Lyons Township High School - Menagerie 2025-2026 - Volume 51: What We're Made Of

Colophon

Design: Adobe CC 2025 software to edit and create spreads

Publishing: Alphagraphics of La Grange, IL prints 3,600 copies of the 80 page magazine

Cover: 80# White Vellum Bristol Cover, designed by Suzanne Avakian and cross-stitched by Arete Lindo

Paperstock: 100# Dull Text

Art/Photography/Design: All art & design featured in this magazine is student-created

Typography: Superior Title and Operetta 18

Finance and Operations: The magazine is funded through a portion of the publications fee that students pay at registration.

Editor’s Note

Hi guys!

Welcome to the 51st edition of Menagerie, LT’s very own art and literary magazine, made by students to show off other students’ incredible work throughout the year. This year’s theme, What We’re Made Of, showcases many patterns and textures found both around the school and around our staffers’ homes, so little peices of our lives are in here for all of you! Featuring an old, academia-inspired color palette and carefully arranged pieces, every page is a unique composition designed to highlight everything from thoughtful metaphors to purposeful mediums.

Some personal highlights include Kiley McGuire’s poem, “A White Person’s Name” on page 42, Cora Maggin’s painting “Pufferfish“ on page 59, and Cy O’Connell’s metal work “Closet” on page 18. From McGuire’s purposeful metaphors to O’Connell’s intricate patterns and attention to the smallest detail, or Maggin’s mind-blowing skills with an unforgiving oil paint, the talent at our school is crazy. I’m so honored to be able to present such skill in an awardwinning publication to our school and more, truly giving these artists and poets the attention they deserve.

I hope you guys appreciate all the hard work of the many passionate and dedicated individuals that it took to put this year’s edition together. Find a poem that you can carry with you as you go on with your week, find an art piece that causes you to look at it for a while and sit with what the artist is saying to you. Really take in this magazine for all it is, all of the effort and purpose in each piece. This is my last publication of Menagerie that I have the privilege of working on, and I am super proud of how it came out. I had a lot of fun throughout my years on the magazine, so if any of you are reading and wondering if you should get involved, please do! Thank you for your support, and most importantly, enjoy!

Peace out,

Suzanne Avakian ‘26

Table of Contents

Prose

Our People Are Gone - Kiley McGuire - 12

First Snow - Elin Dorchinecz - 22

Don’t Blink - Luciana Cook - 31

I See Happy - Oscar Katz - 44

Lives I’ve Lived While You Weren’t Looking - Vivi Vu - 58

The Floating Island - Oscar Katz - 66

Poetry

Lost in Space - Eva Barrette - 6

The Weight of Wasted Potential - Jayden Sharma - 8

How Not To Be A Robot - Joanna Barcelona - 10

Gardens - Katie Prosser - 15

Argos - Luciana Cooke - 16

The Land of Secrets - Payton Meller - 19

The Light from My Window - Payton Meller - 19

Once the Storm Passes - Ollie Davis - 21

To See Himself - Jackson Clark - 26

When Eyes Fall Open - Payton Meller - 39

The Song of Wood - Abbie Scouffas - 40

A White Person’s Name - Kiley McGuire - 42

The Daisy You Drove by on State St. - Isabella Longoria - 48

Teachings with Underlying Preachings - Jomayla Secaida - 50

Quiet Witness - Elise Novey - 52

breakthrough, ignite - Ollie Davis - 54

Grief - Deena Jalilian - 61

Wishes in the Wind - Deena Jalilian - 65

the shadows of forest trees - Deena Jalilian - 69

Nail Polish - Joanna Barcelona - 70

Circadian - Lily Flynn - 72

The Little Music Box on the Thrift Store Shelf - Kiley McGuire - 74

A Story - Ma’Liya Raymond - 76

The Glorious Future - Eddie Schulz - 78

Sylwia Siebiesiuk Silkscreen Print

2D Art

Page - Olivia Burr-Reynaud - 3

Fih - Sylwia Siebiesiuk -4

The Bean - Will Bridges - 6

Koda - Ana Jovanova - 7

Eagle - Will Bridges - 9

Birthday - Lucie Grefenstette -10

Yummy! - Isabella Escarpita - 11

Feathered Neighbors - Lara Ersahin - 14

Equine Compliance - Barcelona Lewis-Skura - 17

Hummingbirds - Cole Teague - 20

The Sushi House - Amelia Challacombe - 20

The Bell Tower - Jomayla Secaida - 23

Seagull - Evan Itkowicz - 24

Transport - Sylwia Siebiesiuk - 25

Car Ride - Claudia Leutsch - 26

Tin Fish - Sam Schmidt - 28

Untergetaucht - Tabitha Skvarla - 28

Reunion in Casket - Gemma Mear - 29

Vase Painting - Leila Sarajlija - 32

Bling - Sylwia Siebiesiuk - 33

Maeve’s Magazine - Suzanne Avakian - 34

Vacant Contrast - Amelia Mason - 37

Fire Alpaca - Katie Prosser - 38

1981 - Jay Jaffre - 38

Target II - Cora Maggin - 43

3D Art

Butterfly - Ella Cunningham - 8

Fallen - Jessica Rulich - 9

Faces Pot - Tavis Seger - 13

Closet - Cy O’Connell - 18

Garden Path - Gabriella Awad - 22

Insulin Flower - Sky Ownby - 27

Untergetaucht - Tabitha Skvarla - 28

Raccoon Box - Simona Skocic - 30

Mouse Trap - Jeremiah Buscemi - 38

Lilies - Lara Ersahin - 40

Bookmark - Violet Walter - 41

Face-Coded - Jomayla Secaida - 45

Family Farm - Olivia Lambert - 49

Notations of Time - Ethan Alberico - 49

The Board - Joey Catezone - 51

Found - Chloe Sidman - 53

Only at the Aquarium - Frankie Cooper - 54

Hidden - Chloe Sidman - 55

Grasp - Frankie Cooper - 56

Too Scared? - Cora Maggin - 57

Pufferfish - Cora Maggin - 59

Emergence - Chloe Sidman - 60

Restless - Jomayla Secaida - 63

Green With Envy - Max Baechle - 64

Nafplio Sunset - Milo Pawlowski - 65

Ready to Go - Olivia Burr-Reynaud - 67

Windows - Gemma Mear - 68

Fix You - Eddie Schulz - 68

My Favorite Famous Person - Gianna Flores - 70

Jump - Frankie Cooper - 71

Hayley’s Tumble - Clementine Vaselakos - 71

Carved In - Isabella Escarpita - 73

Memories of Yesterday’s Rubber SoulMaddy Justak - 75

Beach Day - Olivia Lambert - 78

Lia - Cy O’Connell - 79

Mantis Hair Pin - Ollie Davis - 46

Zombie - Cy O’Connell - 47

Written in Time - Gemma Mear - 48

Cut Paper - Madeline Dang - 51

Figure - Jessica Rulich - 60

Orca - Marko Dulyaba - 62

Koi Ying Yang - Max Martinez - 66

Butcher Block - Josette Garcia - 67

Me Cut Up - Lily Infusino - 77

Below the Blue - Grace Howard - 79

Lost in Space

Eva Barrette

The universe that glitters like warm gold

White dwarfs, darling remnants of once great fires

Stardust makes up us both, just as old

Shooting stars passing, singing like a choir

Our galaxy that we know and cherish

Swirls, spins like a celestial whirlpool

The twinkle of stars ward the nightmarish

Black holes conceal knowledge, the hidden jewel

Compared to them we are only minor

Footnotes in the library of Babel

A small mouse in a forest of wildfire

The endless cold immeasurable

The vaswtness and beauty is with no doubt why we feel ‘lone in space when we look out

The Weight of Wasted Potential

Jayden Sharma

What happened to you

You used to be motivated

What changed

We were all waiting

To see the things you would bring

And the places you would take us

Eventually the weight of wasted potential becomes crushing

Days spent lying in bed and doing nothing

Built up piles of trash

The whispers of used-to-be humming out of them

The screams coming out of the hem of the jeans

Left on the bed where you rot

Your room smells like you smoke pot

That distinct odor of unspent thought

Permeates the space and penetrates your face

Aging and changing it

There’s a familiar lack of expression on it

The comfortability in numbness

You’ve settled with being a dumbass

Your lack of ability becomes your greatest strength

When you’ve settled for comedic relief

Instead of ingenious belief

So what happened to me

Why am I unmotivated

I guess I’d rather be sedated

Then get out of bed and face it

Ella Cunningham Metalwork

How Not To Be A Robot

Joanna Barcelona

Your request drew the yes from my mouth before I knew what you were saying before I knew what I was saying. There are people who can’t help but say what they think and then there are people whose mechanical mouths go on autopilot and recite the script they think you want to hear. And I couldn’t take it back, couldn’t say “Wait, sorry, I needed that” (that’d be annoying) and so I just sat there stewing at your audacity in my head replaying this atrocity that you had done unto me but unwilling to stand up for me ‘Cause that goes against my programming. This hard metal face unable to emote the whirring of my brain that goes too slow, “It’s not my fault!” I cry, “I just wasn’t wired right.”

Our People Are Gone

Kiley McGuire

I’m standing here, always been a minority, a curiosity, something unique and odd.

People would tilt their heads turning around my image, burning question on the tips of their tongues.

What are you?

What am I?

What are you?

Tan skin hugs my body like a comforting blanket blaring neon shouting, announcing here’s someone that doesn’t belong.

For the longest time I lived in a Latino community, so similar to me and yet, and yet, they’re not me.

A subtle divide, a crack you couldn’t hide. A fundamental difference, something that always kept me just close enough to watch what I yearned for, what I burned for with exotic suns calling to me like a siren song.

Something deep in me clawing for release every time they spoke of family gatherings, family photos, family homes. I wanted to scream, beg, barter, do something to get what they had.

But there were none like me around. A single digit in a sea of hundreds.

I was a singular ant in someone else’s colony. We were so similar, but I didn’t belong to them. They didn’t belong to me.

What are you?

What am I?

What are you?

I’m Asian, and they tell me I look like

something I’m not. Something I wanted to be, something that would’ve made me feel seen.

You look Mexican. I almost want to let them believe I am. But I don’t. I tell them, the same explanation leading to the same damnation, contemplation for why I bother.

I’m Filipino.

I’m not the Asian people think of, not the Eastern beauty standard. There’s no cherry blossoms or sakura petals, no matcha or takoyaki balls. There’s palm trees and coconuts, ube cakes and mango rolls.

I remember begging, praying, gasping and wailing, tired of displaying myself as some weird foreign object with a deep question burning, where are my people, mom?

And my mom would give me that sad distant smile, saying what I already knew, the same sad melody playing into noon as she’d tell me they’re gone.

Where are my people, mom?

They aren’t here, so I’m asking you.

Begging you, pleading even.

Where are my people?

They’re over the ocean, across the world, opposite times. So far out of reach it was near impossible to even dream of seeing them. And then I grew, and desperation for contact turned to bitter realization and relief. There were people, people like me.

Out there, beyond the little bubble, tucked into tiny corners as if the world

was waiting to swallow them whole, its only goal to erase their very existence. But there they stood, waiting, praying, just the same as me, a face like mine, a life like me, tongue and voice the very same.

And then I learned there was a place filled with people like me, people I yearned for, people I burned for with every fiber of my being. Here, in the vast lands of the free.

Yet my mom didn’t want to go, didn’t want to roam amongst our people

despite them being right there. They spoke the language I begged to learn, the tongue I was denied in favor of sounding “American.” There it was, just out of my reach because they wouldn’t take me.

Where are my people?

They’re here, hidden and waiting to find each other.

Where are my people?

They’re here, I have to remind myself when the world feels isolating, they’re here.

Feathered Neighbors

Gardens

Katie Prosser

Time’s bell keeps ringing

Keeping me trapped in a cycle

One of yearning

As things change

Year by year I learn

I grow

Yet the garden I am and was in

Morphs too

With fertilizer and construction crews

The end and beginning is nigh

As time starts to run dry then wet again

Keep moving

Keep learning

Keep growing

Keep yearning

Clock keeps moving

Step by step

Year by year

We change we grow

Together in the gardens

We shall glow

Argos

Luciana Cooke

If you think I don’t care or think too hard about the spinning world around me, you’d see me as everyone else does. The carefully crafted shell I present to others. The one who walks a few steps ahead of friends in the hallways. But my ears remain sharp, listening for the small details they let slip and noticing the flickers in their gaze and their strained smiles despite my lack of confrontation and comforting abilities.

Blank stares and short replies, practiced responses and smiles that are a hollow representation of happiness, only meant to mask the pit of words and feelings that rage and build up in my chest. They clog up my throat and keep the things I want to barf up and watch spill out. A pit I carry, yet can’t claim as separate from myself. Because much like me, the pit fills up so close to the edge, yet it never lets itself pour over; teetering close to the brim.

Sharp retorts and snarky comments, sarcasm and arrogance, the confidence I fake for the audience. Dry responses I hear as a pathetic excuse for humor only after I say them out loud. The more they build up, the less people see the shy little girl who cried because she felt all too much at once. The one who still shrinks in her seat when things get too loud. The one with too many thoughts tugging at her, not knowing which to pick, so they crowd her head and fog her eyes.

You had the chance to ignore my words and see the swirling anxiety in my eyes as I avoided your gaze, the way my hands refused to stay by my sides, or how I shifted on my feet, stepping on my toes to keep myself in place.

Instead, I ran, convinced people would abandon me. I left before they could leave me. Hid myself behind poofy hair and baggy clothes, stayed quiet because the reprimanding words crawled inside my mind, picked at my brain so I would never forget how it felt to be de trop, superfluous, and out of place.

Too much but also not enough.

So now you’re stuck with me, a constant weight dragging on your heart that you pick up in the company of people, only for your arms to shake under the pressure.

The Land of Secrets

Payton Meller

The sky breathes in coal And exhales in darkness, In the absence of light.

Shadows creep around, Closing in the room And catching in my throat.

The house is silent, For none except me

Resist the pull of gravity on eyelids.

Thoughts tumble in circles And spill out of my hands, Into a book holding the land of secrets.

Cascading waterfalls of tears

And hills of truth hidden deep intertwine. These are the valleys of my mind.

The Light from My Window

Payton Meller

In the early stretches of morning

When the only sounds echo

The whirling of the wind

And the chirp of the crickets

And the sky more closely resembles

The ash of wood

Than the burning flame of fire

I slide open my window

And watch the balmy pale light

Drift onto my walls

And dance in the stillness

Once The Storm Passes

Ollie Davis

once the storm passes all that is abandoned the barren, cold, hard foundation there is no longer anything to keep you warm there is nothing to hide the ugly mess that made you eventually, new walls will be built that addictive warmth will hold you once more yet, your foundation will remain, no matter what the strongest–the ones the wind can not destroy, their foundation is embraced, they build around it, they do not waste their time trying to correct their foundation

First Snow

Elin Dorchinecz

It started out as rain. Nothing horribly unbearable. We leaders had been expecting it the days leading up to the fall Snowball weekend, so the dreary weather hadn’t come completely out of the blue. I fervently watched as the leaves received a fresh coat of dew and how the concrete glistened with any streak of sunlight the daunting clouds would allow. It felt almost consoling. The previous year, it too had rained. I found myself recalling the eagerness I possessed from the euphoria of attending Operation Snowball for the first time, especially after years of my older sister, who had formerly been a leader, nagging me to go. I couldn’t help feeling proud for growing to become so fond of it, so much so to become a leader myself. What a wonderful, rainy day.

But we all complained. Despite the fact that the weather hadn’t totally pestered our contented moods, it sure did complicate our plans. And even though one may think a slight drizzle isn’t something to complain about, this particular rainfall caused disturbances horrific enough to shake God’s bravest warrior.

The bonfire was cancelled. Anyone who goes on the fall weekend knows that the highlight of the entire threeday event is the bonfire beside the lake. No bonfire meant no campfire sing-a-longs, no listening to Christmas music that’s far too early to be played, but most importantly, it meant we were

stuck with a couple hundred antsy campers who had nothing to do to waste away a cold, bleak night.

After taking time to come up with an activity to match the high energy of the bonfire, the decision was made to hold a dance party in the main lodge, as anyone would naturally think. We hooked up our Spotify to the loud speakers, made a playlist we hoped would get people off their feet, and our big, dance extravaganza began.

I wouldn’t be lying if I said I had no hope in this dance going well. I wasn’t sure if people were “too cool” to dance, or there wouldn’t be any good songs, but as soon as the first note echoed across the lodge, I was proven to be very, very wrong.

Every person in sight was dancing. Dance circles started to form, songs

were being requested, and voices were getting more and more hoarse from singing along with the lyrics at the highest possible volume. Slowly the night turned from being filled with dread and resentment towards nature to becoming what felt like the wildest rager on the face of the earth.

Exhaustion had crept in faster than any of us expected, and before we knew it, our fun had to end and it was time to head back to our cabins to sleep away the long, eventful day. I dragged my legs, horribly sore from dancing the “Cotton Eye Joe,” to exit the lodge, when all of a sudden I was met face to face with millions of raindrops pounding the ground in front of me, harder than a drumline at a football game. No one had realized how much the rain picked up, and now we had to make a beeline to our cabins in hopes of remaining at least partially dry.

With failed attempts, I laid my soaking wet hair on the pillow in my bed and awaited rest to overcome me to take me to the new day, silently praying for a better weather forecast and a day filled with just as much fun as the first.

My alarm didn’t go off that morning. Well, it had. I was, however, too deep in sleep to hear it. Yet somehow, my bunkmate sleeping right beneath was awoken by my buzzing alarm and proceeded to go about her usual morning routine, not once thinking to wake me up, even though we only had thirty minutes to get to the main lodge for a group discussion among the leaders.

With only five minutes until the meeting, I was finally awoken by aggressive taps and a loud, rapid whisper, and as soon as I opened my

eyes, fresh from the deepest sleep of my life, I immediately felt the sense of urgency pulse through my veins. Being in such a fine time crunch, I left my hair tangled, my teeth only slightly brushed, and my bed unmade. My only choice was to sprint across the camp to get to the lodge on time.

But the minute I stepped out the door, I didn’t bolt. My legs remained grounded. It was my eyes that were racing all around. Displayed in front of me was the most beautiful blanket of snow I had ever witnessed. It was heavy enough to highlight the branches and tips of all the trees, but light enough to still see the vibrant colors on the newly fallen leaves. It was the perfect balance.

And somehow, in some way, of all of the places I’ve been, and of all the sights

I’ve seen, this simple, ordinary view was the grandest of them all. And it wasn’t because I hadn’t seen snow since January or because of how perfectly it coated the roofs of all the cabins, making them look like powdered brownies. No, this sensational feeling seized me because it stole away the worry. I was no longer stressed about running late to my meeting. I wasn’t scared of slipping on the slick ice. I wasn’t even nervous for my upcoming

chemistry test, which I had no time to study for. All I could feel was the thrill of the moment.

The terrorizing storm that swept us off our feet mere hours ago changed. Changed into something remarkable. With a new peace of mind, and an unforgettable picture in my memory, I started on my way. No rushing, no hurrying, just admiring the world around me.

Seizing the thrill of the moment.

To See Himself

Jackson Clark

He only wished to see

They told him at the top of the mountain that his wish could be

So he started the trek

He could see everything else but himself, which someone described as a wreck

The journey was hard and bleak

He lost blood, sweat, and tears, but his goal he must seek

He got to the top of the mountain

And he saw where he could see himself, inside a fountain

When he looked, he was not stuck on his face

He was appalled

He ripped his eyes out as he hated what he saw

Then he bled from his eyes to his mouth

He ripped out his tongue as he hated what he tasted

Then he screamed

He ripped off his ears as he hated what he heard

He bled till his last thought

And he hated the thought because

He thought

Don’t Blink

Luciana Cook

Stacks of papers lay spread out on a table. They all pointed at the same mystery: records and files going missing, erasing people like they never existed. Shuffled between all of them, one of the cases stood out. A person who had not been seen in over ten years was declared dead. And yet, calls were made almost every year reporting they’d seen a mysterious figure with the same build. Skinny in a sickly way, tall in a way you could only notice if you stood to compare heights, and fragile, thin hair that fell just below the shoulders. Always seen from a distance and always gone before anyone could prove anything.

Thomas Miller stood there silently in a dark gray fleece coat that brushed his knees, a winter hat that covered his ears and only let his dark eyebrows peek out slightly. His eyes raked over the documents that had gathered dust, imperceptible to those who walked by. The newly labeled investigator, Miller, was assigned to a cold case, which the department called an unsolved criminal investigation that remains pending until new evidence is discovered. One that had been described simply as a “dent” in the establishment. It was

too insignificant; nobody wanted to touch something that wouldn’t be remembered. They swept it under the carpet like little shards of glass. Obscured to the eye, but it still stung your foot the same way.

Tucked away in the corner of the room lay the rest of the evidence. A stack of recordings held together by a rubber band rested on an outdated, square TV. Miller gently removed the elastic and ran his fingers over the rough tape that labeled them. In black permanent marker, each was distinguished by the date and time it was taken. September 22, 2002. He concentrated on the label, trying to pull out the answers he needed. Much like the files and records, the buttons of the TV were coated in a thin layer of noticeable dust. As he pressed the power button, static filled the empty room. He slipped the recording into the machine, and the warped screen flickered to life, illuminating the darkness and painting the walls pale.

For a split second, before the static settled, Miller could have sworn he saw the flicker of a shadow, almost a figure. Before he could blink, it was gone. He narrowed his eyes at the screen,

trying to pick apart each pixel. But it remained the same, as if the television was just trying to remember how to breathe again. The static thinned out, immersing the room in a low hum as the outside world of New York City buzzed. Eventually, the sound of a low, gruff voice broke through, and the view of a dainty old lady flickered to life.

“Please state your name for the recording.”

A hesitant, trembling voice filled the room with a soft whisper, “Jane Darwell.”

She had short gray hair that poofed up from underneath her wool hat, as if trying to escape. Wrinkles traced and drooped down on her kind face. Her hands clutched at a striped blanket that cloaked her shoulder like armor.

“Are you familiar with Linn Fernsby?” asked the rough voice from off-screen.

Jane drew a short breath, rested her eyes, and nodded as she responded, “Yes, yes, I am familiar with Linn.”

“How?”

“She… she visited me. Just sometimes.”

“Were you two close?”

“No, merely acquaintances.” Her voice sounded hollow; it lacked the emotion and hesitance that was held before.

“What was she like?”

“She was tall for her age, lanky. Extremely thin in all ways. Thin, plain brown hair that you could pick out of her scalp one by one. Had these round, green glasses that covered her face rather than framing it. Li walked funny. Like one leg was shorter than the other, besides that, she was normal. Like every other person.”

“‘Li’?” the interviewer questioned.

“Hmm?” Jane tilted her head as a kind smile painted her face.

“Is that not what you called her?”

“I don’t quite understand, I’m sorry.” Remorse dripped from her words, “You must be confused.”

Miller leaned forward, closer to the screen. The busy voices and noises of cars and people crowded the streets, indifferent to the case unfolding in front of his eyes.

“Anything else unusual about her?” the interviewer refocused.

“No, nothing quite unusual. She was always just kind of… there. Like a presence you notice but don’t fully accept.”

“Hm. Thank you for your time, Miss Darwell.”

“Of course.” Jane gave one last warm smile that didn’t quite reach her eyes. The screen cut out, and static filled the room once again. Miller relaxed back away from the screen, bits and pieces of the interview swirled in his head. The clashing noises from outside felt harsher now. He let out a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding. The evidence left him with more questions than he started with; nothing clicked together. The way Jane’s voice had sounded empty in contrast to her warm smile and the in-depth details she provided about Linn contradicted one another. Miller squeezed his eyes shut as his fingers massaged his temples, digging at the back of his mind for something, anything. His arms dropped down to his sides as he sighed and opened his eyes again.

Somewhere between slipping the previous recording out and the next one in, his eyes caught something once again. This time, abundantly clearer, the sharp outline of a figure flashed on the screen for less than a second. It was gone, leaving the echo of the status and the unmistakable trace of something not quite fully there in its trail. The screen hissed to life again, and Miller froze in place. Not daring to blink this time. A new voice filled the room and drowned out the surrounding noises as the timestamp flickered. October 3, 2002. Broadcast on the screen was a teenage girl wearing a sunny tank top.

The interviewer's voice from before crackled through, “Please state your name for the recording.”

“Madison Sutton.” Her voice was sharp and confident, a stereotypical teenager fed up with anything and everything around them.

“Are you familiar with Linn Fernsby?”

“Yeah, I guess,” Madison responded as she picked at her nails.

“And by that you mean?”

“Well, we went to the same school. Even had a few classes together. Maybe. I’m not quite sure, actually.”

“What was she like in school?” the interviewer pressed.

“Quiet and lonely,” Madison said, flicking her hair over her shoulder, “She was always drawing in class, like little weird doodles or something. Once, when

I was walking past her desk, I saw her paper, and it was filled with just people. But they looked kinda weird…”

“Weird? In what way?”

“Creepy? They all looked kind of… off. Like something was wrong, but you didn’t know what it actually was.” She answered uncertainly, “I don’t know, I never thought twice about it, assumed it was some weird art thing.”

“Anything else?”

Madison paused for a few seconds, then began speaking again, “Yeah, when I would hang out with my friends, and we were walking around the city, I’d always see her slip into the weirdest places.”

“Like where?”

“There’s this one abandoned building.

No one knows what it was; it's filled with big metal containers and wooden boxes. It’s on 47th avenue; the city never did anything to it.”

She shifted in her seat uncomfortably,

“I think she looked back at me once. I’m not sure, though. She looked around a lot, almost like she was scanning for something.”

“Did you ever talk with her?”

Madison sucked in a sharp breath as her eyes fell to her lap. She hesitated before answering, with her eyes darting around the room. “Once, she said–”

Her voice cut out as static filled the room, and the screen went black.

For a while, Miller just sat there staring at his reflection through the blank screen. He waited for something more, for the recording to cut back in, or for the television to light back up. Neither of which happened. His eyes landed on the last recording. October 25, 2002, read the label. As he ejected the previous recording, the silence that filled the room was deafening. A faint shiver ran up his spine. Miller slid the final recording into the TV, pressed play, and leaned back. He slowly let himself fall back into the trance of the voices exchanging with one another.

The screen flickered back to life, illuminating a man, roughly in his late fifties with a hard, stern face and silver hair that shone.

“Please state your name for the recording.”

“Wyatt Axton,” the man replied, he had a low, raspy voice that had a hint of bitterness.

“Are you familiar with Linn Fernsby?”

“Yes,” Wyatt grunted as he rearranged

the gold watch on his left wrist.

“How do you know her?”

“She lived in my apartment complex. Room 320 with her parents, who never paid rent on time.” He spat out in spite.

“What was she like?”

“She was just always there,” He said, irritation prominent in his voice. “Walking around the building with her head down like a creep. And that was the thing, she would drive people away. The second residents saw her, they would turn and walk away, do absolutely everything to pretend she didn’t exist. I would have too, but I couldn’t; they were a problem family, so I had to keep an extra eye on them.”

“Problem family?”

“They never were able to pay their rent on time, and you could hear the yelling through the walls. Arguing about money and even her sometimes.” Wyatt bit out “her” like it was a curse to say her name. “They kept their room dark and covered the windows. People whispered rumors about what happened inside.”

“Did you ever enter the apartment?”

“Once,” His face went stiff as his eyes darkened slightly, “They were late on rent for the eighth time in a row. I used the spare key to enter when they didn’t answer after I knocked. The room was dark, as I expected, but it was oddly clean. I looked around for them, checking the rooms, and when I pushed open what I had to assume was her room… it was empty. Not a single piece of furniture, not a bed, not even a mattress. The worst part was the walls. They were covered in permanent marker, drawings of weird-looking

people, and this one place down the street was drawn right in the center of the wall, right as you walked in. There were also these paragraphs of sentences. And when I turned around to leave, she was standing there, clutching a black marker with dark eye bags that sagged. The last thing I remember was seeing how disheveled she looked. Nothing but skin and bones and barely strands of hair that covered her head fell in front of her face.”

“Hmm, thank you, Mr. Axton, for your time. I don’t have any more questions.”

The last scene showed Wyatt nodding before the screen cut out, and the room filled with static once again.

Miller stood in place, thoughts racing through his head. The pieces slowly fell in place until he saw it all in front of him. His legs moved faster than his brain could work. The sound of the door slamming behind him echoed throughout the hallway. When he stepped outside, cold air surrounded him, sending goosebumps up his arms. Miller took a deep breath and scanned the busy city. Cars honked as people talked, and lights flashed. The world moved around him as he stood in his place, losing the balance in his feet and the sight in his eyes.

He squeezed his eyes shut, concentrating on bits and pieces of evidence swirling around his head. The drawings on the walls, Mr. Axton described, and the abandoned building Linn would slip into, as Madison had described.

47th Avenue.

His feet hit the floor in hard, fast

steps as he pushed by people, the busy city forgotten as people paid little attention to him. Miller’s eyes landed on the green sign above him, connected to a metal pole. 47th Avenue, it read. His heart pounded in his chest as he frantically looked around for a trace of a building that looked even the least bit abandoned. Across the street, he saw it, a dark building that hid in the shadows of the glaring lights of shop signs.

A shadow in the window of the building caught his eye, thin and lanky with straws of hair. Miller looked around, searching people’s faces for any hint of anyone seeing what he saw. When his eyes traveled back to the window, it was gone. Without further thought, he sprinted across the street, ignoring the cars that came to a screeching stop and honked at him. His hand landed on the cool handle of the building, and he yanked it open harshly and scrambled inside.

The crime scene was now set in front of him. Large metal containers and cardboard boxes filled the poorly illuminated room. He took a few steps forward towards the containers. Miller studied his surroundings before one specific container caught his attention.

Papers on top of papers lie on each other. He took a step closer to examine the thousands of papers. Job reports and files, stories of people in the news. His eyes scanned the scene as he crouched

down. Black marker streaked each paper. People's faces were blacked out, leaving no recognition. Dark, empty boxes marked out what seemed to be names in a meticulous way. They were woven together precisely, pulled under one paper, and then on top to support another. His hand reached out absentmindedly, fingertips hovered over the documents, just barely brushing them. He pulled his hand back and then, in one swift motion, swept the papers away to reveal the inside of the container.

Miller’s breath caught in his throat as he looked inside.

Lifeless bodies. All of which were missing faces. No eyes, no nose, no mouth, skin covered all the features they were supposed to have. All the features necessary to distinguish one another. He slowly backed up, covering his mouth with his shaky hand, before hitting the wall and watching the world go black as a shadow flickered in his vision. The sharp outline of a sickly skinny girl with short, frail hair. The shadow twitched, a low tilt of a head. The static returned, slowly getting louder and louder. Then silence.

In the center of the room, a single paper drifted onto the floor, resting face up against the tiles.

Miller’s Photograph.

The face was blacked out in thick black permanent marker.

When Eyes Fall Open

Payton Meller

Resplendent shapes form into splashes of joy, Building a story out of a ploy. Far enough from the truth to raise a doubt, The outlines of faces blur inwards and out.

Bronzed black tumbles in endless spirals of space, Swimming in the current of a warm embrace. The sketches of dreams scatter the floor, Haphazardly tossed as they’re needed no more.

Scerenity floats, hung still in the air, Suspended for a moment that’s simply rare. The pitter of raindrops fills the drums of sound. A body stirs as consciousness is found.

Eyelashes flutter their wings against the skin. As the butterflies wake, light filters in.

The Song Of Wood

Abbie Scouffas

A violin is a tree reborn

The secrets held in the trunk that’s worn

Age held deep in the hollowed wood

A tune of silence grasps childhood

Roots down deep, from the moment of birth

Carved with knives, blanketed in muddy earth

One string, a stem, a growing hope

The start of a new chapter now awoke.

A child, small but full of light

Grips the neck, climbs the trunk

The bow a branch beneath the fingers

Not yet steady, the wind still quivers

A stick of joy and pain and sorrow

Starts as nothing but a scratch against wire

Then flourish as a seedling should

From notes and buds and leaflings green

To symphonies sewn with fruits of labor

Formed from time and seamless habit.

As clocks turn and shadows thicken

The leaves turn brown the music quickens

Dancing rapid across the strings

The branches swing to the sound of the winds

From fast to slow, the snowfall greatens

A brewing storm, its power strengthens

Covers the ground in a sheet of white

The tempo drags a lack of light.

The instrument sits in the dreary cold

The branches hang, the tree looks old.

Then the sun returns once more

Trees waltz again, twas waited for

Birds nest within the wooden hands

The pegs are turned, melody still stands

Against the sky a shade of blue

A map of Spring, the key a clue

The child grows, a beacon of time

Passes through the forest, no hand will climb

The violin still played the notes ring louder

A sound of improvement, growth never cowered

Older they grow through trail and trial

The music soars up above the tree, higher.

Then age snatches the child from breath

Fingers lie still, no music is played

The violin case sits awaiting its player

The tree groans and croaks, tis nothing but shadow

Music built temples cathedrals, and castles

Upon the wings of bridge and its strings

The tree builds the schools, the homes, the paper

Torn from its home, no fruits for its labor

Both give us joy and love, in their time in our presence

Both make us smile through their beautiful essence

Both hold the past, wrapped in the hold of a mother

We cut one one down, and dwindle the other

Blind to the beauty each hold in their wood

A sacred symbol of the land where they stood

The violin built from the body of the tree

A hopeful wish to set notes free

Against the sway of the branches‘ ethereal mime

Their wood is shared, interchanged in time

They both can be burned

Therefore saved from the ashes

A White Person’s Name

Kiley McGuire

I cling to my name like a lifeline I know my mother does the same I know my father does the same only my sibling enjoys the freedom a name can bring but for us, we hold onto it as a last ditch effort because we know what it sounds like we know they never think of someone like me not with a name like mine they envision someone blonde with blue eyes pretty manicures and a god on the tennis court perfect white skin but that is not me

I have thick brown hair and brown eyes fingers full of scabs and ripped cuticles tanned skin, something foreign

but because they do not see me first because they only see the name on the list I am given chances my people normally would not

When I do arrive, they look at me with questions they’re too afraid to ask, judgemental and ignorant what are you, the unspoken phrase

I greet their stares with a smile their eyes grow heavier seeing my family curiosity gives way to annoyance and confusion

Is she using him? Did he scoop her up? it’s always the same but we stay, grabbing all the little opportunities our names can get us

hoping and praying that if they do see my face and read who I am they’ll at least take me in under the guise of diversity points

I See Happy

Oscar Katz

My eyes hardly open past the strong weight of sleep whilst I grip the bed for leverage as I sit up. Back hunched I rub my eyes and comb my fingers through my hair before looking up at my surroundings. The atmosphere of my room appears like a photo in negative. It lasting seconds before color bled in, though it hardly changes the room at all. My wife isn’t in bed again. She hasn’t been for weeks now and the window is still cracked. Finally standing up I feel each strand of muscle beg to sit back down. I slip on my slacks and hardly fit my old shirt over my grotesque excuse for a body. I trudge over to my bathroom mirror and peer upon my worn baggy bruised eyes and my long spiderweb wrinkles. I blame myself for not getting Botox but then again I have to blame my job again for making me just poor enough to not afford it, and of course being the cause of my stressed face. I run my hands from my forehead to my chin and finish buttoning my shirt. Sliding on my shoes and quickly stepping downstairs I stop halfway and stare at a vicious predator: more bills laid out across the table. Sighing in further melancholy I continue walking down the stairs already knowing most of those bills are from the nut house overcharging me for locking my mom in a room. Pacing towards the papers I stare at them, blinking then seeing them in bright primary colors, which greatly contrast with the monochromatic greyish brown of the table. I don’t shy away from this sight but smirk in slight

joy as these kind colors bring their own light to black and white paper, in a black and white room, in a black and white house, with the only strong color being the deep bloodlike red on each bill and tax to scare prey like me. But this does not last long, it is gone like it was never there and the room is as dark as it always is. Automatically in what can only be explained as muscle memory my body moves without any thought, drives me to work, parks, and even walks me inside. My brain only awakens by the loud and stressful bustling cubicles of the office, still filled with people in black and white suits, white prison walls dividing each desk, and large men sitting in glass rooms with blood dripping from their mouths as they feast on this machine they call a firm. But before I get to my desk I see something out of place, a small thing, but a thing nonetheless, a small baby fawn is walking past each cubicle without taking notice from anyone around it. Its kind brown fur entranced me, its normally dull colors having a somewhat brighter saturation than it should, but it looks unreal, in fact this might be the first time I’ve seen a baby deer. But even though it didn’t look right it peels back my lips and made them curl into a smile, I love this creature, probably more than anyone I know. As it get closer I reach out to touch it before it just simply stops being there, or anywhere. Looking at me bent forward with my arm extending to pet this imaginary animal of course my colleagues give me weird looks even

though they ignore me most of the time. I tuck myself awkwardly back into my chair, pretending that the deer was never there. As I finally settle into my cubicle I see a long diagonal crack along my computer. I’m unsure how it got there but I should probably get the screen fixed, with money that I don’t have. I bridge my hand over my eyes again in frustration only to look up and see that the crack spread like a spiderweb, like a spider’s web, like the bright yellow spider that crawls across my computer screen and disappears before I can get a

closer look. The crack on my computer is far larger than the one on my window. A bellowing wave of disappointment washes over me after the colorful creature left. Its absence leads me to just stare at it for a while, maybe ten minutes, or more, or an hour, however long it would be until I can feel the unusual joyful high that the yellow spider gave me, I needed to see it again. My keen attention is subverted by the glass door of the executive office opening and having a beckoning voice speak to me and invite me to the lion’s den. Only now

noticing the tears rolling down my face I wipe them off and get up; disappointed that I had to remove my sight from the computer, I get up and speed walk into the room so I could get this over with fast. I walk in across from the executives and see blood leak from their mouths again the moment my butt makes contact with the seat. But when they start talking I couldn’t hear them right, their mouths are open and moving but I can only hear them gargle on the blood, its dark red ick now leaking onto the table, creeping towards me. But then I hear a small but large couple of words that made me shiver and shrink, “You’re fired.” The blood touches me. I sit there frozen in shock, my attention once again being taken as a cardinal flew in and sits on my hand, almost like it was holding it, I smile, then it goes away, like everything. I need to see it, so I turn right out of my chair and stood looking at the clean,

perfect window overlooking the city,… cardinals are red right? I punch through the beautiful but fragile window and watch the bright red trickle down my arm, almost like that of the cardinals, the window is broken now,- shattered, like everything. Of course I hear screams, and yells from who knows who, but I didn’t remember anything after I saw the bright beautiful red, I was happy, I saw happy. I forget what happened after all that but I wake up in a padded bright white room, with no color, and a jacket hugging me tight. But even though this bleak empty void of a room carries no color, I still am visited by my kind friends, they remind me of the nature outside, the color that would have faded in my mind, and how to smile. Of course I may be in a white room, in a white hall, in a white institution but I still saw color, I saw happy.

The Daisy You Drove by on State St.

Isabella Longoria

On the side of the road, I sit

Calmly gazing at the never-ending flow of moving life

Cars driving circles around each other, People sprinting across when the coast is clear enough, And pigeons risking their lives for a few stray crumbs

Occasionally someone pulls over to water me, Or I befriend a ladybug passing through

And this, with occasional rainfall is enough.

Family Farm

Notations of Time

Teachings with Underlying Preachings

Jomayla Secaida

I learned  hard work from my parents

Mi Beauty

It’s okay my mother would whisper

In the nights my father goes to school to learn in the classrooms

My mom  would talk to  old office phones

Read out their  wishes Type

Fingers dance with keys in her cramped cubicle

When she said “Yo trabajo para darle comida”

She’d grin

With my parents I learned Culture

To recognize spices, adobo  in Puerto Rican dishes

My dad wore tattered polos on his chest

Flavorful heat

Kidney beans

Sweet corn

In her eyes I saw family in her aching hands

I’d touch them at her fingerprints

Pink

One day I knew: they stepped away

It’s your turn now Their teachings were with me whispering in my ear

“Mi beauty.”

Quiet Witness

Elise Novey

She hums the song the room once knew, soft hands tracing memories through. Her breath is slow, a fading thread; the pillow cradles her weighted head.

I linger close, though she does not fear; each heart she touched, silent but near. I reach for her soul, so weary and thin, but feel all the years carried within.

She brought me back to a simpler time; I saw her covered in dirt and grime, laughter echoing in empty streets, joy revealed in barefoot shrieks.

Innocence slips as the years move in, and I watch her lose her radiant grin. She sits at a desk, with her head in her hand, as her worries pile like grains of sand.

Time carries from desks and dreams to a moment where love first touched her seams. He charms her with a smile so true, that all her worries fade from view.

Their marriage carries the promise of life; so a family is born, free from strife. She traces the curve of his gentle hand, as time slips forward, just as planned.

Wrinkles brush her tender skin, as life reveals its twisted grin. She outlives friends and next-of-kin, but buries emotion deep within.

The next few years are full of pain, but her love of music keeps her sane. And as her time nears the end, her heart slowly begins to mend.

A gasping breath brings me back; it’s not compassion that I lack. My presence waits, patient as stone, to carry her where she is no longer alone.

I clasp her hand, and hold it tight, for now I know the time is right. She draws one final fragile breath, and embraces me, an inevitable death.

breakthrough, ignite

Ollie Davis

the seas, the stars the breeze grazing my face, exploring, sifting through my hair caressing my skin, gently as if each layer of skin is of fine china

the warmth of your touch spreading through my body slowly heating my soul, until it’s boiling and its contents are spilling out of my eyes my mouth then you take my hand and guide me through the night you spark, flicker, ignite

i want to feel, to memorize every curve and dip of your smile, the look in your eyes maybe then i’ll be alright when i can shut my eyes and all i see is you.

so, let me, inject you into my veins until the only thing my heart pumps is your name

let me write sappy, stupid love poems about you until my pen, too recalls your warmth.

Too Scared? Cora Maggin Procreate

Lives I’ve Lived While You

Weren’t Looking

Vivi Vu

In your absence, I have lived threehundred-and-one lives, and I’m sorry I didn’t tell you. I had been right beside you, staring at the planes of your back in a bed too hot and a body too small. When you were distracted, my limbs had begun to stretch towards the ceiling, and when your eyes were shut, my nerves started to jitter and shake in a sprawling, red-violet rhythm beneath my skin.

In my first life without you, I am sitting in a diner. It’s just me, the waitress, and the chef. The red leather vinyl has an uncomfortable bounce. I pick at my fingers, hours raw and blushing from where I had ripped myself from your arm. Before the cushions threaten to swallow me whole, the waitress will pass by the table and her eyes will lose the inevitable fight with her mind. Her gaze will slide towards the seat across from mine, confused by the empty booth. She will talk for the rest of this life, recounting tales of grocery store deals and the rat trap in the freezer, and I will listen. By the end of my first life without you, the open sign will have already begun to flicker, and we might be the only people for miles.

In my eighteenth life without you, I am a bitter old man. I will glare over the cracked ceramic of lemon tea and twist my head at dogs who look like their owners on the street corner. My hands will shake around the cup, fingertips wrinkled with contempt, tapping against porcelain like a pulse.

In my seventy-fifth life without you, I am a glass blower, sculpting molten light. Smoothing over lush valleys into hard, solid panes, there is a blasphemous burning in the sand of my hands, as blinding as it is wicked. The refracted mirage of my face stares back at me in the glass. Every multi-colored puff of air is prayer.

In my two-hundred-and-thirty-fourth life without you, I will need you as I did in sixteenth. My arms will have grown lighter. Silk will occupy the space where I traded my arms for wings and my hands for talons, shedding flesh in sinuous ribbons. Eventually, I will stand before you, still on these too wobbly legs wet with viscera.

In my three-hundred-and-first life without you, I am staring at your back

again. Your eyes are squeezed tight and your palms are clenched. I doubt I will ever introduce you to every lifetime I’ve lived while you weren’t looking. Instead, I will spin tales of grocery store deals and dogs who look like their owners, because to have

known someone so completely is to know where our hair ends, and fur, and scale, and feather begins.

On the rare, off-chance we might meet in my three-hundred-and-second life, you will notice I have begun to glow beneath my skin.

Grief

Deena Jalilian

oh grief, you are five feelings too hard to bear alone. so we’ve fused them all and your name is how they’re best known. to children, you are nothing more than the tears they let loose when they lose a favorite toy. but when i look you in the eye all i see is love in pursuit.

love surprises us, it fetters away. grief surprises us, it ventures to stay.

grief is a receipt. it’s proof you got to love something real. grief is not proof that you lost. it’s proof that you loved. that you are still loving. and how lucky you are to have had something worth grieving.

loving someone is never a waste. the ache you feel when it’s time to give it back is proof that it was worth borrowing at all. your heart is simply doing what hearts do when something matters.

do not fear these woes, for when you choose to love someone, you are booking grief.

some memories never leave your bones. like salt in the sea, they become part of you. these, are grief.

your life is not made out of losing people. it’s made out of carrying them with you. you don’t leave behind the people and places that shaped you. you build on them. you become a home where all the people who loved you, even a little bit, still live.

you are a mosaic of everyone you’ve ever loved, everyone who’s ever loved you, and all those in between.

i still carry the pieces of those i’ve loved, even if they themselves have long departed. that’s the strange grace of contradiction grief isn’t the absence of love; it’s love with nowhere to go.

to be human is to live inside opposites, to mourn and to move forward, to ache and to hope, to stay still while continuing still.

grief only exists where love did first. someday, you’d better tell me, grief, what are you, if not love persevering?

Wishes In The Wind

Deena Jalilian

i am but a dandelion in the wind getting scattered and forlorn, losing every beautiful part of myself, stripping to be nothing more than a stem.

they said dandelions are for wishing, so i blew myself away, spending all my wishes on the need to be erased.

their so-called beauty leaves room for nothing but a stem. nothing tastes as good as skinny feels so i’ll settle for the smell.

The Floating Island

Oscar Katz

(This is not a new idea or finding only an interpretation of a previously known fact)

It is to an understanding that no such thing as a floating island exists, in fact if it did many would be held to extreme confusion and maybe even fear. So if anyone were to go to sleep tonight and wake up on a floating island it would be common for that person to feel a high degree of confusion and fear. For there is no evidence that the person is safe, no evidence of where they are, or if anything they’ve known or will know is real which they will soon get closer to believing is fact. So say they could live fully healthy on this island for however long they want. Let the human brain fester in true isolated boredom as there

is no need for finding sustenance, no grass, the sky is monocolored grey, and no sort of object to entertain in any way. Some enlightened few will find this paradise but naturally this can never be so. Sooner than you think the person will get closer and closer to the edge of the island to feel even the slightest emotion other than that of boredom. And then the person will jump, not out of believing that they could be saved but because they cannot suffer the same boredom. This submission to natural yearning being how anyone can get out of the trap of the island, it’s how people can get out of a lot of things justified or not.

Koi Ying Yang

Max Martinez Metalworks

the shadows of forest trees

Deena Jalilian

i dance but so do the shadows of forest trees i tell stories when i cannot fabricate them in my own destiny the shadows of trees are all that they cannot move themselves my dances are all that i cannot forge in life itself

i dance but so do the shadows of forest trees i crinkle but so do the autumn leaves i burn out but so do the stars i fall off the edge but so do the waterfalls i cry but so do the clouds on heavy days i fall but so do the snowflakes i disappear but so do the rainbows i scream but so do the thunderbolts i fade into oblivion and so do shadows without someone else’s light our existence doesn’t show

i dance, but if no one sees do the shadows still sway beneath me? i dance, but if no eyes catch me am i still there to be seen?

i’ll sing until my song gives out till there are no trees left to hear it

i’ll sing until time puts an end to sound till we make music to decorate it

Nail Polish

Joanna Barcelona

She’s not a biter, but a bender

Can’t stand to have her hands be idle

Too-long nails will be pressed down, crushed, cracked like stiff joints, then torn off in odd scraps

Once they can’t hang on any longer.

To conceal them, she calls last minute

Lets her hands go limp in a stranger’s practiced fingers, oddly intimate

I’m merely a mask, just the hard shell

To remind her not to play too hard.

“No-chip” has an expiration date

She’s careful, stills her hands to guard me

Nine days in, my first blemish appears

She trusts I’ll hold out a bit longer

Until I become too patchy, and I only make her unkempt again.

But my second chip comes the same day

Her fingers twitch. I’m not good enough. Restless, she claws under my layers

Piece after piece, she euthanizes me

My last revenge: the nails I disguised Are left scratched and starchy underneath.

Circadian

Lily Flynn

The song starts suddenly, with a rift in the air, with a spark to the heart, as each gleaming chord breaks a crack in the dark— Shadows recoil.

Notes spill out, spreading glittering rays of rose-gold from soul to soul; radiance crescendos toward a triumphant dawn. Sound constructs song as music constructs daylight. We lift ourselves toward both, and, enraptured, we listen.

The song fizzles slowly, with a silence so still it numbs the air, keeps the breath in our lungs, makes our hearts skip a beat as the final harmonies bow like the blue hour and melodies fade into deep, navy night. The brightness passes, yet it gives way to stars— such like the last, fleeting notes spin themselves out from brilliant yellows to rusty reds to darkness again, and still, they echo… and still, we listen.

The Little Music Box on the Thrift Store Shelf

Kiley

McGuire

I would serenade you to sleep, a soft lullaby as I danced A private performance just for me, just for you, My little dancer spinning for us both, frozen in place as she prayed.

And then I saw you grow, bigger and bigger. You didn’t need me to sing you songs anymore, didn’t need my metallic notes. You were growing, growing, growing, and now you’re gone.

The water surrounding my little dancer had grown murky from age, The glitter floating around her shriveled up and dull. My pedestal lost its shimmer, darkness creeping around us as the world shrunk into two walls

From the dark, gathering dust, I was brought into light. Gone were the wooden corners with cobwebs, Replaced by metal shelves with fluorescent colors above me.

The lights flickered, a low humming in the background The dust settled gently over us like a blanket One crafted by wayward souls cast aside like me

It was there, out in the open, when I had been rediscovered, Surrounded by forgotten things just like us, still loved, still cared for, Not by our original caretakers, but by someone new.

Warm flesh meeting cold metal, she held me gently. Wound me up, let me sing for her.

Music came out slow, unsure at first, rusty from disuse. Yet she didn’t put me down, she wound me up. Again and again and again she let me sing her songs meant for you.

And as I sang for her, I learned she, too, had a little singer of her own, Waiting for her, patiently sitting on her shelf.

Despite me belonging to someone else, someone far away now, She still looked at me with love.

And so, with great care, she took me home, A new home, one where I wouldn’t be forgotten.

One where I could sing her songs for days on end, One where I was joined by those who loved and found love again just the same, One where I wasn’t pushed out of sight, but instead, front and center,

One where somehow, above all the odds and belonging to you, I could sing again.

A Story

Ma’Liya Raymond

I am a book slowly being written, the author weighing me down with grief, regrets and pain pausing on every aching scar, tracing the edges of my past with a trembling pen.

I carry medals of broken promises, shards of laughter and tears, etched into the spine of my sixteen years. The voice in my head whispers, “Be Cautious. Judge. Repeat.”

Sometimes I falter, fearing the chapters yet unwritten, the shadows that lurk behind the next page.

But still, I press on— because I am scribbling a story that refuses to be borrowed, stolen, or pitied.

I want someone to read me with awe, not pity.

I want my life to ripple beyond the margins, to ink itself into meaning.

The world sees a girl bruised and bent, but I see a woman wielding resilience like a pen.

I am becoming the author of my own plot: Not letting someone else write my narrative who laughs with friends in sunlit hallways, who lifts her voice when it wants to hide, who tears out the pages she refuses to live, and writes new ones—bold, bright, unbroken.

This is my portrait: a book with bent pages, edges worn, but still being read, still being written, still taking off.

The Glorious Future

Eddie Schulz

Alarm clock at 6:15, school bell’s at 3:05

Sirens screaming past but they’re too late

Fire’s falling from the sky instead of rain

The golden fields of freedom burn with the screams of the damned

There’s no more hope, there’s no more love.

Take a breath.

Sine, cos, tan, the limit as x approaches y is f of x BANG. BANG. BANG. That’s three more. There’s bodies in the streets. There’s blood under her nails.

His child is crying and he can’t move.

The anatomical term for forearm is antebrachial.

Six hundred thousand likes on a dead girl’s last post.

“Good riddance,”

Alcatraz closed in 1963

World War II ended in 1945

Women could vote in 1920

BANG, another shot, another life, another family torn apart.

“I don’t believe in empathy.”

“Have you no empathy?!”

Plastic chairs and point blank rubber bullets

Gym shorts and pencils and the tick tick tick

The temperatures are rising

The death tolls are rising

The rich get richer and the common tear each other apart. I sit in a classroom and I watch the world fall apart and I am Useless.

Special Thanks

The Administration, and the Board of Education for their continuous support of our endevors.

Mrs. Rohlicek, for supporting us endlesslessly and growing involvement in and love of art during her time at LT. Even though she is technically a second semester senior, her energy and dedication to every staffer never wavered.

Mrs. Kulat, for the supply of chips that kept us going and on track, her poetic knowlege, and her constant encouragement to “zhuzh it up.”

Mr. Maffey, for the Oreo sponsorship and always debating the literal meanings of lit pieces to keep us grounded, with our souls and spirits safe and sound in our bodies.

Maeve Charlton, for being the most organized editor ever, we would’ve gotten nothing done without her impressive dedication and passion.

Lara Ersahin, for her unwaivering kindness and belief in everyone’s ideas, her commitment goes unmatched but very noticed.

Andrew Shepard, for supporting even the nichest of poems, his help is so appreciated and your opinions keep the magazine fresh and moving forward.

Max Colomb, for defending the beautiful and keeping the vibes high and welcoming at lit staff and always putting in the work to make quality spreads, when in attendance.

Arete Lindo, for bringing the most excitement and passion for all of her many great ideas, and for designing our awesome shirt with Lara.

Daniela Tarbajovsky, for executing themes and ideas seemlessly, and bringing her amazing artistry to the magazine every day.

Suzy Avakian, for being an excellent contributor, lighting up the days of people she’s working with, and being the greatest editior-in-chief that we could ask for.

Art Staff, for your dedication to producing the best magazine possible to showcase the talented work of your peers, putting in the time to make something amazing.

Lit Staff, for analyzing and discussing every stanza, line, and word to the max to understand and appreciate every author for their full worth.

Creation Process

Menagerie is the annual student-run literary and art magazine of Lyons Township High School, which is home to appoximately 3,700 students and 500 faculty and staff. It is a juried magazine whose participants create pages after school hours.

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

In the following months, the art staff meets several days per week to integrate exceptional art pieces that are selected based on merit and quality. The pieces are then arranged on spreads to strengthen the thematic quality and connection to the literature.

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. Magazines are printed and distributed to every student in mid-May.

2026 Literary Staff:

Lola Babinski

William Bridges

Truc Thanh Bui

Amelia Challacombe

Ollie Davis

Natalia Gramatikova

Barcelona Lewis-Skura

Marie Morrissey

Abbie Scouffas

Simona Skocic

2026 Art Staff:

Lola Babinski

Max Baechle

Lucy Bobzin

Will Bridges

Truc Thanh Bui

Amelia Challacombe

Ollie Davis

Luca Depa

Karina Delgado

Natalia Gramatikova

Caroline Hallett

Claudia Leutsch

Barcelona Lewis-Skura

Isabelle Longoria

Leila Sarajlija

Cole Teague

Helena Vadbunker

Rosie Zimmer

Left to Right: Mrs. Rohlicek Art Adviser

Mrs. Kulat Poetry Adviser Mr. Maffey Prose Adviser

Lara Ersahin Poetry Editor

Andrew Shepard Prose Editor

Max Colomb Prose Editor

Arete Lindo Art Editor

Daniela Tarbajovsky Art Editor

Maeve Charlton Managing Editor

Suzanne Avakian Editor-in-Chief