Inkblots XXIV Metamorphosis the John Cooper School 2021 77544 Cover.Indd 1 METAMORPHOSIS

Home , All Eyes on You, Gemini Feed, Tell That Girl, Wobble Up

4/28/21 1:07 PM

Inkblots XXIV Metamorphosis The John Cooper School 2021 77544 Cover.indd 1 METAMORPHOSIS

77544 Guts.indd 1 4/28/21 12:38 PM WRITING PROSE

Conglomerates of a Good Morning Basia Siwek 9 Th e Song and Silence of a Prince Karson Smith 18 Pieces of a Girl Lost in Time Katie Lynn Miller 20 Honoring Basia Siwek 24 On Death and One Direction Annabelle Ross 29 Malignancy Kirthi Chandra 44 Roses and Ivy Phoebe Hollingsworth 51 Th e Moon and the Sun Lauren Harkness 56 Branches Ellie Drinkwine 58 Free Fall Adelaide Herman 60 Venus was a Boy Abby Prettyman 67 An Ashen Face and Hands Tori Osmond 70 Th e Anti-Hero Eats Misanthropy For Breakfast Karson Smith 73 Purity and Its Damaging Eff ects on Women Amelie Godfrey 79 I’ve Been Sleeping on the Bones of Worms and Abby Prettyman 82 Bathroom Tiles Consider the Lamppost Preston Rowley 87 Renounced Emily Hamer 92 My Poppy Phoebe Hollingsworth 93 Holidays in South Texas Basia Siwek 95 My Tennessee Mountain Home Izzie Kneen 99 Hatbox Miles Miller 103 Housewife’s Th ird Eye Basia Siwek 107

2 3

77544 Guts.indd 2 4/28/21 12:38 PM POETRY Goldfi sh Crumbs Saylor Hark 10 Streams of Unconsciousness Abby Prettyman 12 Tracks Ellie Drinkwine 14 Sculpture Kaitlin Hinch 15 Cows Annabelle Ross 23 My Evangeline Phoebe Hollingsworth 26 seconds Maci Flanagan 30 Wrinkly Toes Saylor Hark 32 Sleepy Silhouettes of a Sad Song Maci Flanagan 37 Hollow Hearts Lani Liang 39 Mercutio Put His Cigarette Out on Romeo Abby Prettyman 40 A Midsummer Night’s Dream: After the Reception Katie Lynn Miller 42 Como Tu Katia Guerrero 48 Water Droplets Adelaide Herman 53 to the one i love, Lani Liang 55 inside a car Maci Flanagan 62 loneliness Emily Hammer 66 Odysseus Leaves Calypso Katie Lynn Miller 71 Nine Lives Ellie Drinkwine 75 Adoration Ellie Drinkwine 77 Abandonment Phoebe Hollingsworth 84 I Saw Susan B. Anthony at Th e Polls Emily Hamer 85 A Better Haircut Abby Prettyman 90 Th ree Haikus for Moments in My Mind Tori Osmond 97 My Mother’s Daughter Abby Prettyman 101 God Must be Drinking Diet Cherry Coke Abby Prettyman 109

2 3

77544 Guts.indd 3 4/28/21 12:38 PM VISUAL ARTS PHOTOGRAPHY

Umbrella METAMORPHOSIS Sebastian Plaza 16 METAMORPHOSIS Daring Sebastian Plaza 17 Danaus Plexippus Nicholas Harris 19 Trapped Alexander Harris 22 Th ree Times Saylor Hark 28 Rewind Saylor Hark 34 Blue Ellie Drinkwine 36 Shattered Sebastian Plaza 41 Illuminare James Donald 43 Aureole Marielle Sauber 53 Sweet Ophelia Abby Prettyman 54 Draw the Dark James Donald 63 Ripples in Reality Abby Prettyman 67 Man Smoking Sebastian Plaza 72 Kaleidescope Ellie Drinkwine 75 Emergence Olivia Sauber 78 Cimex James Donald 84 Fearless Emily Hamer 86 Linear Distortions James Donald 89 Together Sebastian Plaza 91 Extrospection Marielle Sauber 94 Mustang Amelie Godfrey 98 SHORT FILMS One Th ought Will Corson 64 Inside a Box Annabelle Ross 105

4 5

77544 Guts.indd 4 4/28/21 12:38 PM PAINTINGS AND DRAWINGS Don’t Sass Me Liz Liner 8 Gemini Feed Abby Prettyman 11 Genesis Tori Osmond 13 METAMORPHOSIS Inner Demon METAMORPHOSIS Chiya Jauhari 21 Crocodile Tears Tori Osmond 27 Funny Faces Liz Liner 31 Suspension Abby Prettyman 33 Apollo Kirthi Chandra 38 Panic! Kirthi Chandra 39 Stop Smoking (We Love You) Series Kirthi Chandra 46 Emergence Peyton Lien 50 Butterfl ies in Stomach Tori Osmond 59 Manic & Mellow Kirthi Chandra 61 All Eyes on Us Liz Liner 65 Miles Tori Osmond 68 Scream Chiya Jauhari 74 Torn to Pieces: Part Two Tori Osmond 81 Yellow Bellied Tori Osmond 96 Why the Long Face? Katie Lynn Miller 102 Eyes on You Tori Osmond 108 Drowning Kirthi Chandra 110 SCULPTURE Spiral Arch Graysen Baxter 15 Paper Cranes Katerina Endom 24 Directions Allie Ronchetto 49 de Noche Sofi a Gilroy 52 Obscurity Laurent Moran 57 Wave Sofi a Gilroy 69 Isolation Sam Liebbe 83 Luminous Lair Miles Miller 88 Sunrise Sunset Allie Ronchetto 97 Fly Fishing Brian Mekelburg 104 4 5

77544 Guts.indd 5 4/28/21 12:38 PM DEAR READER,

As you delve into the voices of our talented student body, I ask that you welcome the sublimity of change. Remain open to the acceptance that in the intrinsic pursuit of happiness, the cycle of change never ceases to end. Th ere is a delicate art to transformation, just as there is to any other skill. Envision yourself as a caterpillar, bright-eyed and eagerly consuming all that inhabits this new world. Clumsily mimicking the motions of beings around you; Adapting their desires and habits as your own. And after growing and absorbing information, you are eager to utilize all that you know and weave your cocoon. Th is transformation involves an overlooked, gruesome facet of metamorphosis. Th e caterpillar consumes itself, each cell genetically programmed to self-destruct. Th e reabsorption of self and alteration achieves the full beauty of a butterfl y, both physical and behavioral. Even the most transcendent experiences evoke elements of disgust, but just as a butterfl y, we are not programmed to stay stagnant. No matter how much we dig our heels and fi ght the impending changes, the universe still expands—uncaring, disinterested, and cold.

In this issue of Inkblots, we especially wanted to take into account the dras- tic consequences of COVID-19 on the student body. Typical rituals of change and progression now bend and twist in awkward ways. Expectations to view and treat this pandemic as the new normal while keeping old everyday routines in place, especially in academic and professional responsibilities, is a daunting task. Th e Edi- torial Board wanted to acknowledge these diﬃ culties. However, this issue does not solely represent perspectives based on these present challenges. We hope you grow from our student body’s experiences amongst a lifetime of clutter, between excerpts

6 7

77544 Guts.indd 6 4/28/21 12:38 PM from childhood muses and overwhelming dreams, fostered through feelings of sen- timentality and simplicity. Th ese works are interconnected refl ections of our most inner turmoil manifested into art. How far does the mind stretch? Invisible energies take form through conscious and unconscious thoughts that penetrate the mind in a perfect rhythm, the soft fl apping of a Menelaus Blue Morpho butterfl y’s wings. Energies that radiate into the developmental self-growth. You are one in a collection of people, holding each other metaphysically through the explorations and creations held in this book. No matter how diff erent, or where life takes us after our time at Cooper, we will perpetually endure signifi cant changes, as the state of fullness is temporary. Th e caterpillars weave themselves cocoons, the world amends its stock of gathered facts, the moths emerge destroyed and rearranged, and the universal essence is found in change.

Your Editor-in-Chief, Abby Prettyman

6 7

77544 Guts.indd 7 4/28/21 12:38 PM CONGLOMERATES OF A GOOD MORNING

8 9

77544 Guts.indd 8 4/28/21 12:38 PM CONGLOMERATES OF A GOOD MORNING

By: Basia Siwek Grade 12

Sunshine seeps through the cracks of the curtains like simmering oil spills in a pan. It illuminates the whites of the walls with a friendly yellow and coats the room in warmth. Still morning ignites the day and stings me with reality as its golden rawness bleeds onto my sheets after dreams transform back into fantasy. Mystery mother moon has left me and the sun greets me, just as it did the day before and the day before that. Luminosity spreads further across the wall—I am infatuated by the fi erce glares and long stares of the morning sun. On days I resent the light the most, it stares at me harder. My natural melancholy chal- lenged by a brightness too strong to shut out. Darkness disappears, the ghosts melt away, and the magic of the night is gone. For another day, I exist in a natural loop, another chance to confront another case of dissatisfaction.

My curtains have never closed all the way. Th ey force the light in when I am not willing to see it.

DON’T SASS ME By: Liz Liner Grade 12 8 9

77544 Guts.indd 9 4/28/21 12:38 PM GOLDFISH CRUMBS By: Saylor Hark Grade 11 body

she’s up, it’s seven shutters open, dust afl oat a happier warmth

weekend morning sun tugging at my memory like sand in my hands

a few things remain Bad Day by Daniel Powter an easier time

muddy twinkle toes goldfi sh crumbs in her car seat she knows who she is

chipped pink nail polish trying to be someone else did she picture this?

GEMINI FEED By: Abby Prettyman Grade 12

77544 Guts.indd 10 4/28/21 12:38 PM 10

77544 Guts.indd 11 4/28/21 12:38 PM STREAMS OF UNCONSCIOUSNESS By: Abby Prettyman Grade 12

illa, Thro insem ugh d s soc Y n k a et o on s c u a am sc a n ad n in i d c n g g I m in c l l el a e te n m d o S sting shore W e , bu s, C ls om lo a d al c ak r I o f ds ed h n r r w te a in o f n a w l, u g y w to tr s loss e an e l s d d l d u w a c p en i t h t h s s u m s p o w e k e W that we exist e e . ow . B a t la n ut n h il o k wh d D t o an e at g n v al if l a ey nd h t im r a n h k i e m st n s e e k u b m u r y e lo m a etions mak u i l cr e u s i W e s s t v ; l s s v . s ra ick a e re po , W p w o s h o i p e a r t s th t - h g w st u en i e b b h ll w u ow b ’s zz gl W e ing , co to e us sublime fi m o im ure na e t t nj lity o h f co ? f ic o r t k y O h , P it y e a os it h d c al o d is re r le ; v l iz s stick a o co n ar l h in c e s ? hi , t rn bu Will it

12 13

77544 Guts.indd 12 4/28/21 12:38 PM illa, Thro insem ugh d s soc Y n k a et o on s c u a am sc a n ad n in i d c n g g I m in c l l el a e te n m d o S sting shore W e , bu s, C ls om lo a d al c ak r I o f ds ed h n r r w te a in o f n a w l, u g y w to tr s loss e an e l s d d l d u w a c p en i t h t h s s u m s p o w e k e W that we exist e e . ow . B a t la n ut n h il o k wh d D t o an e at g n v al if l a ey nd h t im r a n h k i e m st n s e e k u b m u r y e lo m a etions mak u i l cr e u s i W e s s t v ; l s s v . s ra ick a e re po , W p w o s h o i p e a r t s th t - h g w st u en i e b b h ll w u ow b ’s zz gl W e ing , co to e us sublime fi m o im ure na e t t nj lity o h f co ? f ic o r t k y O h , P it y e a os it h d c al o d is re r le ; v l iz s stick a o co n ar l h in c e s ? hi , t rn bu Will it GENESIS By: Tori Osmond Grade 12 12 13

77544 Guts.indd 13 4/28/21 12:38 PM TRACKS

By: Ellie Drinkwine Grade 12

Maps change by place Th ey sit in your mind With footnotes and footprints Th e ghosts of where you’ve been Which roads sound like violins Th e bridge where you had an epiphany Stained by tears and by laughter Memories adding dimension Follow the maps of your memory and get lost In the fog of your history Your train of thought has no destination Embellished maps ever changing More like a maze on the back Of a children’s menu Th an a guide of where to follow Th e human body is its own vehicle Feet are less eﬃ cient, But they still make fl oors creak Th e way a train shakes a station Both earthquakes in their own sense Th eir own context Making the land cry Th e ground aches And your legs do too Emotions and muscle memory Leading you forward

77544 Guts.indd 14 4/28/21 12:39 PM SCULPTURE By: Kaitlin Hinch Grade 10 I think we are all made of clay in some sort, being pulled prodded twisted moved into something that makes up who we are. Everyone and everything is a fi nger that sculpts you shapes you represents you. Every swirl, chip, splatter is a story of you. You become a work of art, infl uenced by everyone. I think we’re all made of clay.

SPIRAL ARCH By: Graysen Baxter Grade 10

77544 Guts.indd 15 4/28/21 12:39 PM UMBRELLA By: Sebastian Plaza Grade 12

Arch 16 17

77544 Guts.indd 16 4/28/21 12:39 PM DARING By: Sebastian Plaza Grade 12

16 17

77544 Guts.indd 17 4/28/21 12:39 PM THE SONGS AND SILENCE OF A PRINCE By: Karson Smith Grade 11 Th e silence can be captivating. Encasing one’s physical and mental state in a hypothetical limbo, causing something one could see as surrealness or fear. With one breath in, the smell of rosewater and saff ron enticed his nostrils, fi lling them with the aromas of his home. Th e smells of childhood ignorance and vulnerability. Th e faint taste of yellow ice cream lingered on his tongue like a melody from one’s childhood: tarrying along within the conscious, sowing good memories and nostalgia from the days he envied the most. Looking down into the eyes of his younger sister, Azar, he began to sing a song to soothe her soul:

Tou ke mahe bolande asemooni You are the sky’s great moon Manam setare misham doureto meegiram And I’ll become a star and go around you. Ageh setare beshi douramo begiri If you become a star and go around me Manam abr meesham rooto meegiram I’ll become a cloud and cover your face. Ageh abr beshi roomo begiri If you become a cloud and cover my face, Manam baroon misham cheek cheek meebaram I’ll become the rain and will rain down. Ageh baroon beshi cheek cheek bebari If you become the rain and rain down, Manam sabzeh misham sar dar miyaram I’ll become grass and germinate. Tou ke sabzeh beshi sar dar biyari When you become grass and germinate, Manam goul misham pahlout mishinam I’ll become a fl ower and will sit next to you. Tou ke goul mishi o pahloum mishini When you become a fl ower and sit next to me, Manam bolbol misham chahchahe mikhoonam. I’ll become a nightingale and will twitter to you.

Taking a deep breath in, the stench of smoke and newfound freedom encased his nostrils with love and fear of the unknown. A newfound weight dug into his shoulders, forcing him to straighten up and step into the light that his mother left. Looking out into the land he now called his own, an old song crept into his head, as if it was a memory that was indeed not wanted, but needed. He began to sing as he watched the people fi ll the streets to greet the new day; the dawn of a new, and well-deserved era.

1816 1917

77544 Guts.indd 18 4/28/21 12:39 PM THE SONGS AND SILENCE OF A PRINCE DANAUS PLEXIPPUS By: Nicholas Harris Grade 12

Goli az dast beraft o khar mande A fl ower was lost and the thorn remained Be man jour o jafa besyar mande A lot of oppression remained for me Be dastam mande tefl e shirkhari A baby remained for me Mara in yadegare yar mande. Th is is my mate’s memorial

1816 1917

77544 Guts.indd 19 4/28/21 12:39 PM PIECES OF A GIRL LOST IN TIME By Katie Lynn Miller Grade 11 I was only half-heartedly paying attention to the pastor as he ranted about the “sin of the world”. I swung my legs back and forth, careful not to hit the back of the wooden pew in front of me where an old woman sat hunched over a Bible that laid gently in her lap. She was wearing matching periwinkle pants and a blouse that blended together seamlessly. I was careful not to kick the pew in front of me because I could feel my mom’s cold gaze on the side of my face. It was as if she was hoping I’d kick the pew with a thud so she could pinch the skin of my arm between her sharp, manicured fi ngernails. Th e worship center was cold, so I sat on my hands to warm them, but instead they slowly fell asleep. Sitting through a church service brought the same cool-toned peace as rain on a summer day. Th e choir would fi ll the stadium-sized worship center with voices, full and earthy. New parents would line up with their child clothed in white, wiggling, trying to slip through their parent’s grasp who were trying to anoint them a child of God. I loved daydreaming as we moved through the same motions every Sunday.

You sit in your room; it’s a mess, the bark colored rug is almost lost under everything that covers your fl oor. From old history notes to postcards that you never sent, these useless things that litter your fl oor comfort you. Th ese things are from times that you cannot remember the details of, but even if you can’t remember your trip to Martha’s Vineyard when you were nine, the shiny rocks that you picked up on the beach will always sit on the edge of your dresser. Perilously, always threatening to slip off the side, but never doing so. In your room, the lights coated everything in a warm glow and the sunlight from your window hit the side of your face as you sat upon your bed, safe, sur- rounded by a cave made of pillows. Th e pillow that you leaned against had faint purple streaks left- over from the vegan hair dye that you had failed 2018 21

77544 Guts.indd 20 4/28/21 12:39 PM to wash out the night before. You covered your walls in your favorite albums and pictures of your friends so you can look into these photos and remember the laughter and smiling so hard the corners of your mouth hurt, even if you cannot remember what was said.

I stared out the backseat window. My mom’s perfume crowded my nose and made me feel like sneezing as she messed with the radio trying to fi nd the Christian station. Her fi ancé was driving, and he pushed his seat so far back that it pressed up against my little brother’s legs. I plugged my headphones into my Kindle and stared out the window as the suburbs changed into pastures fi lled with cows whose eyes followed our car then turned into a freeway. I blasted the music into my ears to drown out my mom and her fi ancé fi ghting about a boat he was thinking about buying. Normally when she was around him, her voice was soft and airy, but this time it cut through the stale air in the car. As I stared back out the windows, all the buildings that sat alongside the highway wilted under the sticky Texas heat. I always hated this part of Texas. Billboards littered the sky and scrawny trees along the freeway sagged under the weight of their branches. Chiya Jauhari Grade 11 By: INNER DEMON INNER

2018 2119

77544 Guts.indd 21 4/28/21 12:39 PM TRAPPED By: Alexander Harris Grade 9

22 23

77544 Guts.indd 22 4/28/21 12:39 PM COWS By: Annabelle Ross Grade 12

Cruising beneath the cloudless sky, aimless in my trek, Asphalt black, and lane lines white, watching as the birds peck. I spy a fl ash of mottled dull, my attention is commanded; To my right, a cow, with ear tagged and fl ank branded. He turned, and we locked eyes, like the covenant of Abraham. Innocent as the Lamb of God, but I knew that he was damned. Down the rural road, I thought about his cruel fate. Within a week, I knew that he’d wind up on someone’s plate, No sense of how his brief life would be ripped away so young, Sacrifi cing his mortality just to please the human tongue. But my thoughts were cut short as my car sped down the street. As I passed, I heard the roaring of the cowherd’s feet. My cow would soon be slew, He vanished in the rear-view.

22 23

77544 Guts.indd 23 4/28/21 12:39 PM HONORING By: Basia Siwek Grade 12 Cinderella has always been a fond image of my childhood. I used to sit eyes glazed at the scene when Cinderella’s fairy godmother transforms her into a classic princess. So keen was my adolescence to the dreaminess of Cinderella’s image, much like Marilyn Monroe—yet my infatuation soon keyed upon the fairy godmother.

Sylvia Plath once dreamt that Marilyn Monroe was her fairy godmother. It’s fi tting that Marilyn—forever idolized female beauty icon—held the whimsical godmother archetype in Plath’s dreams.

I never met my mother’s mother, at least not in this life. From how she was described as an artist, writer, and mother, she quickly became the Native American fairy godmother of my little girl imagination. She honored her Native identity and passed the torch down matrilineally. Originally, most Native values were matriarchal; from deities to leaders, societies were born from the gynocracy of human nature—before assimilative colonial pursuits. Th e gynocidal motive behind genocide has always rung true, but I have been taught to invest power in complementary behavior over oppres- sive opposition.

Th is past year I traveled with my mother to New Mexico and Arizona and visited places she once had with her mother. Being in states home to Native history and present living tribes, I found it hard not to feel like an intruder. To be living in privilege on land that’s not mine—essentially helping the legacy of common law colonialism and destruction by indulging in fry breads and turquoise beads. I found myself sitting in a café notorious to my mother’s childhood in Santa Fe, savoring sweet fl avors of black coff ee and blueberry pancakes, and feeling my eyes begin to well and my vision soften. I was crying not because of sadness, but because of an overwhelming feeling of connection to parts of my past I never quite knew. All my devotions and fascinations for Native American history and justice were equated to this vivid inner world that never looked outside of itself. When the inside began coinciding with the outside, I quickly felt overpowered by my surroundings.

PAPER CRANES By: Katarina Endom Grade 12 24 25

77544 Guts.indd 24 4/28/21 12:39 PM Th e heaviness of feeling is something I inherited from my grandmother; I have learned that the Earth only endures as humans do. I know that melancholy is the happiness of sadness. I care beyond reason and empathize without limits. I feel every pain I see and want to elevate the forgotten. When facing an ethical dilemma through a history of physical occupation, socio-political marginalization, and cultural discrimi- nation over generations, progress is as simple as knowledge. I am in permanent osmo- sis to information and feeling.

As Cinderella’s fairy godmother saved the day—my grandmother saved mine. Th e perquisite of fi nding deep connection and intuition from a piece of my upbringing has not only shaped me in the ways that I act, think, and care—but has allowed me to identify and expand my passions for Women’s and Native American history. Th ese passions have always been a part of my character but have stemmed and since intensifi ed as I continue to explore my roots. My identity is not the confessional poetry of Sylvia Plath nor the recognition of toxic beauty standards ingrained by Disney prin- cesses. It is not the speeches of Gloria Steinem nor the leadership of Wilma Mankill- er. Freshness and pain of adolescent wounds begin to heal whether one wants them to or not.

I now know that personal healing doesn’t always come from personal experiences, but also understanding the pain of those before you. I’ve begun to understand the truth that we are all united by our experiences with sensitivity and empathy. Sensitivity is not my fl aw. It is my inheritance. It is my gift.

24 25

77544 Guts.indd 25 4/28/21 12:39 PM MY EVANGELINE A er e Princess and the Frog

By: Phoebe Hollingsworth Grade 12

As the sky develops its depth and deep hues You emerge Th e moon cannot compare with your beauty I see You are the bustling city of light and music Th at contrasts my calm and loveless bayou My dear Evangeline

I pray every night that I might be with you one day Th at some voodoo will work in my favor instead of against me And let me bask in your warmth for eternity My dear Evangeline

Your orb-like form holds steady as my messiah My own body is like that of an impostor I don’t see how you could love me My dear Evangeline

Th e way you light up the sky Erases all my inhibitions and fears Help guide me the right way You are what I’m working towards I’ll be with you soon My dear Evangeline

CROCODILE TEARS By: Tori Osmond Grade 12 2624

77544 Guts.indd 26 4/28/21 12:39 PM 2624

77544 Guts.indd 27 4/28/21 12:39 PM 29

77544 Guts.indd 28 4/28/21 12:39 PM ON THE CONCEPTS OF DEATH AND ONE DIRECTION By: Annabelle Ross Grade 12 You are going to your fi rst One Direction concert; you are ecstatic. After a painful- ly long 83 hours of waiting in line for the show, you fi nally get in. You feel a buzz coming from your Harry Styles cross-body bag, so you pull out your Samsung Galaxy S II. You’ve received a text message from an unknown number. You cau- tiously open the text and it reads: Congratulations Y/N, you are the lucky winner of meet and greet tickets for the One Direction Up All Night tour! Show the code below to the ticket master to redeem your tickets! 2288737820. You gasp and sprint to the ticket booth, running as fast as your preteen legs would carry you. You show the code, and you are handed a VIP lanyard and es- corted to the meet and greet area. You walk through the doors, and there they are. Harry, Zayn, Niall, Louis, and Liam, all standing there, the oil from their teenage skin glistening in the light. You can hardly contain your excitement as you wait for your turn to meet the boys. You feel your heart beating so hard in your chest, and that beat suddenly turns into palpitations. As you are waiting in line, you have a heart attack. You are rushed to the hospital, and on the journey, you pass out. When you awake, you are in a hospital room. A doctor comes in and says: “Y/N, we had to give you a heart transplant.” “What?” You reply. “Who gave me the heart?” As you say this, you see Harry and Liam both being wheeled into your hospital room. “Harry and Liam both gave you half of their hearts,” the doctor replies. As he says that, the rest of the boys walk in, and they all start to sing their hit song “Half a Heart.” As they serenade you, your body rejects Liam’s heart donation— Liam sucks and is easily the worst member of One Direction. You die, but at least you did get to meet the boys, and you died with Harry Styles’s DNA inside of you, so it was okay.

THREE TIMES By: Saylor Hark Grade 11 29

77544 Guts.indd 29 4/28/21 12:39 PM SECONDS By: Maci Flanagan Grade 12

I think it’s funny how much can change in a year. But really, sometimes things can become so diff erent within seconds.

You fi nd yourself singing along to a song you used to hate, skipping a song you used to love.

Someone who meant the world to you can instantly mean nothing at all, and someone who you weren’t that concerned with could be the one person who keeps you sane.

You fi nd new meaning in everything, whether that’s good or bad.

I just think that’s funny.

And not quite in the way that you slap your knee in laughter, the way you laugh so hard you can’t breathe—no, not that type of funny.

Funny in the way you think about it for a while, sort of chuckle to yourself and stare at the sky for a bit, as if She’s gonna give you the answer you’re looking for.

30 31

77544 Guts.indd 30 4/28/21 12:39 PM FUNNY FACES By: Liz Liner Grade 12

77544 Guts.indd 31 4/28/21 12:39 PM WRINKLY TOES

By: Saylor Hark Grade 11 wading to the center of the pond the hydrilla dragging behind me as the surface of the water touches my neck diving down digging reaching scraping it’s gnawing at my insides something is down there living amongst the weeds and forgotten fi sh hooks i can see it just barely the fuzzy outline of a form maybe it’s a family heirloom green with tarnish maybe it’s just a long-lost pair of sunglasses the hinges rusted shut from lake water or maybe it’s that feeling from my childhood of wrinkly toes and sudsy hair after playing with my bath toys for too long

what if I’m just grasping at an unreachable memory like scooping water with a sieve maybe it’s just nothing maybe it’s more

32 33

77544 Guts.indd 32 4/28/21 12:39 PM WRINKLY TOES Grade 12 Prettyman Abby SUSPENSION By: 32 33

77544 Guts.indd 33 4/28/21 12:39 PM Grade

body

REWIND By: Saylor Hark Grade 11

34 35

77544 Guts.indd 34 4/28/21 12:39 PM “I found myself sitting in a café notorious to my mother’s childhood in Santa Fe, savoring sweet flavors of black coffee and blueberry pancakes, and feeling my eyes begin to well and my vision soften. I was crying not because of sadness, but an overwhelming feeling of connection to parts of my past I never quite knew.”

Basia Siwek p. 24

34 35

77544 Guts.indd 35 4/28/21 12:39 PM BLUE By: Ellie Drinkwine Grade 12

77544 Guts.indd 36 4/28/21 12:40 PM SLEEPY SILHOUETTES OF A SAD SONG

By: Maci Flanagan Grade 12

Th under rolls above me, delicate drops of rain tap on my windows.

I never realized how tired I am. Even though I slept through my work the night before, (that I have to catch up on now) I’m still tired. Maybe it’s an accidental act of conditioning that I long for sleep by just the thought of work. body Feeling my eyelids start to droop as I read words on a screen, my brain wants to shut down instead of thinking of all the things I have to do. But then again, maybe I’m just tired.

But why wouldn’t I be? When everything is good in my sleepy state of dreams, why would I want to do anything else?

but drift o ff to sleep

77544 Guts.indd 37 4/28/21 12:40 PM “They felt as though they had awakened from a dream; they felt like little kids that had been told magic is not real” Katie Lynn Miller p. 42

APOLLO By: Kirthi Chandra Grade 12

38 39

77544 Guts.indd 38 4/28/21 12:40 PM HOLLOW HEARTS

By: Lani Liang Grade 10

in this generation full of fake friends and empty laughter in this time of dream lives and unachievable dreams in this age of young love and dirty promises Katie Lynn Miller p. 42 we are all lost searching for each other in the dark reaching out our hands in the empty air straining for each other with tears running down our faces and holes in our souls from where we had shot each other seeing monsters and wept over their bodies we sew our lips shut but choke on the bile bubbling in our throats from the poison we drank and toasted to our miseries we are so utterly alone in this golden shining life that casts shadows into the deepest crevices of our souls and makes us sick to death in this world of hollow hearts By: Kirthi Chandra Grade 12 PANIC! By: Kirthi Chandra Grade 12 38 39

77544 Guts.indd 39 4/28/21 12:40 PM MERCUTIO PUTS HIS CIGARETTE OUT ON ROMEO By: Abby Prettyman Grade 12

We were hardly more than children When I began hoping that God had abandoned us So that I may kiss you and not repent for it. I think you’re somehow too devout and know too little of faith, Because you kept praying like I wouldn’t be the one to save you- And I guess that’s why I couldn’t. Th at the looming cloud of penitence never stopped you from Climbing balconies, running from the law, and brushing my fi nger When you preyed the dagger from my tender, freshly deceased hands.

We were hardly more than children And in my childish state of mind, I had never really thought of myself As living until suddenly I was dying And your hands were stained with more than my blood. How death is some abstract, detached movement that strikes you To your bones but never to the marrow. Something impalpable, intangible Until you’ve done everything except die. You had been waiting to die for love. Even sooner, quicker, angrier- Is that not what passion is after everything?

We were hardly more than children Putting cigarettes out on each other and fi ghting like Greeks or maybe Romans, Playing pretend while kissing each other’s band-aids and slipping into each other’s dreams with disapproving whispers that it was all moving too fast. (You were never any good at parsing prose; just writing pretty words hoping it meant something). Th e critics misinterpreted who the love story was about. Th e love was tried and true. Th e greatest romance to be told- Romeo and Mercutio, that is, And it ended when I used my dying breath to make you laugh. (Act III, Scene 2)

40 41

77544 Guts.indd 40 4/28/21 12:40 PM SHATTERED By: Sebastian Plaza Grade12

We were hardly more than children And you probably would have sipped the poison either way. You spoke in your sleep that you loved Juliet, and I told you dreamers often lie. No matter, when death hits you cold between the eyes, Enter Queen Mab She in her chariot will bring you back home, home to me. What’s in a name? I can defi nitively say a rose by any other name would not smell as sweet, But let’s test the theory: let mine escape your lips and tell me if it feels any better. I guess I ruined everything by dying, But maybe if you were better at reading poetry, you’d understand Th at I was asking you to dance the whole time.

40 41

77544 Guts.indd 41 4/28/21 12:40 PM A MIDSUMMER NIGHT’S DREAM AFTER THE RECEPTION By: Katie Lynn Miller Grade 11 It’s 3 am, and the town is still. Th e streetlights have all fl ickered off . Th e roads streets wind in between the shops like rivers that run Dark and steady But looking down on the town there is a glow that pours into them It’s a Waﬄ e House and inside of it, voices overlap and conversations swell and subside like waves along a coast.

Th e door swings open. Th e broken theatre troupe wanders in Eyes drooping, they mutter among themselves. Most of the troupe shuﬄ es over to a corner booth where they sit, Peering silently out into the darkness. Even Bottom who, on a diff erent day, would terrorize the poor service workers, Whose voice would carry through the crowd, Is silent.

Th ey had performed for kings, Th ey had done what seemed impossible Without a second thought But now, as they watched the wind play with the litter in the parking lot, Th ey felt diff erent Th ey felt as though they had awakened from a dream Th ey felt like little kids that had been told magic is not real Tomorrow they would drive down these same streets With the billboard people smiling down at them With dead eyes And they wondered Where do we go from here?

77544 Guts.indd 42 4/28/21 12:40 PM ILLUMINARE By: James Donald Grade 12

77544 Guts.indd 43 4/28/21 12:40 PM MALIGNANCY By: Kirthi Chandra Grade 12

Sitting in the sterile oﬃ ce, my feet swung in nervous motions hitting the exam bench. I listened to the doctor inform my mother the tumor was indeed benign, though growing at an abnormal rate. As a high school student, I felt utterly unprepared to undergo a mastectomy. My fi ngers picked at each other as the doctor repeated the words “it’s not cancer,” a futile attempt to console me.

My mind avoided the thought of cancer—a devastating word tied to countless tears and a tangible sense of loss. I remember my fi rst brush with the disease, when my neighbor Ashley was diagnosed with Osteosarcoma. I was seven, but the memory re- mains clear: my hands tightly gripped a pencil as I copied the picture of a ballerina. Once complete, the fi gure’s legs consisted of only an outline, unnaturally curved and long—shading and anatomical understanding were not part of my skill set yet. Despite all the errors, I proudly showed Ashley my drawing. I watched the corners of her lip turn up and her beautiful, toothy smile emerge. Th at was the moment when my connection to art transformed from a scribble into a way of touching those around me.

As I hold brushes in my hand today—their bristles fi lled with rich yellows, blues, and reds—I understand the ability art has to create joy and inspire. I now create every can- vas, sketchbook, or paper in order to invoke emotion: pleasant and disturbing. I believe it is inaccurate to portray art through a singular lens; instead, each piece is a kaleidoscope: multidimensional, shifting based on an individual’s perspective.

With age, I came to realize the destruction the word cancer entails. Ashley’s disease was curable, but through a series of medical errors, it became fatal. Although at the age of seven, drawing a smile from her left me feeling less helpless, it became clear I did not possess the ability to physically heal solely through art. I found the solution in anatomy books scattered throughout the library, heart dissection days, and shadowing physicians.

44 45

77544 Guts.indd 44 4/28/21 12:40 PM Every Monday, wheeling patients up, down, and across the hallways of Memorial Hermann, I meet a day-old newborn cradled by her mother, a Korean veteran, or a retired biology teacher. Each patient is a work of art, a set of distinct experiences and conditions layered to create a mesmerizing composition. However, I crave more than the hallway conversations. I want to build relationships with patients inside the consultation oﬃ ce. Winsor & Newton paints, linseed oil, and boar bristle brushes are my current tools of conversation. However, one day, I will expand my palette, utilizing medicine to ensure each patient is met with outstanding quality care. A physician’s time in a patient’s life is short, but the immediate connection and open communication with a doctor is what I will work to protect through outstanding patient care.

While my early exposure to unforeseeable events ignited my desire to pursue both art and medicine, they also opened my eyes to the struggles patients face behind closed doors. Sitting, vulnerable, in an open gown prepping for a mastectomy surgery furthered kindled my desire to leave a positive impact on patients through medicine. Despite surgery being an emotional obstacle in high school, I realized my scars are a minor inconvenience compared to what is the reality for others. Th is is the mindset I strive to maintain day to day; it manifests as I smile at strangers, open a textbook, or peck my brother on the cheek. While I am certain medicine is for me, art is also an indispensable part of my life.

Th ee samesame smilesmile II onceonce drewdrew fromfrom AshleyAshley fuelsfuels mymy desiredesire toto connectconnect withwith othersothers asas both an artist and a physician.

44 45

77544 Guts.indd 45 4/28/21 12:40 PM STOP SMOKING (WE LOVE YOU) SERIES By: Kirthi Chandra Grade 12

46 47

77544 Guts.indd 46 4/28/21 12:40 PM 46 47

77544 Guts.indd 47 4/28/21 12:40 PM COMO TÚ A er Richard Blanco By: Katia Guerrero Grade 12

Como tú, I always wondered what would’ve been my life If I had stayed in my home, my country. It’s been 9 years yet I still see words I don’t understand, people I don’t understand. I see their mouths moving but I can’t tell what they are saying. Como tú, I didn’t have the option of where I wanted to live, or if I wanted a new place to call home. Como tú, I’m also from the mountains and lakes, Carne asadas and family gatherings. From another country I can’t fully call mine. Como tú, I am from a place with beautiful skies, mariachi at 12 a.m., and big family gatherings. Como tú, I feel like I don’t have a place to call home. I’m not a part of the people that live in my “new home” but I can’t go back now, because I also don’t fi t in there either, at least not anymore.

Like a memory, at times I want to erase my past, my background. Many times, I broadcast to the world my roots, other times I want to hide them. I want to hold a conversation without showing my accent, without my two tongues colliding. Como tú, I want to express myself in two languages, I have two personalities that are shown depending on the tongue, I’m expressing myself in. Como tú, I can’t fi nd one word that defi nes me. Como tú, I don’t know where I belong. DIRECTIONS By: Allie Ronchetto Grade 12 48 49

77544 Guts.indd 48 4/28/21 12:40 PM Como tú, I always wondered what would’ve been my life If I had stayed in my home, my country. It’s been 9 years yet I still see words I don’t understand, people I don’t understand. I see their mouths moving but I can’t tell what they are saying. Como tú, I didn’t have the option of where I wanted to live, or if I wanted a new place to call home. Como tú, I’m also from the mountains and lakes, Carne asadas and family gatherings. From another country I can’t fully call mine. Como tú, I am from a place with beautiful skies, mariachi at 12 a.m., and big family gatherings. Como tú, I feel like I don’t have a place to call home. I’m not a part of the people that live in my “new home” but I can’t go back now, because I also don’t fi t in there either, at least not anymore.

48 49

77544 Guts.indd 49 4/28/21 12:40 PM EMERGENCE By: Peyton Lien Grade 11 50 51

77544 Guts.indd 50 4/28/21 12:40 PM ROSES AND IVY By: Phoebe Hollingsworth Grade 12 One of my favorite memories from my grandmother’s house is of lying in her back garden, basking in the autumn sunlight that was fractured by the overhanging trees— creating a golden kaleidoscope of warmth that sheltered me from that skin-numbing feeling one contracts when lying in the shade for too long. It wasn’t a yard, that was for certain. Backyards give off images of frayed trampolines with disintegrating foam padding, push bikes with their bright stickers fading away into nothingness, and scattered fi re ant beds which serve as the ultimate booby trap for toddlers and tots. My grandmother’s garden was certainly nothing like that. To a pure and naïve little girl, this was a private Garden of Eden, carefully selected to rest at the top of a hill, serving as the barrier between heaven and the unknown jungle of bush that lay restless below.

Atop this hill, the garden served as home to a dozen or so white porcelain cherubs that were scattered around the roses and hydrangeas, as if divinely placed there to serve as overseers of this lush paradise. An ornate cast iron table and its respective chairs were laid to rest in the corner of the garden and gave visions of tea cakes and fi nger sandwiches carefully stacked on little platters to be consumed while discussing the matter of the wallabies invading the vegetable patch. Squinting, I sit up as my eyes try to adjust to the fractured light wavering as the gum tree’s branches sway back and forth – almost as if they were dancing to their own soothing song. Th e crinkling of the leaves in the trees as the breeze disturbs their sweet slumber, and the high-pitched melodic twinkling of the wind chimes reawakens my ears to the physical world around me. It is here on the freshly mown grass that I take in one more deep breath of the pure, salt-tinged air before retiring to my room. My feet mindlessly take the last steps through the plush grass and discarded peonies petals before reaching the harsh reality of the brick steps that lead up into the home. It is here that my eyes glaze over the haven that is my grandma’s garden, leaving my dazed stupor at the back door before returning to reality.

Reality is not so graceful. It is harsh, like a slap in the face from Momma when I say a word she deems too explicit for a “young lady” or when you catch a glimpse of yourself in the mirror, and become nauseated by the person you see looking back at you. It is at times like that when I try to smile and think of my grandma’s garden. Th e cool breeze rolls in the chirps of the crickets as it becomes dusk. Th e air seemed special in that grassy knoll— almost as if it sparkled. Th at garden was my version of a chapel—holy ground secured on Earth by the knots of ivy, rose bushes, and me. 50 51

77544 Guts.indd 51 4/28/21 12:40 PM DE NOCHE By: Sofia Gilroy Grade 12

77544 Guts.indd 52 4/28/21 12:40 PM Grade 12 WATER DROPLETS By: Adelaide Herman Grade 12

I didn’t go to school today Instead I slipped away slowly into the silence that is twenty-seven words and a couple of sniﬄ es Th e trip and tumble of the machines is deafening I long for the feeling of snow on my eyelashes I long to awaken in a cove of warmth But instead My fi ngers are numb without feeling I tap and tap and tap Th e dull intensifi es I fi nd myself on the fl oor looking up at the tiniest droplets of water that I have ever seen Th ey splatter across the drywall Th ey are not supposed to be there

AUREOLE By: Marielle Sauber Grade 11 52

77544 Guts.indd 53 4/28/21 12:40 PM SWEET OPHELIA By: Abby Prettyman Grade12

54 55

77544 Guts.indd 54 4/28/21 12:40 PM TO THE ONE I LOVE, By: Lani Liang Grade 10 fi n . monotone it was spring when we parted my tears the blossoms budding in their shells along with the lifeless leaves birds singing in the humid morning air have dried up but in a season of life and i am left with a gaping hole we died aching and invisible time stopped sucked empty and silence cloaked us i am barren i was all alone a broken burned twisted ugly tree and it was so so bitter a cutting imperfection that spring upon this blinding land with my thoughts only that has no right screaming so loud to be beautiful it jarred my skull - forcing my jaw shut against the roof of my mouth now it’s snowing and iron coated my angry tongue a frozen world not yet thawed - time has come and gone summer arrives but when these cold grey streets and i am become rivers again struggling in an empty ocean i will come home saltwater lapping at my mouth and i may not recognize you and it would be so easy but those eyes to sink below that crinkle at the corners but i keep my lips shut and shine eyes open i will never forget staring up at the clouded sky and i will run into your arms hoping once again that if i wait just a little longer tears will stream down our faces you will come but no cry will escape our lips and pull me out of this sea because it is a kind of pain fi lled with my sorrows and bring me home that cannot be voiced - the pain of a year too cold autumn turns the world red and orange and gold prologue. but i am still painted in shadows 54 55

77544 Guts.indd 55 4/28/21 12:40 PM THE MOON AND THE SUN By: Lauren Harkness Grade 12 Since I was little, I have been captivated by a folktale about the sun and the moon; two distant lovers who spend all their lives trying to reach one another, only to end up separated by the gravitational pull of the planets. With each passing season, they inch closer and closer together, feeling happier and falling harder for one another. However, they end up alone and dissatisfi ed by winter, heading in opposite directions.

I always thought of it as a silly romance fable meant to comfort listeners and to off er an explanation why the planets move the way they do. It was only recently that I realized it summarizes my pursuit for perfection—the story of my life, if you will. At least that’s how I see it. I pictured myself as the moon in summer, coming so close to reaching what I desire, but still having a small journey ahead of me before the fi nale comes, I fi nd my sun, and I take my bow. I spent my time obsessing over how to be the best person. I learned how to smile warmly, deliver advice charmingly, and apologize without a reason. I wanted to put myself in the best position to fi nd my sun.

Th e Summer moon was perfect—that’s why I wanted to be her. She was the best version of me, the happy moon that people were drawn to, always shining brightly without worries. It was the loveliest shade of blue to that ever crossed the night sky, holding the key to the perfect life that I wanted to fulfi ll, the one I was sure I was destined to have. My need to be her consumed my thoughts and set my standards high for anything I attempted to accomplish. I played sports, pursued theatre; even altering my personality drastically to fi t the mold. I just wanted to be that one moon that every single person was enamored by.

My compulsive need to be liked, paired with anxiety and anorexia, created a recipe for disaster that blew up inside me, before I was aware a storm was brewing. I normalized the rain and dark clouds. I shoveled out the water that drenched my ankles until it formed a tsunami behind me that overturned my precious rowboat. If I found out that I wasn’t the Summer moon, I knew I was the spring. If not spring, then winter. I was determined to keep running on my worn down road on sore feet. It took time before

56 57

77544 Guts.indd 56 4/28/21 12:40 PM it dawned on me that I wasn’t the fl awless moon in my treasured fable. I was the un- written character in the background of all the scenes and acts. I was Pluto, the smallest, coldest, and most broken planet to ever graced our night sky.

I was sitting silently in my head, overcome with confl icting emotions, watching other moons live my dream life. I wanted to be the one that painted the sky with colors, moved the waves in the ocean, or the one everyone wanted to stargaze. My pursuit of perfection damaged my internal monologue that decided the moon I was supposed to be. Being wrapped up in a fake life turned me into something I wasn’t. When I put aside this pursuit and reached out for help, it allowed my broken compass to be fi xed, and I was no longer led to a false north. I gave away my control to gain something that was lost years ago—my true self. I am no longer was an empty shell of a person lost years ago. I’m the moon in the sky that turns for her own Earth and no longer tries to turn for everyone else’s. OBSCURITY By: Laurent Moran Laurent By: Grade 11 56 57

77544 Guts.indd 57 4/28/21 12:40 PM BRANCHES By: Ellie Drinkwine Grade 12

My memories of last summer are heart rate upon standing up, a form of hidden in haze and fog, the days drifting Dysautonomia, a condition where the past each other in my mind. I know it nervous system doesn’t work as it should. was early June when I started fainting: Both are caused by my hypermobile my vision blurring when I stood too Ehlers-Danlos syndrome, an inherited long, my knees buckling. I can still feel connective tissue disorder. The roots of the pressure on my chest in the mid- a tree, the hardware of a PC, the con- afternoon heat of late July, my back nective tissue in the human body—an hitting the chipped drywall of my dorm abnormality in each of these parts affects room, my eyes unfocusing like a camera its whole. It is this defect, in some- with a faulty shutter. thing as mundane as collagen, that has I was diagnosed minutes after I changed my life forever, despite the met my doctor. This thing I had wrong inevitability of it. I can’t go back to with me, that had haunted me for weeks, before the fainting, can’t yearn for life was so obvious to him. Human bodies without it—there is no changing it, only are equipped to work in a certain way; learning to live with it. on some level, they all have the same I wonder if this is how trees feel machinery. “If most people are Macs,” during a hurricane—do they tense their he said, “then you’re a PC.” The same roots, close their eyes, and breathe like I species, with the same function, but do? Do they wait for the terrors of the different hardware. If you wrap your wind to pass, accepting their fate when hand around my wrist and you can feel they fall, but reaching up towards the it, hand and forearm bones unbuckling sky again? Why do some trees grow like a seatbelt. Listen as I breathe and again, while some die? Some days I sit in you can hear it, the loud and soft click- the rain, let the showers pour on me as I ing of my joints, like the floorboards of a ponder my condition. Is it the water that decaying house. Fainting was the nourishes me, or is it the metaphor of it catalyst for my discovery, but the all? Perhaps I will always live with this peculiarities I had overlooked were wind, but I have learned to adapt. symptoms as well. I have taken the label of “disabled” The medical term for my in stride. Some changes are subtle, fainting is Postural Orthostatic becoming second nature, and I’m only Tachycardia Syndrome, the rising of reminded of them upon introspection—

5856 5957

77544 Guts.indd 58 4/28/21 12:40 PM BUTTERFLIES IN MY STOMACH By: Tori Osmond Grade 12 the way I wince after over salting my food, because salt helps my blood move, or how I raise my fingers to my neck, counting the soft heartbeats in my head and calculating my pulse. I avoid the sun like a vampire, because the heat settles in me, suffocating as humidity fills my lungs. I take beta blockers, to help me regulate my heart rate. I take time to regulate my body, to breathe in deeply and hold my arms out wide for balance, to sit in my chairs with my legs crossed beneath my body on the seat. I make it most days without my vision blurring. I rarely need to leave school early. It still happens, but with less frequency. I am more knowledgeable about the nuances in my brain and in my body than any average human being should be, overly conscious of its limits and abilities. If my body was a hurricane before, it’s now a stray cloud of light rain in a blue sky—a spring shower than an autumn storm.

5856 5957

77544 Guts.indd 59 4/28/21 12:40 PM FREE FALL By: Adelaide Herman Grade 12

THIS afternoon, just as the sun begins to set, I pull myself into a car riding to a place that I want to go. I ride along, the world passing me by. What am I doing here? What am I doing here? We chat, the twang of a New Yorker fi lls my ears and I. Am. Still. We arrive, and I am greeted by hugs and kisses of friends and vacant stares from others. Are we simply a product of being stuck together? My demeanor immediately changes. I am Dynamic. Jump, fall, fl ip, the time seems infi nite. Th en we are done. I slip into another car fi lled with people who love me, but I am still. He cracks jokes in a low voice that I cannot hear, and my eyes are closed. A sting fi lls my mouth and nose. Th e feeling is one of anticipation and excitement for what is to come. Bare feet slap the fl oor as I take steps and steps and steps. How can I change so much in so little time? Clocks fi ll the room and I see myself in each one. Gazing at those who came before me and those who will come after me, I am in a state of transition. Transitioning. I climb up the ladder and remember who has been. I have seen many falls and failures, this place holds meaning to me. As I step up into the air, I start experiencing clarity. Th e water is blue. Th ere is love in my life and I am grateful for it.

I fall into the ocean, never to return.

Th e depths of the sea surround me and seep under my skin.

I rise to the surface that runs smoothly across the horizon. I begin to fall again.

77544 Guts.indd 60 4/28/21 12:40 PM 12

M de A a NI Gr C & M ra EL d LO Chan W hi By: Kirt

77544 Guts.indd 61 4/28/21 12:40 PM INSIDE A CAR By: Maci Flanagan Grade 12

Soft sprinkles of rain turn to pitter-pattering drops, quickening like an anxious heartbeat. I feel a chill throughout my body as the wind blows on the other side of the windshield.

It seems the heater hasn’t been very helpful. I squeeze my hands together, feeling my cold fingertips on my less-cold palms. I swear, for an instant, I can see my breath in front of me.

The thunder rolls. I feel the sound reverberate through my body as if somewhere, Mother Nature is playing bass. Every so often, I see a far-off flicker of lightning like a fleeting camera flash in the corner of my eye.

The rain continues to fall. I guess I’m stuck inside my car for now, but I’m not sure I ever want to leave.

6260 6361

77544 Guts.indd 62 4/28/21 12:40 PM DRAW THE DARK By: James Donald Grade 12 6260 6361

77544 Guts.indd 63 4/28/21 12:40 PM ONE THOUGHT (A SHORT FILM) By: Will Corson Grade 12

“You shouldn’t be this tired already.” “It doesn’t ma

?”

tter

o u o’esilgnab fat.” be gonna still you’re run you “Do those shorts even fit youanymore

“You’re average at everything.”

.” “Everyone ae you.” hates “Stop fee

ling bad for yourself

“You have nothing special

way.

ou .”

get t “Jus

64 65

77544 Guts.indd 64 4/28/21 12:40 PM ALL EYES ON US By: Liz Liner Grade 12 64 65

77544 Guts.indd 65 4/28/21 12:40 PM LONELINESS A er Matthew Dickman By: Emily Hamer Grade 11

loneliness entered my room that day. her steel-grey hair covered the lines of tears that engraved themselves into her lifeless cheeks. she fl oated to my bed holding a stack of what looked like photos. the impliable bones in her hands delivered a stack of exposures to my lap, consisting of three simple colors that created the world.

people often forget about those colors; magenta, the color of congruity, the color of peace that only comes between two people when they are truly at ease with each other. cyan, the color of tranquilness, the color of the undisturbed waves that make their way up the shores of empty beaches in the winter. yellow, the token of springtime and the spectrum of the light that comes when the sun decides to rise in the morning. however, loneliness said, yellow can also symbolize deception and cowardice, much like that cowardly lion in the movies you used to watch as a child.

loneliness looked over me as my fi ngers fl ipped through the 4x6s, looking through the memories that never seemed to satisfy the RIPPLES IN REALITY cavern that lay deep inside my chest. By: Abby Prettyman Grade 12 66

77544 Guts.indd 66 4/28/21 12:40 PM 66

77544 Guts.indd 67 4/28/21 12:41 PM VENUS WAS A BOY

By: Abby Prettyman Grade 12

I gave myself to diff erent boys because I wanted to know, just for a second, what it felt like to be loved, even if that love tasted like cheap wine in expensive glasses or the punchline to a joke I never got. I off ered them these diff erent parts of myself, parts they didn’t deserve, because I felt like I had nothing else to give. Th e bottom of the sea must be quiet like my bitten tongue folded neatly in my mouth. Th e ocean and I are separated, both fl owers from diff erent gardens: one ephemeral, the other wilting before your eyes, but both of our heads tilt up to the heavens. I don’t know what real love looks like, or whether what I felt for him is love or infatuation.

Th e fi rst time I saw him, he walked along the shoreline alone on a clouded day. Still, the sunlight feels sticky on my skin, like lip gloss kisses sweet and gentle. We sat and talk- ed over the sound of running water, cherishing the childlike freedom, barefoot and rosy- cheeked. I’d trace constellations against his skin, whispering of Pisces on his cheek and uncharted Lumbricus that framed his face. He gazed at the movement of the waves and slowly tried to catch the ripples with his ringlet covered fi ngers. Th e foam settled amidst the pale green stones, eyes glittering like salt-water pearls. As the moon rose, he walked away. He’d visit my dreams, tarnishing them a dull blue. He’d teach me that healing is not as pretty as the word sounds, that devotion is just our ability to endure.

And so, it wasn’t on purpose, that night, when we strolled through the damp grass while humidity clung to our hips. Minds tainted with adolescent angst and high on the notions of revolution. Streams that soaked our socks while we were skipping alongside stones to the other side of the bank. Th e moonlight escaped from the clouds and danced around him. I mean, it just made sense at that moment that he embodied perfection.

MILES By: Tori Osmond Grade 12

67 68

77544 Guts.indd 68 4/28/21 12:41 PM His fl esh was carved with delicate hands, and his eyes were created as a weapon born for war. His hands could pull the ocean’s tides to shore and he created new worlds with every breath he took. But I soon learned that his brashness felt bitter between my lips, like bruises and bloody spit. And so, it wasn’t his fault when weeks after fl owers grew beneath my skin and the faintest pigments could be deciphered from the surface. Pinks and blues and yellows claimed me as their own. Th ey grew from the cuts of gold and were nourished by the summer heat. Incisions made by hands with good intentions—or at least that’s what I was told. He masked our problems into poetry while I deluded warning signs as butterfl ies. I thought I was Eve that night in our garden, but I guess, instead, I was a snake with an overactive imagination like exploding constellations. Now, all I can do is plant my stones in the ribs of my love and bury her within the fl owerbeds.

67 68

77544 Guts.indd 69 4/28/21 12:41 PM WAVE By: Sofia Gilroy Grade12

69 70

77544 Guts.indd 70 4/28/21 12:41 PM AN ASHEN FACE AND HANDS A er Kyle Dargan

By: Tori Osmond Grade 12

REMEMBER your lessons, your training. How could you forget? It began the day you became conscious. Th ough listening to directions versus applying them in the fi eld is very diff erent. You cannot let your nerves get to you. Th e men will detonate faster if they see your weakness. It is good to wear a thin veil of confi - dence to blend in. When navigating a minefi eld, you must be cautious. Th ere is never enough caution. But if you get marred it is clearly your fault. You were the one that detonated him. Silly girl, looking like Wile E. Coyote blowing himself up with TNT: wide-eyed, hair standing up, plumes of smoke around you, ash smeared on your face. You never know which step, which word, which slight action will be the unlucky one that was so fatal- ly miscalculated. You are holding live wires. You are holding gasoline and a match. You are holding a man and a detonator. Protect your soft, supple skin from being shredded and punctured by the jagged metal shrapnel that bursts out of a man in all directions. Minefi elds are everywhere. A seemingly innocent scene may be laced with danger. You have to navigate strategically around the men. Th ere are no caution signs or blaring red sirens. Poke the ground gently for men and wait to see what happens. Test every inch but do not take too long. Guile and swiftness are key to making it out safely. If you fi nd a man, do not let your hands shake, do not apply too much pressure. Diff erent procedures are required depending on the type of man. Dismantling a man is typically easier in a group than alone. If in a group, make sure to look out for your team members, because if you do not, you can get each other all killed.

69 70

77544 Guts.indd 71 4/28/21 12:41 PM ODYSSEUS LEAVES CALYPSO By: Katie Lynn Miller Grade 11

He always told me he’d leave But as I watched him pack his suitcase His hair a curtain shielding his face from my sight I sat at the top of my bed My legs covered in a tent of white fabric As I pulled them into my chest Wondering who I would be when he was gone

I could hear him breathe in time with the waves Th at lapped at the coast outside our window Neither of us said a word in those last moments He kept turning to me his mouth opening then closing Like he was gasping for air I couldn’t look at him for too long

If I let myself stare into his olive green eyes Or let my gaze brush across his skin Th e color of sand after the ocean grazes it I would call out to Odysseus with tears stinging my eyes And grab the hem of his shirt like a child begging to be held

He was on his way home I knew that whenever he looked out into the ocean, He imagined his home somewhere on the other side So I had to let him go

I tried to gather up every memory I still had of him

Th ey were scattered across every corner of my brain I wondered if I would have to carve out all the parts of him he left in me

71 72

77544 Guts.indd 72 4/28/21 12:41 PM I remembered the fi rst time I saw him on the pier seven years ago His hair the color of the sea on a moonless night and a smile that made me feel weightless

“Goodbye Calypso.” Th e door clicked shut behind him and the fi rst sob ripped through me

MAN SMOKING By: Sebastian Plaza Grade 12

71 72

77544 Guts.indd 73 4/28/21 12:41 PM THE ANTI-HERO WHO EATS MISANTHROPY FOR BREAKFAST

By: Karson Smith Grade 11

Lies can spread like a noxious gas, infi ltrating the lungs and shutting down the system as a whole. Many odorless, seeping into our lives and revealing themselves until we have one foot in the grave. Others are preventable, whether it be keeping your home in check, or keeping the ones we despise at bay. We always say we have a plan, we always lean on the shadow we call ourselves, expecting it to catch us when we grow weary. We place our faith in superfi cial things we can only see when outside factors decide to play devil’s advocate, but we call ourselves above the ideals that society bounds us down by. We cock our heads high until we voluntarily run into the glass ceiling so we can fall and wallow in our premeditated self-pity. We humans are weak, wallowing in our blatant ignorance like babies in their own feces. We are disgusting, malleable creatures. Our history tells the beginning and the end, it shows us the villains and heroes like a nurturing mother who wants nothing but our success.

But we refuse. But we withstand. But we disregard. And this is why we will never rise from the ashes.

SCREAM By: Chiya Jauhari Grade 11

73 74

77544 Guts.indd 74 4/28/21 12:41 PM 73 74

77544 Guts.indd 75 4/28/21 12:41 PM NINE LIVES By: Ellie Drinkwine Grade 12 1. Th e Guillotine Bathed in grain, my veins unwrap inside my skin Th ey pour out of me 2. Violin strings Grab me Pull me Hold me together Laughter streams together Blue and red, the porcelain stained As my vision blurs I am translucent and I am in pieces You are transcendent 3. A heartbeat I hear you, eff ervescent I know not the diff erence My senses are an orchestra Between a fl icker and a fl ame With a labyrinthine melody I yearn for candlelight 4. Icarus But for my wings I am choking on fresh air Th e sun’s rays lay claim I am begging to be perceived 5. Moonlight I want to be sacrifi ced I am absent of virtue Like all great loves are And absent of vice If not my legacy I hold only my beating heart Let this be my memoir In my hand 6. I am battered not broken Saturated with ink I know not my purpose And glowing with the light I know not the voice Of a blue moon Th at calls to me 7. If I had nine lives Bubbling beneath How would I spend them Th e howling wind How would I lose them 8. Mercury How many in fi re I am fending How many in ice Off the voices How many with elysian endings Of a thousand past lives How many with stygian beginnings I am haunted by ghosts 9. Your eyes are coated in silver Of loves lost And I am Narcissus Of tears cost Staring at my own refl ection And you are Echo Ever reverent I am on a precipice Begging to be saved 75 76

77544 Guts.indd 76 4/28/21 12:41 PM KALEIDESCOPE By: Ellie Drinkwine Grade 12

75 72 76 73

77544 Guts.indd 77 4/28/21 12:41 PM ADORATION By: Ellie Drinkwine Grade 12

1. Chaos 2. Snowfall Th is is the darker chaos If ever I die Th at happens when I step I want to fall gently from life On autumn leaves that don’t sound Lay me in a snow clad meadow Rain falling, false feeling Let the cold seep into my bones I am suff ocating I will be clairvoyant And I will say goodbye 3. Fervid When we are alone, perceive me 4. Persephone I want nothing but to be known I am on my knees in a bed of roses Breathe in fi re, breathe out ice Begging for my iniquity of antiquity Our kiss tastes of pomegranate To be forgiven, for you to be spared Which of us sits upon the throne If ever I could be so bold Keep you to myself 5. Demeter As the world grows cold You are absent of fault And absent of fi re 6. My aﬀ ection is condemnation Claim your existence is tainted I am the voice that whispers to you hold a blade to your roots I am the devil in a dress Will this free you Callous and cognizant of it If this kills you I hold my breath I’ll bring you back to life I hold off the storm 7. If I could die 8. Equinox I would die for you Spring comes and I let you go I would bleed in fl ower fi elds Forget-me-nots in your wake Hold a burning match on my tongue I pick the petals Waste hours staring at the night sky Whispering I am immortal, I am incurable He loves me He loves me not

77 78

77544 Guts.indd 78 4/28/21 12:41 PM 8. Equinox Spring comes and I let you go Forget-me-nots in your wake I pick the petals Whispering EMERGENCE He loves me He loves me not By: Olivia Sauber Grade 12

77 78

77544 Guts.indd 79 4/28/21 12:41 PM PURITY AND ITS DAMAGING EFFECTS ON WOMEN By: Amelie Godfrey Grade 9 Th e overwhelming expectation of ent coﬃ n, the Prince says, purity haunts countless female characters “I cannot live without seeing Snow within Western Literature. Many classic White. I will honor and prize her as my character archetypes embody this ideal dearest possession.” purity: Th e White Goddess: a virtuous Th e Prince’s references to Snow maiden who embodies the perfect mar- White hold tones of possession rather riage partner. Her counterpart: Th e Black than love. Snow is prized only for her Goddess: an impure temptress who ulti- purity and delicate nature as a young girl. mately brings the antagonists downfall. Growing up in this environment hin- Th e fi rst seems innocent and ethical, while ders Snow White’s ability to develop her the second appears immoral and evil. Yet, own identity. Ever since her birth, it had how does purity correspond with identity? been driven into her that her value resid- How much deeper is it? In the Grimm ed in her pure beauty. As opposed to the Brothers’ “Snow White” and Roald Dahl’s Queen, Snow White has no ambition or “Lamb to the Slaughter,” symbolism, motivation; she simply exists to be seen religious allusions, and irony communicate and is easily manipulated by other char- how purity is less of a trait, and instead, acters. Situations like Snow White’s are more representative of feminine character’s still seen today, despite the story’s age and lack of identity. fi ctional premise, as girls are taught certain In “Snow White,” the Grimm expectations and treated like objects to brothers express how Snow White is be viewed from a young age. Th e Grimm praised for her beauty and virtue, even brothers capitalize on these societal stan- though they are merely fronts for her dards of purity in women and their re- own incomprehension of her identity. sponsibility in creating countless internal When introducing Snow White, she “... confl icts. was as white as snow”. Th e color white in In “Lamb to the Slaughter,” Dahl Western Literature has been a symbol of pairs religious allusions with irony to innocence and purity for centuries. Snow similarly expose these expectations. He White’s description establishes the pu- introduces Mary Maloney as dark and rity of her character early on. When the impure, describing, “Her mouth and eyes, dwarfs carry Snow White in her transpar- with their new calm look, seemed larger

79 80

77544 Guts.indd 80 4/28/21 12:41 PM and darker than before.” Eyes are com- up to get her husband’s drink for him is a monly referred to as the “window to the vital sign that she has picked up patterns soul.” Hence, by establishing them as large like this to avoid her husband’s negative and dark, Dahl’s characterization of Mary response. Th is codependency causes her to suggests her impurity stems from the lose her identity when trapped in the re- fundamental part of her person-hood. Th is lationship. However, she regains the pros- symbolism also foreshadows upcoming pect of her identity after killing her hus- events in the story where Mary’s complex band, and more abstractly, her innocence. nature slowly shines through. Dahl writes, Th e very last sentence of the story states, “and without any pause, she swung the “And in the other room, Mary Maloney big frozen leg of lamb high in the air and began to laugh.” Th ough Mary’s name brought it down as hard as she could on alludes to the fi gure found in biblical texts, the back of his head.” In the Bible, the and her criminal nature emphasizes their lamb represents Christ as both suff ering countless diff erences. Th e religious allusion and triumphant; it may also symbolize to the lamb similarly strengthens this idea innocence and purity. However, the lamb as well. Mary comes out as triumphant is the very instrument used by Mary Ma- despite the suff ering she’s gone through. loney to kill her husband, suggesting that When Dahl writes about Mary beginning Mary is insane. In these instances of sym- to laugh, he illustrates Mary’s new, over- bolism and religious allusions, Dahl in- whelming experience of her own identity; tentionally misleads the readers to believe she fi nally may become free. Th ese infer- Mary is purely evil when in reality, there is ences enlighten the readers about how much more than meets the eye. conformity to purity can cause identity In his work, Dahl also these same loss and damage a person’s psyche. literary devices to illustrate how Mary’s loss of innocence results from her emo- tionally abusive marriage. When her husband fi nishes his drink and goes to get a new one, Mary quickly gets up and says, “I’ll get it!” Victims of abuse commonly become codependent on their abusers, which happens when they feel the need to tolerate and pick up habits to avoid their abuser’s behavior. Mary quickly getting

79 80

77544 Guts.indd 81 4/28/21 12:41 PM 77544 Guts.indd 82 81

TORN TO PIECES PART 2 By: Tori Osmond Grade 12 4/28/21 12:41 PM 82 I’VE BEEN SLEEPING ON THE BONES OF WORMS AND BATHROOM TILES

By: Abby Prettyman Grade 12 I don’t believe you were built out of rib bones and boys. Instead, more like candle waxed lies made of truth; mutable and changeable. When you’d touch my cheek, you’d tell me: love is just bodies turned transparent. Other times, you lied while they sat stagnant in murky waters. Do you remember fl oating in those pools of green-stained ceramics? Or when your nail beds turned that dull shade of blue? You would always hold your breath—eyes shut tight like caterpillar cocoons. But perhaps it’s just that its fi ve a.m. and empty bodies make sense. Sometimes, when you kissed my cheek, you’d tell me: forgiveness is just another way of saying nothing even happened. Other times, you bandaged my loose skin back into my fl esh. Do you remember the blood stuck in places you couldn’t reach? Or when you stippled cold velvet pores? Your fi ngers traced every inch of my skin and I can still feel the ache in my bones. I still don’t know how you got so deep in my body that you made a home in my veins. Th e feeling is forever rooted in me, even in your absence. My heart is both a soft and cruel place; each beat, a subtle atrocity to spilling out breaths. I am no longer going to pour life into empty spaces, I cannot plant a seed in dead soil. And perhaps, for me, forgiveness is just picking at old scabs.

81 80 82 81

77544 Guts.indd 83 4/28/21 12:41 PM ISOLATION By: Sam Liebbe Grade 12 Lies can spread like a noxious gas, infiltrating the lungs and shutting down the system as a whole. Many are odorless, seeping into our lives and revealing themselves until we have one foot in the grave. Others are preventable, whether it be keeping your home in check, or keeping the ones we despise at bay. We always say we have a plan, we always lean on the shadow we call ourselves, expecting it to catch us when we grow weary. We place our faith in superficial things we can only see when outside factors decide to play devil’s advocate, but we call ourselves above the ideals that society bounds us down by. We cockw oure call heads ourselves, high until we voluntarily run into the glass ceilingthe soshadow we can fall and wallow in our premeditated self- pity. We humanss leanare weak, on wallowing in our blatant ignorance like babies in their an,own we feces. alway We are disgusting, malleable creatures. Our history tells the beginning a pl e and the end, it shows us the villains and heroes like a nurturing mother expecting who wants it to nothing but our success. But we refuse. But we withstand. But we disregard. And this is why we will never rise from the ashes. cat

us l wh

ways say we hav

gro we en

a “We

w weary.”

Karson Smith p. 73

83 84

77544 Guts.indd 84 4/28/21 12:41 PM ABANDONMENT By: Phoebe Hollingsworth Grade 12 Her arrival is always unexpected. Th at is her aim–discomfort and shock. I cower in my armchair tentatively placed by the fi re, as if the warmth it off ered would provide some form of protective motherly comfort. Her chilling aura threatens to envelop me like a crisp winter shower. I sit there in a fetal-like position under a patchwork of mismatched blankets and duvets that would hopefully simulate the desired weight of a hug or perhaps the sensation of having someone you love fall asleep on your chest. Sometime during the darkest point of the night, she stalks over towards the fi re and snuff s the last remaining fl ickers of life. She then whips around to face me–providing a frigid breeze that harshly combats the previously stuff y warmth of the eerie household. As the air attempts to resettle into its hibernation, a dusting of ash fl utters through the air like blackened snow. Th e shadow then carefully removes each individual layer of emotional padding–blanket by blanket. Minutes later, I’m left in the breezy and vacant house that used to feel like a home. I awake to the skin tingling sensation of numb skin, peppered with goosebumps that had been awake for so long that they had seemingly set in stone. I soon exhale and, to my surprise, am greeted with visions of my breath which wisp out of my mouth like smoke from a long-gone fl ame. Alone. CIMEX By: James Donald Grade 12

83 84

77544 Guts.indd 85 4/28/21 12:41 PM I SAW SUSAN B. ANTHONY AT THE POLLS A er Eve Ewing By: Emily Hamer Grade 11 I saw Susan at the polls. She kept her head down, her hands nestled softly inside her coat. Occasionally her eyes would drift to the men who stood in camoufl age with their hands sitting protectively on the leather holsters that attached to their American-made jeans. I lost eye contact as I made my way through the line of people who waited patiently like lambs to the slaughter. As I fi lled out my ballot, the sounds of a brawl echoed outside the booth.

On my way out, I noticed that Susan had started towards the street. Hello Susan I waved as I grabbed my “I Voted” sticker. She smiled back, uttering a soft Hello in return. Her voice sounded almost haunting, as if she was grieved by her circumstances. Is something wrong? Oh, darling, she turned and began to walk away, but with one swift pivot she looked back, everything is wrong.

Artist 85 86

77544 Guts.indd 86 4/28/21 12:41 PM I SAW SUSAN B. ANTHONY AT THE POLLS

FEARLESS By: Emily Hamer Grade 11

85 86

77544 Guts.indd 87 4/28/21 12:41 PM CONSIDER THE LAMPPOST By: Preston Rowley Grade 12

The lights shine white on the inside but give the appearance of being peach colored in the moonlight. When I look up at them they don’t look back down, they look ahead. They don’t move ever, they just stare ahead. I wonder why. They shine down on a dark street but they never question what moves below them. They don’t need to? I mean curiosity never killed the light pole. What are they looking at? Just a city beyond? The stars above? If they do, which ones do they like? One day I want the pole to look at me. I want it to see me standing there alone on an empty road. I want it to tell me why it is there. Why it stays in the same spot every night. I want it to tell me that what it sees is beyond the imagination. That life is wonderful but I just don’t see it. I just don’t. The light poles do. I look up at the concrete cylinder with a light hanging from the top. I ask it for purpose. It never looks down.

87 88

77544 Guts.indd 88 4/28/21 12:41 PM LUMINESCENT LAIR By: Miles Miller Grade 12

87 88

77544 Guts.indd 89 4/28/21 12:41 PM 88 90

77544 Guts.indd 90 4/28/21 12:41 PM A BETTER HAIRCUT

By: Abby Prettyman Grade 12

I think I’m going to cut my hair Because I can’t get my hands on anything else. New Year’s Eve again, and my body is Full of fruit fl ies, just as it was last year And I still haven’t taken out the trash. In the new year, I’ll have a clean room. I’ll buy fresh oranges from a farmer’s market. I will tell that girl I love her and she will kiss me because My room is clean. But it’s 11 pm, and my walls Are the color of old blackberries And my body is molding from the inside, Mushrooms blossoming in the soft parts of my skull. A new year again, and I’m going to be good this time. I’m going to be good. I think I’m going to cut my hair.

LINEAR DISTORTIONS By: James Donald Grade 12 90 90 91

77544 Guts.indd 91 4/28/21 12:41 PM TOGETHER By: Sebastian Plaza Grade 12 91 92

77544 Guts.indd 92 4/28/21 12:41 PM RENOUNCED By: Emily Hamer Grade 11

I. Springtime It was nothing but a moment. A second of curiosity, when your shoulder brushed past mine. A simple gesture to catch my elusive hand. A trick of the light had led my eyes to yours, as it was not by my own will. Springtime watched over her pairs carefully, but I knew of her desires. She watched with a careful eye as we danced through the hallways until dawn.

II. Summer I remember the color of your skin in the summer—when the sun would smile and the wind would blow through the leaves on the evergreens in response. I remember sneaking around the thorns to pick the tart violet berries that stung our tongues. I remember the cobblestone streets that burned the soft souls of our feet as we ran from our homes to the brush, hand in hand. I remember the pond fi lled with moss, back when we would watch the sun fall behind the hushed horizon. Even the koi knew I was enchanted.

III. Autumn You didn’t tell me you had left. Th e days became shorter, and the cold began to slip under- neath the creaks of our doors, fl ooding the home with an empty chill that wrapped around my arms like a silk shawl. I waited for you, but you never returned. I should have known, after all, we had fallen in love in the warm season, and Autumn was known to be jealous and cruel. She kept you there and let me go.

IV. Winter Th e frigid air stung my cheeks like small paper cuts on young fi ngers. I lifted my hand and brushed away the winter fl ush. Th e ocean mocked me as its waves slid in and out, forever meeting the shore with an alluring stream of colors and foam that barely reached my toes. I, however, stood with my hands bundled together subconsciously reaching for something to ground me to the sand that pushed back at my heels. Th e color of the grains reminded me of the angels’ hair. Th eir songs were known to wrinkle the waves as they washed ashore, their pitches shifting the colors of the water. I listened to them sometimes, but I had to be alone, for if I was not, they would hide behind the curves of their clouds. Part of me wished I could join them for the promise of an eternal song.

91 92 92 93

77544 Guts.indd 93 4/28/21 12:41 PM MY POPPY By: Phoebe Hollingsworth Grade 12 1. He always wrote postcards when he went on vacation. One of those ones with the big picture of a beach, or with kangaroos and koalas, and bright, bubbly block letters of the city. He told me what he saw, where he went, and how much he wished I was there with him. Those postcards were my versions of magazines, I’d spend hours looking at the glossy, picture-filled front and tracing my fingers over the indents of his heavy penmanship—even though I was too young to compre- hend all his words. The stamps were almost as exciting as the card itself, and I would make sure to carefully preserve the tiny sticker that I knew he had hand- picked to make me smile. 2. The solid wooden table had been in the family since the 70s. Sheltered by a thick plastic vinyl tablecloth—he treasures the history of who sat there, my mother and her two siblings as they grew from their adolescence into adulthood. Their family of five sitting there discussing schoolwork, then university, new jobs, engage- ments, and first pregnancies. I was honored with the title of first grandchild—the next generation to spend Sunday mornings sitting at that table. Watching Poppy eat his cereal and yogurt while he did the daily crossword from the newspaper that was freshly delivered that morning. I still think in a house crowded with his children, their spouses, grandchildren, and dogs for Saturday family roasts, he would picture my Nana—gone by then—but an ever-present head figure of that table watching over everyone. 3. His autobiography. He wrote down everything that he could remember on an old, square computer right out of a memoir from the 2000s. I know my mum used to tease him about it, pages and pages of writings that stuffed a three-inch ringed binder. It is now the most valuable thing in the Mackay family—a price- less history. He wrote about his childhood, the navy, when he met—and lost— Nana, the birth of his children and grandchildren, when we moved to America, and all the vacations he sent me the postcards from. Every thought and recollec- tion he had is in that binder—the words dripping with hope, naivety, sadness, and love—like one more everlasting postcard.

93 94

77544 Guts.indd 94 4/28/21 12:41 PM EXTROSPECTION By: Marielle Sauber Grade 11

93 94

77544 Guts.indd 95 4/28/21 12:41 PM HOLIDAYS IN SOUTH TEXAS By: Basia Siwek Grade 12 To come here is to submit to your inner crossroads. Your feet will crunch the gravel, and you’ll fl inch in each step of your snake boot. Th e welcome sign reads more like “Welcome to the Face of Death.” You’ll squeeze your tongue and say grace because Lord knows the ranch water don’t last long. You’ll wobble up the ladder to a deer stand and meditate on the means of the land—land that shouldn’t be yours because it never was.

To come here is to stretch down into the abyss of your hungry stomach and scoop out the last ounce of a chuckle you have left when you’re asked about the meaningless, unchang- ing weather. Th is isn’t a place for man to love his country but a place for man to love his svelte society of guns and tumbleweed—the same tumbleweed you’ll fi nd on your prop- erty before you drive home to tell lies out of your fl uorescent veneers and rosacea-ridden white skin.

To come here is to witness the wasted potential of a good man turned great and granted in the grounds of deer country. You’ll come here and all of a sudden you’re in the middle of a two-way street leading to the pit of conservatism or a portal of enlightenment. Spend just a bit of time in the terrain of white-on-white terror where the jeeps are open so you can shoot your gun at the symbol of docile white-winged peace quicker.

Doves drop dead near the end of each December and you’ll smack your teeth in honor of the great almighty God, Guns, and Glory. You’ll learn how to make a fi re real quick and shoot whiskey before breakfast.

How many men have cried staring into a fi re?

Th e howls of Willie Nelson and George Strait stroke your back and maybe you’ve made it home. Unlaundered, unamused, you’ll dandy down to the stream and sing. Songs reach places that words just can’t access. I learned that once you get familiar enough with the land and the routine of lonesome bodies, no one cares to watch you pick up the dove and give it love. You will bless this land and the ranch hands that maintain it and with that you’ll throw your hat and the aubade of healing begins.

77544 Guts.indd 96 4/28/21 12:41 PM YELLOW BELLIED By: Tori Osmond Grade 12

77544 Guts.indd 97 4/28/21 12:41 PM Grade 12 Allie Ronchetto By: SUNRISE SUNSET SUNRISE

THREE HAIKUS FOR MOMENTS IN MY MIND By: Tori Osmond Grade 12 Owner-less cats purr Soft rain glazes the garden Ceramic koi swim

Texas sunset climbs Brown reeds grow from sand dunes Cowgirl Odyssey Soft skin and sharp eyes You are like your ginger cat Broken shoelaces

97 98

77544 Guts.indd 98 4/28/21 12:41 PM THREE HAIKUS FOR MOMENTS IN MY MIND

MUSTANG By: Amelie Godfrey Grade 9 97 98

77544 Guts.indd 99 4/28/21 12:41 PM MY TENNESSEE MOUNTAIN HOME By: Izzie Kneen Grade 12 An exploration of the combined personas of Karl Marx , the founder of Marxism, and famous country star, Dolly Parton creating the revolutionary artist, Karly Parton.

From the personal journal of Karly Parton Date: September 15, 1983

“Working 9 to 5, what a way to make a living. Barely getting by, it’s all taking and no giving.” Th e melody echoes from the stereo to my soul as I sing along before I register the lyrics as my own. Once it’s in the chorus, I turn the music down. During my drive from Nashville back to New York after some meetings, I fi nd myself passing through the hilly roads of Appalachia, mouthing the rest of the chorus absentmindedly. It feels bizarre to be in the area again without living here. I think about the conditions people here are sub- jected to, and passion fi lls my voice as the lyrics, “they just use your mind and they never give you credit. It’s enough to drive you crazy if you let it,” slide off my tongue. No matter how much change I’ve inspired, a few hours in these hills is enough to make me yearn for the world of my childhood.

I’ve always felt nature has the unfaltering ability to inspire awe and inspiration within every soul. Nothing is more captivating than the turbulent green waves that outline a rural skyline. Th ese little waves create islands and oceans within the sky as thick fogs fi ll the basins between mountain tops. I like to dream of turning my steering wheel to the left and taking off into that vivid ocean-sky. I hold onto those dreams because they are the only thing that no one can take from me. Driving through the winding roads in greater Appalachia, it’s hard to imagine someone being able to resist the pull of the mountains. Fleeing into the thicket is like a siren’s call. Th e natural tranquility is suddenly undercut and I’m reminded exactly why I hate these drives as well.

Growing up in Locust Ridge, Tennessee, poverty was inescapable. People were barely getting by, it was all taking and no giving. But when I was younger, the one-story wooden houses felt like little treasure chests. In my special house, the center of my world always felt close. I could hear country ballads dancing off the lips of everyone in my home. Even without listening to a single word, I could still feel the passion emanating from the artist’s voice. People sang country music in the houses and down the road; it became a hum, like this music was coming from the mountains and not people. I grew up in that cocoon of warm summers and deep voices. 99 100

77544 Guts.indd 100 4/28/21 12:41 PM Now that I’m older and hardened by those thin walls, I can’t look amongst the dated buildings and help but wonder what struggles are happening within them. After the warm summers, there were cold winters with no electricity. After the songs were over, we had to face reality. I watched as my family worked and worked, giving away all their service and devotion for practically nothing in return. I wouldn’t go as far as to say I hate this place, because the truth of it is, it shaped me to be the exact person I was destined to be. Because of these hardships, I see right into the core of people. When I look at someone, I understand that they’ve probably struggled with something I won’t know about, but they still have ambitions and desires, like me. I can relate to people who have faced those struggles. People here are genuine and look out for each other. Th at community can be infi nitely more inspiring than any ocean-sky. But, through the years, those same people have become hardened by this life. Th at hurts more than any physical wound. It makes me angry to be reminded how so many people can’t escape this poverty the way I have.

Th is all comes to the surface when I see the pockets of familiar wooden and model houses off the side of the road. I see my neighbors within these foreign homes. It reminds me that no matter how far I drive, this poverty is chronic and runs deep from Mississippi to New York. Th ese people might not ever meet my childhood neighbors, but they have remarkably more in common than either will ever know. I hate driving these roads now. It makes me feel like I’m driving through a dense cloud of memories about my Tennessee mountain home. I’m reminded of how all these people are being exploited. Th ey dream about a better life to distract them from how hard they have to work to get by. Looking at it now, it’s all a rich man’s game no matter what you call it, and they spend their life putting money in his wallet. Th e people who grew up with me are taken advantage of their entire lives, which harms their potential and happiness. Growing up, I saw so much injus- tice that was normalized, and now that I’ve left, I can see how our society benefi ts from keeping these working people down. I hate that more than anything.

Th at anger inspires a lot of things in me, but the biggest is motivation. With my music, I was able to rise above these mountains and that privilege has made me feel guilty. I felt as if I abandoned the groups of people who helped me rise up. But I’ve realized how I can use that guilt to inspire those same people. I want to sing to them and fi ll their souls with my message. I want to tell them how they have dreams that can never be taken away. I want to tell them there is a better life out there. I want to tell the working people of our country, unite!

99 100

77544 Guts.indd 101 4/28/21 12:41 PM MY MOTHER’S DAUGHTER By: Abby Prettyman Grade 12

I used to ask my mother for a sip of her black coff ee, Because the bitterness always made me feel grown-up. She hesitated before setting down that sage-green mug And told me to be mindful of its heat. When I took a sip, it burned.

Th at steaming pitch-black sea felt like liquid tar, But I held my tongue and swallowed, And mothered the grief sitting hot in my hands. I never told her of the stinging that infi ltrated my throat. But I think she already knew.

It was as if she had also felt that same hurt on her tongue. An emotion that slowly spread like rotting fruit, Or like a heart developing soft, bruised skin. She never brings it up afterwards, But it burns every single time.

Mantras murmured of “Mother Knows Best,” But my wisdom lies in the lessons she never taught; Ones that we understood when looking into each other’s eyes. Th at we are each given our mother’s trauma And have no place to put it down.

One day, if I have a daughter, And she looks at me and asks for a sip of my coff ee, I hope she’ll dilute it with milk and sugar, And won’t crave the same bitterness I did Instead of staring back at me with those same gloomy eyes. WHY THE LONG FACE By: Katie Lynn Miller Grade 11 101

77544 Guts.indd 102 4/28/21 12:42 PM 101

77544 Guts.indd 103 4/28/21 12:42 PM HATBOX By: Miles Miller Grade 12 It was a humid day in early autumn, my mum was, yet again, suggesting a haircut, complaining about ‘all that hair’ — she continued, mentioning word of a large storm brewing in the Gulf. However, tropical storms are no rarity for where we live, so it barely rippled through my teenage brain. I was Still fixated on my mum’s comment about my hair, as my long curly locks are my identifying trait in a sea of preppiness. Fast forward three days, the rain did not cease even for just a minute; this storm of biblical magnitude had stalled. The adrenaline began to kick in as I realized that our house was beginning to let in water, at first very exciting, then with a huge clap of thunder, I felt real fear. As I was carrying one of the last pieces of furniture upstairs, mum was shouting from the back door, dashing down the stairs, I jumped the last few for heroic effect. Expecting one of the cats to be floating away, I was surprised to see it merely an old cardboard box that was seemingly empty, gliding across the water’s surface. My instruc- tions were to fetch this mysterious box, I took my shirt off and began to wade through the brackish water, pushing aside some slowly sinking golf clubs on my way. The water level was approaching my collarbones, I began to feel conflicted about going any deeper. As I was extending my arms... in that moment, a huge rat nonchalantly brushed past me. I felt paralyzed with shock, my desire to help was vanquished… I just couldn’t, this was the point of my limitation. My mum consoled me, telling me there were bigger things to worry about. After all, it was just Dad’s hat collection. The value of things is so interesting to me. Why can some things be so valuable? A small lump of compressed carbon worth hundreds of thousands of dollars, or say a footballer that’s my age, Jude Bellingham, who is being appraised at a value of 32 million dollars. To my mother, this box of hats is invaluable. To her, it was worth everything and more. I do not consider myself to be materialistic, but to a boy from a favela, I am living an insane life of luxury. I want to learn what that boy values in his life. I want to expand my knowledge. I want to understand frameworks and coping methods for the human condition. During the lock down this past spring, I found relaxation by making art. My sculptures are unlikely to ever end up at MoMA, but if someone stops for a moment to see something in them, then it takes on a different value. When the waters receded, I rescued the box, and placed the hats in a line to dry in the sun. The fear of the flood had been forgotten, on reflection, I felt a little wiser, a little more empathetic with my mum and her values. My father died some years before, so my mum said I could have the hats one day, she smiled, but not now, not will ‘all that hair’.

103 104

77544 Guts.indd 104 4/28/21 12:42 PM FLY FISHING By: Brian Mekelburg Grade 11 103 104

77544 Guts.indd 105 4/28/21 12:42 PM INSIDE THE BOX (A SHORT FILM)

By: Annabelle Ross Grade 12

105 106

77544 Guts.indd 106 4/28/21 12:42 PM 105 106

77544 Guts.indd 107 4/28/21 12:42 PM A HOUSEWIFE’S THIRD EYE

By: Basia Siwek Grade 12

Come home to the pretty, blonde, and problematic. Come home to the women who scoop you a dollop of Daisy and dream for Dolly Parton’s waist. Th e women of the apocalipstick, whose hot honeypot heads hear voices. Oh secret society of husband hexing—who is next in line to the throne for the vicious, vivid dimension of the housewives with third eyes. Oh ladies of the CR-V—near the brink of explosion from exploitation, you left the dirty underwear on the carpet. Next time you go scum shopping in a tin can forest I ask you to cradle me into my next life, for I will never cry again. I will bake my own bread and befriend the couture girls. Women who telecommunicate with Jane Fonda’s picture on the wall and manifest the once tenacious matriarchy to make a comeback, I ask that you keep your maiden names and split the bill. Th ey say mothers know best because of mother’s intuition, but have you met the housewives with overactive third eyes? Welcome to the women of divine acumen; of rising clairsentience. Run back to the womb before blonde vultures like Lisa Rowe and Nancy Spungen—born out of the gynocracy—Ina May Gaskin, Mary Wollstonecraft, come to get revenge. Slurring the anthem of sad shocks, cursing the germs of love, here they come to teach the angels in training how to not be so angry when a man stands up above you, pats your head, and sits back down to your level. Soon is the season of elevated and amplifi ed nothingness, but maybe the submissive girls on dominant sprees will feel fueled for operation over obedience. Sometimes, if you sit long enough, you can see the spiraling whirlwinds of eff eminate love and light as they make way to kiss you on your forehead. Did you know the real reason women have bangs is to hide the third eye on their forehead? Sometimes their bangs whisk to the side to let the sun in, and then a mere tear slides down slow enough to leave a cold trail on dull, dry skin. Th e cracks on their lips seethe red as the abyss of motherly cerise consumes. In a trance, housewives’ overactive glazed eyes crumble to an oasis of emotion. In a heaven sense, red roses are a gesture to return home. Carrying the weight of adolescent bodies and unfi nished men, the lonely women of feeble lives have better sensibilities than any of us. What to give in reparation of an overlooked voice and an under loved heart? Th e passionate wails of Patsy Cline were made for someone’s comfort and it was not for him. Did you know that our angels never leave us? Transcending standard deviations of utilitarian, linear time they speak sounds of blue. Blue whispers not of anguish, yet of the crisp, vastly alchemistic and cerulean ocean. 107 107

77544 Guts.indd 108 4/28/21 12:42 PM Fulfi lled like waves in depths of clarity and mysticism, they accede in blue. Blue of the fi erce ice eye of ancestral vision; blue rays of wisdom seep into the yellow teeth of stingy men. And on Earth we see the green; the granulation of gratitude in which it is the grass of miracle and awakening of songs and chants and giggles and shouts. Green is the host to tears at birth and moans of death. Do not forget the supernatural wisps of Earthly love we feel when the eyes release and the nose sniﬄ es. Do not fail the generational embrace from the women of nascency. Do not dismiss the exuberant sedulity of soft-eyed matrons that fuel the bright blue whispers of life.

ALL EYES ON YOU By: Tori Osmond Grade 12

107 107

77544 Guts.indd 109 4/28/21 12:42 PM GOD MUST BE DRINKING DIET CHERRY COKE By: Abby Prettyman Grade 12 God must be drinking diet cherry coke, Because she’s running out of original things to say. Th ere are no more creations beyond plutonic stardust, And candles no longer burn for her here. Th oughts of her are growing thin— All waxing and waning; in tandem with the tides. But thick is her liquid conscious, Evidenced by the mirth formed in their once glazed eyes, Th rough fl imsy facades masking ineff able cruelty, Th ose formless faces inhabit her sorrow. And so, God must be drinking diet cherry coke.

God must be drinking diet cherry coke, Because she told me she’s afraid she might need men And cannot separate herself from her grief. Growing weary of waking— Still aware that divinity stains fi ngers and teeth, Like bitter orange skins and pomegranate seeds. She calluses her sweet dreams into sleepless nights, Watching the fragmented pieces of who she used to be Endlessly swim laps in pools of grenadine kissed cups. And so, God must be drinking diet cherry coke.

God must be drinking diet cherry coke, Because I’ve villainized my body for too long And cannot fi nd it in me to stop— All while my heart aches to watch those I love Crave that same feeling of hollowness. A body that is simultaneously too much and too little. Why is it that each of us fears motherhood? Life emerged from two bonded souls, diminished to valleys Of ruined fl esh and stretch marks on bodies. We reject the urge to return to our eternal birthplace, And so, God must be drinking diet cherry coke. 109

77544 Guts.indd 110 4/28/21 12:42 PM DROWNING By: Kirthi Chandra Grade 12 109

77544 Guts.indd 111 4/28/21 12:42 PM THE STAFF,

Abby Prettyman { Editor-in-Chief } hopes you know that its okay to cry and that she, herself, had a nice cry just yesterday. In fact, her tears are the glue that bind this book together.

Saylor Hark { Editor-in-Chief-in-Training } has yet to have her tunnel moment, but when she does “A Huge Tree in the Tsukamori Forest” from the My Neighbor Totoro soundtrack will be playing in the background.

Ellie Drinkwine { Managing Editor } is not a narcissist, that spread is a total coincidence. Anyways, she would like to say to her refl ection: If you read this I’m free on Th ursday night and would like to hang out. Please respond to this and then hang out with me on Th ursday night when I’m free.

Tori Osmond { Art Editor } loves her little artist, North…

Kirthi Chandra { Art Editor } says “thats me!”

Basia Siwek { Prose Editor } wants you to know that “the more interpretations a poem has the better the poem”—Sylvia Plath. She also recommends Mitski and Fiona Apple.

111 112

77544 Guts.indd 112 4/28/21 12:42 PM THE STAFF,

Phoebe Hollingsworth { Poetry Editor } will be graduating without actually applying to any university because she enjoys living life on the edge. Also because Australia is diff erent like that. Maci Flanagan { Poetry Editor } wants you to know that Pfi zer girls are wiser. And hotter. On an unrelated note, she also wants you to know that she received the Pfi zer vaccine.

Katie Lynn Miller { Copy Editor } believes that everyone has a right to housing, likes to think that she is anti-bourgeois, and yet she has been trying for months to kick Broccolo the rat off of her animal crossing island. He’s just so ugly and she hates him.

Emily Hamer { folklore Editor } wants you to know that Taylor Swift and Harry Styles committed vehicular manslaughter and she will not be taking further questions.

Karson Smith { Zoom Editor } says Dear Mitski, thank you for showing me how to how to make my anger into art. And a special thanks for dropping that little hint about profi ting off of people’s tears. I now write sad stories online to pay for my growing hunger for pre imperialism books and pointe shoes, and I have no regrets. With love, some WOC who still has braces.

111 112

77544 Guts.indd 113 4/28/21 12:42 PM COLOPHON Th e staff and faculty advisors at Th e John Cooper School, 1 John Cooper Drive, Th e Woodlands, TX, 77381, created the 24th Volume of Inkblots in the Literature and Arts Magazine Production class. Th e cover, title, and end pages were designed by Abby Prettyman and Tori Osmond, with original artwork by Tori Osmond. Wright’s Publishing (2407 Timberloch Place, Suite A, Th e Woodlands, TX 77380) printed 500 copies in May 2021, which the staff distributed free of charge to the Upper School student body and faculty. Text and writing and art credits are in Adobe Caslon Pro Regular and Italics. Titles are in Inter Semi Bold. Th e publication has been typeset and designed using Adobe InDesign CC 2021 and Adobe Photoshop CC 2021 on twelve Microsoft Surfaces. Wright’s Publishing printed this volume on 80-pound accent opaque smooth paper and the cover on 120-pound paper. We chose to partner with Wright’s Publishing specifi cally because of their commitment to sustainability through their use of recycled paper and soy ink.

113 114

77544 Guts.indd 114 4/28/21 12:42 PM WE WOULD LIKE TO THANK... e Fine Arts Council and the School Administration, especially Mr. Michael Maher, Head of School, and Mr. Stephen Popp, Head of Upper School, for their continuous support, both ﬁ nancial and otherwise.

e English Department, especially Ms. Alexis Wiggins, Department Chair, for constructing such a powerful foundation within our English curriculum and for supporting a creative atmosphere among all writing endeavors. We thank you immensely for your leadership and guidance providing the tools and skills necessary to cultivate this production and the inventive writing behind it.

e Visual Arts Department, especially Mr. Bob Mosier, Department Chair, for encouraging and guiding art students to express themselves creatively while simultaneously developing their crafts and artistic journeys. We thank you for your help and recruitment of many of our featured artists.

Mr. William Garland, our wonderful, ambitious faculty advisor, for the endless encouragement to push ourselves artistically and skillfully. We thank you for the uncanny, positive environment that you create and the innovativeness you foster and inspire within this year’s team. Your dedication to this production and it’s students allows us to explore and create past our established capabilities. From the bottom of our hearts, thank you for always supporting us and for playing the Metamorphosis e John Cooper School Spotify playlist. One John Cooper Drive e Woodlands, Texas e Students of the Upper School, for your creativity, vulnerability, comedy, 77381 and talent. ank you for your words and your art that you have shared Phone: 281-367-0900 with us in order to compose this book. [email protected] 114

77544 Cover.indd 2 4/28/21 1:07 PM WE WOULD LIKE TO THANK... e Fine Arts Council and the School Administration, especially Mr. Michael Maher, Head of School, and Mr. Stephen Popp, Head of Upper School, for their continuous support, both ﬁ nancial and otherwise.

77544 Cover.indd 2 4/28/21 1:07 PM 4/28/21 1:07 PM

Inkblots XXIV Metamorphosis The John Cooper School 2021 77544 Cover.indd 1