EDITOR’S NOTE.

This year, the Poolesville High School Literary Staff envisioned a different direction for the magazine. With a maturing staff, even more imaginative submissions, and the ability to publish online, the members of the PHS Literary Magazine have chosen to revamp Loci, pulling the magazine into a modern age.

Loci signifies the importance of various milestones or turning points in the life of an individu-al. For this year’s magazine, we were inspired by the spontaneity in these milestones. Seduced by the mystery of these hidden memories, we began to create this idea of the box under the bed, a place where a person’s memories come to hide. The topics touched on in this magazine are both fantasical and real, sensitive and lighthearted, structured yet scattered. It is this con-tradiction that makes the contents of our magazine beautifully human.

We hope that this issue of Loci will prompt readers to explore their own boxes under the bed.

-The Editors

box · under · the · bed: noun, a place where memories come to hide.

I. Adventure - Wendy Zhou

II. Hiding Behind Reality- Toni Rose San Miguel Hoax- Photograph by Wendy Zhou

III. Caroline Kraegal Spread IV. Black Bed V. Dissolve VI. White Window

VII. Laces: An Imitation of William Hazlitt-Toni Rose San Miguel Shoes- Photograph by Stephanie Zhang

VIII. Social Media - Isaac Jackel (Cover Graphic) Contact - Justin Tabatabai Hidden Decay - Photograph by Emily Burr

IX. Note to Self - Fangfei Yin Tired Typewriter - Photograph by Isaac Jackel

X. Seasons - Wendy Zhou and Alison Gaynor (Left Photo) ... - Ana Vlajnic (Right Photo) ... - Ana Vlajnic

Table of Contents

XI. Infinite Possibilities - Nathaly Aramayo Tapioca - Photograph by Nikhil Tangirala

XII. Peppers - Photograph by Nikhil Tangirala

XIII. An Excerpt From Grief - Alison Gaynor Breadth - Photograph by Isaac Jackel

XIV. Through Fire and Flames - Chance Worthington Fractured- Connor Pike

XV. Escape Into The Night - Christina He Run Away Prince- Painting by Christina He

XVI. Flow- Painting by Christina He

XVII. Warped - Christina He

Table of Contents (Cont.)

Adventure - Wendy Zhou

Hiding Behind Reality Toni Rose San Miguel

Sometimes all you can do is smile

Muster up a laugh

Or the utterance of a word

Gather the courage to step out of your front door

Mask your sadness in a powdered blush

Keep your voice hushed to subtle tones

Hide your stress in the wrinkles on your head

Put up your hood as you walk to and fro

Fidget with your fingers, sleeves, and shirts

Nibble the fraying ends of your hair

Snack on the leftovers from the days’ measly lunch

Paint a picture in a variance of blues

Sit quietly in the corner of a chaotic room

Hunch your back as if you beared the world

Retain a glossy stare in the blankness of your eyes

Lock your emotions in a unkempt mind

Fake interest in the gossip of the times

Turn your attention to the dirt on your shoes

Let your hair fall and cover the paleness of your face

Cloak your neck in the embrace of a scarf

Let your thoughts wander to places unseen

Stare at the far end of your bedroom

Hide behind reality

Sometimes all you can do is smile

Hoax - Wendy Zhou

CAROLINE KRAEGAL

CAROLINE KRAEGAL

LACES: AN IMITATION OF WILLIAM HAZLITT

When there’s a will, there’s a way – I said to myself staring at the fresh white laces on my feet, trying to contain my utter frustration, determined to make the next step into boyhood. I was resolute in my decision to beg my mother for a new pair of shoes and resolute in perfecting the art of tying my new white shoelaces. Mothers! It is to you I dedicate this tale, for don’t be-little a child’s aspiration or ways of thinking, because what may seem of no importance to you, may be the biggest event to the little one.

BY TONI ROSE SAN MIGUEL

SHOES- STEPHANIE ZHANG

Glancing down at the cold floors of elementary school, one witnesses the abundant variety of fastening choices for transportation: velcro, elastic, slip-on, pull-ups, maybe some combi-nation of these; but only the real traveler sports the shoelace variety. I had spent a great deal of time contemplating how I would convince my mother. It was a hard thing to do; careful maneu-vering had to be performed. If for some reason my mother was to become angry, I would sug-gest backing away by at least the span of an entire room or perhaps even an entire level would be the safest assurance. I quietly, almost in a faint whisper, posed the question of new shoes to my mother, “Mother may I have new shoes please?” “What?” she responded. I tried again, but this time a bit louder than before, “Mother I would love to have new shoes…Please?” and perhaps with a bit too much assertiveness. Brows furrowed, lips pursed, cheeks reddened, you could almost see the smoke coming out of her ears and a fire had set ablaze in her eyes; and all this steam erupted in one blow. The impact of the high-pitched screams came in slow motion as I braced myself for the worst. Afterwards, I was sent to my room to think about what I had requested. The fire-breathing dragon calmed down after a few days; and after a few quiet breakfasts, I tried once again: “Mother may I please have new shoes?” I cringed; ready to curl up into a protective ball formation, as she reached behind her, brows still furrowed, looking as if she was ready to slap the words off my mouth. But instead, her hand returned with a box. A box of new shoes. Shoes with laces. The next day I watched my mother carefully perform the act of tying the white laces, and as I walked out the door to step onto my school bus, I felt renewed and ready to face the other travelers of the school hallway. I have written this account on the purpose that adults, having lost the mind of a juvenile, can renew their old childlike ways and come to understand the quirks of their children, at a time when they themselves were constantly growing and developing mature minds, and when even the smallest of advances seemed like leaps.

LACES: AN IMITATION OF WILLIAM HAZLITT

GK CHESTERTON on

Social Networking

It has come to my attention that in recent years it has become quite fashionable to have on display, for any and all, the most intimate, inane, and perverse details of one’s own personal life. This is the phenomenon of social networking, a title that seems far more benevolent than its true meaning. There was a time, not so long ago, when the fact that one may or may not be having a bagel with lox and cream cheese for breakfast was not cause for alarm, but now it is a fact that others must so desperately know that it is necessary to stand atop a mountain of egotism and nar-cissism and proclaim unto the heavens “I have partaken of this toasted treat most delicious that all throughout the land shall know,” and although it is a proclamation unto the heavens, it would seem only the heathens hear or care. The concept of Social Networking is an ironic one, though “ironic” is a term so overused and bastardized in this present age that for it to truly be such it would have to wear brightly colored denim leggings and a flannel shirt while listening to its neo-Cuban Jazz collection on vinyl. The only thing that I have seen Social Networking teach is how to be anti-social and narcissistic. We live in a society where we don’t have friends; we have “followers.”We are not liked, we have “likes”; there has been an attempt to quantify the most personal quali-ties of our lives, and in doing so we have inflated he egos of those who have little to be truly proud of. A student, a plumber, or truck driver, all completely unremarkable and of humble means,

By Isaac Jackel

might honestly say, “I have 1000 friends.” I maintain that any man who can balance 1000 honest friendships ought to have a run for the ambassa-dorship, for this would be an accom-plishment of such wild diplomacy that to rob the world of his peacekeeping expertise would be truly criminal. No one has a thousand friendships, only a thousand reasons why they believe themselves to be of greater impor-tance than the average man. Never before have I seen so many men and women outside the field of statistics become so infatuated with numbers

No one has a thousand friendships, only a thousand reasons why they believe themselves to be of greater importance than the average man.

“”while still being so ignorant of their

true meaning. What does a “like,” mean in truth; what hidden value could make such a thing so sought-after? All it truly means is that someone looked at block of text or a pic-ture with a name attached to it and clicked a button That it is the mag-nitude a “like” carries, that of a but-ton being pushed. I’ll take a laugh, a chuckle, or a genuine smile over the vapidity and emptiness of a hundred thousand “likes” any day; it is this vapidity and emptiness that so harms those who attempt

to use social networking for the betterment of others. If I asked strangers to donate what-ever drachmas or liras they might spare to help raise awareness of my cause I would

surely be called a madman, and yet organizations the world over clamor for them without anyone calling into question the steadfastness of their mental health. Charities and interests all asking for “likes” to raise awareness of their cause are dealing in a useless currency. What these organizations, and perhaps all of us, desire is support, awareness, and perhaps a monetary contribution, yet all anyone gets are button-clicks. How truly, painfully ironic it is that in quantifying something of such grand im-portance we have reduced its meaning to nil.

Contact (opposite page) - Justin Tabatabai Hidden Decay (above) - Emily Burr

SeasonsBy Wendy Zhou

Harsh like winterSoft as snow

Like leaves in November A fleeting show

The temperature spikes, The monotomy breaks,

Like Summer’s enticement,The freedom to live the life she makes

Photo by Ana Vlajnic

SeasonsBy Wendy Zhou

Harsh like winterSoft as snow

Like leaves in November A fleeting show

The temperature spikes, The monotomy breaks,

Like Summer’s enticement,The freedom to live the life she makes

Photo by Ana Vlajnic

Infinite PossibilitiesNathaly Aramayo

Time.If it could be preserved,What you would do with it?Roll it up,Compressed to make the most of it?Or compacted,To store it somewhere safe?And Love?Would you store it in a bullet proof enclo-sure?Incapable of being damaged,But incapable of being expressed?Or would you let it be?Free to consume,Free to run rampant and chaotic?What about Life?Placed in a glass jar on a picturesque window sill,To be looked at, admired, but never used?Or tossed into rapid white waters,Hurled to and fro, senses on edge,Experiencing absolutely everything?How do you regard these objects?These things of insurmountable value?They radiate simplicity but hide their inner complexitiesThey are capable of tearing apart the strongAnd building up the weakThey can turn the sane mad,Or perhaps give peace to the restlessThey can divideThey can conquerBut strangely enough…They are left to be used at our whimSuch powerful weapons, such amenable peacemakersLaced with all things yet made of nothingUntouchable yet felt harder than any storm…So do tell,

What do you do with them?Tapioca - Nikhil Tangirala

Pepp

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Maybe I didn’t want to leave my house just now. I knew it was risky. My senses were over sensitive, a com-mon side-effect of shock and grief, and any encumbrance of overstimulation from the outside world would have landed me deeper in the laps of the sympathizers inhabit-ing the house I once shared with my family. I knew I couldn’t leave. The rational part of my brain whispered to me, muffled and estranged, calling to me from beneath layers and layers of confusion: “It would be worse out there…” I strained to hear it speak-ing to me, and decided that it was right; I’m better in a place where at least I recog-nize things. Once the sun went down, and my house started to empty, I attempted to con-vince myself that a long day

of emotional wear-and-tear has made me so fatigued that any soft sur-face would do. I tried, con-centrating hard on any hint of lethargy. But ultimately it had to be the Nyquil that put me out.

An Excerpt from GriefAlison Gaynor

Drug-induced dreams would come like a sip of ice cold lemonade on a sizzling summer day, rescuing me from this uncomfortable and sticky place. I can’t remem-ber what I dreamed about. Maybe I was smiling from underneath a wide brimmed hat as I watched my daugh-ter play in the Cape Cod waves. I woke up with a whisp of the dream in my conscience, the sweetest memory. I legitimately felt, for a fraction of a moment, that my life was once again whole. That miniscule instant of absolute bliss and ecstasy was a

fleeting flash of lightning, beautiful and natural. But then I felt the inevitable: the thunderous crash of a tsunami, my tra-chea inching off air supply, pressure and pain mounting in my chest as I struggled to take

in every breath; like I too, was about to lose my life.

Through Fire and Flames Chance Worthington

I open my front door and walk inside,

The smell of my house rushes through my nose,

I’m home.

I watch my family scream as my home is engulfed in flames,

My eyes pouring with tears as the fire eats everything I have ever known,

It’s gone.

I kick my shoes off, walk to the kitchen and greet my mom,

I run to my room, jump into my bed and lay down my head,

I’m home.

The fire takes over the night sky with a mean glow,

Embers float through the sky and land at my feet, “That’s my house”

It’s gone.

My dog jumps on me with excitement as I come downstairs,

We find ourselves wrestling on the living room floor and then falling asleep by the fireplace,

I’m home.

I look at my house as it begins to collapse,

Everything I have ever known, in a pile of ashes,

It’s gone.

I hug my family in need of comfort,

I look at my dad with tears in my eyes, he looks down and says “It’s okay we have our family, we’re safe,”

I’m home.

Down the stairs in the middle of the night,Out the door,Into the field,Into the forest,That swallows men wholeAnd spits out their bones,You will find a home.

There are thornsThat pierce your skinBut not your heart,And you trudge on,Lighthearted, lightheaded,To the anthem of the wild.Under a canopy of leaves and starsYou will find a bed.

Rest your weary bones.Let your doubts and worries Seep into the soilAnd be reborn.

Rest your weary bones.Let your fears and lethargyTranspire into the airAnd rain down pure.

Let nature hold youAs its beloved child,For love of natureIs a love requited.

An Escape Into the Night

by Christina He

Let nature hold youAs its beloved child,For love of natureIs a love requited.

Rejuvination- Christina He

THE MIRROR

NEVER LIES

COLOPHON

Loci is Poolesville High School’s annually published literary magazine. It is composed entirely of student produced work, including fiction, non-fiction, poetry, artwork, and photography. Loci is a member of the Columbia Scholastic Press Association (CSPA) and the Maryland Scholastic Press Association (MSPA). The magazine is distributed online through Issuu.com and shared through online social media and the high school’s homepage.

Members of the staff meet weekly to discuss theme ideas, edit submissions, and design layouts. All artwork, photography, and page layouts were edited using Adobe InDesign CS6. The final magazine was both pub-lished online and printed using Issuu.com.

EDITOR-IN-CHIEF STAFF Ankita Jain Logan Weir ASST. EDITORS-IN-CHIEF Fangfei Yin Neel Kaul Rosalyn Xu Emily BurrLAYOUT EDITORS ADVISOR Toni Rose San Miguel Mr. Stephen Swift Alexi WorleyPOETRY EDITOR Alison GaynorLITERARY EDITOR Wendy ZhouPHOTOGRAPHY EDITORS Julia Belenky Christina HeSECRETARY Elim ChoBUSINESS MANAGER Neel Kaul

Poolesville High School’s Literary Magazine Editors and Staff