eunoia

H a r b i n g e r

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H a r b i n g e r 2 0 1 4 ~ V o l u m e 3 8

E u n o i a

( y o o - N O H - e e - a h )

n o u n

B e a u t i f u l M i n d

W e l l - T h i n k i n g

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Editors-in-ChiefRose Watson | Annie Zidek

Layout Editors Sanjana Singh | Annie Cebluski

Copy Editors Jen Behrens | Isabella Kwiecinski | Rachel Buenaobra | Martha Reilly

Publicity EditorsNicole Hefner | Amulya Kandikonda | Alyssa Kruft

President - Sister Mary Frances McLaughlin, BVMPrincipal - Mark Ostap

Moderator - Marcia Meyer

Carmel Catholic High School One Carmel Parkway Mundelein, IL 60060

Cover Art: Waxing Gibbous by Katie Donahoe

Copyright © 2014 by Harbinger, a publication of Carmel Catholic High School. After publication, all rights returned to each work’s creator.

The views expressed do not represent the views of Carmel Catholic High School or the Harbinger staff.

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An Open Letter to the Audience,

My friends, my friends, the volume in your hands is the culmination of hundreds of minds and days of work. Everything in this book is yours. Created by you. Molded by you. Realized by you. And over the last year, I have had the unending joy of experiencing every bit of it. Every poem and picture has left an impression on me and I cannot thank you all enough. So thank you, to every person who submitted their work. Thank you to every club member who found the time to share a few opinions. Thank you to every Officer who stayed late to help. And thank you Mrs. Meyer for your eternal cheerful demeanor and the hours spent laughing over the projector after meetings.

The opportunity to be an Editor-in-Chief of Harbinger is one that scared me at first, but I could not imagine how much this club would become my home. Over the four years of being part of the club, I’ve seen it change and grow and bloom. And I now have to say goodbye, and it will be one of the harder things to part with. But I am confident that Harbinger will continue to be the brilliant, beautiful home that it has always been.

“Writing is not a genteel profession. It’s quite nasty and tough and kind of dirty.”-Rosemary Mahoney

Your Editor,Rose Watson

L e t t e r s f r o m t h e E d i t o r s

“I could hear my heart beating. I could hear everyone’s heart. I could hear the human noise we sat there making, not one of us moving, not even when the room went dark.” -- What We Talk About

When We Talk About Love by Raymond Carver

As artists, it’s our job to find these moments Carver describes, to understand these feelings, and to make them tangible. In doing so, we learn the intricacies of the human experience, but it is by no means easy. Writers use their own blood, their own experiences as their ink to fill the blank pages. And this is why reading is such an intimate experience: the reader feels parts of the writer within them. So value these words, these individual interpretations of “human noises.” I know I do. I’ve spent countless hours working with your words and your art, and they have exposed, captivated, and enriched me. I thank you for that.

Your Editor,Annie Zidek

Editors’ note: All the submissions were considered anonymously.

Table of Contents

8Beautiful MindAnnie Brinkman

10Do I Know YouAnnie Cebulski

12Saturday--Or Why I Lay Claim to the MoonCreighton Budris

13One DayBrody Long

15DreamingAmanda Modelski

From Words to PoetryPat Petrus

16MarionetteAmanda Modelski

17Familiar FriendAnonymous

18No Land to DockSanjana Singh

19ChangesAlyssa Kruft

22Useless’s SongCreighton Budris

23WorthlessCarter Bedward

24InsanityDavid Brady

26I Did Not Know Its NameNicholas Orchard

27The StormEllen Barhorst

28There is Beauty Katie Donahoe

BadIsabella Kwiecinski

30QuarrymanAnnie Cebulski

31Astral Twins in SynergyEthan Seidenberg

32JuvenescenceLorena Fernandez

34You Truly AreEmma Scheer

35a poem about the ramifi-cations of overanalyzing astrophysicsAnnie Zidek

36Iridescent SecretsKyra Kauffman

37The MoonHazel Waters

40Here’s to...Angela Andaleon

43Honest HeartsEmma Scheer

44Fallingly SlowlyRose Watson

46A Song I Wrote for a Girl OnceCreighton Budris

51Natural HarmonyEdward Chmiel

52PerspectiveJason Kadowaki

53TodayEmma Wagner

54A Father’s DayAmulya Kandikonda

57MemoryCaroline Kornak

58TimeEmma Kobitter

59City of AshAmanda Im

61We ListenIsabella Kwiecinsk

Why?Sabrina Easley

62Ode to SummerAlex Legaspi

63FishCarter Bedward

64Orange versus AppleBrooke White

66BaconKally Morozin

67I’m BusyAlly Sledz

Streaming LoveJoe Longo

68PerspectiveDillon Novak

prose and poetry

6Baha’i TempleMolly Zadell

9Barriers Nicole Kvist

11Serenity Nicole Mouzakiotis

12Living Juwst to Find EmotionLorena Fernandez

14Dark Print Brooke Kamins

16Paris Nicole Kvist

18Chicago Anonymous

19Patterns Nicole Kvist

20Hermitage Hotel Brooke Kamins

25Opposition of LifeNatalie Massarelli

26City of Lights Teresa Hull

27Camoflague Allison Cuba

29 Masquerade Kaitlin Shibovich

31The Flame Amulya Kandikonda

33DriftingTaylor Leicht

35MoonlightBrooke Kamins

36Three LightsKylie Yocum

38 Encima de Barcelona Amy Stark

41Misty Rhine Nicole Hefner

42Directions Nicole Kvist

47 Wish Away Megan Fox

48Grazing Bison Katie Donahoe

50UntitledNikki Tomsovic 52 More Than Meets the EveAmulya Kandikonda 53Beauty VlyEllen Barhorst

57Looking Out Annie Brinkman

58Dashboard of the PastBrooke Kamins

59UntitledNikki Tomsovic

60Free Annie Brinkman

62Stroll on the BeachCJ Kelmis

63A Fair in the FogAbby Hunt

66Moo-ving on OutLorena Fernandez

67Food For Thought Olivia DeKeyser

Table of ContentsArt Work

A beauty not limited to looks or splendorA heart not stolen or brokeA worth not measured on knowledge or hopeA mind A beautiful mind

A girl that walks aloneA girl not lonely at allA person that sees the colors and shapesA mind A beautiful mind

Differentand openhonest and pureA mind

A beautiful mind

A Beautiful MindAnnie Brinkman

Baha’i temple Molly Zadell

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Barriers Nicole Kvist

Do I know You

(Black hair Brown eyes) Without a care Terrified Both (non)existing Side by side

Laughs a little Laughs a lot (Nervously fiddle Pitiably bought) Both method acting One last shot

(Swift glances Jumbled prose) Subtly fancies Subtly knows Both (non)existing Juxtaposed

Serenity nicole Mouzakiotis

annie cebulski

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An unopened coffin or a closed umbrella––Both hard to fit sideways in the average front door,But we don’t need the umbrella; the rain’llHold off inside, I swear, it’s never poured in my living room

As to the coffin? Set it asideAnd tell your pallbearers to take a taxi to that nightclub you heard aboutFrom your cousin who cuts your hair

I stole the moon tonight but I don’t haveThe space for it next to my dusty stacks of paperbacks

Take it, please––besides,I never needed anything so beautiful as you

Saturday--or why I lay claim to the mooncreighton budris

living just to find emotion lorena fernandez

“Begin”My heart is racingBobbing aimlesslyAvoiding the fistsAn opening rises

I strikeI missI fall

I fightSquirm and thrash

No escapeDesperation pushes me

Punch againMiss

Pinned“Time!”

loss“Effort IS successAt least I fought”

Keep trainingDream of Victory

One DayOne DayOne Day

one daybrody long

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dark print brooke kamins

I’d buy a fancy typewriterThat chimes at every line––Spend hours hunched behind its keysA channel for my mind.And then, when I have had my fillI’ll toss it to the curb,Pick up a pen and curl my wordsThe lessons I have learned.To write, to write!, in metered verse––I’d lose the will to talk.The only thing you’d hear from meD’be ink and lead and chalk.It’s just one thing to learn to type––To write’s organic, pure,To displace real-life molecules,That’s what I want to learn.

From Words to Poetrypat petrus

A black House on a silver Hill,an Ocean in a crystal thimble,a Once Upon a Time.Some safe haven wreathed in a Mistwhere nothing can touch you.And I swearif they come after you,if they set the woods on fire behind you,you could jump off the banister,ignore the rushing in your ears,and fly away before the flames take you.You could float into the Nighttimeand touch the quicksilver Stars,tracing constellations of Your Own Designon wings of Idle Fantasybefore you wake upand open your eyes to the World.

dreamingamanda modelski

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Marionette

Quiet rasp of china Joints

Dancing under Hovered Hand

Imploring Eyes swallow me whole––they can’t be only Glass

The lightest touch of Porcelain Fingertips

A String snaps––the Magic is gone

Pairs Nicole Kvist

Amanda Modelski

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Once upon a time, there was a writer.

Every day, the writer would put their heart and soul into paper.

Every day, the writer would sleep less and less.

Every day, the writer would work and try to make a masterpiece.

One day, the writer saw an opportunity to be noticed.

Because of the opportunity, the writer panicked.

“What if it doesn’t turn out right?”

“What if my story isn’t interesting?”

“What if no one reads my story?”

“What if I fail?”

Because of the writer’s panic, the writer felt like a failure.

Because of that feeling, the writer stopped writing.

Because the writer stopped writing, the day the opportunity was presented,

The writer had nothing.

The writer had failed.

It was then the writer thought:

“Why did I fail?”

“Because I hadn’t even tried.”

“Why didn’t I try?”

“Because I feared failure.”

“How many failures will it take until you try?”

Because of these thoughts, the writer began to write once more.

“What failed?”

“I failed.”

“What do you do when you fail?”

“You try again.”

“One failure does not define you.”

“A million failures do not define you.”

“A failure is a step forward.”

“A failure is a step towards success.”

Failure had become the writer’s familiar friend.

And together they fought towards success.

A Familiar Friend

anonymous

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I’ve tried to revive you, I’ve tried to change you,I’ve tried to avoid you, but I cannot leave you,These things you do to make me cry, but I am too afraid to show you,I try to be frank with you, but my words come out too vague for you,Questions appear in my mind, almost every moment, five at a time,And, though the answers are not favorable, I cannot find the strength to care,Yet, for some reason, I keep having this perfect version of our fairytale, even as I revised it many times,The plot alters, but both characters remain the same,You as the knight and I as the girl who despite what she believes does want to be saved,We have fought and I have forgot, all those petty things that show no meaning,We have both thought we have spotted an end to our journey,But we both know that there is no land that our boat can dock for miles and miles in.

No Land to DockSanjana Singh

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Chicago Anonymous

Sometimes I wonder if I’m supposed to stay the sameBecause I’m changing. I’m a different person than I was last year, or the year before that.It’s a subtle change. I don’t have a drastically new personality or a stunningly different appearance.But sometimes I look at myself and wonder who I am, how I got to be this person I am now.Because I’m just a little bit different than before. I’ve shed a few old details of my personality and gained a few more.New thoughts and worries and dreams have replaced old ones. Taking over, rewriting a little bit of space on the hard drive that is my mind. Shedding old cells, gaining new ones. Perhaps this is what it means to grow up. Perhaps this is what it means to be human.

Changes

Patterns Nicole Kvist

alyssa kruft

stupid kid hopesstupid blue scribbles couldsoothe suspicions? Smoothe;

Useless is put to a real test and can’tget off the front step.

‘Ulysses could,’ tonesthe Chorus in plainunison. monotone, no melodrama

Needed. to be Neededis everything, and--and didhe just end that?

Fluid eyes rooted intruest ice must seethrough brief bad dreams...

lucidly looseningguitar strings to a newkind of g.

if i invent the wheel,will an improved chrystlercome naturally?

is anything natural ifmy mistakes cost memy Lottery?

storm clouds showedthemselves too slowly totake shelter, and

rain followed, flowed‘cross sand dunes, thenthrough Mattoon.

strength doesn’t meana mistakenmistreatment is

Needed. to be Neededis everything, and--andcan he not mend that?

useless’s songCreighton Budris

hermitage hotel brooke kamins22

They told him he was worthlessso he threw it all awaythrough their words they shaped himand made him what he is today

They told him he was worthlessso he studied for his testhe didn’t want to be worthlessso he strove to be the best

But still they called him worthlessso he gathered lots of wealthbut all of it was worthlesswith no one but himself

To nevermore be worthlesshe found himself a wifebeautiful and pricelessthe pinnacle of his life

Still he felt so worthlessso he brooded on his pasthe truly became worthlesswhen he breathed his last.

worthlesscarter bedward

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He sat on his bed, his head hurting. He looked at his black-and-white-striped sweat pants, his eyes trying to stay open but not working to stay. Blink, blink, open, close... His hands ripped at his hair; the black, thick hair was too strong to rip. But each time it felt as if it might. He covered his eyes halfway; His pointless eyes. His head hurt, every thought. Every idea—stop. Stop it. No more. Leave it alone. Just drift. His head hurt without the pills, He hid it from everyone but Himself. Alone. In His room. Screaming for hours or weeping—it depended on the day. His eyes, they finally stayed down; His head went quiet. Peace. Then the dreams, the worst. Where insanity is limitless, you can question, stir, eat away, and hurt yourself. Dreams were the physi-cal, or psychological, form of all He hated. This dream was a good one though, and through. It would change Him, and save Him. It always left its mark on Him since that day. And it was beautiful... He walked down a crystal path, the area around Him a mix of interchanging fall and winter. The seasons mixing and clashing in dif-ferent places in the endless horizon of the field. The road shone like a marble, and felt as if sand on His now barren feet. The sand was nei-ther hot nor cold. Sand, glass, marble: There was no telling what the path was made of, except that it held a certain safety or trust in it. The path went for miles upon miles, no real end in sight. But He walked. His mind was clear, no pain, no insanity. Then there was a bench to the left of the path. Under a gold-and-orange-tinted red tree is a large maple. It sat as an omen. It was made of leaf-gold edging and a hickory wood base; on the back a name was inscribed in what was guessed Latin. He walked around it, once, twice, three times, then sat down. He looked up from His legs, the same clothes as before but this time, they looked nice. He cared about the things he saw. The sky, a haze of an or-ange to red to purple, the tree’s leaves now making a new grass mixed with snow. No life but the small chirping of a Goldfinch, possibly an Oriole. Then He looked to His right. His mother was there. She wore a yellow dress, no shoulders on it and a lace under it of silk. She smiled, no sadness or disappointment that she usually had. She laughed with her kind, soft features, no shadows under the eyes, no old age showing except for laugh lines around her mouth. But what did she laugh at? It was Him; He was laughing too. Something that He had long forgotten the feel of. A smile now on His face, He stood up and walked away as His mother seemed to melt away. She in a sudden silence. Him with a smile on His face, and tears down His eyes. The place stood in a still silence as a mountain came into view; it was covered in the lush fall colors yet a red haze with a pillar of grey was also coming from the top. It giving off a thin layer of white ash, moving forward. The sand-like material began to get warmer. He reached the bottom of that mountain and looked up at it, tall and wide, the only two words really able to describe it. And so he climbed, up, up, higher, taller, like a ladder to heaven; it seemed to go on forever. The path became stairs as the incline grew, and the clouds had come closer. He was not afraid of the dark. He wasn’t afraid of heights. He was never afraid of those two; when He was three, He slept on the roof on a pitch black winter night. But now He climbed the mountains,

insanitydavid brady

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the clouds below him, only autumn shrubs that were ready to shrivel up and rest for next summer. It was sad now, the world nearly gone without him. Then at the top he saw miles around Him. The golden sun hid-ing now behind the horizon, only the top visible as if trying to hide from the moon, now behind Him. It was fine being alone, but He wanted to see the other people again. To be sane. So He found the trail and walked His way back, now by memory. In pitch black, He walked to the bench. His smiling mother gone, He then sat down, closed his eyes. And woke up...

opposition of life natalie massarelli

I did not know its name I did not know its name

I did not know as it chased me though life I did not know as it snarled and clawed

I did not know its name But now I know

I did not know its name I did not know as it protected me from others

I did not know as it tried to strengthen meI did not know its name

But now I know I did not know its name

I did not know as it grasped me in the dark I did not know as I embraced it back

But now I know its name Fear

I Did not know its name

nicholas orchard

city of lights teresa hull

thunder trembles the earthlightning flares the skiesrain pours from the heavensstaining her cheeks.the insensitive booms continue, threatening to shower damaging words;will the storm ever halt?

neverit continues still, now just a drizzleshe runsfrom the floods of feelings and rivers of responsibilityand hides behind walls of guilt.

the rain persists.she cowers.streams sweep up her emotionsinto a lake of grief.drowning, the tears and raindrops pelther memories of abetter past.

camoflague allison cuba

ellen barhorst

the storm

Masquerade Kaitlin shibovich

Isabella Kwicienski

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Bad knows to hide when others come around And creeps behind corners until people leave its sight And speaks whispers to little thoughts inside our heads That we wish were gone And wriggles its fingers while we live without knowing That we let it into our houses.

Bad

There is A Beauty Katie Donahoe

There is beauty behind lies and there is a beauty behind truth

There is beauty of being wise and old, or being an innocent youth

There is beauty behind a pretty face and there is ugly beneath that pretty

There is beauty behind the serious and behind the witty

There is beauty behind the stars and there is a beauty behind the earth

There is beauty behind the sad deaths and also behind birth

There is beauty unspoken and there is the beauty outspoken

There is beauty behind those who have it together and behind the broken

There is beauty incomprehensible by our speciesThe beauty of life isn’t noticed deeply

Which is why it is beauty

I am the same as them Cut from the same quarryOf the same rock And if one was to lick me A slightly salty taste Would meet your lips––just like the rest

And in this quarry, It was so very hard to not fit in To feel something beyond These monotonous rictors So much so that One would pray so very hard To chip away and F ALL

Years upon years I sat dormant, await-ing Something Or perhaps the beginning of Nothing Just so long as this Something/Nothing Ended

That’s when you arrived I still smile at the thought How you lowered into the quarry Yet never once came down to earth A careful eye surveyed Your surroundings––And landed on me

Chip, chip, chip Your pick gently freed me Nudging my stony counterparts until A heart shaped rock Fell into your palm Of which you brought it to your lips To savor the salty taste

Done with your work, I was slipped inside your Shirt pocket, feeling the Beat of a silent rhythm Heart to heart

I was special I was adored I was chosen

And when you finally got home You took me out And stroked my smooth surface Carefully, lovingly, steadying my trem-bles and––Your eyes said nothing as I Cracked into meaningless pieces of Myself, screaming And thrown into the pile With which you would build your house–– just like the rest

quarrymanannie cebulski

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A pale moon rises at the time of night.It calls to its servants through its beautiful rays.

They respond, the tides bend, the animals howl, and the stars glimmer at the moon’s shining light.

It substitutes the sun, who is tired of being the harbinger of days. So the shining light of the moon shows its splendor, its calm and soothing luminosity.

Until it is soon replaced by the sun, who brings the bright and jovial beams of the morning.

Gone are the mystical lights of the pale moon, gone is the gray and dappled beauty.Now it is time for the sun to rise while the Earth is turning.

the flame amulya kandikonda

astral twins in synergyethan seidenberg

MyfirstyearningtocapturethelightarrivedwhenIwasonlyachild.Mysteriousandappealing,therewassomethingaboutthehuntthatkindledinmeacuriositythatcouldonlybesatisfiedbysuccess—tamingthefire—seizingtheblaze.Itwasduringthesummerthatmyfirstopportunityarose,anditcameintheformoftheyearlyvisittomyaunt’shouseinIowa.Thehousewasrelativelysecluded,surroundedbyfieldsofwideopenadventurefor my cousin Alyssa and me; as soon as I arrived, she and I hadstartedourjourney.Mycompanionatmyside,herpinkjeansalreadystainedgreenandblackatthekneecapsfromconstantlydroppingtothegroundinplay,wescannedtheareabeforedaringintotheyard.Thesummerbreezekissedourskininwelcome,andthesweetaromaofthetallgrassswirledallaroundus, leadingustothefiercestandmost wild jungle imaginable in comparison to our small size andbroadimaginations.ThroughthejungleweexploredthesavageplainsofAfricaandsurvivedweeksof fendingforour livesuntilnight felland pitch blackness cascaded down on the world. That blacknessendureduntilthemostperplexingspotsoflightstartedtodotthesky,afascinationtofeedmyhunger:fireflies. Wegrinnedbroadlyas two jars appearedbeforeus, holdingthemproudlywithourscrubbyhandsliketheyweretrophiesofthehighesthonor.ThiswasthedayIwasgoingtocapturethelight. We chased the flashes eagerly, and the ringing of children’slaughterechoedthroughtheair.Wejumpedandtumbled,desperatelytryingtoreachthebugsthatzippedawayhighpasttheshortdistanceour arms stretched. The bugs hovered rhythmically, and I stoppedtowatchthembreezethroughtheair,caressingthewindwiththeirflickersofbrilliance;inmyeyeshundredsdancedaroundus,sparkingaglimmeroflightineverydirection. Scooping thebugsupwithmysmall cuppedhands, Ihastilyreleasedthemintothejarinfearthattheywouldescapethemomentthe lidopened.And itwasn’tuntilmy jarhad turned intoawell-litlanternthatIdeclaredmytriumph.Ibroughtthejarclosetomyface,andIcouldhearthemhummingasoftmelodyofbuzzinginmyear—achorusoflightintheirglasscathedral. Andthechoirmurmuredinmymindforyears.Alyssawasinside—herbluejeansspotless—sittingcontentlybesideher brother at the television, watching a movie; however, the oldhauntscalledtome,andIansweredinearnest.Thenightairchilledmycoreat itsfirstbreath,andI lookedwistfullypastthefenceandtowardthecarshasteningdownthehighwaycoveringwhatusedtobemyjungle. Rubbingthejarcleanofitsweatheredcoatingofgrime,Igazedalongthedarkhorizonsearchingforthesmallspecksoflight.Afterawhileoneappearedabovemyhead,andIreachedmyarmintheair,effortlesslymeetingmyhandwithitsbody,andlettingit land.Withthehole-puncturedlidremoved,Icoaxeditin,slowlyre-coveringthelidonceitcrawledinside.Anothertwoflashescircledme,andwithmypersuasiontheyaccompaniedtheircompanionontheothersideoftheglass.

Lorena fernandez

Juvenescence

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I watched them circle the jar, clinging to the glass andoccasionally drifting to the other side, flashing every so often andilluminating the flesh on my hands. And those hands surrenderedtheir tightgraspandslidalong theoutsideof the jar, tracinga linetowardthelidthattheyproceededtoloosenanddiscard.Thethreecrept to the top innohurry, instead loiteringon the rimof the jarbeforeleisurelytakingoff.Iraisedmyhead,andthegrassroseuptocatchmeasIwatchedtheskytakeholdofthelightsthatdisappearedintotheinfiniterealmofstarsglitteringthedark. Tomysurprise,theflashesoflightdidnotgofaroncereleased.Blendinginandoutofthestars,theywaveredabovemyhead,teasingtheblackwiththeirdullradiance.Onebyonetheybuzzedsilentlyaway,allexceptforonethatlandeddelicatelyonmyhand.Itcrawledalong,inchingacrossthegroovesonmypalm,burninganelectrifyingimageinmy vision as it glowed that constant and comforting luminositythat I’dgrownso fondof. ItreachedthetipofmyfingerandIheldupmyhand,watchinghimwinkgoodbyeanddepartwiththeothers.Foramomentonlythedistantrumbleofcarengineswanderedintomyearsuntilafamiliarbuzzingstartedtoechoinmymind,andasIclosedmyeyesthelightre-appeared,burnedinmyvision—abeaconlikenoother.Ihadcapturedthelight.

Drifting Taylor Leicht

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You are not your parentsor your siblings or your friends.

You are not the classes you takeor the grades you receive.You are not what you eat

or the words that devour you.

You are much more than that.

You are your laugh and your smile.You are the song lyrics and movie quotes

that fill your head.You are the books you read and the charac-

ters you fall in love with.You are more the words you think rather

than the words you say.But you cannot disregard what you say

because you are some of that, too.You are the endless nights spent thinking

instead of sleeping.You are the story in your eyes and the

dreams in your mind.

Yet still, you are much more than all that.

You are the silence in the morningwhen no one else is awake.

You are the twinkle in the starsthat you wish upon.

You are the foam of the sea,kissing the shore.

You are the bud of the flower,blooming in the springtime.You are the rays of the sun,

brightening the whole world.You are the autumn wind,

returning life to the dying leaves. You are the burning red embers,

floating up to the heavens.

You are all the beauty of the world,and no one can compare to who you truly

are.

You Truly Areemma scheer

a poem about the ramifications of overanalyzing astrophysicsannie zidek

looking up above,staring into the unknown,radiance is seen.

eighty-eight pictures,painted on endless black clouds,waiting to be found

their significance:misinterpreted, deeperunfathomable

yet both halcyonand endlessly murderous,loving and hating

set ablaze by Him,kept illuminated bythe Heavenly Hosts.

moonlight brooke kamins

35

I try to crack my anxiousnessbut I need your aid

direct me with the figment ofinnocence in mind

I must know nothing elsebut to trail behind

I trust my blood won’t be wastedpooled in your hands

look up and see nothingbut sparkling stars

peppered across the clandestine nightawake from this paradise awake from this persona

it is in myself that I will findeternal equanimity

Iridescent secrets

Kyra Kauffman

Three lights kylie yocum

36

Once upon a time, There was an Odd little girl Who believed about Twenty impossible things Before breakfast. And she went out Into the world With her wild And innocent imagination In tow, Her blonde hair Laughing and flying Freely in the wind.But sadly, Bad things happen To good people, And this young girl Had to see the joyful light Of her mother’s eyes Disappear. But she did not give up, She did not stop Believing in The impossible. And when she got to school, She continued being herself, For she had The unbelievably rare quality Of not Giving a damn What anyone else thought About her. But she Was also extremely

Intelligent and Had a knack For embarrassing honesty. And most people Were quite rude To her, But she accepted them For who they were, And hoped one day They’d do the same. And although she was Alone much of time, She was never Lonely. And when the time came To protect her friends And defend her home, She encouraged everyone As if they were only practicing As if it were not a matter Of life and death. She was just so comfortable being Who she was, that, In a strange way, She was confident. Loyal to the friends she had, This unique little girl Has taught me That it’s okay To be yourself, For if they were true friends,They’d love you Just the way you are.

The moonhazel walters

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Here’s To...

Here’s to the first day of second grade. Mrs. Clark’s room was splashed with laminated posters, and student projects littered the walls. The desks were the big kid kind; they opened up just far enough to have all your off-brand crayons and novelty erasers sliding off the front end. I hadn’t gained glasses yet, nor had I lost those notorious little kid bangs. After we tucked away our Powerpuff Girl and Batman backpacks into the revolving closet doors, Mrs. Clark had all thirty or so of us sit in a large cluster on the carpet stained from decades of seven-year-olds and their respective pencil shavings. You were the new kid with frizzy black hair and the eyebrow-length bangs to match. We sat next to each other and you asked me, “Do you want to be friends?” Here’s to me replying, “Yes!” Here’s to us climbing the four-foot monkey bars and sliding down the beige spiral slide. We would sit in the tower at the top of the playground, etched with graffiti from years of mischievous elementary schoolers, and overlook the majestic East parking lot, where the boys would play touch football and the girls would jump Double Dutch rope. We switched it up, of course. Sometimes we sat at the dinosaur head-shaped rock near the forest. Here’s to fourth grade, where you found that you had a learning problem. I didn’t know why you were taken out of spelling class or why I saw you in extra needs room with the guidance counselor. I didn’t know that you had a harder time catching up with the rest of the class or why you had extra parent-teacher meetings. To me that didn’t matter. If you didn’t want to talk about it, you didn’t have to. Here’s to you receiving a flip phone for Christmas in sixth grade. I managed to rack up the worst cell phone bills in my life. To this day we can’t go three days without texting, even if it consists of “bored” and “I’m hungry” for hours in a row. You’re heard more of my rants and breakdowns than everyone else combined. Here’s to us singing at the top of our lungs during recess. We were a pop punk choir throughout recess to the great annoyance of everyone around us. We would run out of magnets and tape plastering band pictures in those ridiculous sixth-grade half-lockers and bought our first CDs that would grow scratched and inaudible after hitting “play” one too many times. Here’s to the junior high dances when we would gossip about Leopluradon, Cheeseburger, Homeboy, and the other ridiculous names we gave to the boys that we’ve known since we were in plaid jumpers. We finally coerced Blondie into slow dancing with you during David Archuleta’s “Crush” in seventh grade. You are still forever thankful that it didn’t work out. Here’s to the sleepless sleepovers, with our other friends stealing our phones but giving up on trying to unlock them. I wasn’t allowed to stay at your house overnight after your thirteenth birthday party because of your older sister, so we stayed up until midnight telling scary stories and jumped at the ring of the doorbell. When you sleep over now, your mom doesn’t even ask when you’re coming back home. She’s too used to it.

Angela Andaleon

encima de barcelona amy stark40

Here’s to January 8th, 2011. That was the morning of Carmel’s entrance exam. It was also the morning of your dad’s funeral. I regret sitting inside the walls of the school, coloring in lead bubbles while you sat crying inside the church. You missed school the Wednesday beforehand, and at the lunch table we asked why you weren’t at school. You were at the hospital. We missed you. We asked, “Where is she right now?” We found out a few hours later. Here’s to graduation. We teared up at leaving each other and no longer going to the same school. We promised between us and our other friends that we would always Skype and go to the mall even though we went to different schools. We said that our friendships would never change. You’re the only one I still talk to. Here’s to the beginning of freshman year, when you met your boyfriend. He was the odd nerd in your algebra class and you asked him to a movie. You’ve celebrated your second anniversary now, celebrated at your seventeenth birthday party with pumpkin ice cream. We promised to be each other’s maids of honor. Here’s to when your sister taught you to drive with me in the backseat. We ran into a ditch alongside Kilbourne Road when you hit the gas instead of the brakes. We decided that you could just bum rides off of me instead of you flying off into Lake Michigan. After I got my license, we went to the mall and fulfilled our obligatory Hot Topic stop. Here’s to senior year. You’re now one of the most advanced students in your school. You, your mom, and your sister share stronger bonds than ever. It’s been ten years since we met in that second-story room with filthy carpet and rotating closet doors. Here’s to ten years of the best friendship with the strongest person I know. Here’s to ten more. Here’s to eternity.

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Misty rhinenicole hefner

I love unmade beds,

and I love the way people look when they first wake up.

I love the flush of embarrassment that rushes to their cheeks,

and I love the tears that well up in their eyes even though they try to hold them back.

I love the gasp people take while watching scary movies,

and I love the way people laugh.

I love the look in people’s eyes when they talk about their passions,

and I love the way people tell their favorite stories.

I love the way people smile, opening their heart and soul,

and I love their accents of the world.

I love the moments people decide to get up and dance,

and I love when people really say what’s on their mind, holding nothing within.

I love people in their honest state,

because if you take that away, you’re left with people nobody could ever love.

Honest HeartsEmma Scheer

directions Nicole Kvist 43

There used to be something lovely about you. All shiny and free and new. Like you were from the wild clouds. But now you’re not, you have edges, and sharp bits, and your voice cracks, and there’s dirt on your cheek and a rip in your jeans. You talk rough and your hair falls differently. And you always ask me for food. You’re not shiny and new, you’re not lovely. You’re not who I first saw. You’re real.

You were so glamorous. Like some kind of movie star. You had rays coming from yourself. Every time you smiled, it was like lightning. You were untouchable. And then I saw you in sweatpants. And that make-up stuff was smeared from rubbing tired eyes. And I saw you pop bubble gum and get it stuck on your nose. I heard you let out a snort when you were laughing that only made you laugh harder. And I saw you dance around singing a silly, made-up song. And suddenly you were touchable. And I reached out, and you were there.

I remember when you got into money issues. And you just couldn’t stop spending. And we had to move, again and again. And I had to get another job. And you asked me for liquor money we didn’t have. And that long night of doing the taxes and paying bills that I made you do with me. And then we were okay.

I remember your smoking phase. It all started with a dream where you smoked. Or that’s what you said. And then it was packs a day. And I pulled the cig from your lips and swore I’d never kiss you again if you always smelled of smoke. And how angry you were. And how relieved when you saw I was waiting for you. And then we were fine.

I remember when you forced me to go to a country music concert. I thought it was redneck stuff. By the end of the evening I had bought a cowboy hat and at least three albums.

I remember when you badgered me into a ballroom dancing class. I thought it was sissy, pretty boy stuff. But then I realized it was an excuse to hold you close. I remember when you lost the job of your dreams because of that one terrible boss. You came home so mad you trembled. Fist-sized holes wound up in the walls. And then later, after the anger and hate and frustration, I held you while you cried hot, disappointed tears.

I remember when your brother got sick. And there was the rushing to hospitals and talking to doctors and filling out the piles of paperwork. You were always cheery to him in the hospital bed, attentive to the doctors, comforting to your mother. But then, after the endless amount of work that you did, I held you as you cried slow, bitter tears of exhaustion.

fallingly slowlyrose watson

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I remember when you found God. And we argued so much. I felt like you wanted to change me, like I wasn’t good enough for you anymore. We raged at each other, and you’d run to church, which would make me angrier. I couldn’t believe in your God, or any other for that matter. And you came back and I was waiting. And we talked for hours that night. And we decided you could read your holy books like scripture and I could read them like stories. And it wouldn’t come between us.

I remember when you tried to read Twilight on that rainy afternoon, and you got so frustrated with it your ranting carried all the way upstairs. I snatched the wretched book from your hands, replaced it with your well-worn, lovingly annotated copy of The Lord of the Rings, and kissed the top of your head, and felt proud as you sighed in enjoyment at the change in literature.

I remember the Christmas I got you Skyrim, and you could not wait to play it. You looked like you were being tortured throughout dinner with my family; the only thing on your mind was the game. After everyone had gone home and I’d gone to bed, you must have snuck off to play because I found you, passed out, surrounded by bits of leftover ham and crushed Monster cans, in front of the Xbox with soothing background music playing.

I remember the time you had a Pushing Daisies marathon and cried at the realization that there were only two seasons.

I remember your surprise when I sat down to watch Star Wars with you and could quote almost every line, of every movie.

I’m so glad that you’re here.

I’m so glad you chose me.

I’m so thankful for the notes you leave in my wallet.

I’m so thankful for the hugs you give me when I’m dead on my feet.

I kept the receipt from our first date. It was dinner at the local diner and a movie.

I kept the wrapping from the first gift you ever got me. It was the little plastic ball those vending machine key chains come in.

I’m so in love with the way you laugh at my dumb jokes.

I’m so in love with the way you get cuddly when you’re tired.

I’m so in love with you.

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A song I wrote for a girl onceDropped out of my mouth in burbling chunksLike melted ice cream--the kind withLittle bubblegum bits tossedIn amidst a strawberry swirl--and nobody cleanedIt up.

Another time when I triedTo impress a princess with limericks or lyricsA dove flew out my maw, flapped twice,And turned crow and cawed and flopped dead.

The third verse for a girl (much more than a girl really she was my favorite mind you)Was a rose. Sculpted in stained glassAnd polished to serene translucence,Adorned with barbed topaz thorns.As I handed it to her, one of the hooksCaught my shirtsleeve.The flower fell flat and shattered--scattered--across the floor.

And while her chambermaids all laughed at meShe stoopedFound every pieceCut her fingers picking each upIgnored her blood drops on the cobblestone squaresMet my eyesAnd blushed

And blushed

A Song I Wrote For A Girl OnceCreighton Budris

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Wish Away Megan Fox

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untitled nikki tomsovic

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grazing bison katie donahoe

Natural Harmony

Harmony. Peace.

Fruit.

Nature quiet, patient, intervenes.

Progress. Threatens all.

People.

An umbrella hosts guests.

Leaves larger than the shoot

Even Taller.

Taller.

Taller.

Width increases.

Then bark. First a shoot.

Burgeoning new life, it grows.

Then a Seed.Dirt.

Natural Harmonyedward chmiel

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Perspective is somethingThat takes a lifetime to get,Never truly understoodUntil you are met

With the challenge of a lifetimeThat makes you rethink,Restructure, realizeThat life is but a blink,

A blink of the eyeAnd people forget,Forget what you told them,And slowly let

Memories slip awayAnd time pass us byAs you wait for your sunsetAnd wonder why

There’s no picket fenceNo “Good Life” in sightSo you sight idle and worryAbout what just might

Happen if youTake another lookAt things from the past,Things you once mistook.

So step in my shoes,I really don’t mind,But I’ll tell you somethingYou just might find.

See, some call me ignorant,Some call me dense,But if they stepped in my shoes,It would all make sense.

Perspectivejason kadowaki

more than meets the eve amulya kandikonda

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11:59 PMIn one minute everything will be forgottenTomorrow will be today, today will be yesterdayConversations will fade, moments will be gone, and everything will slowly turn into a memoryEventually being forgotten as more todays become yesterdaysThe one thing staying constant is timeConstantly ticking away as our lives flash before our eyesBecause we wait all day for tomorrow to become todayAnd we wait for so long that soon there isn’t any waiting leftAnd there are no more tomorrows, just one today, and a few memories of the good old daysSo I will no longer waitI will no longer want tomorrow to become todayI will focus on today and make it the best today I have ever hadSo when I run out of tomorrows, I can be happy with my last today

TodayEmma Wagner

Beauty vly Ellen Barhorst

“Harry, where are you?” “Uhm, getting lunch… you need anything?” “It’s Gilbert…” Callie sighed. Great uncle Gilbert was eighty-six years old and the most blasé being I have ever met. He owned two pairs of brown corduroys and three oxford shirts from the middle ages. Gilbert said “Heh?” after every sentence and didn’t eat anything that was red. I drove through downtown to get to the hospital Gilbert was at. I passed by South Deering, Western Avenue, Archer Heights and tried brace myself before going into Hyde Park. I remembered the time when I worked at a homeless shelter there in high school. My mom warned me time and time again to be careful and maintain a distance from anybody looking “suspicious”, although frankly everyone at the shelter, even the priests who ran it, would have qualified as “suspicious” to my mom. I stopped at a railroad crossing ten minutes from the hospital. The train seemed unbounded. All trains seem infinite when you’re in your car waiting for them to pass by so you can get on with your life. I tried to read the messages on the walls of the street. The curvaceous letters swerved around the block. Bright pink and neon green dribbled off the walls. A boy walked along the sidewalk, one hand holding up his pants and the other hand hiding something behind his back. I told myself it probably wasn’t anything dangerous. I told myself that boys in this part of town don’t go around carrying guns or knives. It was a spray can. Black ink shot out through the aerosol tin and blazed the brick walls. I reversed and pulled into the alley way aside the wall. He glanced at my car, but drew his attention back to the wall. I could hear my mom yelling at me to just drive by and pretend I didn’t notice anything. But hey, I was a priest. “Kid! You! You really shouldn’t be doing that” I yelled and ducked back into my car. He put down the can and walked closer. “You, you know you can get in jail for that?” “Yeah, I know. Why you tellin’ me things I already know.” “Maybe you should spend your time doing better things.” “It’s, it’s not my fault!” “Well, then whose fault is it?” “The Tigers. The Tigers make me do it, man!” “Is that a gang?” “Yeah.” He ran his hand across his balmy head of cornrows. I knew nothing about gangs. I knew I had to get to the hospital before Callie threw a fit. “Look, kid do you need a ride home or anything?” “Nobody’s home. Mom’s at work. I stay out.” “Don’t you go to school or something?” “It’s Saturday.” “Do you at least have babysitter or something?” “Man, I’m fourteen!”

A Father’s DayAmulya Kandikonda

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Okay, look I know this place you can go to. You can stay away from these Leopard people and be safe. I can take you there if you’d like Man, do I look stupid? You tryin’ to kidnap me or somethin’? What? No! I’m a priest. Look I’m only giving you an offer. I’m not going to force you into anything. I’m just trying to do the right thing. Look, its close by here, you can walk home after. He looked back and forth and shrugged. “Aight.” He said as I let him into my car. “I’m Father Harry by the way.” “I’m Tyrone. Are you like a pastor or something?” “No, I’m a Catholic priest. Have you ever been to church?” “Once, at my cousin’s funeral.” “Oh…” I called Callie to let her know where I was. “Callie, I’m on my way.” “Look, it’s none of my problem but the old man’s dying to see you, literally.” “Hey Tyrone, do you mind if we stop by at the hospital for a second?” “Who’s Tyrone?” “Long story, I’ll be there in five.” I heard Gilbert’s voice from the hospital corridor. “Father Harry, why are we here?” Tyron asked. “It’s my great uncle, he’s not feeling well.” Callie was trying to feed Gilbert a cup of oatmeal. A couple of my cousins sat around the room. Everyone turned to face me as I walked in. Tyrone followed and awkwardly took a seat next to Cousin George. Gilbert stared at Tyrone and looked back at Callie. “Who’s the negro?” “Uncle Gilbert, we don’t use that word anymore remember?” Callie scolded. “Heh?” I quickly took charge of the conversation before Gilbert said anything worse. “Gilbert, Callie said you needed me for something.” “Heh? Oh yeah! I wanted one of them confessions” “Okay, do you want to have everyone leave the room?” “Nah, keep them in; they should listen to the old man’s tales!” “How long has it been since you have had a confession?” “Seventy-five years! My mother took me the year before she died.” “Alright then, you should start with—” “When I was eighteen, I stole my father’s savings and ran away with the girl next door, because I got mad at my father for marrying another woman. The girl was ten years older than me. I never really loved her and we broke up two years later. That’s when I went off to the army! Heh? Those were the best years. I was young and tough. Once, I beat up a sailor after getting drunk and then pissed on his shoes. I knew that as soon as I came back home, I’d be all by myself.

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I became a sad, alcoholic loser. Then, I met Aunt Franny at the diner downtown. Oh Harry, she was all that I thought about. I asked her to marry me one day and she said she would if I’d quit drinking so much. I promised her. On our wedding day, I hid some cognac under my coat and chugged while nobody was looking. Poor Franny, she always trusted me. Twenty years into our marriage I cheated on her with Sue, the woman next door. I remember Franny crying on the patio when I came back home from work. But you know what’s crazy? She never left me; she stayed with me ‘til her end. You know, there’s nothing I wouldn’t do to see her again.” Tyrone broke silence in the room. “My dad died two years ago. Father, I lied… I’m not part of a gang. I just like to graffiti the street he was shot on. It makes me feel good.” “It’s alright Tyrone, but why did you lie to me?” I asked. “I just didn’t want you to call the cops. Last week, my mom caught me spraying and she took me home and just looked me. I just don’t wanna hurt her, you know?” “The negro’s a nice boy!” Gilbert proclaimed. I said a few Our Fathers with Gilbert until he started to fall asleep. Everyone left the room so the nurses could change his IV. Tyrone stood by the door and looked in. “Tyrone, we can go now if you’d like.” “Can I say goodbye to him?” “Oh, you want to say goodbye Gilbert?” “Yeah.” “Well, that’s fine, as long as he’s not sleeping.” Gilbert then yelled at the nurse because it was too cold in the room. Tyrone and I walked in an sat by his bedside. “Gilbert, Tyrone wants to say goodbye.” I said. “Goodbye sir, it was nice meeting you”, said Tyrone. “It was nice seeing you to pal. Stay out of trouble and don’t get shot, ya here me?” Tyron smiled and shook Gilbert’s hand. Gilbert chuckled, “I’ll tell your dad you love him if I seem in heaven, heh?”

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mem█o█ry \≈\ n. 1. My ability to recall, relive, and remember events from the past, no matter if I want to or if I’d rather erase them from existence. 2. The murky smell of warm lake water in August / Sweet, fresh-picked Sarasota oranges / Six brown and white puppies licking my face with wet, pink tongues / Whip-poor-will warbling outside the window, an alarm clock / April pool water piercing my freezing skin / The bonfire whispering flames into the darkness / A warmer hand intertwined with my colder one under the dinner table / Baby Grace singing her sweet rendition of “Ring Around the Rosie” / Fine sand too hot to walk comfortably across / Slimy bluegill scales on my palm / Thirteen girls sitting crisscross in a circle around a pile of iPhones / Warning eyes, later sympathetic, comforting / Laughs unceasing, sore stomachs / An unfinished roll of film.

MemoryCaroline Kornak

Looking out annie Brinkman

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Time emma Kobitter

Is a man-made concept;Some are old at 17Some are young at 70I often feel old at sixteen yearsSitting in bed, regretting elements of the pastAnd reminiscing about times of my youth,Wanting to return to the innocence.My grandmother is eighty years oldAnd goes swing dancing by nightAnd flirts with men at the bar.Some are old at 17Some are young at 70.

Dashboard Of The Past Brooke Kamins

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City of Ash amanda Im

Let’s splash this fire across the city,Lock those demons up tight.Listen to their pitiful cries, their hateful screams.The flames light up the night sky.

I dance around this bonfire of mine, Look at how the glow spreads.The colors, the heat, it enchants meAs I feel the bittersweet burn and bite.

This is my vengeance, this is my night,This is my beautiful glory. Dance with me, my merry flamesLick my wounds away.

The smoke is like a drug to me, The colors, oh so bright.Say goodbye to me, my dearAs we burn, this City and I.

Untitled Nikki Tomsovic

We sat, deep, deep in the forest. We waited. We listened.

A white stone in the shape of girl, a black stone in the shape of boy clasped hands soundlessly and kiss’d to sprout trees and grass in a cleared spot deep in the brush; we would lie on the ground and point to what we saw when we stared up at the sky: the sun, the light, the clouds, the blue.

The world blended together and flowed with a grace of gold; a muffled white snow settled above the mountains and became part of the rock.

And a single lotus. A single flower blushed pink, drifting down from the heavens and landing softly on the pond, gently, quietly nudging a single ripple out from the center to the edges of the water; it touched the land and sent the ripple to travel the world and soon return silently to where we sat in the shade.

It would come around eventually. And we had time.

So we sat, deep, deep in the forest. And we waited. And we listened.

We ListenIsabella Kwiecinski

Free annie brinkman

Why?Sabrina Easley

Soft, silky ribbons slip through deft finger-tips. The methodical motions of slipping on the restraining cage onto my foot, a torture device concealed in soft pink satin and ribbons. Whoever had the grand idea of dancing on their toes must have had serious mental problems. Sometimes I ask myself, why am I still doing this? Why go through all of this pain, gaining calloused feet and being yelled at by instructors? Go through rigorous work, my body straining to build strength and flexibility, and yet I am barely acknowledged. Just another part of a class, a group of girls, all struggling to improve. But then I am reminded. As the music flows through my lithe limbs, I finally remember why. I thrive on the fact that as a dancer, I am an artist. I am both the painter and the paint brush; I create my movements at the same time as I give them life and perform them for an expecting audience. And that is why I go through these somewhat masochistic motions. Simply because I love it.

So we sat, deep, deep in the forest. And we waited. And we listened.

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When I feel the sun’s raysOn my skin all day,When the mosquitoes biteAnd bees take flight,That’s when I know it’s summer.

When the kids prance outsideAnd ride their bikes,Sell lemonade, And forget their grades,That’s when I know it’s summer.

When the popsicles melt,And sweat is feltThe night’s cool breezeAnd fresh trimmed treesThat’s when you know it’s summer.

Ode to Summeralex legaspi

stroll on the beach cj kelmis

a fair in the fog abigail hunt

fish

There may be many fish in the seabut there can only be one for meif my fish is eaten by anotherwhat will I eat for my supper?

carter bedward

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*This essay is a response to one of the University of Chicago’s 2013-2014 essay prompts: How are apples and oranges supposed to be compared? Possible answers include, but are not limited to, statistics, chemistry, physics, linguistics, and philosophy.

To you, the perpetrator of my misfortune:Peel me now—go ahead and strip me of my pride. But before you squeeze me for my sweet surprise, beware of my newfound bitter bite. No, because of you, I do not excite the tongue. I am only a repellant. Drink me first; you’ll spit me out, throw me away. You will deem me an unlucky pick. As you break me apart, know that my heart was not meant to be shared: you broke me before when you stole her with your ungrateful heart. I saw your expression when you looked at her—you rolled your eyes, even looked elsewhere. I heard what you said. $1.25? A cookie’s almost a buck less! You could not have appreciated her as I did. Lady Pink: she was ideal with an unblemished, flawless complexion. Smooth and delicate—even angelic. But do not be quick to judge. She was crisp. Cool. And I know beneath that skin was some crunch. Her scent was captivating: sweet and flowery. Did you know that before you snatched her away? To think that you had the audacity to compare her to a man-made, red #1, preservative-filled dessert. Lady Pink was pure.She stood out among her kind. The Fuji twins always bickered over who would be picked first: the brighter sister bragged about her glowing skin, but after a few days, tiny brown spots spotted her skin. And the stars of Lady’s basket were always the Honeys—Little Miss Populars. And each day, I watched Lady from across the lunchroom, dreaming about our companionship. But then one morning, I awoke to complete chaos. Overnight, we had moved from the basket labeled “ORANGES” to a more suitable, general bunch: “FRESH FRUIT.” And then two of my own kind broke out in frenzy. The malevolent Bloods, whom I often avoided, believed our kinds had to stay separate because intermingling affected the bloodlines. And the Valencias, shipped directly from the third largest city of Spain, thought the more variety, the better (at least that is what I think… my Spanish is a little broken)! Granny Smith, unmistakable for her soft skin with ugly brown spots, was included in this bunch until she exploded in a fit of paranoia, escaped the straw basket in search of her beloved but long-dead Mr. Golden, and rolled to her death on the cafeteria floor.But then she appeared! A few inches away! My Lady. So dainty and graceful when she rolled. Even for a second, the Bloods stopped quarrelling and gazed at her. Believe me, even Sir McIntosh broke away from the Honeys who suffocated him—although he enjoyed the attention—to often badger her. Often it was, “Hey Pink, whad’ya say we sneak out of this basket tonight to take a roll around the lunch room?” or “Pink, how about going to Delicious’s DJ party by the vending machine?”

Orange versus aPPleBrooke White

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But Pink kept her dignity, even as he tried to impress her with his core. What did that matter if no person valued it anyway? And then I found a connection between our two kinds. When my kind is picked, we are peeled. We are shed of our outermost layer that protects us, that keeps us secure. And sure, Lady and her friends might keep their outer skin, but their most central feature is pitched and believed to be of no value. But these two features together—our outer- and inner-most parts—are most important in combination. They keep us secure: without them, we remain unbound.And one day she spoke to me.“Clement.”She moved to meet my gaze.“Clement, I have never seen an orange like you.”“I am small.”“Why do you mention your size? It reveals nothing.”“I am inferior.”“To whom? The oranges who feud over mixing our kinds? Your Bloods spend time wanting to preserve who they are, but what does that mean? And the Valencias are welcoming in words yet shunning in action. For all I see, the Bloods do not know that they work to preserve you and me who come from a branch that stems from the tree planted in the same ground. We both come from a seed—different seeds, but a seed nonetheless—and we are more alike than any argument against our mingling.”When she stopped, her pink cheeks blushed pinker. When you took her, she did not fight. And now her words echo only in my ears. Together, we could have united: two fruits whose wholeness is appreciated only if the two are combined.Your no-longer inferior,Clement

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Baking in a puddle of grease

A necessary part of any feast

Crispy pieces of heaven

Object of my obsession

Never steal my piece

Moo-ing on Out Lorena Fernandez

Baconkally morozin

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Ah Netflix,I turn you on for a short time,

At least that’s what I had in mind.I start with some Barney Stinson,

But I end up at Walt Whitman.I have thirty seconds to decide

If I will sit on the couch and hide.Shall I depart from Olivia Pope?

Though I have little hopeThat I might find

Something else worth my time.

Streaming LoveJoe Longo

I’m Busyally sledz

Food For Thought Olivia DeKeyser

I really should But I need some sleepBut my favorite movie is onBut I didn’t see last night’s epi-sodeBut there’s an online sale that ends at midnightBut I have to finish my bookBut I haven’t eaten all dayI’m not going to

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Education can save the world.No.

Education cannot save one person.Humans were born to starve, to fight, and to die.

I will never accept thatWe deserve more than suffering.

The truth is, I loveSelf-reliance.

I have given up on A better future.

Education is a tool forOppression, war, and hate.

Knowledge can defeatNothing.

Fighting forOur own selfishness,

We can conquerWhat is holding us back.

In the futureSchools will sustain nations,

Knowledge will feed the starving,Students will lead the world to peace,

Foolish!I call anyone who tells me this

Naïve for believing in a better world.People tell me that I am

Supposed to care about others.Why do so few understand that we are

On our own.We will never prosper

One dayEveryone will see

That education is a tool for oppression.It is foolish to believe

(Now read the poem line by line backwards)

perspectivedillon novak

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