Rhapsody 2022 by Rhapsody LitMag

RHAPSODY

Vol. XLVI 2022

Covers, Layout, & Design by Elizabeth Zheng 2

rhapsody. literar y ar ts magazine

Upper Dublin High School (& District) Fort Washington, Pennsylvania 2021-2022

Editor’s Note: We ra n a long the shoreline, cha sing the fa lling sun. The pa st yea r ha s brought monumenta l cha nge, a nd in this time, we sea rched desperately for a way to mend the broken pa st. We reached for the light, only to be lef t in the da rk, gluttonous for our mind ’s a n xieties a nd fea rs. But we rea lized, once we cea sed to rush the night, a nd looked into the water a nd deep into the sta rs, we could f ina lly breathe; once we da red to look back, it wa s not the storms of sa nd we lef t in our wa ke that we saw, but the tra nquil water, wa shing our buried footprints away; once we let go of the weight of our pa st, we f ina lly saw the world, wa iting for our new beginnings. A s you peruse the 46th volume of R hapsody, we encourage you to notice the gradua l dissolution of tension into release -- words cha rged with latent urgenc y turning into sof t rhy thms a nd hymns; vigorous contra sts tra nsforming into f lowing, la nguid colors. In this edition, we urge you to ref lect on your mista kes a nd wrong turns -- a nd we ca ll to you to let go of your old self: your a f f lictions, fea rs, guilt. A nd, here at R hapsody, we hope to help you f ind your peace within the chaos, because lest we forget, this is only the sta rt, not the end; what we will build in the a f termath of our relea se will not only be profound, vivacious, a nd absolutely extraordina r y, but it will ma ke us rea lize that, perhaps, letting go wa s the best decision a f ter a ll. With love,

Elizabeth Zheng 2022 Senior Editor

Editors Senior Editor: Elizabeth Zheng Junior Editors: Hannah Gong & Celina Li Writing Editor: Maisie Weiss Art & Photography Editors: Megan Lim & Evie Racz Communications Coordinator: Prajvala Mysore Faculty Advisor: Mrs. Stern

General Staff Finn Anderson, Rowan Blankemeyer, Rowan Wollard, Allison Courtenay, Katie Farley, Megan Quan, Sanjivi Iyer, Andrew Waite, Alexander McCauley, Kathia Tronconi, Kali Griffin-Decastro, Andy Breslin, Isabella Park, Genevieve Holland

Table of Contents Poetr y Finn Anderson Andrew Waite Andrew Waite Megan Quan Felix Lopes Andrew Waite Allison Courtenay Allison Courtenay Allison Courtenay Sanjivi Iyer Allison Courtenay Finn Anderson Hannah Gong Finn Anderson Katie Farley Hannah Gong Finn Anderson Katie Farley Hannah Gong Hannah Gong

13 14-15 18 21 22 24 27 30 34 38 39 42 44 46 47 50-51 52 54 58 62

Tick...Tick... Kerosene Finding Beauty In-Between Waves of Turmoil Fire of Love Outside Looking In fire escape Scarecrow Corn Maze Something that was Never Mine Autumn Tree Martains of the Plains On Leaving Purple Lady Truth Fragments of Maternalism Complexity of a Dreamer No Time to Rest Nurturing Release

8-9 11 28 32 36

Tension Hush Vintage Keys Fallen Petals Tension || Release

Prose Maisie Weiss Megan Quan Kali Griffin-DeCastro Megan Quan Hannah Gong

Ar t Andy Breslin Liz Zheng Celina Li Liz Zheng Rowan Blankemeyer Liz Zheng Rowan Blankemeyer Rowan Wollard Rowan Blankemeyer Jordan Patalano Rowan Wollard Liz Zheng Andy Breslin Rowan Blankemeyer Rowan Blankemeyer Liz Zheng Liz Zheng

10 15 16-17 20 23 25 26 29 35 41 43 45 46 48-49 53 60-61 63

Acrylic on canvas Digital Art Digital Art Digital Art Acrylic on canvas Outside Looking In Acrylic on canvas Oil on canvas Acylic on canvas Oil on canvas Acrylic on Canvas Oil on canvas Acrylic on canvas Acrylic on canvas Acylic on canvas Color Pencil Watercolor

Photography Prajvala Mysore Alex McCauley Liz Zheng Alex McCauley Lena Shaddinger Pravala Mysore Lena Shaddinger Evelyn Racz Jason Chang Alex McCauley

12 19 31 33 34 39 40 55 56-57 59

Digital Photography Digital Photography Digital Photography Digital Photography Traditional Silverprint Digital Photography Traditional Silverprint Digital Photography Digital Photography Digital Photography

Tension Maisie Weiss

In October of 2002 a series of shootings ravaged the DC metro area. The shootings began in February; people all along the east coast were unsettled and on high alert. In ten months, there had been 17 deaths and ten wounded by the so-called “DC Sniper.” The homicidal rampage was the focus of every news outlet in America. My parents followed the news persistently, covering the ears of their only son (and only child, at the time), Winslow. He was two years old and completely oblivious. On the last Thursday in October, my parents packed the car and went on a trip to Stowe Mountain, New Hampshire, where my father’s family had a home. We called it “the farm,” and it seemed like the perfect quiet getaway during a time of fear and tension. My brother sat in his car seat and swung his pale legs rhythmically as he watched the trees fly by through the Subaru window. My parents sat in the front seat, periodically glancing back at their baby boy in the rearview mirror. After six and a half hours, they arrived. The farm was built in the late 1700s with iron door latches, a red wooden exterior with white window frames, and beautiful lace curtains that get tossed by afternoon wind. There is no running water, electricity, cell service, or even light pollution. The hallways are covered in old family photographs. In the summer of 1971, my grandmother, Gussie, died at the farm of a

heart attack. My father was thirteen. She is immortalized in the pictures on the walls. In October of 2002, my parents had the place all to themselves, and cherished its rare emptiness. My father went out for groceries, leaving my mother alone with Winslow. They sat in bed, swaddled in blankets and reading together by the light of a kerosene lamp. Suddenly Winslow sat up and stared at the doorway. The heavy wooden door stood ajar. “There’s a lady over there,” he said. My mother’s eyes darted to the doorway and found nothing. She was, to say the least, reasonably spooked. “Where?” She stroked his hair and looked at his eyes, still fixed on the doorway. “There.” He pointed to the empty hallway. My mother still saw nothing. What was there to say? My mother was not particularly superstitious, but was intrigued nevertheless. She continued. “Well, what does she look like?” “She looks like Dad.” My mother’s eyes widened. “Are you scared?” “No.” He happily went back to reading the book, leaving my mother staring at the empty hallway in paralyzing confusion. Moments later, headlights appeared on the lawn. My father rushed back into the house, putting the groceries in the kitchen. In his hand, he held the paper: SNIPER CAUGHT, with a picture of the shooter’s blue 1990 Chevrolet Sedan. He ran down the hallway, eager to share the news with Mom, and found her white as a sheet, lying in bed with her only son.

Andy Breslin Acrylic on canvas 10

Hush Megan Quan

My heart beats too loudly. It pierces through my back, rhythmically pounding the mattress under me. The countless pillows I wedge between myself and my bed still fail to insulate the insistent throbs. My lungs demand air too loudly. Air echoes through my nostrils as I inhale after every few seconds. I close my eyes begging for sleep to smother me, but my eyes watch swirls of white disperse rather than the solitude of darkness my eyelids used to offer. My signs of life are too loud. Too much.

Prajvala Mysore Photography 12

Tick...Tick... Finn Anderson

I wish I could pause time A tap on Father’s palm that stopped his nebulous ticking for a second A second Why does life have to laugh in my face every waking hour of every waking day? Even the greatest archeologists didn’t find humour buried in the coffins of pharaohs Because they were content with time And power Power and time Power and time They don’t rhyme yet they correlate on the same time sequence as parallel counterparts Granting the privileged the divine rite of passage Yet I sit here on a benevolent throne of carcass Soaking in the smell of the ones who never lived

Kerosene Andrew Waite

Enjoy this static lullaby. Pick an emoji and press send. Joni just left spotify. I think we’re near the end. Post pictures at the art museum. Go home and hold hands with an NFT bro. He’s cute right now, But cute doesn’t mean it ends well. Low libido from medication. Diet cola, the nation’s new carcinogen. This is the kerosene. Matches lie dormant, but threaten to set the world aflame. The only time anything ever gets done, Is when the soccer moms sitting on the sidelines look up from their phones, Or when a megachurch preacher installs fear in the young. The family dog is whimpering in neglect, He spends the day alone. So put on your headset, and throw him a bone.

Today I woke up with the rapture in my pocket. They’re selling DIY bomb shelters at Walmart, Next to the videogame department. Last night I came home to my little brother watching TV. He had a lighting cord plugged into his vein, A.I. dripped into him through the brand new Apple I.V. This is the kerosene. And the match is lit. It sits between the fingers of the hand waiting to drop it. It’s all so lit.

Liz Zheng Digital Art 15

out of order Celina Li Digital Art

Finding Beauty In-Between Andrew Waite

I love the movie scene when she got in the car and drove away. She escaped, I watched the horror ending, Even though the end was pending. In her car with the windows down, The wind comes and blows her hair around. Her foot presses on, the car moves. But she isn’t going anywhere. Between living and eternal hell, She finds clarity on the freeway by herself. In this moment she is free. In this moment she has peace. But she doesn’t see, the wheels moving towards her, like a wave breaking onto dry sand. It is so beautiful to be tranquil between the horrors of a rough beginning and a painful farewell.

Alex McCauley Photography 19

Liz Zheng Digital art 20

Waves of Turmoil Megan Quan

I wade through my sea of sorrows, waiting to plunge in the depths below. The quenched fire within my heart leave remnant ashes of a self I used to know. I am empty, yet full of conflicting thoughts that collide, like a cacophony of cawing crows. I am alone, yet on earth with billions of other people. I feel the constant pain that hollows me, yet I feel nothing at all. Parasitic contradictions ravage my mind, trifling through my memories of you.

Fire of Love Felix Lopes

I want you to be completely honest Pressed against my lips whispering the ways I get under your skin Tell me how dearly you need me How you cannot imagine a life without a fool like me I want you to fight with me But I also want to end the night rocking you in comfort Tell me how to make you feel better Let me listen while I brush away your tears with gentle hands I want you to love me Sing me sweet admirational songs with a grand smile Tell me how excellent our duets are How our voices are great individually but together make a lovely harmony I want to love you To write you sonnets although some may be smeared with ink Tell you my secrets in pen To express all the things I want from you and all the things I’d give back

Rowan Blankemeyer Acrylic on canvas

Outside Looking In Andrew Waite

I love the houses in this neighborhood. Every driveway kisses a wooden door. Storms come and knock trees, it makes firewood. A warm mantle is every house’s core. The open windows that shine in the night, Show people sitting late in the dark. Morning glass allows new horizon light. Wind blows a swingset in the quiet park. I walk the streets at night and I can see, The way it’s supposed to fall into place. A house like these, a dream to have a key. No light but the street lamp shines on my face. I can tell that I am living a null. What does it take to live so beautiful?

Liz Zheng Digital Art

Rowan Blankemeyer Acrylic on canvas

fire escape Alli Courtenay

it is but a silly waking dream that haunts my days. it’s the prospect of tomorrow in the shadow of the shortcomings of today that splinters the light into two. they asked for cookie-cutter cookies but when I opened the box of Betty Crocker, all the ingredients were labeled as something else. even the oven screams and spits out charred lumps of coal. warm hugs and Hershey kisses couldn’t smother the angry flames of defeat. the heat licks the walls and engulfs a painting of a man whose eyes travel with me across every room i walk. what i would do to escape his gaze or cool my burning hands that cling to the black metal railing of a spiral staircase. i follow it downward and blindly as it leads into the darkness under my hair.

Vintage Keys Kali Griffin-DeCastro

To You, Vintage keys. Made to open the rusting, eversplintering doors of people’s hearts and lock whispered secrets behind walls built of stone. Time grazes its hands across aging rock, promising to shatter windows and kick down wooden entries. The princess’s imagination had twirled through dreams of castles-all different kinds. Between sand, stone, or bits of her creativity. Her only wish was to be royal, living behind walls that would protect her and shield her from the reality of the world we live upon. Wear gowns of satin and tiaras that twisted themselves between strands of her hair. Dance through the halls of her memories and thrive between the history of her past. Yet as her daydreams turned into realities before her eyes, they were soon nightmares in a blink and she could no longer control the constant spiraling of her ruin. The metallic keys that once used to free the locks that held her in had formed to codes and soon deadbolts. And before she knew it, she was banging on steel and crashing against impenetrable stained glass…screaming… pleading…begging with words she’s never heard herself say before. Threats are pouring down her body from deep within, pushing themselves against her teeth. Her splitting heart wasn’t strong enough to hold them in any longer and her bruising fists were busy with the dangers of her dreams. With hands the colors of purple and black, -K 28

Rowan Wollard Acrylic on canvas 29

Scarecrow Alli Courtenay

I stand with a pole up my back My insides are replaced by straw I expect you to run screaming as you approach Yes, you’re a crow, but you’re flying blind Near sighted, you can only see me up close So close ‘Til you can see the straw that peeks out of my plaid button-up At my wrists and my neck You peck my cheek I try to wave my arms but They’re bound to a wooden cross with rope I’ve made a mistake I’ve given away that I am helpless in stopping you

Alex McCauley Photography 31

Fallen Petals Megan Quan

Your yard continues to flourish, even without your tender hands to guide it. Small statues nestle between the greenery, cherubs cupping their plump faces as they slumber and bunny rabbits chuckling under the shade of the fraying Japanese maple leaves. Your tiger lilies still return, growing ever so weaker each year. Their once fiery colors dull, leaving the thick petals barren. They face the sun begging to drink in its golden rays to satisfy its yearning. Our orange rose is a rose no more, only a mangled heap of leaves and thorns fighting their plague of crisp brown edges to stay a while longer. I miss how we’d walk around the garden, stopping to stare at nature’s oddities ever so often. I’d run ahead kicking old cotton ball dandelions to scatter their seeds with feathery parachutes, as you’d continue at your steady pace with your hands behind your back. The sun would prickle the back of our necks as the hiss of the cicadas resounded throughout the thick and heavy air. Now I hear your voice as it always was, hoarse yet gentle, tinged with age, floating on a warm summer breeze with the undertone of a quiet rasp easing it along. The little things make my heart ache. The little changes and the little sames. They blossom with the memory of you.

Liz Zheng Photography 33

Corn Maze Alli Courtenay

We keep taking steps in the wrong direction Wandering, wondering if we’ll ever find the way out. We keep breathing the life back into dead ends Is there a way out at all? We keep getting turned around, Lost in the dance Losing our sense of direction Lacking any sense at all.

Alex McCauley Photography 34

Rowan Blankemeyer Acrylic on canvas 35

Tension || Release Hannah Gong

As time blinks, my vision blurs. My world is becoming worn fabric, frayed at the edges and soft in the faces. When the sun sets, I close my eyes, feel the shivers running through my skin, replacing the warmth. I tell myself that I am learning how to feel when night has fallen, so I may sleep once my vision is gone. Truly, it is to wean me, slowly, off how the sky looks when it is threaded with pigment, wrapping me with its color, Venus the sewer; I am teaching myself how to forget. I have chosen to forget beauty, for that is what I will miss the most, yet I still watch as she rips the clothes I bought her, choosing her own and leaving. Truly, she is already gone, never taunting me as the sunset does, yet I still wish to see her one last time before she becomes a sculpture at my fingertips; I am teaching myself how to forget. I know that either way, I will never see her as I learn to stumble with my hands in front of me. She will stand on her tower above as I desperately cling to the clock, swinging back and forth. I cannot see myself sliding into the abyss; for this, I am blessed. The bell will ring through the stone walls as I finally fall, and I will hear and I will know that my vision has finally succumbed to time’s incessant blinks. Her face will soften, watching me as I become shrouded in Stygian cloth. Then, she will turn towards the sunset and jump, remembering me as one with the abyss. How easily she learns.

Lena Shaddinger Traditional Silverprint

Something that was Never Mine Sanjivi Iyer

There’s a sinking feeling in my stomach That it was all made up in my head That your icy blue gaze, that shone like sapphires Would never graze me again But I long to feel you in my arms I crave for us to dance, To feel the heat rising on my reddened cheeks, And to hear the pounding beat Of my heart I want you to care and I want you to reminisce the way I am To know the warmth bouncing off the vibrant lights The chills that coursed through my purple veins The way we felt like no one else was in the room, The way It felt I had known you forever It felt as if I could look at you forever. But you don’t know the feeling because you don’t remember The total tranquility, The delicate beauty, Of something that was never mine

Autumn Trees Alli Courtenay

There are bits and pieces of us That change like the leaves On an autumn tree But when the winter gets too cold We let our changed leaves fall Leaving only the sickly stick of a trunk That you call morality Easily swayed by the wind of temptation

Prajvala Mysore Photography 39

Lena Shaddinger Traditional Silverprint

Jordan Patalano Oil on canvas 41

Mar tians of the Plains Finn Anderson

Martians of the plains Stand wearily on ragged cliffs that crops the sun into a crescent slumber Crafted, psychedelic bowls lay empty in the chilly breeze of the summer day Down below, far below, lay forests of willow and wisteria that kneel down to the cliffs high above With outreached branches and heads bowed down in melody But the martians of the plains succumb into the crescent slumber of the sun Disappearing on a breeze Leaving bowls once filled with life as a reminder And their gravestones

Rowan Wollard Oil on canvas 43

On Leaving Hannah Gong

We ended before we left. Perhaps it would’ve felt A little calmer If the way I left was abrupt, Clean, sharp, a snapping end, If I would have turned, left you In my shadow, left your Silhouette in my memories-I would have forgotten you. But I had to stay and wait, To ask you as you turned, Is it really time to go? Is there really no piece Left for us to break, Slowly, over time? After all, we have broken So many already. What is one more? 44

You never answered me, At least not with your eyes, Because you were already Gone before you had left me. I was still there, Waiting for my dismissal. You never answered me, At least not with your eyes, Because you were already Gone before you had left me. I was still there, Waiting for my dismissal.

Liz Zheng Oil on canvas 45

Purple Lady Finn Anderson

The purple lady sings hymns under the suburban moon In the deep root harvest of the Mabon Moving in tandem with the tentacles of her idiomatic friend The autumn wheat stalks reach out their hands in a subdued attempt of convent But her teeth widen in golden glee as she points her head North of her thousand legged friend And succumbs to the menagerie of the sky

Andy Breslin Acrylic on canvas 46

Truth Katie Farley

No one is here as you show my reflection No lies, always truth My exterior image Stares back at me Mimicking my movements without hesitation As I look into your smooth surface That reflects the sunlight I think about myself And reflect on my life My experiences are vast Filled with shimmers and ripples Each one is unique And meaningful to me The stories you make me recall Have helped to shape the real me

Por t de bras Rowan Blankemeyer Acrylic on canvas

Fragments of Maternalism Hannah Gong

when we leave the linoleum floors of Your kitchen, will Your fingers soften from the tears that You shed as You watch our backs retreat to the world worrying that we will never return to the calloused palm of Your hand? when we leave You to sit by the phone at the table where we used to mimic the way You ate your dinners, will You wither away alone at the head, hoping for a lonesome ring that breaks through the air, only after You’ve given up on waiting? when You traced my slumbering outline, i would wonder if it was truly a mother’s love

to whisper “i can’t live without you” into my ears to plant burdens into my hair with Your fingers, and so i sometimes worried: was my essence enough to keep You afloat in Your world of eternal revolution around my being? when I leave please don’t cry for long, because you used to cry when you were tired of begging Me to sleep, and so, doesn’t it seem a waste, for you to be crying while I am purposefully awake, purposefully asking you to let Me go? so until I’ve forgotten to call you, I’m sorry for the cast iron pan that burns your skin when you cook My dinners, and for the way that I look at you now, when you speak and I can’t understand you beyond your hands, and for the knife that slices your fingers as you cut Me apple slices, setting them outside My door, the seeds still intact, reminding Me that I will never grow unless I am whittled out of Your flesh.

The Complexity of a Dreamer Finn Anderson

Waves of stardust tread through my fingertips Submerged in an ocean of the universe With my body cast to the stars Angelic visions sweep my lonesome gaze and cast shadows on the monsters that lay wake inside my mind Hark The moon, my predecessor, guards my dreams and keeps the currents that lay bare at bay I stare at this luminescence In wonder In praise In quiet solidarity For one can never understand the complexity of the cosmos My body wrings around Jupiter yet opens its mind for the likes of Mars A gravitational pull treading an endless cycle of malhope Still, my eyes lay glossy in God’s endless ripples For not even God can control the great big blue He can only keep it at bay

Rowan Blankemeyer Acrylic on canvas

No Time to Rest Katie Farley

Quickly scampering through the yard On four furry paws Its bushy, brown tail is held high With pride and determination The small creature is on a mission– One of great importance Its survival depends on its success There is no room to make a mess Alert eyes scan the grass For miniature, round nuts “There is one! There is one!” The critter leaps in excitement Putting it in its mouth, It searches for a hiding spot Beneath the weeping willow Seems oh so perfect The critter’s sharp memory Records every location

And retains each one For the weeks to come But now, its excitement fades What is hidden should not be uncovered It cannot be eaten at this moment, And sadness begins to creep in But more nuts patiently await For the squirrel’s arrival They took a frightful journey Down off the grand oak tree The creature carries on Until it finds another It smiles to itself And continues on in wonder Search, search, search Bury, bury, bury Repeat, repeat, repeat Until the job is done

Evelyn Racz Photography 55

Morning haze Jason Chang Photoagraphy

Nur turing Hannah Gong

I remember this. A finger held to my lips, My eyes closed in the silence, My shoulders clasped by hands, My face buried in skin: hush. A voice in my ear, Hammering away at the wires Of my brain, soldering and twisting Until it is there forever: listen. A sight from above, Soaring away from grasping arms, Close enough to the sun that my Wings begin disintegrating: I’m sorry. A smell of soap, syrup, juice, Diligent fingers brushing, soothing, Working into my hair the strands Of a new beginning: I love you. 58

Alex McCauley Photography 59

Liz Zheng Color Pencil

Release Hannah Gong

Liz Zheng Watercolor 63

Vol. XLVI 2022