Artifice Magazine (2025)

Artifice Artifice

EDITORS-IN-CHIEF

ZARA ALLEN '25

SAMMY RANDELL '25

ASSISTANT EDITOR

SOPHIE WINTER '26

EDITORIAL STAFF

HANNAH BERKOWITZ '26

ALLISON KELLY '25

ANNA LIVERMORE '25

BRIANNA MENTZER '26

GRACE MILLER '25

ELIANNA VANDERMEER '27

CATHERINE ZANTI '26

COVER ART BY ALLISON KELLY '25 INSPIRED BY GRAHAM CROOKS '25 (ORIGINAL FOUND ON PAGE 8)

FACULTY ADVISOR

MRS. WHITNEY SCHULTZ

INTERESTED IN JOINING OUR TEAM OR SHARING YOUR WORK WITH US?

PLEASE CONTACT US-ARTIFICE@MCDONOGH.ORG

SUBMISSIONS ARE REVIEWED ANONYMOUSLY. ARTIFICE PUBLISHES POETRY, PROSE, AND A VARIETY OF VISUAL ART.

FROM THE EDITORS

Dear Readers,

As we approach the final stretch of the 2024-2025 school year, and the end of our high school career, we are both excited and a little nostalgic to present our latest issue of Artifice. We hope for this magazine to be a canvas for the creative voices of our peers So, as we wrap up our senior year, we can’t help but feel proud of everything Artifice has become.

This issue is a celebration of all the creativity we’ve seen throughout the year The pieces inside showcase a wide range of styles and ideas everything from poems that reflect on personal experiences to artwork that explores beauty in the world around us. It’s a collection that shows the unique perspectives of our classmates, and we hope it sparks something in you, too.

We are grateful for every writer, artist, and contributor who has shared their work with us. We hope these pieces resonate with you as much as they have with us, and that you enjoy this issue as much as we’ve enjoyed curating it!

Furthermore, we're so excited to hand this over to Sophie next year and can't wait to see what is in store for the future of our magazine!

Sincerely,

Zara Allen '25 & Sammy Randell '25 Senior Editors, Artifice

Abstract"江雪"

Winner of the Winter “Artifrost” Contest

Shiver River

An interpretation of the Chinese poem "Snowy River" by Liu Zongyuan

POEM BY HARRIS GORDON '26

The snowy mountains are quite desolate, No birds except one that is desperate

To find any traces of his old flock

That abandoned him and left him in shock.

No signs of steps on the trails on the ground, The blizzard’s strong breeze is the only sound, There is a rare sign of life in the range,

A boat with a path that will never change.

The boat has a man with a hat and coat

Who often struggles to remain afloat,

The lone soul casts his rod but does not know

There are no fish in a river of snow

The man reflects on this path he’s chosen, He tries to cry but his tears are frozen.

POEM BY ROD SWAYNE '25

Winner of the Winter “Artifrost” Contest

When I was twelve my mother told me, “You got ink in your veins boy”

I guess cuz I never knew my blood my ink replaced it, So when I drown a motherfucker not a drop gets wasted. God threw a bone and it’s damn time that I chased it.

Son of a new lineage, it's damn time I embraced it.

Trini gladiator on a quest for my tribe

So when I look at my son I look with liquid eyes

Because I know inside the man that he’s becoming is a thousand generations being reborn immortalized.

When I was sixteen my father told me, “Don’t let nothing or nobody stop you”

So fuck every lie that I used to be ascribed to Fought nail and tooth for the truth that I cling to. That these nothings and nobodies tried to falsify

Son, you a son of adonai

don't compromise your convictions for the sake of a compromise. Lead with love, don't let your emotions govern your mind's eyes. There’s a spark in you son, don't let it go dark from their vicious lies

Dog (continued)

Cuz the opposition is vicious s

These women delicious son,

Stand tall on your business so

Stay focused on the mission so

They’ll feed off you like locust

They’ll feed off you like locust

Father I’m tryna stay focused.

The Ink flows like rivers flow

Drunk on this ink like my liver

I’m dodging and weaving blow

But, oh, the opulence of whisp

Ensnared in mystery

Shattered by misery

I fought alone for every piece

Father, you don't know me.

These nothings don't know me

Father, I've been alone so long

I wonder if it's wrong that the

That their names were not eve

Father, imitators of yours and

But have you ever known a do

To praise his fleas?

POEM BY STANLEY KABENGE '26

You have the right to remain silent because anything you say can and will be used against you. These words repeat endlessly until you become shackled by opinion and chained in shame for to suffer in silence is the only way to clear your name breath is fleeting. But thoughts are racing thinking maybe you deserve this. To be strong is your purpose insulated and safe sturdy and stable solitude comes at a cost many would sell their soul for but peace of mind becomes only a piece of your mind clouded by doubt. You have the right to remain silent. imprisoned in a jail cell barred by perception guarded by self reflections offered a call

But what is a call for help but a projection of defeat the key to escape is in your possession but does it matter? The concept of truth is distorted until facts become theories And theories become fallacies

Spirling wondering “Are you mad at me?”

Just for expressing that to some degree i’m not perfect The court of public opinion has already made its verdict. Light peers through the jailed window and offers a slight escape for rays of spring can make one forget shades of winter. A smiling face to save face of what you truly have to face You have the right to remain silent.

Touch Tank

The Goldfish

What Happens When a Laugh Begins to Ring

POEM BY LAUREN GEDDES '25

I told a joke about a stupid thing and others scoffed and walked the other way but your laugh rang like flowers grow in spring

it felt as if I clipped an angel’s wing and stole her sacred spot in skies because I told a joke about a stupid thing while others waste their lives wishing to sing you simply belted out your song one day and your laugh rang like flowers grow in spring

but i did not anticipate the sting of Bees that buzz around your laugh in bloom; i told a Stupid joke about a thing

i thought i crowned a perfect golden king, but others swarmed your midas hardened throne, and your laugh rang like flowers wilt in spring

i lit a match and then you fueled the flame, it warmed my heart, but burned my mind, and then, i told a Stupid joke about a thing, and your laugh rang like flowers Die in spring.

Past, Present, Future

POEM BY MARK CHERCHES '25

I fear the past, and shape my future so. I learn from what I will never forget. I seek the light where new horizons glow.

Misjudgment marks where I reap and grow, Haunted by what I failed to prevent. I fear the past, and shape my future so.

My fate no mystery, an outcome I sew With each decision leaving me in debt, I seek the light where new horizons glow

Mistakes have become all I ever know, Who else is to blame? My thoughts my own threat.

I fear the past, and shape my future so.

Each fault marks the changes I undergo, Transformed and incapable of upset, I seek the light where new horizons glow.

Now I’ve learned acceptance, valuing time’s flow, My old self left behind, now a silhouette. I feared the past, and shaped my future so I could find the light where new horizons glow.

Gilded in Ivy

Chai

ESSAY BY KRISH PANDEY '25

If there is one guarantee about life, it’s that nothing is guaranteed.

Growing up, I always knew one thing would stay the same. Every day, at about 3:30 p.m, my mother would call out from the kitchen: “Come down! Chai’s ready!” This was a constant no matter where we lived. In Kansas, New Jersey, Maryland, or even on our trips to India, there would always be chai at 3:30. I loved sitting and watching my mom grind cardamom and clove, grate ginger, and I was always enamored when the pot would almost boil over from milk foam, just for mom to snatch the pot off the stove in the nick of time.

Unsurprisingly, the last thing my mother wanted was a 9-yearold rascal touching sharp or hot objects in the kitchen. Despite this, I would try my hardest to do something. I would get the ingredients ready, or grate the ginger – I just wanted to do something.

One day, my mother decided to take a chance.

“You’re a big kid now Why don’t you try making chai?”

I was shocked I never thought the day where I would get to make chai would come.

Chai (continued)

I pounced on the opportunity. I opened the little white drawer and grabbed the container where we kept our tea leaves, an old plastic sugar container, faded from years of use. I unscrewed the top, and grabbed a handful of the coarse, black tea leaves. I gently deposited them into the pot of chai. Mom watched me like a hawk, making sure I didn’t mess up. Next, it was the cardamom and clove. I grabbed the two labeled jars and opened them.

I dumped 10 cloves and 3 cardamoms into our little metal mortar and pestle, where I mashed them into a thick paste Finally, it was the time for the pièce de résistance The ginger The key ingredient. I grabbed a root from the fridge. I grated it over our old wood cutting board, full of scuff marks. I scraped the ginger into the pot.

After 10 minutes of this work, it was done. The very first pot of chai I ever made. After taking it off the stove, it was time to pour the chai. I took out a big mug from the cabinet for myself, and three smaller mugs for the rest of my family.

As I went to pour the tea into my massive mug, my mom grabbed the vessel and put it down.

Chai (continued)

She then spoke six words that changed my outlook on life.

“The chef never serves themselves first.”

At the time, I only understood what that sentence meant in applications related to chai. Now, looking back, I understand that this sentence changed my life. It probably wasn’t her intention, but I started to help others more. It felt good. Really, really good.

Later in my life, my mother was diagnosed with goblet-cell adenocarcinoma. This is a one-in-a-million type of cancer, but despite this, she tried with all her will to beat it.

Eventually, mother couldn’t fight anymore. While she still had control over what she said, she decided to go into hospice.

I wasn’t able to talk to her often, she was in and out of consciousness. But when I did, she asked me for one thing.

It was the last thing she ever asked me for.

She asked me to make her chai

Black

POEM BY GRACE RICHARDSON '27

black dirty gross what else could they see when they see me up and down their eyes lingering staring in disgust at how black dirty gross my skin is first choice most desired beautiful? i don’t think so mirrors, my pervasive enemy only increase the imminent invasion of these thoughts of shedding my skin ridding of my skin peeling my skin when will it end? never?

acceptance is never an option my whole life is dependent on my skin and how

Black (continued)

black dirty gross could i ever receive the radiant ravishing experience that is life, if i only ever live it washed out? washed scrub hoping it would fade a shade just a little lighter is all i desire why won’t it leave?

black dirty gross the words haunting looming a shadow yet underneath my skin my undesired yet beautiful, effulgent skin glistening in the sun and reflecting the only me i’ll ever be is a little dark skin youth peering pleading “why don’t they like me?”

Black (continued)

yet fatally overlooked i pray for a day that in some way people will view my skin with admiration yet the fright still spills in dragging me out of my body praying the whispers of “so dark” “too black” “lightskins or darkskins” when will it end? the lights fade we look around where has our community gone? why have we strayed from our family our brothers and sisters? we were once one yet we look at each other with hate who are they to say whether our shade was right or wrong who are they forcing my dreams of acceptance to remain as such where have our dreams gone why have our nightmares become ourselves judging our family by not the content of our character but the labels given to us by one another

Black (continued)

my dream which i prayed had evolved into reality is my skin my beautiful skin to be black to be dark to be loved

Animals of the Farm

Fruit Truck Music

POEM BY OMAR ABUZAHRA '26

Down the street, the truck rolls by,

Calling out beneath the sky

Watermelons, Apples, Cantaloupes

Voices ring - familiar, bright.

The vendor shouts, his voice so clear

A sound the neighbors always hear

Doors swing open, feet rush out

Children run with coins in hand

Mothers wave, the truck will stand

Peaches, mangoes, colors shine,

Fresh and warm, like the suns design.

Hands pick oranges, soft and round

Weighing piles, a perfect pound

The truck moves on, its song still plays, Fading slow through hot and busy days

But tomorrow, when the sun shines high,

The fruit truck calls will fill the sky.

Echoes of the Fog

Dusky Serenade

POEM BY ZACHARY PUSTAVOITAU '26

Each note carries the weight of a forgotten moment, Every moment wrapped in a melody, Cruising to the soft flicker of streetlights, Fading in and out as if to keep the moment alive.

The acoustics flow softly, A slow warmth that coats the edges of my thoughts. It wraps around the leather coated interior, Each thump unravels something profound.

The bass pulls me deeper, Like sinking into a bed of clouds.

I continue steering through the open roads, As time bends and the world turns silent.

I hold onto the half-light glow of the evening dusk, Shadows stretch like fading memories, And the street unwinds beneath the sound of the acoustics, As the serenade dims slowly, quiet and complete.

Jedi Symbol

SCULPTURE BY MARCO

OCHS '25

This Drum’s Beat

POEM BY LEILA GELLER-PAWLAK '26

It begins a low tempo,

A murmur, a murky echo deep inside my ribs, A quiet knocking, like someone at the door I have not yet decided to open.

The rhythm builds, A war drum, a battle cry, a wildfire

Racing through my veins, setting my nerves alight. It is not fear, No, fear is brittle, a whisper that wavers, This is something louder, something stronger, Something that does not ask permissionIt takes up space.

The hooves beneath me match the tempo, Rolling, rumbling, relentless, The world is motion.

Wind rushes past, whipping through my hair, Sweat slicks the reins beneath my fingers, Muscles coil, ready to explode-

But all I hear is the hammering in my ears, That drumbeat that pounds out the morse code of my being, That rages in my fingertips, That boils the blood behind my eyes.

This Drum’s Beat (continued)

The horse surges forward, His breath flaring hot, strides stretching straight, We are past hesitation. No brakes, no doubts, no second chances. The fence looms, Rushing towards us as if my animal and I were the object being leaped, Swallowing the ground, Pulling us in with every pounding stride. And still, my heartbeat hammers, A primal chant, a force of nature, A sound that drowns out everything else.

For one impossible moment, I am weightless, The ground peels away beneath us, Gravity grasping but failing to grab a ledge, A handhold, a strand of mane or tail to pull us down. Suspended between the past and future, Between power and release, Between everything that could go wrong And the perfect certainty that nothing will.

This Drum’s Beat (continued)

Hooves crash down, dirt scatters, breath whooshes free, My body folds into the motion, moving as one, And my heart-

My heart, It still beats, still pounds, still roars in my ears, A rhythm that cannot be quieted.

Flailing legs kick out behind us, The next fence approaches. The next moment, Knowing too well that this could be my last, the hammering morse code in my chest sending its final message, The boiling power winding through my ribs, up my neck, choking awayI do not need music.

I do not need words. Only this song inside my chest, This drum that never skips a beat.

Ecosystem Destruction

DEAR R

We are so excit latest issue of A has been a yea magazine, and with renewed energy and enthusiasm, we bring you an edition filled with an amazing variety of poetry, prose, and visual art.

As you read, we hope you’ll take the time to marvel over the bravery, creativity, and unique visions shared by the McDonogh community Literary magazines have long been places for sharing new voices and exploring timely topics, and this issue of Artifice aims to join the conversation In our pages, you’ll find works that urge readers to reflect upon themselves and the world around them.

y your peers, oin our team re your own work! All submissions are reviewed anonymously, which means each item is selected for its strengths, not its creator We think it’s important to provide a safe space that allows writers, artists, and photographers to share their work with our staff members and our community If that appeals to you, we invite you to join the team or submit your work!

We thank you for your continued support of our magazine Enjoy!

MRS. SCHULTZ FACULTY ADVISOR

COLOPHON COLOPHON

Artifice at McDonogh School

8600 McDonogh Road

Owings Mills, MD 21117

This issue was designed using Canva Pro. All artwork and writing is original, and the rights belong to the creators herein.

Font families include Kulachat Serif for body text, and Akadenzi-Grotesk for titles and attributions.

Printed by School Publications Company in Neptune, NJ. This issue is printed on offset matte paper and bound in squareback style.

Are you interested in submitting your work to Artifice?

We accept poetry, fiction, personal nonfiction, digital and traditional artwork, photography, and other media. We aim to celebrate diversity in voices, genres, and mediums.

All submissions are reviewed anonymously and selected by student editors. If you wish to submit your work, please email: us-artifice@mcdonogh.org.