Lambrequin: Spring 2020 by University Liggett School

Lambrequin

ULS.2020

are you already so impressed with the artwork?! the cover is “In Second” by Maria Evola ‘20

(it’s a mixed media mono print; here is the full image)

on the facing page is bullet journaling by Meena Pandgrangi ‘21 we hope you love the rest of the magazine just as much!

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thanks for checking out

THE LAMBREQUIN weâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;re so glad youâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;re here! please enjoy your time viewing, reading, and even listening to our (award-winning!) literary & arts magazine for grades 9-12 at

University Liggett School School address: 1045 Cook Rd email: the.lambrequin@uls.net

Grosse Pointe Woods, MI 48236 Head of School: Mr. Bart Bronk

School phone: (313) 884-4444 Head of Upper School: Mr. Brock Dunn

ULS.2020

Editorial Staff

(join us! email the.lambrequin@uls.net for info)

Frannie Boyle ‘21 Assistant Editor

Izabella Mileham ‘22 Junior Editor

Natasha Khan ‘23 Junior Editor

Ms. Elizabeth Wagenschutz Faculty Advisor

plus help from and thanks to teachers extraordinaire Ms. Helen Kendall, Fine Arts, and Dr. Sean Moiles, English Department Chair

Addtional Design Work: Angelina Randazzo ‘23 Gia Randazzo ‘23

drawings by Hope Kulka class of 2019

Astana Gaffney ‘20 Editor-in-Chief

the ones who actually made this magazine despite obstacles, challenges, and quarantine

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Life Now Inspired By Charles Bukowski’s “Let It Enfold You”

Astana Gaffney ‘20

Isolation has left me alone when I was already lonely. I’ve started to become angry at the governor, the president, my mother, my grandmother, other grandmothers, dogs, computers, soft drinks, hard drinks, the word maybe, Highschool. I can’t stand college and I become livid at the mention of Yesterday. Days of the week blend together in a meaningless mess. I hate the news, jazz music, happy music, and books. Child locks are stupid, love poems make me sick, and rom coms are for idiots. Life now is a playground which no one can enter, a city of sulfur and fire.

Mission Statement & Colophon & Editorial Board Policies

The Lambrequin was developed to showcase the talent of Liggett Upper School and provide an outlet for students to express themselves through visual art, photography, poetry, creative writing, and music. We aim to inspire all forms of art in our world; with such a focus on analysis and STEM, we aim to offer a place to celebrate and encourage creativity. All students are invited to be a member of the Lambrequin creative, editorial, and/or design teams. We aim to publish two issues a

year: a fall/winter issue (created and designed by the core Lambrequin group; distributed digitally only) and a spring issue (this one!). In any other year this would be published on paper & distributed to the Liggett community in May. But it is 2020, not any other year, so we will distribute this digitally and hope for print in the autumn. Everyone in the Liggett US community is welcome to send us their work. We are always accepting submissions for future issues; simply email the.lambrequin@uls.net. Work

is also supplied from Fine Arts and English classes. All pieces remain the property of their creators. The views expressed in the magazine do not necessarily reflect the views of the school. Typeface throughout is Century Regular. Title fonts vary, but the most commonly used one is Ink Free. Designed on Adobe InDesign (images edited using Adobe Photoshop) & by hand. Uncredited images are labeled for use with modification from Google search.

ULS.2020

Letter from The Editor

While viewing the submissions the theme of Change emerged, particularly change involving growth and development. These ideas came from pieces about growing up, growing apart from people, growing closer with siblings, etcetera. The theme also represented many abstract forms of change that the art pieces showcase beautifully, whether it be a change in texture, composition or style.

pieces in this magazine will inspire a time of reflection for all readers. Many of the pieces you are about to view will bring a vast array of emotions: happiness, sadness, confusion, love, and many more. Some of the pieces moved me more than I had expected, and I’m sure they will do the same for you.

On a parting note, it has been a wild ride working on the Lambrequin fall and spring editions this In light of the Covid-19 outbreak, the creation year. There were countless hours I spent in awe of this magazine was greatly affected, and reading and viewing the amazing pieces that the while annoying, it seemed fitting for the University Liggett’s student body had to offer. theme this year. In an uncertain—perhaps On behalf of the editorial team, we hope readers even frightening—time, it is important to will enjoy this magazine as much as we do. look towards the positivity that creativity and expression bring. I hope the art and written —Captain Astana, over and out.

while creating these pages i wanted to amplify the complexity of the meanings and stories these art works tell by using a simple yet powerful design. i messily cut out sections of the writing and placed it around the art. i used simple line art that i felt fit in with the way the writing and the art pieces fit together. i feel this simple line art and messy placement brings out unlike qualities in the work you donâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t often see at first glance. it is the complexity inside the simplicity. -natasha khan

Delaney Garvey â&#x20AC;&#x2DC;21 | Digital Photography

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Notes from the Editorial & Design Team

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Letter from the Faculty Advisor

I have spent hours upon hours obsessing and worrying over, imagining, reviewing, avoiding, and ultimately staring at this magazine that now, at the very last thing left to write, I find myself empty of all words. There is so much I want to write and say and express and explain. But words feel too inadequate for this... for all of it. Still: Astana mentions the unifying theme change throughout, but also there is a movement in the pieces—from how we see ourselves to how we see others (and, of course, how others see us). Not only do the pieces explore change and growth but specifically how we change and grow in relation to perceptions: ours and others’. Perception is reality, so perception shapes reality; how true that is now more than ever as our perception of what is right, fair, true depends on so many factors outside of our control... Anyways: I want you to understand how hard this has been to create. I want you to be as amazed by the students who worked on this as I am. I want you to know that I already know there are so many errors and typos and mistakes—and I’m sorry—but this behemoth of a litmag baby needs to be born already. Its labor has been long and painful and I have no desire to belabor this metaphor anymore. Reader—for I have to imagine there is someone reading this, even if there isn’t—this is the... twentieth (20th?!) high school art and literary magazine I’ve had the great joy of helping to create with students. Each year and editorial team is different, and each year poses its own challenges, but it is easy to say two things about this year’s context and group: 1. coronavirus is the worst 2. this team has done phoenomenal work All of the superlatives for this group of girls, especially EIC Astana and Asst.Editor Frannie. All the applause for you both. You have so much to be proud of, especially the creation of two publications in one year! Finally, as you encounter typos or errors—if your work is present but mis-attributed, or we’ve misspelled your name, or any one of the many other mistakes we aim to prevent but, well... please don’t hesitate to contact me (ewagenschutz@uls.net or the. lambrequin@uls.net) for corrections*. While we cannot print the magazine just now, May 2020, we still plan to print come autumn; hopefully that edition will be error free. Thank you for your support, your eyes, your imagination, and your encouragement. —egw *we know four pieces are in here twice, for I incorrectly assigned them to student designers... I am, as are we all, only human

Six Ways of Looking at Six (Parts 1-3)

Imani Williams ‘21 | crayon

Prose Nonfiction: Alia Khan '20 "Chai Tea Just Means 'Tea Tea,' But You Don't Know That, Do You?" page 10

Art—Portfolio: Lizzie Lukas ‘20 Delaney Garvey '21

Prose Fiction: Penelope Griffioen '23 "The House Next Door" page 92

Art—Individual Piece: Maria Evola ‘20 "In Second" cover Malik Pierce '21 "Triumph" page 20

Poetry: Astana Gaffney ‘20 “Life Now” page iii & "The Dichotomy of You" page 36 Jorden Dumas '20 "To Be Black" page 44

Outside Recognition & Awards National Council of Teachers of English Frannie Boyle ‘21 “Daydreamer” (mixed media drawing) Recognzing Excellence in the Art and “Still Life” (charcoal drawing) Literary Magazines Program: Maria Evola ‘20 Our 2019 issue of Lambrequin, titled “M.E.” (acrylic painting with chalk) STILL and edited by Katriel Tolin ‘19, “In Second” (mixed media mono print) was named REALM First Class, the “Nights” (mixed media painting) highest rating possible. Virginia Gushee ‘20

“Self-Portrait” (felted wool) Alec Leonard ’21 2020 Michigan Social Studies Olympiad “Self-Portrait” (graphite and marker) competition Elizabeth Lukas ‘20 Poetry Silver Medal: Harisen Davis ‘21 “Feeling Blue” (embroidery on tulle) “Everyone Counts—No Matter Who You “The Snake of Highs and Lows” (acrylic) Are or Where You’re From” “Heirloom” (charcoal drawing) Poetry Honorable Mention: Darshana Christopher Lukas ‘22 Subramaniam ‘20 “A Daughter’s Lament” “Wispy Hollows” (film photograph) “Glitch” (film photograph) 2019 YES! Magazine Student Writing Contest Malik Pierce ‘21 Powerful Voice Winner: Reese Martin ‘21 “A “Self-Portrait” (colored pencil drawing) Real Irishman?” “Triumph” (charcoal and chalk pastel) Sarah Riashi ‘22 The following students’ work was accepted to the “Belle Isle Boat House” (acrylic with Grosse Pointe Artists Association Promising plastic beads) Artists exhibition, a juried showcase for high Kendall Zinn ‘21 school students who live in/attend schools in “Natural Wonders” (watercolor) the Grosse Pointes:

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Lambrequin “Best In” Awards

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Table of Contents: Art student artists listed alphabetically by last name

Self-Portraits pages 2-5

Masks pages 94-96

Gabby Awada 30, 54 Max Backer 69 Maureen Barrett 45 Frannie Boyle 14, 20, 33 Luci Boyle 21, 39 Harisen Davis 90 Jorden Dumas 44, 111 Maria Evola 30, 41 Maria Fields 64 Sophia Filipof 34, 35 Cam Floyd 72 Delaney Garvey 14, 16, 28, 38, 58, 60, 80, 84, 101, 105 Elias Gaydecka 98, 99, 100 Grace Govier-LaParl 84 Virginia Gushee 57, 76 Alyssa Jones 36, 37, 67, 102 Brendan Jones 65, 97 Christopher Lukas 22 Lizzie Lukas 0, 12, 40, 43, 54, 73, 87, 110 Anna McCauley 15 Aidan McFarlane 75, 109 Giorgio Malkoun 18 Sheikh Manneh 69 Mary Moroun 56 Chloe Outland Knickerbocker 8, 27 Meena Pandrangi 48 Malik Pierce 20, 51 Sarah Riashi 26, 66 Angelina Randazzo 14, 85 Gia Randazzo 24 JP Silva 42, 79, 83, 88 Indya Stephens 25 Trinity Tolin 11 Jacob Whitton 93 Kendall Zinn 62

Emily Dunn Virginia Gushee Alec Leonard Lizzie Lukas Frannie Boyle Alyssa Jones Indya Stevens Brendan Jones Malik Pierce Maria Evola Sarah Riashi Jorden Dumas Max Backer

Kaitlyn Gray Thomas Gebeck Brendan Jones Virginia Gushee Lizzie Lukas Sarah Riashi

Glitch

film photograph Christopher Lukas â&#x20AC;&#x2DC;22

Jenna Hummel Ashamed 46 Keelin Daily Prose Prequel to... 54 Astana Gaffney Fiction Dear Alecia 67 Alexander Thomas Play Ball 77 Max Wiegel The Tragedy of.. 81 JP Silva Jeremy &... 86 Penelope Griffioen The House Next Door 92 Eleanor Henderson Run Away 101 Jimmy Fitzgerald Animals on Roofs 106 Alia Khan Chai Tea Just... 10 Kalei Sliwinksi 4 Ways of Looking at 4 13 Frannie Boyle Art & the Goldfinch 18 Alia Khan Hissing Cockroaches 22 Rocco Tedesco Somewhere... 28 Reese Martin Prose A True Irishman? 32 NonMax Wiegel Fiction How it feels... 35 Frannie Boyle 10 Ways to... 50 Anjini Chaddha jake 52 Melanie Zampardo 1965 Red Chevy 58 Izabella Mileham Euphoria 69 Penelope Griffioen This whole thing... 85 Elias Gaydecka Monsters of... 98

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Table of Contents: Writing

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Jam of the Sea

Acrylic & mixed media Lizzie Lukas â&#x20AC;&#x2DC;20

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page designed by Izabella Mileham

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L: Emily Dunn ‘20 | ink above: Virginia Gushee ‘20 | felted wool

facing page: L: Alec Leonard ‘21 | graphite & marker R: Lizzie Lukas ‘20 | embroidery on tulle bottom: Frannie Boyle ‘21 | mixed media

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ULS.2020 top: Alyssa Jones ‘20 | watercolor & colored pencil bottom: Brendan Jones ‘20 | charcoal

Indya Stevens ‘20 | charcoal in bristol Malik Pierce ‘21 |colored pencil

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top: Maria Evola ‘20 | chalk pastel bottom: Jorden Dumas ‘20 | acrylic

Sarah Riashi ‘22 | watercolor Max Backer ‘20 | rice paper collage

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How do you cope when your Dad dies while you’re on the other side of the planet? Rocco Tedesco ‘20 Imagine having a loved one tell you your father passed away; This post was created by the boy that heard the news from an a**hole Imagine being able to hug your mom after hearing the news; This post was created by the boy that was 7,000 miles away Imagine being able to see your dad one last time; This post was created by the boy that Was limited to long distance calls. These posts were created by me, I’m the boy. The boy that was fulfilling his dad’s last dying wish, but still felt guilty for being absent. The boy that said “I’ll see you in six weeks,” but was too late after only two. The boy whose loneliness felt like a never-ending hole like in Alice in Wonderland minus the wonderfulness The boy that literally tried running from his troubles like a prisoner on a fenced-in track But little did this prisoner know His problems would only grow the more he ran He didn’t know running wouldn’t take him far except to the bars where he takes his freedom hard. So he stays Fenced in and locked up in his own psyche Where he’s prisoner and guard These posts were created by the boy still running Running from pain Like Usain The sorrow and loneliness Fuel the runner to keep running But fuel doesn’t last forever Emotions do dissolve And happiness does evolve

Right? Rant â&#x20AC;&#x153;PERIODTâ&#x20AC;? send the post to Twitter Because dealing with feelings Is all too bitter. Because strength is my weakness And I feel facetious if I send my feelings through the phone And just leave them alone. So send them all Every last post From breaking the news to falling down the chute All the way to rock bottom. Because Imagine being able to deal with feelings

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photo of Rocco and his father modified on Photoshop

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circles

Frannie Boyle ‘21 my soul is a circle it was painted on this way by the nuns from school: this circle is God’s love for you it goes around & around & around it never ends at home before bed mom and dad whisper me stories of my Buddhist blessing: about the ceremony where Vince named me Pajaptapi & the name feels thick and foreign on my tongue but i know somehow it’s still mine & i can feel circles slip back into just a shape

around grandma and grandpa my life is a whirlwind of prayers for health & baptisms & godparents like its own separate realm of traditions and stability where what i’m taught what to believe circles around me like a too-tight hug that never ends: simultaneously comforting and uncomfortable

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circles rain down on me like a million locusts and they cover my soul and i can’t breathe and i’m not sure if i believe in circles but i let what i do believe circle my heart again & again & again & again

Chloe Outland Knickerbocker ‘21 Acrylic & mixed media

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CHAI TEA JUST MEANS “TEA TEA” BUT YOU DON’T KNOW THAT, DO YOU? Alia Khan ‘20

Ramadan nights, when the family from my Mama’s side all gathered in the kitchen, were my favorite. On the rare occurrence that Ramadan fell smack dab in the middle of a muggy Michigan summer, my family and I were constantly trying to catch a

break. To do so, we routinely feasted at sundown after saying namaz and breaking our fast. We always ended up absentmindedly chatting while piling pulao, saag, kebob, chaval and dahi, and kofta on our plates, our hunger swept away in socialization.

How I yearn to relive this experience, another Ramadan with the Khan women under one roof. For I don’t see my family nearly as much anymore-maybe four times a year, if I’m lucky. We’re all grown up. I don’t go to the mosque anymore. My

until the grains become opaque (using a strainer is sacrilegious). I can’t let the bottoms of my shoes face upwards. I played field hockey for years, even though I hated it. I steep my chai in milk instead of water, with sweetened condensed milk and spices on special occasions. It’s hard to comprehend what exactly is my culture because it’s all just normal to me--but I know it’s there. This is how I grew up, in my very own PakistaniAmerican family. Yet throughout my life, other people have ran over my Pakistani heritage like a Jeep Wrangler does a squirrel. My appearance doesn’t stand out: my hair is dark brown, my eyes are hazel, and I have light skin. Nothing explicitly reflects my heritage except for my last name. But that was enough: I was called a terrorist in second grade--and that was only the first time. Yet other people of my same religion have told me I’m not brown enough to complain. And so I am torn. I want to seek out more of my culture, those parts that reside in memories and dreams, but I shouldn’t have to… Who am I? I know I’m going to figure it out sometime. It’s always mine to decide. And although I will always be a Khan woman, I need to find out what that means for me. It takes effort to honor heritage--effort and hard work for something that feels like it shouldn’t be. Should it be? Maybe it is for everyone. I do not know. I do know, though, that this struggle will pay off someday.. But for now, I’m mad. And that’s okay.

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siblings and I don’t speak Urdu. My cousins have moved halfway across the country. And one by one, my sisters and I are leaving for college. We have to find out who we are, as individuals, not just as Khan women. But a Khan woman is essential to who we are. My Mama’s Pakistani heritage is frequently reflected in the plainest occurrences. When I make rice, I have to painstakingly wash it for fifteen minutes, then let it sit

Caution

digital photography Trinity Tolin ‘23

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Lizzie Lukas â&#x20AC;&#x2DC;20 | Acrylic & photoshop

Kalei Sliwinski ‘20 1 2

You reach out your hands to touch the rough wood of the playscape, scraping your hands across the texture and you know it hurts but you do not care, it is fun and it is playtime and you have nothing else to worry about besides your jumper bunching up in your underwear, and your socks slipping down your scarred ankles. You have nothing else to worry about besides the boy with the lightning shaped birthmark on the side of his neck and how cool he looks, and now you start to worry about if he thinks you are pretty, and what is this new feeling in your soft heart? The prince has run away with the princess, but the princess is not you. The princess is your best friend, your first friend. You played house together with the pink plastic dishes and the blue plastic cups, and you sat next to each other on the alphabet rug because your names came in alphabetical order, and that was all it took to forge a bond between little girls. But she has taken your prince from you, and all you can do is smile idly and stare blankly as they hold their little hands in each others’ and she kisses him on the cheek with an open mouth because she does not know what a kiss is yet, but she doesn’t care. She has the prince, and you have a stinging new feeling in your soft heart.

You spend everyday staring at him, your teacher placed you next to him and you could not be happier, you sigh audibly because you saw it in a Disney movie when the princess falls in love with the prince and you think him hearing will help him fall in love with you. You do not see how he recoils from your touches and hugs, how he looks at you funny as you stare doe-eyed at his splendor, how he shares laughs and whispers with his friends as they point at you, but you don’t notice, because he is a prince.

That stinging feeling grows with each day you see her, see him, see them. She makes other friends and you so desperately want to stay with her but her friends do not like how you smile, laugh, joke, walk, talk, play. They take her from you and you are left alone on the playscape, running your scraped hands across the rough wood, and it hurts but you still do not care, and now you are worrying not just about your bunched jumper or your slipping socks, but the friends you lost and the enemies you gained just because you wanted to fit in. You are 4, and your soft heart will take 13 years to fully heal from those new feelings.

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4 Ways of Looking at 4

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spread designed by Frannie Boyle

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spread designed by Frannie Boyle

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spread designed by Izabella Mileham

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spread designed by Frannie Boyle

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Hissing Cockroaches Alia Khan ‘20

I’ve always been interested in nature: I grew up gardening with my dad in a pile of dirt that took up more than half of our backyard, I poked around for isopods in the grass during recess, and ooh’d and aww’d at the monarch butterflies that came to feed off of our school’s milkweed. As a kid, I tried to get my hands on every single science activity kit I could, and my bedroom soon became cluttered with bugs encased in resin and books about photosynthesis. My inner child says that the greatest part of each museum is their gift shop, but my outer teenager says it’s their interactive learning centers; my favorite example of such being the Field Museum located in Chicago and their Grainger Science Hub. Either way, I’m visiting both of them every time I go. On one particularly boring visit in January of 2017, I found myself alone, wandering the open foyer of the museum. The bright sign advertising live specimens caught my eye and immediately, I gravitated toward the man behind the counter who was sifting through the contents of a transparent box. The terrarium was filled most of the way with leaf litter, mulch, and dirt. After a minute of me watching eagerly, he finally explained that this enclosure was home to a plethora of creatures, but none of them were visible. Two types of cockroaches, pillbugs, and exotic centipedes were scattered in the substrate, and the uneasiness from the crowd flooded the air after that was made clear. I, however, became more eager than ever. According to the volunteer, visitors were only allowed to hold one type of

specimen; a Madagascan hissing cockroach. The instructor held one out to me and almost vibrating with excitation, I let it crawl onto my hands. This specimen was a textbook depiction of an adult male; he had

albeit slow, along my fingers to nestle comfortably into my palm. For a creature who seemed to be infamous for its showy (and loud!) defense, this one--which I would later find out was named Marvin --was a reassuring spokesman. I sat through the drive home, still as giddy as could be, and the moment I had the enclosures set up, I bought myself two hisser nymphs. This was one thing I knew I really wanted. I had collected plants in the past (and as it turns out, I’m really bad at taking care of plants), I had fish, hermit crabs, snakes--but these were different. These creatures weren’t plants or animals; they were cockroaches, an insect so frequently hated by society--and to combat that, I’ve stuffed myself to the brim with all the facts I could get about cockroaches. Depending on the substance, certain roaches are even able to break down and digest pesticides or other chemicals meant to kill them and then metabolize it as per usual. Their societal and literal evolutionary process truly astounds me. These creatures have become a part of me. I have raised my two boys, Winnie and Jessie, since they were two weeks old. Now, at their third birthday, they’re nearing four inches long and incredibly tame. I bet fouryear-old Alia would not be surprised upon finding out what I was up to these days; the flora and fauna of our world has been a motif in my life, and I couldn’t be more pleased with the direction that my gigantic (and terrifyingly deafening) cockroaches have pushed me in.

Wispy Hollows

film photograph Christopher Lukas ‘22

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an exoskeleton layered in stripes of vibrant brown and orange, decorated with a black horned pronotum, antennae, and legs. They can grow to be around three inches long in captivity, and live for up to five years. He was in his prime. I was surprised by the lack of aggression demonstrated by the hissing cockroach as it crawled, seeming curious

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spread designed by Frannie 24 Boyle

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26 page designed by Frannie Boyle

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page designed by Gia Randazzo Ceramic mosaics made by students in Ms. Katanickâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s Design in Crafts class spring 19; if you are one of them, please let us know!

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spread designed by Frannie Boyle

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music is filled with something so wonderful itâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s your little radiant light

her Love is an encouragement, and a gift i dont deserve yet i accept her kiss desperately

spread designed by Frannie Boyle

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spread designed by Angelina Randazzo

34 Sophia Filipof â&#x20AC;&#x2DC;21 | this page: batik, facing page: watercolor & ink

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Let me tell you something. When your brain explodes, it’s not like how they show it in the movies. Or in other media properties, for that matter. You won’t have a sense of foreboding throughout the day, or weeks, or months, or years leading up to it. There is no countdown for you to look to or prepare yourself for. None of that “making peace with one’s self” crap that you might see or hear in stories written today by people whose greatest act of overcoming was their own obesity and morbid unending hunger. It’s all bulls**t. The point is, if you don’t know about this thing, you could be quite possibly the most cavalier of people the day that your veins decide to give up on you and burst. And in a sudden rush of frenetic, kinetic energy: bam. Burst. Splat. Splurt. It’s gone. And there’s nothing you can do to get it back. This is the truth. I can partially remember what happened to me on Martin Luther King Jr day those years ago. I was playing video games down in my basement. There was this couch I was sitting on, plaid in ugly pea-green and fecal brown colors. The walls of my basement were ugly and white, because they had not been cleaned in all of forever. My preteen hands slathered in sweat and oils from gripping wii controls too hard and with too much dedication. The old something-pound television crackling in the carved square hole in front of me. A Spiderman video game was on it, and I had trouble with a certain enemy. Then it happened. Afterwards, I had the most peculiar feeling in the world. My head felt off, and I struggled to understand what was happening. I can’t tell you how it feels. It’s indescribable, because the brain has no feeling. So when it burst there’s no pain. People tell me I might have been light-headed. That’s rich, considering how I had a sack of fluid begin filling with blood. I don’t recall getting up the stairs, or what my initial words were when it happened. It doesn’t matter, also, because you don’t give speeches when you’re dying. Fight or flight kicks in, and mine made me fight my half-numbed and blinded body to fly up the stairs into the living room. When I got up the stairs, I screamed at my parents. They didn’t believe me immediately when I asked them to get me an ambulance or doctor. I don’t blame them. When a kid is young and dumb, they say a lot of stupid stuff. Still, when they did realize something actually was off, they sprung into action. That’s the good thing about brain-bursts. If your family really loves and cares for you, they’ll help save your life. When you have part of your brain burst, you can’t get it back. There are no demonic deals for you to turn too—Mephistopheles is long gone. Prayer won’t work, because there are so many damned gods and deities out there that you’d have likely pissed off by asking for help. Not to mention, they don’t exist. The only thing you can do is come to terms with it. And eventually, move on and grow.

How it feels to have part of your brain explode Max Wiegel ‘20

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The Dichotomy of You Astana Gaffney ‘20

I hate those god awful scrunchies in your hair I love the way your curls frame your face I hate its absolute no-can-do attitude I love those strands that never stay in place Your hair is like a lion’s Untamed and messy But sometimes it’s straight, like a river cascading down rocks My body loves adrenaline, estrogen, and serotonin but My body hates the lack of text messages and physical closeness Your legs are like two machines, oiled and proficient as they pull and push and twist They are velvet hordes of horses running through the plains I love your laugh I hate your obnoxiously perfect teeth I love seeing you in class Your smile bares your top teeth I hate how it’s hard to speak And just teases the bottom Like icy white caps Or a neat row of houses I love your perfume It makes me sick Like a magnolia blooming in the throat As the roots wrap around the lungs and squeeze I hate you and your friends When can I see you again?

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Digital photography Alyssa Alyssa Jones Jones ‘20 ‘20 | Digital photography

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Bromley

11:11 Girl Wishes

Then I wished I’d be pretty wished for boys to like me wished for unattainable perfection wake up at 6am to spend at least an hour getting ready losing sleep to look “presentable” would never leave my house without makeup or my trusty bombshell push up bra would hold an ice pack against my face if I had even a red dot peeking out I hated myself I craved their approval I needed to love me for me

Digital Photography | Delaney Garvey ‘21

Maria Evola ‘20 Now I wish for boys to look the other way wish their crude yells were pure, not tainted with desire wish for the innocence of a little girl who wasn’t taken advantage of or made a conversation piece or bullied for a life “too perfect” I wish they would look deeper I wish they could see beyond looks I wish they would like me for me.

Lambrequin page designed by Angelina Randazzo

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Lambrequin wood, acrylic, and paint pen

spread designed by Izabella Mileham

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Once upon a time there was a place called school Where the #1 objective was mainly to be cool Cool in a school where there’s mice and rats and gum on the bottom of every school But maybe that’s the norm When everything around you is old and worn And you see black and brown faces all around you just struggling to perform With hopes of doing well so they can get stuck in a ditch called debt in a college dorm But maybe there’s hope

School Darrius Samples ‘22

You could dribble a ball if you’re tall And try not to get beat up in a stall because you’re different Not pleasant is it When metal detectors are stationed at the entrance Makes you feel like you just caught a sentence Maybe you did When the system tries to lead you on a path straight to prison And when people make money off your failure then go back to their daily lives It leaves you in a class too big in size

Detroit Municipial Station

Digital Photography 42 | JP Silva ‘20

But wait!! What is this I see in Grosse Pointe Farms? A beacon of hope for my future Where everyone succeeds and no one’s a loser It seems unfair that I am here But then again ,now everything seems so clear Go to college and Get a job, Have family, right? But that’s not what i was just thinking last night When I was reminiscing about the school where I had my first fight

Ink | Lizzie Lukas ‘20

Pained hearts departing against dimmed love that flowed like the niagara It always ends Loving in the name of hatred Escaping from the blinding darkness that was our belligerent obsession The dim light of a white lighter expands my reality to the possibility of new flowers blossoming over the soil from which our love bloomed The smog of your presence choked my mind But I departed from the broken shell that we called “us” and found my own As yesterday’s smog dissipates, I feel the cool breeze of tomorrow in my hair

Smog of Your Presence Dakota Jones ‘20

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Head in the Clouds

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To Be Black poem and painting (acrylic) Jorden Dumas ‘20

I am always uncomfortable at least in this world, Is it easier or harder Because I’m a girl?

We can’t even protest to change the system, Without being teargassed, as if they’re the victims. We can’t even jog in this “free world” that exists, Without being slain by white supremecists,

I fear for my male friends, male cousins and brother. I fear for my peers, black neighbors, and others, I fear for my future kids, and my future lover, Knowing they’ll be Black, in a world that hates color.

We’ll always be uncomfortable, As we have every right, Because this world is not for you, If you’re Black and not white.

I love our brown skin, brown eyes and brown hair, I love our long nails, glossed lips and “street wear,” I love our culture, character and our tough, But is love from a Black girl even enough?

spread designed by Natasha Khan

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poem “Underwater” Alyssa Jones ‘20 | painting “Anxiety” Maureen Barrett ‘21

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spread designed by Frannie Boyle

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Auntie

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spread designed by Izabella Mileham

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1965 Red Chevy Melanie Zampardo ‘20

Driving around, our hair flying everywhere and our arms in the air. The summer wind felt nice in contrast to the baking hot sun. As we slow down a smaller side street, my dad turns into a driveway, he has to run up to the house to drop something off. “Can we please wait in the car?!” “Okay, fine, but don’t touch ANYTHING.” He’d only be gone two minutes tops, how would he have known something could go wrong in that tiny speck of time? Almost immediately after we saw him disappear behind the brown door, Maddy and I climbed to the front of our Dad’s 1965 red Chevy convertible. I was in the driver’s seat, and Maddy by my side in the passenger. Our eight and six year old brains could hardly handle this much excitement and sense of rebellion. I jerked the steering wheel from left to right, as if avoiding fatal accidents. I pulled on the gear shift and continued pretending I had to back out of a narrow alley. Until I realized we were actually moving down the rather steep driveway. When I realized what was happening, my face froze with my mouth wide open and eyes beginning to water. My skin was tingling and it felt as if there was a lump in my throat. How was I going to save my little sister and I from this mess!? We kept moving backwards slowly, but the speed increased each second. I wondered if the car would ever stop. Would we be injured? Would another car come through and hit us? Would we hit a pedestrian? Who knew if we’d even make it out alive? And then I saw my dad come out the door. All my worries switched from being hurt, to being punished. This car was his baby, he would be crushed—no, he’d crush us if anything happened to it. We were still moving.

“Stop!” my dad yelled. Come on, he had to know I didn’t even know how we started moving in the first place, there was no way I could’ve possibly known how to stop! I started to cry as the car kept moving, now it was taking up the entire street. I didn’t know what to do, and I had already felt so bad for disobeying him. Surely he’d disown us— not even us, just me! It was my fault! I was supposed to protect my baby sister, and look at the predicament I’d gotten us into. I’d have to live the rest of my life alone with no family, and with the guilt of knowing I’d taken my Dad’s amazing car from him. We bounced up and down when the car went up the curb behind us. Did we finally stop? Was this monstrosity finally over? I started frantically apologizing to my dad as he jogged across the street. I finally looked over at my sister beside me, I had no idea what to expect to see on her face: she’d been completely silent throughout this whole mess. I could see her whole mouth, she was laughing so hard. Her eyes were completely shut, her smile went so big. Had she even suspected that we were in any sort of grave danger? My dad looked at her in confusion and for a second it looked like he just didn’t know how to react. His eyebrows furrowed as he put his hands on the door to lean on the car. I wondered what he’d do to her since the attention was no longer directed toward me. Would he have to teach her a lesson about being serious in certain situations? Would he yell at her? Nope. His frown turned to a smile and he started cracking up right next to her. I wanted to keep crying, but I felt my eyes lighten up and a small smile form against my will. My dad knew I didn’t need a lecture about this; I had already felt badly enough about it. Sometimes when you mess up in life, all you can do is laugh about it.

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Digital photography | Delaney Garvey â&#x20AC;&#x2DC;21

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anony

mous

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Belle Isle Boat House

Acrylic with plastic beads | Sarah Riashi ‘22

Dear Alecia Astana Gaffney ‘20

I write to you earnestly when I say that I miss our gentle talks about nothing of significance. You seldom leave my thoughts and you plague my head like a moth does the flame. I long for the day we can see each other again, perhaps after you graduate and earn your degree you will get a job suitable enough to gather a handsome amount of money. I selfishly wish you’d spend it all trying to find me, who sits melancholily in the same small apartment, in the same small town that you left me in. The government was overthrown last week, or maybe it was the week before. I don’t really know. Nevertheless, it all looks the same around here. Everything is draped in a blanket

of honey-like fog. The baker still brings out the morning bread at 8:30 in the morning. The old lady at the end of Frizene road still sways back and forth on her rocking chair. The shopkeepers still bicker and grumble while reading the newspaper. The mundaneness continues on like clockwork, sometimes it seems like you never left. The only indication of any sort of change around here are the new flags that sit near City Hall. The old beige and peach colors that you might remember with fondness have been replaced with harsh purples and oceanic blues. I wish the flags were brown. The same brown as your eyes. I miss your eyes because they remind me of olives,

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but sweeter. Well, another change is the women uncomfortable. I know you wanted me to make that loiter at the bars. They came along with the it more “homey” but I’m at a loss when it comes new government. The men here are fascinated to ideas. I was hoping you’d give me some of with these new exotic women that deceive them yours. for a sense of amusement. Although, such a feat The new government wants the town to be isn’t really that commendable. The place you abuzz with gratitude for the new administration. once called home is often greeting new guests Those who are not openly showing contentment with eager faces that are more elusive than with the new system are being investigated. I anything. Yet, once these am one of them. When guests get a taste of the questioned why I never true nature of this town, show up to any parties they leave without a word. or community events Not much has been I tell them that I don’t going on with my life, care. The sheriff says and nothing peculiar has that apathy will be really happened since my downfall and that your departure. The I’d better start getting stubby man who lives involved if I didn’t want adjacent to my apartment to end up in a cell. He bought a dog a few months continued on to spew back. The dog disobeys the other threats but I man’s orders so he hits it. was distracted by his The sound of the creature’s overly large shirt. It wailing cuts like a knife had to have been two through the thin wall that sizes too big. At the end separates us. I wish he of our conversation, would stop hitting the poor though I didn’t do much Graphite | Alyssa Jones ‘20 thing, maybe then I’d get talking, he handed a decent night’s rest. I’ve me a document with started to help the farmer the new government’s carry his produce to the seal. I have yet to open markets on Saturdays. I the document though, don’t like helping him but I suppose they’ll tell one day he implored my me about it when I go help and I was without on trial in two weeks. words to disagree. My job They claim I am being is unremitting. The other convicted for allegedly day my boss praised me conspiring with the old for my perfect attendance government and its and then asked if I’d want supporters. My only a raise that included a wish is that I will be relocation. I told him no. I permitted visitors when think he was disappointed I am incarcerated. More with my answer because specifically, I hope you he asked me, “why in the will visit me. You may world wouldn’t you want wonder why I do not to leave this rusty old town? I look upon your try to prove my innocence. I don’t know why face every day and get a sense of dissatisfaction either but I suppose it is because I don’t have a from you. I’d assume that you’d want nothing compelling reason to. It’s all the same no matter more than to fly somewhere exciting, you are where one is. The honey like fog never fades, still young after all.” I told him that I didn’t have nor does it change. I hope you write to me as a reason to leave. My office remains the same, you do now and know that I will always be here the teal walls are barren and the furniture waiting.

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spread designed by Natasha Khan

this page: poem “Compulsive” Kalei Sliwinski ‘20 ink drawing Natasha Khan ‘23 facing page: prose “Euphoria” Izabella Mileham ‘22 ceramic house Max Backer ‘20 ceramic plate Sheikh Manneh ‘21

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spread designed by Angelina Randazzo

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Algebra for X Imani Williams ‘21

A compass won’t help you find your way to them because your relationship was imaginary like the square root of -1 You’ve got to stop pretending that you would be together forever like y=mx+b because in reality you had a distinct endpoint Sure the relationship felt like a sine wave, but you thought you could make D= +1 instead of -5; because if you’re being honest with yourself, it was always negative

Cam Floyd ‘20 Ceramic

You need to stop pretending that you had the perfect love equation it’s just your feelings that swayed by your heart’s persuasion

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the

page designed by Angelina Randazzo

of high and low

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page designed by Angelina Randazzo

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page designed by Natasha Khan

poem “Don’t Be That Person” Lynne Romanelli ‘23 | digital art Aidan McFarlane ‘21

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by Astana Gaffn

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page designed by Angelina Randazzo

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Max Wiegel ‘20

“Starry Night?: “Why, yes.” The curator smiled. The museum had been empty for the majority of the day, as it had been for the past few days. Though its connection was not assured, the Curator had begun to suspect that the drop in attendance was due to the latest spat of upheaval brought about through the supposed assassination of R.E.O. Volmer, chief executive of Goddard & Company Pharmaceuticals. The response had been seismic, with many expressing shock that the once-rising company had lost its CEO. The company itself had begun a downturn, with stocks falling dramatically, and dealings supposedly falling even further into an abyssal, pulverized state. Moreover, the killer had yet to even be properly identified. The lack of identification had led some to assume that he was of wastes-stock. An unsurprising, nor particularly unfounded ,explanation to the curator. Still, he was a curator, not a member of a police-hunting unit. And while he possessed some street smarts--as did many in this age--he was more concerned with continuing to run his institution. Thus when a lone cloaked figure entered his small museum in the wall in the wee hours of the day, offering to pay for a guided tour... Well, he leapt upon the chance, accepting the money with tact before spinning the man off into his galleries. Of note was Van Gogh. The man’s grasp of color and simplicity shown in the bright daffodils, alive eternal in one frame, whilst in another, the light from from the cafe terrace illuminated figures and invited onlookers to partake in the festivities. The Curator enjoyed talking about paintings, but through his layered explanations and occasional wild undulations,it was clear to anyone, even to a hiding forgein vengeance seeker who had traveled an entire ocean for the sake of revenge, that the curator greatly enjoyed the artist’s works. In struggling English, the visitor asked, “When...was it written?” He corrected himself, “Painted, sorry.” “No, of course not,” the curator said. “As for your answer, it was written in 1889. Well over two hundred years ago.” “How... do you know this?”

“Well, that’s not necessarily an interesting topic. But if you’d like to--” “Then I do not need to,” the visitor interrupted. He stared at the painting. The vivid and swirling blues appeared to captivate him, and unlike the previous galleries, he appeared genuinely intrigued by the mysterious time capsule for the past. The curator joined him, and soon both quietly stared at what remained from the long-dead artist. “Is it true?” The curator blinked. “Sir?” “That this...Van Gogh...had a terrible life?” “Sadly, yes.” The curator appeared downcast. “Van Gogh might be appreciated now, though back when the man was alive, his works were far from praised, and he suffered greatly from various disorders and afflictions. These works, however, show that even in the bleakest of situations, man still possesses the capacity to create beauty.” “Hmm.” The visitor seemed to mull on what he had just absorbed for a very long while. When he spoke at last once more, the words came slowly, though there was a power behind each of them. Moreover, the man spoke with conviction, forcing the curator to listen “I... I do not think, then, that this painting is something good. It came from a place of pain. It could not be created without pain, and no one should wish it upon themselves or another. If you think that this painting is a good thing, then you are among those who hated this man once-called Gogh. Without true pain, this work could not have come about. “Don’t you see, curator? This is not a monument to human ingenuity. This is a monument to suffering, and the fetishes which come from it consequently. It is a disgusting thing, and I pity Van Gogh for ever coming to this point. This is no work of artistry. This is a work of pain. And a monument to a man utterly alone.” The curator was silent. Shifting through his weather-beaten cloak, the stranger brought forth his arms in front of him. Clasping them together, he bowed, spoke soft forgein words, and left.

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The Tragedy of Van Gogh

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spread designed by Astana Gaffney

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Delaney Garvey ‘21 Acrylic & plastic laminator film

The Storm: A Haiku Collection Bode Neumeister ‘22

The wind rages forth. The streets — empty and lifeless; Few dare to step out. The globe in panic Desperately in search of The much needed cure.

To those who suffer Even before this great storm, This bolt is lethal.

Grace Govier-LaParl ‘22 | Graphite

To those healthy few, These clouds seem less ominous, But still remember

This is our challenge. It’s up to us — the lucky — To conquer the rain.

Penelope Griffioen ‘23

Angelina Randazzo ‘23 | Acrylic

This whole thing is like a long blur. As a sixth-grader, I feared the next harrowing epidemic. I was sure it would strike the world in years to come; now it is here. For now, it seems everything is different. Each morning starts with the dreary remembrance of this current situation, which will eventually lead to the same monotonous day. The stubborn fear of all the potential “what-ifs” has lodged its way deep down into my lungs, so much that I fear it is the virus that has taken away my breath. Each point of contact--at the grocery store, on walks--leaves me panicked. It is not just the disease I fear; it is the isolation that comes with it. I cleave to everything that remains steady, hoping that though the virus has entered the outside world it will not rupture the walls of my home. Every cough I feel deep in the base of my throat I scrutinize with growing apprehension, believing that I have caught the disease. I have to reassure myself that this adversity has to get better at some point, and all I can do is wait.

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This whole thing is like a long blur

JP Silva ‘20

“Don’t say that the wire’s probably tapped.” “Well what should I say?” “I don’t know, just ask for an appointment—and don’t sound suspicious.” “Or maybe I should sound suspicious?” “Why in the hell would you do that?” “Because they’re looking for guys who are trying not to sound suspicious, so if I sound suspicious they’ll be confused and let us in.” “No don’t do that.” Jeremy Murphy, known to his colleague only as Jeremy, wrote in his notes: sound suspicious. Three weeks ago he had entered the country only a little bit illegally. The passport makers at the office did a good job of creating realistic-looking documents. He even had a false birth certificate. “Did you just write ‘sound suspicious’ in your notebook?” “No.” “Oh ok.” Jeremy Colegate, also known to his colleague as just Jeremy, was assigned to work with Jeremy. Jeremy was also from abroad, sneaking in through a diplomatic delivery to the embassy. This Jeremy did not have false documentation, but he had a good enough alibi. Special intelligence is all about good enough alibis. “By the way, did you bring the really small camera?” Jeremy Colegate, who was wearing a dark grey suit with a red tie, asked.

“What really small camera?” Jeremy Murphy was wearing a brown sweater with jeans. “You know, the really small camera that kind of looks like a pencil?” “Oh yeah, let me check.” Sweater Jeremy ruffled through the drawer built into the nightstand. The hotel room was grey and bland, with the striped wallpaper peeling in some spots. The bed was hard, the lights made a loud humming noise, and the outlets were only two-pronged. Outside, across a dull parking lot, there was a park, which was also grey and bland on account of it being that weird season between fall and winter where the leaves are gone from all the trees but there is no snow yet. The two Jeremys reverseraced across the parking lot to be second to the car. The first one to the car had to drive, so second place was the preferable option. 13 minutes later, Suit Jeremy finally gave up and took first place. The car was an old beater, lent to them by the embassy. On the long 30-second drive to their payphone, the two Jeremys sat in silence listening to the slight hum of the engine and bumps of the potholes along the road. At one point, Sweater Jeremy almost spilled his coffee. “Hello, would you like to book tickets to the observatory?” “Yes. Yes that is what we would like to do. Nothing else.” Sweater Jeremy said into the phone.

“Dude, I literally said not to sound suspicious.” Suit Jeremy harshly whispered. “Okay. That’s for two?” “Yes. Yes.” “Alright, your tickets are for seven o’clock, do you need directions?” “Uhh, do we?” “I mean, if you would like.” The person on the phone said with a slight inclination of confusion in their voice. “Yeah get directions.” Suit Jeremy interjected. “Ok yes we want directions.” Sweater Jeremy responded. “So first you’ll want to park in the A lot. If that’s filled up then park in the B lot but it’ll be a bit of a walk. Walk up the stairs on the side of the mountain and eventually you’ll reach the cable car, that’ll take you right to the observatory.” “Ok thanks.” He hung up. Jeremy and Jeremy walked back to the car and started driving to the observatory. This time, because Jeremy felt bad for making Jeremy drive, Jeremy drove instead. “We’re here.” Sweater Jeremy said after a few minutes. “How do you know?” “There’s a parking lot, with a staircase, with a cable car.” “How am I supposed to know that’s actually it, and not some other observatory you’ve taken me to.” “Because there’s a sign next to the parking lot that says ‘The Observatory.’” “Could be a ruse by enemy intelligence.”

Lizzie Lukas ‘20 | acrylic

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Jeremy & Jeremy & Jeremy

When he held it up Sweater Jeremy could clearly see a red light blinking inside of it. “It’s recording.” Suit Jeremy mentioned. “Also, I found your passport. It said your name was not really Jeremy, but ‘Mirza.’” “Listen, that was for a separate mission when I had to use a completely different identity. Trust me.” “But I can’t. And I opened the mission letter while you were driving, guess what it said?” “What?” Suit Jeremy showed Sweater Jeremy the letter, which said in very small comic sans letters: Eliminate the traitor. “So you see, Jeremy, Mirza, whatever, I’m going to have to kill you.” Suit Jeremy said in a harsher tone of voice. “But Jeremy, what if you’re the traitor? The letter was addressed to both of us, and it doesn’t specify who the traitor is.” “Well I know I’m not a traitor…” “But I know I’m not a traitor…” “It seems we have an issue here, Jeremy.” “It appears that we do, Jeremy.” Simultaneously, both Jeremys stood up. The cable car swayed a bit as it passed one of the supporting poles. The strong wind combined with the gondola’s high speed made the whole car whistle. Jeremy struck first. Sweater Jeremy wiped the blood off his upper lip. A strong punch to the nose, probably broken. “Hey man, not cool. That hurt.” He said, retaliating with a jab to the gut.

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“Or it could just be the observatory. I’m parking here.” “Fine.” Suit Jeremy responded with a slight tone of annoyance. The mountains outside of town had a bit of snow on the ground. Not much more than a dusting, but enough to cover the whole landscape in a little bit of white. Sweater Jeremy almost slipped on the stairs due to the lack of ice. The cable car whirred to life at seven o’clock sharp. It seemed like the two Jeremys were the only passengers tonight, despite the somewhat packed parking lot. The operator of the cable car greeted them in a foreign accent, causing both of the two to be suspicious of the other. “Jeremy, I swear to God if this is some kind of setup…” Suit Jeremy finally said. “Jeremy, I’m just as suspicious as you are, kiddo. How am I supposed to know this isn’t a setup by you?” Sweater Jeremy snapped back. “A setup by me? I’m not the one who’s lying about their name!” With an audible clank and a large initial sway, the gondola started moving up the cable. “What makes you think that?” Sweater Jeremy anxiously questioned. “I was looking for the voice recorder, and I found your passport.” “Wait, what voice recorder?” Sweater Jeremy, this time actually confused, asked. “You know, the small one that looks kind of like a cufflink. This one.” Suit Jeremy unbuttoned the cufflink from the right sleeve of his suit coat.

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the gondola. By now the wind was immense, and the cold even colder. While below the mountain it might not have been cold enough for snow, up here there had to have been several feet on the ground. In one leap, Jeremy jumped from the top of the cable car, armrest in hand, and was able to grab onto the cable above the car. Like a scene out of an action movie, Jeremy slid down the tow cable of the lift somewhere between the speed of an elderly woman crossing a street and a formula one race car roaring around the track. Sparks flew as the steel slowly ground off from the armrest and the cable. At just the right moment, Jeremy released one hand, waited a fraction of a second, and then grabbed back onto the bar. Now he was on a completely different cable: the perpendicular line that Suit Jeremy had just escaped on. By now the snow was falling rather heavily. After just a few seconds of what was essentially non-recreational ziplining, Jeremy was soaked through his sweater. It was almost dark now, and the lights of the mountain all came to life. All of the different houses, businesses, cabins, vehicles, cable cars, and observatories lit up the mountain like a Christmas tree. In fact, the only distinguishable difference between a mountain and a Christmas tree at this point was the complete lack of presents at the bottom. It did, however, have a train. The train wasn’t at the foot of the mountain, however: it was more in the middle of it. Jeremy saw the single gondola with a man in a grey suit within it. It was Suit Jeremy. At a much higher speed than before, Sweater Jeremy braced his legs in front of him as he rapidly approached the cable car. Of course, his rubber shoes wouldn’t break the glass, but the retractable foot blades could. He just had to reach the button on his watch. First, he tried twisting his wrist so that he could press the watch button using the bottom

You’re right, a traitor wouldn’t. You’re a double agent, and I know it. 89

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“You know… you could peacefully surrender, and maybe they’d let you off with a light sentence.” Suit Jeremy said once he no longer had the wind knocked out of him. “But I’m not the traitor, you are. So I’d suggest that you surrender peacefully to me.” Sweater Jeremy interjected. “With what proof? I have proof that you’re a traitor, and you have none that I am.” “I saw you, last night, making messages with an encoding machine.” “So? I was sending messages back to headquarters.” “That encoding machine looked like nothing I’ve seen before. Not even the letters on the keys were the same. It had to be a foreign one...” Sweater Jeremy deduced. “You have no proof!” Suit Jeremy shouted. This time, Jeremy struck first. A clean punch to the neck. Suit Jeremy jumped backward and hit the emergency escape button on the cable car. “You wouldn’t.” Sweater Jeremy said as the snow blowing in from both now open doors filled the cable car. “You’re right, a traitor wouldn’t. You’re a double agent, and I know it, Mr. Mirza.” “That’s not my name, and I’m not a double agent.” “Shut up.” Suit Jeremy said, before jumping out the door of the cable car. He didn’t fall far. Below the gondola happened to be a different cable car, on the downslope, crossing their cable perpendicularly. At just the right moment, the two cars were overhead. It was maybe a 10-foot fall, but nothing too difficult for an intelligence agent. Seeing Jeremy’s escape, Jeremy soon followed. He took the curved metal pipe from the armrest on the seat and pried it off. The screws easily popped out of the wooden seat, and it was detached. Suit Jeremy pulled himself up to the roof of

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side of the metal armrest. That didn’t work, so then he tried freeing one of his fingers to press the button. That didn’t work either, and the cable car was rapidly approaching, so he tried the first method again. This time it worked. The foot blades extended out from the front of his shoes and he made impact with the glass. Suit Jeremy was reading a travel brochure someone had left behind when, suddenly, a gust of wind took his travel brochure down the mountain. He had been enjoying his brief interlude from the fight by reading some literature somebody had left behind when the window crashed open in front of him. Sweater Jeremy had, somehow, made it to him. Of course, they started fighting again, with dialogue in between punches: “How the hell did you get here?” Suit Jeremy asked after being kicked in the shin by one of Sweater Jeremy’s foot blades. He pressed the button on his watch to extend his own foot blades. “I zip-lined down the cables.” Sweater Jeremy

Harisen Davis ‘21 Acrylic

replied. “Oh, that’s actually pretty cool.” “I know right.” By now they were just kicking each other in the shins with their foot blades, but, since both of them had metal shin guards underneath their pant legs, the kicks didn’t really do much. The steam train on the tracks below them let out a long, loud whistle to signal that it was about to enter a tunnel. Suit Jeremy had an idea. “Wait, pause. My shoe’s untied.” Suit Jeremy said. “Alright, I’ll wait.” Sweater Jeremy replied. But Suit Jeremy wasn’t retying his shoelace. Instead, he just took the shoe off and threw it out the window of the cable car. “I mean that’s one way to prevent tripping.” Sweater Jeremy said, confused. But it was too late. The shoe hit the cable supporting the gondola head-on, and the impact made a loud snap. Suddenly, again, the Jeremys were falling. An outside observer who was frozen in time would probably think that the Jeremys were falling forever. However, an outside observer that was experiencing time normally would recount that the Jeremys fell for exactly 3.2 seconds, after which the cable car they were inside of landed perfectly centered on an empty train car that was normally used for hauling large, cable-car sized loads. Once the Jeremys had regained their sense of direction, they started fighting again. This time on a train. “Just admit it. You’re the traitor.” “No. Why don’t you admit it?” “Because I’m not a traitor, you are.” The train let out a final loud horn and entered the tunnel. The air became clouded with smoke from the engine, but the Jeremys couldn’t see that because it was completely dark. Suit Jeremy, in the pitch-darkness, felt a punch to his shoulder. When he swung back in the direction it came from, he hit nothing but air. Sweater Jeremy had another trick up his sleeve: night vision goggles. “Who do you work for?” Sweater Jeremy asked before moving out of the way to dodge another one of Suit Jeremy’s blind swings. “Same place you ‘work for,’ idiot.” He responded.

“Why?” Jeremy did not respond. “Ok. Ok. I admit. I am a traitor. I’ve collaborated with the enemy. You’ve won. Now help me up and you can arrest me or whatever.” Jeremy finally admitted. Well you see Jeremy, I can’t do that. I’ve known this whole time that you’re not a traitor.” “Oh, so you’ll help me up then?” “Jeremy, I know you’re not the traitor because I’m the traitor.” “Wait. No. I actually am–” Jeremy was unable to finish his sentence before Jeremy stomped on his hand, causing him to finally lose his grip and plummet into the ravine below. Jeremy didn’t even look down, instead, he looked up at the sky and the snow falling around him. He got a few flakes in his eye, but that didn’t matter: He’d won. He shouted in rejoice out into the valley below. He had done it. He would not be found out as a traitor. Standing on the roof he threw both hands in the air in glee. Then the train passed back into another tunnel, Jeremy was swept off his feet, and ultimately fell into the ravine too. Meanwhile, in the observatory at a party on the top of the mountain, the traitor the letter was referring to, also named Jeremy, avoided capture and returned to his life as a double agent.

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“So if I work for the enemy, then that must mean you’re also a double agent.” “Yeah but I’m not so your argument is invalid. And that was sarcasm, I clearly do not work for the enemy.” Suit Jeremy took another blind swing in the direction that the voice last came from. “Listen, Jeremy, I’ve been thinking.” “About what?” He swung, again, and missed, again. “You were calling me a traitor because of my documents, which are false by the way, that’s not my name.” “Yeah.” “Well, you don’t have any documents to begin with. Isn’t that suspicious?” “What does it matter?” “I mean, I guess I’d expect a traitor to say not having any documents isn’t a big deal. How am I supposed to prove you’re not a traitor when you have no identification?” “Shut up!” Suit Jeremy yelled into the darkness. And then there was light. As the train emerged from the tunnel the wind quickly blew away the exhaust from the air. Sweater Jeremy threw aside his night vision goggles and climbed up a ladder to the roof of the train. Suit Jeremy followed. The two Jeremys fought for a bit on the roof of the train. Supporting the train as it crossed a deep chasm was an old, red-painted truss bridge made of a combination of wood and steel. On the other side of the bridge was another tunnel, and about 500 feet below the bridge was a rough river that snaked its way between large rocks and tall cliffs. After a few solid minutes of fighting, both Jeremys were reasonably exhausted. Making a mistake was just too easy under these conditions, and Jeremy did so. Receiving a swift kick to the leg, Jeremy lost his footing on the slippery snow-covered roof of the train. He tumbled right over the side but stopped his fall into the ravine by gripping onto the seam between two pieces of sheet metal that made up the roof. “Hey, Jeremy wanna help me out here?” He said, his grip slipping. “No. I don’t.”

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Next door, the house was on fire. The old man was the only one awake. Next door, smoke blew out of the windows and red flames licked the fake plastic siding and the front porch collapsed, but he didn’t say a word. The fire engine would come too late and he knew it, so he didn’t call. He didn’t wake anyone. He just watched the fire next door.

The House Next Door

Penelope Griffioen ‘23

Outside, the sycamore shivered in the foul-smelling gray smoke and the damp, foggy night air receded from the glow of the burning house. One of the overturned plastic lawn chairs caught on fire, and began to melt in a cloud of acrid smoke. The wooden handle of a shovel lying next to the lawn chair slowly turned black. A window collapsed and shattered, spraying broken glass all across the front yard. He carefully watched the grass, making sure the fire wasn’t too close to his walls. He wondered if they were going to survive. A forsythia bush caught on fire, all of its little yellow blossoms blooming big and orange as its branches fell to the ground. He watched the front window crack. The back door, chipped in red paint and rusted at the handle, fell off the hinges as it burst into flames. He saw a boy climb out the window, bruised and bloody and burned. The worn shingles on the roof fell off and flooded the ground in dark flames like tiny bombs. The boy saw him looking out the window. He said something. The old man at the window couldn’t hear, or else he tried not to. The little fire from the shingle trickled slowly through the grass.

Send help, the boy mouthed, help. The fire moved across the yard. The boy collapsed on the grass. The old man could hear muted screams from inside the burning house. The fire crossed to the old man’s yard. He walked across the room and over to the phone. “Hello, nine-one-one? There’s a fire at the house next door.”

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Light Box Jacob Whitton â&#x20AC;&#x2DC;22 Mixed media collage

spread designed by Astana Gaffney

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page designed by Astana Gaffney

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Mixed media sculpt

nes ‘20 ure | Brendan Jo

Czech Folklore The Dark Ages, in many different parts of Europe, created space for plenty of new folk tales to arise. Perhaps the most notable ones are those collected and retold by the notorious Grimm Brothers. Hansel and Gretel, Red Riding Hood, or Pied Piper are all notable stories for their cultural relevance and their primary substance: the moral. While we generally look at them as fairy tales, we often forget that people had sought to protect their children by instilling fear in them in order to make them listen. It was dangerous for kids to walk around the woods alone. But look a little more east and you find similar stories, ones created for the same purpose but in a very different environment. While we have all sorts of mythologies from the entire world, a Slavic mythology, if you will, is being born halfway through the Middle Ages. Picture large plains full of uncharted woods, some of which had not, at that time, seen the faces of men because they were too vast and dense—and every now and then there’s a village of people working for their local feudal lord. A grandma wise and old woman—and perhaps a little cynical and spiteful too—is taking care of the children. The only way for her to keep them together, to make them behave better, is to tell them a story about why they shouldn’t come close to the lake or wander in the fields alone. Little does she know the children

words & images by Elias Gaydecka ‘21

will carry these stories on and help create a part of the culture that even I grew up in. Even this century, I experienced strange shivers connected to the Czech countryside, listening to the stories. But let us return to their origins. It is from this period in history, around the year 1000 AD, that we have the first records of some of these folk tales in the region of Bohemia, later to be called Czechia. These stories, unlike many other world mythologies, have no chronological order, no premise or system that we could call canon, and exist therefore almost as ideas that adapt themselves in various ways throughout all the Slavic nations, even to the point where one could say that each one of them has their own folklore. The following is specifically about two of the Czech renditions. But before then, I will allow myself one last short note to the kind reader who has decided to spend time with my words. Many artists have found inspiration here: these beings have been adapted as parts of many visual art pieces, songs, poems, books, movies. Perhaps the most notable is the book series the Witcher, a fantasy franchise newly adapted to screen by Netflix, whose Polish author, Andrzej Sapkowski, cleverly draws inspiration from all the different folk tales of Eastern Europe—and he even speaks Czech, imagine that! I still sometimes shiver when thinking about these stories, and I most certainly hope, dear reader, that in them you also find some form of fear you haven’t experienced yet.

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Monsters

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The sun is getting hotter and as noon is coming closer, all the men are leaving to have an early lunch so that they can come back for another shift. Then suddenly, a distant bell rings twelve hours, and everything goes silent, only the leaves billowing in the wind and the spikes of wheat gently rubbing each other. And then a figure emerges from the crops. It is an old hunchback woman in ragged clothes, supporting herself with a cane. She’s looking for naughty kids, for she had lost her own as well.

For me, this poem represents the horror you can experience under direct sunlight. The scary part, perhaps, isn’t her hiding in the shadows or breaching the safety of your household in any other way — it is that there simply is no escape from her. She walks slow but she’s still coming to get you. When I was little and I went to visit my grandparents to our cottage, night wasn’t the scary part of the day.

Being named the Noonwraith, or perhaps the Noon Lady or the Noon Witch, this is like the Red Riding Hood of Czech folklore: an instrument to make kids listen and not wander

It was noon, when Polednice came out.

Polednice / Karel Jaromír Erben

English translation

U lavice dítě stálo, z plna hrdla křičelo. „Bodejž jsi jen trochu málo, ty cikáně, mlčelo.

By the bench there stood an infant, Screaming, screaming, loud and wild; ‘Can’t you just be quiet an instant? Hush, you nasty gipsy-child!

„Dej sem dítě!“ — „Kriste Pane, odpusť hříchy hříšníci!“ Div že smrt jí neovane, ejhle tuť — polednici!

‘Give that child here!’ ‘Lord, forgive this sinner’s sins, my Saviour dear!’ It’s a wonder she still lives, For see—the Noonday Witch is here!

Poledne v tom okamžení, táta přijde z roboty: a mně hasne u vaření pro tebe, ty zlobo, ty!

Now it’s noon, or just about, Daddy’s coming home for dinner: while I cook, the fire’s gone out— all your fault, you little sinner!

Ke stolu se plíží tiše polednice jako stín: matka hrůzou sotva dýše, dítě chopíc na svůj klín.

Silent as a shadow wreaths, The witch towards the table’s slipping: Mother, fearful, scarcely breathes, In her lap the child she’s gripping.

Mlč, hle husar a kočárek — hrej si — tu máš kohouta!“ — Než kohout, vůz i husárek bouch, bác! letí do kouta.

Hush! Your cart’s here, your hussar— look, your cockerel!—Go on, play!’ Crash, bang! Soldier, cock and cart To the corner fly away.

A vinouc je, zpět pohlíží — běda, běda dítěti! Polednice blíž se plíží, blíž — a již je v zápětí.

Twisting round, she looks behind her— Poor, poor child—ah, what a fate! Closer creeps the witch to find her, Closer—now she’s there—too late!

A zas do hrozného křiku — „I bodejž tě sršeň sám — ! Že na tebe, nezvedníku, polednici zavolám!

Once again that fearful bellow— ‘May a hornet come and sting you! Hush, you naughty little fellow, Or the Noonday Witch I’ll bring you!

Již vztahuje po něm ruku — matka tisknouc ramena: „Pro Kristovu drahou muku!“ — klesá smyslů zbavena.

Now for him her hand is grasping— Tighter squeeze the mother’s arms: ‘For Christ’s precious torments!’ gasping, She sinks senseless with alarm.

Pojď si proň, ty polednice, pojď, vem si ho, zlostníka!“ A hle, tu kdos u světnice dvéře zlehka odmyká.

Come for him, you Noonday Witch, then! Come and take this pest for me!’— In the door into the kitchen, Someone softly turns the key.

Tu slyš: jedna — druhá — třetí — poledne zvon udeří; klika cvakla, dvéře letí — táta vchází do dveří.

Listen—one, two, three and more: The noonday bell is ringing clear; The handle clicks, and as the door Flies wide open, father’s here.

Malá, hnědá, tváři divé pod plachetkou osoba; o berličce, hnáty křivé, hlas — vichřice podoba!

Little, brown-skinned, strange of feature, On her head a kerchief pinned; With a stick—crook-legged creature, Voice that whistles like the wind!

Ve mdlobách tu matka leží, k ňadrám dítě přimknuté; matku vzkřísil ještě stěží, avšak dítě — zalknuté.

Child clasped to her breast, he found, Lying in a faint, the mother; He could hardly bring her round, But the little one was—smothered.

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into the fields alone. But perhaps not even parents truly understand what they’re dealing with when using her name. Here is a poem about her by a Czech romanticist poet, Karel Jaromír Erben, who, in retrospect, found beauty in all of these stories and managed to revive them for newer audiences.

Polednice / the Noonwraith

Each village needed two things—fertile land and water supply. And what better water supply than a lake, a pond or a small stream that everyone can drink from, wash their clothes in or even fish. But the water, when most people had never taught how to swim, could get dangerous. There was a belief that each village has their own Water Goblin, a little green person who takes care of people’s souls after they’ve drowned. They’re generally rumored to be wise, as they have conversations with all the people locked in little cups on the bottom

of the body of water, where they have their tiny living room. But their personalities can vary, as some of them are even rumored to pull people down and make them drown. At night they sit on the only willow tree, smoke their pipe, and watch the moon and the stars. In the following version, the character feels alone and distanced from humanity. As the story progresses, he pulls down a girl and makes her live with him, eventually even having a child with her. But when she starts to miss her mother, he lets her go, only under the promise that she will come back. She doesn’t. And in his outburst of rage... well, it is an incredibly tragic story.

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Vodník / the Water Goblin

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Water Goblin Na topole nad jezerem seděl vodník podvečerem: „Sviť, měsíčku, sviť, ať mi šije niť. Šiju, šiju si botičky do sucha i do vodičky: sviť, měsíčku, sviť, ať mi šije niť. Dnes je čtvrtek, zejtra pátek šiju, šiju si kabátek: sviť, měsíčku, sviť, ať mi šije niť.

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Zelené šaty, botky rudé, zejtra moje svatba bude: sviť, měsíčku, sviť, ať mi šije niť.”

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Na jezeře bouře hučí, v bouři dítě naříká; nářek ostře bodá v duši, potom náhle zaniká. „Ach matičko, běda, běda, tím pláčem mi krev usedá; matko má, matičko zlatá, strachuji se vodníka!”Něco padlo. - Pode dveřmi mok se jeví - krvavý; a když stará otevřela, kdo leknutí vypraví! Dvě věci tu v krvi leží mráz po těle hrůzou běží: dětská hlava bez tělíčka a tělíčko bez hlavy.

English translation by Susan Reynolds On a poplar by the pool The Goblin sat at twilight cool: ‘Glow, moon, glow, That my thread may sew. For myself new boots I’m sewing , On dry land and water going: Glow, moon, glow, That my thread may sew. ‘Thursday now—tomorrow’s Friday— sew a coat all trim and tidy: Glow, moon, glow, That my thread may sew. Coat of green and boots of red , For tomorrow I’ll be wed: Glow, moon, glow, That my thread may sew.’

On the lake the storm is shrieking; In the storm the child screams shrill; Screams that pierce the soul with anguish, Then they suddenly fall still. ‘Oh, my mother, please, oh, please! At those cries my blood will freeze— Mother mine, oh, dearest mother, Fear of him my heart does fill!’ Something fell—beneath the doorway Moisture trickles—tinged with red. When the old one went to open, What she saw filled her with dread. In their blood, two objects lying Sent cold terror through her flying: Baby’s head—without a body; Tiny body—with no head.

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I couldn’t think. An idea finally came to my mind, but I didn’t even want to think about doing it. On the side of the road opposite to my car, there was a drop. A drop that might fix everything. A long drop that ended with a huge cliff. A drop that would hide this problem. I could make it look like she fell. No one would ever know. I would be innocent. I tried believing all of this, but I knew that I never would. No one might ever know what I did, but I would always know. I decided it was my best chance and bent down on the ground. I slowly slid my hands under her dead body and tried not to throw up. It was limp, heavy, and wet and it made me want to be sick. I decided to roll the body over the cliff instead of picking it up. I started rolling and after what seemed like a half-hour the body fell over the cliff and hit the other cliff with a sickening crunch. I bent over the cliff and threw up, sick to my stomach. A few minutes later I was driving in my car. It was dented in the front, but it still worked fine. I kept my eyes on the road and didn’t move them. I was in a state of hypnosis and I couldn’t even remember getting into the car. By the time I got home, it

Run Away

Eleanor Henderson ‘23

was already sunset. My husband’s car wasn’t in the driveway which was good, I couldn’t face him yet. I went into the house and sat at the kitchen table. What happened sank in and I couldn’t hold it back anymore. I sat there and cried. I cried for hours. I just couldn’t live with what I did. Anytime I closed my eyes, I could see her dead body just lying there on the cold, paved road. What if she had a family? What if there was someone waiting for her to come back home? I heard my husband open the front door and walk down the hallway. I quickly wiped the tears

Digital photography Delaney Garvey ‘22

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I wasn’t prepared for it. It just happened. I didn’t even see her. It was an accident. No one could have noticed her. I wasn’t focusing. It wasn’t my fault. All these things I kept saying over and over in my head, trying to keep myself calm. I didn’t mean to hit her. I was standing out on the street on a mountain in the cold. It was getting close to winter and the air was crisp. There were gray clouds in the sky and a motionless body on the ground. There was blood splattered around her and her eyes were glazed. I couldn’t see any sign of her breathing and I started panicking. I looked around to make sure that I was alone and that no one saw me hit her. I had been turning the corner and the lady appeared out of nowhere. My car had swerved to the side next to the mountain and I had no idea if it still worked. The lady looked like she was in her mid-twenties and she was wearing a black winter jacket, old brown boots, and blue jeans. She had long black hair that was now wet because of the ground. My hands were shaking and my breathing was becoming quicker. I needed to figure out what to do, but my brain was clouded and

All these questions and more spun around in my head until I couldn’t take it anymore. I quickly got up from the couch and went to the computer. I needed to get away. Start a new life with a new identity where what I did, didn’t follow me. About two hours later I was standing next to the bed, over James. I had just finished making my new identity and I was wondering if I should do anything for James. Should I leave him a note? Take him with me? I knew either of these ideas was too risky so I decided not to do them. My eyes started tearing up as I realized I wasn’t going to see James ever again. I left our bedroom before I started crying, not looking back. I got in the car and drove to the airport with sweaty palms. I had changed out of the clothes that I was wearing in case anyone did see me during the

Alyssa Jones ‘20 | Oil pastels

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off my face and let out a few shaky breaths. It didn’t matter anyway because I knew I wouldn’t be able to hide the fact that I was crying from him. He walked into the kitchen and set the take-out that he got onto the kitchen counter. “Hey Hailey.” He sits down next to me. “Hey,” I say putting a small but a fake smile on my face. I could already tell that he knew something was wrong because immediately after I looked at him, his face became concerned. “What’s wrong?” “Nothing,” I say getting up from the table and grabbing the take-out from the counter. “Let’s just eat.” James’ concerned look on his face stays there the whole night no matter how many times I tell him that I’m okay. We spend the rest of the night eating dinner and watching tv. I wasn’t talking at all so James goes to bed early, obviously bored. It didn’t matter to me, I had other stuff to worry about. I stayed out on the couch watching tv, too scared to go to bed. I just couldn’t close my eyes. I sat there huddled under the gray blanket that James gave me one year for Christmas. I sat there staring at it for a while realizing I needed to do what was best for James. What if I got caught? What would happen to James? How would he feel when he found out that his wife was a murderer?

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a sigh of relief and moved on, thanking him. I put my carryon bag on the machine as well as my shoes. The lady that was there to assist people with their stuff eyed me suspiciously. My heart skipped a beat. “Phone?” I shook my head, too nervous to say anything. I had destroyed my phone before I left the house, I wanted no trace of my past life. After a while, I made it through security. I just needed to find my gate and get on the plane. I was going to move away from snowy Minnesota to sunny Florida. I thought as long as I was moving away, I might as well move to someplace nice. I got to my gate just on time and lined up to start boarding. I looked out the window to try and keep my mind busy. It was completely dark outside, but the many lights from outside used to guide planes dimly lit up the dark night sky. It was finally my turn to board the plane, and I got on without any trouble. I sat down in my seat and sighed, relieved that I had gotten onto the plane. I didn’t think I would make it this far. People were still boarding the plane and it felt like they were all staring at me. Fewer people started boarding the plane and no one had sat in the seat next to me so I guessed I had both seats all to myself. They finally closed off the gate and a few minutes later we were in the sky. It wasn’t surprising that not even thirty minutes after we had taken off, almost everyone on the plane was asleep. I still couldn’t close my eyes without seeing that woman’s cold and dead body, so I didn’t even try to sleep. We landed in Florida around 5:00 a.m. and the sun was already starting to come up. I got off the plane and this time I really felt like everyone was staring at me. I saw everyone’s eyes following me and I wasn’t just being paranoid. Did the police find out and were they looking for me? Was my face on the news? I tried to think that maybe something was

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What if I got caught? What would happen to James? How would he feel when he found out his wife was a murderer?

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accident, and I hadn’t noticed. I wasn’t taking any chances. So many thoughts were running through my head and I knew if I didn’t distract myself I would do something irrational. I turned on the radio and turned up the volume. For the rest of the ride, I listened to the radio and tried to keep my mind clear. I arrived at the airport and got out of the car. I got my lightly packed suitcase and my carry-on bag out of the car and started walking to the doors to get into the airport with my head down. I walked through the airport paranoid about everything. Was anyone looking at me? Did someone see me? Was someone there when it happened? Did people already figure out what happened? Were the police looking for me? All of these thoughts running through my head caused me to block out all my surroundings and I didn’t even realize when I showed up at security. I snapped out of it and looked up and saw a very confused security guard looking at me. I was guessing that he had said something to me. “What?” “I.D. please.” The man was annoyed. “Oh yes, sorry.” I nervously dug through my bag looking for my new identification. I finally found and wearily handed it over to him hoping he wouldn’t notice anything weird. He stared at it for a few seconds and then handed back to me “You can go Sarah,” he said, waving me through. It felt weird hearing my new name. I breathed

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on my face, so I rushed to the nearest bathroom. I went to the mirror and saw nothing on my face. I started getting really worried then. I felt like I was going to pass out so I held onto the sink to steady myself. I stood there for a few seconds, close to throwing up. I needed to leave the airport and just go to the hotel that I had reserved. Then tomorrow, everything would be okay. I sighed as I kept telling myself this over and over, and I finally gathered the courage to leave the bathroom. I made it to the car rental place and no one was in line so I went up to the desk. The lady at the desk didn’t seem suspicious of me, so I easily got my car. I found my car in the airport parking lot and quickly left the airport. I pulled out the directions to the hotel out of my bag. I had printed out the directions considering I didn’t have a phone. I pulled onto the highway and let out yet another sigh of relief. I wondered if I would ever get away from this stress. When I pulled off the highway, I was only a few blocks away from the hotel when I heard police sirens. My heart stopped as I realized that the car was right behind me. I was getting pulled over. I moved the car to the side of the street and slowed it to a stop. My breaths were quick and rapid and I couldn’t think. My head was pounding and everything around me became blurry. In my rearview mirror, I could see the policeman get out of the car and start walking towards my car. She approached my door and knocked on the window. I took a minute to gather myself and then I rolled down the window. “License and registration please ma’am.” I froze for a minute lost in my thoughts. I couldn’t go to jail. I couldn’t get caught. I just got away from my old life. I was supposed to start a new life, and it couldn’t be in prison. I made a hasty decision and slammed my foot on the gas. I felt a small bump and I guessed that I had run over the police’s foot. I sped past cars on the street desperately trying to find a way to get back on the highway. I finally found an entrance and I swerved across three lanes cutting off cars. I pulled onto the highway and I could hear police sirens not far behind me. I was constantly changing lanes to pass the cars in front of me. My hands were sweaty and it was getting harder to grip the wheel. My mind was racing and I couldn’t figure out where to go. There were now at least three police cars getting closer by the second. I needed to find a way to lose them. I

pushed down harder on the gas and swerved across three more lanes to get off the highway. I needed to turn a lot in order to get rid of them. A few minutes later I was on a deserted street. I had taken three lefts two rights one more left and then three rights. After that, I turned down a narrow and somewhat hidden street and somehow I had finally lost the police. I pulled to the side of the road and got out of the car with shaky legs. It was around 8:00 a.m. and the cool morning winter air numbed my hands. I was exhausted, but I still couldn’t close my eyes without seeing the woman’s cold dead eyes. I shook my head to get the thought out of my mind and sat down on the curb. I tried to breathe deeply to calm myself, but my chest still felt tight. I looked up at the light blue cloudless sky when it suddenly started snowing. The snow fell on my face and for a moment everything was so peaceful. I savored that moment, one of my last memories. Sirens and flashing lights came from around the corner and I stood. I walked into the middle of the street and faced them. I was done running. I heard the loud honk of a car from behind me and quickly turned only to be blinded by bright headlights. Suddenly, I was lying flat on my back on the hard road. I wasn’t dead though. Not yet at least, but I knew it was coming. I was looking up at the sky and remembered that peaceful moment, just before everything became chaos. I finally closed my eyes and didn’t see the woman. Instead, I saw nothing but darkness.

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Digital Photography Delaney Garvey ‘21

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Losing What Could Have Been Rocco Tedesco ‘20

Everyone always said you’d be gone in a flash and now I see the blinding light. It pulls me from this place I’ve learned to call home and carries me to one heavenly. I ask myself if I’m prepared but like the games I played as a child— “...8, 9, 10, ready or not here I come!” The past is as clear as the lake was when we’d watch time pass like a movie. As blissful as the ice cream that we never got to enjoy. As painful as the hits I’d take on the front line—the ones you only got to see half of. These memories chiseled in my head like languages on the Rosetta stone. I’ve translated them cover to cover in hopes of making my vision 2020, but the characters are too small, I don’t have my glasses and the doctor said squinting is bad for your eyes. Perhaps that’s why my mistakes keep getting lost in translation. You’ve been a winding road of trial and error, losses and comebacks, blockades and bridges;

Mishaps became lessons, you’ve taught me that lessons bring tests— ones that I didn’t always pass, but retakes are possible, in fact, they’re inevitable. Just to make sure I’m prepared for the future.

You’ve lured me down tunnels that lead to new doors: doors to new nations, doors to love and loss, doors to creation, and doors exiting the Cross.

Snip Snap Color Pop

The choice to open them is mine. To peak or to plunder? Proceed with caution is my instinct, but curiosity compels me to charge right in.

Helpful or hurtful? I await. Only time will tell.

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Lara Galea ‘20

As I grow older, I know what I’ve missed Subtle memories that others have saved Like when I was little--my parents’ kiss-But I never got a path that’s unpaved I’m seventeen now, soon to be eighteen My whole life ahead of me, it awaits The coast looks like it’s clear, the grass, it’s green I’m ready, I walk through the open gates Eventually, there will be an end Hopefully, it won’t be anytime soon But if so, I hope I’d been a great friend Through September, December, March and June

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I believe I have forgotten a lot But that does not lessen what I have got

Lizzie

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A Sonnet

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Ava Cipriano ‘20

Jorden Dumas ‘20 Acrylic page designed by Frannie Boyle

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