An eighteen-wheeler associated with your father’s fruit company rammed the back of your Smart Car. The car ended up rolling on its right side, hence the damage to the right side of your body. The windshield was also unable to withstand the pressure from the crash, hence your--” He stopped for a moment. Ailani was obviously paying less attention than she should have been, and the doctor’s sudden silence brought her back. He gave her his hand, offering help for her to stand. She denied it. She was too prideful, and she found herself perfectly capable of standing on her own. The doctor led her to the bathroom. “Have you looked in a mirror yet?” Ailani stared at her reflection in the mirror above the bathroom sink. Dr. Hoapili continued to explain his procedure as she stared at her face. “You also experienced some brain damage. Parts of your brain are now circuit boards and wires. You may have trouble lifting objects or going up and down stairs, which is typical of most cyborgs.” Ailani just ignored him. My eye, she thought, my lips, my hair. Ailani’s hair was gone; it all had burned in the accident, even her

eyebrows. Her right eye was made of glass, with a bright blue iris. Her lips were scarred, cut by the windshield. Whatever skin she had kept from after the accident was scar tissue, stronger, thicker, hairless, and smooth.

Odd House

Sarah Clark

Meadows Haven St., being aloof, was an uneventful, narrow street, except when the suburban mothers toted small children on bike rides in the afternoon. Closest to the busy street, a formerly appealing house rests in solitude. There, weeds flowed out of an area that must have been a simple, tidy garden once. Each house on that street, thinking itself superior, kept to its perfect, generic lawns and pink pansies. The neighborhood was a desirable place to live, the height of suburbia. Each house there had the same terracotta-colored bricks on the house, as if each home were made from a plastic cookie cutter that these parents undoubtedly use for their PTA meetings. It was as if each household was an image that was photo-copied too many times. Most families who lived in the neighborhood were perfect nuclear households: a father, a mother, and 2.5 children. Perhaps that statistic comes from these families not loving one child as much as the other two. However, all the families saw themselves as ideals to aim for. I have lived in that odd house for many years, and I can honestly say that little has changed, both outside and inside. The neighborhood still considers itself the best of society. Inside, the house is slightly cleaner. Dust bunnies no longer live in every corner of the living room, most of the junk that had stockpiled in our garage is gone. I have learned many things in that house, both from my mother and the countless books I read. I never dreamed that I would live here all my life. Many seasons have come and gone around the house. Itâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s winter now, and like many of the plants, my mother has passed away. While I miss her, it was definitely time. Few physical memories stay in the house, as my mother did not like to keep them. Except for a well-stocked kitchen, a few, dingy Christmas cards lining the mantle, and a library of books, my house is rather empty. I try to keep most parts of the house how mother would have liked them, as if keeping the house similarly will keep mother here. Even though the house seems bare, I am constantly reminded of my childhood spent here. It was Autumn then. Each houseâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s red bricks mirrored the fallen leaves outside. The leaves painted the ground, collecting in clumps under the large oak trees in almost every yard. Despite the Texas heat, the

residents can finally feel the chilly autumn air outside, even if only for a moment. Once this shift in seasons finally occurred, it felt like the people shifted too. Neighbors would interact with each other more. Part of this could be explained with the start of school, as children would have the opportunity to see each other more. Parents would socialize with each other while their children would jump in tall leaf piles, waiting to be raked. There the leaves would lay until they die, clumping and falling in brown piles, like hair falling out. When they clear the ground, the leaves exposed the dehydrated lawns, turned a paler yellow than the annual dehydrated pansies each family bought every Spring. I would watch all of these events from the front door, staring at children running in the cooler windy air outside. Pressing my nose up against the glass, I watched the fog gather. I would wait restlessly for mother to make her way slowly down the stairs. When she stepped into the front room, she said, “Honey, go get the garden supplies.” I rushed happily to the back, getting all the items mother asked for. Gardening was one of the only time where I could go outside during the day. As mother and I would go out to the garden, it felt like everyone else abandoned the street. I noted that we were like cats and mice, that neighbors always deserted the streets when we came outside. I told mother as much and she chuckled, rubbing my messy brown hair. “They sure are pests. At least our garden is alive, right Blaire?” She said in her low alto voice. I nodded and went to tend to the soil, next to the bright flowers we had close to our home.

Reverie

Amanda Fisk

The land sinks into the fall of the sunset and when the sun rises again in late August it hits the tall stalks of grass that a cow lazily roams through. A wild call is heard over the plains, and Jack cannot be sure if it is a coyote or another person. The call is ethereal and certain in its right to own the sound of the land. He rides in pursuit of the sound, only armed with his naive bravery, a horse, and an eagerness to know what created the sound. Jack climbs over a hill and he squints into the light. In the negative space created by the amber glow, he sees a worn jean jacket draped over broad shoulders and a scowl across a man’s face. The light shifts pink, and then blue, and then back to amber. His eyes are shaded by his hat. The man is sitting on a horse that's a dappled brown color and looks similar to the boy’s rocking horse from when he was five. There's a pistol on his hip. The boy swallows and takes a step back. The grass shutters around him and the man drawls, What are you looking at? You. What’s your name, son? Jack Irwin. Ja-ck Ir-win, the man says, slowly sounding out every syllable. Where you from, Jack? Not here. Alright then, why are you here? I dunno. The cowboy sits there for a minute, chewing on a piece of sun tanned straw, just looking the boy up and down with a gleam of familiarity in his eyes, like he’s seen Jack before and knows exactly what he’ll become because he once too was in Jack’s shoes. He starts to walk his horse away and sways in sync with the horse’s steps. You comin’? he says with his head still facing forward. Alright when you’re riding here, there’s two rules. One: Don’t go running into Ector. I’m not telling you this cause I care about you, but I’m tellin’ you because it’s a rule that everyone here follows. You go into the Ector, you become one of them. Two: Don’t say nothin’ about anythin’ and we’ll get along just fine. What’s in Ector? Rule two. Okay, what’s your name? Rule two. Anything I can ask? No. Yet, the cowboy eventually tells Jack as they’re sitting by the fire a couple months later, watching the stars overhead, Name’s Boon. That’s all ya need to know. They continue on watching the stars quietly. They twinkle, and Jack finds Polaris, bright and unwavering. He hears their voice in the back of his head, We are the lost and the found. Jack starts pulling on tufts of grass and he says, I think that I’ll just become a star when I die or something. Not possible. Yeah, but that don’t mean I don’t wish it.

They stamp out the fire and lay down on their packs and Boon says, You’re keeping first watch. Here’s my pistol. We’ll get you one in the next town. Alright then. Jack stands on guard, scanning the horizon every once in while like Boon taught him, and moving around every time he notices that the moon has made a full circle around the sky to stay awake. The clouds start to cover the moon, and as the moonlight disappears and Jack hears the lull from the crickets, he starts to nod off too. They both hear a rustle at the same time, and when they abruptly wake up, a man is standing across the campsite from them. I smelled smoke, the strange man said. What y’all been cooking for me? Jack turns and looks at Boon, who is unperturbed and says evenly, We always welcome a stranger, while he reaches towards his hip to grab his gun. The man says, Lookin’ for this? and holds up Boon’s pistol with one hand to the side. Then, with absolutely no remorse, he raises it. Aims it at Boon. Cocks it. Shoots. A black rose spirals out around Boon’s chest and drips down his shirt, the blood splattering dark on the jean material. Jack yells out and tears off his own shirt to try and get the bleeding to stop. He presses and the blood soaks through his shirt too, leaving it dark and wet. Boon puts up a hand on the shirt, either in an attempt to wave Jack off or to help him, Jack doesn’t know. Then his hand falls and Boon lies limp on the ground.

There's no WiFi in Foxwood Valley

Charles Maxwell Stucker

Foxwood Valley is a small town. Really small. Like, whatever you’re thinking is small, it’s probably smaller than that. It’s biggest claim to fame is being the pitstop-of-choice between Portland and Seattle. The best job you could get was working at the glass factory, but even that didn’t pay well. If anything, though, the nature around there was beautiful. I mean, really stunning. I remember when Richard and I used to go out and take pictures of stuff in the forest. We didn’t have phones, so we used those little disposable cameras people buy for vacations. Just ran around and took pictures of dead trees and flowers. Real poetic stuff. I packed up my laptop and headed out. I figured that if I’m going to the Starbucks, I could at least say hi to Richard. That might be nice. There wasn’t a lot of snow on the ground, but man, was it still cold. Even with the sun out at high-noon and a thick leather jacket, there wasn’t an inch on my body that wasn’t immediately washed over with waves of freezing air. Starbucks was about a fifteen minute walk away, at least. It was one of those times that I wished I had a driver’s license. I ducked into the Seven-eleven on the way to get some heat, because not being able to feel my hands was a little worrying. I might as well grab a snack, I thought, since I hadn’t eaten breakfast yet. Well, I guess it would be lunch now. I noticed David picking out some snacks. David and I were not at all close. We graduated in the same class, but we barely knew each other at all. Though at the same time, we had this weird co-dependence. One day, I don’t even remember when, I asked him how he was doing. Then the next day, he asked me how I was doing. And then it was just an unwritten rule, sort of, that we had to ask each other how we’re doing whenever we saw each other. It was stupid, and partly in jest, but at the same time, it was nice to have somebody that cared about you. Even if they were a complete stranger. “Hey Dave. How’s it hangin?” “Oh... not that good.” Oh no. David was sad. Usually David was all chipper and wacky, but sad David was something more akin to a kicked puppy. I hated it when he was sad, because it made me sad. There’s nothing sadder than a sad David.

“Oh no! What’s going on?” “I lost my job.” “They fired you from the glass factory?” “More like they fired everyone from the glass factory.” “What?” “It’s shutting down.” I wasn’t really ready for that news. The glass factory was pretty much the only thing that town had. It was pretty much the only reason that town existed. Over half the people who lived there worked at that glass factory. “W-What? Why?” “People don’t need glass anymore I guess. Or maybe it’s just cheaper somewhere else.” “Wow. That’s... big news. Damn.” “Yeah. It’s a real bummer.” I wanted to leave it there, grab my snacks and head out to Starbucks. Just process the news that half my town was now unemployed. But I wanted to make sure David was okay. “What are you gonna do now?” “What?” “I mean, what’s next for David?” “Oh. I think I’m gonna get out of here.” “Out of Seven-Eleven?” “No, out of Foxwood Valley.” “You’re moving?” “I mean, there’s nothing left for me here.” He was probably right. “Where are you going?” “I dunno. Probably somewhere in California. I’ve always liked beaches.” “When are you... leaving?” “Tomorrow morning, probably.” “Oh. So I guess this is goodbye?” “Yeah, I guess so.” “...” “...Hey, you take care, Roxie.” “You too, Dave.” I left the Seven-Eleven.

Pennies

Serena Gandhi

Mrs. Wagner leaned towards me and continued. “Now, why might your ma want to talk to you right now? Are you doing anything bad? Getting yourself in trouble?” She knowingly raised a single eyebrow. She was getting to be a bit intrusive, and I pushed out my chair to give myself some more room, as if she was breathing all the air the atmosphere allotted me. My face must’ve been indicative of a guilty conscious, and Mrs. Wagner put her spine back against her chair. She made her voice soft again. “Of course not. You must be doing something amazing right now. You are a wonderful girl. So sweet of you to help an old gal like me…” I zoned out, deep in thought. My mother would be less than impressed by me. I’m smart, and of course she’d think I’m gorgeous; I look just like her. But am I weak, or just alone? If my mother were here to see me, would I still be smoking on the roof? Would I be a young woman she could be proud of? “Anyway, Honey, I had a wonderful time with you today. It’ll be getting dark soon. Maybe you’ll think about coming again tomorrow?” She smiled, as she led me to the front. I felt like she had just woke me up from a nap. I was confused, but obeyed as she unlocked and opened the heavy glass door. “I’ll see you soon, dear. Goodnight, I love you.” I love you. The words echoed in my head. I smiled at her, then left the house and walked home, leaving an empty space where my response should have been. The air began to push in on me from all sides, making me exhaust whatever breath I had kept. My heart beat in my ears slowly, and my breaths were getting to be very deep and slow, yet still harsh, as if I were wheezing. I hadn’t had anyone tell me they love me—and really mean it—in such a long time. Somehow, Mrs. Wagner, a woman close to a stranger to me now, had spoken in the voice of my mother. I felt as I should turn around and bow down at her feet, wetting her socks with the tears I was trying to hold in. My neighbor watered the garden in my heart that has long been dried up, and I could feel my mother rushing into me through the water. She didn’t seem so distant anymore. My trapped tears were giving me a headache, and I grew overwhelmed by the new presence I felt.

The sun had already begun to fall from its throne. The thin, purple-tinted clouds drifted slowly across the vibrant orange sky. In less than twenty minutes, there would be no light left, and the owls would come out to sing for me. I went home and took the keys to our neighbor’s house from the drawer in the kitchen, leaving the house as unnoticed as I had entered it. I went next door, climbed up the stairs, and stepped out the window onto the roof. The roof was painted white, and it was angled slightly, just enough for water to run down it in case of rain. I took out my lighter and a pack of Camels from my backpack and lit a single cigarette. I was already dazing off, and I burned my fingers. My hand grew red. My knuckles were white from still holding my lighter so tightly. I drew in, breathing out through my nose, letting the smoke dissipate into the air. My nostrils burned and smelt of tobacco. My eyes began to water, perhaps from the smoke, perhaps not. I just sat, staring at the sunset. The horizon was pink, and it faded into the blue that was directly overhead. The sky was intensely lit. All the trees’ shadows were long, gazing up at the colored sky. The green of the grass met the pink above the horizon, and the contrast was all too gorgeous to miss. The trees began to turn into silhouettes. I began to wish that time would stop, so I could keep on taking it in. My mother had once said the southern sunsets were the best kind. I heard a clink on my left, and startled, I put out my cigarette on the roof. On my left lay three pennies, stacked perfectly on top of one another. I didn’t relight my cigarette. I just curled up like an unborn baby, watching the red sky, only from a distance. And, after forever, for a while, I just sat, thinking of my mother, pondering over what she was trying to tell me. I could feel her there. My eyes burned from staring too long at the sun, and I closed them and drew a deep breath, feeling the air move down past my lungs and then rising into my cloudy head. “You aren’t alone anymore. You have no excuses. I love you.”

Acknowledgements It has been such an honor for us to be the Editors-in-Chief of Thalia this year! First and foremost, we would like to thank everyone who submitted this year. This magazine would not be what it is without everyone who put time and effort into creating their pieces. Thank you to the genre editors, Kamryn Dow, Serena Gandhi, Erin Johnson, and Maggie Shipman for their endless amount of great ideas and efforts spent working with the different staffs and editing. Thank you to the staff for all of their hard work and time spent. Last, but certainly not least, we would like to thank Ms. Sellers. Without her, Thalia would merely be an idea mumbled during passing periods down by the English classrooms. We hope you enjoyed, enjoy, and never stop enjoying Thalia. -Tom and Amanda