kalon

Harbinger

kalonnoun ka·lon \kә’län

ideal perfect beauty in the physical and moral sense

Copyright © 2015 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. Copyright © 2015 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.

Cover Art: Contineo by Amanda Im

Carmel Catholic High School One Carmel Parkway Mundelein, IL 60060

President - Sister Mary Frances McLaughlin, BVMPrincipal - Mark Ostap

Moderator - Marcia Meyer

Contineo the Latin word for hold together, keep together, connect, join

Amulya KandikondaEditor in Chief

Annie ZidekEditor in Chief

Amanda ImLayout Editor

Annie CebulskiSubmissions Editor

Madeline Gibula Publicity Editor

Emma Scheer Publicity Editor

Jen Behrens Publicity Editor

Ethan SeidenbergPublicity Editor

Nicole Hefner Copy Editor

Alyssa Kruft Copy Editor

Meera RamakrishnanCopy Editor

Natasha Gupta Copy Editor

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harbinger staff

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We would like to thank all of the people involved with the making of Harbinger this year. So much hard work and thought has gone into this year’s issue—both by the club members, by faculty, and by our contributing artists. This literary-art magazine exists because of you.

(top left) Lorena Fernandez • Nicole Hefner • Emily Meixell • Celia De Keyser • Michael Edicola • Robert Mason • Alison Cuba (second) Katie Galuska • Natasha Gupta • Claire Zupec • Emma Scheer • Maggie Wittmann • Kaeleigh Foecking • Kaitlin Shibovich • Meera Ramakrishnan (third) Annie Cebulski • Alyssa Kruft • Amanda Im • Jen Behrens • Ethan Seidenberg • David Brody • Maddy Gibula (bottom) Annie Zidek • Amulya Kandikonda* not pictured: Carter Bedward, Amanda Modelski, Eric Machamer

contributing members

“All I ever really want to know is how other people are making it through life—where do they put their body, hour by hour, and how do they cope inside of it.” —Miranda July, It Chooses You

Miranda July is a writer whose work focuses heavily on making insignificant, everyday moments profound and powerful. Her simplistic style mirrors the simplicity of the human experience. In the quote above, she touches on the idea that the human experience is quite individual. As human beings, we are all trying to make sense of the world around us. Despite the clear individualism of living, understanding our environments is also incredibly interactive. We work with people—our family and our friends and even strangers—to navigate life. Art aids this communal aspect of living. Reading other people’s spilled ink is an intimate experience, as well as interpreting visual art. There’s a strong sense of connection between the audience and the artist. Since the human experience is universal, if the artist isn’t present with you as you look at his or her piece (except for “The Artist is Present,” of course), you can still relate to them. But how? Art is our interpretation of personal events, and most of our individual experiences share a commonality with others, thus art links us all together. We are all trying to “make it through life,” thinking about where “[we] put [our bodies], hour by hour.” We are all coping. There are so many people I would like to thank for making the past four years of Harbinger worthwhile, but there’s definitely not enough room for all the names. Regardless, thank you to everyone who has contributed in any way over the years; you’ve touched me deeply. It’s truly been such a blessing to be a part of such a passionate publication, and it’s hard to leave it behind. Enjoy this year’s issue. It’s a good one.auf Wiedersehen,

Annie ZidekCo-Editor-in-Chief

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“I’ve learned that people will forget what you said, people will forget what you did, but people will never forget how you made them feel.” —Maya Angelou Art has the unique ability to evoke emotions that we may not even know exist inside of us. Through the comedy, tragedy, or sheer beauty of a simple poem or painting, we can allow ourselves to explore the depths of the human experience. This allows us to begin understanding ourselves and the world we exist in. Kalon, or inner beauty, encompasses the aura that Harbinger strives to create. I hope that your work and the work of your peers helps you appreciate the inner artist in all of us and inspires you to find kalon in art and daily life. Some of you may or may not know the intricate and arduous process that the members and editors at Harbinger Magazine work through to create what you are reading today. It takes months of going through the whole school’s submissions, creating layouts, putting together the layouts, and going back and reviewing all of the details to create Harbinger. Yet there is beauty in this often demanding process. The talent and determination of the editors, the dedicated Harbinger staff, and Mrs. Meyer, have all come together to create this masterpiece and I personally thank all of them for helping make Harbinger possible. During my time as Co Editor-in-Chief of Harbinger, and in previous years as Publicity Editor and staff member, I have enjoyed innumerable moments of joy with everyone I have worked with at Harbinger. Although the times that I have spent browsing through poems, fidgeting with inDesign, and having pizza lunches with editors may be forgotten, I will not forget the feeling of fulfillment that I had while working on Harbinger. I hope that Kalon is as memorable, meaningful, and beautiful as the time we have all spent to create it. Sincerely,

Amulya Kandikonda Co Editor-in-Chief

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Editors’ note: all submissions were considered anonymously.

Letters to the Babylonians Kyle Cornell 9 They’ll Never Know Katherine Heidecke 10 My Favorite Place Anonymous 12 New Horizons Alex Pann 13 Midnight Watchers Ethan Seidenberg 13 Happy Picture Poem Catherine Preibe 15 Beneath the Skin Rachel Engel 16 Life’s Great Casualty Emma Sheer 16 Blossoms Stephanie Storczer 17 White Strength of Fear Grace Herrigan 21 Daydream Julia Kasbohm 25 Last Grasp Annie Cebulski 26 Mistaken Christina Rao 26 Notes Alycia Zimmerman 28 Relationships Mark Markosyan 30 Teleportation Lee Herman 31 Sufferings of Success Bobby Jackson 32 The Useless Tree Katie Galuska 34 I Have a Record Player, but It Doesn’t Work Maddison Edwards 36 Nature and Nothing More Kara Pohlman 36 Strawberries and Nuclear Warheads Celia Dekeyser 37 A Burning Passion Steven Matuszak 46 Sara Beth Madison Edwards 48 Chains Anonymous 48 How to Make Friends Caroline Kornak 48 The Monster In Me Maggie Tutaj 50 Made in America Alex Pawn 52 Little Billy Amulya Kandikonda 52 Dreams of the Sea Ethan Seidenberg 54 Bacon Sestina Alyssa Kruft 59 Bacon Ballad Anonymous 59 Drake JR Wagner 60

Only Ever Always Anonymous 8 Tragedy of Accidental Humanity Anonymous 8 Growth Samantha Cook 11 Edec and I Alycia Zimmerman 14 A Short Synopsis of My Crepescular Thought Process Anonymous 18 Gooey Alex Pann 20 Color Nostalgia Emily Edicola 24 Yellow Balloon Meera Ramakrishnan 28 The Second Dark Ages Ethan Seidenberg 31 Woes of a Social Outcast Amanda Im 41 Diary of a Fake David Brady 42 How to Get Away With Murder Maeve Daw 44 The Arena Liam Easley 51

poet

rypr

ose

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table of contents

That’s What’s Up Amulya Kandikonda 9 You Become What You Consume Corinne Chambers-Boucher 10 lluminate Annie Brinkman 12 Dreary Flight Malachi Skiby 14 Spring Green Amanda Im 17 Scattered Thoughts Jen Behrens 18 Light of Assisi Christina Rao 20 Bluejay in the Water Robert Mason 21 45° 56’ 3.9372’’N 89° 32’ 39.7824’’W Abby Paulson 24 The Hoist Abby Paulson 25 Meander Amulya Kandikonda 27 A New Perspective Annie Brinkman 29 The Journey Annie Brinkman 30 The Sounds of Summer Annie Brinkman 33 Painted Love Ashley Lindas 35 Bench Malachi Skiby 37 Snow Day Madison Edwards 40 Vices Micheal Edicola 43 Stranger Danger Joseph Messink 45 A Face in the Crowd Joanna Badillo 46 Afternoon Stroll Amanda Im 49 The Eyes of Dr. Eckelberg Anna Cebulski 49 Art Deco Teresa Hull 50 Reflections AmandaIm 53 Lonesome Girl Malachi Skiby 56 Curiosity Natalie Seidl 58 Sunset Reagan McGinn 58 AM in the PM Madison Edwards 60

Samantha Millan 22 Annie Zidek 38 Amanda Modelski 56

Featured Artists:

visu

als

vii

(continued)

For as long as they could remember, they had been collecting words. They collected words while their playmates collected

bugs, bottle caps, baseball cards—and they kept them in their pockets. Of course, not every word was worthy of their personal dictionary and they hated to admit it but while they knew all words were important, some were just better than others. Ambiguous, cynicism, dwindle, and ailurophile were all good words, but ephemeral, redamancy, cavalier, and sempiternal were all better words. It was just the way things were.

Their words kept them alive on nights when they cried themselves to sleep. This happened more often than anybody should have liked, because of course they weren’t what they should have been. But they kept reminding themselves that everything is ephemeral, even pain, and their lack of redamancy would soon somehow be fixed. Their hope, of course, didn’t seem sempiternal at the time, but they liked to think they were cavalier—even though they and

everyone else knew they really weren’t.They thought it, funny, too, how everyone looked in a mirror to

see each other when it was quite obvious that a book showed a better reflection. A truer reflection.

Their least favorite word was almost. It held failed potential; showed that the human race had gotten so close to so many achievements but fell just short enough times to present the need to craft a word for it. Almost.

But then, in the end, they were only almost saved.

only ever always

anonymous

Where did mankind come from?We came from the stars; we are no longer dinosaurs but

still terrible lizards. We tear each other limb from limb and leave no flesh on any bones, even our stars cannot save us now. Orion’s arrow will more likely shoot you down than lift you up--it would be in your best interest to watch where you’re going.

Fossils are remains left behind that tell us what creatures were like, from me you will find a broken jaw. I was not allowed to speak, but though sticks and stones may break your bones, words will only hurt you if you are not allowed to have any of your own and I have words.

I am cavalier and obstreperous and sesquipedalian and ailurophile and phantasmagoric and corybantic and sempiternal. I am all of these things and I am disdainfully reckless and defiantly unruly a lover of many syllabled words and cats and I am whimsical like a dream and wildly frenzied and I will last forever.

And I am homunculus.I am human.

the tragedy of accidental humanity

anonymous

““

They collected words while their playmates collected bugs, bottle caps, baseball cards—and they kept them in their pockets.

““

Fossils are remains left behind that tell us what creatures were like, from me you will find a broken jaw.

HARBINGER 20158

What was it then, before hanging flowersand soaring towers, but pining lonely men?Where the dust runs in the burning sun is the wanting Babylonian.

One tongue of flame in the air, and the glare of sunny streaks.When the gardens reachthat flame in the airand bear forth fruitfrom the branches of trees,the tongue, now forked, begins to speak.

Two words flourish and flowerthrough the halls that girda young Babel’s tower:birds are nourishedamong its strung cables

letter to the babylonians

kyle cornell

like a hallowed, rusty bower, and the tongues dispersein a dusty shower.

As the spire starts to rise,through the fire from dustto the heart of the sky, a bust is carvedfor admiring eyesand inspires tonguesto ire, truth, and liestowards the art on high.

To chase the burning sun, and build alongthe dusty run, be spoken of and looked upon, and flourish like a flower, with something to grow on:behold the tower of Babylon.

amulya kandikondathat’s what’s up

KALON 9

They’ll never know, they’ll never seeMy closed door has a lost key

Afraid of the truth, afraid of myselfAfraid of the burden they could carry for me

I know my secrets, but I know you don’t And I’m too scared to ever let them be shown

Underneath the image, underneath the lightA war is endured with a face that shows no fight

My sympathy for you, for the troubles you holdIs infinitely numbered to an extent untold

So I’ll carry your burden, just for youBut you won’t carry the burden of me knowing it too

Now hold back your tears, conceal your heartI can do this if I am set apart

For the most part.

they’ll never know

katherine heidecke

you become what you consumecorinne chambers

HARBINGER 201510

As a young girl, I believed wholeheartedly in Santa and the Easter bunny. Like every fortunate, blessed little kid.

Broccoli was a baby tree. And the smokestack near my house was the factory that made the clouds for the

sky.The moon slept during the day, And the birds squawked and chirped in the morning to wake me up (however

upset I may be).Dr. Seuss was divinely inspired by God. And teachers never left, they had secret bedrooms within the school.Perhaps my greatest theory of the world, though—as a little girl—was my theory on life.

Throughout every person’s life, he/she was continually searching for the answer to this big, important question (possibly, the meaning of his/her own life in a greater context). And, upon finally discovering the answer, God would take this person from our arms into His.

Growth is a responsibility, a privilege, and a defeat.

I now know that broccoli is in fact a type of vegetable different from a tree… yet they look so similar.

The factory near my house produces steam as a result of water cooling down hot machinery… yet the steam seems to joyously join the clouds up in our sky.

The moon orbits, reflecting light (only visible to some parts of the world at a time)… still we sleep as the moon takes its own journey.

Birds—as well as every other type of creature—follow a circadian rhythm similar to our own… yet they remain a force of reckoning, interrupting even our deepest sleep.

Dr. Seuss was only one of the many artists inspired by God and His influence (or apparent lack of it)… a woman who spends all of her life thoroughly blessed can only attribute for so much in the world.

After many grocery store run-ins with teachers, I now know the truth: they have separate lives from the one directly influencing our own… yet we are saddened that the image of world-changing mentors has been altered.

And, for my greatest theory, well. I’ll have to let you know, but—nevertheless—the world remains just as beautiful as it

ever was.There’s beauty in being wrong.

growth

samantha cook

““

After many grocery store run-ins with teachers, I now know the truth: they have separate lives from the one directly influencing our own…

KALON 11

anonymous

Around a thousand fires we sing

Sleeping bags formed into a makeshift ring

Walking up and down musical streets

Gathered around a package of sweets

Heart and soul heard every day

Sunsets that take your breath away

People now monsters that make your heart race

Games that can take you through time and space

Flowers that crown the top of each head

Pondering the universe every night before bed

More stars in the sky than you’ve ever seen

Paid for by feet that will never be clean

Grilled cheese that fills a stomach too well

Dreams interrupted by an old rusty bell

Looking out at the water on a rickety swing

Around a thousand fires we sing

my favorite place

HARBINGER 201512

illuminateannie brinkman

Drifting down

like exhausted feathers,

The tired tears of green slip

away, leaving our desperate grasp

as our smiles disintegrate with the heat.

A new flame captures us; a flame of cold and red,

a flame of death and orange. It will corner the earth,

and clutter the weakening trees who will gasp

for their last enervating breath, and

the inevitable fire that carries

the gold of fall will

ignite across

the sky.alex pann

new

hor

izon

s

ethan seidenberg

There’s a time when the moon reveals its face in the clouds.I sit upon its crest and watch the humans as they rest.They seem so peaceful as they sleep, their eyes occasionally flickering as they count their sheep.Their dreams or nightmares they may have, are unknown to me, I cannot see into their minds,their veils conceal dark and deep, tenebrous shadows through which I cannot see.‘Tis such a shame, for what I see, a seemingly unlimited source of creativity is blocked.Why must such a wonderful source of sustenance be sealed to me, one who feeds on dreams?Those humans, they are smart I shall admit that, but I bide my time, waiting eagerly for my midnight snack...m

idni

ght w

atch

er

KALON 13

My great uncle spoke only Polish like everyone else in the village. Not even one ounce of English.

None of them spoke English. The first time I met them was filled with hugs and the babbling of excited foreign tongues. Communication was lost, and I smiled and nodded an innumerable amount of times.

It was the first time words were unavailable to me. Without words, communication seemed impossible. A lost cause. To me, speech was futile. They still spoke away.

Edec was different. My great-uncle spoke Polish, yet he could not speak. He understood but could not form his thoughts into words. He was the converse of me, able to grasp

the words but not convey his own.Edec had other ways of communicating. Where

words proved useless, he made motions. He could talk to the English and Polish alike.

I found myself having entire conversations with Edec, void of all words. Wordless conversations.

The barrier that prevented a common language from making sense to both of us allowed emotion to pass through. My hands and eyes spoke to Edec

more than my voice could. He reciprocated, and language was forgotten.Where words were lost, attention was gained. Without words, we were forced to

pay attention to each other, to watch each other, and to fully understand each other. Attention is so often lost in conversation, and understanding with it.

Edec and I knew each other without even speaking.

edec and i

alycia zimmerman

““

My hands and eyes spoke to Edec more than my voice could. He reciprocated, and language was forgotten.

dreary flightmalachi skiby

HARBINGER 201514

*Focusing*Puffs of white coat my hair and cheeks.My brother and I giggle madly, fleeing from your gooey cookie dough embrace. Finally, I am caught, and become your blithe prisoner.My face lights up when I hear the first notes of my Christmas favorite on the radio.And so, the baking continues in the midst ofoff-key singing and more flour clouds.

*Click* Standing alone. Freezing in a parking lot,I watch helplessly as my tire whooshes itself to death. Calling home and trying not to cry, waiting for the yells that will surely reach my ears once you arrive. But instead of anger I am met with kindness by my rescuer.Kneeling together on the frigid ground,we exchange tools and laughter.

*Picture*Soon I will find myself truly on my own,in a tiny dorm, surrounded by cardboard boxes and uncertainty.Once again, I’ll feel quite young and small.It’ll be on this first night that I’ll close my eyes andmake those treasured scenes appear.Pictures of love that I’ll always hold dear.

happy picture poem

catherine priebe

KALON 15

She walked into his life,Flushed with embarrassment and

Bubbling with excitement.

He opened the door,Hesitant with anxiety and

Panicked with vulnerability.

Both of them were scared,But not paralyzed in each other’s company.

Not before, not now, not ever.

He made her laugh andShe made him think.

They intrigued each other far beyond what Their wildest dreams could imagine.

And they shared such a look:Each wishing the other would initiate

Something they both desired but which Neither wanted to begin.

Then before they knew it…

Graduation day came, and she,She was gone.

And he,He never knew her.

Not before, not now, not ever.

But she’ll keep a room for him in her mind.Wherein lies a broken record,

An eternal flame,And a clock

That ticks forever.

emma scheer

life’s great casualty

A girl: her beauty is beneath her skinher face is a messshe looks bad in a dressbut never did her heart turn to sin

A boy: whose heart she is desperate to winhe’s hard to impresshis thoughts hard to guessand beautiful from heels to chin

The girl: she asked the boy out for a dateand with a look quite insidioushe said she was hideousand caused the girl to become quite irate

The boy: was told of her innermost gracehow can this be?her beauty can’t rival meplease, just look at her face!

So the boy asked the girl to meetshe was quite confusedbut mostly enthusedand so she prepared for her treat

the next day they met in a gladethe boy saw her and criedlet’s see this beauty inside!and hacked out her heart with his blade

rachel engel

beneath the skin

HARBINGER 201516

blossomsBeautiful Blossoms

Will eventually grow old

Are they still pretty?

stephanie storczer

spring greenamanda im

KALON 17

scattered thoughtsjen behrens

The top bunk, strung with fairy lights, gives me the best view of the world outside my window. Although it’s not exactly

scenic, I spend my nights sitting there, watching the midnight joggers under the light of the streetlamp.

I can’t sleep. What if I read another book? There’s barely enough light for that, genius. God, I miss Her. I want gummi worms. I could sleep. I couldn’t sleep if I wanted to. One year ago from exactly tomorrow it will have been one year. I miss Her so much. January Fourteenth. Tomorrow.

Do I have any fruit snacks left over? Don’t think about the

a short synopsis of my crepsecular thought process

HARBINGER 201518

Fourteenth, don’t think about Tomorrow. Think about something else. Think about novels by Julie Anne Peters.

No, don’t, they’re all romance novels and will remind you of Her. Think about your cat. He’s a really sweet cat. Oh my goodness, his little paws are crossed over his face! Look at that! That is the cutest thing in the whole world. His little pomegranate paws crossed over his sleepy kitty face! Oh My Goodness.

Keep thinking about your cat.Don’t think about Her. Think about getting a job. Did the work permit application make it to Village Hall safely?

Of course it did. You dropped it off there yourself, dipwad. You saw Her dad, the sheriff, there. Seeing him reminded you that Tomorrow is the Fourteenth

The day of Her. Her day. No, stop thinking about Tomorrow. Think about Hot Pockets. Think about shoes. Think about architecture.

Think about astrophysics. Think about purple eyeliner. Think about gas prices. Think about periodontics.Think about shaving cream.

She will be there Tomorrow. She will smile at you and wave. Everyone will expect you to smile and wave back. You will not be able to smile at Her because you will remember the CD and the necklace and The Amazing Spiderman 2 and the letter and the hallways, you will remember it all and you will not be able to smile at Her like everyone wants you to.

Forget to set your alarm tonight. Oversleep. Don’t get out of bed on time tomorrow. Go jogging at midnight tonight and come back at midnight tomorrow. She will be there, and you will not have the strength to.

anonymous

““

The day of Her. Her day. No, stop thinking about Tomorrow. Think about Hot Pockets.

KALON 19

light of assisichristina rao

gooey

alex pann

Light. There was so much light. It was swallowing the pale blue whole, with its extensive arms spewing out from all directions as if it wanted

to grab hold of the clouds and cling on forever. I wasn’t just looking at this sky, though: I was in it. Flying through, I remember looking out my rounded window to see the half-asleep sun emerging from a plain of puffy white, making the air a tinted golden-amber. It was too early for anything to be awake, especially that tired sun. It was peeking through timidly, as its rays met my face and lit up my dark, groggy eyes. The combination of the soft blue and shy yellow made the air a gooey, milky color. It was so easy on my fragile sight. A crisp morning dew was sprinkled across the horizon, and the clouds were heavy and hanging, leaving them to look like soggy drips of paint. It was a fresh, young day, and the adolescent sky was waking up as slowly as I was.

“ “It was too early for anything to be awake, especially that tired sun.

HARBINGER 201520

I weep for myself and the burdens I bear.I cry for myself and the loads I share.I tremble for myself -- for the future unknown.I mock myself for the love not shown.I weep for those who weep not for themselves. I cry for those questioning food on their shelves. I tremble for those who march bravely on. I mock those who spit at the coming dawn.I weep for the world so wrongly misgiven.I cry for the world that is a far cry from Heaven.I tremble for the Infant uncaringly dethroned.I mock the world unravelling on its own.My tears are my own. My body is theirs.My deeds are the World’s.My Soul is His.

white strength of fear

grace harrigan

bluejay in the waterrobert mason

KALON 21

f e a t u r e d a r t i s t

S A M A N T H A

a r t i s t

M I L L A N

HARBINGER 201522

Samantha Millan has been drawing since second grade, but three years ago she started

to sketch realistic portraits. She sees anything as an inspiration for her artwork, but people significantly inspire her to draw. Millan has done seveal more drawings then the ones she’s submitted, but she gives them away to the people who gave her the reason to draw. She loves seeing the smiles on their faces and seeing how happy they are when her subjects receive their portraits, making it all worthwhile. Millan follows a few artists whose techniques and advice she values on Instagram. They are @Banethedog, @Zamris, @Ruslan_Mustapaev, and her best friend @Jennalrou. In the future she plans on continuing her artwork, not as a job but to give to others so they can maybe draw inspiration from it.

KALON 23

The day smelled blue. It was the kind of blue that you think back on decades later, still reminiscing over it. You could never

quite capture that exact scent again, except to think back to that day. I could hear the sun in my ears, buzzing as it met the cool ground to say hello. It shone bright against my glowing skin. It tasted so hot that no one could focus on much else. The sky itself was an iridescent blue, shimmering down amongst the people outside. I laid down only to be met with the startling sound of the

taste of sand against me, slithering closer to my towel each time I moved. Many were distracted by the taste of annoyance in the air as construction worker worked to the side of us. As for me, I was much more interested in the taste of the world around me: the greens and the blues that carelessly mixed to form the most perfect melody I had ever seen. I could hear the different colors calling my name, but it was the dancing waves that convinced me to walk closer. As I approached the water, the ocean engulfed me, its loud songs playing louder as I swam farther beneath the surface. Swimming was second nature to me; I found comfort in it. The water, soft and gentle, took me away from the shore. In the ocean, I was able to see things more clearly than I ever had before. The water gave me the shelter and stability I was never able to find on land.

color nostalgia

““

In the ocean, I was able to see things more clearly than I ever had before.

emily edicola

45° 56’ 3.9372’’n 89° 32’ 39.7824’’wabby paulson

HARBINGER 201524

Hot white sand fills the crevices between my toes,The ocean laps at my ankles…Then, books sprawled from wall to wall of my dorm,Notes and crumbled, half-written papers not quite reaching the trash bin—Crackle, hiss, pop, drags me back to reality,Warm arms of fire break through the cold air that hovers at the window sills,Music hums and beats and changes,Dinner cooks and voices buzz—Familiarity, routine,Yet I could still feel the sand stuck between my toes,Feel the excitement and stress that filled the room from moments before— Dinner conversation shifts to colleges,And the daydream once stored safely in the distance, Becomes close enough to fear.

daydream

julia kasbohm

abby paulsonthe hoist

KALON 25

I took a flight the other night And we soared over Chicago.I, until that moment of vision,had my opinions lay doggo. No, I did not want it known thatI found the pollution, sidewalks, And concrete and steel un-beautiful, unappealing, un-benevolent.I detested the rush and hated the falsity.Forced, forged by man, beauty was beauty wrongfully.Until I saw the lights.Until I noticed the distinct, straight lines The highways cut in the earth, illuminatingIt with street lamps, running with the EarthAs a friend, not grating. Until I perceived that the buildings That scraped the sky stood as monuments.Because they were monumental.Because human creativity and prowess Are forces that should be celebrated.Praised.Illuminated.

mis

take

n

christina rao

Close your eyes but don’t slip away;Love does that enough with time.Fall yourself, but do not be afraid.

For when they close with the day,They wander, lost but free inside the mind;Close your eyes but don’t slip away.

Before the fall, castles looked upon the bay,but stone turned sand, consumed by rhine.Fall yourself, but do not be afraid.

Lit in darkness, they know the wayFeeling, unseeing, their likened kindClose your eyes but do not slip away

Temptations rise from where you lay,Waiting until you have crossed the line.Close your eyes but do not slip away.Fall yourself, but do not be afraid.

last

gra

sp

annie cebulski

HARBINGER 201526

KALON 27

meanderamulya kandikonda

The picture in the frame is of a younger version of herself, a girl from a thousand harsh winters ago— a serene girl, with a

yellow balloon fastened tight around her palm. He is holding her hand in the picture, but grudgingly so. His face is screwed up in annoyance, annoyance that his younger sister is clutching the balloon he paid for. She can’t help but smile when she sees that photograph in the stained-wood frame. It’s Kay and Henry, siblings that couldn’t stand each other. Kay and Henry, the mischievous ghosts that opened all the presents the night before Christmas. Kay and Henry—siblings, friends, and eventually—nothing. Henry had enlisted in the war the summer after his eighteenth birthday. Kay had begged him not to go. She’d been afraid for her

brother then, because she’d seen too many brothers and cousins and fathers and aunts enlist and then never come home. “This is my country,” he had told her, his voice stern. “I have a duty to serve it.” He ignored her pleas, steadfast in his goals, just as

he always had been. Memories of Henry are fleeting now, too painful to analyze; it feels as though everything she remembers of Henry is the way he come home last—dead. But once in a while, Kay remembers. Kay remembers the day when her own yellow balloon flew away, and he tied

the string of his to her palm. She remembers the day when her worries were far away and her brother was there, holding her arm.

the yellow balloon

meera ramakrishnan

““

Kay remembers the day when her own yellow balloon flew away, and he tied the string of his to her palm.

notesWhat feels beautiful,

Cannot be wrong.I like the creation, the newness,

The development of the Notes are laid out as dark, defined circles on a page

They are black and permanent, unchanging.Notes are instructions for a player,

I can only read them like a manual.Notes must be soft here, loud there,

Smooth here, disconnected there.I play the piano like a typewriter.

If my fingers change what is written,What I have played is wrong.

How can music be wrong?I like what they say is wrong,

The discordance of mixed melodies.new from the old.

I play the piano like an instrument.Notes are suggestions,Laid out to guide me.

Notes do not dictate me,They are changeable, open to interpretation.

My fingers play outside the lines,They create auditory art.

They cannot say it is wrong,When I know it is beautiful.

alycia zimmerman

HARBINGER 201528

a new perspectiveannie brinkman

a new perspective annie brinkman

KALON 29

Fascinations, ExaltationsTemptations, SalutationsConnections, EscalationsPreparations, ReplicationsAttractions, AccelerationsAffections, Expectations Competitions, Subjugations Assertions, AlienationsMiscommunications, MalfunctionsFalsifications, JustificationConfrontations, FrustrationsPersecutions, DysfunctionsDesperationsRecognitionsTranslation?Termination

mark markosyan

relationships

HARBINGER 201530

the journeyannie brinkman

The culture in which we live in…It’s the Second Dark Ages.

Age old entertainment and cultures of days past are gone, their corpses rotting in the very presence of men amidst the new gods of social media and teen dystopian romance movies. Soon their desecrated husks are scavenged by the mongrels of “bae,” “yolo,” and “hashtag.” Amidst all of this, the sun still shines as the guise of modern culture still fools people, it’s a wolf in sheep’s clothing, or perhaps the new version of that phrase will soon be, “It’s a ratchet in bae’s clothing.” The new gods of culture rise, Technology, Celebrities, Media, and Drugs. In their wake, the world is trapped in the vice like grip that their power commands. Seldom do people venture to see the plays of Shakespeare, to hear, “To be or not to be.” Seldom do people venture to see a performance of Madama Butterfly or Turandot, to hear the soprano sounds of “Un Bel Di Vedremo.” Those who do are often of generations past, soon to be forgotten. Now the world is controlled by a single impulse, to check the latest Twitter or Snapchat update, to investigate the latest celebrity scandal or tragedy, to spectate every accident, to read the most recent text. It is a curse that grips all, purely for the enjoyment of the New Gods, who revel in the chaos of humanity. So here it is, culture itself, dying before humanity’s very eyes. So as the sun shines and seemingly bathes the world in its light, the world, in fact, has never been darker than ever.

the second dark ages

““

It is a curse that grips all, purely for the enjoyment of the New Gods, who revel in the chaos of humanity.

ethan seidenberg

One moment, here,The next,Gone.Fantasy becomes realityAs Colors take on a different dimensionAnd the world as I know it Ceases to exist.Sounds fade into the backgroundAnd the light on my dresser becomes the sun of my paradise.I shed my skin and become who I want to be.I am her.I am him. The heroine, the hero, the villin.I am immersed between livesIn the new world that isReality.The line is blurred between who I really amAnd who I think I am.The cover closes.I am me again,Sitting, waiting, anticipatingMy next beautiful adventure.

teleportation

lee hermann

KALON 31

For my daughter’s tenth birthday, I’m going to give her a pen,And I’m going to tell her, “write me the world; write me your

story.”No you can’t erase anything.If you make a mistake, it’s permanent.Much like it is in life.The actions we take in life form our very being,Even the mistakes.You cannot get rid of the errors,But what you can do is keep writing.All of our stories have mistakes,And it’s those mistakes that make them beautiful.For my daughter’s eleventh birthday, I’m going to give her a first aid kit.I’ll tell her that these are the bandages that will hold her together as she climbs the mountain of life.I’m going to tell her that she will fall down, not just once, but multiple times.But get up!Don’t give into defeat!She should be looking depression in her rear-view mirror,And turn around and say “not today.”For her twelfth birthday, I’m going to give her a magnifying glass,And tell her that before she even dares to think about judging someone,Hold up that magnifying glass and really look at them.Look between the crevasses of their skin.Look so hard that your head starts hurting,And don’t stop looking until you are staring their heart in the face.Only then can you even begin to understand another person’s life.I’m going to prepare my daughter for reality.Life is like walking to a warm cabin in the rain.It’s freezing cold, and just when you think it can’t get worse,The dirt beneath you becomes allies with the rain.You slip and fall in the mud they have made.But you get up… because that’s what life is about;Getting up when you fall down.It doesn’t matter how long it takes you to reach the cabin.Even if everyone else is already there, and you feel alone,Just keep trudging along!Your hardships make a timeline.They represent your existence,And when people see what you endured to reach your goal,They’ll see that you’ve been the strongest one all along.Life isn’t a race.How fast you attain a goal isn’t what matters.It’s the story of how you got there that makes the achievement all the more valuable. So as you stand on the front steps of that little cabin,Don’t think you’re the weakest one.Know you’re the most remarkable one because you never gave up,And that’s a goal some people can only dream of reaching.

the sufferings of success

bobby jackson

HARBINGER 201532

sounds of summerannie brinkman

KALON 33

the useless treeOnce there was a little boy, and the boy had an apple seed.The boy wanted to plant it and nurture it, though his father tried to intercede.“Son,” his father told him, “life is just too busy for that.Why bother even trying? Your plans will just fall flat.

You’ll get so bored of waiting for that little thing to grow. And once it does—if it does—it’ll be useless, son. I know.Let’s not waste your time on tending to a silly plant.Study, work, learn new skills—but plant a tree? You can’t.”

Dejected, the boy walked away, but he slowly began to grin.“No, I will do what I think is right,” he said. “And I must begin!”So the boy planted the little seed and cared for it every day.Over the years, the tree grew tall and strong, much to his father’s dismay.

One day, the boy’s father came home and said, “Son, we’re at the end.I’ve worked and worked for years and years, but we have no more money to spend.”He sighed, “We have no food at all; I don’t know what we’ll do.”But the boy jumped up and raced outside, right to the tree he grew.He returned with two red apples, and his father cried, “God answered my prayer!Where did you find these apples?” The boy said, “From my useless tree, that’s where.

katie galuska

HARBINGER 201534

painted loveashley lindas

KALON 35

nature and nothing more

Love me with words I cannot fathom. Whisper sweet things to me like honey to a hummingbird. I want to be loved like the river loves the lands, caressing its every curve. I want to be kissed the way the sun kisses the plants,lightly with a touch of warmth. I want to be whispered to as the wind does to baby birds before their first flights,with sweet encouragement and quiet dares. I want to be held like the ocean cradles its precious creatures, protectively,deep in its depths. I wish to be like the mountains, looked upon in awe, as if nothing could rival its magnificence.I wish for you to feel me the way you would the walls of stones old, relish in the smoothness of it, as well as a knowledge of its crevices and cracks from age. I want to be heard the way the bird’s song is first heard in the morning and the grasshopper’s sighs are heard at the last sun.I wish to be your guiding moon;when all is dark, I can help you find your way. I wish for us to be everything. I wish for our love to be pure. I wish us nature, and nothing more.

kara pohlman

I have a record player,

But it doesn’t work.

Function must I? No sir.

Not until I hear the whir

Will my heart unfurl

And proclaim my platinum verse.

Without a fine needle

My closing note will be lost.

I am in need of some soul and a new,

polished gloss.

Around what does your world revolve?

Mine came quite unexpected.

A tap on my shoulder.

A voice softly directed.

“Mine is broken too.”madison edwards

i have a record player, but it doesn’t work

HARBINGER 201536

strawberries and nuclear warheads

cavalier, we were,in our days left behind—careless and reckless and broken we broke glassupon our glorious entrancesand left trails of terrified applauses behind us in the dust.

we grew older and darker,which we never left behind,as we bounded across city tops into the ocean, breaking ourselvesas our splashes widened into ripplesthat shook our worlds over.

our terrified audiences, now,gasp in disapproval at who theythink we’ve become—more loosely hinged and jaded,cynical, sedated,no longer their puppets behind rose tinted glass.

how dare we wonder who we are,and find our own demons—we keep those that belongedto our audiences as pets, now—and sing of things they forgot to understand.

their fear turns to angerbecause our feet don’t bleed like theirs when we walk on the broken glass of our long shattered hearts.

we’re stronger than they—and my,how they shudder at the thought,don’t they?

celia dekeyser

malachi skibybench

KALON 37

f e a t u r e d a r t i s t

A N N I E

p h o t o g r a p h e r

Z I D E K

At fifteen, Annie Zidek grew an affinity for photos. She carried her camera

with her everywhere (and still does). Today she continues her passion for shooting pictures, both digital and film. Zidek’s photography is primarly self portraiture wherein she explores the role of self and feminity. While the human body and morning light seeping through her window inspire her to shoot photos, she constanty draws inspiration from Olivia Bee, Parker Woods, Tim Walker, Baohien Ngo, and her fellow fotog friends. As for the future, Zidek plans on continuing her art, even if she isn’t pursuing photography as a profession.

morning light

never meant

ally

HARBINGER 201538

apologetic

KALON 39

madison edwardssnow day

HARBINGER 201540

Although the official definition of an introvert is a reserved or shy person, society’s definition is much different; to call

someone an “introvert” is to call them an outcast, a quiet person who has little chance of success. As such, I pause before classifying myself as an introvert. Yes, I am a reserved person, a bit on the quiet side, but an introvert? Introverts don’t have friends, don’t participate in class, don’t talk to people unless absolutely necessary. They are the rejects of society, the outsiders in the game of life. That is the definition of an introvert…right?

I was first introduced to the concepts of introversion and extroversion in primary school. As most A-students can attest, good grades came naturally to me—making friends did not. My schooling is partially to blame; I attended the Montessori School of Long Grove until third grade, when I transferred to the public school in my district. Looking back, my parents’ decision to transfer me was for the best. However, at the time, I didn’t see it that way. The Montessori was like the heaven of schools. We didn’t have homework, tests, or even classes. We went to school and learned the subjects we wanted to learn, omitting the rest from our primary education. That meant daily math for me. In second grade, I discovered the vast joys of long division; I loved nothing more than to start my morning with the satisfactory riiiiip of cheap poster paper and the buzz of numbers swirling in my head. I routinely made up extensive long-division problems, and—color-coding the numbers as I went—I solved them for fun. All day. Every day. A real social butterfly, I was.

Thankfully, I didn’t need to be social. My entire grade consisted of three girls and two boys, so we became a family from the first day of school. My social awkwardness was momentarily forgotten.

My transfer to public school was not horrific or traumatizing; on the contrary, having actual classes presented a refreshing change. Unfortunately, as the Montessori was a small private school, there were no clubs or extracurricular activities (we did those during school). As a result, I had no interests to help me connect to my peers. While my classmates already had their own group of friends, I attended weekly guidance counselor meetings with the other transfer student to help me “fit in.” They didn’t help: I was a short girl with no idea how to talk to people and an affinity for math. My teacher, a nice if somewhat oblivious woman, told me to try bonding with my fellow transfer student. Diego, my “future friend,” was a 150 pound hulk of a third grader with tuna salad breath; right away, the other kids targeted him, and insults like “fatty” and “turd” bombarded him on a daily basis. I may have been clueless on the in’s and out’s of public school, but it was clear to me that being Diego’s friend meant subjugating myself to similar bullying. Discouraged from socializing, I became easily swayed by my parents’ influence.

“Honey, you’re such a smart girl. You should join the chess club! I’m sure you’ll make friends there.” In hindsight, I should have known better. But at the Montessori, having few kids meant that we became friends by default; I had no idea how to make friends, let alone what activities were socially acceptable. As I later found out, chess club was not one of those activities. The club consisted of

me, a chubby girl who liked to pick her nose and save the boogers on the little chess pieces like trophies, and two boys who used the time to trade Bakugan cards.

I was screwed. On the bright side, this taught me a valuable lesson—several in

fact. First, chess is not a highly endorsed pastime. I learned that the hard way. Second, trusting parents can prove to be fatal. Obviously, their definition of “socially acceptable” dates back a few years too many. And thirdly, I actually didn’t mind playing by myself. Despite the major focus on friends and outgoing behavior at school, I found myself much happier on my own. However, my classmates didn’t share my sentiments on social independence; my first few years of public school overflowed with childish nicknames like “squinty eyes” and “man-duh” (supposedly a “clever” play on my name).

By fifth grade, I had (somewhat) conformed to society and avoided being alone—embarrassingly, that didn’t mean I had actual friends. My “circle” of friends consisted of two girls who had been together since the first grade. They stuck to each other like glue, refusing to perform even the simplest of tasks without the other. The pronoun “I” all but vanished from their vocabulary, replaced by the constant “we.”

“We need to go to the bathroom. We didn’t finish our homework.”Little giggles and inside jokes rang through my ears day after day,

forcing me to perfect the techniques of fake smiling and laughing-as-if-I-knew-what-they-were-talking-about. Not exactly what I would call an accepting pair. While this constantly left me feeling like the awkward third wheel, it also taught me another lesson: class work is much more enjoyable on one’s own than in a group. Especially if solitude meant a break from the

monkey chatter and awkward smiling. By middle school, I had real friends who I could relate and talk

to. But by that time, it was too late; homework, piano practice, and long gymnastic workouts presented the perfect social life killing combination. On my rare weekends of peace, I found it much more appealing to wear my fuzzy pajama pants all day and settle in my big comfy chair with a new book than to actually go out with my friends. It’s not that I didn’t like them, I just preferred to be on my own. My friends gradually caught on, and constant invitations faded into occasional half-hearted inquiries before eventually stopping altogether: I was forever busy, forever unavailable. I was, by any standards, an introvert.

But is the definition of an introvert someone who can’t handle social contact and prefers dark corners over public places, or is it someone who prefers independent activities to social ones? I am in high school now, and even though I go to the movies on Saturdays with the girls and go dress shopping for Homecoming, I would still call myself an introvert. Being introverted doesn’t mean society treats me as a reject; it means I don’t like to be the center of attention. It doesn’t mean I never talk to people; it means I keep to myself in class. It doesn’t mean I am afraid of social contact; it means I would choose to knit a scarf while watching Netflix at home over dressing up to go out. Not as drastic a definition as society claims, is it?

““

The club consisted of me, a chubby girl who liked to pick her nose and save the boogers on the little chess pieces like trophies...

woes of a social outcast

amanda im

KALON 41

Day ...?: HelpOne murmurs,“And the price for this gimmick you tried to make is:‘erase, erase, erase’ the future ahead of you.”I cry into my hands,“Gotta find who is the real one”A laugh,“Well, that’s too easy. I’m standing over here!”I decide:“I’m a counterfeit imitation!”Hey, wait a moment, where am I going with this?All the sense is ripping out to a wound.“So afraid, afraid, afraid that it’s crazy!”I scream again,“I’m a counterfeit imitation!”The fourteenth copy of me gives a laugh and smiles, a demon grin,“Hey, ya know, there’s no real one of you?”“Welcome to Hell.”I smash a mirror and see the number two on my head,“I DON’T KNOW YOU!”...Counterfeit, I slip the cracks and struggle upwards....Counterfeit, I warp and curl, rot and die....I look up into the sky, tears down my cheeks,“God, I’m sorry for cheating alright!?!”

Day 150: I Realize as I Hear ItI’m the popular girl that everybody envies. Glittering and shimmering...“Wait, that’s me in there, right?” “Who’s the most adored in her homeroom”“Hey... that’s me, is it not...?”What’s Happening:“It’s a counterfeit imitation!”I scream at a mirror.“Hey, wait a moment” “Where am I going with this? Where’re the

fake ones?”“They’re not here or here or here. I don’t know now!”I scramble around looking for them.“They’re a counterfeit imitation!”I find one sitting with tears in its eyes.“Hey, you stole my place on this earth, haven’t you? Playing

around disguised as me. Oh, this isn’t fair!”“Ah, it’s fine, it’s fine, it’s fine,” it says with a wicked smile.I don’t know now. I look up in the sky, a question in my head.“Oh my god, I’m sorry for cheating a bit, alright?”

Diary, Day 28: Something Amazing?Earlier Thoughts of the Day:My patience is wearing down to zero.Days seem spinning by me; I can’t even count them.My brain’s just dizzy and light, so years pass and years pass. It seems that no work is getting done.Everybody’s telling me to work much harder,But every time I see the clock my eyes start spinning.Even when I do, I get no approval or worship. This time, really, I’ve messed it all up!Then Something Amazing:My phone spoke to me as I thought this.‘Ahh, if there was just one more of me, I’d probably be fine.’Then it spoke.“Hey, I bet I can solve your little dilemma. Let’s work together,

you and me!”Then, this is all I could describe it asA counterfeit imitation, an avant-garde situation, an impulsive

sensation.“Come, we’re just the same; we’re exactly the same, ok?”I then looked up in the sky and laughed with a smile as I said,“God, I’m sorry for cheating a bit, alright?”

Day 29: Best Time Ever!Now I’ve got the freedom to do what I want? Yes! A seemingly year-long relaxing vacation!“Leave it all to me, I’m an automatic working drone”Any days ahead are clear skies. I say to myself,“Come on, copies, let’s face tomorrow and go on.”A response:“I’ll become your legs.”“And I’ll become both your arms, ‘kay?”It’s such a perfect fate and such a sunny forecast.Cliché as this might be, I feel in heaven.

diary of a fake

““

Hey, wait a moment, where am I going with this? All the sense is ripping out to a wound.

david brady

HARBINGER 201542

vicesmicheal edicola

KALON 43

I Know that my porch has a railing that will offer a leg up to anyone wishing to climb onto the roof outside my window. Take your pick of the three windows (without screens in the winter, so that is the ideal timing of this venture) and climb carefully inside when I am not present. I wake easily.

My favorite eyeliner brand is “Midnight Master” Master Drama by eyestudio. It will be easy for you to slip your tainted eyeliner into my cosmetics organizer on my bathroom counter. Down the hall and to the left. There is a certain irony in this, for kohl, the makeup of Cleopatra and other ancient rulers, was lead tainted and it makes sense that its modern version will be as well.

It will probably take a year. I hope you have patience, for it is easier to avoid suspicion if you can afford to be careful and slow about your poisoning. Argonne National Laboratory has shown us through careful analysis of Beethoven’s bones that lead, if in excessive build-ups, is easily recognizable. Have patience. Sickness will come, as it did to Beethoven and many before him, and no one will be any the wiser.

Lead poisoning and iron deficiency look disturbingly similar in their onslaught. Nausea, headaches, and dizziness characterize both, yet due to my womanhood and young age, anemia rather than lead will be suspected. This is to your benefit. To pull this off you must flow from one poison to another, connecting them in life the way they are connected on the periodic table. That way, my decline will be as natural as the elements that caused it.

IIThis next step requires quite a lot of commitment. Stick to it.My father, upon hearing of the anemia, will put me on a diet. Red

meat and green leaves are iron-rich, and so he will take it upon himself to create daily salads. Predictability in a victim is always ideal. Made in the early morning before he goes out on a run, they will sit unattended from 5 to 630 in the morning. When my father leaves for his run the salad is put in the fridge in a special light-green Tupperware container. He leaves the garage open.

Although polonium can be bought legally, it is infinitely easier to lay your hands on tobacco leaves. A small dosage of tobacco leaves every day in the salad will prevent me from recognizing the taste, yet still administrating a dose of polonium. The highly unstable radioactive nature will set to work ripping apart my lungs’ DNA. If you are lucky, and manage to identify a tobacco source with unusually high levels of polonium present, tumors will begin to grow within the year.

Now you must act, before the tumors come to parental attention. Anything that happens to me will get blamed on the cancer.

So work quickly. Unlike Alexander Litvinenko, I will not take ill unusually after terrible London sushi, and appear before the news blaming the Kremlin for my missing eyebrows. Instead, I will waste away sadly yet expectedly in my home. Slow-and-steady does the trick. No use blowing up a tube of polonium like Irene Joliot-Curie, that creates too much of a trail. No, you want to time it correctly. Set the tumors in motion with polonium, and before I am removed from school, take the final step.

Timing is everything.

IIIHere comes the fun part. Old-fashioned rat poison contains thallium, for the obvious

reason that it is the poison, and few people like rats. Order it online, for it’s banned in America. We can blame Graham Fredrick Young, a British man who gradually poisoned over 70 people in the 1960’s, for this embargo. Inspired by storied of serial killers, he gradually poisoned his family, keeping them alive but ensuring their suffering. Placed into a mental institution, and unaccountably released, he then started in on his coworkers and a succession of bosses. Only three ended up dying.

Your goal is not the same as Young’s was, however. I suggest administering the poison through contact, as the skin easily absorbs thallium. The body mistakes thallium for potassium, and allows it to ride into the body via ion channels. Once it arrives in a cell, it goes to work unstitching key amino acids and denaturing proteins. The CIA once devised a plan to powder Fidel Castro’s socks with thallium, but it fell through. I trust you will have better luck.

Shoelaces would be perfect—every day at least 2 points of contact. I leave my cross-country shoes in my locker every day at school. Pick any period, open my locker, and coat the laces.

POST-MORTEMWhat better element to finish off the job than “the poisoner’s

poison.” Thallium completes the trifecta of the three most poisonous elements on the periodic table sitting in “the poisoner’s corridor” at atomic numbers 81, 82, and 84. This similarity in structure lends to their deadly attributes. Thallium and lead (81 and 82) are stable and their structure allows them to penetrate deep before reacting. Only polonium (84) acts differently, the volatile youngest child.1 One would have been sufficient to kill me, but by weaving lead, polonium, and thallium together into a masterpiece of slow suffering, you have pulled off what killers everywhere strive for: a seemingly natural death. Well done.

1 Polonium was discovered in 1898 after Thallium (1861) and lead, of which there is no record of the first discovery. Polonium decays the most quickly out of the three, making it not only the youngest (discovered) element but also the most unstable.

““

No use blowing up a tube of polonium like Irene Joliot-Curie, that creates too much of a trail.

maeve daw

how to get away with murder

HARBINGER 201544

joseph messink joseph messink stranger danger

KALON 45

a burning passion

There once was a boy who was born among gods and heroes,At a young a he ran and played with his friends,One day the boy happened upon The Crack,From the crack came a darkness not of the golden fields the boy knew,The darkness flowed about the wrapping tighter and tighter around him,Suddenly the darkness seized the boy,A cold fire burned into the shoulder of the boy,For days and days the boy writhed in pain burned by icy fire,Finally his friends found him,They battled with The Crack for the boy,The succeeded in defeating The Crack,Before it left The Crack extracted a bitter price, The boy who so loved to run with his friends no longer could,For his shoulder perpetually burned and crackled with cold fire,Never could the boy run again, Or so he thought.

steven matuszak

HARBINGER 201546

joanna badilloa face in the crowd

KALON 47

how to make friends

Few friends

Greet blonde girl

Watch her run over a mailbox with large

black truck

Greet another blonde girl

Watch first girl explain savage destruction

of neighbor’s mailbox

Laugh

Get in car

Watch as nerves nearly destroy girl in the

passenger seat

Find the retreat house

Explain to the girl that she must uncurl

herself from fetal position

Lead

Explore new town

Invent never-before-eaten frozen yogurt

combination

Travel to random park

Hold a handstand contest while trying not

to break your neck

Love

New friendscaroline kornak

chainsThe chains that hold,

Oh, how they last.

Like the scars of untold stories past.

The chains that tear,

Won’t leave, in time.

Like the memories that haunt the mind.

The chains that creak,

Their echoes remain.

Like the voies that make you feel insane.

The chains that bind,

The hope denied.

Like all of the pain hidden inside.anonymous

Sarah Beth is cared to death, Am I?

Cause something tells me I shouldn’t feel this way. Why oh why do I?

You see right through me. Shape my thoughts like clay. I cower and shy away.

Glances, kisses, smirks, Lies.

Sara Beth is scared to death, And so am I.

madison edwards

sara beth

HARBINGER 201548

afternoon strollamanda im

the eyes of dr. eckelberganna cebulski

KALON 49

the monster in me

maggie tutaj

Good intentions – I promise.

Although it’s easier to see

The waves of destruction,

The Monster in Me.

A Hero? No way!

How could it possibly be?

I cause pain and sadness.

The Monster in Me.

But I will fight for myself

And for my family.

Bang! Smack! Ow!

The Monster in Me.

Maybe I am a hero?

Maybe that’s the key

Look deeper and deeper intoThe Monster in Me.

art decoteresa hull

HARBINGER 201550

“Aaaaaaaaand it’s a great day here in the arena for a gladiator showdown!” yelled the announcer. “Yes, yes, indeed an intense

brawl between sixteen of our fighters!”

“Yeah, Jim. I like how Nero came back up after being brutally hit several times, might I add, by Bludger’s axe.”

“Yes, as we see here, Hook just demolishes Nero after he avenges himself by killing Bludger. Look at the metal pieces flying everywhere!”

“Yes that’s really something in slow motion, ain’t it?”

As the announcers marvel at the replays, the audience roars, waiting for the next contestants. I sit there just listening from a distance because I am not able to go and watch. The sounds are loud, so I don’t care. I can picture it.

“The next contestants are Shank, Sparta, Flanker . . .” The voice drifts, and moments later I hear the doors open and the first clash of swords, the cutting of blades and saws, the gun shots, the sound of the brass shells hitting the ground. I hear the cheering, the chanting.

These fights are big ones, including robots and humans. If you are fighting a robot, you’re screwed because they are programmed to do incredible, yes, gruesome, but incredible, things. You can use anything from a prison shank to a fully automatic machine gun. They’re unfair games.

The crowd cheers loudly, their feet stomping around the stadium. Today, Death’s harvest is abundant.

I hear the announcers. The fight is over. I hear the doors open.I’m next in line to fight.

the arena

liam easley

KALON 51

made in america

alex pann

We are carbon copies,all criminals to be formed.The dollar bills runs us andprovokes the homocide we call desire.The “American Dream” is now a bland nightmare,For we are not natural, we are industrial.We are the face of economy,the pioneer of power.Derived from one square one wave,we are fitted into the mold ofartificial satisfaction.

Little Billy Stephen Smithwas extremely shy.Little Billy Stephen Smithwouldn’t hurt a fly.Poor boy Billy wore big glasses,had freckles, and crooked teeth.That kid Billy was rather quiet.But goodness Billy was so sweet.One day, a bully; Randy Jean,took Billy’s lunch money and acted mean.Randy stuffed Billy in a trash can.He tied together Billy’s shoe laces;Billy never ran.Twenty years later, Billy became William.He worked hard and made money –more than a million.He hired workers and fired them too.One day in his lobby, he saw someone new. The man was mopping up the floors.He seemed to feel down.Billy approached him;he tried to change his frown.“Wow these floors sure do look clean!Do you want some coffee, Randy Jean?”

little billy

amulya kandikonda

HARBINGER 201552

amanda imreflections

KALON 53

One day there was a father with his son. He said,“Child, the farm is yours, along with the homestead.”With that saying—sealed with his final breath—his son then said quietly,“But father... what am I to do when I dream of being a fisherman in reality?”

The boy soon aged. Terrance he was named,and to a beauty known as Fiona he was married.They both lived on the inherited farm and homestead.

Their farm prospered with crops aplenty, and soon Fiona would have a baby.

Years and seasons passed, all was calm and serene.Fiona would then bear twins on a midsummer eve.

Yet despite his prosperity, Terrance was wondering,“I should be truly happy, but why do I think something is missing?”

He was a farmer, but he desired to fish.Although he never decided to pursue his wish.

For a time the farm’s crops prospered,but soon, the arrival of a deadly plague caused all to become withered.

Fiona said with the twins at hand, “Husband, what will we do with a lack of fertile fields?”He said, “I shall go fishing instead, and I shall see what the sea yields.”

Fiona was shocked and replied, “You have never gone fishing as long as I’ve known you. Do you even know where the line must be cast?“Don’t worry, I’ve gone fishing in the past.” Terrance said, withholding his joy as he could finally chase his dream at last.

He went upstairs to his room and retrieved his old fishing rodand went to the nearby cliff to cast his line, hoping to catch perhaps some salmon, carp, or cod.

Terrance patiently sat. His eyes on the bobber, he was patiently waiting.The day was then over. Night came. Fiona asked, “My dear, anything?”Terrance said with a sigh, “No, I caught nothing.”

The sun came up the very next day, and Terrance wanted to reel in something good.Unfortunately, nothing turned up, only stringy strands of seaweed and one piece of driftwood.

His misfortune went on for weeks, the sea yielded nothing.Fiona soon implored him, “Darling, please stop this foolish notion, the children are starving…”Terrance said “I will catch something, Fiona! The sea will give us something!” Fiona replied, “It’s time you stopped dreaming and started living.”

That night, he sat upon the cliff, his fishing rod in hand.He pleaded, “Oh sea, please give me something. My family must be fed.”Suddenly, his line grew tense, and Terrance was pulled down, down to the seabed,

He soon awoke, and to his surprise, he was face-to-face with a mermaid with blue hair and a slender fish tail, a maiden of the sea.

dreams of the sea

HARBINGER 201554

She said to him, “My spells have made water your new air. Breathe it in, do not worry.” She then said, “Now take my hand and swim with me.”

Reluctantly, Terrance accepted, and off they went, faster than he expected.They went through forests of jagged coral, and saw the tendrils of anemones. The pair even saw some sea volcanoes, which they evaded.

They went down and deeper into the sea’s depths and saw schools of fish,as well as sea turtles and the pale luminescence of moon jellyfish.

Finally they swam into an underwater grotto, where a closed clam resided mysteriously,and the mermaid sat on a rock ever so casually.She said to Terrance, “Please sit, I have questions for thee.”He sat on a rock. The mermaid asked, “What is your name?”Terrance replied, “I am Terrance, a farmer, but a fisherman is what I wish to be.”

The mermaid then spoke, “I am Marina, and I protect this sea. I understand that you have been fishing for a bounty?”Terrance then was shocked. “Please, our crops have withered away, and I must feed my family. I am dearly sorry.”Marina said, “Be calm, Terrance, for I present you with an opportunity. All I ask is that you stop fishing for the creatures of the sea. Instead, go fishing for gifts that I will provide to thee.”“Gifts?!” he said, “You mean, for my family?”“Indeed,” Marina replied. “Look inside the clam, and you shall see.”

With a wave of her hand, the clam opened wide, to reveal the treasure it held inside,A large pearl with a glimmer and a bright shine. Marina then said, “Open the gift when you return to the surface, where you reside.

Terrance said, “Pray tell, how can I show you my gratitude?”Marina answered, “By keeping the creatures of the sea in solitude.”

With that, Marina said goodbye to the man from the surface and made a magic bubble to return him to his land.Terrance held the gifted pearl from the sea in his hands.

They gave each other one final look in each others’ eyes before they both bid their goodbyes.

Terrance soon returned home with his wife Fiona and the twins to behold.Fiona rushed to him and asked, “Terrance, where were you? And what is that you hold?”

The large pearl then cracked,and out came an abundance of vegetables and loaves of bread.

Fiona said, “Where did you get this? This is wonderful!”Terrance replied, “I caught it while I was fishing. The sea gave me something after all.”

Until the plague ended and the crops regrew,every day, the sea offered something new.

Terrance caught his dream,and the sea was at peace.

KALON 55

ethan seidenberg

lonesome girlmalachi skiby

HARBINGER 201556

f e a t u r e d a r t i s t

A M A N D A

p o e t

M O D E L S K I

Amanda Modelski has been writing stories ever since she was little, but she

sprouted interest in poetry in eighth grade. Now, whenever she feels intensely about something, she’s inspired to put pen to paper, letting the ink spill as she crafts her poetry. Modelski draws inspiration from all sorts of places. Often her subjects include historical events or figures, the books she’s read, personal experinces, or interesting dreams. Modelski loves so many writers, but her favorite writer is Oscar Wilde; however, she also enjoys the works of James Joyce, Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, George Orwell, and Joseph Heller. Although she doesn’t plan on pursuing writing as a career, she will always write stories and poetry on the side and hopefully get a book published one day.

I once met a man who bound up my mind,who lent me a story, a one of a kind,who spun me a yarn so caught up in a bindof chocolate and cotton and parachute string.He crafted a world of laughter and fire,of soldiers and cheaters and ladies and liars.of beautiful islands and funeral pyres,a city of stone with blood underneath.I met all the people who walked the blue nightwith feet in the ocean, who flew the good flight.as pressure was on and the seams were drawn tight,I was so far-away but so very alive.Why soon did they fall into fast yesteryear?eyes wired and tired with youth and with fear.something hurts, I can’t place, but now all I can hearis the turning of pages and ‘good night, my dear’.

caught me

photographs were lightningand each of us a dynamo.we were live wiresspinning threads of carbon,powered by a honey-summer sun.coughing in a sticky roomwe fought dusty and electrified,lips covered in graphite andsomething a little more bitter.stoking our pulses with pencils and wires,trying to spark the lightbulbs over our heads,stars were born at the hands of the afternoonwhile the hair caught fire of so many others.still we laughed so loudly,enough to fill a house.we filled a house;hummed lyrics to Beethoven,harmonized with a jet plane,someone sobbedand we yelled back in anger;we were proud,electricity wrapping our fingers,wild, sodium to water,all of us in voltageand standing in front of the current.

the spitting image

“Oh, help me, divine!”said the girl to the sky.“There’s a man right behind mewith wings and a mind.He tells me strange thingsthat are wrong but all right,and i turn eyes to listenwhile my heart tries to fight.”Live wire,live wire,where have you been?Up in the sunshine,face in the wind!Stardust,stardust,fill the rooms up.Veins and the arteries,four chambers,a heart.We walk the horizon,trapeze artists on fire,a girl and a manand a lonely live wire.

walk the horizon

KALON 57

curiositynatalie seidl

HARBINGER 201558

sunsetreagan mcginn

The curtain parts to reveal a maiden clothed in white, and delicately cradles her lover in her hands. Tears appear on the edges of her eyes as she parts her lips and sings:

My love! My bacon! A strip torn from the flesh of a plump pig!Baptized in oil, and seared in a skillet to form a foodstuff ever so... delicious...Some prefer pork belly,I call them heretics,I would never abandon you my precious!Oh bacon, what would my life be without you alongside me?My heart would have so many voidsfrom the lack of triglycerides...Oh bacon, know only this:Know that I will always love to eat you, my dear love!

With the dramatic end to her ballad. The maiden eats the bacon that she so delicately cradled.

bacon ballad

There are so many different types of tasty meat:Sausages and ham and other types of pork;Eggs- scrambled, over-easy, hard boiled, fried;And that’s just breakfast.But of all the different meats, there’s one that holds my love.Perfection in an edible form- that’s bacon.

There’s nothing more delicious than bacon,The most appealing of all meats.What’s not to loveAbout sizzling, greasy pork?It’s important to start your day with breakfastAnd there’s no better smell to wake up to than bacon being fried.

And it doesn’t even have to be friedYou can smoke, boil, bake, or grill bacon.For a quick breakfastYou can just microwave this tasty meat.It doesn’t even have to be made of porkThere are also turkey versions of this meat we so love.

Even if cooking isn’t something you loveOr you have trouble fryingOr you’re disgusted by the idea of touching raw porkThere are many ways to get your bacon.You could have a family member prepare this meat.Or else eat at a restaurant that serves breakfast.

Of course, bacon isn’t only breakfastYou can spend all day eating this meat we so love.For lunch, the BLT is a popular alternative to a boring sandwich with lunch meatHealth nuts who object to eating too much of something friedfinish their salad by adding bits of bacon.Put bacon on your hamburger, or add it to your omelet instead of adding pork.

It’s both porkand breakfast.Oh, baconit’s you I love.My favorite fried,greasy meat.

You can keep your beef, chicken, or turkey; pork’s my meat.Whether I’m looking for breakfast or just craving something fried, bacon is the food I most love.

bacon sestina

alyssa kruft anonymous

KALON 59