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TaxonomyChanging Perspectives2024

TaxonomyChanging Perspectives: An Art and Literary Magazine2024Volume 50Delaware Valley Regional High School19 Senator Stout RoadFrenchtown, New Jersey 08825908.996.2131delvalmag.org

Table of ContentsAgapeStorgeFive by Daniel LaGuardia, Fiction ......................................................................8Weight of Her Heart by Grace Diem, Poetry......................................................10 Heart by Alexis Bellonio, Art ............................................................................10An Epitaph Worth Dying for by Katelyn Nolan, Fiction ..................................11Break by Jake Homan, Poetry ..........................................................................12meaning in the sky by Gia Manganaro, Photography ......................................12Oering to the Lord by George Boone, Fiction .................................................13Anatomy of a Girl by Erica J. Wagner, Poetry ...................................................14Within by Kayla Taverner, Photography ...........................................................14Dog-bear-whale-twin-dog by Katelyn Nolan, Poetry .......................................15Reality? by Lauren Van Horn, Photography .....................................................15The Unfortunate Future by Jake Homan, Fiction ..........................................16Human by Logan Mink, Photography ...............................................................17Fish in the Sea by Marcello Switzer, Photography ...........................................18sidereality by Daniel LaGuardia, Poetry ..........................................................20Time by Natalie DeTample, Photography ........................................................20Beauty Within the Color Purple by Keyona Winstead, Poetry ........................21Unrecognizable by Juliana Soos, Photography .................................................21Art Portfolio by Paige Brengel ...........................................................................22Art Portfolio by Emilie Trevithick ....................................................................23Tears of Diamond by Jordyn Zollinger, Fiction ..............................................25Demarcation by Edmund Dougherty, Poetry .................................................26A Man Made Earth by Marcello Switzer, Photography .................................26Greener by Rayna Einhorn, Fiction ................................................................27Waiting by Wade Lonergan, Poetry ................................................................29Untitled by Konrad Hobschiebt, Photography ...............................................29Sincerely Yours by Kailey Bredeson, Poetry ..................................................30flower by Silas Johnson, Photography ............................................................30My Chapter by Lauren Van Horn, Poetry .......................................................31Doodle Dog by Lauren Van Horn, Photography .............................................31Art Portfolio by Cabella Cotte ..........................................................................32Art Portfolio by Kallista Saam .........................................................................33

Table of ContentsPhilautiaErosI Want to go Back to Strangers by Ace VanDoren, Poetry ............................ 35Past Crushes by George Boone, Poetry ...........................................................36Sweet Passion by Alexander Gonzalez, Photography ...................................36My Rainiest Day by Phoenix Wiggett, Poetry .................................................37The Loudest Silence by Kailey Bredeson, Poetry ...........................................38macro tennis ball by Luke Middings, Photography .......................................38To Be a Man by George Boone, Poetry .......................................................40Neurological Photo by Ryan Thompson, Art .................................................40Nail Biting by Ava Scherer, Poetry ..................................................................41Confined Mind by Amaya Joassainte, Photography .......................................41Ice Cold Drink by Julius Hendricks, Poetry ...................................................42Fast 3 by Kyle Nungester, Photography ..........................................................42Saturday Princess by Gwen Dreessen, Poetry ................................................43Reflection by Natalie DeTample, Photography ..............................................43By Ear by Erica J. Wagner, Poetry ...................................................................44Eye of Fall by Amy DeStefano, Photography .................................................44A Mere Musing of the Thought by Phoenix Wiggett, Poetry ........................45An Unremarkably Young Man... by Daniel LaGuardia, Fiction ...................46Cicada by Kyle Nungester, Photography .........................................................46Hypnos by Phoenix Wiggett, Poetry ...............................................................47Don’t Treat Me Like a Mushroom by Janet O’Connor, Art ............................47Afore by Sharlym Lopez de la Jara, Poetry .....................................................48Reflection by Jordyn Zollinger, Photography ...............................................48Concrete by Sharlym Lopez de la Jara, Poetry .............................................49Love Behind Bars by Benjamin Z Rader, Photography ................................49One Last Voyage by Wade Lonergan, Fiction ................................................50True Colors by Gwen Dreessen, Poetry ..........................................................51Open Sea by Austin Aycock, Photography ....................................................51Growing Up by Rayna Einhorn, Nonfiction ..................................................52Book Cover by Kendall Feltham, Photography .............................................53My Unique Hunger by Lauren Van Horn, Poetry .........................................54Headless by Keira White, Photography .........................................................54Gerascophobia by Ava Scherer, Poetry ..........................................................55Art Portfolio by Audrey LaRue ......................................................................56Art Portfolio by Reed Pursell ..........................................................................57

From the EditorThis year, returning after the publication of our previous issue, Cycles — a journey through life and death, falling from the vibrant to the dismal and rising again in a culminating renewal — the Changing Perspectives sta was faced with a magazine that had found itself on the other side of a rebirth, growing and ready to blossom once more.With that in mind, the floral theming that Taxonomy developed seems only natural, although it was not a connection made intentionally – the use of botanical illustrations was initially proposed as a way to visually represent the types of relationships the issue focused on through Victorian flower language, an idea reflected in the title pages for each section. The section illustrations themselves, taken from vintage scientific texts, also reflect the organization of the issue. More than just images of blossoms and beauty, they are diagrams. In them, the flower is something to be presented and analyzed — an object of understanding and a subject for dissection. Similarly, Taxonomy seeks to take apart love itself, categorizing and defining it in a manner that strikes a delicate balance between the analytical, the beautiful, and the symbolic. Drawing inspiration from Ancient Greek philosophy, which used distinct words to delineate several specific types of love, our featured works have been sorted into four categories: Agape, Storge, Eros, and Philautia. The pieces within are ordered based on the relationship between the subject and the titular form of love, beginning with those that reject it, and ending with those that embrace it completely. Each of the four categories is associated with a botanical specimen whose figurative meaning encapsulates the form of love they contain.Taxonomy’s first specimen is jasmine. Depicted on Agape’s cover is Jasminum sambac, grown for its fragrant, night-blooming flowers, whose elegant white petals represent purity and grace. Beyond this, the jasmine blossom holds spiritual connotations in several cultures – in the Philippines, for instance, it is a common sight in religious ceremonies. Both meanings led to our decision to tie the jasmine flower to agape: a pure, transcendent love, often used to refer to the reciprocal love between humanity and the divine, or the unconditional love of one’s fellow man.Following Agape is Storge – defined most simply as the love of family. To reflect this, the section’s specimen is Dianthus caryophyllus: the carnation.

Carnations, in the language of flowers, are a token of gratitude and a representation of a deep love that will never be forgotten, as well as being the most prominent symbol of Mother’s Day in the United States. The pieces within Storge embody the broad range of familial devotion, from the pure yet melancholy love of a wistful father to the desperate search for love in a household broken by the lack of it.Our penultimate section, Eros — here, referring to the classic concept of romantic love — is introduced with a particularly striking image: the flower of the Camellia japonica, a representation of longing and adoration with a swirling, roselike blossom and a history of use in weddings, making it incredibly fitting for the category it opens. Our specimen, shown in a bold crimson, evokes the passion and emotional intensity at the core of this love that has the ability to both create and destroy the strongest of romances. To end our investigation, we turn inwards towards Philautia, the love of the self. Another rather broad category, like Storge, Philautia encompasses all from pride to confidence to the pain and uncertainty that result from the failure to embrace either — yet it is united by the common threads of introspection and transformation found within each work. This section and the love it embodies is represented by the white hydrangea — here, a Hydrangea quercifolia specimen — which carries a dual meaning in floral language, conveying both boastfulness and sincerity. Before you proceed, I would like to take a moment to show appreciation for those who made the creation of this magazine possible: our dedicated and talented sta, many of whom were new members, and Mrs. Esposito, who worked tirelessly alongside us throughout the year to assist in bringing our ideas to life. Of course, the contributions of the many artists, photographers, poets, and writers whose work is the true heart of our publication cannot go unacknowledged. Finally, I would like to thank Mrs. Esposito again – this time, for entrusting me with the position of editor. I am deeply proud of the work we’ve done, and proud that I have been able to contribute to Changing Perspectives during my time at Del Val. Moving into the future, I have hope that our magazine will continue to bloom as it has this year.Daniel LaGuardia

CreditsMission StatementThe goal of Changing Perspectives is to provide a student-run, student-supplied annual magazine that encourages creativity in the school community and recognizes high-quality literary and artistic work.PoliciesChanging Perspectives: Taxonomy is the fiftieth art and literary magazine published by Delaware Valley Regional High School. From the first club meeting in September, a sta of students from 9th to 12th grade read, ranked, and selected collections of pieces submitted by the student body for regular online publication on our website and for the print edition at the end of the year. Selections were solicited through a school-wide contest sponsored by the Literary Magazine Club; cash prizes were oered for the best submissions in each of the following categories: Nonfiction, Fiction, Poetry, Photography, and Other Artistic Media. Pieces were judged blindly and evaluated individually based on content and quality of the work. The authors approved any editing of work beyond minor spelling and grammatical errors. The magazine was then conceptualized and laid out by the sta, reviewed by the Delaware Valley Regional High School Administration for content, and sent to the printers.PrintingChanging Perspectives: Taxonomy was printed by the School Publication Company in Neptune, New Jersey. One hundred twenty-five copies of the magazine were printed on 60# paper, glossy finish with a soft cover, and perfect bound to be sold at $5.00 each.ProgramsAdobe InDesign CC Adobe Photoshop CCFontLatienne Pro 22pt, Titles Farnham Text 10pt, Body TextP22 Roanoke Script, 28pt, Additional TextTitle Page Art CreditsAgape: "Cape Jasmine, Gardenia (Gardenia jasminoides)" by Swallowtail Garden Seeds is marked with Public Domain Mark 1.0.Storge: "Six carnations by Johan Teyler (1648-1709). Original from the Rijks Museum. Digitally enhanced by rawpixel." by Free Public Domain Illustrations by rawpixel is licensed under CC BY 2.0Eros: "Mr. Reeves's crimson camellia Edwards’s" by Biodiversity Heritage Library is marked with CC0 1.0.Philautia: "Oakleaf hydrangea (Hydrangea quercifolia) illustration from Trai" by Free Public Domain Illustrations by rawpixel is licensed under CC BY 2.0Special anks ToEveryone who shared writing and artwork The DVRHS Board of EducationMr. Scott McKinney, SuperintendentMr. Michael Kays, PrincipalMs. Tara Civitillo, Curriculum Director/ Supervisor of English Mr. Jason Farnsworth, Art TeacherMs. Sarah Ruppert, Art TeacherEditor-in-ChiefDaniel LaGuardia Design EditorGeorge BooneLayout StaGeorge BooneClaire McGovernAce VanDorenSta MembersGrace DiemEdmund DoughertyTobias StettlerAvery CabanFaculty AdviserMrs. Molly Esposito

AgapeLove of Humanity

8FiveIt was a bitingly cold September evening when he learned that he was sentenced to die. When the door opened without warning and he found that a pair of armed strangers stood on the other side, he didn’t scream. When the taller of the two, a dark-haired, lanky woman with thick-framed glasses, informed him that they knew of his crime, he responded with a brief nod and a cordial request for them to tell his sister to rehome his goldfish; and when the ocer next to her forced handcus onto his wrists, his only protest was a weak sigh. The woman sighed as well, seeming about as enthusiastic as he was. She was young, with an apologetic face — there was a perpetual look in her eyes that would fit a condemned man more than the clipboard-wielding angel of death gazing down upon him. In her pocket was a pen. Every other second she took it out, spun it in her hands, clicked it, then placed it back again. She read his rights without taking her eyes o of the ground, and when he was seized by his bound wrists and turned to face away from her, he could still hear the clicking, on and o and on again for a moment that felt like forever. Then the clicking stopped. Briefly, there was a sound from the woman like a word of protest that started and never finished, before he felt something sharp and cold press into his back. He stumbled forwards. His breath caught in his throat. He closed his eyes. And for the first time on the night when he was set to die, he felt real fear. “Move.” He was already moving. Move faster, he supposed. Yes, he was fine — just move faster. Just listen, just breathe, just do what they say, just walk, just get in the car, and he would be fine. And for a while, he was — the drive to wherever exactly he was going was quiet and calm, the ocer had placed their gun back in its holster before he was blindfolded, and the darkness and silence of it all was, in a Daniel LaGuardia, 2024strange way, comforting. It was torn away from him in a single moment. The ocer ripped the blindfold o his face, and he was exposed to a horrible light. His eyes stung as if they were opened in saltwater, and glowing spots began to float and swim across the room, the details of which he slowly began to comprehend as the terrible brightness faded. A hallway stretched before him, all un-marked gray doors and sterile white linoleum tiles that repeated themselves and reached eortlessly into the infinite horizon. There was a monotonous humming filling the space like static in the air, so faint and of such a low frequency that it was, unless focused on, nearly imperceptible. It radiated o of each hideously white light embedded in the ceiling, each light that grew smaller and smaller and further away, morphing from fluorescent rectangles like glowing censor bars into dim, infinitesimally small specks fighting against their own slow re-cession into the all-consuming forever-distance. The hum-sound that haunted him like a hallu-cinated whisper, the unbearable brightness, the subtle reflections of light on the shining floor — he was drowning here, it could eat him alive, but the ocer pressed the barrel of the gun into him again and he was forced to breach the surface of the moment and gasp desperately for air. He dared to look back at the woman. She refused to meet his eyes. Her head was held low, and she had long since ceased the pen-clicking in favor of grasping it so forcefully that her hand had flushed white like a stretched rubber band about to snap. The woman still would not speak, but she motioned vaguely towards him and stopped walking, so he inhaled deeply and did the same. They stood outside of a door, unmarked and nondescript and just as gray as every other. She stepped in front of him, took a card from her clipboard, and tapped it to the

9handle. With a click, the door opened, and he followed her inside, the barrel of the gun still cold against his back. The room was unassuming and unexciting. Two chairs with a table between them, papers, an empty disposable coee cup left lying on its side — it was nothing. Except, of course, for the thick plexiglass window that stretched across the far wall — that was the far wall — separating the perfectly normal observation oce from an empty mirror image of itself, glowing with the same horrible brightness as the hall, light raining down on the single folding chair in the center of the room. “Is the connection, um, working?” She led him into the chamber, gave him a ‘get in the chair or they’ll kill you’ nod, and turned back to the ocer. “Yeah, everything looks good to go. Link is stable. Injection’s here.” She closed her eyes. “Okay. Then we start.” This, he believed, was the moment in which he died. ***** First, there was nothing. One hundred years passed. Then one thousand years. One million years in complete darkness. Time began to weigh heavy on him, each minute an increase in the indescribable crushing pressure that threatened to destroy him, break him, turn him to dust. Each hour was a thousand tons of water over his head. Pressing. Drowning. For a million years, he was left drowning, screaming silently in the terrible depths that light cannot touch. Then there was a star. One single star. Distant. Flickering. Pale. It was no larger and no stronger than the flame of a disposable lighter, but against the darkness, it was so overwhelmingly, perfectly, maddeningly bright that his eyes burned as though they themselves had become a pair of shining, white-hot stars. A pair – yes, a pair! There were two lights now, a set of eyes, and they looked back into his own. Within their gaze was the world — no, the universe. They were the universe. Andever-slowly, they began to expand. They fractured into infinitesimal, uncountable stars; he felt that he saw a star for every year that he was there staring at them in absolute fear and wonder. They blinked in and out of existence — forming, burning, exploding into shimmering nothingness, on and o and on again forever until the end of time. They spoke to him. He learned their code, read the messages in every long string of blinks, cracked and uncracked them all, translated them into every language that existed and every language that didn’t. He spoke in tongues. His mind expanded like another dying star. His head burst and out of it spilled eight trillion galaxies and all of the anguish and beauty and creation and destruction within every planet within every system within each one. He felt it all. The galaxies were him and he was the galaxies. And the anguish — the anguish, the beauty, the creation, the destruction, they were all within him, the electric signals that coursed through his brain, the universal brain, as he was no longer a human being but instead life itself. Life — he was life! He was everything. He had seen the universe birth itself and begin to die! He could hold those infinitesimal stars in his hands, feel them run through his fingers like sand — he could change them, mold them, pour them into piles, build castles from the universe! He saw God — he became God — he became the dark ocean of the world in which all of life floated! Was he powerless to alter its course any longer? Could he not stop this? Could he not begin with his life and change everything? There would be meaning, there would be justice, there would be no faceless ocers or sad-faced women or glass boxes or humming lights! He would change it! He would make it all again! He would — “Stop,” she called, glancing down at her watch and clicking the button of some unseen recording device. “Twenty-eighth of September, 1987. Dilation trial one-three-six. Ended at, um, 2:11 a.m. Started at 2:06, I think.” The lights hummed. “Time,” she continued, “is five minutes.” For a single, infinitesimal fraction of his life, he held his head in his hands and cried.

10Weight of Her HeartLady Justice, Seraphim of the court. Your white tears calcify on the walls Pulling away her faces No longer a set of Pearl fangs, But a silver swordHeart, Alexis Bellonio, 2025First Place, ArtGrace Diem, 2024

11An Epitaph Worth Dying ForLYDIA SNOWGladly I quit this vile, decrepit clay,To rise in endless youth, in endless day.Wellfleet, Massachusetts1911The common man is appalling; he would tear you down until you can no longer stand. He will not only desolate you but he will also deface the planet that we once knew as home. Earth is a vile place that pits man against man, creating a ceaseless battle for life. I spent my days employed at a factory mending shirts until shirts could be mended no more, inhaling smog deep into the cavities of my lungs as I stood at a table on the top floor of a factory. I stood there from dusk to dawn, sewing until my arthritic hands could no longer thread the bobbin. There was no room for rest at the Triangle Shirtwaist Factory, as woeful morale spread through the tired walls of the factory, dismantling the identities of the women inside. Identities were shattered as the doors to the exit were locked, and the windows sat high above the busy streets of New York. The last day of my life was spent in that repugnant and decrepit factory. It was like any typical day of work. It was a day where the sun was not shining and a heavy layer of soot hung low in the city air. It was around midday when I Katelyn Nolan, 2025Second Place, Fictionbegan to smell a soot that was not typical of the factory, a smell coming from the trash can on the other end of the expansive room. It wasn’t until around an hour later that a vast fire broke out, leaving my 23 year old self and hundreds of others cornered in the top floor of the factory. There was no escape, the doors were locked and nobody came to unlock them. The fire fed on the fabric scraps that covered every inch of the room and left me with no other option than the windows. My last memory of my days on Earth was the feeling of the food in my stomach dropping when I took a leap of faith out the window. That brings me to my life now. I spend my utopian life in eternal day. A day where the sun is always shining and the birds are chirping. This is a day where man is appalling no more and women have grown into their identities. In this day, there is no smog, no grease, only the sight of the beautiful rainbow that sits above, gifting everyone in this second life with boundless youth.

12BreakI was out getting lunch on my break, a break of vibrant orange from the dull gray of monotonous work. A break from the cluttered construct of my career, warming, rejuvenating A chance for the sun to shine on my day before returning to gray.meaning in the sky, Gia Manganaro, 2025Jake Homan, 2025

13Oering to the LordJAMES HUNTER WRIGHT James Hunter Wright was killed by falling from the steeple of the Church at Jedburgh on 17th October, 1765.Stop, traveler, as you go by,I once had life and breath;But falling from a steeple highSwiftly passed through death.Lilliesleaf, England1765Starting from the young age of seven, I was an altar boy–my childhood spent in service to the Church. As I entered into my teenage years I realized I was much too interested in girls to become a priest, so I settled down. My beautiful wife Morwenna, whom I have loved for over 30 years, soon bore me three boys to carry on my name. To support them I started a business, a fix-it shop, if you will: fences, chimneys, floors, siding. If your house was in shambles, I guaranteed I could fix it up for a fair price. But as years passed, and my eldest somehow sprung to seven overnight, I realized that I had not been to the church in seven whole years. It was time well spent, helping the wife raise the boys, but it was not enough to exclude me from my duties. The following Sunday, I whipped the boys up and marched us all down the street: me, the boys, and their mother. The old stonework was still the same, I may have changed in a decade but God surely had not. Inside was a flood of welcome-backs, suocating Morwenna in the wives’ perfume, and leaving the boys with red-pinched cheeks. From then on, I knew I wouldn’t leave again. The ancient cobble of the building was still well and good, but the place rotted from the inside out. Beams of wood creaked from the uppermost chambers, the beautiful metal fence was bent and warped, holes grabbed at your feet as you made your way up and down the aisle, and the cathedral glass held the thickest of films casting the church in an everlasting, dreary haze. Mortified by the state of my beloved church, I asked the pastor if he’d let me and my men work on it. With the way attendance had been, I didn’t dare ask for a cent. I had left my Lord all those years ago, and now I sought to make it right. I poured myself into the church, and my free time was spent trying to return it to its original glory. Years and years were spent in absence from the family, as newer problems arose every time a project was finished. First, it was the floors, then the walls, then the glass, and the fence, and during a fearsome storm, a third of the roof was taken! Early in the morning, before all the dew had burnt away, there I was, removing the tarp and discarding the ruined shingles. Footing is not easy on a roof like that. So down I went, leaving my legacy behind as an oering to the Lord. “I once had a life and breath, but falling from a steeple high, swiftly passed through death.” A life in service to the Lord, and this is the thanks I get? Not to be vain, Lord but why would they leave me with such a quote? Was I not a kind and dedicated father, a passionate and caring husband, a devoted worker, or even a loyal servant? Why must I be left with only my death to remember me by? I’m humiliated and ashamed. “Falling from a steeple high…” what a joke!George Boone, 2024

14Anatomy of a GirlThe MouseI blend into the fog with my gray furI’ve found safety in being quiet and demure.They say it’s like music, the way I squeakIt’s so easy to love and hold something so meek.Running into a cage for reasons inexplicable At least the food chain is predictable.The BirdMy feathers whistle in the wind, flying for no reasonI find something to sing about every season.I’ll dive, I’ll perch, and I’ll flap for as long as I’m freeOver you, over the wheat, over the clouds, and over the sea. I’ve hollowed my bones to fly, even if just for a day You’ll never cage me, not even if you take my wings away. The WolfI don’t live in prowl, I only pay attention Is it my piercing howl that sparks contention? Though I do hate the taste of blood after a biteI need something to chew on, something to fight.When I hear the hooves and the hunting horns begin My canines flash in a great bright grin. Within, Kayla Taverner, 2025Erica J. Wagner, 2025

15Dog-bear-whale-twin-dogThere once was a dog with no hair,He knew he had nothing to share.He lived on the street,With nothing to eat, In hopes of becoming a bear.There once was a bear with no tail,He knew he had nothing to mail.He worked for the post,With nothing to boast,In hopes of becoming a whale.There once was a whale with no fin,He knew he had nothing to win.He swam with the fish,With nothing to wish,In hopes of becoming a twin.There once was a twin with no jog,He knew he had nothing to log.He ran on the beach,With nothing to reach,In hopes of becoming a dog.Reality? Lauren Van Horn, 2025Katelyn Nolan, 2025

16e Unfortunate FutureA typical dystopian setting is what Mr. Howard Carrigan wakes up to every morning, a dreary, rainy day with neon lights and signs reflecting o of each and every raindrop that falls from the sky. The man stands at his giant window in his apartment building looking out at the world around him, nothing like he remembered as a child. The year was 2077, and the rural lifestyle had been completely abandoned, as small towns became big cities and big cities became even bigger cities. Farming had become entirely greenhouse-based and was almost entirely GMOs. This was just one replacement for the downfall of rural country living. The elites found it obsolete to keep around, and it was just an eyesore to the International Council, filled with countries that managed to advance before the United States of America. Forced to comply with the modernization of everything he previously enjoyed, Mr. Carrigan works with farming still, just in this modern way, trading combines for chemicals and tractors for tarnished products. Alongside Mr. Carrigan, his wife Sheryl and 17-year-old son Austin work, producing genetically perfect fruits and vegetables. It is a life so damning and gut-punching, watching the perfection you built for your family get destroyed at the hands of the higher-ups to simply cover up a blemish on the world. Walking through the heart of the city, everyone is distracted by something: the aforementioned blinding lights shining right into each other and o of the tiny droplets of Jake Homan, 2025water likely full of toxic pollutants, that will only be collected by water treatment facilities. Giant gas powered generators and facilities are needed to power the electricity now that everything has been transformed into cities. As rumors of the world running out of crude oil ramp up and the potential problems that the push for modernization too fast without an ener alternative may bring, Mr. Carrigan sticks to his beliefs of simple life more than ever. For now, he returned to work to grind and grind his life away, creating products he and his family aren’t remotely proud of for a somewhat decent living in a world tarnished by peer pressure and poor choices. Living in a Bradbury-style dystopian society was supposed to be fictional–technological societies controlled by the rich to use the poor, to burden the common man, and change the world in favor of the twisted ideas of the elite. Now, it was an unfortunate reality. Arriving at work Mr. Carrigan scanned the code implanted on his forearm, a new protocol for controlling the innocent, each unique to its owner. The Carrigans slaved another day away as a pawn of society, as the suppliers under government control, but at least as a family. Really brutal work they always said, not enjoyable or forgiving. It was not like this before. The Carrigans were very respected people in their community. With their little farm stand in the rolling countryside of Tulsa, Oklahoma, selling anything that can grow, they built a connected community, all amazed by the sheer freshness of their products. They were

17masters of their craft. Most of the community they built they never saw again. Sitting at the rows of plants in the giant, government-funded greenhouses pumping chemicals through the produce, Mr. Carrigan thought and thought about this. He knew he wanted revenge, revenge on his enslavers. Just the sickest feeling came over him thinking about it. “This is where you’ll live, this is what you’ll do for the rest of your life.” That's what he was told, and it enraged the man. Later, the family arrived back in their apartment. Dinner was set, the usual frozen meals warmed in the oven. The night felt strange. Earlier that day was the first time Mr. Carrigan really got angry thinking about his past life. Usually thinking was followed by dwelling which was followed by tears. Today was dierent: it motivated him, motivated him to make a change and share his message with the world, to cut back on the cities and the spending and the consumption and find the balance between old and new. “Sheryl, Austin, I have something I want to run by you. I don’t know what you think of this, but I want to get my message out there. I just want things to go back to the way they used to be. It's a burden for me to continue every day, I just don’t know how to do it,” Mr. Carrigan said, getting red in the face and teary in the eyes. “Honey, you know I support you, but you can’t do that. You know you can’t go against the government. They are very strict now on going against the plans,” responded Sheryl, the usual peacekeeper in the family. “I couldn’t care less about getting arrested anymore. If I can get my message across anyway I can, we just might have enough to convince the people to join us. There are more of us than people in the government.” “B-But Dad, didn’t you hear what Mom said? If you do this, you could be taken away. We couldn’t survive without you,” Austin said, distraught. “I just want what’s best for my family, for the world. This hell-hole we call society now certainly isn’t that. No one else seems to care that everything that made America “America” is gone, and it has all been replaced by total nonsense–things to distract us from the real problems and how screwed we all are as a society,” Mr. Carrigan said. He was Human, Logan Mink, 2025

18almost screaming, beet-red in the face with his emotions flowing out, emotions Mr. Carrigan had kept locked inside in the cage he called his head for long enough. Quickly, Mr. Carrigan darted to the door, swung it open with enough force to kill someone, and bolted down the stairs, nearly tripping and going down the rough way, to make his way to the lobby. Overcome by his emotions, a sudden burst of adrenaline filled the usually quiet man. Family in tow, Mr. Carrigan pushed through the crowds of people to the center of the city, and blared an ear-piercing sound from his phone, because tech experts decided phones needed the equivalent of a full surround sound system for speakers. Gathering the attention of the locals, Mr. Carrigan stood in the center of the herd, freighted but still determined to make a change. His wife and son worked their way to the front as the grizzled man stood preparing to speak his mind, whether it hurt him or not. “I’m sure none of you know who I am,” he started, “but you’re about to know me really well. Have you forgotten where we live? This Fish in the Sea, Marcello Switzer, 2024is Oklahoma. There aren’t supposed to be metropolises here, just rolling hills and small towns full of good folk. What changed? Why did we roll over and play dead to the elites? I’m sick of being a pawn in the system; we have a voice to use, and we should damn well use it!” Mr. Carrigan’s enthusiasm had complete control over the crowd. Persuading with his words, the people of Tulsa were starting to believe him. It took a second, and a lot of confused faces, but it was starting to appear that he was reaching them, and he started feeling more inspiration than ever, carrying the confidence of the most renowned speakers. Who else heard his speech nearby? The police. Everyone knew it was going to happen; one didn’t just stand against the government and get away with it now. Quickly they surrounded the area and reached Mr. Carrigan. Handcued behind the back and dragged back to the police car, Mr. Carrigan thought he had failed and now put his family in danger. This was not how it was supposed to go. It was supposed to be a triumph, one man standing against his oppressors, something not even the most crazed

19lunatic dared anymore. “The charade is over now,” the ocer stated in a very confident and cocky manner, like a villain who had just conquered Superman. “You are under arrest for going against standard ideologies and attempting to spark an insurrection.” The crowd looked over at the defeated man, almost in pity. A bunch of low and somber faces was what Mr. Carrigan saw before being tossed into the tin can they called a cop car, among which were his wife and son, bawling and being restrained by the police from reaching the vehicle. Darkness. Pitch black filled the area. The neon lights and giant billboards, storefronts and house lights, internet, street lights and any and all lights went o in an instant. Nobody knew why. There was no weather to cause such an outage, stations sat underground and couldn’t be hit. Confusion arose as to what was happening. Maybe it was what Mr. Carrigan needed, maybe he was right about the whole thing, and this proved to the crowd that he was right. What if the ener armageddon had started? “Let me see your arm, sir,” the policeman arrogantly asked, referring to the code on his arm. “Error...Error…Error.” The code would not scan, Mr. Carrigan had not yet been booked. “Must be this damn outage, goddamnit!” the now-flustered ocer yelled like a child. While throwing his tantrum, Mr. Carrigan snatched the car keys o of the ocer’s belt, locked the vehicle, and grabbed the radio to the megaphone, knowing he couldn’t squander his chance. “Didn’t I tell you this could happen? We moved too fast, and now we are going to pay the price. This wouldn’t have happened if we stood our ground, but we still have the chance to fight back! Take action! Get Revenge! We can reverse this, I promise, you just have to trust me!” The agitated and motivated crowd slowly swarmed the cop car like flies, and consumed the area. The ocer, now not so head-honcho, was in fear for his life as the mob encircled the car like a ring of fire. Unlike anything he had ever seen before, Mr. Carrigan sat in the car a little unsettled, looking around anywhere he could for his wife and son, but they were nowhere near the scene. In a way, he was relieved. He finally unleashed his emotions and set them free, and he got his message out on top of all of it. Seeing this crowd of people, and what even one of them could do to spread the movement brought peace to Mr. Carrigan. No matter what happens to him, he felt he did what he was sent forth to do, and helped ignite the fire to burn away all of America’s deepest problems. In the midst of the mob, the darkness faded away as the shining neon lights and massive billboards turned back on. As useless promotions for random products started to return, they were quickly glitched o of the screen, and were replaced by the face of the President, not looking happy at all. “My fellow Americans, this national power outage was a test, a test to see what our wonderful nation would do in such a case. Hoping you would choose unity, you chose violence. My agents and ocers across the country reported insurrections and mobs of people, all fighting a fruitless fight. Never bite the hand that feeds you, or consequences will be brought upon you. My ocers have taken note of who sparked them, and you will be dealt with. For now, back to normal, back to work, and God bless America.” That was it. It felt like all hope was lost for Mr. Carrigan, that all of this was in vain. It was almost like, one way or another, they knew. The most promising thing he knew was that at least he wasn’t alone. Others attempted the same thing. The battle may have been lost, but the war was certainly not over. As the mob destroyed the outside of the cop car and captured the poor ocer, only time would tell when the higher authorities would be there to clean up the situation and take him away with the other “traitors.” All he could do was wait, and as he watched the billboards, examined the lights, and overlooked the mob, he once again felt at ease and knew things would go out as planned. This was how it was supposed to go, and maybe end for him, who knew? But for now, his part of preventing an even more unfortunate future had been accomplished, and that's how Mr. Howard Carrigan of Tulsa, Oklahoma would be remembered in history, even if it was just his own.

20siderealitythe furthest stars watch us like steady little camera lights o in the long nowhere-distance, forever away, and they see us as we have lived several forevers ago. some can only look at a cold, stygian raindrop, all storm-sky gray and february-sea blue, suspended and shrouded and perpetually under cloud, a hole in a black velvet curtain, waiting patiently as life begins to twitch and blink in the spaces between submerged stones. the closer stars tell other stars of the many incredible, unfortunate things that have happened there since, of the beautiful creatures that swam and walked, of the things in the water and on a land now verdant and humming and shifting by the aeon, islands and continents rising and falling like breaths. they discuss the trees that blanket it all, and they express their admiration for the perfect and humble giant ground sloth. the stars who are presently close enough to see our face sigh a bit at this and begin to relay their tales of the boldest ones to start to live, of the ways they have tried to reach out into forever, and the furthest stars blink in excitement and shiver a bit at the thought that the little earth-things below are finally ready to wbreak open their steady camera eyes and watch them back.Time, Natalie DeTample, 2024Daniel LaGuardia, 2024

21Beauty Within the Color PurpleIn the realm of vibrant hues, a tapestry unfolds, The color purple, rich and captivating, its story told.From radiant shades to subtle tones, it embraces all,A kaleidoscope of beauty, standing proud and tall.Beauty, they say, may carry a touch of pain,Yet women embrace it, emerging anew, not in vain.Each day, they prioritize their radiant color purple,A testament to their strength, an unwavering quest.And as the day concludes, when the sun has set,You’re left feeling like lavenders in its warmth.Purple, a symbol of grace and tranquil release,Reflecting inner beauty, a sense of quiet peace.Keyona Winstead, 2024Unrecognizable, Juliana Soos, 2027First Place, Photography

Paige BrengelArt PortfolioChills, Digital Print Moonlit Dream, Digital PrintMy work is an exploration of the human form. Each stylistic illustration helps me to broaden my understanding of anatomy through the art of digital rendering, at times pushing the boundaries of conventional representation. My anity for the surreal allows me to create dream-like pieces that bend reality and infuse my work with a sense of the otherworldly. These pieces invite viewers to experience the human form in new and imaginative ways, transcending the ordinary and venturing into the extraordinary.

Emilie TrevithickArt PortfolioAn Old Promise, Acrylic on WoodSwallowtail Butterfly, Acrylic on CanvasThrough this work I want to evoke a sense of appreciation and respect for the natural world. When I immerse myself in nature, I am often overwhelmed by its inherent elegance and tranquility. I want to renew a sense of wonder and reverence for the often under-appreciated splendor of nature. These pieces exist to encourage the viewer to slow down and appreciate the beauty that surrounds them every day.

StorgeLove of Family

25Tears of DiamondJordyn Zollinger, 2026Alone. Alone, but always being watched. At every corner I turn, at every alley I sleep in, alone but always being watched. That’s what I tell him. The boy who comes. He told me to call him Luke, saying it is his name. He believes I am special. He doesn’t say why. I am special, but that is not a good thing. Not something that will guarantee safety, the safety he promises. He says, I'll find a safe place. But he always leaves and I am watched again. When he leaves I curl up … not much else to do. Eleven. I’m only eleven. But years don’t matter, not in the life I have. I’ve learned not to cry. When I cry, I am watched more, so I stay in the shadows. I am safer in the shadows. But sometimes I can’t help myself and cry. Then they come. No stopping them. They take my tears. Like today, I cry, but they don’t notice yet. I pull my black hair around my face. It hides the tears like the shadows hide me. I hear footsteps. The Watchers back away. They only leave when someone comes. Luke appears. “When?” I ask. “When what,” he responds. “When will you bring me to safety?” I beg. “Soon,” he promises. No, I think. I’m being watched. Safety won’t happen. Luke. He doesn’t know about my tears. Tears of diamond–That’s what The Watchers call them. Real diamonds. A curse or a blessing? A curse, nothing else. The boy looks at me. “Soon,” he repeats.*****When he leaves, the Watchers return. They don’t bother me unless I cry. So I don’t. I sleep. The next morning, Luke visits. But he is with a boy. The boy is blonde. He introduces himself. Jason, that’s what he says he is called. “Come,” the boy says. “Where?” I ask. “We are bringing you to safety,” Jason answers. The Watchers who were hiding didn’t like that. Out: they came towards me. They grabbed at my arms and pulled me away. Away from Luke, Jason, Safety. Tears came to my eyes. My diamonds. They took them all. It didn’t distract them enough, though. They kept pulling me away, back to the shadows. “Luke, help!” I was trying to push the Watcher away, but it was a losing battle. Luke and Jason stood there, shocked. Finally, Luke realized what was happening. He took out his sword. The Watchers knew not to fight. They could tell that they would not win against his sword. One whispered in my ear, “This is not the end, you will see us again.” Then they disappeared. I collapsed on the ground. Jason helped me up and walked me to a van. A boy came out and grabbed my arm. I tried to pull away; he was grabbing me like the Watchers. He smiled and assured me. He was treating my arm, it was bleeding. Bleeding because of the Watchers. They had never made me bleed before. They had never really hurt me, just taken my diamonds. The boy asked me questions. I didn’t answer. I couldn't answer. I don’t know my name; I don’t know why I have tears of diamond; I don’t know who the Watchers are. The boy said that it was ok. He promised he would help, promised to bring me to safety, promised a new life. He promised.

26Demarcationthere’s a playground in a lonely field. where all the kids are goneand all the paint is peeling and no one even knows about it anymore. if you were there 10 years ago,you might have seen some small boysplaying together with their dad,excited to have their own private space.they start claiming parts of their “secret lair”by making lines in the wood chips. If you were there 10 years from now,you might have seen some bright yellow machinerymarking the wood chips with its treadstearing down the kids’ secret lair. Edmund Dougherty, 2024A Man Made Earth, Marcello Switzer, 2024

27Greener Rayna Einhorn, 2025First Place FictionSilence, and blank lonely walls. As I bite into my dry turkey sandwich from the vending machine beside the hospital doors, I wonder how many sleepless nights I will spend like this. I have my SATs tomorrow but that doesn’t matter. Nothing about your own life matters when you know my sister Sarah. I look at her. Laying there in that bed with her paper-white face and deep black holes underneath her eyes. I hate her, I hate IT. “Is it almost time?” I ask my mother. “Just be patient, son,” she responds to me. Patient. God I hate that word. I then turn and look at my mom. I can see it in her sunken eyes, the hurt and fatigue as she struggles to hold back tears. “Ok kids, let’s head out,” my mom says to us, trying as hard as she can to act ok. I wasn’t fazed though, not in the slightest. As strange as that sounds, this was very normal for our family. You see, ever since my dad left me, my mom, and sister, things got a lot worse. Sometimes I blame myself for not seeing what was wrong earlier. Maybe I could have prevented it from getting this bad… a thought that keeps me up at night. My sister, Sarah, she’s sick. And no not the kind of sickness where she eats soup and feels better, the kind of sickness that makes everyone around her feel like they’re walking on eggshells. The kind of sickness that can take the person you know most in the world and turn them unrecognizable. The ride home is silent like most of the time spent between my family and me. We pull into our driveway, and my sister runs up our stairs without saying a word. I hover my fist over her door contemplating if I should say goodnight, but I don’t. I walk away and think how merely six months ago she would have greeted me with a huge smile and asked me to watch our favorite show. I remind myself that Sarah is gone and she’s most likely not coming back. The sun rises Monday morning, and I crawl out of bed. As I get ready for school I dread walking through those doors. I know immediately I will be taunted and ridiculed all day long by my “friends.” And god forbid I ever make something about myself in that house. “How was school?” my mother asks me, pretending to care. “Fine,” I respond. I hear the house door creek open; Sarah’s home. My least favorite part of the day. “Hey Sarah,” I decide I’m going try talking to her. “Do you wanna talk? I had a really rough day.” She looks at me, emotionless. “I have my own problems to deal with, Matt.” She really is gone. “Dinner!” Mother calls from downstairs. “Sarah, I made your favorite,” I can tell she’s trying, “lasagna and garlic bread.” Sarah mumbles something under her breath. “Thanks Mom, it looks great,” I say, trying to mend the awkward situation like I normally do, but mom just shoots me a look. The kind of look that means, Shut up, Matt. A look I get on the daily. “I don’t understand why we have to eat together,” Sarah grumbles. “Can’t I just eat in my room?” “No,” Mom responds. “The therapist said it would be good for us to have family meals.” “God, you are so annoying,” Sarah shoots at Mom. “I mean, Jesus, can’t you tell I don't want

28to be around you guys?” Can’t you tell none of us want to be around you? I think to myself. This is about the time where I just drown everything out, the yelling and screaming and crying. I’m so tired of this, living my life in fear and anger. No matter where I am, I’m always trying to hide. So, in that moment between the screaming and fighting, I made a decision. I’m leaving. I think for once in my life I finally understand my father. I slink away to my room while no one’s paying attention to me, which isn’t hard because no one ever is. I shove everything I need into my due bag. Once it's full, I open my bedroom window and begin to climb out. I look back one last time just to look around. I look at the blue paint that’s been chipping from my walls and try to remember the last time blue was my favorite color. I look at the old beach souvenir from our last family vacation still hanging above my bed. It’s funny how everything can look the same but it isn’t at all. Then I jumped. I know at the moment it seems like I was some ballsy impulsive teen who decided I would flee from home during a family fight, but that’s far from the truth. I’d actually been planning this for about a week. I did some rummaging around my mom’s room and was able to find where exactly my father ended up. It was quite simple, really; I just found a letter for some legal papers and looked at the return address. 17 Murray Way, Brooklyn, New York. So that was it, the place my father had been hiding out. We were located in a small town in New Jersey about an hour south by train from where my old man was. So I catch a bus to the train station and then a train to Brooklyn. “Next stop, 31st Street,” I hear over the intercom. That’s me. I step o the train and look down at my watch. It reads 2:13 AM. Knowing my father goes to bed early, I decide to crash in the subway. It's so weird that I know things like that about him even though now he feels like a complete stranger. I guess that can happen: you think you know someone, like truly know them, and then one day you don’t. After a cold and unpleasant night in the subway, it is finally a new day. I had never been to the city so trying to navigate to my dad’s apartment is like finding a needle in a haystack. “Excuse me,” I tapped an older woman on her shoulder. “Could you by chance point me in the direction of this address?” and show her my father’s address written on an old napkin. “Of course I can, Doll,” the nice woman responds. “You’re gonna wanna go right down that street there take a left and you should be where your askin’.” “Thank you so much,” I say with gratitude. “Sure thing.” I stop at a breakfast joint along the way deciding I’d give my dad some time to get up and start his day. Either that or I am just procrastinating seeing the man who walked out on his entire family without saying a word. I finish my scrambled eggs and silence my phone that by now had about 50 missed calls and texts from both my mom and sister. Weird, they actually care that I’m gone, I think to myself. After a few minutes of walking, I am here. I go to knock but my body seems to be frozen. I can’t move. I am in shock. “Come on, Matt. You came all this way, I’m not letting you back out now,” I say to myself out loud. Then I knock, no answer; again, no answer. “Hey, I’m looking for Jim. He lives here,” I call out to the man who appeared to be my father’s neighbor. “Any idea where he’s at?” “Oh yeah, your best bet is Rusty’s. Old man practically lives there,” the burly man answers. “Down the block on your right.” Ok, a couple more minutes and I’ll be there. I walk down and find myself outside of what appeared to be a run-down bar. I hesitantly open the door and look around, then I see him. I almost don’t recognize him: long hair with an overgrown beard and bloodshot eyes. “Hey!” I call out. “Jim!” His eyes shoot over to me, and he goes silent. “Son, what on God's green earth are you doing here?” He drunkenly slurs his words and wobbles on his stool. “So, this is what you’ve become, huh?” my voice is stone cold now. “You leave your family to be some piece of shit who’s trashed on a Tuesday at 11 AM.” I don’t even give him the chance to answer me. I swing open the doors and run away as fast as I can. I call my mom and sister back with tears rolling down my face. I guess the grass isn’t always greener on the other side.

29WaitingThe Dad sits in his garage.He waits in silence,working on his truck. Music blasts throughout the building.The Mom pulls in,the car door creaks open,two kids jump out,eager to see their dad.The one boy goes into the shop.He helps his dad with his truck.They laugh as they work.They work for hours on hours.Time is not an issue,they have all of it.Then the sun sets,they go inside.The man remembers how life once was.Now he sits,waiting,for his wife’s car to pull back in the driveway.Untitled, Konrad Hobschiadt, 2024 Wade Lonergan, 2025First Place, Poetry

30Gratitude has the same hue of the nacho cheese yellow painted on my kitchen walls. I wouldn’t love the ceiling the same without pasta sauce splattered on it.The two dierent shades of hardwood soak up the sun that I so graciously lay in.We speak through valentines that are hard to read, And tears on pillows when you’re gone.You invite us to play and to fight untilwe grow tired.You request that I say my apologies andcount my sheep.Drink my water and getgood sleep.No matter the walls nor the floors or the doors,my home and my heart will forever be yours.Sincerely Yoursflower, Silas Johnson, 2025Kailey Bredeson, 2024 Second Place, Poetry

31My baby, my sweet little boy His pure golden fur, chocolate covered eyes knows nothing of this world But he knows everything about me With his pure golden fur and chocolate covered eyes He looks up at me with such wonder He knows everything about me A familiar love seeping through his eager gaze Looking up at me with such wonder I realize that he’s just my best chapter Yet his love seeping through his eager gaze Tells to me I’m his whole story When I realize that he’s just my best chapter My baby, my sweet little boy I hold him, petting him so close to my beating chest He feels nothing but meDoodle Dog, Lauren Van Horn, 2025Lauren Van Horn, 2025My Chapter

32Cabela CotteThis body of work is an empathetic observation of the raw emotional landscape of those ensnared by the web of dependency. I wanted to uproot a portion of my life that I had previously shut out. Addiction has touched my life and the lives of those around me in so many ways. This exploration is both a confession and a longing for understanding.Each piece emerges from a place of personal experience and has helped me to create a space for both reflection and healing. The use of light and shadow, clarity and obscurity, and varying materials mirrors the fluctuating states of an addict’s mind and the elusive nature of recovery. Through this series, I am challenging viewers to confront their preconceived notions about addiction.Art PortfolioA Memory, Watercolor & Artificial Flowers I’m OK, Watercolor pencil & Graphite

33Kallista SaamArt PortfolioMoney is Power, Acrylic Paint Untainted Love, Acrylic PaintGrowing up in a home where the connection between father and daughter was fraught with misun-derstandings and unmet expec-tations I witnessed firsthand the impact such a relationship can have on one's sense of self and emotional well-being. Each of these pieces is a deeply personal exploration of my own experienc-es and observations. They invite viewers to reflect on their own relationships and consider the subtle ways in which they have shaped their identities. A deliberate use of negative space, color and symbolism weave through each composition, capturing the complexities and emotional turbulence of a strained relationship and revealing the raw, often unspoken tension that exists when the fundamental bond between parent and child is broken.

ErosRomantic Love

35I Want to go Back to StrangersDearest, I want to go back to strangers. Seven words that when strung together can make even the strongest people who walk the straightest of lines falter in their steps. I want to go back to. Six words that can mean anything to anyone. It’s the seventh or eighth word that determines the emotion that is displayed. “I want to go back to my friends!” versus “I want to go back to the safety of my refuge and never see the light of day again.” I want to go back. Five words that everyone at some point in their life will dare to utter. I want to go back. Be it when you’ve already fallen o a precipice into your cold watery grave in which silence will consume your being for all of eternity, or a time in life when you felt free. Potentially even happy. Strange isn’t it, my dear? You made it hard to breathe and silenced me with the lies you used to stitch my mouth shut. And when I fell o that cli side, my only thoughts were, “I want to go back.” I watched up as I fell, looking at your cruel toothy grin. Perhaps you were glad. Maybe you were just sadistic. Either way, I’ll never know. I want to go. Four words that I’ve said probably a million and a half times in my lifetime alone. But where am I going? Who knows. Depends on how you look at it, really. I could be stating, “I want to go out to a party,” or saying “I want to go.” To simply vanish. I want to… three words that, once again, can mean truly anything. Though I suppose that is true of all words. I want. Two words. If you add a few more on, it changes the meaning. “I want to go back to strangers” is one way it can change... but “I want to go out into the world and live a fulfilling life” is another way to view it. Strange isn’t it, dear? It’s quite a baing phenomenon.I… the final word in a sentence that really establishes it all. Sure you can say, “They want to go back to strangers” or “We should go back to strangers.” But I? Makes it all the more vulnerable. And in this case, vulnerability is a weapon so potent it can make a grown man cry. I want to go back to strangers. That is how I felt about you. I wanted to go back to strangers the moment I met you, and realized that I’d never be rid of you. You. The one thing who had single handedly broke me, just to rebuild me as though I am some lifeless machine for your convenience. But all the same, I let you. And in that sense, I am the one at fault. I want to go back to strangers.Yours truly. Ace VanDoren, 2024

36Past CrushesThe conversation sits heavy in our chests “He is not the same man I knew,we were both dierent back then.But this is now, it doesn’t matter.”“He is not the same man I knew,”I hear it echoing away in his head.We’re here now, it shouldn’t matter.“Did you love him?”His words echo in my head,I wish I had the answer he wants.“You loved him?”Nostalgia pricks at my lungs.I don’t have the answer he wants.The memories sit heavy in my chest,nostalgia pricks at my lungs.Things were so dierent back then.Sweet Passion, Alexander Gonzalez, 2024George Boone, 2024

37My Rainiest DaySharp and sweet, words to live by when you’re in pain. Summer’s end, never always quite the same Hold me close, on the rainiest day of the year. A simple song resonates with the soul, we are cold, all we know is self control. Hold me close, on the rainiest day of the year. A world of self divide, in time, will drown itself. All while I try to prioritize my mental health.Maybe I should just drown myself in the rain. Push your hand through my liquid heart. When you do, make sure not to touch my broken parts. Hold me close, in body and in mind, on the rainiest day of the year. Drink me, like you’d drink when you’re alone. Hold me, bear my burden like a stone. Keep me, dry and high, on the rainiest day of the year. Ecstasy is the highest form of flattery or so I think, do you think? A watery grave would probably be best for me, ‘cause I want to sink, just want to sink in you. Flip a switch in my head when I lie down in bed, I’ll be thinking of you and the words that you said. Oh, Autumn. Phoenix Wiggett, 2024

38e Loudest SilenceWhile the lawn is wetand feet are bare without shame,the dippers are searched for.The silence is always telling.So much to say with little timebefore the sun rises.Eyes whisper goodbyebefore mouths can utter iton late summer nights.macro tennis ball, Luke Middings, 2025Kailey Bredeson, 2024

PhilautiaLove of Self

40To Be a ManGeorge Boone, 2024Men’s hands are calloused.They are not told to scrape against brick,no, the cement finds them.Fierce strata leap from the ground/etching an epic along the palm. I should make myself new hands,thick paternal saucers,shaped with silt and sawdust.Rougher than the sludge/that slips between its cracks.How do you make a hand rough,yet gentle enough to hold?Crags tear through the dermis,but only to make room/just enough to squeeze into.My supple hands are unburdened by labor,it does not scab when I tear at the skin.Naked cuticles are as flush as the womb,scars glaze over with a coral coat/sheltering the veins underneath.If I must beat my fists on bags of sand,drag my knuckles along sandpaper roads, or encase them in enamel and stone.Tell me/and I will do so willingly.Then I’d flaunt my lesions,like gold swaying from my neck,because that is what a man would do.If I had those hands/those impenetrable hands.Neurological Photo, Ryan Thompson, 2025Second Place, Art

41It's only when I am nervous or scared.Maybe when I have a big test coming up.If I forget to do something I should have.Caeine.When someone is really aggressive.When I am waiting for the news about Dad’s cancer.Bad sleep.The short time in between classes.Moving away from home.Before a tennis match.Flying on a plane.Getting o the ski lift.Picking up my brother late from basketball.Disappointing my mom.Eating too much.Advil.Going somewhere new.The feeling of being rushed.And wearing a dierent outfit.Everything and anything in between.Nail BitingAva Scherer, 2024Confined Mind, Amaya Joassainte, 2025

42Freeze my head. Why not? I guess I got too greedy Sipping on my drink.Ice Cold DrinkJulius Hendricks, 2025“Fast 3” Kyle Nungester, 2025

43Play setsPacifiersParty favorsPrincessesWhen will my life beginRapunzelShe was mySaturdayPrincessMy favorite oneThe long hairThe chameleonThe love for adventure.I wanted my life to begin just like hers.My Barbie dollWith ankle lengthBlondeSoftHairI brushed it every SaturdayEvery movie day.Every time I wanted my life to beginSaturday PrincessGwen Dreessen, 2025Reflection, Natalie DeTample, 2024

44Dust doesn't settle, it just gets breathed in /There's no such thing as solutions, just getting even./ I used to just play life by ear /Making melodies I convince myself I hear./ The heart's dissonance is the reality of the flesh/ But it doesn't make the heart beat any less./ I used to just play life by ear/ But the world can't be my oyster if I just stand on the pier./ I jumped into the sea with only half a breath held:/ The gasp of knowing that my heart could be felled./ I speak riddled words so that I may sound/ Without being heard well, without being so found./ For everyone knows the bone is heavy and the skin is sheer/I used to just play life by ear. By EarErica J. Wagner, 2025Eye of Fall, Amy DeStefano, 2025

45Sitting on that dark shore Atop the sea-shined Rocks, I wax and wist poetically, Exposing my heart-strings raw For the albatross to eat. Each pluck of the cords, A new memory to relive And relinquish And refrain in this beautiful World of Repose. It takes me some time To collect, organize and storep The Waves beating the shore O the coast In my mind. A Man engulfed in flame, The Boy that man is, The Phoenix high above them. A Trinity of pure contrast, Five on Five on Fire. It is only then, then, On that ocean-carved shore Where I am eaten daily, I can find myself clean, Burned of all my worries. A Modern Day Teenage Prometheus.A Mere Musing of the oughtPhoenix Wiggett, 2024

46 He was nineteen years old when he died, and the last thing he could bear to think of was the humid, sun-soaked July afternoon seven years to the date when he began to grow wings. The asphalt was cracked. Persistent beetles with thick shells stumbled drunkenly across it, traversing a heat-warped black river, a melting highway, and he sat in the center of it all, in the dark flow of shining ink-colored water and insectoid trac. Back then, he could never stand being inside — he had to be out there, under a sky like a blue tent-roof sagging under the weight of the life in the air, even if the houses wouldn't stop repeating themselves and the cars judged him as they passed. His head ached under fluorescent lights, on tiles and on white-painted brick walls, in power outlets and the hum of laptop fans and the scream of a microwave. He had to get away. And his back ached, the pain never stopped, until one day, that day, out on the driveway in his familiar suburban hell, his An Unremarkably Young Man with Insect Wings Daniel LaGuardia, 2024shoulder blades contorted like twin dancers, twisting under stage lights in a convulsing movement on the halfway point between beauty and agony. They broke the surface of his skin like perfect knives, panes of sharp-cut stained glass, carapace shining. The next six years passed in a glimmering blur, wings growing, until they dragged behind him and doors clipped them and he couldn't return to his home because they didn't fit in his room. Then, in the seventh year, after wander-ing for so long without anything or anyone or anywhere left, the tattered remains of his wings finally gave up, and without them, his body simply decided to die. Somewhere, under a flickering streetlight, he crawled into the ground, and for seven years more, he was dead. He was twenty-six years old when he was born, and the first thing he could bear to think of was the humid, sun-soaked July afternoon fourteen years to the date when he began to grow wings.Cicada, Kyle Nungester, 2025

47In Hypnagogic visions I play the VictimNot out of necessity, rather by choiceTo look through clouded lens is so much betterWhen willingly conceding control of your voiceThe state of the dream is naturally alteredNot quite complete, but not quite fragmentedWhere bad acts succeed and good deeds falterWhere time bends backwards, and space seems to endBut only in this fugue state of rampant unreasonAre fundamental answers truly obtainedThe paths and the patterns are twisted and tatteredBut brilliant solutions will rise from the graveOpen your mind, aerate your eyesFigure out who you truly are insideAnswer the questions that lurk far beneathAll this and more can be found in dreams.HypnosPhoenix Wiggett, 2024Don’t Treat Me Like a Mushroom, Janet O’Connor, Sta

48Afore the rainbow at the end of a stormcomes the rain that you can hear every drop hitting the ground,comes the thunder that rumbles the earth,comes the lightning that lights up the sky like fireworks.Afore a butterflycomes the egg, the beginning of it all,comes the caterpillar, moving from one leaf to the other,comes the pupa, the stage before one’s adulthood.Afore the people we are todaycame us when we were little, going from crawling around to running around,came us when we were in front of our cake and blowing out the candles that read 10,and us now.We finally grew up.We realized how to become the butterfly,or rainbow,at the end of it all.AforeSharlym Lopez de la Jara, 2025Reflection, Jordyn Zollinger, 2026

49Love Behind Bars, Benjamin Z Rader, 2025Walking all over me,like I'm concrete,or the freshly paved road. The tire marks are the symbols of my defeat.I try to make it stop.Putting in bumps and curbs so they'll turn the other way,but it isn't permanent. The cars keep coming through,using me until they move onto the next.The red stop light is a break;even if it is for 30 seconds. For a moment,I feel the relief and satisfaction,that I don't need to hurt myself anymore to help others. ConcreteSharlym Lopez de la Jara, 2025

50One Last VoyageCAPTAIN THOMAS COFFINHe’s done a-catching codAnd gone to meet his God. New Shoreham, Rhode Island It’s kind of funny that I spend my whole life and career out at sea catching fish just to die at sea. I would have much rather gone out a better way or maybe with my family by my side. I wake up to the cold Rhode Island air hitting my face as the sun comes up on my boat called The CodFather. I get out of bed and get ready to go fishing. I chop up my bait, chum the water, throw out two lines, and sit back and wait. I watch the sun rise and paint the sky a range of orange and purple, and the blue glassy ocean reflects those colors. I take o my jacket as it now starts to heat up, when the line on the rod hooks up and starts spooling out extremely fast. I run over to the rod and start fighting the fish. The fish is pulling me around. I can barely fight it. In the distance I see the sky go from blue to a dark and ominous gray sky with thick drops of rain hitting the once-glassy water. I keep fighting the fish whether it rains or not. I wanted that fish in my boat. Finally feeling like I am winning, I hear a loud boom of thunder, and then I watch sparks of lightning fly down and hit the water. The lighting illuminates the Wade Lonergan, 2025whole ocean with quick flashes showing me where I am. The fish finally starts to tire out and give in, so I start to reel in as fast as I can, overpowering the fish as much as possible. I get the fish up to the side of the boat where I grab the cod. It’s a behemoth of a fish, maybe even record breaking. I throw the fish on the boat and measure it: 106 lbs and 5 foot 6 inches long. An outstanding catch, especially for a 57 year old man from Rhode Island who had always wanted his name to be important and in the paper. I sit down on my bench in my cabin and watch the storm roll in trying to navigate back home, but the console isn’t working and the waves are getting choppier and harsher, ripping away at The CodFather. I feel my boat start to go under. I grab the fish and take a picture with it, just in case, but it goes back in the water to be caught again some other day. As for me, I stay on my ship and go down with it. I see the light and the clouds clear up and a cloud staircase appears as huge Golden Gates open. I walk into heaven to hear God say, “That was one beautiful fish you caught.”

51Open Sea, Austin Aycock, 2024the salty air fills my noseas I hear the waves crash against the rocks.the sand, rough and hot against my bare feetnow i wait for the sky to expose its true colorsas i hear the waves crash against the rocks,i find a tranquil space to sit.and i wait for the sky to reveal its true colorswhich makes me think about maybe showing mine.the tranquil space to sitreveals complete composure.i think about my true colorsas the world around me begins to altermy composure growsand i remember the rocky sand underneath me.the world's true colors are now showing and converting with time,and i take another salty breathas i imagine myself as the sky.True ColorsGwen Dreessen, 2025

52Growing up I always knew where I belonged. When I ask my friends about their future dreams or big career plans, most are scared of this question. This always comes as a surprise to me; ever since I can remember I've known my passion. I've always been magnetized to anything involving nature: worms, dirt, ponds, horses, butterflies–the list goes on. Nature is peaceful; it’s taught me many things, most importantly, how to let go. My love for nature and the outdoors started very early on in my life. From as far as I can remember I had always been catching bugs and snakes, jumping in puddles, and hiding in trees. I don’t think it was until my later years in middle school, though, when I truly felt a deep connection to nature. Back then it was a rarity to feel at peace, even more to just hear silence. My mind was always in a constant battle with itself, it wasn’t until I met the river that I truly felt at peace for the first time. I would walk to the Delaware which is located about a block from my house very often, just to sit and watch the water flow. It was a time where there was no negativity, no voices in my head or judgment from the outside world. I started to go there more and more, longing for the feeling it brought me. As I laid my head down and watched a family of ducklings pass by or two squirrels play tag across a low hanging branch, I started to see the beauty in the simplicity of being alive. Everything I had taken for granted. I would and still do think to myself how lucky I am to see the birds dance in front of my eyes, feel the warm rays of sun turn my orange hair to a soft gold, and smell the sweet perennials. Why focus on all the negative things when there is so much positivity all around me? I find myself asking this question quite often. I take a deep breath of the fresh air and am reassured that everything will be ok. My problems suddenly washed away with the ripples on the surface. For the first time in a long time, I hear nothing. I learned to breathe. When my mind runs wild and it seems like the world's weight is on my shoulders, I breathe. I remember what the river taught me, to let go. Let go of all the worries I have and all the things I cannot change. I take these new lessons with me throughout my daily life. When friends and family come to me in a similar place that I was when I found my place of peace, I treat them with the same gentle kindness with which nature has always treated me. Whenever I am given the chance to bring my friends to the river, I take it; it’s become a place where we spend our days, where laughter fills the air. I’m now able to share my home with others in hopes they can find some sort of beauty and peace in it like I do. When asked what my future holds or who I aspire to be, if i had to answer I would say like nature. To be the kind of person who people can count on the way I could always count on the steady flow of the water to bring me peace of mind. To go through life gracefully like the butterflies who twirl in the sky, but always strong like the current of the Delaware, and most importantly, empathetic like a mother deer to their ospring. I aspire to travel and find more places like one I found in 8th grade. Above all, I want to save the world, to be an environmentalist, and do all I can everyday, the same way the world saved me.Growing UpRayna Einhorn, 2025First Place Nonfiction

53Book Cover, Kendall Feltham, 2025Second Place Photography

54I’m grateful for my creativity, for my unique hunger To seek creation To scavenge the world Stealing its aspects, its characteristics, its every being and reincarnating, forging entirely new Never seen before, never in this light It’s a sandbox of totality,a ravenous need to create, innovate, mold life into any, every way imaginable An art has struck this tired earth with renaissance The stars aligning themselves in our divine presence Beauty at my fingertips Destruction at my willMy Unique HungerLauren Van Horn, 2025Headless, Keira White, 2025

55GerascophobiaAs time continues to unravel,Fear brews, silentlyCrafting its essence,The journey of age takes form.Skin,Once a canvas, blank and open,Now etched with the lines of life.Subtle markers of a journey unfolding.Hair,Once vibrant strands alive with color,Now a tender, delicate texture.Transforming into gray threads, embracing change.Steps,Once a stable march,Now a cautious movement.A gradual dance with time.Memories,Once a clear image of the past,Now a softened mosaic.A narrative of one’s life.Connections,Once sturdy bridges,Now lost threads, whereDistance forms and pathways shift.In a world of change,Where familiar faces fade,Where the glow of youth relinquishes,Where colors lose their hues,Where cherished moments are loved,And the inevitability of growing old becomes a beautiful, transformative journey.Ava Scherer, 2024

56Audrey LaRueI wanted this piece to reflect the gears inside of a clock. My investigation is based on a finding dierent ways that time has been marked and told throughout human history. My piece reflects the history of time, and the development of the ideas of time. At some point in history we once saw time as an infinite, as though we could do almost anything we put our mind to. I used colored pencil for the background and pencil for the figure in the bottom right corner. My work explores the multifaceted nature of time—its passage, its fleeting moments, and its profound impact on our lives and experiences. These illustrations seek to evoke a sense of both continuity and impermanence, inviting viewers to reflect on their own relationship with time. I challenge the viewer to pause and consider the many nuances of time—how it shapes us, how we perceive it, and how we can find meaning within its endless flow.In this piece, I wanted to create a whimsical and cartoony yet realistic drawing that depicts that time is finite. I wanted the piece to have a flow and consistency to it so that when you follow the drawing, it takes you right back to where you started. Time is a cycle, there’s day and then day turns into night, forever repeating. Day to Night, Mixed Media Ticking of Time, Mixed MediaArt Portfolio

57Reed PursellArt PortfolioWalking FlatIn memory of Marie PinckneyIn a relentless world that never stops and a time that gives no mercy, it's easy to let anxiety and depression take control. I often find myself overwhelmed by these feelings, shutting down while the world moves around me. Through my work, I lay still, merging with these emotions. Creating this body of work has been a therapeutic method for confronting life's stressful realities and hardships, allowing me to step outside my mind and observe my feelings from a dierent perspective.Photographing myself in liminal spaces, I invite viewers to create their own narratives, conveying isolation and sadness. The subject of these photos is both myself and the environment, sometimes merging into one. This artistic exploration has provided a space to confront and express my inner turmoil, serving as therapy and oering clarity and peace amidst the chaos.Walking Flat #7, Digital PhotographyI hope viewers will connect with this work, fostering understanding and solidarity. This body of work is a testament to my journey through these emotions and my attempt to find clarity. As I lay still in a desolate, confusing world, time never stops moving, and I wonder if I'll ever get up.Walking Flat #10, Digital Photography

IndexAycock, Austin….............................................................................................51Bellonio, Alexis….........................................................................................…10Boone, George………........................................................................…..13, 36, 40Bredeson, Kailey…....................................................................................30, 38Brengel, Paige ….............................................................................................22Cotte Gohs, Cabela.....................................................................................….32Destefano, Amy…...........................................................................................44DeTample, Natalie….................................................................................20, 43Diem, Grace…..............................................................................................….10Dougherty, Edmund…....................................................................................26 Dreessen, Gwen…......................................................................................43, 51Einhorn, Rayna…......................................................................................27, 52Feltham, Kendall…..........................................................................................53Gonzalez, Alexander…....................................................................................36Hendricks, Julius........................................................................................….42Homan, Jake…….......................................................................................12, 16 Hobschiadt, Konrad….....................................................................................29Joassainte, Amaya…........................................................................................41Johnson, Silas............................................................................................…..30LaGuardia, Daniel............................................................................….8, 20, 46LaRue, Audrey.............................................................................................…56Lonergan, Wade....................................................................................….29, 50Lopez de la Jara, Sharlym…......................................................................48, 49Manganaro, Gia...........................................................................................….12Middings, Luke............................................................................................…38Mink, Logan.................................................................................................….17Nolan, Katelyn.........................................................................................…11, 15Nungester, Kyle…......................................................................................42, 46O’Conner, Janet............................................................................................….47Pursell, Reed……..............................................................................................57Rader, Benjamin Z. …..................................................................................….49Saam, Kallista…...............................................................................................33Scherer, Ava….............................................................................................41, 55Soos, Juliana…..................................................................................................21Switzer, Marcello…....................................................................................18, 26Taverner, Kayla….............................................................................................14Thompson, Ryan….........................................................................................40Trevithick, Emilie….........................................................................................23VanDoren, Ace…...........................................................................................…35Van Horn, Lauren…..............................................................................15, 31, 54Wagner, Erica J. .....................................................................................…14, 44White, Keira…..............................................................................................….54Wigget, Phoenix….............................................................................…37, 45, 47Winstead, Keyona….........................................................................................21Zollinger, Jordyn….....................................................................................25, 48

Delaware Valley Regional High School19 Senator Stout RoadFrenchtown, New Jersey 08825