293003_insidesplit QUIICK VISUAL small V2

Tip tap. A finger taps furiously TAMBOURINE RAIN
Rain falls on the tin roof as as a detective waits
individual droplets until they in his car impatiently
fall into grooves, becoming mingled while the rain pads the windshield
and indistinguishable drowning out the jazz of the pub.
as a tree feel in a forest.
Muffled footsteps slosh
Like a tambourine at a bar through the mud as the thud
with musicians flying solo of the door echoes silently
throwing notes until through the murdered, red rain.
there’s something more than
mud and madness. Tip tap.
The tambourine lies quiet.
Dancers prance around the room
creating a beat with their feet
that makes people stand while
smiles dance across their faces
like bees frolicing around flowers.

POEM BY Kathryn Garcia, Rose Gittinger & Coby Smith
PHOTO BY Magnus Gunderson

51

T Touch
O by Emily Breach & Emma Elias
U
C The interwoven strands in
H the fabric of existence —
the brush of blue jeans and
knit on smooth unsullied skin.

Macroscopic imperfection
stitched by a mother’s hands,
the warmth of a hug
embodied in woolen cloth.

Comfort in color,
the prickle of pain,
scraped knees patched by
Hello Kitty bandages and gentle kisses.

Pastel shades of
pale pink, yellow, blue
chalk spread across driveways
silhouettes formed outlining
momentary youth

nostalgia at first touch.
Twisting hands steer
the vehicle, the vessel of
variability. Ten and two.
The long commute home

stretches like bubblegum.
The engine settles,
collapsing beneath the
weight of the day.
Cotton clouds beneath my
head sinking into dreamy daze.

52

PA PE R

DRE AM S
Last night, I dreamt
POEM BY Amy Shreeve of folding paper animals,
PHOTO BY Brianna Lopez touching corner to crease,
mimicking breathing
creatures: crane, cat, fish, and fox.

I ordered them
on the horizon of my dresser —
a patient pageant towards the ark,
spaced airily,
like nightgowns on a clothesline.

When I shuddered into morning,
my desk was an empty zoo.
My dreams were thin, blue paper,
and the morning wind was
strong enough to untangle
the dream's opacity from life.

53

DDEESSEERRTT

POEM BY Jackson Eng PHOTO BY Peter Dang

54

Cool sand
shrubs scorched in the sun
A desert of a single color

Mud cracked like empty rivers
a shallow ditch
all that remains
Sweat burns
instantly in the heat

A wind blows from the south
only antagonizes
only teases
refreshment

A mirage disguised
as an oasis appears
A bleak future turns
to false hope
Rushing to water
for a release

Collapsing into sand
Exhaustion

55

NEC TA R

Saccharine drops
ripple the crinkled sheets
of crystalline water
whispering
like fairy wings
The aquamarine nectar
pooling beneath

I skim the surface
Weightlessness
bubbling beneath
my spine
Floating towards
opalescent clouds
and away from
monsters of the deep

I cannot return to this POEM BY Emily Breach
effortlessness PHOTO BY Preston Rolls
I felt as a child
beneath this sunkissed spring
Natural and naive
Tiptoeing through
shallower water and
shallower thoughts

Unaware of uncharted territory
The deep, dark, and dangerous
that lie buried below

Prismic rays disguise
remnants of a sunken ship
Mistaken treasure
Untouched and forgotten

56

Maybe there's always something strange K
that happens when you hold E
a ring of keys. The metal scent stays
on your fingers even after you’ve swam Y
through dirt, going nowhere and feeling S
the weariness of memories.

Maybe it’s the unexpected
weight that clings to your shoulders,
or it’s the unsettling feeling
that makes you ask why.

Maybe you can understand the shiver
that slides down your back.
The crushing introduction
of reality and the tightness of your body.

Maybe you feel the trapped air
or the

acceptance

anguish

aggravation

Or maybe it’s just a ring of keys.

POEM BY Sarah Ruthven
PHOTO BY Emily Breach

57

COASTLINE
Mounds of alien creature
nested in an abyss of the remote.
Rough, tough grains
brushing against those who ventured
into the precarious void.
Blue layered into black,
sunshine clouded by waves.
A flat ingot of gray texture
rippled through the deep sea
finding a rest in the rift.

Closer, closer, the creature swam
soon to reach the end yet again.
The sand inclined, a world collides.
The alien rode along the coarse land,
slowly reaching a new mound:
never before seen flesh,
an intellectual being.

Venom erupted
into the new flesh.
The fatal weapon of the creature severed,
finding a new home in another limb.
Natural instinct guided the gray being,
followed by ominous escape.

The boy collapsed into the blue,
followed by the waves brought in
by the world beyond the coast.
Poison soaked into the boy,
flaring pain across his whole being.
Red layered into blue,
merging the body into sea.

The coastline frothed purple,
POEM BY Haydon Mayer a mix of two realities.
PHOTO BY Callie Payne The sea absorbed the frail boy,

never to be seen again.

58

The teddy bear It has many layers,
soft with brown fur, homework, teachers,
frowning with sadness-- peer pressure and bullying,
his beady glass eyes, stress and anxiety.
stare at me.
It brings me no joy,
Asking: not like the teddy bear—
Why haven’t you played with me? who slumps down
Why don’t we talk? worn apart by age,
frizzing at the end
I forgot about him— of his feet, fading
just like I forgot under the shadow
the stuffed elephant of my past.
the giraffe and even the monkey.
Its little ear holding on
But the bear— by threads
he was special. like everything
He was there everyday in my life
for every year, coming apart
when I was crying, each day a little
when I was bored, more frayed.
when I needed a friend.

Until he wasn’t.

Then I had a new companion
Not a friend.
Not someone I love.
But is required to be with me.
My future requires it.
My happiness later
in life depends on it.

LOST POEM BY Michael Thompson
PHOTO BY Paulina Clark

CHILDHOOD

59

SCARS
ESSAY BY Eli Davidson PHOTO BY Reagan Wallace

“Hey, what happened to your face?” best. I didn’t know at first that I would
“I was born in Ghana and these are never be coming back home. I got in
the tribal marks that represent what the car with them and we started a
village I’m from.” 382 mile journey to Accra, the capital
This question, which I get asked a of Ghana. The drive was bumpy and
lot, brings me back to where I started hot. I didn’t sleep for the entire 11
from: a small village called Vea in hour drive. I had never been outside
Ghana where I lived on my family’s my village and I was disoriented and
small plot of farmland. The beginning exhausted. Finally, we pulled up to a
of my life was fraught with challenges. massive compound with two gold-
At a young age, I lost my biological en gates guarding the entrance. The
father and because of that loss, my heavy gates screeched against the
biological mother could no longer ground as they opened and we drove
take care of me and so she abandoned in.
me. I was left with my grandmother
who was blind in one eye and two This was the moment where I
young cousins that I had to basically understood why my grandmother said
raise. I was only a child myself and this was for the best. I could already
so the situation was not ideal. How- tell that life would be easier and I
ever, I wasn’t aware that this was the wouldn’t have to struggle for necessi-
situation would be the one that would ties like food and water. I was brought
prepare me for what was to come in into the building were there were 11
my life. It would be what taught me to other kids around the same age as
adjust and keep persevering even in me who looked just as confused. The
the face of great difficulty. Every day strangeness of the compound made
was a struggle to farm for food, walk the world seem so big and me so feel
miles to fetch water, and sacrifice so small. After just a week living in
myself for the family I was responsible the compound, which was actually an
for protecting even though I was only orphanage, all the orphans were told
about six years old myself. to stop speaking our native languages.
Then one day, my life would We were going to learn English— a
change forever with the arrival of language we had no idea existed.
a Hummer. Without warning, my
grandmother told me to get in the car We were provided many books,
with two British women and a driver. music, and movies to help us learn
My immediate reaction was to run the language. While other kids played
away. I didn’t know what was happen- futbol outside, I was inside learning
ing and I was afraid. My grandmother the best way to perfect and under-
calmed me down and convinced me stand the American culture. I read
to go with them because it was for the Shel Silverstein’s The Giving Tree every
single day. I learned about Americans
through the book. As my English

60

improved, time passed, and I started to
realize less kids were in the orphanage.
Six months went by, and I was one of
the last kids to get adopted. Everyday
was a struggle with unfulfilled promises
and disappointment. While playing fut-
bol, on what seemed like a normal day,
I was called into the office of the head
of the orphanage. I walked in, dripping
with sweat, riddled with nerves, and
sat down. After about twenty minutes
of small talk, I was about to leave when
she showed me a picture of a family
with three kids and two adults. Then
she said: “This is your family.”

“I don't have a family yet.”
“But this is your new family. They
want you to be part of their family.”
I had no response other than just a
smile. I smiled because I now had a new
future and the possibility of overcom-
ing my past life. For the next couple of
months, time seemed to move slowly
as I waited for my new mother to come
visit me. When she arrived, I would be
moving to America.
As I sat there on the plane waiting
for my next life, I did not fully grasp
what new challenges it would bring.
Now, ten years later, I am well aware
of those difficulties and am always
learning and adjusting. I have realized
of how proud I should be of my story
and to embrace the uniqueness of how
my past has shaped me as a person. I’ve
kept in touch with my grandmother
and cousins back in Vea and I try to
visit them as often as I can. And on my
last visit, I was announced prince of
Vea because all I’ve done to help my
people back home. I am proud to repre-
sent my Ghanaian people and so when I
get asked the inevitable question, what
happened to your face, I can answer
knowing that my scars are a symbol of
not only my people and my past, but a
reminder of my strength.

61

S UFFOCATI NG

You planted flowers within my ribcage,
and it was beautiful.
But I didn’t see the weeds
slowly entwining around my bones.
I overlooked the thorns on the stems
piercing my heart every time I inhaled.
And so the flowers began to wilt and
the soil began to crack and dry up.
Because my broken-hearted tears
will never be able to revive the flowers
your love provided for me.

POEM BY Lin Tran
PHOTO BY Emily Breach

KNI F E

I open my eyes to see
what lies in front of me
but I fail to perceive
what lurks behind me
The impact makes me tremble
the collision of flesh and metal
Do I even dare to make a sound
Close to my heart, it settles
Last breath is final
Spots cloud my vision
Knees fail to hold

POEM BY Anna Demopoulos
PHOTO BY Emily Breach

62

Iced wind whips,
through her hair,
past her face
and leaves bright
red paths in its wake.

She hurries down
an ice blue street
to a hearth
with gentle heat.

Her love is there
to soothe the red
with steady green
and nurturing.

So lover nature
holds her close.
And all is safe.
And all is warm.
And all is safe.
And all is warm.

POEM BY Elizabeth Markert PHOTO BY Abby Ong

COMFORT
IN COLD

63

RIVER
The river flowed

in exquisite ways—

the welcoming

water embracing

me with each

individual touch

A break to examine

all of my daily actions

and breathe

while inspecting

the patterns

of the water

following its daily

routine not aware

of its own rhythm

The dew droplets

cause massive chaos

on the surface

The aftermath

leaving the surface

glistening

welcoming me POEM BY Natalie Kuhl PHOTO BY Peter Dang

to stay hiding

from my life

trying to flow away

adapting to the rhythm

not aware

of my own actions

This is my fate

hiding away

64

DEATH POEM BY Alicia Rodriguez
NOT PHOTO BY Nick Van Lente

US PART 65

Sullen in stone,
rivers of pink giggles flood
the already teary mind’s eye.
But Medusa’s gray curse failed
to lessen the vivacity of the granite
garden. Upon silvery display:
sporadically laid out bouquets.

Embraced by mother’s golden air
hovering like a twinkling sprite.
Burned in the shyest way
of brother’s breezy charm.
Glass sister and father dance
a fiery dance along the moonlit path
reviving all buried memories.

And in a bat of an eye, somber has run.
Living and beyond rejoice sweetly.
The yard blooms and blushes
With only what I could describe as:
auroral.

i n a m a t t e r o fSTORYBYRioGalo
s e c o n d s . . .PHOTO BY Preston Rolls
It’s a miracle that you survived the of something that hasn’t happened. You
crash. Not many people can survive flip- see a very picturesque sunset as you sit by
ping over not once... not twice... not even your spouse on a rolling green hill. The
three times... yet, your car flipped over five sky had red-orange crashing against a light
times. That’s five complete times! purple while the moon slowly crept into
view from a distant hill. It was such a vivid
As metal scraped the ground in mass vision that you almost believe it could’ve
sparks and glass flew everywhere, you had happened... and you smile at that thought.
time to think about a lot in those five flips.
Your life, in a sense, flashed before your During the third flip, you think about
eyes... or it could’ve just been the light pole your death because you’re sure this is the
flying into your vision before you were end. You seem to still be flipping and your
knocked unconscious. injuries are adding up. You imagine your
spouse crying over your faded tombstone
During the first flip, you thought of as your child holds their hand while star-
your lover... your spouse... the person you ing at the grave in confusion. There are
loved so much that you had a child with multiple decaying flowers on your pile of
them who was born just a week before this dirt that was neatly packed together. You
awful crash. You think about all the times wonder if your spouse has been the one
you held their hand and smiled with them. giving you all these flowers to die with you.
All the times you argued but made up This thought ends with the spouse handing
because... you just couldn’t hate each other. your child a flower and they cautiously set
You would die for this person. They were the flower on the dirt pile that contains
the love of your life, if we’re allowed to be you... and that’s when you realized that you
overdramatic here. wanted to be cremated.

During the second flip, you think about During the fourth flip, you think about
the future you never had. You were so everyone that wronged you. The man that
young when the man crashed into your car. cut you off just before the crash. The wom-
So, you started thinking about how you an that parked in front of your driveway
wanted to go on morning runs... yet, that before you decided to leave so you attempt-
won’t happen now that you’re paralyzed ed to push the car out of the way with the
from the waist down. You think about help of your spouse. But, you gave up, and
managing the furniture business your just went around the damn car, crushing
father built up. You pace around your- the neat grass of your lawn. You seethed
too-small office with all the photos of your with anger whenever you thought of this
family, the paperwork for more wood to woman until the crash happened. Finally,
produce tables and chairs, and the massive your thoughts turn to the man that crashed
computer that usually overheated. All the into your car. The man that happened to
while, you would think up new innova- be alarmingly drunk and high at ten in the
tions like a table that could heat up or morning. The man that hated how much
cool down to keep your meals at a decent his life was ruined that he had to bring a
temperature. The pacing part may be few more people into his misery.
hard... but we can make due with what you
got, right? You also have a lifelike memory During the fifth and final flip, you think

66

about yourself and the things you’ve done
and all people you’ve ever met. You think
about your mother who never seemed
satisfied with what you’ve done but she was
secretly just trying to make you better. Like
the time you got third in district at your
track meet back in high school, but your
mother told you that you had to try next
time. You think about your father who
was clumsy at everything but affection. He
would always cradle you close when you
got dumped by a forgotten ex and he would
whisper reassurances. You were thinking
about this as you faintly spotted a bloody
heap on the road through the obliterated
windshield. You wonder what it was when
the light pole hit the side of your head.

Now, as you lay on your hospital bed,
you observe your mangled fingers that
were slammed into the dashboard. You
know you injured your head because there’s
a dull pulse that would ring out every few
minutes to remind you that you hit your
head pretty hard. You noticed that the doc-
tors are trying to keep your legs function-
ing... but you will be crippled. It has already
been written down.

You glance around the room and
noticed your mother is holding your
baby. Your mother gives you a sad smile
when you make eye contact with her. You
wonder where your spouse is because they
loved the baby with all their heart.

Then... you remember your spouse was
in the car with you... when it got in the
crash. They were behind the wheel of the
rusting brown car. They flew out the dec-
imated windshield after their tattered seat
belt broke. You dismissively regarded their
body on the fifth flip just before your lights
went out. You refused to lock your eyes on
the baby... the baby that you were planning
on getting from the hospital the day of the
crash. The baby with slight complications
in birth that kept it in the hospital. The
baby that was going to lose one-and-a-half

parents the first week they were born.

67

TO BE

POEM BY Bella Lufschanowski ART BY Jesse Kimbrough

SEEN

68

The flexing of a single muscle-
Intrusive tissue with an alluring shine,
The entirety of a face as an entity moving as one,
Every connected tendon and pulsing vein acting and reacting in unity
To every passing judgement and flicker of emotion,
All alive under supple skin.

Profiles kept respective,
Forcing each body into self hatred and reluctant acceptance,
A gift of God consequently creating space for blasphemy
With every noticed opportunity for correction.

He was aware of this-
He watched the faces in TV, in magazines, and those around him,
And when he watched his own face and felt his blood flowing and
Understood something beneath the skin was wrong.

Deep within the folds of his mind, or somewhere in the back of his mind,
He held an image of a different face altogether.
Rich in fat cells-
Kept hidden from the sun to keep a certain smoothness-
Wider and thinner lips,
A hooked nose,
Beady eyes.

Over a long period of time- maybe three years or so-
His paper skin tightened around the eyes,
Cartilage molded like soft clay,
Eyes spun like marbles

Until he was reborn into something entirely new.
He never questioned his reasoning and imagined his ideas were widely shared

Which held truth, to some extent,
Of the constant catalysts to parallel first impressions
Of supple skin over raw tissue.

69

S Smell
M by Selvia Nybo, Matthew Musat,
E & Dylan Tijerina
L
L As I step onto the blemished
welcome mat, a concoction
of dumpster smacks me in the face:

the sour fragrance of stale wine
left out overnight
by the newlyweds who drifted
to sleep by the TV

A mildewing chair
from last month’s flood
musty and rotten in the corner.

I hold my offering:
a plastic bag filled only
with soggy cardboard
boxes, heavy with the stench
of leftover bell peppers
and anchovies seeping
deep into the lining.

I deliver my story
to the corroded container,
marked by better lives
than mine.

70

FOREVER POEM BY Elizabeth Dimitt
PHOTO BY Jasmin Loomis
closetIN MY

The stick of my grandfather’s deodorant Only we knew that you hid

that’s been in my closet since 2002 in the empty guest bathroom drawer.

You still smell the way you did then I knew exactly what you were:
when you were stuffed in a drawer a stand in for my grandfather.
put away, forgotten.
Did you know that you ran away
Darkness kept the hunter green and got married to your high school sweet-
and silver from mellowing heart?
when the four of us relocated. And you ran one of the best home remodeling
companies Houston Texas had ever seen?
The white walls and furniture
no variety in a never ending color. As an infant, they told me
I would only speak gibberish to you.
The smell of cheap cleaner lingered. No one in this world can ever call me
Lizzy but you.
It was once your house Grandma never did remarry
I rescued you from a trash can or even go on a single date.
when we finally moved. And now, for her, I keep you
hidden in my closet.
You were a secret grandma
and I kept for over ten years.

71

CHILDHOOD

POEM BY Ali Maag
PHOTO BY Jasmin Loomis

My mom has this The new sharp
monstrous closet tips of each individual
full of art supplies. color and fresh
paper wrapped
Bookshelves going up a mile long around them filled me
filled with an abundance with happiness.
of things, things she never
even really needed that many The kind of joy that comes
of, but had just in case. from the simplest things.
The processed wax smell,
Whenever she’d drag me along, so recognizable.
I would always steal a box of crayons.
One of those sneaky things kids do,
Those bright, colorful things
symbolic of childhood. thinking no one will know
that one box was missing.
Getting my little hands A little white lie.
on a new cardboard box
with not a single dent yet, I imagine that closet still
was so thrilling to me. looks the same.
All those shelves still
overflow with supplies.

I miss that closet;
that time.

MEMORIES

72

POEM BY Max Pelayo PHOTO BY Callie Payne

The box of crayons sits WW
on the table; and you grow AA
vulnerable the moment XX
it catches your gaze.

The gentle smell of wax
and the worn paper
that wraps around
the edge of each shade.
An array of sweet,
candy colors inviting you.

You wish you could have
held onto the past,
at least for a little longer.
When life was simple
and filled with joy
when everyday
held delight.

A carefree existence
not yet jaded
by the dark world.

73

FRANK SINATRA

STAYING WITH THE

GRISWOLD’S

Our suburban home
glowed like the sun
compared to the dark
and eerie forest behind it.

The strings of energy
twinkled like fireflies
in the summer by the
lake, and brightened
the shadowed hedges
encasing a glowing
steel doe.

Walking inside,
my nose tingled—
is that birch? pine? Or
fir? The tree made the
house glow and warm
like it never had before.

Around us is a Christmas fair: POEM BY Jasmin Loomis
Winter Wonderland PHOTO BY Reagan Wallace
and piles of pastries.
a family, joy, and peace.

74

The musky scent of the farm slaps—

my senses overwhelmed
by pine. I am unable to breathe
through the thick scent of Christmas cheer.
The damp weather leaves
slimy trees and I can’t resist
touching each one.

POEM BY Natalie Kuhl The piercing noise of the tree
PHOTO BY Reagan Wallace chipper overpowers, looping
Mariah Carey intermingled
with the faint shrills
of children.

My ears ring.

My father perfects
the art form of picking
out the ideal tree:

He eyes the oversized olive
tree hidden behind the lot.
Bartering with other dads
at 6 AM. Outbidding
their set price.
Pre-planning
how many feet
he needs to chop off
the “perfect” tree.

THEIDEAL A beaming smile planted on his face,
TREE triumphantly holding the tree.
Four hours later.
Repeating over 75
and over and over
how "I" made
the perfect choice.

The fragile twine feels
like it would break
with any sudden movement.
Strapped to the top of my car,
I can hear the individual needles
scratching away
at the paint
on my car.

H O S P I TA L Everyone wrapped in paper thin white
gowns and friction free wool socks.
The air smells of crusty hand soap and
disinfectant spray,
the smell you can never seem to forget

swallowed by gadgets and wires.
I lift my hand and I feel little ants crawling up my limbs
as the medicine from the IV tube flows through my
veins, biting me.

My mouth is the pit of the sahara
and my tongue feels like the finely
grained sand. My eyes feel as if
someone

clipped
my eyelashes and replaced them with tons bricks in
each of their places. My hands feel like two
balloons.

I’m tired of the air that blows into
my nose, toothpaste being shoved up my
nostrils. My eyes flutter like butterflies as
I’m trying to gain a

slice
of awareness, and then all at
once the light becomes so bright I almost
think it’s screaming and I squint as my mom
and dad tackle me with slobbery kisses.
Yet I can sense that they are
hugging me like I’m a fragile vase, one
wrong move and
crash, we all fall down.

POEM BY Ella Waggoner
ART BY Sarah Ruthven

76

AWAKENING
WINTER POEM BY 2nd Period Ceative Writing
PHOTO BY Peter Dang

Shimmering lights circulate
like imperfect snowflakes,
tumbling in the wind.
Invoking memories--
a time once cherished,
now its meaning lost.

The saccharine road of candy cane
a stale collage of bitterness
of the long forgotten.

Sparkling scents of evergreen
vibrant, twinkling lights but below
just an empty space
beneath the tree.

The illusion fades—
the steam of hot cocoa
wakes me from my trance.
Peppermint fills the air:
I am now awake.

77

T Taste
A By Alex Paulson, Alyssa Adams,
S Madisen Johnson, & Payton Bellman
T
E Dang, that tang
citrus burst sunlight
exploding from
their trapped veins
in my mouth

The rush reminding me of
ethereal afternoons spent
worshipping
swaying branches
bearing swift punches
of flavor,

seasonal, stinging
the cut on the inside
of my cheek
blood more savory
than salt

78

Minnesota

POEM BY Greta Quill PHOTO BY Magnus Gunderson

We arrived on the sixth. en, we venture across the river
Our plane landed two hours south, to a state eastward
a drive through miles of elds with a house of stone
with a scent so unmistakably green. once inhabited by an architect.
On my way home: His home, I’d studied in art history—
to the family condo by the lake a mirage of low ceilings and stone.
where sunlit days were spent poolside Days later, back to the condo
and a citrus tinge of lemonade lingers. again set out to St. Olaf ’s
where I fell in love
e neighbors bring us treats, with the stained glass,
Kathy and Jim, standing the ogival arches
amongst the grass and the tall buildings
of the back patio with their warm reminiscent of a country
smiles and gleaming hospitality. across the pond.
Days spent on the green river
ey say there’s such thing with the company of my family—
as Southern charm, but from laughter and smiles from all.
what I’ve seen, it lives here.

79

Season Change

POEM BY Ali Maag ART BY Viviane HarléOn a brisk morning,
just as the dew rolled off
each leaf and blade of grass,
the sun was a cozy blanket
wrapping my skin in a warmth
I hadn’t felt in months.
This winter: a death as cold
as the leather seats in his car.
The sun came out in winter
of course, but not overpowering
enough to break through the bleak
cold air and warm my frostbitten
fingers and toes.
I strutted to the kitchen
and saw the tea

I had the night before—

the tea bag lying tirelessly
against the bottom of the cup.
I reached and put the cup in
the microwave to warm it up
rotating for 10 seconds.
It was just right.
A rightness to make up
for months of wrong.

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Monarch

POEM BY Alicia Rodriguez PHOTO BY Katie Cole
A gentle butterfly glides in my mind,
feeding me sweets that I’ve yet to taste.
Apricot base that arises and spews curiosity,
pure, chalky white freckles that
bleed across that haunting, charcoal silhouette.
I want you to dance upon my hands,
But alas, I do not bear the milkweed you crave.
Instead, the song that flaps along with your wings
make the color in my eyes wash away,
and drown in the solid plain that replaces a rainbow stricken garden.
If only beauty were true through and through.
And they say the heart wants what the heart wants,
but mine knows you’re out to feed on it.
Yet, somehow I still mistake your venom as sweet.
Your hand deep within in my chest,
blackens what you scorn.
The butterfly has poisoned me.

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B POEM BY Bella Lufschanowski PHOTO BY Magnus Gunderson

82 I CANNOT

L

A

C

K

B

E

R

R

Y

Those tightly packed pockets of
(Not rich blood red, not the kind that flows from a cut, but)
Dried-blood-red juice
Taunt me to press my nails into them to drown in the color
That stains my hands for days, ignoring ceaseless scrubbing with briny sulfur water from the garden
hose.

The little clusters are disheartening,
Premature yet past their prime and too tart to be eaten
(Even with sugar and cream),
Impossible to be seen as any sort of honey-feast for those vulture-flies
But the clumps of blackberries that I’ve stepped on with my
Dried-blood-red feet
Create the sweetest-smelling syrup I have ever smelled.

The sickly sucrose that seeps out of those meager bodies is

Sunlight glistening off the glassy preserves
On top of buttered toast,
On a quiet Saturday morning with
Hummingbirds and bumblebees,

Young lips dyed dried-blood-red
Too early, perhaps,
Thorny and dripping
With acrid berry liqueur

Fruit of the Vine
Direct from Eden-
Richness lacking the subtlety of

Divine temptation
The stare of my love
A little bit dark and a little bit
Unnerving
But so pregnant with sweetness it brings on a toothache.

Little ocean-tinted flies gather on my hands and I lick the stains from the tips of my fingers.

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MR. GUMBALL

STORY BY Emma Elias PHOTO BY Emily Breach

Every year, on May third, Ryan not shift from the waking rabbit, even
would lie awake at night and remember his when the rabbit stared back at him. The
biggest mistake. He would play that day on rabbit’s blood-red eyes stared back at him
repeat in his head, thinking of Mr. Gum- like it was telling Ryan that it wasn’t going
ball and his classmate Emily. After dwelling to back down. The threatening look struck
on that lucid memory for hours he would Ryan with fear but soon boiled into hatred.
slowly drift into sleep. Ryan did this almost
every year and so it became like a tradition. An impulse struck Ryan causing his arm
to jolt towards the cage. The quick move-
On May third 1992, it was the first ment shook the rabbit, as Ryan struggled
day, of a full week, that Ryan had to take with the cage’s door. He thrusted the door
care of Mr. Gumball, the class rabbit. Any open and reached inside to grab the rabbit’s
other day, the task would’ve been a pesky bowl while his other hand reached for the
annoyance, however that morning the task hand sanitizer.
became dreadful.
Ryan immediately stopped to look at the
“Ryan, I gotta go to work early today,” two things in his hands. Instead of thinking
his mother said as she gathered her things and letting his impulsiveness die down, he
together. did not let his mind wander. Ryan chanted
inside his mind, “It’s not fair.”
“What about breakfast?” Ryan protested
through his tired mumbling. As fast as he could, before his rationality
could kick in, Ryan twisted the top off,
“You can get a snack at school, they have pouring a glob of the deathly fluid into Mr.
food in the morning, right?” She said grow- Gumball’s bowl. His energy died down as
ing impatient with her son. Ryan respond- he placed the bowl back inside the cage.
ed with a long groan before storming away. He obsessively stared at the bunny as it
Instead of getting an untasteful, healthy trotted over to sniff the bowl, however, it
breakfast at school he choose to suffer with disinterestedly walked away. This angered
an empty stomach. The hollow feeling in Ryan more than before. Ryan’s mind raced
Ryan’s stomach reminded him of earlier as he thought of how unfair and ungrateful
that morning. The pit inside him did not Mr. Gumball was. Ryan grabbed the large,
let him forgive his mother, resulting in his paper bag from beside him and thrust his
annoyance becoming anger. arm inside, grabbing a fist full of rabbit
food. Ryan then drizzled the pellets over
Every other day, the recess bell would the glob in Mr. Gumball’s bowl. The rabbit
bring him excitement, but that day it told sniffed the air, and trotted over to nibble
him that he had to go feed Mr. Gumball. on his lunch.

Ryan walked from his desk to tower Ryan thought over his actions, which
over the cage. He quietly, fumed over the didn’t necessarily make him feel better. It
white, sleeping figure. The peaceful sleep just made him feel a bit more calm.
Mr. Gumball was in infuriated Ryan. He
thought of how he had to feed the bunny, Ryan’s hollow gaze was lifted from the
when his “too busy” mother hadn’t even bunny as he heard a small girl’s voice from
fed him that day. His glazed over eyes did

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behind him. She then uttered the words completely still, in a fetal position in his
he would never forget. bed, feeling the ache of his stomach from
the small sandwich he had packed himself
“You’re a psychopath!” She shouted at for lunch. Building up some courage, he
Ryan and then simply ran away. crawled out of bed to go face his mother.
He held his head down in shame, only
Ryan, unclear of what just happened, looking at his feet going down the stairs,
stood quietly, frozen in front of the cage. when a sweet smell grabbed his attention.
Behind him, he could hear Mr. Gumball He lifted his eyes as he rounded the kitch-
nibbling on his food, making his back en corner, slightly confused. His hand
feel exposed and vulnerable. Without dropped from the grip he held on the
daring to look back at Mr. Gumball, kitchen counter at the sight before him.
Ryan escaped the classroom and hid in His mother’s back faced him as she placed
the bathroom all of recess. Sitting on the a giant ice cream cake and pizza box on
toilet lid, hugging his knees to his chest the kitchen corner.
he thought about his classmate, Emily.
“I’m sorry, I’ve been so busy, but I
Emily never told anyone and neither didn’t forget about today. Happy birthday
did Ryan, not even his mother that night. Ryan.” His mother smiled brightly at him
as she began to serve the pizza she had
Finally, at home, the clock struck eight bought.
at night and he heard his mother’s keys
opening the front door. His mother com- Ryan began to cry. Not for his delight
ing home earlier than usually sent fear or relief, that his mother remembered.
down his spine like a chill. The sudden Not for his tired mother finding time to
change of heart sent him catapulting him hang out with him. Ryan cried for Mr.
under his covers to hide. He didn’t want Gumball.
his mom to look at him and possibly find
out what he had done. 85

“Ryan! I got dinner!” His mother’s
voice echoed from the kitchen. Ryan laid

POEM BY Anna Canepa PHOTO BY Nick Van Lente

OCEAN
The sandy shores and roaring sounds of peace
Your clear skies always give me time to think
The salty air meets me with an embrace
In the deep blue waves, I could never sink

By the ocean I often reminisce
Of memories as sweet as birthday cake
Joy you can’t get from a chocolate kiss
A dream from which I never want to wake

Gentle rolling waves running towards me
Crashing calmly against the horizon
Pink and purple as far as you can see
Laying on the sand as seagulls fly in

Water shining like the back of a spoon
Glistens in the reflection of the moon

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POEM BY Carlos Alfaro PHOTO BY Nick Van Lente

HEY hey there buddy, friend, pal, friend, chum, pal, dawg, amigo, homeslice,

THERE bread slice, Dragonslayer, MLG player, my diddly darn dappy dawg.
I don’t mean to rudely crudely cut across
you with this prewritten TED talk but I fail
MY BUDDY
to find any other way to burn

across this steaming hot message

that you surely must see.

You see, I must tell ya that I find that I feel burning cold,

freezing raw and dipped into the super ICE BUCKET CHALLENGE

when sitting next to a fire,

and I can’t stop it. This is mostly because I wanted

to be a popular cool person, I wanted to be coolio

and stylish, fast-talking like the charismatic Youtubers!

My friend said talking to me is more tiring

than drinking pure, uncut, Kool-Aid powdered bricks.

People find that they would much rather sleep

than keep on “talking” to me any longer.

Every talk feels more shallow than the last

My act continues to engulf me through each conversation.

My positivity burns into them like an iron.

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BOY WONDER

Timothy Drake, third boy wonder, I refuse to let go,
they say, he’s just a fictitious persona
and need him when
but he’s not I’m submerged
to me, and
he is paralyzed
a somber, rainy evening, by distress,
stuck inside a secure den of warmth, I always know he’ll be there
an ardent power ballad
Tim, you
and I adore more
like his tears are than sunflowers,
my own more than sun-drenched days
a connection I’ve been lacking, with crisp breezes
formed between pages
more than rosy lights,
Tim Drake, everything he goes through, more than washed-out
bleak and grim tales,
someone accidentally spilling dark watercolors to capture
ink over words that in my skin I can endure, your delicate features
as though my own tales
your passion,
iconic cerulean eyes, midnight hair my passion,
tranquil raging seas, powerful void a burning flame
with a tender
a vigilante, sorrowful
disguised in the night heart.
hopes that he can return
as himself

if he were to catch my hand,

who knows when I’ll look away
his mere existence was—

is enough for me

reminders of salt water taffy, POEM & ART by Dany Medina
lets me think of sizzling burgers
how fictional can he be?
how can I— why do I cradle him in arms?
and in gazing stars

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Faraway Home

There must be lights burning
brighter somewhere

But the light is not shining near me
it only rains— a ceaseless drizzle

as galaxies distance themselves.

Midnight prowls, creepy grins
on a dark street. The sterile
glare of a streetlight beaming
down onto a murky reflection.
I step forward and ripples disperse.

I can feel it in the sober air,
my breath dances away hoping
to run to that somewhere.

Light doesn’t burn here—
alone in the gloom, my path,
once clear,
is now fragmented.

I reach out and flick
the switch; light floods
my eyes again.

Light brings me home
to mom’s casserole, sun
pouring through the kitchen
window— a fresh breath
of garlic and basil.

The bellowing sky ceases POEM BY 4th Period Creative Writing
its downpour. The streetlight PHOTO BY Magnus Gunderson
flickers with a subtle flame.

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