Table of ConTenTsPage one.....................................................Cherries and Led ZeppLin by JuLia MoLin

Page Two......................................................................War paint by sabrina ahMed

Page Three............................................................................the bridge by eMiLy yin

Page four......................................................................beWither by Mr. Kirby sMith

Page five......................................................................First snoW by sabrina Luther

Page six......................................the unFeeLing FaCes oF CLoCKs by Madison stern

Page seven..................................................................pLugged in by CaroLine eLson

Page eighT...................................................................daddy’s girL by tayLor reese

Page nine........................................................................eFFaCée by MCKenna poLiCh

Page Ten......................................................Where they stood by hannah sheehan

Page eleven.............................................................................Free by aurian Carter

Page Twelve..........................................a pLaCe at your tabLe by aLexandra CaiMi

Page ThirTeen..................What is and What never shouLd be by aManda broWn

Page fourTeen..................................................................Light by saMantha siLvers

Page fifTeen............................................................no direCtion by JasMine Minhas

Page sixTeen........We’ve extended your deadLine: it’s not too Late to sign up! by tayLor reese

Page sevenTeen..............................................teLL Me What you see by bLair isKen

Page eighTeen.........................................................................the Language oF eviL: revieW oF John beLLairs’ The Face in The FrosT by Ms. C.M. hubLer

Page nineTeen..............................................bLaCK or White hat by aurian Carter

Page TwenTy......................................................................Wind by saMantha siLvers

Page TwenTy-one..........................................hands oF an artist by drue sChWartZ

Page TwenTy-Two......................................................vanquished by JasMine Minhas

Page TwenTy-Three................................through a Caged Mind by JasMine Minhas

Page TwenTy-four...................................................urban beauty by ann guZZetta

Page TwenTy-five.........................................................gLass by brianna nieMoeLLer

Page TwenTy-six........................................................Father oF Man by arieL Zhang

Page TwenTy-seven........................................toadstooL toWn by aManda deshane

Page TwenTy-eighT..................................................CosMiC tortoise by JuLia MoLin

Cover art by aurian Carter

Co-editors: Taylor Reese & Aurian CarterFaCuLty advisor: Ms. Coleen Hubler

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War Paintby Sabrina Ahmed

(Hand-drawn screen print)

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The Bridge by Emily Yin

Oil on canvas

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Bewither by Mr. Kirby Smith

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First Snowby Sabrina Luther

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The Unfeeling Faces of Clocksby Madison Stern

Tick tock tick tock tick Tick The clock’s horrible regularity battles with the quick, pulsating beat of my heart for supremacy. Sweat beads on my forehead as I watch the hours and minutes and seconds trudge by, each slower than the last until millennia stretch before me like deserted boulevards. The halls that truly fill my vision hold the scent of cheap cleaning fluid and the muffled sounds of beeps and voices resonate down the linoleum. All that I see is white––white walls, white floors, white gowns, white noise. White is such a noncommittal color. A vast lot of nothingness, not even as definite as black. I used to find it quite beautiful, ingenuous, but now it has burned itself into my eyelids and nightmares. Soft sobs fill my ears, and I pretend not to notice the woman who sits across the room from me in tears. She knew what this waiting felt like, maybe only moments ago, but her nothing turned into a lot of something very quickly, manifesting itself in her tears and rolling down her face, marring the glimmering powder that reddens her gaunt cheeks. She knows what has happened and can don her black. Me, I don’t know. I’m in a very white state. The clock’s screechy percussion forces its way into my ear once more, loud for such a quiet room. It’s white noise, tense and space-filling. It leaves little room for thought, but everyone here has retreated into their own minds, including myself. Truthfully, it’s all we can do. Footsteps replace my anxiety, and I look up to watch my mother walking down the hall toward me, a doc-tor in bright blue leading her. The scent of hand sanitizer follows him like a cloud, or ghost. My mother stares at me, her eyes both hollow and glistening at the same time. A woman haunted. Her arms, warm but weak, pull me into an embrace, and I can hear her heart fluttering. The world falls away until only the two of us remain, cloaked in her rose perfume. It always smelled too sweet to me, but in this moment it replaces the smell of sickness and death. I couldn’t be happier for its presence. The white walls, so pure and perfect, tease me with their strength. The doctor breaks the peace I’ve creat-ed with two words. “I’m sorry.” My heart drops until it matches the slow crawl of the clock, thudding loudly in my ears. Tick tock. Thud. Tick. Thud. Tock.

6

Plugged Inby Caroline Elson

7

Daddy’s Girlby Taylor Reese

He wore two scarves and a matching suit jacket and pants. His hair was a shock of white, longer than most people his age kept it, but by no means long. He watched the people walk through the battery with a frown. He was comfortable in his wealth, but not satisfied. Sitting above the world on his porch, surrounded by ferns, he smoked a cigar. He lifted it to his lips, took a breath, and exhaled the smoke through his thin lips, seemingly bored. That particular afternoon a small girl caught his eye. She was about four or five, he figured. She was dressed in all pink, with a small backpack clinging to her back as she bumbled down the street. She tripped over the cobblestones but caught herself. She looked around to see if anyone had noticed. He had. She brought him back to another time, when his family was still around. His wife was in a home now; her mind had gotten the best of her. Their child was dead. When he went to visit his wife, she would always ask about their daughter, how she was doing in school, etcetera. This had gone on for four or five years, and it always pained him to have to lie to her, telling her she was doing just fine, about to graduate soon and go off to college… The girl in the pink backpack was long gone now, but he could still see her, perpetually in that moment.

The sun fell gently into the water without a sound, yet he still sat on the porch, now with a chill. He was smoking his third cigar, feet kicked up on the ottoman. He was watching a family of beetles. The biggest one of the three brought food back to the smaller ones. He watched them for awhile, frowned, then put his cigar out on the bug with a twist. The beetle shriveled and fell to the floor; the others scurried away. He stood and stalked back into his house. He never got rid of the chill.

The next morning he made himself a cup of coffee and sat on his porch, surrounded by ferns. He lifted his feet onto the ottoman and relaxed just as the sun was rising back out of the water, unscathed. He marveled at how the light never went out. He looked to his left and noticed the ashes from where he had singed the beetle. He scowled, then dusted them off the edge of the porch and into the bushes below. About an hour later, he saw the little girl going the opposite way, still all in pink. She stood out against the bland colors of the morning. She stopped in front of his house and looked up at him. “Good morning!” she said with a grin. He smiled, noticing how his face felt strange with the corners of his mouth turned up. It felt so foreign, so unfamiliar. A moment later, it vanished. “Wait right there,” he said. He rushed inside and paused outside his late daughter’s room. He hadn’t been in there since the day she died. He closed his eyes, sighed, and turned the knob gently. The room was musty, not a thing out of place since she left it. He stepped gently across the room, careful not to disturb anything. His feet left footprints in the dust. A small figurine on her shelf caught his eye. He picked it up thoughtfully, then put it in his pocket. He hurried downstairs, hoping she had stayed. She knew not to talk to strangers, but she stayed. She was pulled to stay; it was a pull she could never quite explain even as she grew older. He knelt to her eye level. He asked her about her day, just desperately wanting to talk. He was compelled to listen, and hung onto every word. They talked about school and friends and whatever else she mentioned for a few minutes. He found himself lost in her tiny voice and in her stories. He never wanted to stop talking to her; he wanted to hold on. When he knew it was time for her to go, he pulled the figurine from his pocket. She looked down at the small beetle and took it gently from his hand, her eyes strangely filled with recog-nition. 8

Effacéeby McKenna Polich

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Where They Stoodby Hannah Sheehan

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by AuriAn CArter

11

Heaving a world-weary sigh, the butler trudged to the front door; upon opening it, he was greeted by nothing except his shadow scattered across the few sparkling patches of snow blessed by the golden light ema-nating from the warmth within the fine home. However, as he was turning away, a delicate piece of paper floated to the front porch. Its landing, reminiscent of the first snowflake of winter, instilled both excitement and terror. Inscribed in silver ink, the icy script of an unknown author read, “Expect my arrival upon the hour.” Puzzled, the butler resignedly returned to the mistress in the dining room. Although the extravagant dishes in front of her were costly, they were renowned for their bitterness (not unlike herself). The house she had underhandedly inherited, however, fit her personality like clothes one might receive from a distant relative: badly. Where it was open and bright, she was closed and dark. You see, unlike the other gentry, the mistress was not born into her position. She had clawed, lied, and cheated her way up the rungs until she grown too old to fight further. Personal morals had been thrown out the window, and several naively optimistic hearts had been trampled in pursuit of her goal. She had been unbelievably generous in her younger years living on the streets, but that had soon changed when she entered the privileged life of the nobility. Her rounded and childish features were now as sharp as her lashing tongue. Once dark brown hair had faded into a vicious silvery cascade as straight and bland as her temperament. She adorned herself with no end of jewels and fabrics, but they could not hide the beast within her. With justifiable caution, the butler recounted the odd happenings to the wolf in sheep’s clothing. A dark look crossed her already shadow-covered mask of a visage. She pivoted toward the clock in alarm, only to hear it tauntingly begin to toll. Suddenly, a gust of wind howled down the chimney extinguishing the once roaring fire. Now only the moonbeams lazily drifting in from the window provided light. The sound of frost slowly crackling into existence accompanied the horrible sight of an icy fog ghosting its way out of the chimney, through cracks in the walls, and under the now frosted French doors. Creeping its way toward the opposite end of the table, the two occupants of the room jumped in alarm when, at the final chime of the clock, the fog instantly solidified into a man made completely of ice. He seemed to be comically small, and yet they dared not to laugh. Although he appeared translucent, he also seemed to be selectively reflective; the silverware, gold-leafed plates, and shimmering crystal glasses mir-rored all over his body gave the illusion that he was literally made of wealth. Giving a frosty grin, the man began to speak. “What a lonely assemblage. When you were younger, there was no end to the guests flooding in and out of your home; and, it was never exclusively the nobility. You didn’t shy away from a person in need; there was always a place at your table. My, how you have changed,” he coolly commented. “You have changed yourself. You weren’t so cold when I saw you last,” she icily responded. His smile seemed to grow larger, but in a more sinister way. The old wood of the house groaned in protest as he carefully got up and steadily made his way toward her. She leaned back in her chair in a valiant effort to appear coolly aloof and yet, she was simply terrified. As her terror grew, the man seemed less translucent and reflective; now, he appeared to be filled with grainy black shadows whirling from one limb to another. Stopping by her side, he leaned up and whispered, “I told you last time that I am a reflection of your heart. God gave you wealth and power beyond imagination on the condition that your heart remained caring. Unfortunately, it looks like you failed.” As horror-filled realization dawned on her face, the sound of groaning, splintering ice once again filled the room in a steadily increasing crescendo. The man gave another grin frosted with ill intent, this time directed toward the butler attempting to inch his way out of the room, before he exploded in an icy torrent of blackened ice shards; a miniscule piece managed to thrust its way into the butler’s heart. Not long after the ordeal, the mistress was admitted into the asphyxiating clutches of an asylum. The butler, on the other hand, inherited the estate. Lavish parties were thrown every night; with no guest list, every pauper off the street was welcomed with open arms….at least, they were for a week.

A Place at Your Tableby Alexandra Caimi

12

What Is and What Never Should Have Been

by Amanda Brown

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Lightby Samantha Silvers

A tiny light in a great darkShining brighter every dayThe darkness fightsThe light does notThe light loses and keeps growingNever faltering or cringing

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No Directionby Jasmine Minhas

15

We’ve Extended Your Deadline: It’s Not Too Late to Sign Up!

by Taylor Reese

What are my fears, my hopes, my dreams made of—are they made of the softest silk or a

pile of bricks

strewn in the corner.

Are they made of the

lightest or feathers clouds or are they just as heavy and ugly as my fears.

What am I made of,Am I made of anything at all?

I can’t remember the last time I felt likeI am more than a test score,an application, a list, a graph of numbers comparing meand a thousand other students

just like me.

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Tell Me What You Seeby Blair Isken

17

The Language of eviL: Review of John BeLLaiRs’ The face in The fRosT

by Ms. C. M. Hubler

Lose your latest English book in the hallway, did you? “Loan” it to a friend? Slide it under the couch in the senior room? Ah, all possible endings for an inanimate object, but what about a book that can defend itself? A book that is never lost, only waiting for the right owner? A book that demands total commitment from its reader but that promises unbelievable power? Such a book exists within the pages of John Bellairs’ The Face in the Frost and is the catalyst for the quest of two quirky wizards, Prospero (“not the one you are thinking of, either”) and Roger Bacon. The book, a grimoire, has chosen Melichus, an old classmate of Prospero, whose insatiable desire for power creates the perfect symbiotic relationship between an evil object and an evil human. Both Prospero and Bacon recognize the ability of this book to conjure waking nightmares and to alter the nature of reality; thus, they find themselves racing to stop an apocalypse.

Are they equipped to do so? Possibly not. Written in 1969 and available only as an e-read now, The Face in the Frost is an odd journey into a world both strangely removed from yet similar to our own. Bellairs blends a rather dark humor and horror in this text, and the delight is in the details. Prospero is at home in a cluttered, vaguely Victorian house with a hippopotamus weather vane perched atop the roof, closets crammed with objects that startle even him, and a magic mirror more cantankerous and sarcastic than a sleepy sophomore (sorry, sopho-mores!). He spends his time raising the spirits of dead carnations and listening to his mirror screech tunes from other centuries. Bacon, an old friend and visitor, finds himself fleeing England, having accidentally raised a glass wall rather than a brass wall around England to stave off Viking invasions. Needless to say, glass walls don’t stop Vikings and don’t impress kings. With such heroes, obliteration may be near. But the humor and the warmth of the characters and their welcome eccentricities make them sympathetic. We want them to win because they are human and flawed.

Prospero and Bacon wend their way through a progressively darker, colder landscape in which nothing is as it seems. Towns melt into sticky, tarry substances, madmen gibber in the streets, dead animals stare eternally out of tree hollows, and leaves with serrated edges inch along like worms. None of it is real, but all of it supplants the real. Gravestones no longer bear epitaphs; statues, unexplainably disfigured, have gaping holes where their mouths should be; frost no longer etches delicate patterns on panes but forms grotesque faces engaged in silent screams. Evil erases the individual, the whimsical, the imaginative, and the humorous. It undoes creation and replaces it with a void. Thus the most human sorcerers confront the most inhuman power, and Bellairs seems to imply that those of us leading even mundane lives can be called on to face that which seeks to negate all. Wheth-er we win or lose may depend on finding the proper door, turning the right key, or collecting a silly doodad, all fragments shored against our ruin. And, again, all the dark power and knowledge emanate from a single book and a solitary reader, so the next time you are tempted to ill-treat your English text, remember words are magic and whether they carry a curse or a blessing may just depend on how the book is used.

18

Black or White Hatby Aurian Carter

19

Windby Samantha Silvers

The wind whistles through the white willow trees

I pause for a moment to listen, entranced by the light shift of the leaves

There is nothing there, yet creatures lurk in the darkness of night

Suddenly fearful of what lies ahead, I put my head down and go on

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Hands of an Artist by Drue Schwartz

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Vanquishedby Jasmine Minhas

I stand.I wait.

I watch.I plead thinking: HELP.

Too late.I am forgotten in the crowd.

No one notices me, as I envelope in insanity.I see a hand reach out to me.

Too little, too late.I am already gone.

22

Through a Caged Mindby Jasmine Minhas

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Urban Beautyby Ann Guzzetta

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Glassby Brianna Niemoeller

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Father of Manby Ariel Zhang

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Toadstool Townby Amanda DeShane

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