Bowie Literary Society welcomes you to our imaginative journey through the mind. In
this year’s collection, we delve into an odyssey of the five senses. Through this publication we hope
to aid you in the exploration of the senses and their contribution to your perception of the world
around you. In each section, we immerse the reader in an exploration of each of the individual
senses - taste, sight, touch, smell, and sound, as well as the interconnectedness of the senses in the
human experience and in literature. We connect with the world around us through sensory experi-
ence. Our senses enhance every memory, whether you are brought back to your childhood kitchen
through a delectable smell or a melody embeds itself in our minds for years. Our senses build our
The mingling of emotion and the senses allows the writer to build a deeper relationship
with the reader. Our advisor’s frequent repetition of the phrase “show not tell” during writing con-
ferences, further instills the necessity of sensory language. After this journey through the mind, we
hope that we have inspired our readers to think deeper, as well as a gain a stronger understanding
of the power of sensory experience.
We would like to thank our advisor, Bree Rolfe, for her guidance through the creation
of this publication and her dedication to encouraging improvement and growth in our writing. She
is a talented educator, editor, and writer. Without her, we could not accomplish or this small yet
Additionally, we would like to acknowledge Michael Reeves for providing us with the
work space and equipment necessary to accomplish a polished product, as well as his assistance
throughout the design process and the coordination of photography to be featured in our collec-
tion.Thank you. We would also like to thank commercial photography teacher, Judith Cooper for
her help in gathering student photography. Finally, we would like to thank art teachers, Deborah
Abbott and Laura Dubois for their assistance in gathering student work for our magazine.
This book is the product of long hours spent on Indesign in the newspaper room in front
of the harsh light of the computer screen and extensive sessions spent preparing each piece for
publication. We are proud to present our carefully crafted collection of artwork and literature.
We hope you enjoy this collection’s journey through the senses that lies ahead.
Odyssey Editor in Chief
2019 Odyssey Staff
A special thank you to Michael Reeves with whom this
magazine would not be possible!
TABLE OF CONTENTS
Sight by Amy Shreeve 6 Tambourine Rain 51
Dad by Savannah Savoy
Red by Amanda Schwenke 7 by Kathryn Garcia,
Gates by Reagan Wallace
The Difference by Riley Hughes 8 Rose Gittinger & Coby Smith
Collectibles by Amy Shreeve
Little Shop of Witchcraft 9
by Eynn Ashen
A Lamp by Camilla Armanini 10 Touch by Emily Breach 52
A Self Help Book by Enid Falcon
Jose by Jessica Leonard 11 & Emma Elias
The Face of Earth by Drew Ison
Come to the Meadow in the Middle 12 Paper Dreams by Amy Shreeve 53
by Sarah Ruthven
Galleries by Payton Bellman Desert by Jackson Eng 54
View from the Coffeeshop
by Ayden Lumbley 14 Nectar by Emily Breach 56
Wax by Matthew Musat
Firework by Haydon Mayer 15 Keys by Sarah Ruthven 57
Bracelet by Nico McCabe
Ocean Eyes by Summer Janssen 16 Coastline by Haydon Mayer 58
Rain by Drew Ison
Solitude 17 Lost Childhood by Michael Thompson 59
by 1st Period Creative Writing
18 Scars by Eli Davidson 60
Sound by Reagan Wallace
Islamophobia by Malaika Beg Suffocating by Lin Tran 62
by Eleanor Coulston 20 Knife by Anna Demopoulos 62
Shut Out by Madisen Johnson
Stories on the Wall 21 Comfort in Cold by Elizabeth Markert 63
by Eleanor Coulston
Tornado by Payton Bellman River by Natalie Kuhl 64
The Crescent by Stevie Freteluco
Luz de la Luna 22 Death Not Us Part by Alicia Rodriguez 65
by Anna Demopoulos
General Admission by Haley Harris 24 In a Matter of Seconds by Rio Galo 66
The 4th Dimension by Emily Breach
Perpetual Buzz by Matthew Musat 26 To Be Seen by Bella Lufschanowski 69
The Grocery Store
by Magnus Gunderson 27
The Black Hole by Alex Paulson
Bus Ride by Ian Whitlock 28 Smell by by Selvia Nybo, 70
Morning Routine by Ben Sharp
Las más Feliz de todas 29 Matthew Musat, & Dylan Tijerina
by Carolina Govea
Sardines in a Cemetery Forever in my Closet 71
by Rose Gittinger
Disgruntled Mom Wielding by Elizabeth Dimitt
Shopping Cart by Dylan Luce
30 Childhood Memories by Ali Maag 72
31 Wax by Max Pelayo 73
32 Frank Sinatra Staying with 74
the Griswold’s by Jasmin Loomis
33 The Ideal Tree by Natalie Kuhl 75
34 Hospital by Ella Waggoner 76
Winter Awakening 77
35 by 2nd Period Creative Writing
38 Taste by Alex Paulson, 78
Alyssa Adams, Madisen Johnson,
39 & Payton Bellman
40 Minnesota by Greta Quill 79
42 Season Change by Ali Maag 80
43 Monarch by Alicia Rodriguez 81
I Cannot Blackberry 83
44 by Bella Lufschanowski
46 Mr.Gumball by Emma Elias 84
47 The Ocean by Anna Canepa 86
48 Hey There my Buddy by Carlos Alfaro 87
Boy Wonder by Dany Medina 88
Faraway Home 89
49 by 4th Period Creative Writing
S Closed Eyes
I by Amy Shreeve
H My squinted eyes are broken telescopes
T finding geometry where it shouldn't be.
The right angle of a scraped elbow,
the poppy pool of red that will
turn to parallel ivory scars.
Squeezed shut, my eyes are kaleidoscopes:
making the dark a tacky disco carpet
black with seafoam swirls and
plum, plump triangles.
But fully open, my eyes are the mouths
of blue whales, my baleen eyelashes filtering
my surroundings. They breathe in floral flotsam
and spit out the dented, green Sprite can
nestled in the rust dirt.
POEM BY Savannah Savoy PHOTO BY Emily Breach
Letters and numbers sprawl He’s greeted by loud barking and smiles
unevenly across the board. from two pups, two daughters, and a wife.
Papers flutter like the colored He sets upstairs to complete a collection
wings of butterflies of ten years worth of footage from their lives.
down to the beige, Then straight to the backyard to create and design
mind-numbing carpet. the sound of hammers ringing.
The office’s gray, bleak walls The crisp rip of a shovel in the ground
house a brilliant mind. creating a luscious environment for his family.
Pigmented orbs allowed information to seep Not all heroes come with a flashy logo
through to a brain so intricate. a flowing cape, or super powers.
Work ends and tires trek home Some volunteer to coach
to work for a different cause. their daughter’s volleyball team
and wear t-shirts in the backyard.
He arrives to the home he built himself
frame by frame.
A red dress,
unconfined in the wind’s grasp.
Whipping like ocean waves
hugging her torso.
atop a mountain cliff
grotesque and decaying
A vibrant cry for help
Princes with white horses
A damsel in distress
her mind floods
no savior in sight.
The bold statements,
like a false smile,
conceal broken minds.
POEM BY Amanda Schwenke
PHOTO BY Preston Rolls
G AT E S
She never knew she would arrive
in this exquisite garden.
She knew the old faces
They used to visit
She always knew there would be a day
She never knew the day would glisten
around golden gates,
at the foot of the mountain
she had always feared.
She knew about those faces
and their calculation,
and they knew about her sin.
But what she did not know
was about mercy.
All that she truly knew,
resting on her soul,
was the intimate embrace
and its expiration.
POEM and PHOTO BY Reagan Wallace
She didn’t even notice your eyes.
I thought maybe she’d outgrown your face.
They were the first thing I noticed.
I remember asking her once
if she thought your eyes filled the room as much as it felt like they did.
If they grabbed her
by the coat too and demanded their independence from the lousy rendition of brown.
The honey highlights beat me senseless.
Belittled and torn, my knees gave way.
And as I lay and beg for more,
you conceal your weapon
and look away.
And she laughed.
Her eyes lacked the intensity of yours
and replied that they resembled a pot
of the darkest, blandest, and most bitter coffee.
I thought about your eyes after that.
POEM BY Riley Hughes PHOTO BY Ella Wright
POEM BY Amy Shreeve PHOTO BY
POEM BY Amy Shreeve PHOTO BY Magnus Gunderson
“It’s something like being interested in
dollhouse miniatures … Or, you know,
putting a ship in a bottle.”
- Lucia Perillo, on modern poetry
Dollhouses are gilded
with windows the size
of fingernails and furnished
with polished plastic picnic tables.
They canonize families
in flimsy ensembles,
assembling copies without originals.
My grandfather 11
kept a bottled ship in his study
the way a shark holds its egg purse or
how a sailor clutches a locket.
A boat in a bottle is a cloud
in an hourglass: water kept in
a closed circle,
tumbled into seaglass.
LITTLE SHOP OF
STORY BY Eynn Ashen PHOTO BY Emily Breach
“I hope she enjoys the flowers!” Adhira balding in the back, his gray hair patchy
called as the woman exited the store, car- and thin over a waxy scalp. He was large
rying a medium bouquet of roses, orchids, too, and looked like one of those men who
and violets in her arms. expected certain things from certain people
but never asked.
“I hope so too!” she called back just
before the door closed, followed by a ‘thank “Miss Adhira?” Jayden called, interrupt-
you,’ that Adhira couldn’t hear, but saw ing Adhira’s thoughts. She glanced over.
through the glass in the door.
Jayden was standing by the desk, with
Adhira smiled, turning back to the his weight all on his left foot, and his
register for a moment before glancing over cornrows had been swept back into a loose
at Jayden, who sat at a desk in the corner of ponytail on the unshaved side of his head.
the shop bent over a worksheet yet again. “I have to go to the bathroom. I’ll be right
She sighed, turning back to the front of the back, promise.” And with that, he bounded
store where a small warding charm hung out of the front door, rushing off to the
above the door to stop shoplifters. café three shops down where the toilets
Normally, they would only be embar-
rassed kids who didn’t want to make a big Adhira made a mental note to see if
deal of romances or tiny children who there was a plumber who could fix the
saw a pretty flower and wanted to take it restroom by this weekend. Any later than
with them. She’d made it her shop policy that and she feared the whole block would
that, after a quick talking-to, those people be clogged up.
would still go home with one flower - not
expensive, of course, and not brand new, The man had moved over to the cut
but one that would at least look nice for a flowers now, and stood almost glaring
few more days. at the various arrangements in vases and
Soft pop music played over the speakers
built into the ceiling, a shuffled version The windchime rang again, and two
of the same playlist Jayden always put on young boys came in, regulars now, laugh-
when he got in from school. The store was ing and hanging on to each other’s arms.
slow today— it wasn’t close to the holidays The noise was startling, but still somewhat
anymore, and Elm Creek was a small town of a relief in the half silence beneath the
either way. music.
It was a few minutes before the door Adhira smiled, and called out “Welcome
chime rang again. back, Luke, Amir!” from her desk. Amir
waved in response, the other blushed and
The man who walked in was not one hid slightly behind his boyfriend’s arm.
of Adhira’s regulars, so she said nothing.
The man didn’t spare her a single glance The man saw them then, too, but
as he wandered into the Forest - a myriad something much different passed across
of store grown orchids, begonias, alliums, his features. Adhira knew what was wrong
and a few more marketable weeds. He was now.
Luke’s mother’s car pulled up outside they were short on. They were almost out
around the time Jayden returned from the of violets and some sunflowers would be a
bakery restroom, and he paused to chat nice change in the Forest.
with the woman driving for a moment,
before poking his head in to call the She ordered a new shipment of seeds
other boys outside. Adhira watched the along with a few full grown flowers, bored-
little group talk for a minute — as she had ly deciding to add some small crystals for
nothing else to do — before finally turning more charms.
her attention back to the older man in the
store. Jayden wandered back in after a few
minutes, and Adhira merely nodded at him
“Disgusting homos,” he grumbled, before standing and walking into the back
“Why they feel the need to show it off to room. Jayden slipped behind the main desk
everyone is beyond me. They should at without question, plopping down in the
least keep all their disgusting habits in the chair with a tired huff.
The back room was crowded and
He sauntered up to the desk with a badly ventilated, but between the shelves
large bouquet of flowers. He was holding of clippings and shovels lay a small open
them almost gingerly between his fingers, section and a rolled up blanket, used many
as though he thought that they would melt times over the three years the shop had
them off. He stared Adhira in the eyes for been open.
a moment, as though judging her worth
through her face alone. Adhira pulled the rug out, rolling
its black and red expanse open over the
“This is twenty dollars,” he said sudden- cement floor. She reached up into the shelf
ly, and shoved the bouquet into her arms as beside her, grabbing a small bowl and a
he reached for his wallet in his back pocket. selection of herbs and crystals. She added a
medium sized diamond afterwards for a bit
Adhira frowned, glancing down at the more potency. She sat down in the center
tag. ‘$25.96’ it read. of the circle rug, placing the bowl in her
lap. Finally, she pulled her list of spells off
“$26 dollars, sir, was the amount on the the bottom shelf beside her. She only need-
tag. Not $20. I’m certain it was a misunder- ed to find the right one now— the old man
standing, though.” needed a pretty big makeover, after all.
“Yes,” he snapped, whipping out a
clump of bills and snatching the flowers
He tossed the money onto the desk,
and started out of the store, hardly waiting
to make sure that he’d given her the right
amount of money.
He hadn’t. Adhira sighed, quietly setting
the money into the cash register, counting
out the money again, just in case.
$14… $15… $16.
She watched him stalk out of the store,
throwing a disgusted glance at the three
boys on his way out. A quick wave of her
hand, and the warding charm above the
door shut off, the angry flashing choking
off as though betrayed.
She glanced around the shop one more
time, trying to ignore it, and to see what
POEM BY Camilla Armanini PHOTO BY Abby Ong
A LAMPIn my home: In my home:
a flickering ocher a warm light brightens
light above an old our cold room
round ceramic lamp my pale paper
turns on. my printed word.
In our homes: A light illuminates
The first light in the morning her velvety, burgundy
turns on. rose-scented rosary.
Her chapped lips repeat
A sunrise: mysterious prayers.
hope in a new day.
Outside our homes: a sigh:
A lighthouse guiding a lost sleep now
sailor, a ray of sunshine
illuminates a stony pathway. In our homes:
Outside of my home: the last light of the evening
a mother, turns off
who gives me advice
holds my hand Sunset.
14 illuminates me.
POEM BY Enid Falcon PHOTO BY Emily Breach
Sunshine through a
broken stained glass
window. Tea turned cold
on the kitchen counter.
Papers wrinkled from years
of wear. A tipped over
wheelbarrow once full of
Giant redwood trees towering
over the two-story farmhouse.
White paint chipping off old
A bookshelf full of old
fairy tales and photo albums
(along with a singular self-help
book; the runt of the litter).
An empty rusty birdcage
that’s never seen a real bird.
POEM BY Jessica Leonard PHOTO BY Ella Wright
Layers of dirt cover his tiny hands He shouts down at me,
as he waves for me to follow. Arriba aqui! Up here!
He takes off before I can get up. He signals for me to catch a toy carro.
Then uses the blue slide to meet me
He does his best to use his stunted back down on earth.
leg to crawl up the iron playground,
all the way to the third platform, He marvels at bubbles.
so he can peer over the tin roofs The paper-like soapy film
and examine the barren peaks rims the outer edge, pushed out
that surround his small life. into a delicate orb. Floating
in search of a place to land,
Growth stunted by lack of rain. allowing the air to shift its course.
Clotheslines tied down to rooftops,
wave in the wind, but never really moving. They never make it past the tin roofs.
This is not his home.
THE FACE OF
The tigers that roamed the Earth
The sun shines down were replaced with empty shells.
on a darkened Earth. Their corpses line the walls
Its beauty torn from its face. of many fancy hotels.
Tears of darkened sludge
flow in the rivers and lakes. The bees buzz around looking
for petals to pollinate,
The towering trees that once but no matter where they go
conquered the land, powerless pesticides become their fate.
to the endless greed of man.
Taken down without a second thought. The world has been broken,
scars left upon its face.
POEM BY Drew Ison PHOTO BY Jen Doering
thecmoemaedtoo w the middle in
STORY & ART BY SARAH RUTHVEN
In the summer of 2014, I would spend them ran across the path to another barn
my time under golden wheat fields at that might fall down at the slightest hint
my grandparent’s ranch. The silenced air of wind.
showed no sign of civilization for a hun-
dred miles in each direction. It gave me I wanted to know what the kittens were
comfort knowing that it was just us. My up to, and looking back at the trashcan,
parents had unceremoniously dumped my I could see that the fire was almost out. I
sister and me in the panhandle of Oklaho- determined it was safe to leave the trash
ma with my grandparents so they could try unattended.
to fix their marriage.
I crouched low, using it as a tactic in
At first, I saw it as a form of torture. All hopes of not scaring the kittens. The four
I had for company was the too big sky and of them scurried out and dashed down the
the too small house nestled in the acres of path, hopping and playing with each other
pecan trees. For the first few days, I was as they went along. I kept a good distance,
glued to my iPad, relentlessly searching for still following them. My head was down
anyway that a 13 year old girl like myself when I entered the clearing. Looking up,
could get back into the city. My Grand- I saw the sky again, but it didn’t seem as
mother told me, “Sarah, if you stay glued big and scary as it had before. The clearing
to that god-forsaken contraption, time was filled with yellowed wheat. The crop
will speed up and the next time you look met the horizon and the end of the field
up, it will be too late.” But I didn't take her was nowhere in sight.
word since she sounded like she deserved
a strait-jacket. Plus, she was like a hundred I took a deep breath as I took a step into
years old. the meadow. My leg disappeared into the
golden sea. Tentatively, I took another
The first time I'd spent more than five step. No longer feeling hesitant, I ran into
minutes outside was when I was elected the wheat, my body shifting it and moving
to take out the trash. And something that it aside as I sprinted. A minute later, I
comes with being in the middle of no- stopped and sank into the gold waves. It
where, is having to burn the trash because consumed my body as I lay on the ground
no one was coming to take it. I doused the and enfolded me in a golden cocoon. It was
barrel with gasoline and torched it with a warm and soft. Closing my eyes, I explored
lighter. My grandmother made me watch the meadow in my dreams.
to make sure that the trees did not catch
on fire, but I’m almost a hundred percent I shifted as my eyes opened. It was con-
positive that she had made me stay out siderably darker now and the sun was al-
longer on purpose because in the time most gone below the horizon. I sat up with
that it took to watch the fire I saw three my head just peeking out of the wheat.
little cats. They were obviously feral and I was alone for the first time in a long
were covered in stickers and dirt. The time, and I was truly, and happily, alone.
black kitten stooped low to crawl into a Being there in the wheat field helped me
demolished pile of rubble. The other two understand with simple clarity that experi-
kittens waited patiently for the black one ences are things that you might never get
to return. And when it did, out emerged to see again. They are kept in your heart
another kitten that was tabby. The four of not by staying in your room but by being
out there, in the world, and doing things.
That's what I believe in, experiences.
What once were Parisian dreams
slink out of the warm sun
with a hint of abandonment.
The museum is silent now,
except for the falling glass tears
of the nameless:
a weeping woman.
Critics muse the final piece,
sipping the bitter
red wine that sloshes
in their loose grasp.
They place authenticity
upon the staircase of eyes
enshrined in agony,
encased in oil.
Disjointed limbs slice
A period of deep blues becomes
violent and bright.
The minotaurs are unleashed
and the scattered fragments
from their massacre,
are hung in gold
and called Cubism.
POEM BY Payton Bellman
PHOTO BY Nick Van Lente
VIEW FROM THE
As her coffee was ready,
she stood and began walking,
through the glass doors. She passed
down the sidewalk
to the park across the street.
A little boy running in the grass
that was green and littered
with morning dew.
A bright, blue, cloudless
sky. Leaves on the trees turned
from green to gold to red,
fell to the ground and were swept
away by the wind.
She watched the boy,
adoring the sense of innocence
in him, sprouting like a rose in the spring.
He sprinted toward a pile of leaves.
An explosion of leaves,
a falling wave of color,
He looked up and smiled,
and she smiled back.
POEM BY Ayden Lumbley
PHOTO BY Preston Rolls
STORY BY Matthew Musat PHOTO BY Kaitlyn Moss
It was approaching two in the “SSHHHHHH!”
morning, and his lights were still on. We both chuckled in spite of the
Jonah and I peered through the trees strange surroundings. We hesitantly
and detected a carnal flame that seemed stepped into the clearing. It was as if
to rise from the property. We decided the whole forest took a breath. The
it was a fantastic idea to “investigate” wind whistled, and in one instant every
the strange light via the completely candle flickered. Off and on. When the
legal action of trespassing. A little bit of light returned, a figure stood in front
mischief with a hint of danger was our of us. She wore a black cloak which hid
idea of fun, so we stealthily squeezed most of her body, exposing only her
through a gap in the barbed wire and wrinkled face and hands. In her grimy
found ourselves at the Vestibule of hands, she held the stubbs of a few
Hell. There was a welcome challenge lumpy candles which were white with
waiting for us in the form of a dense splashes of deep red. Her face would
forest. Vines hung down from the have been rather welcoming had her
trees, swaying in the wind and cloaked teeth not been in the most horrendous
in the darkness as if they were snakes. shape imaginable. Spotted with black
and brown flakes, they were twist-
“Yo, this is creepy,” I pointed out in ed at irregular angles, a few of them
an excited whisper as we took to the missing entirely. Her large eyes were
jungle. an unnerving gray which shone at us
like lamps from beneath her hood. She
My friend returned my joyous stood smiling at us with her crooked
statement, “Yeah, the guy is supposed mouth turned in a curious way as if
to be some recluse or something. I bet selecting the most dreadful way to deal
he has a whole bunch of bodies of kids with us.
like us locked in his basement.” He “What do we have here?” The witch
said this lightly, like a joke, which to cackled loudly. “Two little boys here
us it was, but the reality of it was quite to steal my candles?” We did not know
serious. We were alone in the forest at how to respond. I looked at Jonah in a
late o’clock on a particularly dark night panic and my gaze was mirrored in his
with nobody around to call for help. face. Oh crud.
“Oh my,” the hag continued. “You
Instead of giving in to fear, I chuck- must have a lot of wax in your ears to
led. “Dude that’s so messed up - ow!” not ‘ear me properly.” She laughed at
My ankle had become entangled in low her own joke. “It’s been so long since
lying plants. I ripped my foot free, but I’ve had a new supply. You two appear
the thorns dug into me, leaving streaks to be the perfect candle-dates for my
of red running down my leg. crafts.”
Either enchanted by fear or by
“Nice battle scars man,” Jonah said magic, the old woman drew us into the
sarcastically. “How’d you get them? Did the center of the house. The whirring
a bear attack you?” grew louder; a rather rhythmic clank
was the only sound in the house. The
A moment later we reached the witch stopped us and pointed inside a
source of the light. Initially, we were densely lit room. To my horror, in the
confused to hear a heavy mechanical center of the room, operating entire-
whirr that filled the air. This detail, ly on its own, sat the source of the
however, was overshadowed when we sound: a mechanical candle press. It
saw the house, aflame with legions of was rhythmically spitting out candles
candles. Every room was lit with burn- tainted with red specks.
ing candles. The roof was covered with
candles and even a small path was lined 23
with the stubbs of string and wax.
“Who in the world lives in the mid-
dle of the forest and lights their house
with only candles?”
“Shh! We aren’t supposed to be
here, we could get shot.”
POEM BY Haydon Mayer PHOTO BY Ella Wright
Simmering sparks of significant heat on the sulfur strand
Conducted the burst’s bellowing descent onto the base of the inevitable.
Carefully, the chemicals collapsed.
A combusted, impassioned corkscrew.
Color catapulted, covering the ceiling with a careful celestial vibrance:
Raw hues of reserved raspberry
ripe reds with dashes of ruby.
The sky’s glitter gasps
combustion, glorifying the lustful holler
eventually evolves: explodes
eliciting exclamations from the earthbound.
The once dark and dim became the dashing and distinctive, daring
new experiences. a nebula only needing us - now.
no longer night, but a bright
sky of abstract emotions: colors - no harsh words, only
our heavenly hues of the heart.
but below the heaven:
blues bark, burgundy babbles, blasting back the daylight.
an aurora illuminating the paling iridescent
aiding the avoidance of the arid non-artificial and the naiveté of the now.
maturity mirroring that of the magnificent momentary fire in the sky. a new found distraction
from the looming disastrous deadline of the sky’s delicate painting
drifting into the deep dark.
The once fickle fiasco fades remnants fall, bound
falling into the inevitable nostalgia
of the once shared sky.
no longer to the valley of the temporary
but forever constrained by the reality of brief circumstance and time
buried as fossils of earth’s memory,
no different than us.
POEM BY Nico McCabe
PHOTO BY Mallory Beller
Blue like the ocean BRACELET
shiny— a gift from a loved one
tossed aside without care.
Reminds us of the sea
purple beads of love
Why was it chosen?
Because it was cheap
It was perfect.
Where was it from?
Made of flimsy plastic
and fake diamonds
but perfect for love.
Cheap or fake—
impossible to tell.
Asmall slice in a larger
memory. A story
is to be forgotten
in time. It’s only
POEM BY Summer Janssen
PHOTO BY Nick Van Lente
Time is going over OCEAN EYES
as she is going under.
Water covers her with a warm
embrace— vivid light
dances among soft
Unraveled dreams sail
into boundless blue.
Her new highs
are followed by new lows
as if the tides want
to be entwined with her spotless
mind— her core tangled
in the sea of creation.
Whispering winds and misted sky
flowing and rushed; a whirlpool.
Pulled away from the harmful
shore, immersed in water,
constant curves dip in the deep
with the broad horizon.
Droplets of rain keep falling, My eyes turn to tornadoes,
no matter how far I try to run. and it only gets more chaotic each day.
The misty air grabs my throat; And the more the storm is ignored,
I struggle to breathe. the more it will continue to rage.
I wipe my unseeing eyes, The thunder claps along to the song
but fail to keep them dry. of my pessimistic heartbeat.
And each droplet against my shirt
But no matter who or what sends dancing thoughts of isolation.
is in my view, my vision
is no longer clear. The only way to stop the rain
Fog rolls in day after day, is for someone else to hold my umbrella.
and my thoughts are begging sight.
But why would someone want to brave
Ever since the storm rolled in, the storm, just to provide me shelter?
no one bothers to stay.
POEM BY Drew Ison ART BY Kimberly Woo R
As I grow restless, longing for some solitary company
I sit there and wonder as the world sighs
through the yellow trees, distracted
by the notes it weaves.
I often wonder how it would be
if they were to stop growing.
Would time stop as well?
I stare up at the clouds, broken,
cluttered like scrambled thoughts.
Somehow, this feels
different than normal.
The light pierces the leaves,
blinding my face, forcing me
to confront a past I once knew—
that was once comforting,
but is now unrecognizable.
Immersed in my desire to escape
this cycle of imagination.
Maybe I’m overthinking,
my mind drowns,
my ears flood with sound.
I dip into the river, balancing POEM BY 1st Period Ceative Writing
the soles of my feet on jagged rocks. ART BY Viviane Harlé
Cold water seeps between my toes.
My mind is splashed, an ink drop.
Like a canvas, the world now feels
fleeting, blank, and as gray as ashes.
Fish begin to notice my presence.
S Crickets Aria
O by Reagan Wallace
U Pleasant breezes carry a song of gnats,
N whose intrusions upon your ears are violently ended
D by the swat of a calloused hand that grips its bike handle.
e sun’s last harmonic goodbye is translated
by the generous oaks you pass, who idle
in solemn silence out of respect for the night.
ough the earth’s intonations are more present,
your mother’s harsh cautions slap the anvil in your temple.
ough, these unfortunate warnings,
do not silence the crunching of gravel beneath your tires,
for you are draped in the protection of the crickets’ aria.
eir operatic articulations ward o strangers
and, like you, are so brave and full of anthem.
Nobody shields you the way the crickets do.
e ever-silent hare and redundant owl
are fast asleep, and distracted by thought and instinct.
You continue to whizz by innocent bushes and trees,
con dent in your simple security,
oblivious to how the chirping has stopped.
II The first time I experienced Islamophobia 31
SS was on my bus ride back from school.
LL A boy said Muslims were rapists, oppressives, terrorists.
AA My dear friend sat next to him quietly.
MM We’re learning about them in class, the boy said.
PP Words harsh with ignorance, not with hate,
HH saturated with misunderstood knowledge
OO of an adolescent boy never taught any better.
BB Taught to believe that Muslims equal violence.
AA My friend and I sat quietly,
both knowing I am Muslim.
Hate and Islamophobia stand no chance in front of me
I’d say, but in reality I stood no chance in front of it.
I was too afraid.
of my identity,
for not standing up against ignorance,
believing society's demand of silence due to my religion .
But, I am not ashamed of being Muslim.
I am ashamed of being a coward.
What if I spoke up for Muslims,
and said that he was speaking to one?
One who read Quran,
went to the Mosque,
prayed five times a day,
didn’t eat pork.
One who went to school,
had family night every Friday,
loved to ride bikes in the park,
and paint abstract paintings.
One who rode the same bus
as you everyday.
POEM BY Malaika Beg PHOTO BY Odyssey Staff
LANESCHANGING POEM BY Eleanor Coulston PHOTO BY Preston Rolls
Bright, green, grass blades flicker on the surface.
Cold air shoots through the window crack,
rolled down just enough to hear the raging
music that fills your brain with new memories
flooding in from the car one lane over.
With each glazed eye I see and pass,
a new story with a complex plot begins to form.
The rusted dent in the side of the 2001 Grand Cherokee
or the fuzzy dice won from a children's arcade
that hang from the rearview mirror.
Each miniscule detail about the doe eyed stranger
each tiny side story that comes,
creates the small memory and view of the person
that moved past you with the aching, squeaking grocery cart
and lands inside your head forever.
Blinds drawn over
a stained glass window
filled with light
and hidden now
filled with beautifully
waiting to be open
and collecting dust
POEM BY Madisen Johnson A call declined
PHOTO BY Preston Rolls Ring after ring
An insincere voice message
plays after the tone
Windows and books
waiting to be revisited
like painful memories
All these stories hanging around me; STORIES ON
loud colors screaming their memories.
I move slowly around and let the paintings talk.
I will stop and hear and listen.
What is said, I accept with curiosity,
for they just cry their history into the silent room.
The sounds of my shoes like snapping branches,
but nothing comes close to the noise of the paintings.
Their emotions poured onto paper are exquisite.
I can see their pain and hurt in every stroke of the brush,
Their artist hearts ripped out and spilled on to the canvas,
just to be heard by a public who misinterpret message.
The meaning behind the brushstrokes is simple,
when what you are supposed to see can be heard.
POEM BY Elean Coulston
PHOTO BY Nick Van Lente
POEM BY Payton Bellman
Gray winds are swift to reach PHOTO BY Peter Dang
earth’s surface, rescuing textiles
from their damseled configurations,
dragging along lolling heads
blindfolded by dirt.
The winds howl, pulling nails
out like lodged teeth
from gums; red and sensitive,
homestead. They fill leaving bones trembling
the nauseous sky with amongst the wide quiet
cicada chimes, a cauldron
of mundane gingham
dresses and drawers
from nightstands flung wildly into the night air. Waiting
to be redistributed, upcycled
by sharp branches. Only the traces
of corn stalks remain
bent, like the worn
arms of linked paper dolls.
ESSAY BY Stevie Freteluco PHOTO BY Preston Rolls
Ghosts linger among the physical world in confusion when finding
their way to “the light.” They are waiting for their ticket to eternal freedom,
but are overcome by leaving the physical world they called home for so
long. Born again into a foreign realm, they must find their path to move on.
However, a majority of their journey to their new home is spent reminiscing
memories from their past life. They beg for attention from their past peers,
so they play with the living like a puppet master with the living strung up to
I speak and feel for ghosts as if I am their puppet, their device of
nostalgic play. Being a spectator, seeing people live their lives, I understand
why the dead are envious. The physical body exposed to the world, they
want to be seen again. They achieved that by visiting me at the Crescent
Motel in Arkansas.
Wandering the halls of the dated property, I can smell the history of
occupants in the motel. As I pass a red hallway with black and white photos
on the wall, something stops me from moving any further. One of the an-
cient gold ceiling fans down the hall is making an irksome ticking sound and
something tells me to go to it. As I make my way down the
hallway and under the fan, the ticking stops. Uncomprehending, I step
away from the fan but still staring at it like a lion eyeing its tempting prey.
The second I step away, the ticking starts again. Nervously, I repeat my
steps several more times to assure myself this wasn’t a coincidence and was
proven right. The peculiar phenomenon still haunts me as I walk away from
the ceiling fan, still listening to the odd ticking of the fan. Something keeps
pulling me back to the area, but I am too frazzled to turn back.
“Stevie, are you coming?” my parents call after me, which finally pulls me out
of the trance. Tensely, I walk away from the scene, still curious about who
or what was speaking to me.
Ghosts wander among us, and give us signs of their presence that
most people don’t bother to notice. People like me act as their translator, a
therapist almost, letting them express their emotions through small acts such
as the ticking ceiling fan at the Crescent Motel in Arkansas.
LUZ DE POEM BY Anna Demopoulos
LA LUNA PHOTO BY Nick Van Lente
A violin whispers in the darkness, My feet have a mind of their own.
a candle lights and glows, My hands wander and interlock with
moonlight, ah moonlight. another.
The aroma of gourmet pasta primavera, Light shines through the moon.
the ice in my glass clinks as I raise it to my lips, My shadow disappears,
moonlight, the moonlight.
the music fades away,
where has my moonlight gone?
The waning crescent moon shines in the sky.
Big and bold and clings to the light There it sits at the horizon,
in order to outshine the stars, and sinks down into the ravenous earth.
moonlight, a moon’s light.
Goodbye moonlight, hello sunshine.
My chair scrapes against the pavement,
the luring harp is overpowered by the cello,
moonlight, clair de lune.
The drumbeat and guitar song POEM BY Haley Harris
shook through the bones PHOTO BY Peter Dang
of my feet
into my ears 39
vibrated on my skin.
The crowd moved, pushed
up against my arms
thumped against my back.
Screams of joy ran around the room
and ignited bliss.
This is what life should be:
yet undoubtedly wild.
Lights flashed rhythmically,
coupled with the blasting beat
of various colors.
My arms up pushed back
on bodies pushing on mine.
Everyone’s feet lifted off the ground
and then landed at the same time.
I wish I could stay here forever.
POEM BY Emily Breach PHOTO BY Ella Wright
There is chaos in silver sparklers Unraveling seams
Dimensions divided send stars scattering
by slipping strings
A universe imbalanced A residual fray
A chemical shift
I stand in the center of Millennium Park
beneath the endless expanses of Brisk breeze ignites ecstasy
the Cloud Gate consuming
my disruptive thoughts
A break from
the cumulonimbus haze, I take in faces distorted by
the thundering turmoil, the misshapen mirror
the weight of stardust, Miles of swirling metal
and the gravitational pull of leading to unknown places
the stellar mystery
In this cosmic playscape,
I feel metallic warmth beneath where static crumples in
these crisp constellations of
tin can telephone lines
fragile foliage and and messages are warped--
The connection broken
This is my final attempt to grasp
onto childlike euphoria
and reject the ordinary
through a different lens
A brief escape
A portal beyond the clutter
PERPETUAL BUZZhummed from the far corner from the day’s toils, unable to catch
of my quarters, even a glimpse
while I laid upon my mattress. of
Oh, when would it ever. evasive. sleep.
cease? The sounds of the night
There darkness sat serenely, Shuddered
yet a sliver of piercing light crept, Shook
peering through the window, Shifted
seeping under the door, Spun
slithering throughout the room Like the thoughts in my head.
in the otherwise Relentless.
colorless night. Finally,
And still the in the lobby of my lobes,
buzz exhaustion built,
illuminated all, buzzing like a factory of countless bees,
when all that was ever wanted (or perhaps sheep)
was until at last
dark. it was full and the noise faded.
I stared up at the ceiling
POEM BY Matthew Musat PHOTO BY Preston Rolls
POEM BY Magnus Gunderson
PHOTO BY Nick Van Lente
The night is in adolescence,
and adventure is afoot.
A group of friends
The welcome sound
of a boy-band from long ago
mutters from the speakers.
Time itself has halted for this
Yet, it’s hard not to think about how
this isn’t forever,
maybe we will meet here again
lack of sound
Of The Manny
Out of Exodus Of
The Point His
There Was Sound
Manny’s hands His Eyes
Elongated Couldn’t Even
fingertips In His Lifetime
His Skin Feeling Of
Yet This Was
attempting to escape 45
POEM BY Alex Paulson PHOTO BY Paulina Clark
Every morning Chaos erupts.
I slowly wake up with the red rising sun People yell out the windows
and the scent of the grass soaking
at construction workers,
under the dew.
hoping to spark a reaction
The suffering of the rusted trucks from the tired adults.
driving to their daily When none come, they continue
construction destination. as the well behaved students sigh
The only noise comes The bus continues to rock
from cars speeding by. back and forth
The tires screeching as the driver complains
to a halt at each stop. like Eustace from Courage
the Cowardly Dog
The first few stops are in the forest — into the intercoms.
trees scraping the top of the bus
axles creaking We arrive.
at every ditch and pothole
covering the worn road.
Soon, the big stops come
and shouting pierces the air.
The red sun disappears
and drains into the bus driver’s face.
Squeaks of complaints combine
with the squeaks of the actual bus POEM BY Ian Whitlock
46 swerving lane to lane. PHOTO BY Magnus Gunderson
Wake up repetitive Religiously thinking
tunes chirping what t is gonna do it
from the iPhone and by do it
Mama said I mean make me look
it’s almost time for school stupid
and I said I know Stupid y so I can ex
knowing damn well on all the other students
I have more Navy blue with the cool kicks
than 40 minutes can’t compete with this
So let me sleep before the lack of it
turns me into a psycho e ice on my neck
Get up got me freezing man
hit the fan So I put a hoodie on
with my head the forest green looking like a tree
Take one more look
catch the man in the mirror cheesing
Oh not again! Hop in the whip
I’m bout to lose it once I’m complete
because you keep forgetting Play the new heat
ya boy got height though been havin' on repeat
Finally, on my own two feet having me feel
I’m conscious, thoughts like I can be who I want to be
Brush my teeth
e water coming
from the faucet
wipe my face
POEM BY Ben Sharp
PHOTO BY Odyssey Staff
Las más Feliz de todas POEM BY Carolina Govea PHOTO BY Saul Hannibal
Es desafiada, con altas expectativas y con mucho gusto, toma el desafío.
Pero a veces…
Pero el sagitario nunca quiere abandonar su búsqueda del éxito.
“No es que no quiero, es que no puedo,” le dice el sagitario a sus padres.
En un mundo lleno de gran desafíos,
Lleno de corrupción,
Lleno de personas sin moral,
Hay desafíos que encuentra
La más feliz de todos los signos zodiacales.
La depresión le consume su querer de viajar,
De lograr las metas,
De enfrentar obstáculos.
El sagitario tiene una cara enmascarada,
Una cara feliz.
Pero con un alma deprimida.
Quiere lograr, quiere aprender, quiere viajar, quiere enfrentar los obstáculos.
Quiere ser feliz y sonreir.
No se quiere derrotar por las expectativas.
Pero a veces…
Sardines in a Cemetery
Everyone came to Dianna’s party.
Silly Riley and Comedian John and Funny Silvia,
they all came. Even reclusive Will, introvert Sharlene,
and I knew that missing this party would be
e lights are too bright and ashy-I can’t see-
Was this my cup?- It feels so sticky and sweaty-
Everyone — every-one
is packed into the apartment
like sardines in a can.
Too small a space
Too many people
I manage to nd a door
throw it open
Sorry silence of a sweet night. POEM BY Rose Gittinger
You o er me no comfort. PHOTO BY Nick Van Lente
I look back through
the blue-hued window 49
But the image is blurry--the glass is murky
Dark and foggy, like a cemetery-
a headstone for all, death be merry
eyes stare back, shy eyes
and everyone becomes everybody,
all too quickly.
POEM BY Dylan Luce ART BY Ben Sharp
A bustling jungle of assorted foods
miles of boxes, cans, and crates
Waxed marble floors that sneakers squeak
on and the sound of a static radio blasting music
Only one monster roams down those halls
with a metallic frame and black treads
moving quickly without regard for others
and trampling all unfortunate stragglers
If you come across the armor plated demon
I pray that you have not been seen
for they smell the savings and love the hunt
There is no way that you can run
But don’t feel that you can’t escape
just yet, there is still something you can try
Just breathe in as much air as you can
and scream there is a sale on aisle five