Denver by Annabella Britt (Senior Edition)

DEnver

annabella britt

I dream of the dusty mountains ways away. I wonder if they look the same after all these years. To see the burning sun and get the chance to reintroduce myself after all I’ve grown. I want to paint myself in the colors of the sky, but I’ve grown weary waiting in the grey that surrounds me.

My memory has dulled what made it the most beautiful.

I’m afraid I’ll forget its name, or for it to become a muted image in my mind.

Stuck trapped on a fence between my interests and my cynicism. Maybe in old age, I’ll visit again, but time passes so quickly here. There is no use trying to reinforce tracks that won’t stay. I’ve made them too strong against the ways of the world. I was told to follow the future everyone seeks, but I am too stubborn to follow that cycle into death. Instead, I choose to call out to no one, cracking my neck to watch the stars. Please don’t forget me, as I once did you. I settle for watching you in a quiet space with closed eyes. I lay on the mountains, shining alone amongst the vacant sky.

Senior Year by Hailey Cook / What Do You Mean, Grow Up? by Riley Borst (Senior Edition)

What Do You Mean, Grow Up? / Riley Borst

Senior Year

Hailey Cook

Senior year. Those two words can bring back so many happy memories and fill your mind with happiness. I probably won’t be able to have those thoughts later down the road. This year is supposed to be my last of everything for highschool. My last first day of school, last football game, last homecoming weekend, last spirit week, last prom, and then graduation. I won’t be able to experience my last of everything and it leaves me feeling empty inside. I know that in this time of life there are more serious things going on, there’s a global pandemic, people are dying and we need to take these precautions to be safe. Yet, am I allowed to be angry and upset? Am I allowed to be selfish for just a few moments? I started my last first day of school sitting at my desk staring at my computer screen. This is not how I imagined it to be. I won’t be able to enjoy that feeling of sitting in the stands at the football game having the time of my life with my friends making long-lasting memories. The feeling of getting all dressed up in our dresses and tuxes and going to prom with our best friends, will I ever get to experience that.

When not frolicking amongst the waves… by Maya Terry/ “Swimmer” by Sriya Ilipilla (June)

When not frolicking amongst the waves,

the Water Warriors live in the caves of Kivia. It is said, by the gossiping wind, their caves lay behind a great waterfall. As told by the clouds, they possess an unmatched beauty and they glow ethereally. Their beauty comes not from their physical appearance, but from the light and power they exude. They do not keep flowers in their hair. They do not wrap themselves in linens and wool. They possess no gold or jewels.

It is said that humans first stumbled upon them 2,000 years ago. The Water Warriors were amused by these new creatures. The Water Warriors are not mortals. They resemble humans greatly, but they are not human. They do not keep flowers in their hair. They do not wrap themselves in linens and wool. They possess no gold or jewels.

Sriya Ilipilla

They swim with the fish. They bathe in the rich sunlight which streaks the water. They laugh and hum and serenade as no one before them has been known to do. They feel much. They feel love and lust and trust and betrayal. They feel sadness and loneliness and amazement and confusion. They feel no pity and no remorse. Their intelligence has not been measured; as the waves were too meek and the stones had no system of measurement. We do know that they possess vast amounts of knowledge. They get news from the waves and gossip from the stars. They do not own books, rather they borrow them from the mermaids from time to time. The mermaids and the Water Warriors get along very well. They hold tea parties and soirees. They make up poetry and songs for each other. They love and laugh. But the mermaids can only visit with the onset of spring. Until the Sun’s turn in the sky outlasts the Moon’s, the mermaids are held at bay by a current; and it sweeps them away with the start of autumn. The fall of crisp red leaves creates such a tremor, that a small hurricane forces the mermaids home.

During Midsummer, the Water Warriors hold a big festival, as is their tradition. They invite the faeries, the selkies, and of course the mermaids. They all talk and poke fun at the world, from humans to the Moon, but she always takes it lightly, continuously bathing them in her glow.

The Water Warriors live in bliss. They are as old as the seas, and do not leave their waters. They were created when first the Moon felt a twinge of fear, for no mortal may harm her with the Water Warriors as her defenders. They will outlive time and existence. They do not play by its rules. It is foretold, by the eastern winds, that when they see fit, the Water Warriors will cease to grace the wondrous seas. They will instead become the mist that clings to every mountain, that cleanses each valley when the inhabitant’s intentions lack purity.

There have been whispers, that a fog is beginning to roll over the hilltops.

Maya terry

Until You Have Walked through the Markets by Veda Nandikam (April)

UNTIL YOU HAVE

WALKED THROUGH THE

MARKETS

Veda Nandikam

Until you have walked through the markets, where the pervading scent of jasmine blossoms and cloyingly sweet mangoes fills every corner, sleepy dogs lie in the shade, and vendor’s stalls clutter the streets; until you have ridden an autorickshaw through pounding rain and flooding streets, a chilling night breeze replacing the humidity of the afternoon; until you have slept on a dabba under the twinkling stars, and lulled yourself to sleep with the cacophony of guava leaves and crickets; until your early October days are filled with the tolls of temple bells and sparkling silver anklets, and winding pieces of art are on the hands of every woman; until you have drank freshly made sugar cane juice or eaten pani puri straight from the cart, you have not stepped foot in my hometown.

Selene by Shay Mahoney / Untitled by Juha Lee (April)

untitled / juha lee

Selene

Shay Mahoney

They say the moon is beautiful.

It is, you suppose. There’s a beauty to a tiger’s jagged stripes, the fluidity of a striking viper. There’s beauty in danger- or the idea of it.

The Moon is beautiful- in the way bloody, brutal things are.

But bloody, brutal things are cruel. They do not think or feel in the way their prey does. They love, but their love is simple survival- a cunning dance that ensures more carnage. They do not get lonely. They do not know lonely.

The Moon is lonely.

You know. You have always known. You’ve seen her, slipping through trees, silver skin kissing the ground soft as anything, and you can forget, almost. You can forget.

But the Moon will not.

The Moon has lived here, in the tides that crushed bone, in the wolves that ate of her light. The Moon will always live here, always remember.

And she will outlive us all.

The Beach by Kara Margin (April)

THe Beach

Kara Martin

I am always reminded of the gritty but soft sand every time I think about going to the beach. It’s just me and my brother left to play, but we enjoy every moment of playing in the sand, being in the water, and listening to country music playing over my dad’s Dewalt speaker. My brother and I are particularly drawn to the sand, whether that be eating sand sandwiches, throwing sand, digging holes, or building sand castles. Every time I think of going to the beach, I think of building these ultimate sand castles with my brother, Gavin. I wondered what had happened to our castles when we came back the next day and they were gone, and realized the only way could’ve been the waves. However this didn’t make sense, I thought to myself:

“Why does the ocean wash away our castles?”

Through It All by Sienna Dunham / Untitled by Shruti Kunadia (April)

untitled / shruti kunadia

excerpt from

Through it All

Sienna Dunham

Quite simply, Olive embodies light. She’s the type of girl that makes your heart warm the second she walks into the room. This light, this love, blesses every single piece of her artwork. I couldn’t help but hang them in my office, they served as a constant reminder that life was magnificent. Even if I didn’t get enough sleep, or even if I had the worse day at work, Olive just had that special ability of making me feel alive. Even if I fought with my wife that day, or even if I struggled to get out of bed, Olive could always make me feel better. Even after death, I feel a rush of life, just because of what my darling little girl means to me.

People are born and die every day. Time on earth is limited the second you are born. But, art lives forever. Art allows people to live forever.

On Saturday, Olive lays on my office floor, just like we used to do together. She blasts Taylor Swift’s new album, Speak Now, and her beautiful mother sits in my office chair watching our daughter paint. Her brush strokes are rapid, so sure of themselves. So ready to show what they can make come alive.

She’s wearing her favorite paint clothes: a bright yellow, extra large t-shirt and paint-stained leggings with neon pandas all over them. She’s never been good about keeping herself clean while painting.

“But dad, I’m just making myself part of the painting. Why should the artwork be constricted by the borders of these little canvases?” she would say to me.

“You’re just a slob, honey. It has nothing to do with you wanting to break out of whatever confinements your paintings are being subjected to, or whatever you want to say,” I would always tease back. She had recently discovered Banksy and his unconditional way of painting wherever and however he wanted and constantly gushed about him. Something about the idea of complete liberty made her ecstatic, encouraging her to expand her ideas on what art really is.

Paint covers Olive’s nose, a sight that her mother laughs at. Olive smiles back but doesn’t stop painting, not even for a millisecond. Slowly but surely a face appears on her canvas.

A face that belongs to me.

She hangs the painting on the wall, in the one spot that she’s left bare all these years. A spot she’s been waiting for something special, something magnificent to place there.

Her mother, my strong wife, smiles with tears of joy running down her face. “It’s perfect, he’ll love it.”

“You really think so?”

“I know so. You were right to wait and hang something there. Nothing better could have taken that spot.”

And with that, Olive has brought me back to live on the wall in this room: forever watching her create life with her brush.