Lyons Township High School - Menagerie 2020-2021 - Volume 46: Fika

Menagerie is the student-run literary and art magazine of Lyons Township High School. Our goal is to showcase and synthesize the works of our talented students in a professional publication. By honoring the writers and artists of our school, we hope to encourage their future work and inspire innovation within our student community.

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Menagerie is the annual student-run literary and art magazine of Lyons Township High School, home to about 4,000 students and 400 faculty and staff. It is a juried magazine whose participants work beyond regular school hours.

All students are encouraged to submit poems, prose and art by mid-January. In February, the poetry and prose staffs meet after school to read, discuss, and evaluate the pieces based on quality of writing, style, originality, emotional accessibility, and subject matter. From the literary staff’s short lists, the literary editors and advisors make the final selections and edit those pieces for grammatical and technical errors.

In the following month, the art staff meets several days per week to integrate exceptional art pieces that are selected based on merit and quality. They are then arranged on a spread to strengthen thematic quality and connection to the literature. Other outstanding work is chosen for individual layouts throughout the magazine.

The art staff collaboratively creates digital layouts that accompany the magazine’s theme. Finally, in mid-April, the editorial staff makes the final edits on the spreads before the finished product is sent to the printer. Distribution of the magazine typically occurs during mid to late May; however, due to the unpredictable schedule as a result of the covid-19 pandemic, distribution was delayed until the summer of 2021.

submit your work

Send in your stories, artwork, poetry, plays or anything else you’d like considered to menagerie@lths.net

join the staff

Our staff is divided into Literary Staff and Art Staff, so join one or both to help create the magazine! All students are invited!

Be sure to visit

www.lths.net/menagerie and follow @ltmenagerie on Instagram for dates.

become an editor

Editorial applications for the 2021-2022 edition can be found at www.lths.net/menagerie and are due in the fall of 2021.

Cover: White Vellum 80#

Design: Adobe InDesign, Illustrator, and Photoshop CC software to edit and create layouts

Finance and Operation: The magazine is funded through a publication fee that every student pays upon registration

Publishing: Alphagraphics of LaGrange prints 4,000 copies of the 96 page magazine

Paperstock: Matte Coated 100#

Photography: All photography featured in this magazine is student photography

Typography: Amatic, Essones, Skippy, Smoothy, and Reenie Beanie in varying sizes

art

editor’s note

Menagerie’s 46th edition, entitled Fika, takes the Swedish coffee break to heart. Fika is a pause, a break, a time to relax from a busy day. We might never have imagined that the world itself would have taken such a pause and that the simple act of taking a break to enjoy time with friends and family over a coffee and a pastry would have been taken from us; this past year we have all learned first hand what it means to quite literally put things on hold. Our change in lifestyle has forced us to slow down and also challenged us to find new ways to communicate with others. This year’s staff was intrigued by the concept of slowing down, by the pause, but also by the joy that comes from spending time with others. We were challenged by the concept of slowing down to appreciate all the details of life, as Fika invites us to do, and balancing all that needs to be done, the need to organize. Our design choice that best captured these ideas and times: the bullet journal. Merging the idea of Fika with the bullet journal approach, an approach that invites journaling, checking in with thoughts, feelings, projects, dreams, practical charting of to do lists, with wish lists, and artistic doodling, helps us become more mindful about our time, our energy and our resources.

In unconventional times, LT students have been making meaning of their lives through innovative poetry, interesting stories, compelling photographs, powerful paintings, collages, and unique ceramic pieces. Notice the ways in which the pages try to capture the haphazard and curated qualities of a life being lived while also organizing and quieting the mind; look at the way our staff helped to bring a little Fika into the busyness of life, through a muted and relaxing color palette, an earthy and organic doodling design and a dotted page, mirroring the journal, with invitations for students to make a mark of their own, making this Menagerie a keepsake of a personal nature.

During such secluded times, authors wrote vivid prose and poetry pieces, diving deeper into the realities of being a young adult during unprecedented times. For some this experience was rewarding as reflected in “Maybe Quarantine Isn’t That Bad” and found out more about their true passions like in “I love rolling out of bed.” Writers reflected during this time on such diverse topics as as family relationships in “Persica” and “Cheers to Us,” mental and emotional struggles in “Fairy Tale” and “This New Card has Five Yellow Stars,” and fond memories of childhood in pieces such as “Autumn Bike Rides” and “Project B - Nonno’s.” Despite the chaos of the news and world events of the year, the vivid diction and biting language in pieces like “Maturity” and “Pyro” highlight the bittersweet moments of life.

Similarly, our artists worked diligently and created beautiful artwork Through various forms of media such as photography, drawing, ceramics, digital art, and watercolor, artists demonstrated their creative flow using the limited resources they had available. Take a look into an alternate world with “Reality” and see the vivid contrast and depth in “Light in Darkness.” Find peace and beauty in the muted tones of “Ebb and Flow of Black Excellence” and “Gift” to uncover a greater appreciation for the changes happening, both little and big. Finally, the notorious “Imperial Beagle” with its gleaming eyes demonstrates the precise attention to small details that many artists took to create such unique pieces. Our design staff worked to carefully pair art with poetry and prose in a way that emphasizes each piece’s thematic elements.

Each story, poem, piece of art, and everything down to the font was carefully chosen to reflect the intimacy that bullet journals encapsulate and to showcase the beautiful work of the authors and artists at LT. We hope that you find yourself immersed in the experiences of developing creative ideas and enjoying the extraordinary literature and art that goes above and beyond expectation.

With great excitement, we welcome you to read, write, and draw in this year’s edition of Menagerie,

“Mom, can you do my hair?”

I’m far too old to be asking this. It would be just as easy, and probably less time consuming, if I did it myself. But I know I can never do it just right. Never like her. If she’s thrown off by the request, she doesn’t show it. Only offers a soft smile and nods her head.

I have to bend my knees quite a bit, now. I’m almost as tall as her, and she can just barely see the crown of my head. At this height, I almost feel like a child again. The slight discomfort in my knees is ushered away as deft fingers fall into a nearly-forgotten routine.

Elegant hands part hair with ease, and a brush is swiftly run through thick strands. It hurts a lot less than it did as a child. Perhaps she’s being softer. Maybe I’ve grown tougher. I can’t help but close my eyes as the rhythmic weaving in and out of each section begins. Fingertips dragging gently across my scalp with each addition to the delicate braids. I could almost fall asleep right here. I could fall into everything I’ve missed. Become nothing more than that little girl reaching for the cookie jar, asking for help to reach the top shelf, and hiding under the covers of my mother’s bed on sick days and scary nights.

As she nears the nape of my neck, I know this feeling will fade soon. I wish my hair were as long as it was when I was a child. Only then would I be able to bathe in this Fairies

sensation just a little bit longer. I realize now that younger me was spoiled. She never took a moment to appreciate the simple joy of Mom doing her hair. She finally ties off the ends, but her hands don’t leave just yet. They fuss at flyways and smooth out the baby hairs framing my face.

I wonder if she misses this too.

She leads me to a mirror to examine the fruits of her labor; the question of approval is silent as she peers over my shoulder. It’s hard to give an answer, however, when the only things I can focus on are the fine lines of her face.

It’s the first time I’ve really noticed the smile lines around her mouth. The slight crinkles around the outer corners of her eyes that used to look just like mine.

In a couple o fyears, it’s possible I’ll get those too. I spend a couple moments more playing spot the difference with her face before I remember she’s waiting for an answer. “I love it, thank you.”

The praise makes her smile once more, eyes crinkling. I try to pinpoint the moment when the tables turned, when she started looking for my approval instead of the other way around. I can’t quite find it.

“Any time, mija.” She says this and turns to leave, and although some part of me—the childish part of me—wants to grasp onto her sleeve and never let go, yearns desperately for the times when she tied my shoes and kissed me goodnight and did my hair…

I let her go.

Conjunction

Two giants

Roar across the heavens

A god and a titan

Preparing - mobilizingFor a chance encounter

They lock in battle

Ancient foes, spheres of light; The fates astonished as, For a brief moment, They share a kiss.

Departure.

A relinquishment

By the will of the infinite And so

The octocentenary dance continues Restrained by fate But conducted by chance.

If you were stranded on an island, what 3 items would you bring with you?

Noemi

My mother is blood and sweat and rarely tears. My mother is calloused hands and bruises shaped like diamonds. When I speak to my mother in broken spanish I can hear the sharp edges of the shards cutting her silently, and yet, she says nothing about the pain.

We go to Mexico every summer to renew relationships that my mother refuses to let expire; I used to complain about the chill of shower water and the lack of phone service, but now I know.

I know the amount my mother has spent on those plane tickets. Not in dollars, but the thousands of overtime hours cleaning hospital rooms, taking orders from people not nearly as diligent as she is.

My mother has made the impossible happen.

The house my grandparents used to live in was once a slab of cement, rotting with no color or decor, with water that was to be boiled before showering in and an outhouse rather than a bathroom.

And while numbers are impolite, I can’t say I care: In 2 years my mother saved up $20,000 through strictly overtime hours to renovate my grandmother’s house in Mexico.

She would find places to sleep at her job that remain a mystery. The amount of sleep she would get at the time remains a mystery. How she did it remains a mystery,

but she did it nonetheless. My mother is helpful, sturdy as a rock and as kind as can be.

mi mama es la razón que hago todo, es la mujer que yo quiero ser.

Mother and Daughter | Lidy Tarter | Watercolor (top)

Sitting in the Sun | Aimee Rounds | Acrylic (bottom)

spread design: Aimee Rounds

spread design: Aimee Rounds

Persica

The only thing in the fridge that day was milk and a plastic bag of peaches on the top shelf that had been bought at the store too long ago to eat.

I placed my hands down onto the counter to steady myself. From where I stood I saw the dust float by, outed by the morning light reflecting off the window. It covered the room-- the table, the counter, the unwashed dishes in the sink. I still don’t understand dust; I found it, still find it, stupid that things got dirty by not being used.

“Where were you last night?”

My head bowed. I looked at the floor. I already had a hard time looking her in the eyes; that day was not going to be any easier than it already wasn’t.

“Out.”

“Where were you last night?” The ends of her words trailed off, all blurring into the next one before falling off at the end of the sentence. A runaway car falling off the edge of a cliff. The inevitable.

“Out with friends.” I turned, grabbed a bowl off the counter, and began to pull the cereal down from the cupboard. I didn’t put the milk in it.

“Where?”

“Does it matter?” As I turned back around she forced herself into my field of view with an audible huff to be noticed. She was red in the face like a child ignored through the midst of their tantrum. I wondered if she was ever this frustrated when she had to take care of me.

“Yes. I’m your mother, I need to parent you.”

“One hell of a job you’re doing,” I whispered to the cereal, our little secret.

“Where were you?”

“Not here.” I could have answered. I could have answered, but I didn’t. I had never liked to fight during the mornings when she was like that, but maybe it was just a casualty of the day.

“Where.”

“I’m not answering your questions for a reason ma’.”

“Why then?”

“Why what?”

“Why not tell me?” What I wanted to tell her is that there was no point when she would be back in ten minutes with the same four questions.

“Go lay down ma’, you’re loopy again today.”

“I am not. I am perfectly fine; thank you.” I met her eyes, which was my second mistake of the day. She looked empty like she was a house with the lights on, but no one was home. Her face drooped, the bags under her eyes black and blue, her tongue falling partway out of her mouth, and her lips that struggled to hold it back were chapped. She swayed back and forth on her feet. She was a willow that survived the storm, but the roots weakened in the wet mud, about to break loose and topple the tree.

“I know you’re fine ma’.” What I wanted to scream at her is that she was falling apart.

“Maybe just go get some rest anyway.” I tried to lace my voice to cover the cracks I knew would appear. It seemed to be enough as the person who used to be my mother

swayed back down the hallway towards her room. She never lifted her feet more than an inch off the ground. Maybe part of her knew that if she tried to lift them any farther she would fall.

I heard the door click shut and I collapsed down into a kitchen chair, a cloud of dust pluming up around me.

How do you tell your mother that you couldn’t deal with her anymore? I couldn’t ask myself.

I laid my head down onto the edge of the wooden table and gave a small laugh. I found it hilarious, more that day than others, though I knew that there was nothing particularly funny about it. My therapist said it was how I dealt with trauma. I laughed at the word ‘trauma.’ I found it stupid and also hilarious that I thought it was stupid.

My phone rang. It was the person who knew about that day.

“Hi, dad.”

“Hi kid, how are you holding up?”

“Fine.”

“We both know that’s what you say that every time I ask you.”

“I know.” We both paused, our silences were comfortable and needed. We were alike in many ways, my dad and I, and us forgetting to stop and breathe was one of them.

“Today’s the day right?”

“Yeah.”

“Have you told her?”

“I’m open to suggestions. Bearing in mind that I will have to repeat it fifty times before they come to pick her up.”

“Do you want me to come over to help you move her?”

“Oh yeah, I’m sure that will just go swimmingly, dad. She might not remember a lot of things but she remembers how much she hates you.”

Another silence. Probably not the best thing to say but I also wasn’t wrong.

“So what’s your plan then?” I stood up from the table and walked over the counter, a pamphlet hidden underneath the microwave that I pulled loose by a stray edge. I scanned the pictures for the thousandth time, searching for some hidden meaning in the stock images and the faces of patients who may or may not exist.

“A hospital worker is coming to help her pack her things and take her by bus to the hospital.”

“I’m sure that will just go swimmingly.”

“Don’t mock me.” We laughed. It was nice. I didn’t get to do that often.

“I hope you’re not too harsh on her today.” I stopped laughing.

“It’s hard.”

“I know it’s hard, but it’s not her fault.”

“It’s still hard to play nice.”

“I’m not trying to say it’s not. I’m sure that if she saw who she was, she wouldn’t like who she’s become. Trust me on that if nothing else.” I balled my hand into a fist. “I still love her.”

“I know.”

“I know you do too, whether you realize it now or not doesn’t matter, but one day you’ll look back and see that you loved her regardless.” He was right.

“I know.” We were quiet again as I took stock of the apartment. It was hard to tell that two people had lived there, maybe except for the number of dishes that had piled in the sink. It wouldn’t surprise me not to notice she was gone.

“Just let me know how it goes later kiddo, you can always come over if you need anything.”

“Okay, dad.”

“Bye, I love you.”

“Bye, dad.”

I wasn’t sure how long I stood there for after that phone call, phone in my hand and my arm down at my side. I leaned against the counter and watched as the dust floated by. The day moved on outside the window without us. I think, regardless of whether or not I realized it at the time, that I was trying to understand. Understand how she felt as time moved on without her-- as I grew up without her knowing and without her being able to move on with me from the past.

She was a relic.

A person out of time.

And it scared the shit out of me.

I heard her walking before I registered that she was there. And there we were again, a staring contest over the kitchen counter.

“Hi ma’,” I spoke softly. I had been angry with her for so long-- angry for her to leave me on my own, angry for having to take care of her, angry at her for things she didn’t know she was doing. I put up with her screaming and meltdowns and hospital trips and disappearances and she had no idea. But that was the last day. Yes, I could visit her, but for eighteen years, I had lived under the same roof with her. It didn’t matter if she didn’t remember them because I remembered every day. And that day would be the last one.

“Hi honey,” she matched my tone, intenional or not. I brought my hands up to my face and rubbed my eyes. “Are you tired? Where were you last night? Were you out late?” Her usually blank look was slightly better, her eyes less empty than the hours before.

“I was out, yeah.”

“Oh, that’s nice. Where did you go?” I didn’t need to answer, “I knew she could forget again before the hospital worker came to pick her up.

“I went to a new movie with some friends from school, down at the theater on Lombard.” I didn’t have to answer.

“Oh yes-- I remember going there when I was your age. Now how old was I…” she took a seat at the table and I sat down across from her. We hadn’t done this in months. “That theater has been there such a long time, my goodness, I am getting old, aren’t I?” I watched all the dust swirling around her as she recounted a story from college. I watched as her sentences began to stumble. I watched as she looked around the kitchen as if she had misplaced something.

“Ma’? You feeling alright?”

“Oh hi, honey. Yes, I’m feeling okay, no worries. Are you tired? Were you out late last night?” I nodded as I stood up and walked to her side of the table, and leaning down I offered my elbow.

“You look worn out ma’. Why don’t you go and lay down for a bit?” She blinked a few times, her glazed expression winning out even though her eyes widened. Her head bowed as she resigned and took my elbow with a shaking hand. “I’ll make sure you take your meds, okay? No worries ma’.”

She was silent, the quiet between us a wall I had built high over the past year, only broken by the floorboards creaking as we walked down the skinny hallway.

“I never wanted it to turn out this way, you know.” she paused as we got to her door. “I wanted to do so much better for you. I wanted to give you a better life than--this.”

She gestured to herself and then back down the hallway. I had tears in the corners of my eyes. In the two years she had been falling apart not once had she ever said anything like this-- anything that remotely recognized that she was sick or getting worse. But then, there in the hallway on the last day-- she looked so defeated. I was convinced that she knew what was happening, that at least some part of her knew, whether she realized it or not.

“Promise me you’ll do better than I could.”

“I promise ma’.”

She squeezed me on my arm as she walked through the door and to the side of her bed, the relief evident on her face as she sat down. I watched as she played through her rehearsed movements and laid down to rest, never actually sleeping. I closed the door, and once it clicked shut, I rested my head against the wood, my feet unable to carry me back down the hallway.

Frozen in longing, all I could think about was the peaches in the fridge. By that day, they were too sickly sweet to eat, rotten. That’s the way of the peach -- it may look fine on the outside, but as it slowly rotted from the inside out, only a moment lay between perfect and too far gone to save.

I stood for a moment in her shoes as time kept moving even as I willed it to stop. It was then I understood her frustration, her anger. But most of all, I understood the pain of wanting to move on and stay all at once. The perfect moment was fleeting, only leaving me with the sour taste of failure once I realized I couldn’t save her.

To-do list:

• bake sourdough

• go for a bike ride

• read Zion’s complete 44-page graphic novel

• practice banjo

What it’s Like to be a Young Learner (For Those Who Don’t Know)

It’s like an open sea,

Vast knowledge waiting to be uncovered.

It’s the feeling of immortality,

To be youthful and quick-witted,

To absorb wisdom like a sponge on an endless ocean.

It’s new experiences, new perspectives, new ideas

That jump like playful dolphins across unbroken waters.

Days of books, classes and events

Whizz past in mere seconds,

Creating a sense of endless possibility

However, this open sea also carries the storms and gales of undesired knowledge:

Loss, responsibility, the future, and uncertainty.

Though these heaving storms lash against us, we hold as steadfast sailors,

Keep our eyes on the end in sight, and do not let fear sink our expedition for knowledge.

Stare into the rain.

Do you see its translucence?

Look again,

Do you still see a clear crystal drop?

Do you see

Deep inside, tucked between the clear water

A palace

A city

A mountain

A suburb

A people?

Inside each raindrop

What do you see?

Is there someone who’s happy

Who’s complete

Who’s content

Tucked deep inside the translucent abyss?

Or is there someone who’s angry

Who’s alone

Who’s depressed

Or is it not a person at all?

But an empty, blank shell of a human

Who’s hopeless

Who’s thoughtless

Who’s suffered too much.

Think of this deeply.

Who do you see?

It’s a distorted image of you.

spread design: Marilyn Fagan

A Place of Broken Beauty

I hear the words“broken beauty” and my lips curve into a slight smile. A flood of memories as strong as a mighty hurricane surge through me. As my fingers currently type away with speed and precision, the words seem to type themselves and I cannot stop it from happening. Coming from and having lived in Kumanovo, Macedonia, I see my hometown on two fronts.

When I am there, in all her glory, the crisp air whisps through my hair, the birds’ cheerful chirping seems to serenade the entire town and the velvety mountains surround me, almost swallowing me whole. Read that again. Doesn’t Macedonia sound like paradise? Does this make you want to visit so you can experience the same things I have? Do you crave that fresh air on your skin and the sight of those hauntingly beautiful landscapes hidden within the valleys and silent creeks?

This is what I like to call her ‘beautiful’ side, the one that is put on display for everyone to see. This is the side Macedonians hold pride in their overworked hearts for. This is the Macedonia they want you to see and that is the Macedonia I am greeted with when I first arrive at the airport, on track to make the tumultuous journey back to my Baba’s home in Kumanovo. In that undisturbed instance, I see my Macedonia and I am proud. I’m at peace with the environment around me and I accept it for what it is and all it could be.

However, I know this serenity will soon meet a harsh death and the pain of knowing that is nearly suffocating. Soon enough, the inevitable will occur, smashing my heart into jagged shards on the floor. As the taxicab driver twists and turns through the curvy roads I know all too well, Kumanovo approaches and my heart sinks into my stomach. I finally see Macedonia for what it really is. The cracked roads filled with potholes. They are never getting fixed. The gypsy mothers selling their children on the street. They are willing to sell their baby for money. The graffiti that masks broken-down buildings. No one’s cleaning that up. The rabid dogs eating lunch by the overflowing dumpsters. No one cares about them. The broken stairs leading up to my Baba’s 500 square foot apartment. Be careful, do not fall. My Baba’s sad eyes. She looks at me and knows what I am thinking.

That same night, I lay alone in bed to find myself gazing at the stars visible through the broken window of my Baba’s room. I breathe Macedonia in and out, finally recognizing that her broken beauty is unique to its kind. It truly is rare. However, despite her imperfections, I look her in the eye of her mountains and tell her that she is an extraordinary piece of art. And I love her. I love her, I love her, I love her.

To Do Good

We plopped down

Onto the couch

And turned off all the lights

Except the back one

And the light of the TV

Flicked

Across your face

And lit up your sun smile

As the pictures danced

Across the screen

And washed your face

In every color while

The hero saved the day

And the boy who wanted

To do good

Kept messing up

And you kept messing up my hair

As I laid in your lap

Paying more attention to You

Than the movie

You asked if I liked it because I wasn’t

Paying attention

But I loved every second of it

Because it made you happy.

I love Rolling out of Bed

I love rolling out of bed at five in the morning to my alarm, yelling at me to wake up. I love my dad, who pours me a thermos of coffee while I sit in the garage tying my boots, buttoning my overalls. I love riding in his truck, listening to Waylon Jenning and Johnny Cash as the sun rises on a cold December morning. But most of all I love to work. I love to grab a shovel, buckle my rubber boots, and stand in the street waiting for the rumble of the concrete truck, while I watch my breath.

I like to spend time with my friends, and I like running for my high school’s Cross Country team. I like to read historical fiction, especially about world war one and two. I like my cowboy boots and listening to country music. I like going to the movies with my girlfriend, late on friday nights. I also like waking up Sunday mornings, going to mass with my family, and watching football. But I love working.

I love the sound of the concrete truck roaring down the street. I love to climb up the cab, and say hi to the driver. I love spotting him, as he backs in his truck. I love the ringing the truck makes as it raises its dog legs. I love the sloshing sound of concrete in the truck’s spinning drum. I love seeing concrete begin to slide down the chute.

Concrete work has been in my family for five decades now. It started with my pop-pop in the seventies, then my dad, and next up is me. But my dad has always told me “Don’t fall in love with it. Go to college, get a degree, get a masters if you want. Work anywhere, just don’t end up here… Like me.” I want a degree, I will make him proud in that sense. I want to know how to manage a company. I want to be qualified for everything I want to do, just like my dad wants me to be. But unfortunately for him I also know just where I want to ‘end up’ and who I want to be like.

I love pushing wheelbarrows, brimmed with concrete, throwing up the handles and spilling the contents into the pour. I love standing in the concrete, where my feet feel one hundred times as heavy as they are, and pulling down

the grade with a flat shovel as my dad and another finisher screed the concrete level with a long, plum, board. I love floating and troweling the concrete, once it has all been poured and screeded. I love when my dad lets me run the big trowel machine (even though I am nowhere near qualified to).

Ever since I was little I have wanted to be on the job. My mom used to take my sister and me to see my dad at work during his lunch, on summer days. Then when I was just old enough to sit out and watch the guys work. I would be out there all day, in my tiny boots, dreaming of one day being like them. Now that I am finally able to work, there is nowhere I would rather be, all summer, and every other chance I get.

I love that I learned to drive in my dad’s Ford one tone truck. Loaded down with a trailer and bed full of gravel. I love that my friends get to come out and work with me and my dad on especially big days in the summer. I love that once in a blue moon, on a Tuesday my dad will convince my mom that he needs my help so bad at work I have to miss school. I love everything there is to love about working.

What I love the most about work is that my dad is the one who shared it with me. He was the one who brought me to work as a kid, and still does now. He is also the man who worked his whole life to give me the opportunity to do anything I want with my life. So how do I tell him it is too late? How do I say I already fell in love with it? How do I tell the man that has been dreaming of me working in finance or engineering or law my whole life, that I want to pour concrete for the rest of my life with him?

Cream of Chicken + Rice Soup

- 1/2 Pound Butter

- 6 Ounces White onion (Diced)

- 6 Ounces Celery (Diced)

- 6 Ounces Carrot (Diced)

- ½ Quart Heavy Cream

- 1 Pound White Rice

- ½ Cup Chicken Base

- ½ Teaspoon white or black pepper

- ¼ Tablespoon Lemon Juice

- 1 Bay Leaf

Directions ingredients

YIELDS: 6 Quarts

1) In large stock pot melt butter then add diced vegetables, (cover pot, medium to low heat for about 15 minutes).

2) In a separate pot combine 1 pound rice with 1 gallon of water (uncovered, medium heat for about 15 minutes, check frequently to ensure all water is absorbed and rice is not overcooked. Remove from stove when water is fully absorbed.

3) Add chicken breasts to about 1 ½ gallons of water, boil for 30-45 minutes until fully cooked and tender. Pull or shred chicken in water with tongs and remove from heat, save the water used to boil chicken.

4) Add chicken base to ½ gallon of water and combine in pot with vegetables. Once boiling and vegetables are tender, blend mixture and ensure all chunks have been broken down.

5) In large pot, combine cream, rice, lemon juice, pepper, pulled chicken and water used to cook the chicken.

6) Add Bay leaf and if necessary add additional amounts of cream or chicken base until desired consistency and taste is achieved.

notes rating

“My Dad (Paul Link) opened Now Serving in 1997, a little less than 25 years ago. I began working as a cashier during 7th grade but I have been helping out at our cafe ever since I was able to walk behind the counter. The best part of working there has been meeting new people, creating relationships with all of our customers and being proud to serve amazing food that puts a smile on people’s faces. I grew up in our kitchen, watching my dad and his crew of chefs cook ever since I was able to walk. I always loved working at our cafe and helping the chefs, but when my Dad became very sick with Pneumonia after contracting Covid-19, I knew I had to step up and run our restaurant. With my dad hardly able to breathe and unable to work, I ran our cafe by myself and with the help of one cashier, both of us working day and night to ensure everything was up to the same high standards my dad had set, and the quality our customers had always known and loved. Although this was very challenging between managing school and getting into college, I felt an overwhelming sense of achievement and satisfaction knowing I had saved our business and single handedly ran a restaurant with great food and service, all while being a senior in highschool. The Cream Of Chicken soup recipe I have shared is a family recipe that has been a part of my family’s long established reputation in the Chicago food industry dating back to the 1950s with the inception of Link’s Catering. I love this recipe and all of our customers do as well, being one of our most popular items, I am proud to share it with our friends and family at Lyons Township.” - Jack Link

Velvet Dreams

Hope Cordes

When the sidewalk doesn’t reach home

And the conference room is biting cold

I hope she revisits her velvet dreams

And never forgets where she came from

That she was once innocent, uncivilized

Sitting in wagons instead of meetings

Sticky strawberry circles around her mouth

The grocery store in animation

When the train station is soaked in grey I hope she sees July

The bump on the sidewalk she lifted her scooter over Grass sticking to wet legs like syrup and feathers

The mirage of the hot grill on a hydrangea wall

I hope she sees the velvet scenes of her life

A tablecloth with hot coffee, traveling desserts, red and white wine

Laughter baking into the walls and warming up the room

The halls decked and a deck of cards ready for playing

When she aches for what’s missing she can see it, even for a moment

Her grandma’s wrinkled face bringing neapolitan ice cream

Embracing her world of play pretend

Laughing delighted at their repeated card wars

When she steps in gum and her car won’t start

I hope she looks in her kaleidoscope of memories

And sees the weather, the faces, the places

That make her heart swell.

Hurricane Part 1&2 | Lidy Tarter

Mixed Media

Earth’s Requited Lover

I am the earth his boots walk all over.

Budding baby’s breath engrossing green fields.

His agile paws uproot blonde stover.

Amber maize my flagging carcass does yield.

Billowing wisteria sing for thee.

Cronies of yours greet me with smoked engines.

His grin does deceive me, says briony.

Rarely doth you bestow your affections.

Why doth you love with missiles and burned air?

Your love leaves my soil scarred, my home screw.

I cry over dust from flames you left there.

Arms of iron ignore my pallid flu.

With all the malady you yearn to spread.

Still I cloak the wound and love you instead.

Charcoal Figure | Flynn Rachford | Drawing (Top Left)

Teapot | Lindsey Rickman | Ceramic (Bottom Left)

Owen: Forever and Always | Lidy Tarter | Mixed Media (Top Right)

Desk | Flynn Rachford | Pen (Bottom Right)

spread design: Aimee Rounds

Morning Breaks as Always

Morning breaks as always

And as it always has

You will still slip from your bedding

The way you always have

You still will make your breakfast

And practice your guitar

You’ll still attend your classes

The way you have so far

You still will see your teachers

Your friends and family too

You’ll get lost in all your studies

The way you always do

You’ll still read late at night time

The books that you adore

You’ll slip into your slumber

The way you have before

You’ll continue in your habits

Because they suit you so

The world will not stop turning

Because I let you go.

Freedom From Want

you greet each of them warmly at the door with opened eyes and apple pies in hand

you extend an arm and a leg with the hospitality of a thousand southern belles

One thousand pinup dolls attached to bright hair curlers Polite aprons wrapped tightly around the hourglass Singing what she can- as her carols are the only thing that belong to her

you smother the children with jellies and jams

you let them eat too much, they sleep too much                          you drink too much and you both sleep with the lights on you’re not so much scared of the dark as you are unfamiliar with the nameless splotches of varied hues all melting into one homogenous, colorless, nothingness.

you know the lights are too bright and the whites too white but you don’t know what you can’t see in the dark

you know the TV’s too loud and you shouldn’t sleep with it on but you’re too scared to find out what the silence sounds like; too afraid to be but a moment without the confusion; too afraid of the sourceless chatter that could arise

You and the kids gather ‘round the table; You let the melody of the laughter separate the song of the bird from her bones, And you let them dig into her flightless wings.

Leave

Rosie Martini

Whispering voices

Come in the daytime, on bike rides

Power lines and cloudless, powder- blue skies

In their living rooms, behind half-shut eyelids

people mere feet apart, yet distant, living sunset-suburb lives

His fists pale, brakes pull, and sudden cry as he tumbles into asphalt, cheek lands on carpet, wet streaks down a red-hot face, knowing ita rusted seesaw of feeling, up and down again, in playgrounds on sloping sidewalk hills

making mountains of men, who follow the golden light to its end carpet or asphalt, his dread never leaves now an elderly man, for eighty-three years his wife, now passed, last sunset eve past rows of houses that pull you in and whispering voices, every now and again

My self-care routine:

This New Card Has Five Yellow Stars

This new card has five yellow stars. I could place it with the five green circles, the two yellow squares, or the three red stars. Trial and error was off the table. You learn that after 11 different trials. The fluorescent lights humming above me started to burn tears out of my eyes when I realized.

“Is the pattern that there’s no pattern?”

Wow, I bodied that.

The psychologist gave me a small smile and shook his head. Jesus Christ.

My sister had it, so I didn’t. That was the story I got. But more importantly, I did well in school. My mom told me she’d call my pediatrician. The first question they would ask would be about my grades. My mom would tell them. End of call. I’m embarrassed and a hypochondriac.

I didn’t have it because in fifth grade we read Joey Pigza Swallowed the Key and when I had a dessert, I didn’t scale an entire barn. It didn’t matter that I went to get a new gallon of milk from the fridge, and in the 30 second walk to the counter, I lost it. It didn’t matter that I then searched through my first floor, just to realize I was holding the full gallon the whole time.

I didn’t have it because I got good grades. It didn’t matter that I had a D in 6th grade Spanish up until the last week of school. It didn’t matter that I did every at home unit of Rosetta Stone in the last five days, because I left school with an A.

I didn’t have it and it didn’t matter that I would miss half of the instructions my teacher gave. It didn’t matter that the next day I faked sick and read all 487 pages of Divergent in one sitting.

So it came as a surprise a month after crying over five yellow stars that we found out. My reading, math, and writing skills scored in the 90-something percentile. My executive functioning skills were in the 30th.

I went fourteen years before this question was answered. That was when I learned the ugly, sexist truth of ADHD. I wasn’t Joey Pigza. I wasn’t a young boy whose teachers unfairly deemed the “trouble student.” I was a young girl who struggled unnoticed. This isn’t written out of resentment towards a late explanation. It’s an ode to the young girls who are three times less likely to be diagnosed.

Things That Make Me HAPPY

A Wish for Snow

When the winter weeds lay siege to the garden or the fallen autumn leaves blanket the grass, I do not grab my trowel or my dusty rake. Instead, I wish for snow, ten feet of snow

So that all I see is its ethereal white. I wish for it to come, not as flurries, but as a blizzard. quick and decisive.

And when it comes, I will look out at my garden, oblivious to the impurities that lay beneath, its white foundation. That twinge of anxiety will lay dormant in my stomach as the winter wonderland assures me that there’s nothing to be anxious for.

Eventually, a warm front will come, always sooner that I hoped (as my hope was it would never come at all). The icicles will lose hold on the roof, and the glistening white will turn to slush.

Splotches of decayed grass and frozen, overgrown garden promise a swift return.

Already, I can hear their whines, made more incessant from months of being ignored. Already, I can feel that twinge of anxiety preparing to erupt.

But, look, over there!

There’s still a corner of yard untouched by the slush and mud and memories of autumn. Perhaps I will build an igloo there. A palace just for me and the blinding white.

Cheers To Us

Dearest Grandma,

I sprint out of Cossitt Avenue Elementary School into grandpa’s arms, so eager to get my 50 minutes of grandparent time in the middle of the school day. When I walk through the back door, I will instantly know what we’re having for lunch: meatloaf, which I never eat at home because Dad hates the texture, or maybe it will be breakfast food: perfectly burnt bacon and a waffle slathered with peanut butter, syrup and chocolate chips. Whatever it is, you will be standing in the kitchen with your apron on, serving it up on my Little Mermaid placemat. If I’m lucky, you will sit and enjoy your lunch with me, and endure an episode of Hannah Montana on the family room TV.

I am content with going back to school for the afternoon, because I know I will get to come back at 3:15. You will insist on checking my grammar and spelling homework, and give unsolicited advice on my handwriting. But I always assume that as an ex-English teacher, you know better than I do about quality printing. After my homework is done, you will quite literally do whatever I want.

In second grade, it was Barbies or Mickey Mouse Yahtzee. In fourth grade, it was flipping through the newest American Girl Doll catalog. In sixth grade, it was watching Jeopardy and trying to guess all the answers. In seventh grade, I became a teenager. Going to your house for lunch was no longer an option

I had to stay at school. I walked home with my friends. I sat with you in church once a month at most. Mom and Dad had to remind me to call you and I’d often decline offers to come over and bake cookies. The deeper I fell into my teenage years, the more I conveniently forgot you were getting older too.

Last year, you packed up Dad’s childhood home and moved to a retirement community. As hard as it was to leave the white stucco beauty behind, you were so ready to be relieved of constant cooking and cleaning and tripping on the stairs. So ready to move into a building where all of your church friends already lived and you could meet up for meals or see movies together on

the daily.

So how is it fair that merely weeks after you moved in, Covid forced your new home into a full lockdown. How is it fair that just months after you moved in, you were rushed to the hospital with a broken hip? How is it fair that you went a full month without seeing Grandpa’s face, trapped in the health center? None of it was fair, but that’s how it went.

The last time I talked to you on the phone, you were marvelling at how grown up I am. How the last of your grandkids is off to college. You said “you’re all leaving me.”

Although I brushed it off, and reassured you that I’d be home plenty to visit, the earnestness in your voice made my heart sink. Somewhere in my subconscious, I knew what you meant. There was a momentary pause in our conversation, as we silently made peace with the near future.

Grandma, I could really go for some milk in my Winnie the Pooh glass now. Cheers to us.

Love, Charlotte

First Fishing Trip | Lidy Tarter | Acrylic (Above)

End of the Semester | Owen Rand | Digital (Top Left)

Match | Persephone Herman | Digital (Bottom Left)

spread design: Marilyn Fagan

Thinking of Things I Should Be

“I am not a good person,” you say, but I’ve never asked for good.

Decent. Could you be decent for me? Or at the very least—alive.

I was washing dishes the other day, fingers wrinkled from water and smelling of soap, and you helped dry without me asking. That was a very decent thing to do.

Later, when we were heading off to bed, me in my sleep shirt, you in your socks, you tuck me in and kiss me goodnight.

Is that not something a decent person would do?

Again, in the early morning when I wake from a horrible sleep, mouth parched and stomach heaving because I’ve never had good dreams. You’re a heavy sleeper but when I wake you, your hands are gentle

like one misstep, a single blow would destroy the whole house altogether.

What do you dream of when you sleep? Are you good in your dreams? Decent? Or at the very least—alive.

We don’t talk much about dreams but I hope yours are sweet.

If you refuse to be decent, you must be alive. Eat with me, sleep with me, just be a person.

I will ask for nothing more.

When you refuse to leave your room and the dishes pile up like dogs at the door and you can’t open the curtains because the blue sky hurts and even brushing your teeth is a chore

because you are not a good person; most days, you aren’t even decent.

Still, I will ask you to be alive. Could you do that for me? Live a little, or at the very least—fake it?

“I want to be good for you,” I say.

The door is closed but I hope you can hear me. That’s all I ask: hear me.

something you learned during quarantine:

Maybe Quarantine Isn’t That Bad

Before Covid I was miserable. School was the worst thing for my social anxiety. Seeing 2000 kids and 100 teachers and feeling like they all were staring at me. I hated walking through the halls during passing periods. My brain would tell me “you’re walking weird slow down” or “They are probably judging you. Look at your phone and keep walking.” The yelling and the crowds - it was all too much. I was never in the cafeteria - that caused too much anxiety. The thoughts of “You are sitting weird” or “she’s probably talking to her friend because she thinks you eat weird” was too much to handle. I hated going to class. I saw familiar faces but seeing everyone else who I didn’t know made me completely shut off. My mind would never shut up. I tried not to participate and not to be seen. That’s why I liked first and second period. I knew every single person in that class. They were basically all my friends. I screamed, I yelled, I giggled. I could breathe there. That class was a safe haven for me and not to mention they had two of the best teachers; that class made me feel welcome. That class was the only reason why I went to school everyday. Then I heard about Covid. I was so relieved that I wouldn’t be able to come to school and deal with all the people but at the same time I was sad. I couldn’t see first and second period anymore. Those classes were the only classes that I actually liked. The day school shut down, I had bronchitis. So we all are making jokes that I had corona and I am going to cause a shut down. Little did I know, that was the last time I was going to see that class. In 8th period I heard the announcement. Schools gone but for only two weeks. Two weeks turned into a month. Then soon became six months. Six became almost a year. In August school started back up. Well online school. I get to sit in front of a computer for 5 hours a day and then do 6 hours of homework. Oh what fun E-Learning is. All my teachers talk about how hopeful they are for quarantine to end but I’m not. I don’t mind wearing a mask. I don’t mind being at home. I’d much rather be here instead of that school filled with 2,000 kids and a hundred teachers and have it feel like they’re all staring at me.

THE PARTY OF THE MILLENNIUM

There are brown streamers taped onto every wall and surface you can think of. Dried apricots hang from the ceiling every three inches. There is no water available. The only liquids are GT Dave’s Kombucha and dark chocolate almondmilk. Half of the furniture is covered in a layer of wet paint, so only the other half is usable. A mixture of Japanese sushi bar music and Scottish pop plays on the stereo, with the occasional ballad from singer Katy Perry. A man dressed in a lion costume like the ones featured in the Lyons Township building stands in the corner of the kitchen and never speaks nor moves, except to offer guests expired mints which he stole from his local Italian restaurant, own by his uncle previously affiliated with the mafia, but who now has a side job spreading happiness by selling brightly colored balloon animals in dark alleys. There is one happy birthday banner, one “It’s A Girl!” banner, and one “You’re Finally 50” banner, which is making the mood of the adults in the room somewhat depressed. The mirrors are decorated with sweet wilting flowers. The chef from Benihana is there and although he does not have his regular stove on which he performs his wondrous tricks, he is still doing his best with our mini toaster oven. The school principal is dj-ing, if you were wondering whose music taste that was. He has a large cowboy hat on, and it’s beautiful and I want it and will try stealing it to bring into my own possession by the end of the night, as I have tried to do the last 42 times our school principal has dj-ed at my house. He and my mother go very, very far back. I don’t really want to get into it, and I shouldn’t for your safety, however I will just say it involves a secretive trip to Hawaii and a horse highly allergic to pineapples.

Gorilla

A.M.

I haven’t been sleeping well. This is pretty normal for me, even before the whole COVID thing began. Ever since I was a little girl, sleep just seemed secondary, there was always something better that I could be doing. Once I got situated in my bed with as many blankets and stuffed animals as possible, I’d turn on the little lamp on my bedside table and start reading. My go to options for my nightly reading were either Scary Stories to Tell in the Dark or any Goosebumps book, but I’d often reread Night of the Living Dummy and The Haunted Mask . I felt like I was up for an eternity, but it was really just 10 year old Ellie falling asleep face first in a book around 11:30 P.M. Oh, the things 17 year old Ellie would do to fall asleep as early as 11:30. With so much time I’ve spent alone in quarantine my brain keeps moving like a lab rat in a maze, desperate for the cheese at the end. I know my ADHD plays a huge part in all of this, which I never really took into consideration. ADHD and quarantine are not good friends in my situation. I always need to be doing something, whether it’s doing full eyeliner and dressing up just to walk to walgreens or actually working on college applications. I can’t sleep. So when it’s time to turn off the lights and turn down the brightness on my phone, the rat in my brain maze won’t stop. It needs to be doing something too. 11 P.M. I lay on my tiny twin bed hoping that I can stop thinking and go to sleep. “ Hey Ellie remember that you have to separate your stuff into boxes soon.. Hey Ellie hope you’re ready for your nine hour shift tomorrow! Hey Ellie you’re

not gonna believe it but he still hasn’t texted you back--- ” SHUT UP! PLEASE! I told you the rat wouldn’t stop. No matter how many strawberry melatonin gummies I take the rat scurries and dances throughout my skull, its little feet pittering like a tiny drum. 12 A.M. “ Hey, you’re still awake! Wanna spend the next half hour thinking about where you’re gonna be living in the next month-- ” --No please, not right now “ Aww but you’re gonna be away from all your friends-- ” They said we’ll be staying in the area, Mom should find an apartment by then and Dad and Mary Pat are gonna rent a house. I’ll be fine. I’ll be fine. “ You know you have to do those essays right… what if you don’t get into-- ” --Stop it. “ Your parents would be so proud… for their one normal child to throw in the towel and spend the day at COD and spend the night in her parents’ basement--- ” --I don’t want to talk about it. “ You know, at least you’re pretty. A pretty failure is better than an ugly failure. Still-- ” A failure. And just like that, the rat found it’s cheese. My brain finally got all it’s problems out in the air. 2 A.M. I sobbed. My eyes are dry and red, nothing left to cry over. Nothing left to think about. My body gives up and finally, at 2 A.M., I sleep.

Eyes

His green eyes are streaked with blue. They’re as vibrant as deep pools, the ones you’d dare to jump into, holding your breath and plummeting towards the bottom, yearning for that moment your foot hit the ground and you could swim up and brag that you did it.

But they were always deeper than you could fathom, and you’d end up pushing off of nothing, desperately kicking at the cruel water as the air in your lungs ran low and the surface looked as high above you as ever. You’d come up spluttering, gasping for breath, too shaken to lie that of course you made it all the way to the bottom, because there was a moment, down there in the vivid blue-green depths, when you thought you were going to die.

I blink, feeling a flush creeping up the back of my neck, as I realize I’ve been staring into his eyes. Drowning in the pools.

Pyro

the warning signs were shrill and angry, a fire alarm screeching like a banshee

do the lies singe your throat? does the smoke impair your vision?

you apologies reek of gasoline flint in one hand, steel in the other

perhaps my vulnerability is flammable perhaps you’re just a pyromaniac

struck the match burnt me at the stake

your fingers stained with cinder but i am inextinguishable

our bridge goes up in flames once your feet hit the other side just like all the others

but answer me this -

when the ashes settle and all that left is debriswho will be left for you to blame?

there is a castle on the hill disguised as a swingset with thrones made of red rubber and chains my cousins and i each proclaiming ourselves as king or queen a common threat unites us the monster in the forest we all slowly creep past the moat its water still viciously rocking from the constant cannonballs

we are safe until we aren’t the monster appears from the pines casting the shadows of my older cousins

they yell and we scream and i run down the hill past the bushes dotted with berries momentum tangled in my hair ignorant and carefree

i wonder now when my last time on that hill was and the last time i was oblivious to the silent arguments and a crumbling family

Confession

Delia Lonnroth

Forgive me sister for I have sinned. I have looked upon that which is not mine.

Tasted lips not mine to taste.

Roaming hands gone to far, yet it is never enough. I knew he wasn’t mine.

That he was yours. It’s over I’ll say, but then he whispers in my ear. Mumbling my praise, and suddenly I’m in his arms again.

Forgive me sister, for taking that which is yours, Forgive me.

Maturity

The flower of her youth petals lacerated by a familiar hand, stripping her “He loves me he loves me not.” Thorns were non existent but he drew blood pistil exposed in attempt to bare her soul only to be chilled by the bitter reality that it has always been an endless winter, alowly, withering away until she has lost the luminous color she once had. The ultimate maturation.

Quotes I’m Inspired by

Beg

Elizabeth Crist

i want them to come back to me groveling in despair moaning and wailing begging for my sweet forgiveness they will say they’re sorry tell me they simply do not exist beyond my presence but with a wave of my hand i will turn them away

for they are not worthy of my precious time for they are the ones whose fault it is at for i will remain content in my victory and in my power

so sulk away in your melancholy defeat but never place your blame on me

i think there is a chance i will never see you again

i think there is a chance i will never see you again. there she was. yelling, pleading, yelling. giving it to us on a fresh paper plate. redemption. an uneaten heavenly gesture, a Mexican sin. what a hellish thing.

when i am filled with such aromatic smoke upon a significant day. and you see me, in the self check out of the grocery store. but pride is so plain. grief so very great. so there you place a muddy stomp upon your mother’s grave. what a waste of God answering his prayers.

i think there’s a chance i may see you again. in the 7-11 you took me to after you would pick me up from school sometimes. when she was busy and you were in between shifts. you worked hard, i know this. you still bought me a cherry slurpee. maybe you will buy me one. or perhaps you will ignore me once more. on a birthday, a wedding date, my graduation. i will spill the sickly sweet blood all over my clothes. a wild gesture, a summon to the dancing woman up above. just for a word, to know that you’re okay.

i know you know. you broke his heart a little. i cried for a night, i don’t know why. but he still talks about the concerts you went to, your bond. his brother. we have the same favorite smiths song. i change it every week to ignore this inevitable generational damage. i think you feel too hard, just as i do. i think we both hide what hurts us most. i may end up just as you.

it will be june 30th, the anniversary of abuelita’s passing. i will see you at the grocery store. you will be with your father. you will recognize me, but pretend not to. four years will allow you to pretend that it is a trick of the light. to make sure, you will follow me at a distance. you will tell your dad you forgot to get granola bars. but you will see me, you know who it is. you walk back to the checkout, you do not want to hurt your father, you will stay silent.

he will notice me, anyway. he will call my name with a grin and wave. i will avert my eyes, throw back my hand lazily. i will say i don’t have time. i will walk away. i hope you will not judge me, as i did you. i hope you will understand, as i did not you.

it was june 30th. she knew this.

i don’t believe in coincidence. i hope she will once more tamper with fate. a warm hand is extended. taken but left untouched. i think there is a chance i will never see you again.

The scent of spring startles me, the cotton infused cherry blossoms, the branches smoked deep brown,

Mother Nature stepped out of the bath,

The scent is a sigh for many but a gulp for me, because when I smelled spring, Mom and Dad didn’t love each other anymore. They were leaving one another a thought I entertained occasionally, a thought I squashed below my feet, below the grass, below the dirt.

Divorce only happens to the girl on the screen, to my neighbor, a kid in my class.

that squashed, refused thought

Short sleeves and shamrock shakes, lighthearted ways of remembering your parents aren’t happily married. Cracking open a deserted window

to eavesdrop on the blackbirds is a selfish way of reminding me my dad doesn’t cut the grass anymore. Playful snow withering to lazy rain is a reminder that that strange bathroom counter I once observed now houses my toothbrush, and delicate strands of my hair. Those bare walls, those bare rooms are now kissed with tangerine pillows

are flooded with shiny puddles of laughter.

The scent of spring startles me, but I am content with being startled, because an end to happily married was the start to happily co-parents, who will always agree on one thing: an unshakeable love for their kids.

The Curl at the Nape of My Neck

Natalie Hess

Beneath my nest of loose waves lies a curl at the nape of my neck. She spirals in a tight ringlet, the only one found on my head. She is too curly to conform to the rest of the hair. She is not represented in the waves, but is too few to be mentioned on her own. Being at the nape, she doesn’t get time to shine. She is not noticed, except when she is criticized for falling out of a ponytail. She is barely long enough to fit in a ponytail, but she curls up and always falls short regardless. She is the frizziest bit of hair, never seeming to cooperate or try to blend in. She is always forced into a neat shape with products and heat or simply hidden altogether. She is the quirkiest piece.

Untouched by the irons and styles, she is the most natural piece. She continues to bounce happily, refusing to conform to the outside standards for her. She doesn’t seem bothered.

I threw my hair up on top of my head. I ran my fingers from the base of my neck to the crown, smoothing the bumps and attending to each imperfection. Switching to a brush, I flattened the hair at the nape of my neck, pleading with it to stay. I secured the hair, satisfied with the resulting ponytail. The ringlet fell immediately, immune to my efforts to change her. She was frizzy from the brush, but still echoed her curly nature. In frustration, I twirled her around my finger, ready to hide her with a pin. She formed a beautiful shape I had not noticed before. She was never given proper care or attention- why should I notice her?

I wet and smoothed the little ringlet, treating her with respect. When I had finished, it did not matter that a single curl hung loose from the rest of the thick ponytail. She was still laughed at, she still frizzed up at inconvenient times, but she was admired. She stuck out, but her confidence was commendable. From then on, I intentionally let loose the curl at the nape of my neck.

June’s Blanket

The golden honey blanket of eight o'clock June sun Rays of heaven-sent light cascading on faces on houses in suburbia on grass, on trees skyscrapers in cities and grey people with grimy darkened hearts are sweetened by its love.

Happy Birthday?

My wish this year is that this cake didn’t have to be in front of me

I mean, seriously, what kind of morbid tradition is that?

A cake? Celebrating that you’re one year closer to death?

Okay, maybe I’m upset that it smells so appetizing

The vanilla scent felt so cozy floating down to my stomach

My volcanic stomach that consisted of acid and a rice cake from two days ago

Who cares? No one notices anyways

No one notices that my hair has been falling out Or those bruises polluting my body

But it’s not like I’m looking for attention

I’m not

What I do want is to be able to not feel guilty, eating my own stupid birthday cake

Because eating a piece of cake is ironically, not a piece of cake

I don’t know where it all went so wrong

But as my exhausted eyes studied my cake again, I changed my wish I wish, next year, I’d eat my cake

Collisions

Tonight I think of you, of the person who doesn’t even know my name. I dream of kissing you under the stars, I dreamed of letting you in. The universe is infinite. We have our own ways to go, but for one fleeting moment no one has ever felt so close.

Books

In the luminous lamplight, a young man

Hunches forward, eyes affixed on inked paper

It is far too late,

But perfectly timed

Some pages contain illustrations: these are for context and dreams

Some pages leave on cliff hangers; these are for those sleepless nights

All belong to him, so dreams may come

This is pureness page by page, the physical and figurative worlds combine and expand within the folds of his mind.

Once, this young man

Would have been perhaps Simon Bolivar of the past, written in a book

Tonight, it is me

Years from now, it may be a sage, if they are truly a lover of knowledge

The pages I turn, the maps I wonder at, the ideas I memorize

Were once the experiences of great people in antiquity

I now read their dreams, and seek to pass on their sense of wonder

Some years later, the next generation will turn these same pages, will hopefully create their own worlds with their far too late nights

Do not fret,

These nights are the perfect time anyways

Behold! The book’s cover inches closer, Its ideas ready to spread like seeds on a breeze

The book is illuminated by the manmade light As well as its transcribed knowledge now shared This seemingly sleepless night

Has now reached perfection, despite the clock’s objection

Some books are begrudgingly read in the glow of Helios

Their knowledge important, but prone to forget

The world’s great historical figures said it best: Those who turn nights into worlds are true followers of wisdom.

Scene is set present day in a joint kitchen and dining room. There is canary yellow wallpaper, a long table is placed Center stage and is already set with china and silverware. There are chairs at both far ends of the table and one in the middle. Down stage right there is a partial entrance to the kitchen, allowing you to see half of a person’s silhouette. Positioned in the middle seat is 21 year old VALENTINE, dressed in a floral light pink dress. Standing in the kitchen is 48 year old CAROL, wearing a yellow dress and a blue apron layered on top. CAROL is making sandwiches and placing them on a platter. Down stage left there is a bookshelf stocked with various cookbooks. Cheap latex balloons crowd the room, crumpled streamers hang from the ceiling.

CAROL: How soon will he be here?

VALENTINE: Any minute now, at most maybe 15 minutes with all the traffic. You need any help with dinner?

CAROL: I think I’m good, Val. All I need to add is the finishingShe looks at the pot of meat, focusing back on the sandwiches.

CAROL: -touches.

VALENTINE: You all good, Mom?

CAROL: Yeah, just making sure we have enough for leftovers tomorrow. And you’re sure he’ll be //good for you?

VALENTINE: //Mom he’s a nice guy. Plus I’ve known him like for at least a year, you’ll like him.

CAROL: And he’ll be good for the family?

VALENTINE: It’s not like he’s a vegan, he already knows what we’re eating.

CAROL turns around and glares at VALENTINE

VALENTINE: Not like told him told him but I just said we’re having sloppy Joes. I wouldn’t tell him without you knowing, Ma.

CAROL: Okay, phew you had me nervous there for a second. I just wanted to make sure. She places a sandwich on the platter and slowly walks over behind VALENTINE.

CAROL: I love you Valentine, happy birthday to my sweet sweet girl. She goes in to embrace VALENTINE, VALENTINE squirms out of

her arms and repositions herself.

VALENTINE: Jesus mom it’s not like I’m turning seven. I’m an adult now, 21. I don’t need to babied anymore.

CAROL: Fine, don’t say I never offered you anything. The sound of a doorbell ringing echoes through the room.

VALENTINE: (reluctant) That must be Bobby!

She gets up from her seat and walks off stage left. She reenters stage left and alongside her is 23 year old BOBBY. He’s dressed in a red sweater and black jeans, wearing a pair of brown dress shoes as well.

VALENTINE: Mom, meet Bobby. And Bobby, this is my mother, Carol.

BOBBY: Hi Mrs. Mortimer, pleasure to finally meet you.

He goes in for a handshake and is interrupted with a big hug from CAROL.

CAROL: Bobby! Oh please, call me Carol. Finally I get to know this mystery man Valentine always tells me about! Please, have a seat.

He walks over to VALENTINE, gives her a quick kiss and takes a seat on the far end stage right.

BOBBY: Happy birthday, Valentine.

They look at each other and smile. BOBBY’S attention shifts over to CAROL.

CAROL: Do you want anything to drink? Water, beer, bloody Mary?

VALENTINE: Bobby doesn’t drink, Mom.

BOBBY: Water’s fine, thank you Mrs. Mortimer.

CAROL: You can just call me Carol, sooner or later we’ll all be like family right? (laughs to herself)

CAROL enters the dining room and is holding a glass of water in one hand and a bloody Mary in another. She sets the water down in front of BOBBY and does the same with the bloody Mary for VALENTINE.

CAROL: Bloody Mary okay for the birthday girl?

Instead of waiting for a reply, she heads back to the kitchen.

VALENTINE: Yeah mom thanks.

CAROL: So how did you two eat-- I mean, meet again?

VALENTINE: //Well I was out running errands and-

BOBBY: //So I was at work that day and- do you want me to tell it, Val or?

BOBBY: So last winter, I remember it being winter because everywhere I went felt as cold as the cooler-

CAROL: //What cooler?

BOBBY: I’m sorry?

CAROL: What cooler?

BOBBY: Oh, I work at a butcher shop.

CAROL: (She looks at VALENTINE with excitement.) Wow a butcher! You know, Valentine’s father//, rest his soul, was a butcher too!

VALENTINE: //Mom, let Bobby finish his story.

BOBBY: You never told me that.

VALENTINE: Oh I never found it important to mention really, that’s all-

CAROL: Bobby, you were saying?

BOBBY: Sorry, anyways so I’m at the counter cleaning everything down when in walks… her. She was so polarizing, I mean a fragile little thing in a butcher shop? // Not to judge a book by it’s cover, that is.

VALENTINE: //Well I was just there to get stuff for culinary, me finishing up my first year always paranoid about having enough spice.

BOBBY: So she comes in, rings the front bell and we get to talking. I gave her my number, and voila! Here we are now.

CAROL gets up from her seat and goes into the kitchen, grabs a platter of sandwiches and carries it to the dining room. She resumes back to sitting.

CAROL: Well isn’t that riveting! Now who’s hungry for sloppy Joes??

BOBBY: Sounds amazing, I’m so hungry I could just eat anything.

VALENTINE: Anything?

BOBBY: I mean not like dog food or glass but anything else, yeah.

CAROL removes the lid from the platter and places a sandwich on each plate

CAROL and VALENTINE both take a big bite out of their sandwiches, a reddish juice drips onto their lips. BOBBY pokes at his food with a fork.

BOBBY: Mrs. Mortimer, these smell very good, what’s your recipe?

CAROL: Oh, that’s a family secret (playfully winks at BOBBY) I’d tell you but I’d have to kill you! (Laughs uncomfortably)

VALENTINE: She’s kidding of course.

BOBBY: Haha yeah I figured…

CAROL: You don’t like my cooking, Bobby?

BOBBY: Oh no it smells lovely, I just uh- I-

VALENTINE takes another big bite, more red juice drips, she wipes it away.

VALENTINE: It’s really good, just try it, you’ll like it

She looks at BOBBY and smiles, her teeth stained with a faint

BOBBY: So… this joe, (pokes with fork), what’s it made of?

CAROL: I don’t know, Butcher Bobby, why don’t you tell me?

VALENTINE: Mom, stop it.

CAROL: You don’t get to tell me what I can and can’t say in my house, young lady-

VALENTINE: I am NOT a young lady anymore.

CAROL ignores VALENTINE altogether.

CAROL: So… what is it Bobby?

BOBBY: Well from my little knowledge of sloppy joes, I’d go with maybe ground beef? It looks pretty fresh, there’s just something … something foreign to me.

BOBBY takes a bite, red juice dripping down from his mouth.

CAROL: Well, how is it?

VALENTINE: Mom can you stop pestering him just //let him eat.

CAROL: //WAS I TALKING TO YOU? (brief pause, almost in a staccato tone) Well Bobby, how is it?

BOBBY is struggling to finish chewing,

CAROL begins to lightly scratch her plate with her fork.

VALENTINE: (starts to cry) Mom… out of all days why did you have to do this today?

BOBBY starts to gag, he runs off stage right. We hear him vomiting. CAROL stops scraping her fork

VALENTINE starts to sob hysterically.

CAROL: I love you Valentine.

Project B – Nonno’s

In middle school, one of my favorite places in the world was the dirty little pizza shop across the street from the gas station. My friends and I would spend our early dismissal days navigating the neighborhood and eventually, to my dismay, we’d have to cross the busy street to get there. Every half day was a moment of euphoria; we’d spend our last $3.50 on a slice too big for us and a can of rootbeer. I’ve seen my friends pay with a bag of nickels, and no mind to the old men who scoffed behind them.

We were trapped in the few blocks of the world our little legs could reach, but in those moments we tasted more freedom than we’d ever known. And, without jobs or cars or spouses or the impending end to our youth looming our heads, more freedom than we’d ever taste again.

When the name changed from Nonno’s to Enzo’s my sophomore year, I knew that it stung, but I couldn’t place why. I felt change brewing, and I knew that it was when the friends I’d known my whole life were strangers once more. We’d sprouted new legs and new wings and flown to new trees, with leaves that couldn’t fit us all.

But soon, those memories will have nothing more than my word to vouch for them. Soon, the dull blade of a bulldozer will strike the doors we walked through. The metal frame will collapse, the windows will shatter and the roof will cave in, destroying and filling the walls that once were.

I can’t stop replaying in my head the idea that one day, children will exist--fully grown with arms and legs and toes and teeth-- who don’t know the color of the granite tables, and the chairs in which I laughed so hard I couldn’t breathe. The spots where the sauce burnt my tongue will be nothing more than a flattened black-tar parking lot for a place with shinier tables and no TV.

doodle something that you miss from your childhood here:

Freshly Pressed

my fingerprints won’t come with them, just the need to cool down— but even water hurts.

After the shock comes the shame, a subtle heat in my cheeks as my brain tries to understand how things went so wrong. The fault lies in the hands.

One trip to the emergency clinic and a stern scolding later, I will tell myself that I have learned my lesson. I will go home and refuse to touch the hot iron. I won’t even look at it.

Although I have grown older, my hands are still young. They keep reaching for things they shouldn’t touch.

Autumn Bike Rides

Claire Williams

In the autumn breeze a young girl is riding her bike through a trail. She lifts her hands, tentatively at first, before reaching them towards the sun.

She breathes in: I am alive. She breathes out: I am free. She screams.

No, it’s not a scream; it’s a laugh. In its wake, branches snap. Leaves rustle.

Animals retreating because laughs don’t belong in forests. But the girl doesn’t care.

In the forest, she doesn’t care about anything. Her worries fall like the tired autumn leaves. She hears their crunch beneath the tires. She catches one, feels its crunch within her fist.

Her hands descend towards the handlebars. Her mind descends from the sky. The sun follows, leaving oranges and pinks to dance in the stratosphere. What wonders she must possess for the sun to abandon the clouds for her.

Look! The girl has turned around. She pedals faster now. Faster than the sun can set or the leaves can fall.

Why is she pedaling so fast? What is she pedalling to? Oh, yes, I see it now. She is pedalling to you.

Soon, ice and snow will lay siege to the path, but it is no matter.

The girl will adorn scarves and hats and boots. She will watch as the snow and ice fall into spring. And each night, she’ll hurry back. She’ll hurry back to you.

special thanks special thanks

Mr. Geddeis, the Administration, and the Board of Education for their continuous support of our endeavors.

The talented and hard working writers and artists who put their all into creating extraordinary content and making the magazine possible.

Mrs. Rohlicek for the constant reassurance and push to keep getting work done even when we felt discouraged and for putting up with our HighSchoolMusical and Hannah Montana jam sessions.

Ms. Gutierrez for providing brutally honest feedback that kept the magazine looking cohesive and for learning to LOVE the dots.

Mr. Maffey for listening to “Levitating” 5,000 times and bringing the ”Paul Hollywood” sass that ensured the magazine is the best it can be.

Paige for being an amazing leader and hype man as she worked with everyone on making her vision come to life.

Juliette for always being honest and upfront with what needs to be done and for humming your way through your work to keep us all entertained.

Charlotte for keeping our spirits high and teaching us how to dance through the stressful times.

Editors for keeping staffers engaged during meetings and ensuring that the community of Menagerie was warm and welcoming.

Staffers for your commitment to putting your best foot forward and learning how to operate Adobe programs/work together via Zoom to create unique designs.

Sammy Brunet

Catherine Crousore

Jaclyn Cummings

S. Davis

Carolina Deuter

Marilyn Fagan

Ellie Fekrat

Morgan Ferrell

Cat Fisher

Lulu Griffin

Natalie Hess

Mckinley Huffman

Ashlin Kwong

Grace Leavitt

Jane MacEntee

Rosie Martini

Riley McCarthy

Anna Pritz

Jessica Quintero

Aimee Rounds

Caroline Vear

Molly Zagroba

Teagan Arndt

Sammy Brunet

Catherine Crousore

Jaclyn Cummings

Carolina Deuter

Marilyn Fagan

Mckinley Huffman

Alyssa Iovinelli

Ashlin Kwong

Rosie Martini

Riley McCarthy

Aimee Rounds

Caroline Vear

Lindsey Wilson

Molly Zagroba