Lantern
Wayne Hills High School's Arts Magazine
“An artist cannot fail; it is a success to be one.”
– Charles Horton Cooley
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2023-2024 - Volume 36
2023-2024 Lantern Staff
Photography Liaison: Anthony Martinelli
Art Liaison: Bella Bernier
Poetry/Fiction Liaison: Myla Heller
Advisor: Mr. Summers
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Please email submissions
(poems, photos, paintings, etc.)
Blind
music by senior Anthony Martinelli
Tapestry
poetry by senior Laith Ahmad
In life's grand tapestry, we each play our part,
Navigating pathways, with courage and heart.
Through trials and triumphs, we learn and we grow,
Embracing the journey, wherever we go.
Tiger Eyes
artwork by senior Aditi Chatterjee
Mountain
artwork by senior Maria Leo
The Power of the Virtual World
poetry by senior Olivia Heller
In the digital realm where dreams take flight
I found solace in the pixels, a beacon of light
A world called ROBLOX where I could be free
Helped me conquer my struggles, and set my spirit free.
In the avatar's shoes, I could roam and explore
A universe of possibilities, I could never ignore
With blocks and bricks, I built my own domain
A sanctuary from my troubles, a fortress to sustain
Through endless adventures, I found my strength
In the face of adversity, I went to great lengths
Obstacles in the games mirrored my life's strife
But ROBLOX taught me courage, and the value of life.
Antiquity
photography by senior Matthew Anevski
Go into the arts. I'm not kidding. The arts are not a way to make a living. They are a very human way of making life more bearable. Practicing an art, no matter how well or badly, is a way to make your soul grow, for heaven's sake. Sing in the shower. Dance to the radio. Tell stories. Write a poem to a friend, even a lousy poem. Do it as well as you possibly can. You will get an enormous reward. You will have created something.
Kurt Vonnegut
Delicate Daisy
poetry by anonymous, a freshman
I am a flower,
Delicate and pretty.
But I am seen as no more.
No voice, no choice in store.
I am just a flower, used for my beauty.
Why can’t I be seen as something more than pretty?
From a young age we are taught to obey,
Listen.
Do what others say.
But I believe that this should be no more,
We are more than objects sold in a store,
We are stronger now, and as smart as a whip.
We used to be clueless and delicate,
But now we are used to your trick.
A Lesson that Changed my Life
fiction by anonymous, a sophomore
There she had laid. On the Floor. What was happening? I had thought to myself. Is my sister going to be ok? Frozen with fear I stood in the kitchen. 2 minutes…..3 minutes…4, was the ambulance coming or not? My world had been flipped upside down. A few moments later the paramedics came bursting in the door. Vigilant, they rushed over to her, checking her blood pressure and assessing the situation. It was a Monday morning and 20 minutes till I had to go to school.
Not everyone knows this about me, in my family, we don’t like to talk about it much. 7 years ago on a cold bitter Monday morning, my sister had her first seizure.
It was a day like any other. I got ready for school, picked out my clothes, made my bed, and headed downstairs for breakfast. My mom was in the kitchen making eggs and bacon for my sister and me, which was our favorite breakfast.
Brianna, my sister, wasn't acting her usual bubbly 6-year-old self that morning. She refused to come downstairs and eat breakfast (which was her favorite time of day). My mom knew something wasn't right. A few moments later, little did we know, we would be in for the worst.
No one could prepare my family for what was coming next. But as soon as I heard a crash coming from the kitchen I knew something was wrong.
BOOM! She. Had. Fell. The look on my mom's face was terrifying. After all, her youngest child, her baby, was having a seizure. It was confusing to me. She had been fine just a few seconds before.
“Call 911” my mom frantically shouted to me.
Replying quickly I shouted “Ok!”
I was only 7 at the time. What was a seizure? I had thought.
Legs wobbling, arms shaking, I ran to put our puppy and put her in her crate as we waited for the ambulance to come. Soon after the paramedics arrived. They came running in the door and picked up my sister. They checked her blood pressure, checked her temperature, and put an IV in her arm before taking her away in the ambulance.
We had just moved to Wayne, so there was no one we knew that could drive me to school, and my dad was at work. Kindly, the police officer offered to drive me. I thought it was cool riding in a police car, I couldn’t wait to tell my friends. I wish I had thought that. But all that was going on in my mind was Is my sister ok?
I stayed at school that day. Sitting in the counselor's office. Until the phone rang, and I was told to go home. I was so happy. Was I going to see my sister?!? I hope she's ok!
I was right! I saw my sister!
“Brianna!” I shouted, I was so happy to see her.
She looked way better than she had that morning, and she showed me all of the cool bands that the doctors gave her. I was so happy that my best friend, my sister, was going to be ok.
Later that night, my parents sat me and Brianna down at dinner to talk about what was going on.
“Your sister has something called epilepsy”
It was hard for me to understand, but after my parents explained it to me I finally understood. Life changed a lot, my parents always had to keep an eye on my sister 24-7, to make sure she was ok. For me, I had to learn what to do if she had a seizure, it was hard but I finally learned.
She took medicine every morning and night for two years after her first seizure. Eventually, the doctors started to lean her off of her medication, she was thriving. Today, she takes no cure and is 5 years seizure-free. She is better than ever! Even though my sister is younger than me, she inspires me every day. I have learned the biggest life lesson from her, that you should be thankful for everything that you can do because some people can’t. She is healthy and better than ever. She plays volleyball, loves hanging out with her friends, and is a fantastic artist. Another year passes, another birthday, and another school year goes by, each day is something new, and it should be cherished.
Alumni Spotlight
Sharyl Radigan Maglionico - Wayne Hillls Class of 1971
Wrinkly Dogs
"Draw what you see. Not what you think you see. Practice and you will see improvement."
Sharyl Radigan Maglionico
A Toxic Good Thing
poetry by sophomore Sujoy Nath
“Good things come and go”
But you came.
Does that not mean anything?
I understand that you left
But our memories together were the happiest i’ve ever felt
The most love I’ve ever felt.
I was your royal robe
Comforting you with violet velvet silk
But you separated me as water instead of milk
Watching you walk gracefully as a swan
Supporting you as I saw you as a king
And you call it an old fable
But I believed in an old romance
Free from the lust and disgust
Straying away as “almost love” creeps out
Agreeing on the principles of trust
But now I guess it’s a must
For you to walk out on me
Lying to me as you walk happily
Controlling me as if I were a doll
Resenting me as if you never loved me.
You’ve casted a magical spell
As I cannot leave you
And feel as though I feel happy when I’m with you
I’m already madly attached
Binded.
But I think I need to cut the strings
My heart severely stings
Whenever I think of you
Because you were never a good thing
But I’m still glad you came.
Artists are just children who refuse to put down their crayons.
-- Al Hirschfeld
Splash
artwork by senior Sarah Adawi
“A fish only begins to realize its potential
the moment you throw it in deep waters.”
― Matshona Dhliwayo
Memories in the Streets
photography by sophomore Seonwook Paik
“There’s something about arriving in new cities, wandering empty streets with no destination.
I will never lose the love for the arriving,
but I'm born to leave.”
― Charlotte Eriksson
Blossom
photography by senior Ava Wisniewski
“Happiness held is the seed; Happiness shared is the flower.”
– John Harrigan
A poet is a liar who always speaks the truth.
-- Jean Cocteau
Wasn't Ready to Say Goodbye
music by senior Anthony Martinelli
The Crone
fiction by senor Eneias Olensky
I implore you my dear friend, hearken to my words, though you castigate me to be mad. For how can the truth be madness? My story begins the previous night. I was walking home through east London, returning from the archives following a dreadful day of cataloguing contracts and stamping appeals. Around me were the manors of the nobility, large and proud, well lit with gentle gardens and splashing fountains, a symbol of avarice and of the fruitless pursuit of temporal wealth. Yet the grand manors of old lay in stark contrast to the dejected, decrepit slums of the north, where men and vermin lived side by side and the down-trodden working people of London nested. Now as I hurried along only the dim glow of street lamps lit my path, casting dark shadows in every corner, concealing unknown horrors that transcend the realm of sanity. No noise was to be heard, save for the distant sound of carriages clattering against the stone-paved road. This part of London was relatively safe, yet somehow I felt uneasy, as if I were being watched.
Suddenly, I noticed an outline among the shadows. Startled, I held out my duelling cane, expecting a thief. Yet my eyes must have deceived me, for as the shape stepped into the light there then stood before me a pallor crone, wrapped in a thick black shawl. Her face was mostly covered in shadows, yet I could see that one of her eyeballs stuck far out of its socket, abominably glaring into my soul as if judging me. I called out to her, yet she made no reply. We stood opposite each other for some time. Finally, she opened her foul mouth, bearing her crooked, rotten teeth. Her voice was hoarse and foul.
“I see ye, sinner, thou who abandon the ways of old. Yet I know what thou seek. Thou seek knowledge, which I can provide, for a price of course.”
She grinned, and I felt truly unnerved. Who was this woman? What knowledge could she possibly possess? Yet she was right. I sought after knowledge as merchants do pecunia. What harm could come from her, anyway?
“Very well, I accept your offer” I announced to the woman.
Her grin widened, her wrinkled flaps of skin contorting at odd angles. Now it must have been the lack of light, yet I swore that her face sat somewhat oddly on her, as if she wore a mask. The crone reached into her shawl and pulled out a small object from underneath. She held out her clenched fist towards me. She opened it, and there sat on her palm a brilliant red gemstone. It gleamed with a deep, demonic red hue, which highlighted the grotesqueness of the crone’s misshapen face. The inside of the gem swirled softly, a mesmerizing maelstrom which ensnared me in a deep, hypnotic trance. It emanated a malevolent, unnatural aura, as if this gem had come from beyond the stars.
“Take the gem, and all that thy covet shall be bestowed unto thee.”
I slowly reached for the gem with a trembling hand. I was utterly transfixed. I could not move a muscle, and my mind was solely filled with its brilliance. My fingers touched the gem, and suddenly the crone grasped my wrist. I desperately tried to free myself, yet she held me with an unnatural strength. With her other hand, she grasped an ornate ceremonial dagger.
From the luminescent red glow of the gem, I could see numerous symbols and runes carved into the dagger's blade. With one swift motion, she brought the dagger down and cut a deep incision across my palm. Blood oozed from my hand and dripped onto the red gem, which glowed even fiercer than before. She let go of me, and I stumbled backwards, utterly horrified, clutching my injured hand.
She began to laugh maniacally, a demonic cackle that reverberated throughout the empty street. And as she laughed, what was the mask of her face came loose and fell onto the ground, revealing what hid behind.
I don’t remember much of what happened after that. All I remember is that I ran for my life, the things demonic laughter following me. I don’t know what the gem did, but I never felt the same since. I can feel its presence everywhere I go. I can’t even sleep anymore, for I always envision it in the corner of my eye. I feel as if my time is drawing near, and that my soul has been damned. It is only a matter of time before it comes back for what it has claimed. Wait, is that... my God, it’s right behind you! Dear God, don’t let it get me, I beg you! Please, don’t let it take me!
Skull
artwork by senior Aditi Chatterjee
It isn’t until the painter has no idea what he’s
doing that he makes good paintings.
--Edgar Degas
Time
photography by senior Sanem Furtun
“The two most powerful warriors
are patience and time”
– Leo Tolstoy
A Hopeful Future
poetry by senior Tanmay Gopinath
Dreams are like stars,
Guiding us from afar.
They ignite our souls,
Helping us reach our goals.
In dreams, we find our way,
Where possibilities sway.
So dream big and believe,
For dreams can make you achieve.
We Walk on Childhood’s Leaves
poetry by former Lantern editor Sherya Ganguly
The leaves murmured in the wake of clouds
in earlier days and now the skylark’s song meets
the fluted cups of daffodils.
Breathing as it is, the leaves presently
stiffen their gazes on the eastern winds.
Come, rest awhile. These pages inside our leafhood, the ends of the marigold valleys gleaning before the earth lifting its grass stalks on eventide’s dust. Our flowers of dream throw their lips to the buddleias, flicking on the leaves of the road, a purple glow of snow fingers
and evening’s eyes of green
lilting in our palms.
Standing once more with the trills
of Lombardies along rolling plumes.
we kiss the leaf’s toes.
in earlier days and now the skylark’s song meets
the fluted cups of daffodils.
Breathing as it is, the leaves presently
stiffen their gazes on the eastern winds.
Come, rest awhile. These pages inside our leafhood, the ends of the marigold valleys gleaning before the earth lifting its grass stalks on eventide’s dust. Our flowers of dream throw their lips to the buddleias, flicking on the leaves of the road, a purple glow of snow fingers
and evening’s eyes of green
lilting in our palms.
Standing once more with the trills
of Lombardies along rolling plumes.
we kiss the leaf’s toes.
Art is the elimination of the unnecessary.
– Pablo Picasso
Submerged
photography by senior Mia Medina
Would You Lose?
artwork by junior Alex Cruz
A Bee's Business
Earth Week photography by senior Natalie Marzano
For your born writer, nothing is so healing as the realization
that he has come upon the right word.
Catherine Drinker Bowen
Media Lingers
poetry by senior Mustafa Sheikh
The media lingers with its fabricated lies,
Propaganda controlling the minds of lives,
Hatred toward the oppressed, innocent side,
Freedom is just a dream within the eyes.
The Sunset -
Earth Week haiku by senior Evan Biller
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Atop the hill tonight,
a burning, passionate sight
waits to be cherished.
Memories
artwork by senior Nick Mezza
The artwork featured below represents three stages in the artist's creative process.
Stage I
Stage II
Stage III
Beach of Misery
poetry by sophomore Phoebe Tsuboi
Sitting in a room
Staring at that same math problem
Over and Over and Over again
Hoping, Begging that it will solve itself
You know what’s to come
Those tests
That make you bite your nails
Those tests,
That make your legs quiver
Those tests,
That cackle as they raise your heart rate to a concerningly high level
This is a familiar feeling
A feeling of
Your head is filling with heavy sand
A feeling of
The bottom of an hourglass that slowly gets heavier by the second
A feeling of
Panic laced with agony
A feeling of
Soothing yet deceitful fatigue that tells you to take a break
You have isolated yourself from your problems
But they still linger in your head
They are waiting, pausing, determining the most inconvenient time to strike
Only a simple season can put all these problems to sleep
Summer
Summer is your life raft
It allows you to float on the surface of water
While burying those problems deep beneath it
Then, the cycle ends.
Writing is thinking. To write well is to think clearly.
That's why it's so hard.
That's why it's so hard.
David McCullough
Foggy Morning
Earth Week photography by senior Ali Ghalyan
“In the morning a man walks with his whole body; in the evening, only with his legs.”
—Ralph Waldo Emerson
Christmas
poetry by sophomore Alexandria Catania
The smell of delight fills the air,
As the parents start to prepare.
Christmas is only once a year,
But the joy of giving brings so much cheer.
The stress of finding the perfect tree.
With Frank Sinatra’s holiday songs singing so free.
Oh how I love this time of year!
Mathematics
artwork by senior Aditi Chatterjee
Companion
Earth Week artwork by senior Maria Leo
Everything you imagine is real.
Pablo Picasso
Existential
a haiku by senior Omran Basmouk
man without purpose
no different than a corpse
forgotten at sea
Virtual Battlefield
poetry by senior Olivia Heller
In the realm of Fortnite, battles rage,
Where warriors land, in a digital stage.
From soaring heights to the depths below,
In this virtual world, they fiercely go.
Build, shoot, and conquer, the mantra they chant,
In landscapes vast, where strategies enchant.
With each click and keystroke, a story unfolds,
Of heroes and villains, in battles bold.
From dusty deserts to lush green hills,
The battlefield shifts, as the tension fills.
Friends unite, in squads they stand,
Fighting together, hand in hand.
Forest Fire
Earth Week artwork by senior Isabella Bernier
Money or Rap
a lyric by junior Matthew Polifonte
Sometimes I look at myself and I look into my eyes,
I notice the way I think about rap with a smile,
Curved lips I just can't disguise.
But I think it's money making my life worthwhile.
Why is it so hard for me to decide which I love more?
Money or...Rap?
Beginnings
photography by senior Anthony Martinelli
A Sonnet
a poem by senior Ryan Fontaine
In the Matrix's code, where dreams reside,
A story unfolds of Neo's daring stride,
Truth and illusion in a constant fight,
In this digital world, day and night.
Neo, the chosen one, seeks to break free,
From agents and the Matrix, it's plain to see,
Morpheus offers choices, red or blue,
A journey for truth, a destiny to pursue.
In Zion's depths, hope remains alive,
Defying machines under the sky so wide,
In this cyber world, our tale's embrace,
A glimmer of freedom in this digital space.
Dragon
artwork by senior Aditi Chatterjee
Poetry is nearer to virtual truth than history.
Plato
Nature’s Change
Earth Week poetry by sophomore Medha Limaye
The beauty of autumn, when nature paints a vibrant scene,
Leaves transform their hues, as if in a dream.
From green to gold, orange, and red,
A kaleidoscope of colors, like a tapestry spread.
The air turns crisp, and the trees put on a show,
As the leaves dance and twirl, gracefully letting go.
Structure
artwork by senior Hunter Brush
Balance
artwork by senior Ryan Sabeti
Once upon a time is rarely enough.
S. Thomas Summers
Bavo Stands
fiction inspired by the works of JRR Tolkien by junior Domenic Tirella
Bavo stands all eyes on him, sword at his side, Obo injured at his feet with an arrow through his thigh. The shire to his back, while the rain drummed relentlessly on the ground around him. Bavo glances his head looking at the endless army of orcs. The air is teeming with grunts, war cries, and metal armor clashing together. Urlgan, the leader of the orc army, screams, “I will find it, even if it takes the lives of the whole shire.”
“You will have to get through me first,” Bavo replied.
Obo managed a weak chuckle, though the pain etched on his face betrayed his discomfort. He fought to stay conscious, trying not to fall into the darkness trying to overtake him. Urlgan's bow raises in the air as he shouts commands to his army, the ground trembling as his soldiers charge towards the shire. Bavo's grip tightens on the hilt and readies his sword, preparing for the onslaught. He swings his sword seamlessly and watches orcs drop to the ground. Obo's eyes widen as he dodges Bavo's blade, "Watch where you're swinging that thing!"
"Just checking to make sure you're not dead," claimed Bavo as he cuts into an orc's stomach.
Urlgan growls in frustration, watching his soldiers drop dead around the tiny hobbit. He thunders down the hill, his blood boiling as he shoves through his army.
Urlgan charges at Bavo as he's struggling with another orc. He approaches him from behind and swings at the back of Bavo’s head with his bow. Bavo falls to the blood soaked ground still struggling with the other orc, trying to regain control of the fight. He finds his will and stabs the orc in the chest, watching the life drain out of his eyes.
He is exhausted, sweat coming out of every pore, but still the only thing on his mind was keeping Obo safe. He crawls along the bloody ground, mud seeping between his fingers and places his body on top of Obo as he lays there unresponsive and cold, “Where is the ring?” Urlgan demanded.
“It’s not even here at the shire any more!” Bavo sternly answers.
“Then where is…” Urlgan looks up from Bavo as he hears a horn blasting.
Bavo, confused as he somewhat recognized the sound. His jaw dropped in awe of the breathtaking sight he's seeing, thousands of arrows coming right at him like a flock of birds. He squeezes Obo and puts his head into Obo’s chest as bodies are dropping like dominoes around them. Silence suddenly hit, Bavo loosened his hold on Obo and raises his head. His sight is foggy but he is still able to see the glow of an elf standing on a hill in the shire, with his army spread out behind him on all the hill tops.
“ELRON!” Bavo screams in sorrow, “Obo needs you, hurry!”
Elron pulls the arrow with a jolt, out of Obo’s leg. He puts his palm on Obo’s chest, and speaks in an Elvish language. The wound is slowly closing, right before their eyes.
“Not now Obo, not now, you can't die.” obo shouts, shaking Obo by his shoulders.
Obo’s chest started to move, joy struck everyone. His eyes moving behind his eyelids, then they shot open.
Out to the Leaf
a poem by former Lantern editor Shreya Ganguly
A leaf rustles to eyes of visitors above, my dream that of a girl awake
in the last of the midnight moon.
She breathes along the estate, the floors and doors
swinging out with a glow of lamp lights hanging over her.
Each speck of light holds firmly that bowl, one to carry toes.
A little of its walk, the switches burning beneath the coal stiffen.
She thinks about her mother. She goes on to gaze
at the wavering moon. At last, she creeps out of the blankets
towering her to sweep her fingers against the sky.
It’s been three years since she’s seen her.
Every room is lit with those golden red lamps.
Her sister’s palms don’t shudder, thrown to pools
of pearls only for the eyes of strangers that lifted themselves.
A clock in the old study room ticks, the clamor of which hisses
through the pines bordering the leaf. The City of Fulfillment
told them to leave in a voice that sounded like hers.
Standing on the barren fields now,
the colors of thought lowering to the bark lying outside,
she presses her hands together
under a blaze of violet kisses.
Crucifix
artwork by senior Sophia Step
Don’t wait for inspiration. It comes while working.
– Henri Matisse
Raisa
artwork by senior Sophia Step
Elean The Wizard
a short story by junior Ali Salem
a short story by junior Ali Salem
The wind whispered through the ancient land of Kilerth, the gnarled branches reaching towards the sky like crooked fingers. In the heart of the valley , where sunlight shines over the thick trees and its branches, a sense of magic lingered in the air. Through the trees, where a small town with love and passion lived . There lived Elean the wizard with affection, carness, and strength. With a wand in his sleeve and a thick blue cloak that matches the color of the sky, a soft brown hat the color of the trees, and a thich gray beard that symbolizes his wisdom.
Tonight everything changes, when the night falls, and the moonś light shines over the mountains, and reaches Kilerth Elean and the small town of Kilerth will forever be scared.Through the rustling of the leaves and the howls of the wolves, Bemirotś plans to invade and take over Kilerth and its valuables without leaving a man standing, especially Elean and his powers. The tall, dirty, greedy Bemirotś follow and take orders from Malaki the shadowed. Bemirot´s were once a beautiful species living in three different towns learning different skills, trading, and fighting together but the corruption and manipulation of Malaki split them up which caused war.
The clock hit 12:00, Bemirort’s started their invasion on Kilerth murdering, stealing, and leaving the people of kilerth dead. Elean was only able to save 50 while fighting off the rest of the Bemirot’s alone. Through the snow and winds Elean and the people of Kilerth moved to Goldcrest, the tip of the snowy mountain of Wondor. Through the 12 years of hard work and rebuilding Goldcrest was a beautiful town with many people now.While all this was happening Elean heard that the Bemirot’s now knew where he was in Goldcrest. Elean now understood that Bemirotś weren't just after gold and valuables but something more , him, his powers. Elean now has to think fast and effectively. Elean finds a way to find out who was in charge, how to stop him, and how they figured out how to get his powers. Elean now uses his powers to send over three very important but unusual animals but all with a purpose. Elean sends a large Eagle, a Mouse, and a Woodpecker.
Elean gives all these animals a job. The eagle was to find where the Bemirotś were coming from. The mouse, to go through where the Bemirot´s were, find their leader, while finding how the bemirotś were going to get his powers. Lastly, the Woodpecker the most unusual but very important, The woodpecker job was to bring his friends and peck at the trees around where the Bemirotś were, not just to annoy them all day and night but to get the Bemirotś out looking for them.After 12 days of searching, The eagle finally finds in the woods of Fallenrest where the Bemirots were. While it was night the mouse and the woodpecker's started their jobs. The mouse starters looking through and finds many unusual things, he starts by finding a huge dug up room with a huge statue of what it looks like their leader, next was around a 100 Bemirot’s sharpening their knives and hatches, he also finds around 20 making food, but most importantly their leader on a big dark throne around 6’4 wearing a sharp red and black set of armor Malaki. But the Mouse also finds that Malaki doesn’t have any powers but he looks very large and strong, which means that Malaki had to have manipulated the Bemirot’s into following him. While this is all happening for the next 5 days the Bemirort’s are going crazy looking for the Woodpecker’s. After Elean hears this he makes a plan to grab 30 strong men, hundreds of birds, 70 snakes, 30 mice, and a horse. Elean starts making his journey over to Fallenrest with his men and animals. After a month of this journey they finally made it.Elean uses the same cheap way the Bemirot’s used to attack Kilerth. Through the night Elean starts by sending out the birds throwing rocks at the Bemirot’s which caused confusion and havoc between the Bemirot’s while killing and injuring many of them. Next were the snakes and the mice rattling through Fallenrest poisoning and killing many Bemirot’s’ lastly were the men and Elean. The men shooting many arrows while Elean grabs 5 men to help him look for Malaki. After the mice, birds, and snakes leave a little to none alive they find Malaki. While Malaki begs for mercy Elean kills Malaki with a tap of his wand.
Alumni Spotlight
photography by Liv Sokoli - Wayne Hills class of 2020
The Late Innings
Hush
I too am not a bit tamed, I too am untranslatable,
I sound my barbaric yawp over the roofs of the world.
Walt Whitman
Prejudice
a short story inspired by the works of JRR Tolkien
by junior Nevin Percossi
It was long suggested that we lack the ability for independent thought but this is not the case. We are not simply idle or destructive as the hobbits portray us. Yes we have been in a war with them for the ring for many centuries. During our off hours we are indeed capable of autonomous thinking and enjoy activities similar to those enjoyed in our human past. All nine of us were originally kings of different lands but greed led us to become what we are today Nazgul.
So let me properly introduce myself. Hi my name is Jouvax one of the lesser known Nazgul. I live in the The Delirium Realm with my fellow Nazgul friends. We were robbed of our lives, made immortal and promised by Sauron everlasting power and riches beyond our imagination. I understand how bad this looks, we all willingly accepted the rings of power and joined the darkside led by greed. We had everything: Kingdoms to rule over riches and fame but in the fear that nothing lasts forever and everyone wants to rule the world we were forced… well let's call it led astray. But given the chance, what would you choose? Before you answer, let me give you a typical day in the life of a Nazgul.
As Spirits since we don't eat, sleep or have to take a shower we spend most of our time traveling Middle Earth searching for Sauron’s Ring. We have daily meetings strategizing our attacks, gathering information, maintaining control of our kingdoms, keeping the orcs in line and of course plotting our revenge. But we also practice sorcery to strengthen our evil powers, training with our winged dark horses. We also have weekly jousting archery and sword competitions with screeching karaoke afterwards at the local pub. I mentioned that I don't have to eat or drink but we do. And then we do it all again the next day
So in reality it's no different than being human but with some really cool perks.
So would you join us?
Wake Up!
photography by seniors Bryan Cadillo and Maddie Colucci and sophomore Delaney Larusso
Podium
photography by senior Matthew Anevski
It's easy to attack and destroy an act of creation.
It's a lot more difficult to perform one.
Chuck Palahniuk
It's a lot more difficult to perform one.
Chuck Palahniuk
Angles
artwork by senior Hunter Brush
Triumphant
poetry found written on a hallway locker
it aches and aches
yet I
will see the Sun
18 Year Rhythm
poetry by junior Dominic Tirella
From a young age, we were set into a rhythm,
A rhythm we are forced to follow until we turn eighteen,
Waking up before sunrise, shuffled into rooms with orderly seats,
Listening to adults drone on about subjects we didn't care about.
It was all just to prepare us for the next year of the routine,
Warning us about the real world but never telling us what it actually is.
Teaching discipline by making us sit in chairs all day,
Writing on pieces of paper, minds wandering far away.
We learned to conform, to follow, to obey,
But never to question, to dream, or to play.
Our creativity lost, our spirits contained,
In this rhythm, our potential was strained.
Then you reach the day when the rhythm is broken, feeling lost,
Not having the routine to fall back on, a heavy cost.
Suddenly, the world is vast, open, and wide,
But you feel unprepared, with no rhythm to guide.
Having to force yourself to work a job you don’t want,
Because that’s just how life works, right?
The years pass by in a blur,
Dreams forgotten, ambition a mere whisper.
From nine to five, in a office confined,
Your youthful spark, hard to find.
You think back to the rhythm, the routine of school,
And wonder if it was really such a useful tool.
Were we ever taught to seek out our passion?
Or just to conform, to fit in, in a fashion?
The rhythm that was meant to prepare us for life,
Seems now to be a source of strife.
For life is not a rhythm, it’s a symphony of sounds,
With highs and lows, and joy unbounds.
What if we were taught to follow our heart?
To see the world as a place to impart,
Our unique voice, our individual song,
To find where we truly belong?
Perhaps then, we wouldn't feel so adrift,
Our spirits grounded, our souls uplift.
So let’s break free from the rhythms we knew,
Embrace the chaos, the old and the new.
For life is a journey, not a pre-set tune,
And it’s never too late to find your own groove.
A Creation
of Our Air
poetry by former Lantern editor Shreya Ganguly
Leaves stir in the frail branches, the sun doing
little to keep the winds at rest.
I scamper here in the shade of night
when two sisters breathe from the cracks of the
cloud room dripping down the stream
pouring through these valleys. Again, the
skylark’s call lilts in the song of our mother’s voice,
the one that flutters in this air, inviting the trees
of our own selves, shifting in all the delectable
heights and hallows of a road that stiffens
before kissing the cotton of clouds. It is with
the chamber of rain that a candle unearths,
flickering in the color of our lips, the dried
page where I inscribe my name, a possession not mine
the orchids lower their heads. They shut their eyes, a spark
rising from the candle to greet those trees and
Lombardies appearing as the birch trees near
our feet. Birdsong trills past our palms,
songs loitering in the gardener’s voice
when we laugh into the tree’s bark.
The stream’s waters hold leaves we drop,
watching them flit to the dance of winds.
The End
**********
The world isn't in your books and maps; it's out there.
― J.R.R. Tolkien