The Icarian Lit Mag 2024

Naperville Central High School

T H E I C A R I A N

Literary Art Magazine 2024

untitled

photograph by August Zyblut, senior

The Icarian 2024


Naperville, Illinois

First published in 1961, the NCHS literary magazine integrated images

and themes from the story of Daedalus and his son, Icarus, to

communicate both discovery and struggle. This year, Icarus visits us once

again as we travel through the tragedy of his tale and his flight.

The theme for this edition is Into the Abyss. The very first piece of the

magazine, Bend in Reality, depicts two figures blurring into the darkness

as they enter a cave. Accordingly, the rest of the issue is a journey

through the complicated, dark, and confusing parts of both the outside

world and ourselves.

As you read the issue, we hope the colorful and thoughtful works

about nature and the world around us encourages you to take an

introspective look at humans and our shared environment.

We are The Icarian, and we hope this magazine inspires you to seek out

all the wonders of the world. After all, everyone is an artist by nature.

Table of Contents

Art

2. Bend In Reality a photograph by Oakley O’Brian, senior

4. Drawing by Carina Rao, sophomore

5. Look Up a photograph by Julia Zimmerman, senior

6. Hidden World a photograph by Paige Bottarelli, sophomore

7. Child in the Tree mixed media by Katie Schiltz, senior

9. Photograph by August Zbylut, senior

10. Never Grow Up lithography print by Athena Chen, senior

11. Photograph by Tomi Bounphisai, senior

14. Clair de Lune a sketch by Joanna Dvorkin, sophomore

17. A Junior in a Box of Seniors a digital drawing by Athena Chen, senior

18. Smiles Worth Living For a digital drawing by Sesat Campos Quesada, freshman

19. Glimpses of Touch a painting by Daniela Zavala, senior

21. Spasm a painting by Daniela Zavala, senior

22. Ace a drawing by Jaden Yau, senior

24. The Rain a painting by Ri Nichols, freshman

25. Cerulean Blue a drawing by Bijoux Stilson, sophomore

28-29. Roman Bust pottery by Jaden Yau, senior

30. Abundance a drawing by Lucy Buchheit, junior


35. Galactic Reverie mixed media by Deana Wilson, sophomore

38. No Escape a photograph by Karena Anderson, junior

40. Lost Evidence a photograph by Karena Anderson, junior


43. The Forlorn a painting by Annika Anderson, freshman

44. Digital drawing by Renee Roozeboom, sophomore


47. What a Beautiful Day a photograph by Miriam Comstock-Fisher, junior

Table of Contents

Writing

3. “Rot” by Rebecca te Velthuis, junior

4. “under the covers” by Nina Rao, junior

5. “Autumn Chords” by Jillian Katz, freshman

8-9. “the swings i get sappy on” by Ria Das, senior

10-11. “7 Hours of Rest” parts 1 and 2 by Javier Sevilla, senior

12-13. “The Market” by Prakruthi Vijay, freshman

15. “Clair de Lune” by Michael Liu, junior

15. “7 hours of Rest” part 3 by Javier Sevilla, Senior

16-17. “My Morning Breeze” by Peter Kroll, junior

18. “Walk through the World” by Riley Grace, sophomore

20. “Am AI in Love?” by Tené, junior

21. “7 Hours of Rest” part 4 by Javier Sevilla, senior

22. “Sheepish” by Riley Grace, sophomore

23. “Tuff Love” by Javier Sevilla, senior

24. “Stalled” by Tené, junior


26. “The Fish Bowl” by Addison Wojcik, senior

27. “Dreams Weave Quite a Tale” by John Hayward, staff

28-29. “Pottery” by Elaine Zhou, junior


32-33. “Come find me!” by Sofia Crittle, sophomore

34. “Nova” by Tené, junior

36. “One Big Dancefloor” by Tené, junior

37. “March 12, 2020” by John Hayward, staff


39. “Humanity” by Javier Sevilla, senior

42. “The Train” by Claire Mouton, sophomore

45. “Truth is I...” by Riley Grace, sophomore

46. “Where Did It All Go Wrong?” by Karen Ng, freshman

50. “Stinkin’ Lincoln” by Addison Wojicik, senior

Bend In Reality

photograph by Oakley O’Brian, senior

2

i could not bear to let go of

the fruit of our love

and so i foolishly let it rot

on the branches of my heart

Rot

by Rebecca te Velthuis, junior

under the covers

by Nina Rao, junior

i've always been terrified of the dark

of that perilous place where the unknown roams

where the shadows come to life and creep towards you

so i tuck myself under the covers,

cocooned from the world outside

but it's only when you hide under the covers

are you truly blind not seeing lurking demons

those long, spindly fingers reaching out

eyes soulless and teeth glinting

inching crawling grasping

until you feel breath across your face

that is not your own

and a sharp nail scraping your

collarbone

so i open my eyes,

only to find the darkness under the

covers with me

4

untitled

drawing by Carina Rao, sophomore

Autumn Chords

by Jillian Katz, freshman

It’s harder to get up when the wind on

your window instructs you to stay in bed

When autumn chimes a call

And the ringing hurts your head

And it's hard to swallow your medicine

when there's fall memories to be made

But you stay indoors among the

mushrooms

Waiting for decay

Look Up

photograph by Julia Zimmerman, senior

There's a feeling that comes with the weather drop into the lower fahrenheit

When sullied red, and brown leaves rot before harvest

And the sun no longer shines so bright

And I wish on those cold season nights

For a hope, a gleam, just a warm simple light

But again the autumn chimes its temperate chord

And this time it tells me I'll be alright

5

Hidden World

photograph by Paige Bottarelli, sophomore

6

Child in theTree

mixed media by Katie Schiltz, senior

7

the swings i get sappy on

by Ria Das, senior

Unfortunately for my mom, the walks I take are 80% walking and 20% sitting down

and thinking deeply about life. Not exactly 100% exercise, but it’s not like she’ll ever

have to know about the existential dread I get when I sit down and think too much.

Whenever I go on a walk, I’ll bypass the neighborhood, going onto a sidewalk leading

me away from it. I keep walking and walking until a rectangular wooden building with a

red tiled roof comes into view, the Knoch Knolls Nature Center. While on my walk, I

turn onto a gravelly path that leads around the perimeter. As I make my way down the

path, I sneak a glance at the Nature Center’s adjoining playground. When the weather is

nicer, I’ll see kids playing, checking out all the unique structures.

Sometimes there'll be a kid or two perched up top of this beige, rocky structure

conjoined with a blue slide attached to it. Their parents watch from the bottom closely.

I’m usually opposed to climbing structures (I’m not a fan of rock walls), but ones made

for playgrounds aren’t too intense.

Next to it is this pentagon climbing contraption, covered with a myriad of blue ropes.

Despite not being a notorious climber, I’ve also climbed up to the top of it.

I was with some friends and I didn’t think I could do it, but I managed to ignore the

rough feel of the rope against my hand. I managed to push myself up, stepping and

grabbing rope like it was no big deal.

Being on top of the world felt great.

Nearby, both of those structures are my personal favorite, the dark gray swings that are

a tight fit and creak slightly, held up by metal poles.

After I finish walking the perimeter of Knoch Knolls, I’ll walk back to the park and sit

on those swings.

Sure, it adds another 30 minutes to how much longer I’ll be outside for, but it’s not a big

deal to me. If anything, I like taking walks just before the sunset. I love seeing the pinks

and the oranges in the sky from the swingset.

8

I prefer when there are no kids around because, yes, I would feel bad if a kid wanted to

be on a swing and I, not a child, was taking that away from them. But if there is an

empty swing, I’ll always go to sit on one.

I’ll swing up on it, push my legs and swing back and forth. I like swinging forward high

up into the sky, soaring up so high that it feels like I’m floating, with the music in my

headphones blasting. I get really into the back and forth motion.

At some point I’ll stop if it gets too dark, or if I can feel a chill that makes me want to

be inside. I have to come back down to Earth as my feet scrape down on the slightly

bouncy and gray asphalt to stop swinging.

When I stop swinging though, I get hit with the memory that I’m not a kid anymore; I

was 17 for a whole year, and now I’m 18 years old. In being with myself on the

playground, I find myself longing for simpler times.

I wish I could spend my days

climbing up structures, swinging

on the set, and going down the

slide multiple times and sometimes

feeling an electric shock.

I wish my friends and I could

spend hours and hours just

pushing each other on the swings,

laughing about life.

untitled photograph by August Zbylut, senior

But now, I can’t. I have responsibilities and commitments. I have to spend those hours

and hours on schoolwork, extracurriculars, and with what little I have left, sleep.

Being at the park serves a bittersweet reminder. I can’t spend half of my day

on play, but at one point I did.

I can’t have it now, but I’ll always have the memories.

9

7 Hours of Rest:

a poem in seven parts

by Javier Sevilla, senior

Part 1: 11:00pm

Wounds heal and scars fade,

but the memories of you and I

will always be the same.

The clock strikes the next hour

as the relationship turns sour.

Without you, a void that seems

endless breaks me and makes life

seem pointless.

For all the words that you told

me of love and promise. They seem

so empty now in my solace.

For if I wasn’t a fool, I would’ve

realized that I was nothing more

than a tool. As you grace me

with goodbye, I forget your name

and watch you die.

Never Grow Up

lithography print

by Athena Chen, senior

10

untitled

photograph by Tomi Bounphisai, senior

7 Hours of Rest:



Part 2: 12:07 am

I feel nothing but a soft tide. I see the

blue ocean stretching far and wide.

Those days of happiness and glee have

stepped aside. As something approaches,

clouds dark and gray. They march

through and begin to hunt for their

prey. A lone man on the beach with

nothing to say. Looks up and begins to

fade away.

For he had no chance to fight the storm

that comes his way. The clouds dampen

and cover the beach in which he stands.

They continue onward creeping up on

glistening sand. They have no remorse

taking what’s in his hands. For a lonely

man has nothing but his thoughts and

strands.

The whispering ideals that once made him whole. No longer had the power to comfort

and guide his soul. For he is a man alone battling to regain control. Desperately

trying to carry the weight that has taken its toll. So he is ready to accept the pain

of this storm. Knowing what he must form. He builds a shell to keep his dying

heart warm. Because the pointless fight that once gave him hope disappears as

lighting strikes igniting the rope. The storm is upon him. For his time in the bright

sky sang like a hymn. The darkness again makes thy future grim.

11

The Market

by Prakruthi Vijay, freshman

The heartbeat of a city is its market. It is in the market that secrets are shared, goods are

exchanged, and kings of old have disguised themselves among the crowds to learn about

their subjects. The market is always too much—too much color shoved in your face as

merchants try to sell their wares, too many tantalizing smells pulling you in different

directions, and too many people, all pushing in different directions yelling this or that.

But to truly take the pulse of a market one must also understand its dark side. The

market is children hiding, hoping that someone would decide to be charitable and give

them coins. The market is people robbing from stalls just to get a morsel of food. The

market, for all of its wonders and vibrancy, has an undertone of gray. It was as if

someone decided one day that they would paint over the market and make it so bright

that all of the problems would have to go away. Wrong. Instead, the problems retreated

into the shadows haunting the edges of the market. So it became my motto: the market is

an illusion and nothing but one.

_________________________________________________________________

The sun beats down upon me brutally as I run through the market, lording over me with

so much arrogance that I wish it could go up in flames. My feet thudded against the

ground, going as fast as they could carry me, kicking up dirt and dust. I run through the

food stall, knocking over crates of oranges, pomegranates, and bananas. I risk a look

behind me and dare to hope that I lost them, only to meet the angry faces of two guards

and a Chai vendor who were quickly approaching. I ran, praying to every god I knew to

save me. I had only wanted a cup of Chai; I was dying of thirst and I had enough money

to get me one cup. But that stupid, high-and-mighty Chai vendor took one look at my

faded half-saree and matted hair and refused to give me a drink. I showed him that I had

money, hoping that then he would finally give me the Chai, but oh, was that a grave

mistake. I can recall how his face had gone still with shock, and then a slow grin slinked

over his face. I understood immediately: he was going to turn me in as a thief and collect

a reward, even though he knew I did not steal that money! I certainly looked the part of

someone who had been touched by the shadows, the dangers that lurked outside the

safety market. And as much as I tried, I could not be mad at him. Business has been bad

in the market for a few years and more and more people are slipping into the shadows,

hoping to be forgotten.

I sprint further and further away from the guards and the vendor. I wanted to sink to the

ground and take a nap, but all I could think about was running, exhaustion pounding at

my bones. It seemed like I could not stop, as if I was being pulled by an invisible magnet.

Slowly, the setting around me started to get grayer and darker. Dead animals littered

the street, creating a stench so strong it could have knocked someone out. It seemed as

if, slowly, someone had decided to suck the color out of the world. As I ran, I realized I

was in the place where people went to be forgotten. Where one goes when they don’t

want to be found. The ones who could not stay as bright and shiny as the market

demands.

Children sat on the porch steps of houses—their eyes solemn. There was no laughter;

there was no childishness in them, and there was no warmth in them; they were solid

and cold as if someone had sucked the hope out of them. They sat like statues watching

for something. I passed women and men, beat up with bruises covering their skin. I saw

a teenage girl pick up a rotting piece of fruit and eat it without a grimace. As I

continued on, the shadows grew darker— the dark emotionless eyes haunting me.

They were everywhere. I ran as more and more of them started to appear, adding to

the weight, the blankness I was feeling in myself. I kept running despite this magnetic

attraction pulling me deeper and deeper into the world of no souls. I felt myself turning

gray, the emotions of the place slowly engulfing me. This was not the bright bustling

colorful market; this place was a death wish. However, I kept running, even though I

felt my lungs were going to pop. As if I could outrun this sad place and the shadows

that were haunting it. Those emotionless dark black eyes were following me and

haunting me.

I felt a shove and I was pushed to the ground, the momentum from my running ending,

me sliding across the dirt. The dirt filled my lungs and coated me as I tried to catch

myself. When I finally managed to clear my lungs and lift my head up, I went still. A

feeling of dread washed over me. The gray and shadows surrounding me seemed to

seep into my skin, trying to worm into my brain, depleting me of my energy. All of

those cold, dark, black eyes were fixed on me, regarding me as one regards an animal in

the zoo. Then, I heard a voice. It was high-pitched, strangely beautiful for its ominous

tone, saying, “Hello my friend, I see that you have come to join us.” With that, the

shadows rushed into me, surrounded me, and my mind went blank.

Epilogue

The market is an illusion. Bright, vivid colors trying to hide the shadows. But no

matter how bright the light shines, there will always be a shadow waiting to take the

light from somebody or someone.

The market is the pulse of the city, but the shadows are an unavoidable disease that

lurks, seeking their next victim.

13

Clair de Lune

sketch by Joanna Dvorkin, sophomore

14

Clair de Lune

inspired by the sketch Clair de Lune

by Michael Liu, junior

Flowers sing about flowers,

bone touches bone,

and the moon sits in the background

like a memory.

7 Hours of Rest: a poem in seven parts


Part 3: 1:13 am

Sleep is like death. You are still but with breath. The world forgets you nonetheless.

Nobody cares and nobody thinks of you. Merely dreams are all that accompany

you. Alone you are in a black night that seems a little blue. For the value that I

once had in people's minds are dissipating in a mist that never shines. As your head

lay on thou pillow feeling fine. My presence in your thoughts seems to decline. But

am I really dead? Is it your words of sorrow that conform to what the doctors

said? That my pulse has jumped from a beep to a flatline instead. We all experience

a little bit of dying. So why are we lying? When we say goodnight only to feel a

little bit of the dead’s crying.

15

My Morning Breeze

by Peter Kroll, junior

The fresh breeze of the morning air,

never intended to be appreciated by humans, somehow wafts onto my unmoved face.

It’s too early for anyone to reasonably be awake;

but, as fate would have it,

I stand engulfed in the wind.

My bus-stop was empty.

The sky was full of clouds.

I was warm,

my hands rapidly running along my unclothed arms,

while the air was cool.

I stood still and looked up at the sky,

a tree in my view.

I knew the sky was pretty behind the tree,

but my feet stayed still,

firmly planted in the ground.

Why couldn’t I move?

The beauty easily within my reach;

just a quick step to the side,

and I

would have it.

Yet,

I can’t.

Maybe I don’t want to.

Before my thoughts took oddly over my vision,

16

the light of the bus’s headlights shine on my body,

my eyes rapidly blinking myself back to reality.

Trying to push all this out of my head,

not moving my head an inch,

I step onto the bus as a chill

quickly

runs

down

my

spine.

A pause.

I blink.

Why was no one on the bus,

and why did I know it was

all

my

fault?

A Junior in a Box of Seniors

digital drawing by Athena Chen, senior

Walk through the World

by Riley Grace, sophomore

Gentle breeze whispers

Nature’s dance in sunlight hues

Serene moments bloom

Smiles Worth Living For

digital drawing by Sesat Campos Quesada, freshman

18

Glimpses of Touch

painting by Daniela Zavala, senior

19

Tené

Spasm

painting by Daniela Zavala, senior

7 Hours of Rest:


Javier Sevilla, senior

Part 4: 1:55 am

A mirror is simply a reflection of

one’s self for a moment in time. A

split second you can see yourself

and recognize who you are and

what you look like. It is a camera,

it captures all of our moments

that we don’t want anyone to see.

It holds our moments of suffering we hide as we look at ourselves in our own eyes.

And yet it also possesses our victory and triumph over being stagnant as a human

being. It allows us to see our progress, our own thing, the only thing that someone

can’t take away from us, our identity and lives, our experience, it's all simply just a

parallel. To what we will look at in the future. A mirror is simply a reflection but

with so much meaning that just being the opposite of you could be looking back.

21

Sheepish


I close my eyes as my cheeks glow red

Work once so proud now thrown on the ground

(I wish the words I felt had just stayed in my head)

Embarrassment from the outside echoes in my head

Gawking eyes turn as I feel a threat


Voices mocking so loud I’d think I were dead

My heart starts to pound like the tick of a clock


Phrases with so much power that are repeatedly said

Fingers unconsciously clench in my hand


Ace

drawing by Jaden Yau, senior

I wonder how so much trust could be between people, Enough to be wed

Looking up to the ceiling as I wonder if things could be different


I think hard imagining for comfort I´m back in my bed

The betrayal I feel, unjust or not, still hurts the same



Tuff Love


The beauty of words flow through the brokenness of man.

Rushing toward solace and death’s hot brand.

Constantly crying and asking for hope.

Each day I wish to see that knotted rope.

Peaceful in the morning and happy awake.

The day begins with a jolt and a shake.

Another day I’m blessed with to live out my dreams

Yet I struggle even to mend my broken seams

I’m glad I’m alive for others beg for death

But in this world we cry for our mothers in our final breath.

I ponder my existential loneliness to no end

Seeing if there’s a point to even my close friends

Life is hard and beats us down to despair

However not trying at all leaves humans unaware

That every day we should wake up and thank

The one who guides us to his heavenly water tank

I thirst for his everlasting water

Only to find salt carried on from my fake father

His deceptions of lust and greed

They follow me, he sees my every deed.

I cannot escape his gaze

I feel unworthy like a child who a father failed to raise

Salvation from my sins is a hard path to walk

But I know that with faith and love his words are cream of the crop.

23

Stalled

by Tené, junior

You can complain all you like

that we aren’t moving forward together.

Arms tensely folded across your chest, me idle,

both of us fuming. Are you enjoying the view of your former

fast-paced life from the side of the road? I want to tell you more about how much of your fault this is.

The warning signs were all there. Lights and sounds all active and present. You chose to ignore the need

and simply pressed on, miles of opportunity behind us. The adaptation and adjustment is all on me, then?

I’ll somehow tap into my reserve tank while you passively tap out songs on the wheel? That’s not how

this relationship works. Silence instead of harmony? Tears now instead of passion? Fine. I might also

remind you

to add some

wiper fluid,

though there’s

no icon or

sensor for that.

24

The Rain

painting by Ri Nichols,

freshman

Cerulean Blue

drawing by Bijoux Stilson, sophomore



I often enjoy being alone. I like it. I like that you can ask yourself things

that seem greater than you. When you are alone you can find what’s

clear and what is correct. When you're alone you don’t have anything

bothering or distracting you. When you are alone you can see your own

weaknesses. When you are alone problems you didn’t know existed seem to

appear only there. When you are alone death doesn’t seem so big. When

you are alone life appears to be so long. When you are alone you find

peace. When you are alone you can reveal what’s hidden. When you are

alone are you truly lonely?

Part 5: 2:48 am

25

,

,

The Fish Bowl

by Addison Wojcik, senior

Outside a fish bowl looking in,

I watch all the fishes swim and

swim.

They dart around and laugh and play,

I wish I could do the same.

The fishes all know each other by name,

unbeknownst to them I can recount

all but refrain.

At school “partner up” the fishes are asked,

I stare from outside the bowl

knowing I will be last.

On the playground the fishes make games of all sorts of things,

I look at them while alone on my

swing.

Once in while I dive under the water,

while I struggle to breathe, the fish

watch in horror.

“What’s wrong with her?” the fishes remark,

“She’s not like us,” they say with a

snark.

The fishes are tested on who knows best,

They raise their fins to prove

they’re up to the test.

I watch them answer left and right,

hanging my head I close my hands

tight.

Outside a fish bowl looking in,

,

,

,

I long to learn how to swim.

26

Dreams Weave Quite a Tale

by John Hayward, staff

In the dream I had last night, you had just moved into a mansion.

You were offering tours, so I signed up and arrived on time not wanting to

miss your exciting new adventure.

A group gathered in the foyer and exchanged warm greetings and a few hugs

among other long-since-seen friends.

But you didn’t hug me.

You looked down instead and gave a stern warning that we needed to change

out of our street shoes. Wouldn’t want any trace of the outside world to

permeate these pristine borders.

Even for a dream, I can’t determine which one of us has the worst attitude.

“Here,” you gesture with excitement to a basket filled with pairs of knitted

booties you had recently made. Evidence of the fortune you obviously inhale

as a crafty influencer.

A kaleidoscope of yarn transformed from spools and balls to actual footwear.

Plenty for everyone. Every color imaginable. “Just like my website.”

Many muffled grumbles rise into the two-story atrium as guests kick off their

comfort in exchange for your precious talent and delicate home.

“Trade your clown shoes for cloud shoes,” you offer with a sharp laugh.

Head now high, hand upraised, dismissing complaints.

I am late to join the group, tangled in my unlacing, fingers numb with slight

offense, thinking booties are stupid.

You should have knitted carpets.

27

Pottery

by Elaine Zhou, junior

I've been painted many colors

Some cool, some warm

I've been passed through many hands

Some rough, some kind

Some broke, others mended

But it doesn't change who I am

A woman made of clay

Still has a human soul

Even sitting, unsold,

in a sad ceramic shop.

I hope to feel love

Some remnants of affection

From the patrons who visit

Anything adjacent to it

I'll take whatever's left.

But all I feel is their grip

Wandering to forbidden places

And I wish my clay body

were flesh

To give me a chance to recoil

Roman Bust

pottery by Jaden Yau, senior

Locked in a kiln,

My life is like black and white film

A clay woman with a human soul

Glazed eyes and no way home

When I left the farm at thirteen

To support the American dream

To support the war fought overseas.

The weapons were worth more

Than I would ever be.

28

Clay can’t feel

Is this why I became it?

molded by other's desires

Scarred from the fire

How cold is this hardened clay?

I want blood in my veins,

Pulsing through my body

by a beating heart

like waves by the brutal torque

of a full moon.

Today the sunlight still cracks apart

my clay skin

Like unkept statues in the

late afternoon,

Or pillars on the Taj Mahal,

And people that walk by

reflect on my

brass surface like little ghosts

or rather old memories

Do they stay, do they haunt you

The way they haunt me too?

“You’re beautiful like Aphrodite”

But unlike me,

she’s heavenly and true

And maybe I can love myself

With the same love she imbues

Perhaps some day

When I am human again…

But not quite yet.

29

Abundance

drawing by Lucy Buchheit, junior

untitled

photograph by August Zbylut,

senior

7 Hours of Rest:



Part 6: 3:39 am

A cold draft begins to

wash over. Thoughts seem

to get closer. All endless

movement, all through

one's life is nothing but

what life is itself. Just

movement, continuous but

never-ending, never the

same, constantly changing.

Life is not the same it

never will be. It will always

change. Temperature and

priorities change just like

people. Nothing is ever the

same, change is in our

destiny.

31

Come find me!

by Sofia Crittle, sophomore

Come find me!

Here I come, born from the coldest of days and the warmest hands.

From tears of joy and fresh new beginnings.

To clouds gently wrapping the new year

in a blanket of snow like a newborn baby

I am welcomed into the world.

Come find me!

There I go, painting the world with my imagination.

Try to catch my eyes as they fill

with a whimsy so deep that they shine,

Taking everything that the world has to offer me

to make beautiful chaos called art;

I feel the universe through my dreams,

I see and hear with my heart,

From juneberries to chokecherries,

To mulberry trees, and riverbank grapes;

To singing leaves and the stirring wind,

I lend an ear to the secrets they whisper,

Whose sweet song, as light as dewdrops,

Lulls me to sleep.

Come find me!

There I was, in the darkest of nights, deepest of sorrows,

my soul dirtied and defiled, my heart torn.

Crying hard as I try to wash it clean with my tears,

only for it to end in vain.

Stains cling and forever mock me.

They glare, “it’ll never be the same again!”

But soon this voice ceases,

For it is nothing more than an illusion.

They are my battle scars,

Reminding me that I am a warrior

Stronger than from whence I came.

32

You found me!

Here I am!

Come! Watch me live

With heart as my brush,

My past as my paint,

And my life as my canvas,

Feel me through my imaginations

as I daydream impossible dreams.

Hear me laugh in the face of suffering

and move past it in stride.

See me in my darkest hours to my brightest days,

See me travel from where I'm from to who I am.

From city lights to country sides

From crabapple trees and morning glories

To artists, musicians and great imaginators;

I travel this path made of memories,

Trying to make sense of nonsense

and giggling as I grow,

But the path is uncertain

There is still a long way to go

So,

Come! Let's live with all we can!

Hear me laugh, hear me cry,

Watch me dance, watch me lie,

Feel what I love and what I fear

Hear me shout and whisper

The stories I hold dear.

Watch me live with everything that I am;

Exist as all things do;

Through beauty and terror,

Let's keep going.

Come find me,

As I deliver this poem to you.

33

Nova

by Tené, junior

Your laughter and smile inspired such joy in me

throughout our semester of Chemistry.

Though you sat across the room

and we entered at different times,

I longed to know what it was like to be near you.

When I overheard you saying to a friend

you were going to enroll in Astronomy class,

I nervously asked my counselor for a schedule change.

The teacher talked of stars and galaxies

while I daydreamed of a blanket on an evening hillside

someday in our future

next to you, holding hands, silently absorbing constellations.

When the topic of black holes came up,

I watched in total disbelief as you outlined with your fingers

the shape of a heart over your own, smiling shyly at your friend.

Is that your universe right now?

Does your heart feel like a black hole?

What about that smile and joy?

Do they succumb to the vacuum of darkness within?

I volunteer to fly to that distant aberration no matter how many light years away!

I, then, will be the bright sun tenderly overtaking that pull!

I will shine into that darkness from your past until not a single shadow dares remain!

Your laughter will be safe in my warmth.

Your hold will release pain and cling to me.

Our love eternally expanding, birthing planets and new life.

You, Nova, reborn and alive

full of light in my day and evening sky.

34

mixed media by Deana Wilson, sophomore

Galactic Reverie

35

One Big Dancefloor

by Tené, junior

Somehow I have been peeled off the wall

and encouraged to join others on the dancefloor

Strobes of direct light burn into my eyes

On the same rhythm as the pounding in my ears

A headache in the making

Through the haze of machine fog and breath,

From among the silhouettes, you emerge

Separated into a valley of bodies where you beckon me closer

My feet betray previously held will and begin to move

Some primal pattern of shifts and miniature jumps

A mirror of what you lead

Fingers, then arms, make contact in light brushes past one another

Part of the ritual a change in songs doesn’t affect, still moving

Closer still, sharing the same tile, the same air, a smile

Your eyes dismantling resistance, a slow melt

We are light and song and motion for hours

Love’s potential awakening

Music and rhythms turning down, lights rising, masses drifting apart

Walls and bordering chairs to reoccupy, limos to ride home

Except us

We glide, connected, to a side door of the banquet hall to welcome in the outside world

Our hands still clasped in the gentle breeze

Gasping in relief that the onslaught of sensory waves has subsided

Your head on my shoulder

I wonder if we will continue this promenade in a shared future

Will we discover new songs to sync our steps to in this life?

How long can we remain on this one, big dancefloor together?

36

March 12, 2020

by John Hayward, staff

Got home at 11pm and sat in front of the television

Finger resting between options on the remote.

Mind filled with visions of panicked people

Log jammed in their cars

Gliding past each other in serious, determined lines

Worry furrowing brows

Illuminated by hand-held screens

Plugged into the stream of sound in order to avoid the other

Chaotic din of movement toward destruction.

Muted explosions of data – the latest numbers – scrolling, scrolling

As officials and experts delivered words down to its citizens

That everything will be okay in the end,

Just need to endure a little longer

We’re working on an intervention.

Our thoughts and prayers are with you.

Supplies are limited

Stores are overrun with urgency, shelves stocked with desperation

Questions lingering, too many unknowns.

Leery eyes guarding carts and wallets and mouths.

Check your temperature, don’t touch your face, don’t touch each other,

You’ll never know until it’s too late.

Best to stay where you are, unmoving and powerless.

Endless scrolling numbers upward.

Navigating resurfaced curiosities: Can you flush Kleenex or napkins?

Who bought all the yeast? Does powdered milk still taste like milk?

Is it even right to complain?

Got home at 11pm and sat in front of the television

Finger resting between options on the remote

Wondering if I should even turn it on

Breathing between the world’s gasps for air and answers.

37

No Escape digital drawing by Karena Anderson, junior



Part 7: 5:01 am

Tonight I cry. For the pain that I feel, but also for the frustration

that’s toweringly real. My emotions only seem to whither and writhe. I’m

tired of this feeling of emptiness and solitude growing inside me.

A boulder of pain all within one tear comes from my eye. It feels as

though there is an ocean of pain still waiting to die. Though as it all comes

at night it is as devastating as what my heart wants to write.

For I hold back wanting to know that the world has not forgotten me.

38

Humanity


I am a lifeless creature with no heart.

My flesh pulses but I’m easily torn apart.

My soul resides somewhere else far.

My mind is stuck and left with a scar.

I lied to her and left a gift.

Tears and pleasure filled the rift.

We were never meant to be.

It was simply my turn to open my eyes and see.

That the body is nothing more than flesh.

Pleasure does not fill me, but leaves me like mesh.

I am broken. I went down that dark road again.

Only to feel and see how much I alone can mend.

I fought the darkest nights alone.

The reminisces of me have been skinned to the bone.

I lay there empty, fallen, and worthless.

I went on, my life began to fall into a mess.

I then realized and remembered I chose this pain myself.

I gave it to myself so I could become a stronger person that I could

stand alone on a shelf.

I have made it through; I see the light.

I see the mistakes I’ve made are all done in the night.

Away from the eyes of those who care to see me fly.

But I drank my own poison to see if I would die.

It hurt but not as much as I thought.

But maybe I need to go deeper for what I think lies ahead is still what I

sought.

To become him to become strong enough to only need his presence.

Yet I still fall short of him; I’m weak without his loving essence.

I will overcome and step over my darkness.

I have already accepted it as a part of me.

But it will no longer be my weakness.

39

l

Lost Evidence

photograph by Karena Anderson, junior

40

untitled

photograph by August Zbylut, senior

41

The Train

by Claire Mouton, sophomore

Across from the train station lives a woman. She waits for a letter from her

husband, who will never write back. She sits in her front yard, on the lawn chair

with the faded red paint chipping off from the summer sun. She watches the train

come and go each morning, hoping to see her husband step off the train in the

morning, the train that he once sat in screaming into the distance.

Her neighbor watches the woman sitting in her lawn chair. The neighbor

doesn’t wait for her husband because he’s already dead. She watched him step on

the train one morning, then never saw him again. She didn’t watch the train after

he stepped on it. She didn’t see him wave goodbye because she thought she would

have another chance to see him wave goodbye.

She wears the expression of an aged veteran, a person who knows about losing

people you love. Occasionally, the women make eye contact. Neither smile.

Neither knows the longing for companionship they buried; one in their heart, the

other in the graveyard.

The train screams as it does every morning. Life moves on around them, and

the woman thinks about how their lives could thaw and they could begin anew.

Her husband does come home. Without a letter of warning. But before the

woman can invite him inside, she sees her neighbor, standing outside her front

door, watching as she always does. And she shakes her head.

Her husband isn’t invited inside. Her neighbor is invited over instead. They talk

over tea, but for a moment, their voices are inaudible over the screaming of the

train. They stop and listen. The train stops its call. And they can look out the

window at the train disappearing for what feels like the first time.

42

The Forlorn

painting by Annika Anderson, freshman

43

untitled

digital drawing by Renee Roozeboom, sophomore

44

Truth is I...


Truth is, I wish to be part of something

greater than myself.

I give back after my time.

Truth is, I want to be a tree.

Not now, I love life, love to feel smitten,

but after death.

“The permanent ending of a vital

process in a cell or tissue.”

I wouldn’t be tied to that definition as my

limbs provide shade for those heated and my

body gives oxygen keeping the world keeping

around.

So the truth is, I want to be a tree long

after I’m gone and be more than I ever could

in this life.

photograph by August

Zbylut, senior

45

Where Did It All Go Wrong?

by Karen Ng, freshman

Laying in your bed at three in the morning, wondering what went wrong?

Was it the way you shifted from playing with dolls to playing with your appearance?

The way instead of painting pictures in art, to instead painting on your face.

What about instead of eating, you were feeling the rush of nausea?

From the moment you got up til the moment you sat back down.

Because quite frankly you couldn't handle the shift.

You couldn't handle the way you hated yourself, nor the way you looked,

nor the way you acted.

This new you that painted an image of your parents' worst nightmare..

You couldn't handle it..

From playing with Barbie dolls, your childhood was paralyzed.

The summers where everything was warm and jolly,

They turned into winters, where everything was cold and foggy.

Where what you thought was a teenage dream turned into a teenage nightmare.

Where you thought you would go to parties, you instead laid in your bed..

Because quite frankly you couldn't handle the thought of change.

Was this the paradise, the same paradise smeared with blood,

Your blood, the blood of your childhood?

Because your childhood was gone, when everything started to go wrong.

From waking up early because you loved going to school,

Where your mom braided your hair that turned into your face being faded.

You become unidentified.

Where your hair, virgin to the touch, no highlights nor cuts, turning into something

you construct.

Now you're lying in your bed, three in the morning, wondering what went wrong.

Because, frankly, was this the change you really longed for?

46

photograph by Miriam Comstock-Fisher, junior

47

editor-in-chief: Ria Das and Michael Liu

art editor: Cheryl Cheng, Izabella Ziemba, Daniela Peguero-Gonzalez,

and Claire Mouton

copy editors: Elaine Zhou and Renee Roozeboom

staff editors: Grace Beardsley, Meera Dullur, Jacqueline Groom,

Sora Muszynski, Kailey Nichols, and Bijoux Stilson

publicity and social media: Maddie Davila and Daniela Rozier

advisor: Mr. John Hayward

2024

Icarian Literary Magazine Staff

MISSION: To publish written and artistic works from any student or staff

member and to creatively design a reader-friendly, visually attractive magazine.

SELECTION POLICY: After collecting submissions year-round, we highlight

Naperville Central’s writing and artistic abilities by selecting the most original

and visionary pieces that we think will illustrate the quality and diversity of our

school community. We hope you enjoy this year's publication!

PROCESS: We collect art and written pieces through online submissions. At the

beginning of each school year, we get the word out through announcements,

posters, hallway television prompts, and social media to submit to the Lit Mag.

In February, staff editors sift through the written works looking for original,

mature, and skilled pieces of writing across genres. During layout, we design

pages with accompanying or independent works of art. We then head to the

printer in April with a draft and publish our final product in May to much

applause.

COLOPHON: In this edition, we used Times New Roman for all titles and Radley

for credits and text except for the front and back covers in TAN Pearl.

Handwritten pieces appear in the Give You Glory font. All extra flourishes are

copyright-friendly items from Canva.

THANKS TO: Brian Doyle and Jim Hard at the District Print Shop for expert

guidance and for publishing the final product… Cathy Bittner for maintaining our

account records… Sam Szopinski, Shari Anderson, and Mike Doman, for support

throughout the process… and The Communication Arts and Fine Arts

departments at NCHS for encouraging stellar contributions and for assisting

in the final distribution.

FRONT COVER ART: Miaoli Hydrangea painting by Connie Chen, senior

BACK COVER ARTt: Seaside View painting by Connie Chen, senior

HOW CAN I FIND OUT MORE

ABOUT YOUR PUBLICATION?

Contact us through Mr. Hayward

at NCHS by phone: (630) 420-6807

or e-mail:

nchslitmag@stu.naperville203.org

AND PLEASE VISIT OUR WEBSITE

sites.google.com/naperville203.org/nchslitmag

Sending You Flowers

intaglio carving, Athena Chen, senior

Stinkin’ Lincoln

by Addison Wojicik, senior

Lincoln recited the Ghetty,

but soon after he began

to feel sweaty,

he looked around with his eyes

and to his surprise

saw a man holding a machete.

While holding a baby in his hand

Lincoln ran and ran

until he jumped into

a moving Chevy.

The baby was wanted for money

and Lincoln became very hungry

so he decided to put the thing in his belly.

50

Moth

relief print by Izabella Ziemba,

junior

T H E I C A R I A N

Literary Magazine 2024


Naperville, Illinois

The Icarian Lit Mag 2024

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