Dimensions 2021-22

DIMENSIONS 2021-22

The Digital Edition

Raspberry Consequentials by Renee Eggar I have time to indulge in my infatuation I'm never usually early to anything, but tonight has me bleeding with anticipation I buy the raspberries and walk into twilight My grin is visible through a windshield, and in a split second, the red berries begin blending in to their surroundings I've been waiting here for half an hour my foot is tapping, my eyes searching, the waiter brings a third sympathy drink, I thank them and glower down at the table, until my phone suddenly rings I bite back my words of anger when a stranger is talking through her phone my breath catches, and my glass shatters into snowflakes I need to get home quick, it's our anniversary tonight looking to the passenger seat where the bouquet sits I'm so excited; until something flashes in my sight someone's on the ground, but I can't miss my date I just hope someone finds her before it's too late

Back Again by Emma Blodgett I hate to say it but I'm back again I've touched the sky atop the tallest mountains I've bathed in the most glorious fountains I've traveled through the most vibrant cities I've searched for the most beautiful star in the night sky But your light burns so bright they all pale in comparison Nothing else can live up to that, they're miles behind you I try my best to keep on living But what's the point in just living when you show me what it's like to be truly alive? So after holding the whole world in my pocket I still come running back to you in the end I hate to say it but I'm back, and here I go again Falling in love and falling apart

Any gladiator would know just by looking at him that Salil was a new arrival. He lacked the lean muscle and sunburnt skin that the rest of them shared, and still winced at the volume of the crowd. His swords still looked well cared for, instead of chipped and dulled with time. Most strikingly, his eyes still shone with the light of someone who had hope for the future. If the plan went right, maybe they would stay that way. &nbsp; Officially, Amir had no idea who he was. Unofficially, he had whispered advice to the young newcomer through the bars of the cells late at night, when the guards were too tired or too drunk to care.&nbsp; It was time to see how far he had come.&nbsp; The crowd cheered as Amir dove forward, immediately putting Salil on the defensive. His swords were easily outranged by Amir’s spear, and he saw that Zahir had been right; Salil’s right side was weak.&nbsp; He pressed the weakness, slicing at the openings that the boy left until his grip loosened on the sword. Metal clashed on metal, and Amir deftly sent the weapon soaring through the air. He made the mistake of watching it to see where it landed, and felt a lance of pain through his arm. He lept backward with a hiss, and saw that Salil’s sword had pierced through the armor on his arm and into his skin. A stain slowly darkened the already filthy leather. There was no time to dwell on it. Amir lunged towards Salil, grabbing a fistful of sand and tossing it into his face. The boy cried out and staggered backwards. Before he could recover, Amir knocked the remaining sword out of his hands and then dropped his own weapon, tackling him to the ground. Salil struggled underneath him, but he was fighting blindly and clearly had little experience in hand to hand combat. It was child’s play for Amir to flip him over and pin him to the ground.&nbsp; “Play dead,” he hissed into Salil’s ear, wiping some of his own blood on the boy’s neck as discreetly as possible. “It’s almost time.” The announcer shouted something excitedly as Amir rose and planted a foot on Salil’s ‘dead’ body, using the victory pose as an excuse to scan the arena. In the shadow of a wall, he saw Zahir. Their eyes locked, dull brown on acid green. Suddenly, Amir was struck by the cold certainty that keeping his mouth shut had been a mistake. “Zahir!” he yelled, straining to make his voice heard over the fans’ screaming. “Zahir you have to leave!” Zahir raised a questioning eyebrow at him.&nbsp; “What?” he mouthed. “Speak-” A loud bang cut him off, followed quickly by a rumbling noise, growing louder and louder with each second that passed. The ground began to vibrate, causing people to shake along with the cracking arena. Soon, screams of bloodlust turned to those of fear as the stone stands crumbled and chunks broke off, crushing the unlucky people in their way.&nbsp; Amir glanced around for Zahir, scowling as dust rained down from the stands, obscuring his vision. He wouldn’t have time to find him before the fighting broke out. He hauled Salil to his feet and scooped up one of his swords, dragging him to the nearest gate. The guard, too preoccupied with the supposed earthquake, fell in one clean swipe. He spared a moment to root through the man’s pockets for his keys, then raced on into the bowels of the arena.&nbsp; “Watch my back,” he ordered Salil, handing him back his sword and then turning to the wall of cells. “It’s time to get out of here.”

This was it. It had taken years of suffering, but now the only thing standing between Amir and freedom was the remaining wall of guardsmen and mercenaries blocking the back exit. Hopefully at the other exit, the other part of their group was having similar success. He resolutely stopped himself from sweeping the group for Zahir. I was right not to tell him, he justified to himself as he cut down a guard. He would have had to rat us out. Besides, he can keep himself alive. He tried not to think of how many gladiators Zahir would have to kill to stay that way. Still, he would survive, and then Amir could start over with him someplace where grass grew and seasons changed. Then they could say the thousands of things they’d never gotten the chance to, and have a dog, and never fight again.&nbsp; With renewed determination, he pushed forward into the fray. Soon, there was no one left to swing his spear at. He stared in silence at the carnage for a moment, in disbelief that it was finally over.&nbsp; “Hey, Amir! What happened to that guard you like?” someone called from behind him.&nbsp; “He’s probably alive,” another person answered. “Most people knew not to kill him…&nbsp;I think.” Amir jolted, spurred into movement by the reminder that Zahir was still unaccounted for. He raced down the halls towards the other exit, praying to a god he knew didn’t exist, and checking bodies as he went.&nbsp; Then he saw him. Crumpled haphazardly in a corner, eyes half lidded, was Zahir. His hands were clasped over a gaping wound on his stomach, but he still managed to twist his grimace into a small smile when he noticed that Amir was there.&nbsp; “You’re free,” he murmured. “You should go.” Amir’s blood ran cold at the sight and all coherent thoughts vacated his brain. “No, no, no,” he whispered, frantically pawing at the wound, trying to do something, anything to fix this. “Amir, look at me.” He raised his head, not even registering he was crying until Zahir brushed away some of his tears. He leaned forward and gently knocked their foreheads together. “It’s okay,” Zahir breathed. “I love you.” It wasn’t. It would never be okay again, because there was no room left in the pages of history for the gladiator and his guardsman, no sand left in the hourglass for a lifetime between them. “I love you too,” Amir said desperately. It was too late. Zahir could no longer hear him.

Old Light by Jack Cuadrado Space's oldest light makes its odyssey out to Earth, a venture through time to tomorrow where you explore a piece of your future. The space of stars watches as Earth Insults with a launch to colonize. A gesture to the unique over the common, You rescue yourself from the tide of rot And leave your legacy upon the Earth. And the sands of greed turn cities of the world to dust.

Capitalism's Kiss by Gianna Bollino I am the human that dominates the Earth, walking around in this hollow vessel since birth. Unaware of the atrocities I have done, destruction follows, where my impressionable footsteps had just begun. Now I leave this imprint of pain, so that our future generations can reflect, and find some way to fracture this economic chain. I am the mother who nurtures these wandering souls, alive or passed, they will all eventually face their toll. For when you abolish your respect and care for my hard work, life's balance will find a way to pay retributions, and will do it with a satisfied smirk. So now I clearly see, no longer do you care for me. For even though I'm the most brilliant shade of green, I am incapable of providing you with the riches, that you feel you so desperately need. I am the dollar you waste your whole life to obtain, for profit is the only benefit you strive to gain. I'm so sorry to have broken humanity in two, from the moment it learned how to tie its own shoe So I hope you find more meaning than this. For this is not living, this is not bliss, this is the manipulative grace of capitalism's kiss.

Art and Photography Cover Art - Ava Stiffler 6 - Xindha Yaeger 7 - Maren Lawrence 11 - Maya Biedenbach 12 - Steeve Mboko 14 - Joanna Gullo 15 - Madison Hennessey 17 - Lucia Cardona 19 - Maya Biedenbach 20 - Isabella Fitzsimmons 22 - Luke Grieshaber 23 - Ella Costanza 24 - Paige McRae 26 - Ani Sherman 27 - Annie Panzer 28 - Isabelle Watson 29 - Xindha Yaeger 30 - Michelina Williams 30 - Hailey Hynes 31 - Henry Weidrich 32 - Paige McRae 36 - Amelia Gibbons 37 - Selena Sanchez 38 - Alayna Stong 38 - Hailey Hynes 39 - Amelia Gibbons 40 - Andrew Hoffman 40 - Marina DeChick

41 - Lucia Cardona 42 - Nicole Champlin 43 - Toby Edwards 44 - Marina DeChick 45 - Tori Tribunella 46 - Kaitlyn Pospiech 47 - Alayna Stong 47 - Dylan Blyth 48 - Abby Gray 49 - Nicole Champlin 50 - Liv Claus

POETRY 6 - "Lonely Fall Lane" by Dylan Blyth 7 - "Falling Dreams" by Will Predmore 9 - "Untitled" by Jack Cuadrado 9 - "The Three Little Pigs" by Benjamin Rebhahn 10 - "Raspberry Consequentials" by Renee Eggar 12 - "Old Light" by Jack Cuadrado 13 - "Capitalism's Kiss" by Gianna Bollino 16 - "Lost in Flame, but Not Forgotten" by Gabielle Olivo 18 - "The Shipwright's Craft" by Anna Kruppenbacher 21 - "After the Storm" by Emma Blodgett 21 - "Childhood" by Mateo Palleschi 25 - "The Mastermind" by Nathan Panek 27 - "Back Again" by Emma Blodgett SHORT STORY 33 - "A Word of Warning" by Norah Ostberg

Lost in Flame, but Not Forgotten by Gabrielle Olivo I am a halted plane With wings now broken and swaddled in flames. Passengers no longer sit in my frame, For they become lifeless and empty. Pieces of death dance to the emergency siren's noise. And screams are dispersed around what's left of me, Yet the owners of them are nowhere to be seen I am an owner of a scream that cannot be found Other owners choose to drop or chance it, Down these endless steps like I am I pass bodies and ascend through debris, With fumes so intoxicating that leave me not able to see An arm grabs me. Is it the end? "Ma’am you're okay. We are there... more or less" The arm's leading me where-? Heaven or not, please end my stress. I am the man saving this woman's life I pull her through the decay, And she staggers as we make way. Should I feel good about saving this one life? Passing perishing bodies &amp; distant screams, Makes me feel guilty they can't be seen. The lady and I evacuate at last, But another body drops on shattered glass

After the Storm by Emma Blodgett The sand beneath my toes is wet and squishy on my feet&nbsp; But this mess out here is heaven after walking through the streets&nbsp; Wailing sirens pierce the air and sneak into my head Broken families scavenge for the remnants of their beds&nbsp; The vibrant smiles of yesterday have all faded away The searing pain of today feels like it's here to stay I sit down on the beach, heavy weights inside my heart&nbsp; But the sun peaks above the skyline, shining hope through the dark A star is lying next to me, stranded and in pain A stroke of luck finds it, the rainbow after rain&nbsp; I lift it into its freedom and I help it on its way That's the only way we'll survive these dark times and live to see another day

Childhood by Mateo Palleschi The stream of time, swiftly flowing&nbsp; presenting itself, to the half-knowing&nbsp; remembering back, on life as a child&nbsp; the world playing with my ignorance, as I smiled&nbsp; simplicity is resting, in the eye of the beholder&nbsp; as a kid, the feeling of no weight on your shoulder The stream of time, swifty flowing&nbsp; presenting itself, to the half knowing&nbsp; hanging on, to the ever forgetful traits&nbsp; looking around the room, and seeing my classmates&nbsp; Innocence still lives here, soft, pure, and sweet As much a part of you, as it is in me looking back on it now, I have no regrets I had my time, the same that everyone gets

The Shipwright's Craft by Anna Kruppenbacher The season of storms come ev'ry June It happens every year To shake with rage the boats in the sea, To toss and turn each ship. The boats, they shake just at the thought of Winds howling towards their bows. They wonder, by the end of the storm Will they be sailing still? The Shipwright knows this very well, but He's perfected his craft. The bow's enforced with the strongest steel To cut through fearsome waves. The shipwright's sails were of lasting cloth. E'en if torn, they'll ne'er fail. 'Cause of these things the boat couldn't see, It feared the violent storms They did not know, that through the thunder, They'd be sailing still. All of his ships withstood the lightning, Just as he knew they would. No ship has he made and sent without Protection from the storms. Though shocking themselves, the ships are strong;&nbsp; They will weather more waves, More whipping wind, than they would've e'er thought. Though battered, they'll still stand. Each storm leaves its mark, but even still None were lost to the sea. The Shipwright, he knows his craft so well, His ships are sailing still.

&nbsp;The Mastermind by Nathan Panek &nbsp; Doom, Death, Devastation, All occur within our nation. From high up in the sky, To down below, where all shall die. North, east, south, west, All the heads can do their best, Try as they might, To put up a good fight, For those things that they prize, But an undead army shall arise, No one can escape this deadly plague, For the details are quite vague, Unless the chosen one appears, The land will be soaked in tears, This is all that is currently known, All of it is set in stone; Splash them with a deadly potion, Wait until they stop in motion, Give them a golden fruit, Make sure that it has no root. After that, you will find, The power to stop the mastermind. &nbsp;

Lonely Fall Lane by Dylan Blyth A single yellow flame, All there is to light this lonely line. Around it, a sphere of orange does sit, Its face forever staying still. Carved long ago, still lying by the great mill. The road's dirt is dry, beaten by travelers many, It's dust and leaves broken into parts so lonely. The Moon now hangs low, washing the treetops in buttermilk, And the leaves rustle in the breeze. This place lies forever by humans unseized.

Falling Dreams by Will Predmore &nbsp; Falling, nothing to batter or break. The fire burned all the bruises away. Two halves joined together to weather the weather, You're a dream &nbsp; Fueled by adrenaline, a breakneck pace. Never confident, never found my place. Shackled by insecurities dragging downwards, You're a nightmare &nbsp; Jarred awake by ending the fall. A rush of relief releases all. Learning to let it all leave and breathe steadily, You're over

Plus Abby Gray black and white punk dude and Bloody nose, skull roses girl

I need the head exploding guy on the cover of the hard copy version

Dedication Who's that on the vintage bike, breezing up the hill by Clawson's as if it were a salt flat? Matt Hogan. Who's that offering passersby a blast of classic soul-music serenade at the end of each day? Matt Hogan. Who's that spreading enthusiasm so loudly that the front of the building booms with his voice? Whose ancient flip phone is stowed elsewhere so he can give you his full attention? Matt Hogan is the most veteran English teacher in the building, yet his unassuming (we can't say quiet)&nbsp;approach keeps him always under the radar. But his students know who he is. And he knows who they are. No student slips past him in that hall without his notice and a quick check-in. They know he cares about not only them but also the world they inhabit. “Yeah! That’s what I’m talkin’ about!” They see his deliberate and careful attitude everywhere around him, from his ∞ m.p.g. bike poster to the four-pronged system of textual analysis he invented. It emphasizes empathy and agency in the world. They answer “yes” to his question, “Are you pickin’ up what I'm puttin’ down?” He’s puttin’ down values. He’s broadcasting love. For the positive energy he brings to the school, for the inspiration he is to his students and his colleagues, and this year, for all the great creative writing his students sent our way, we dedicate this edition of Dimensions magazine to Matt Hogan.

Advisors Michael Bittlingmaier Charles Vandenberg Chief Editor Ella Costanza Junior Editors and Art Directors Alayna Stong Ana Dunn Editors Toby Edwards Marisol Minnick Micah McEathron Emma Shannon Claire Savary Invaluable Resource The Art Department

Untitled by Jack Cuadrado&nbsp; Summer’s sun has always won.&nbsp; Summer’s sun the brightest one. Autumn’s moon of harvest come. Winter nights, The Christmas lights. When spring has sprung, it all feels young. The flowers, the trees, the apples hung. The grapes that blossomed make our wine. Come Thanksgiving, fine we dine. Come fall, come spring, come summer rain, I watch what happens, repeated again.

The Three Little Pigs by Benjamin Rebhahn I'm the first little pig, my house is of straw. There's a wolf outside, bearing his claw. I know straw's too weak. I've already heard. It doesn't matter, for soon, I'll be a piggy turd. I'm the second little pig, my house is of sticks. There's a wolf outside, with lips that he licks. I don't mind though, he's kinda hot…&nbsp; I'm just saying, by him, I don't mind getting caught.&nbsp; I'm the last little pig, and my brothers… are DEAD! There's a wolf outside that wants my head. To be honest, it's what they deserve though. Sticks and straw? Yeah, how'd that go?

A Word of Warning by Norah Ostberg The footsteps were so silent that anyone else might have never known that they were there at all. But to Amir, and all those whose paths he traced, those footsteps served as a constant, subtle warning. Years ago, the sound had caused his heart to drum in his chest and his hands to tremor with adrenaline, but the threat was worn now, as threadbare as the murmured comfort that managed to slip through iron bars late at night.&nbsp; Amir had outgrown both the terror and the solace the day he’d watched the world as he knew it tear at the seams.&nbsp; The footsteps stilled for a moment, as if their owner was remembering that day too, before picking back up again, brisk and featherlight against the ground. Amir, in contrast, slunk slowly down the weathered tunnel, stirring up dirt so finely ground that it could have been sand. Each inhale of dusty air scraped down his throat. He licked his lips, more out of habit than anything, tongue so dry that it barely moistened them at all. Two more steps brought him to the rusted gate that marked the end of the passage. It stubbornly clung to the crumbling foundation of the gladiatory stands, dampening the worst of the noise from the day’s bloodthirsty crowd. Finally, the footsteps drew even with him. Amir didn’t turn to face their owner just yet; he didn’t have the heart to. &nbsp; The two of them had stood side by side the same way only a handful of times before, but it was always the same. Time between them stretched thin, heavy with the weight of things left unsaid. If Amir were a better man, maybe he could have found the strength to say something. Maybe he would have warned Zahir. Maybe then the words ‘I think they’re going to kill you’ would have wrestled their way out of his mouth instead of curling up and dying there like a cowed animal.&nbsp; Instead, it was Zahir who spoke. “Your opponent wields two swords, but his right side is weak. Your experience far outweighs his.” Gladiators owned by the Rakha Arena weren’t allowed to survey their opponents ahead of time. It wasn’t an officially stated rule, but being locked up in cells most of the time sent a pretty clear message. Guards, on the other hand, had the pleasure of witnessing more matches than even the most rabid of fans. Amir’s usual grunt of thanks got stuck in his throat, so he nodded vaguely in Zahir’s direction instead. Zahir sighed, and Amir stiffened in surprise as the man seized his hand, squeezing tightly enough to bruise.&nbsp; “Don’t die,” he demanded, before pulling away. “We both know you wouldn’t enjoy hell.” His footsteps were too quiet to hear over the roar of the crowd, but Amir could imagine them echoing down the tunnel as he retreated to his post, leaving Amir alone with the knowledge of what was to come. The old gate creaked in protest as it slowly rose, allowing both sunlight and noise to flood through the crumbling mouth of the tunnel. Amir checked his armor again, unbuckling and rebuckling the straps one by one. It was a pointless habit; the cheap leather provided by the arena had never saved anyone’s life.&nbsp; “ARE YOU READY?” shouted the announcer, voice just barely carrying over the chanting of the fans. It was time. Amir squared his shoulders and stepped out onto the scorching sand, giving the crowd his signature scowl. He raised his spear and pointed it at the stands, sweeping it across the rows of people until he leveled it at the other end of the arena, where Salil stood stiffly.&nbsp;

"The mind, once stretched by a new idea, never returns to its original dimensions." Ralph Waldo Emerson "In the final analysis, a drawing simply is no longer a drawing, no matter how self-sufficient its execution may be. It is a symbol, and the more profoundly the imaginary lines of projection meet higher dimensions, the better." Paul Klee "Children will always be afraid of the dark, and men with minds sensitive to hereditary impulse will always tremble at the thought of the hidden and fathomless worlds of strange life which may pulsate in the gulfs beyond the stars, or press hideously upon our own globe in unholy dimensions which only the dead and the moonstruck can glimpse." H.P. Lovecraft

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