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SILENT V ICESA LITERARY ARTS MAGAZINECover & Book Design and Book Layout by Jordan Tovin, ‘22Dividers by Lydia Wheeler, ‘23, and Neha Koganti, ‘23Opening and Closing Note and Subsection Preludes by Zach Gardner, ‘22Coffee Houses run by Vaughn Ambrus, ‘22, and Amari Price-Cotten, ‘22Volume XLII

In loving memory ofMr. Brian Jackson, Ms. Antoinette McDonald, Ms. Patricia King, & Mr. Zach Wilder, who all inspired us, taught us, and brightened our lives

Head Editors:Zach Gardner, ‘22 (literary arts)Jordan Tovin, ‘22 (visual arts)Elizabeth Yu, ‘22 (managing)Editorial Board:Vaughn Ambrus, ‘22Neha Koganti, ‘23Amari Price-Cotten, ‘22Lydia Wheeler, ‘23Staff:Logan Bagwell, ‘24Isabella Boyd, ‘22Kennedy Campbell, ‘23Jessica Deng, ‘23Neha Koganti, ‘23Kai Moore, ‘22Jordyn Nelson, ‘24Thaomy Pham, ‘22Anna Schwartz, ‘23Ruby Thomas, ‘23Brooke Yamada, ‘22Advisors:Ms. Rebekah GoodeMs. Ronda ZentsColophonSilent Voices was produced via Apple computers running Adobe Photoshop CC and Adobe Indesign CC. This publication uses Times New Roman Regular, Times New Roman Italic, Chalkduster and American Typewriter (font sizes vary). Silent Voices was printed by Bennet Graphics in Tucker, GA.AwardsJAE 2019 DiversityCSPA Gold Crown FinalistNCTE REALM Highest AwardNSPA Best of Show 2nd Place Literary Magazine, Spring 2018Printing Industries of America Premier Print Award Certicate of Merit 2019 Printing Industry of Georgia’s Best Category in Juvenile BooksAbout Silent VoicesSilent Voices is a year-long collection of art that includes literary, visual, and perfoming. It is a space for free creative discussion and expression. Studeents across the Upper School submit their work, and our editorial board and staff blindly critiques each piece and vouches for en-try into the magazine. The title Silent Voices comes from Tennyson’s poem of the same name:When the dumb Hour, clothed in blackBrings the Dreams about my bed,Call me not so often back, Silent Voices of the dead,Toward the lowland ways behind me,And the sunlight that is gone!Call me rather, silent voices,Forward to the starry trackGlimmering up the heights beyond meOn, and always on! (1892)The literary and visual arts are the silent voices tapping into emotions, experimenting with the tools given, and questioning or observing the world around us.DesignThis year’s design focused on the emotions evoked by each genre chosen as a subsection of the book: Classical, Hip Hop, Blues, Rock, Pop, and Jazz. The organization of the subsections is meant to follow a narrative that portrays self growth. The title derives from the idea that collectively, as a society, we must listen to each other, and that we must listen to others and raise the volume of other voices as opposed to raising the volume of our own. The cover is meant to make the reader focus on the album cover made from various album covers that are iconic and famously afliated with the genres chosen as subsections; the cover also includes the title of the book within a typical “Parental Advisory” sticker. Throughout the book, many lines cross the pages, each reecting the feeling evoked by the page’s subsection and genre.

The sleeve feels smooth to the touch as you pull it gently from the shelf. As it emerges from its resting spot, you can see the cover clearly. You can hear the rst notes in your head. You walk slow-ly over to the record player and open the lid. The slip mat sits motionless, waiting for life to excite it into revolution. You know each syllable, each consonant, each breath, each note by heart. You reach into the second sleeve and feel the edge of a black vinyl disc. Slowly, you remove it from its protection and run your ngers gently across the grooves. Then, you ip it to its rst side and slowly lower it onto the turntable. With the click of a but-ton, a jolt of life, you set the platter in motion. The needle and groove meet with a familiar crackle, and then… the music starts. Music is more than a form of art. Music can be a form of protest, a form of therapy, a form of storytelling. Genres and specic styles of music now dene ethnic and religious cultures, move-ments, emotions, nationalities, and entire genera-tions. Perhaps more than any other media, music has the ability to transform one’s mood within several minutes. Whether you’re listening to your phone or a vinyl, all you have to do is just listen.JUST LISTEN—a note from the editors—Silent Voices includes graphic works that reect artists’ views of the world, some of which may cause discomfort within some readers.

Classical9Track ListLove and Joy, Leo Jahn, ‘22The Glittering Trees, Nathan Terrio, ‘25Warmth, Leo Jahn, ‘22Shadows, Jordan Levit, ‘23 Unseen, Isabella Boyd, ‘22 Lullaby Where You Die..., Jessica Deng, ‘23Shadows, Jordan Levit, ‘23 Last Dying Days, Maya Packer, ‘22What a Wonderful World, Thaomy Pham, ‘22, Friday Night Lights, Kyla Granville, ‘25, Sang/ Blood, Jade Faulkner, ‘22, Self Portrait, Vaishnavi Chennareddy, ‘22,Memories of Yellow, Neha Koganti, ‘23, Three Musketeers, Nathan Terrio,‘25,In Space the Rats Just Dissolve, Harrison Bell,‘22,My Dizzy Comes Out..., Harrison Bell,‘22,Concord, Gavin Orth,‘22,Pasture Peeps, Derek Zhang,‘23, 101011111212131314141414151516161617 The purr of violin vibrato. The thunder-ing roll of timpani. The low hum of the cello. The sublimity of order, of many parts coalesc-ing into a beautiful whole. You look at the lofty ceilings towering above you, and you are enveloped by a sound even grander than the room through which it reverberates. Classical music represents something older and more traditional, a thread of beauty connecting past and present. It is peace in a world of violence. It is order in the face of chaos.

Love and Joycomposer: leo jahn, ‘22 Whirl of words,Yet by each I’m amazed bySo eloquent, yet relevant,Never breaking, never compromisedAn anthem for us,Though many will not stand,For your words, though rather brilliantAre still silly in the endOh nameless poet,How your lines bring such delight,By your light many follow,And many more shall rest byInspiration spreads,And the future is designed,For this take solace;For my song is of yours,And yours is forever of mineThe Glittering Trees, Nathan Terrio, ‘25

Warmthcomposer: leo jahn, ‘22The world is warm todaySaid I to no oneNo goal, no meaning,No sense of vindicationNo metaphor, no simileNothing sought, nothing gainedJust ve lonesome wordsIn that sequence arrangedNothing, to no one,And nothing less plainNothing with beautyIs beauty sans pain.Shadows, Jordan Levit, ‘2311

Unseencomposer: isabella boyd, ‘22 They were a plentitude.A sea of all the same.With indistinguishable desires.Brimming with triviality.While I saw the underneath.Your soul, so to speak. Why didn’t you see me?Lullaby Where You Die In the End, Jessica Deng, ‘23

Last Dying Dayscomposer: maya packer, ‘22i feel so aloneso alone in such a busy, wild worldbut my heart feels the strange blow of the windit pummels the corridors of my chestwhich is hollow because no one ever thought to ll iti think everyone assumes i am full of love and mirth and happiness, fully furnished with my every desireand in some ways i am, i am very satised but in the most important way, in regards to love, i am so empty and bar-reni am alone and dying i am cursed and wretchedi am overzealous and unseeni am re and the world is rainand i swear it feels like i’ll never be lit, never set ablazei swear i’ll never know love until my last dying days.Untitled, Jordan Levit, ‘2313

composer: thaomy pham, ‘22What A Wonderful WorldA garden shines bright in the midsummer skylightThis daylight hurts my sparkling eyesRoses and owers bloom from the warm sunlightBirds chirp sweetly in the ever owing wind This daylight hurts my sparkling eyesMother bird comes home with food for her babiesBaby birds chirp sweetly in the ever blowing windAll over, I smell the soft aroma of the blooming owers The mama worm comes home without her babiesA new day arises in this beautiful worldI can taste the soft aroma of the garden all aroundWhat a place. What a glorious marvel A brand new day rises in this beautiful worldClouds drift among the broad skylineWhat a place. What a marvelous gloryI could not imagine a more perfect world Clouds drift away among the broad skyThe garden shines bright in the midsummer sunlightI could not fantasize a world greater than oursWhere roses and owers bloom at spring lightFriday Night Lights, Kyla Granville, ‘25composer: jade faulkner, ‘22(French)Je ne suis pas votre lle, Je suis vraiment infortune. Je veux voir le soleil qui brille, Mais je suis seulement la lune.Je ne suis pas votre ls,Je suis vraiment merveilleux. Je rêve d’être un adonis, Mais je suis seulement hideux. Je ne suis pas votre enfant. Je suis vraiment misérable. Je veux être triomphant, Mais je suis seulement incapable. (English translation)I am not your daughter,I am truly unfortunate.I want to see the sun that shines,But I am only the moon.I am not your son,I am truly marvelous.I dream of being an adonis,But I am only hideous. I am not your child.Self Portrait, Vaishnavi Chennareddy, ‘22Sang/ BloodWhat a Wonderful World

Memories of Yellowcomposer: neha koganti, ‘23 You take a marker and bluntly draw a line on your beautifulart, art that you spent months on,accidentally, no, purposefullyand a yellow streak follows the point of the marker,scrambling to follow in its footsteps You drop your marker and realize what you’ve done anda mournful tear tears through your face but a slight smile sews it back up.Memories, memories ood black ever so quicklyAs if a tap was turned on within you Yellow- a color of brightness, of sunshine,of energy, of passion, of joy Mango, a loud and earnest yellowGolden. Luscious. Eye-glazing.She’s the queen of the tropicsand reigns Her crown mightily.Her juice dribbles down the knife & pools on the table. so you can see the reection of Her crown Baby chick, a soft and cuddly yellowInnocent. Helpless. Loveable.Its sun-kissed color is just a speck amongst its familybut so full of life& energy& curiosity Smiles, a joyous and bright yellowRadiating. Charming. Affectionate.They lift your soul and nourish your day,alleviating your woes& dazzling with the sheerest blissYou embrace the loudness, the softness, the brightnessand hold tightly to the memories, never letting go and now your art is lled with yellow streaks but,knowing that your memories still overow,happy tears and a sweet smile creep up on your cheeksThree Musketeers, Nathan Terrio, ‘2515

In Space the Rats Just Dissolve, Fishpaste- Harrison Bell, ‘22Concord, Gavin Orth, ‘22My Dizzy Comes Out your Every Lung, Fishpaste- Harrison Bell, ‘22

17Pasture Peeps, Derek Zhang, ‘23

Hip Hop19Track ListDecember 12, 2021..., Brooke Yamada, ‘23Walls, Derek Zhang, ‘23I’m a Boy, Brooke Yamada, ‘22An Unbeknownst Poison, Neha Koganti, ‘23Crave Feeling, Jessica Deng, ‘23War Took Her Song, Riya Sachdeva, ‘22Sick and Tired, Gabby Bates, ‘22What, Jessica Deng, ‘23L’introvertie/ The Introvert, Mary Christelle, ‘25Her Unspoken Mentor, Kai Moore, ‘22Always There, Annabel Goncalves, ‘22La Luna, Kyla Granville, ‘25Phases, Audrey Cordier, ‘2220222223232424252526262727 The puttering click of hi-hats. The crisp clap of the snare. The steady thunder of the 808. You hear the faint echoes of other artists, of samples moving in and out of focus. You absorb the beauty of a musical collage, a quilt of sound and verse. You rap along with the words. You can feel the power of perfectly placed syllables. The punch of the poetry is as tangible as the pulse of the beat. Hip hop isn’t just music, it’s a movement. It’s the expression of those who have for too long felt unheard. It is a celebration of culture, but it is also a cry for justice. It is lyrical liberation, soul-ful struggle, rhythmic resistance.

I was trying to navigate my way through the darkI should’ve turned on the lightsBut I didn’t becauseI thought I could nd my way in the dark But I couldn’tI tripped over a stool I didn’t see andJammed my thumb into the wallThere’s a crack running horizontally there nowI don’t know what to doI can’t hold onto anythingI’ve tried googling but there’s no cure for itI tried asking but everyone told me to justCut it off I was walking back in the rain and cold fromMy Spanish examI’ve walked this parking lot hundreds of timesHow could I not see the speed bump? Well I didn’tI tripped over it andMy ankle rolled in the processI don’t know what to doI can’t walkI’ve tried googling but there’s nothing I can doI’ve just been icing and puttingtemporary curesBut it’s not working I was getting out of the car this morningI woke up early to get a head start on studyingI was proud of myself as I grabbed my bagBut my nger got caught in the door andThe skin rippedDecember 12, 2021 9:50 PM - “are you okay?” “Yeah”artist: brooke yamada, ‘22

I couldn’t show any pain because I was in publicSo I didn’t tell anyone and have just let itBurn all day as I washed it in the sinkNow I can’t even stand it I was getting ready to go to bedFinally after studying and stressingI’m so tired; I feel so exhaustedI was walking to my bed when I jammed my kneeInto the corner of the bedI can feel the bruise forming right now And I didn’t google any curesI didn’t put any ice on itI did let it burnAnd I did cry and just fall Because I can’t hold onto anything anymoreEverything is slipping awayI can’t even walk or stand without it hurtingMy skin is on re and it won’t go awayThere’s no googling or cures or iceThere’s nothing I can do and it hurts It hurts so bad and I don’t know what to doI don’t know if I can hold on anymoreI don’t know if I can keep standingI don’t know how many “you’re okays”And bandaids I can keep putting on myself I was trying to navigate my way through the darkI should’ve turned on the lightsBut I didn’t becauseI thought I could nd my way in the dark And now there’s a crack here. 21

Walls, Derek Zhang, ‘23I’m a Boyartist: brooke yamada, ‘22i can’t show them my painif i show them it’s weakness, andi can’t do this— thatmy friends would think i’m weakmy father a disappointmenti can’t fail here, how much lower can i go?how much more? push your body harder.I’m trying; i ami can’t show them my pain“hunger is a mindset; tired is a challenge”i can beat both of them, watch mei beat myselfmy mother’s sweet boy is gonean artist? an activist?who was he? i can’t imaginei can’t show them my painan A or a C; the grade is worth more than medon’t worry it’ll all be over, u can cry soon.“you can’t show them your pain”“you can’t show them your pain”don’t ever show your paini can’t show them my pain.

I see the chocolate fudge cake,it sits across me just a few feet away,glistening in a halo of lightand beckoning me towards it,almost lifting me off my feet & taking me into another world 2, no, 3, no, 4Chocolate layers of cake,I see everything,each layered and layered in meticulously piped frostingGlossy caramel cascades over the sides like a waterfall andtempered chocolate sits upon the top,begging for someone to savor it in the mouth.It’s a work of art and a victory of sugar and our But is it really a victory? What is this cake truly?Is it made of blissor is it made of poison?An unbeknownst poison that people eat every month,every week,every dayA food that they think their body relishesbut just in fact menaces And so I snap back into the presentto truly see the hidden elements of the cakeand peel my eyes away from it,to be engulfed in another heavenly foodbut this time, truly heavenly The sweet smell of cherries and strawberries and pomegranate wafts through the airand I’m gravitated towards itand I look more closely to see their beautyTo see the shades of red and purple in the cherriesas if someone took a paintbrush and painted it the dark hues of the sunsetTo see the little seeds in the strawberries and the sweet juicethat drips through my ngers when I squeeze it just a bitTo see the intricate details of the pomegranatelike lipstick shades of glass I close my eyes and reach for one of them,just one,I feel everythingthe crunch of the pomegranate as soon as I take a bitethe juices that consume my mouth as soon asthe little fruit opens and reveals its charmand makes me want to eat more, and more,and more Because isn’t it from Mother Nature?An Unbeknownst Poisonartist: neha koganti, ‘23Crave Feeling, Jessica Deng, ‘2323

I like to play the same songOver and over again.To relive the feelingOf a long gone friend. Her uniformed farewellStill branded in my mindAs she marched off singingTowards her grave, blind. On a sunny March dayI heard of her fate.I left my own stationWith a soul full of hate. A piercing arrowHad struck her head.So I picked up a swordAnd fought in her stead. For seven monthsConsumed by rage.A lone battle medicAgainst an army, engaged.The war was overThe soldiers returned.With nowhere to go,My sorrow still burned. I need to hear the song,As I cling to her memory,Reduced to street playingIn miserable reverie. Through the tavern door,I toss my coins on the table,Hoping to forget her voiceAnd our uniforms of sable. As whiskey lls the silenceInstead of laughter and guitar,It can’t replace the musicThat carried her so far. So I sit by the pianoAnd tap out the notes.It will never be as sweetAs the voice of a ghost.War Took Her Songartist: riya sachdeva, ‘22Sick and Tired, Gabby Bates, ‘22

ils attendent que je parlemon cerveau trop lentou est-ce mes lèvres?les deux?ils attendent que je parlecerf dans les pharesmouche dans une toile d’ara-ignéeattendant ma mortils attendent que je parleje veux resterlire un livreferme mes yeuxils attendent que je parled’accordje disl’ennemi a gagnéthey wait for me to speakmy brain too slowor is it my lips?both?they wait for me to speakdeer in headlightsy in a spiders webwaiting for my deaththey wait for me to speakI want to stayread a bookclose my eyesthey wait for me to speakOkI sayThe enemy has wonL’introvertie/ The Introvertartist: mary-christelle, ‘2525What, Jessica Deng, ‘23

Her Unspoken Mentorartist: kai moore, ‘22An excerpt from their novellaMr. Masai is a quiet Kenyan man, probably somewhere in his sixties, who ev-eryone in my complex knows by his accessories. He always walks with an old, handcrafted cane made of a deep auburn shade of wood. I often see him whenever I leave for school: he stays perched on his ramshackle wooden stoop outside the complex, sipping on some cold beverage in the midst of the sweltering California heat. Every morning that I cross his path, he greets me with the black power st—some indication of the understood and intrinsic alliance bred by our heritage, or conr-mation of a common struggle, even though we’ve only ever had one full conversa-tion. On his frail wrists, he wears thick, cloth wristbands that he switches out often. Last week, it was the black power symbol. Today, he wears a wristband made of vibrant kente fabrics. Or, sometimes, I’ll see him place a kente cap over his graying, bald-ing head. I always wonder what the accessories represent. He squints at me as I leave the building this morning, lifting a hand to shield him-self from the blazing sun. I observe his wrinkled face; he has blackish moles on his cheeks that protrude the rest of his gaunt facial features, all the more dening his umber skin tone.Mr. Masai slowly raises a tight st at me as I approach my car. I raise one back.Always There, Annabel Goncalves, ‘22

Phases, Audrey Cordier, ‘23La Lunaartist: kyla granvillethe moon oh, the moonshe’s universal a companion to the companionless a listener to the lonely there and shininglistening to us conding hearing the secrets we’d never let hear the light of day the moon and her choir of stars shining 27

Blues29Track ListLonely at Last, Maya Packer, ‘22Rocky Mountain Time, Matt Hightower, ‘22The End, Tj Harris, ‘25Desolation, Lydia Wheeler, ‘23Grief Stage 3..., Keely Faulkner, ‘22The Little Shepard, Vaughn Ambrus, ‘22Even When She Sleeps, Annabel Goncalves, ‘22Why Girls Cut their Hair, Isabella Boyd, ‘22Le Monstre/ The Monster, Max Belykh, ‘22Moon River, Alyssa Macey, ‘2330303132333334343535 The chug of the bass. The melancholy wail of the guitar. The heavy trudge of the drums. The breathy cry of the harmonica. The blues capture the depths of despair. They capture our wants, our needs, our desires. They are the cry of a soul in privation. However, they are the product of perseverance. The strength of song in the face of famine. You close your eyes and let the bass rattle your chest cavity. You let the guitar pierce your ears. You feel the crack of the snare as if it were the beat of your heart. You let the music reach out and touch your soul. You feel the weight of sorrow. However, you also feel the faint tug of hope.

Lonely at Lastartist: maya packer, ‘22 I think there is something lonely about being the rst and lastwhen you are in between you go where man has gone beforeinbetweeners get to say goodbye and yet be welcomed all at the same timewhen you are the rst you have to pave a wayyou’re alone but you know you will soon be joined by those lovely inbe-tweenersas last you have to say goodbye over and overyou have to watch and see all of your love drain awaywatch and see your parents turn cold to their former loving, parental waysthey’re tired now, they’re old now, they’re done now.but you’re still here. did they forget that you’re still here?you can see the path ahead of you very clearly but all you really notice is how alone you are at the starting pointand you’ll never catch up with those dreadful inbetweenersthey aren’t waiting for you, no one is any morethe days of being doted over as the youngest who must be handled with care are overnow you’re just the unwanted hangover, the layover, the spillover, the slowly rotting leftovers.Rocky Mountain Time, Matt Hightower, ‘22

Unseen. at’s how I feel unseen. I feel like whenever others are near me, I’m looked past. Like there are better things past me. Although it may not seem as such life is hard. Life is like the itch that keeps on itching. Life is inces-sant with pain and agony that lls your soul like loneliness may ll the abyss of your heart. I may put on a happy face, but it is hiding so much emotion. I don’t know how to let it out, without hurting the people I love. It’s like a confet-ti cannon that needs to be blown up, but when it blows, it’s guaranteed to hurt someone. But I’m scared. Scared of what happens when I blow the cannon, more afraid of what will happen if I don’t. I sit in my closet surrounded by the smell of dry clothes, crushed sneakers, and an umbrella that had been used earlier that day. I hold the end, or what I hoped would be the end. I sat there crying because of the pain I felt. Not the pain I always feel, not the pain that con-stantly sits in the back of my head, and the middle of my heart. is was a pain that burned me for what seemed like forever. I just wanted it to end. Why did he have to leave, why did they all have to leave! ey were there, but their heart le long ago. But there was mine, mine that stayed, that longed for someone to come back. For someone’s heart to sit with mine. en that’s when I got it. Just as the end would come, they added another chapter to the book that is my life. “Hey do u want to ”? at’s what they said. at’s when I knew it couldn’t be the end. Because if it was the end, I couldn’t make more memories with them, and the memories I made with them are some of the happiest I’ve ever had. So I dedicate this to them, because without them on October 8, 2021; I would have met my end. The Endartist: tj harris, ‘2531

Desolation, Lydia Wheeler, ‘23

Grief Stage 3: Anger and bargaining, Keely Faulkner, ‘2233The Litte Shepard, Nathan Terrio, ‘25

I could not cope with reality.Where was my vitality?Felled by the monster who stole my felicity.I didn’t know how to reclaim it.But, oh, would I nd it.Especially when my whole life was in tatters.I couldn’t bear the sight of the girl in the mirror.And at that moment I couldn’t see clearer.So I clipped it away.Snip. Snip. Down the drain.Watched the broken strands wash slowly away.A different image reected back at me.Gone was the dead weight, the memory that hurt me.My head felt lighter. My shoulders stood straighter.I had room to grow, to create a fresh start.Space to weed out the weakness poisoning my heart. Why Girls Cut their Hairartist: isabella boyd, ‘22Even When She Sleeps, Annabel Goncalves, ‘22

Le Monstre/ The Monsterartist: max belykh, ‘22(French)Du temple, crie et gémitviennent des enfants pendant qu’il perce leurs os. Forcés par lui, les enfants font des actions folles,Pour éviter de futurs achats. Comme il dit, les enfants font,Deux fois par jour, ils utilisent leurs appareils, pensant que c’est une ruse. L’appareil, cependant, diffère des autres,Fabriqué à partir de poils de porc, il a été confectionné avec passion. Les parents ne comprennent pas la peur de leur petit enfant,Très probablement parce que l’homme n’est qu’un dentiste.(English Translation)From the temple, screams and moansErupt from children while he drills their bones. Forced by him, children do crazy actionsTo prevent future transactions. As he said, the children do,Twice a day they use their devices, thinking it’s a ruse. The device, however, differs from other contraptions,Made from pig hair, it was made with passion. Parents do not understand the fear of their little apprentice,Most likely because the man is just a dentist.35Moon River, Alyssa Macey, ‘23

Stay Tuned, Mischa Patel, ‘23Rock37 The scream of guitars. The thunder of drums. The deep throbbing of bass. Hair and sweat ying. Rock is rebellion. Rock is power. In the crowd, you become one with the guitar, one with the drum kit, one with the bass. You become part of the energy. The sound is deafening, but you don’t care. You scream along with the words, and you throw your body with the rhythm. Rock is standing up to authority, to the or-der of society. With the distortion of the guitar, it dazzles with air and aggression. It is energy in its purest musical form. It is musical rebellion.Track ListLeft Behind..., Isabella Orkin Emmanuel, ‘22,A Beautiful Anomaly, Layla Doyley, ‘22, Stay Tuned, Mischa Patel, ‘23, Devotion, Maya Packer, ‘22, Happy 1 Year Anniversary, Brooke Yamada, ‘22, Indulge the Divine, Neha Koganti, ‘23, It is I, the Demon..., Isabella Orkin Emmanuel, ‘22,Saturn Devouring..., Mary Chandler James, ‘22, Johnny, Maya Packer, ‘22,Broken, Nathan Terrio, ‘25, Girls Named Clementine, Maya Packer, ‘22, The Day I Became a Woman, Wolfgang Bicker-sta-Davis, ‘25, Untitled, Jessica Deng, ‘23, Agony, Leo Jahn, ‘22, Desperation, Kevin Cromer, ‘22, 383839394040414142434444454545

A Beautiful Anomalyartist: layla doyley, ‘22I am a rubix cube in the midst of action guresI observe as my peers are tended tothey don’t realize they are favoritedby the massesbecause their functions don’t challenge you,their design isn’t stimulativetheir purpose isn’t inspiringmy nuance is respectedyet no one dares to near methey set me up on a shelf and compliment my unique features and looks like an outt for a special occasion that just sits on the hookthey don’t know how beautifully complex I truly am like i doOne day someone will want to get to know all of meThere’s more to me than what you see…I used to think there was something wrong with me, But now I see that I am a beautiful anomalyLeft Behind: The Last Girl on Mars, Isabella Orkin Emmanuel, ‘22

39Devotionartist: maya packer, ‘22 I say your name quietly in the dark like a prayerglory, glory hallelujah to the church of our loveto the deity that is our souls twisted up in each otherhands constantly clasped together in prayer and in love and in devotionbending my back for yourending my soul for youglory, glory devotionall praise to my loverStay Tuned, Mischa Patel, ‘23

Happy One Year Anniversaryartist: brooke yamada, ‘22happy birthdayi see the cake on the table,saw it, to be honest. i measuredi estimated; i counted; i scoldedi say 500 each piecedid i eat today? i skipped breakfast—well, no. i drank orange juicefrom the bottle and not freshdoes water add weight?it’s a tip to lose weight, drink watermore waterfuller, (hungrier), better for longerdon’t eat the cake, but oh don’t you crave it?pink frosting, pink candles, pink everythingi ate today, no cake todaydoes throwing up hurt? i don’t know i debatedyou’ll hate you don’t eat. you’ll hate you.“my darling the biggest slice for you!”“my darling more insecurities for you!”another year older, another year gone—“happy birthday!”Indulge the Devine, Neha Koganti, ‘23

I sit up while others lieUnder my sheets alone I cryFourteen asleep, still aslumberYet I swear heard him mumble It is I, the demon from under your bedIs he the anxiety inside my head?Is it he who turns my vision red?I pray he comes only for the dead His abysmal eyes look in to mineMy terror increasing as his teeth shineSharks sleep with one eye openEyes closed, my composure is broken Dreams are where our weakness lieNot in our sleep but in our minds As time goes on, my own doubt height-ensAwake, I wait for the sky to lightenI thought demons were not realWas my terror his meal? Surrounded but scared to be aloneI am a guest in my own homeIt matters not time nor placeNow, I am always awakeIt is I, the Demon from Under Your Bed artist: isabella orkin emmanuel, ‘22Saturn Devouring his Son, Mary Chandler James, ‘2341

He was angry like any other teenager. Angry at his parents; angry that they made him this way. Angry at the world; for everything. Angry at God; for being so silently aware. Angry at me, for seeing his pain. But he wasn’t like any other teenager. Not like any I’d ever known. Johnny was angry all the time. For most girls and some boys, it made him more attractive. He came to school with mysterious, intriguing wounds and bruises. They all wanted to be the one to clean him up. To dab his cuts with alcohol and wince as it sizzled on his blood. They all wanted to be the one to save him, but Johnny didn’t want to be saved. I don’t know why I tried. He never lost a ght. Until the night he did. I was walking home from the library after another slow day. It was late, too late for a respectable young woman to be out alone. But I had been caught up in a book, a story better than the one I lived in. When I left, it was pitch black, bordering on the next day. A man grabbed me and put his hand around my mouth, stealing me away from my normal rhythm of life as men often do. I screamed my throat bloody in vain for his leather-gloved hands worked well as a silencer. I kicked and lashed and desperately tried to save myself. It was lucky that Johnny had been smoking a joint in that alleyway. Johnny came to my rescue. He was my antihero. He punched, my attacker cut, Johnny lost. I was the one to wince as I watched Johnny’s blood sizzle. The leather-gloved man ran away after slicing his teenage victim, leaving me alone with Johnny. As we talked, the boy who had once been an enigma better left unsolved became my own Zodiac code. I was obsessed with trying to gure him out. We spent more time together and rumors started. My friends’ white sneakers turned in the hallway when they saw my now scuffed, off-white sneakers coming alongside his weathered leather boots. We were outcasts together then. Mysterious, intriguing, and repulsive all the same. I got to know a different Johnny. That was all ne and good until the real Johnny came back. He was angry like he always was. But this time he was crying. His anger was salty and wet. Johnny said I wasn’t real. Johnny said I never really loved him. Johnny said I was making him crazy. Johnny asked me questions I didn’t like. He asked why I never spoke to anyone else, why I always knew what he was thinking, why no one saw me but him. I tried to get him to understand— tried to tell him that he needed me, that I needed him. But Johnny didn’t listen and he grabbed a gun. It was from his own personal collection. It was muddled with his ngerprints from the many times he’d held it; either for use or for envisioning a moment just like this. He took his gun and gripped it, pressing it against a pulsing temple. He screamed his throat bloody, and his tears and blood mixed, putting together what Johnny could only feel. But it wasn’t enough to quench his anger— his confusion and frustration. It’s not fair to say it’s just anger. I can’t say he was just an angry boy. He was also very sad and very alone. That’s why he needed me. But Johnny pulled the trigger on that gun and destroyed us both.Johnny artist: maya packer, ‘22

43Broken, Nathan Terrio, ‘25

Girls Named Clementineartist: maya packer, ‘22 girls named clementine have it all gured outthey know nothing but it is a part of their appealbecause they know enoughthey know how to have people be in love with themthey know how to have rage that looks like squeezing fruit and letting the juice run down your handgirls named clementine walk around barefoot because they never have anywhere to gothey only brush their hair at night and they only take baths, never showersthey are soft and silky, they slip out of everyone’s ngersgirls named clementine have no mystery but they have secretsthey are not alluring or dangerous but they draw you in and make you wonderthey smell like citrus, hence their name, and have freckles like they’ve had too much sunand their cheeks are red like they’ve had too much funto know a girl named clementine is to have the scent of citrus on your skin because she has rubbed it inThe Day I Became A Woman, Wolfgang Bickerstaff-Davis, ‘25, (@humanecannibal)

What is this feeling?So deep insideInevitable risingLike the ocean’s tide Consuming, consumingFaster than a locust plightConsuming, consumingVaster than the depths of night What is this feeling?Not love, nor grief,Why so unnerving?ere seems no relief It grows, it growsConsuming, consumingAnd I cower beforeIts nal strokeAnd I cry of dreadBut even more-I fear nothing.Horrible.Nothing.Agonyartist: leo jahn, ‘22Untitled, Jessica Deng, ‘2345Desperation, Kevin Cromer, ‘22

47Track ListLiving with Ed, Brooke Yamada, ‘22,Grief Stage 2..., Keely Faulkner, ‘22,Displacement, Kai Moore, ‘22,Diamond District, Vaughn Ambrus, ‘22,Our Inner Light, Neha Koganti, ‘23,Rain Stained Windows, Kyla Granville, ‘23,Glitch, Vaishnavi Chennareddy, ‘22,L0v3, N3v3r Aga1n or Careful, Tj Harris, ‘25,Lovely Vow, Leo Jahn, ‘22, Oerings, Mischa Patel, ‘23, Bloom, Kayla Granville, ‘23, Sometimes Flowers Die, Maya Packer, ‘22, Silva, Vaughn Ambrus, ‘22,The Girl Who Prayed..., Thaomy Pham, ‘22, E, Eleanor McManamy, ‘22, Photograph, Leo Jahn, ‘22, Wild Child, Logan Bagwell, ‘24, 4848494950515252535354555556565757 The melodic wail of synthesizers. The steady thump of the beat. The peppy skip of a catchy melody. You dance to the center of the oor and let loose. You sing at the top of your lungs, letting the sound escape your mouth as your body moves to and fro. You are surrounded by your best friends. Pop music is pure fun. It is letting go and en-joying life. It is a triumph of joy, a moment of ecstasy. You have no care in the world. All that matters is you, your friends, and the dance oor. Everyone and everything revolves around the music. It is a pulse of life, a ow of felicity. It is catching lightning in a bottle and releasing it into the world. It is electricity ow-ing through your veins. It is the rhythm that denes community and relationships.Pop

bread ormac n’ cheeseyou cannot have bothwhy?how can you ask that?your weightyour faceit will all crumblebut Ed I’m so hungrybreakfast was skippedthe granola you wanted was sugar — we hatesugaroh, that’s right mac n’ cheese orbreadhunger is a mindsetdrink water — no calories andit’s gluten freei just want to eatEd, what can i eat?pick one or the otherremember tomorrowremember saturdayi have to planoh, that’s right Ed, i can’t focusEd, i feel sickEd, i think i’m sickEd, where’d you go?Ed, i need you I’m right hereI’ll always be hereIf you can’t ever nd meLook in the mirrorI’ll always be there —“I’ll just have the peas and a let.”I’ll always be here.I’ll always be there.Living with EDartist: brooke yamada, ‘22 Grief Stage 2: Pain and guilt, Keely Faulkner, ‘22

49Displacementartist: kai moore, ‘22An excerpt from their novella We had somehow crept into the ‘white and wealthy’ side of the tracks, and the inhabitants made it brutally obvious that we weren’t welcome. They made sure we knew who we were, that we knew our place. I felt it as I walked through the halls, the way some of them would glare at me. At the time, I couldn’t even delineate whether it was awe or disgust. I became self-conscious about my appearance alone: was it my outts? Clothes not trendy enough? Shoes too old?Or maybe it ran deeper than that. Maybe it was the features I couldn’t change, the ones I was bestowed with from birth. Nose too wide? Hair too curly? Maybe my lips are too full. The self-destruc-tive mania that plagued my brain daily was overcome when I began jutting myself into any opportunity I saw to make friends. I’d been that way ever since I was little: a social buttery. I was able to make myself fairly popular. Even if some did perceive me as peculiar, I gained their liking, and with it, a new piece of self-love.Diamond District, Vaughn Ambrus, ‘22

we light candles until the night isn’t nightbut instead glistening with little balls of lightnested in the delicately painted diyas*,illuminating the rich brown of the mehndi* on our hands andjingling the shimmering bangles on our wrists. we ll our hands with laddus* and gulab jamun*losing count of how many we eat,but relishing in the sheer sweetness cuddled inside themand the utter joy that’s used to make them. we make rangoli* with bright hues of powder,our langa vonis* billowing in the wind and nearlywhisking off the powder.and now owery designs lining the sidewalk reectour hardwork in the blazing sunand our hands and hair have streaks of color. we watch the reworks burst in the skyand hear people cheer and gaze at the beautyand the children dance holding sparklers in their handsas we celebrate the victory of Light over darkness,of Good over evil,of Knowledge over ignorance. a Hindu would say that Lord Rama and Sita returned after 14 years of exile,a Jain would say that it’s the nirvana* of Lord Mahavira,a Sikh would say that Guru Hargobind Sahib and others were released from captivity,the list could go on.but we continue to light, and laugh, and lovebecause all that matters is the Light in all of us. diyas*: oil lamp usually made from clay mehndi*: paste associated with positive spirits that is drawn on a woman’s hands and armsladdus*: sphere-shaped sweet made of our and sugargulab jamun*: milk-solid-based sweets soaked in sugar syruprangoli*: art form in which patterns are created using colored sand, ower petals, or other materialslanga vonis*: traditional dress worn mainly in South India by young girls, otherwise known as half-sareenirvana*: spiritual reawakeningOur Inner Light artist: neha koganti, ‘23

Rain Stained Windows, Kyla Granville, ‘2351

I’m feeling careful. I feel careful because I’m cautious of what’s to come. No matter the scenario that arises I feel that I would be able to handle it properly because I’ve thought of all the possibilities in my head. I’ve thought of all the possibilities so that when things don’t go as planned, I’m not sur-prised or emotional or over dramatic and helpless. I think of all these possibil-ities because I’m scared. Scared of people leaving, scared of others coming in and messing things up, scared of people never leaving, and scared that some will never come back. I’m scared because of myself. Because I love these peo-ple so much that I can’t bear to lose them. So when they leave, I’m broken. But I won’t break anymore. Because I won’t love them. Not entirely. I won’t love them because I’m scared that they won’t love me. I won’t love them because I’m scared that they won’t love me as much. I won’t love them because I’m scared that they’ll love me back and what may happen after. I won’t love them because I’m scared. Scared of what could happen. More scared of what won’t happen. I swore that ever since he stopped loving me, I wouldn’t love anyone again. Until they came along. Them with their stupid glasses, their curly hair, their cute smile, and even cuter laugh. The way they light up my heart when-ever I glance at them or feel their warmth. Them making me happy whenever they came in sight. Them making me want to come to school every day. Them making me want to see them every waking moment of every day. Them. They did this to me. They made me love them. So if I get hurt. If I’m wounded in the process of this love story. I blame it all on them. Because they made me fall in love. And I’ll never forget that they made me do that. L0v3, N3v3r Aga1n or Carefulartist: tj harris, ‘25Glitch, Vaishnavi Chennareddy, ‘22

Oh lifeless love! Though art gone,But through unfullled vow, thy spirit remainsA shadow of relief!But far more of pain I weep, and I weep, and I weep for you stillHow can I live,Oh, how empty feels my quill!Oh, my love, my dear, my meaning, my strive,Oh my love, oh, angels, cry! Oh holy spirit, oh divine reach,Look deep in my heart and answer me!Am I alone in this hellish plane,Forced to wander my soul for an end-less day?Is there love, is there meaning,Or has it all passed away? Day after day, day after day,Drowning in seeming limbo,How your spirit haunts me so!Day after day, day after day,Till sheer will brought me strength aloneAnd made me leave my empty hole Mere steps from where I had mournedThere came a rush, I could have swornA seeming relic from beforeA feeling I have adored,A touch of your love- once more. Why do I plead to a faux ghost?-Your meaning in reach, and far too closeOh, how dare I stand and grieve for your willWhen the will of your words and your loveMay drive me still? Oh, lifeless love! For you, I vowThrough wind and re,By storm and rain,In death and pain,No, I vow!That we will meet again. And let time wait, and come again.Lovely Vowartist: leo jahn, ‘2253Offerings, Mischa Patel, ‘23

Bloom, Kyla Granville, ‘25

Sometimes Flowers Dieartist: maya packer, ‘22 sometimes owers dieand they wither and they dryand they no longer smell of fresh springbut there is a scent of sweet rottingI am like a owera piece of me has diedthis world broke me apartPetals drooping, dripping like a bleeding heartBut I can see the light in thisI can see that I am changing and that it is goodfor without change, I would still be a sprout blown by the windafter my death and decay, blooms my new spring55Silva, Vaughn Ambrus, ‘22

The Girl Who Prayed For The Man In The Moonartist: thaomy pham, ‘22 It all started when she looked up at the moon She wished and wished and wished for the man of her dreams. Staring out her window she kneeled down and prayed To God for something she could keep forever. Her life was meaningless, she had nothing left And for that she always wept. Sometimes she wept For hours and hours while the moon Rose up after the sun left. Some nights in her dreams She dreamt of her happily ever after but she could not keep it forever. For every night she had that dream, she kneeled beside the window and prayed. The girl prayed and prayed and prayed, In hopes of her dream man she wept So much for although she knew he could not stay forever. One night, he came down to her from his home, the moon. She was so speechless at the man of her dreams, That she cooked a dinner with every ingredient in her kitchen without anything left. After he ate, the girl thought the man left, But he did not as she prayed For him to appear in her dreams. But when he did not come the next night, she wept Staring at the moon. She wished for him to come back and be with her forever. She was willing to cook and clean and do everything for him forever.As this man was her late husband before he left. He was her man in the moon, The person she prayed, And wept For in her dreams. Every night since he left, she cried for him in her dreams, Screaming and shouting at him to come back to her forever. But fate had it that she wept For his return as if he never left. Every night she prayed, In hopes she could once again see her man in the moon. She never stopped loving him since the day he left, The voice in her head would tell her as she prayed That her love for him would free him from his home in the moon.E, Eleanor McManamy, ‘22

Photographartist: leo jahn, ‘22 You asked for a pointless gesture,That we would forget before we partWith your hand clutching my own,From the city where we bound our hearts You laughed and then you teased me,With the most loving kind of smile,As I immortalized the momentFor the rst time in a while How little did I knowOh dear, how little did I see,How much I would do different,If I knew your life would soon be ceased. And now years have come and gone,And my days have neared their last,But through it all, I hold close to meOur love, living, in our photograph.Wild Child, Logan Bagwell, ‘2457

Jazz59Track ListWithin, Neha Koganti, ‘23Untitled, Mary Chandler James, ‘23Socially Not Distant, Mischa Patel, ‘23Growing Up, Isabella Boyd, ‘23Blue Void, Leo Jahn, ‘22Queen of Hearts, Isabella Orkin Emmanuel, ‘22The Golden Ratio, Brooke Yamada, ‘22Lost, Mary Chandler James, ‘23If You Notice, Kayla Granville, ‘25Blush, Annabel Goncalves, ‘22Pastorale, Kevin Cromer, ‘22DWR, Brooke Yamada, ‘22Time Sculpture, Jack Wagner, ‘2260616262636364656666666767 The swing of the ride cymbal. The low hum of the bass. The blast of horns. Instruments ow in and out of the spotlight. First the twinkle of piano keys, then the snap of the snare drum. Smoke lls the air, stinging your nose and clouding your view. All is mel-low. All is calm. Your body sways with the rhythm. The music ebbs and ows. Jazz is freedom. It is liv-ing life with nothing but an open road ahead. With a strong foundation, you can meander up and down the scale, across the kit, across the strings. It is nding your own tune in the power of the group. It is nding clarity in the smoke-lled room. It is self growth and the clarity of knowing exactly who you are.

We‘re learning things every minute, moment, and secondbut they pass through us as drifting cloudsthat linger just for a few moments before gliding away as our minds push them out.they’re seeds that need to be watered and nurtured but are instead neglected, forgotten, or thrown away I. Yoga.II. Wholesomeness Withinartist: neha koganti, ‘23It’s a powerful practice that connects you with the universe, A practice that I never fully understood until a few months ago, A seed that was neglected and buried deep down in the soilOne that I could never bring myself to water and nurtureUntil I realized that it’s more than just stretching the body You bend your head and body down and press your head against your legsFeeling the blood course through your veins and muscles stretchingIt’s an abstract concept that entails so much, So much that it was overwhelming and so muchThat I wanted to throw away the seedBut I realized it was a seed that cannot be thrown away becauseIt’s the very root of reaching our fullest potential Steer your hand away from the foods that your tongue craves for but not your bodyAnd instead reach for the fruit that may seem not as delectable in comparisonBut it’s just a disguise, like so many other beauties nature holds, andLet the mouth savor the naturalness the fruit offers.Devour.

What is it that changed me, I askI look at all my surroundingsAnd I realize we are the only ones who can water our own seedsEven if someone else tries to, it won’t do much because We are the only ones who can water our own seeds We just have to look withinAnd there lies everything we need,Within. Prana*: Sanskrit word that means life energyUntitled, Mary Chandler James, ‘2361

Growing up isn’t what they said it would be. Short.Simple.Sweet. A brief stage of life to look back on before real living begins. Simple snapshots from a simple time to ip through when the mind’s photo album becomes too cluttered by adulthood. Little lessons, each valuable and concise enough to swift-ly drift through in the rapids of life. An accumulation of immense brevity. Growing up: a transient phrase tting for a transient phase of living. Never mind that single moments of growing up feel eternal when I’m living them, that relationships made growing up deemed lessons with a beginning and end are also ones I could never forget. For how can a time so formative begin to be let go. I began growing up with pigtails and emerged eighteen, changed and unable to part with this phase, unable to walk away from this trail I began knowing nothing since I remain hungry for wisdom not yet imparted. Growing up doesn’t end. There is no true beginning to the next phase, no age that marks a culmination of the series of wanderings called youth, no time when there is more learned than unlearned. Growing up isn’t what they said it would be because I’ll always be growing up.Growing Upartist: isabella boyd, ‘22Socially Not Distant, Mischa Patel, ‘23

Blue Voidartist: leo jahn, ‘22I stare and stare,And all returnsMy soul in gaze,My heart in turnThe gorgeous tree,The light blue sky,All in a frameOf God’s divineThere is no stop,No end in sight,The work of a God,The canvas of lightOh, sing my gaze,Record the warmth,Of Almighty’s viewIn purest formAnd cast that viewOnto my heart,And sing of praiseFor truest artQueen of Hearts, Isabella Orkin Emmanuel, ‘2263

The Golden Ratioartist: brooke yamada, ‘2223 to 2510 inches smallerlong and lean and a 1.62:you’re perfect! look how well you t our rules!“is my beauty just numbers?”you aren’t what we want, go changenot just your clothes, but your faceblades and blood and plastic and plastic23 to 2510 inches smallerlong and lean and a 1.62:you’re perfect! look how well you t our rules!“is my beauty even real?”you aren’t what we want, go changenot just your face, but your weightwater and counting and pills and trackers23 to 2510 inches smallerlong and lean and a 1.62:you’re perfect! look how well you t our rules!“is my beauty just numbers?”that doesn’t matter, look in the mirror, seeall the glamour“is my beauty even real?”real is not perfect, here are the rules:23 to 2510 inches smaller

Lost, Mary Chandler James, ‘2365

If You Noticeartist: kayla granville, ‘25 if you noticethe biggest trees have leaves missing at the top,exposing vulnerable branches; s k e l e t o n sabove the big and bold leaves on display,as if telling its onlookers “I’m so pretty and put togetherBut reallyWhen you look at meTruly look at meI’m bare to the boneRaw and reaching for helpBut crumbling before anyone can answer”Blush, Annabel Goncalves, ‘22Pastorale, Kevin Cromer, ‘22

DWRartist: brooke yamada, ‘22Your mother says you need more of meYour doctor says your body will die without meYou almost used me as your weapon of choice I am a part of youI made youI can kill you I’m heavyI’m light I can burn you redI can freeze you cold I am pricelessI am worth a thousand milesI am worth warsI am worshipped I divide peopleI divide the worldI divide myself Your mother says you need more of meYour doctor says your body will die without meYou almost used me as your weapon of choiceWhat am I?Time Sculpture, Jack Wagner, ‘2267

Sticker Sheet

The last notes still ring in your ears as the familiar crackle returns and the needle revolves ceaselessly around the label. As the vinyl disc con-tinues to spin upon the turntable, you remember where you are. You had lost yourself in the midst of the music, and the crackling snap of the groove under the needle shook you back to reality. You relieve the needle of its circular dance and slowly take the record o of the platter. Even more gen-tly, you place it back into its sleeve, walk over to your shelf, and put it away. It awaits a new day, a new opportunity to escape. In that moment, you realize that in listening to music, you don’t just escape from your world, you escape to a world that others create. You es-cape to mountains of melody, hills of harmony, riv-ers of rhythm. You enveloped yourself in the souls of others. You let yourself become surrounded by the innermost workings of the artist’s heart, and in doing so, learn more about both yourself and them. All you need to do to access their heart and yours is just listen.