RUNES: REVIVED

THE ART AND LITERARY MAGAZINE OF

DRUID HILLS HIGH SCHOOL

In the
Greenhouse... 2024
 Runes: Revived
Art & Literary Magazine
Volume 2024, Spring Edition

Druid Hills High School

 Runes: Revived Staff
Chelsea Mills and Sarah Zedd, Executive Editors
Contributors
Molly Tipping and Zahra Samnani, Managing Editors
of Design Mary Jane Walker
Tashina Johnson, Webmaster Naomi Kiefer
Naomi Kiefer, Director of Marketing Adah Rozell
Meggie Sears, Secretary Katharine Markiewicz
Ellis Schroeder Charlie Anderson
Rohey Saine Beatrice Quinn
Rohey Saine
Edric Bussie
Design Team Daania Momin
Shanti
Molly Tipping and Zahra Samnani, Managing Editors of Design Sophia Jacho
Naomi Kiefer Anna Sims
Ellis Schroeder Katy Burkett
Tashina Johnson Meggie Sears
Jadyn Barrow
Jane Zedd
Advisory Board Molly Eleanor Tipping
Tenley Gallagher
Chelsea Mills
Amaudjae Rozier
Sarah Zedd
Sarah Zedd
Molly Tipping
Zahra Samnani
Tashina Johnson
Naomi Kiefer
Meggie Sears
Ellis Schroeder
Rohey Saine
 A special thanks to Ms. Alyssa Montooth for being
our fantastic sponsor, for encouraging her students
to submit to the magazine; Mr. Ruben and his staff
at Red Devil TV for promoting Runes on the daily
announcements; Ms. Cole for encouraging her class
to submit to the magazine; and our amazing
contributors -- we have a magazine because of you!
 Letter from the Editors
First and foremost, we would like to acknowledge how proud we are of this
year’s magazine, as we chose to devote the entire school year to one rather than
two magazines. Our Runes members and officers are all very devoted to their
academics and also involved in various other clubs and extracurricular activities,
so we consider ourselves so lucky to have such a hardworking team that can put
effort and energy into making the magazine possible.

We would like to thank our lovely sponsor, Ms. Montooth. This magazine
wouldn’t be possible without her guidance and permission for us to meet in her
room. We would also like to thank all English and Art teachers who encouraged
their students to submit to the magazine. Sometimes students can be a little shy
about their work and just need some encouragement from our amazing staff.
Finally, we want to thank all the students who submitted to Runes this year. Our
favorite part of this club is going through all the submissions and it truly is a joy
to see the creativity in our student body.

It has been so inspiring to see the club grow, especially in the years
following the pandemic. When we first joined, Runes was incredibly small and all
submissions came from people within the club. Now, we’ve seen interest in the
magazine increase exponentially and submissions come from students all across
the school who aren’t necessarily Runes members. We would love to see how the
magazine progresses and we want to tell everyone to keep creating. It is our
pleasure to present In the Greenhouse...!

Farewell.

Chelsea Mills & Sarah Zedd

Executive Editors
Photography
For the Aesthetic
Edric Bussie
For the Aesthetic
Edric Bussie
Sunset at The Beach
Daania Momin
Series: German Slay
Shanti RP
Series: German Slay
Shanti RP
Series: German Slay
Shanti RP
 SHORT
STORIES &
ESSAYS
 Ant and Beetle
by Tenley R. Gallagher

Ant huffs as he pulls his body atop a nearby log. To his left, a bush shudders, rustling in
the darkness. A figure appears from the shade, their soft, round body barely distinguishable
from the leaves surrounding them.

“Beetle?” Ant says, partially still unsure whether the shadowy silhouette could be his
friend.

The creature from the bushes waves and after a moment appears in the brighter light as
they too, pull their body on top of the log beside Ant.

“It’s nice to see you, friend,” Ant says, his antenna twitching.

“You too!” says Beetle in their usually chipper tone.

The two sit in silence for a while. Ant swears he can see the wind brushing its hands
along the tips of each leaf as it wades through the forest. The sun dips below the clouds
further and further, until its head peeks longingly from under the horizon line. Ant watches
through the trees, the beach far out of earshot, but he swears, he can hear the sizzle as the
sun meets the water. He wants to say to Beetle, Isn’t this nice? Isn’t this wonderful? But
surely, Ant thinks, someone seeing a sight such as this will not need to be asked if it is
wonderful or nice. He must know.

So Ant stays quiet, enjoying the cool air as the moon begins to appear from the
shadows. Beetle is the first to speak.
 Ant and Beetle (cont.
by Tenley R. Gallagher

“Ant?” He says his name as though he is unsure if Ant is still there, even though they are
merely inches apart.

“Beetle?” Ant replies.

“Do you ever feel… small?” As Beetle says small, the word seems to fall from his mouth like
a pecan from its mother tree. He hopes someone will eat it; that it will roll far into the forest
and one day grow so tall the word no longer bears its meaning.

Ant takes a moment to think. The question is not one he has asked himself, though he feels
as if it has been asked to him his entire existence.

“To say I am small is true I suppose, when you compare me to the grasshoppers, or the
trees, or the world itself really.” Ant heaves a deep breath in, his eyes reflecting the
twinkling stars in the distance.

“But to say I feel small… no, I couldn’t possibly.” Ant looks at Beetle for the first time since
he attempted to distinguish their figure from the forest undergrowth. As their eyes meet,
Beetle begins to understand. Even though they knew, physically, what was behind those
pitch-black pupils, they began to wonder ever so slightly if there was more. Ant was not even
an inch tall, yet here he was, as vast and as large as the night sky.

“Sometimes,” Ant says to Beetle, still holding eye contact, “I think I can feel the breeze
brush by my heart.”

“I think… I can feel everything everywhere.” Ant turns away, facing the rest of the world
once more.

“And if I feel everything, how could I ever feel small?” The wind carried his words lightly so
others could hear.
 Ant and Beetle (cont.
by Tenley R. Gallagher

“Ant?” He says his name as though he is unsure if Ant is still there, even though they are
merely inches apart.

“Beetle?” Ant replies.

“Do you ever feel… small?” As Beetle says small, the word seems to fall from his mouth like
a pecan from its mother tree. He hopes someone will eat it; that it will roll far into the forest
and one day grow so tall the word no longer bears its meaning.

Ant takes a moment to think. The question is not one he has asked himself, though he feels
as if it has been asked to him his entire existence.

“To say I am small is true I suppose, when you compare me to the grasshoppers, or the
trees, or the world itself really.” Ant heaves a deep breath in, his eyes reflecting the
twinkling stars in the distance.

“But to say I feel small… no, I couldn’t possibly.” Ant looks at Beetle for the first time since
he attempted to distinguish their figure from the forest undergrowth. As their eyes meet,
Beetle begins to understand. Even though they knew, physically, what was behind those
pitch-black pupils, they began to wonder ever so slightly if there was more. Ant was not even
an inch tall, yet here he was, as vast and as large as the night sky.

“Sometimes,” Ant says to Beetle, still holding eye contact, “I think I can feel the breeze
brush by my heart.”

“I think… I can feel everything everywhere.” Ant turns away, facing the rest of the world
once more.

“And if I feel everything, how could I ever feel small?” The wind carried his words lightly so
others could hear.
 Ant and Beetle (cont.)
by Tenley R. Gallagher

The tree leaves nodded in understanding as the air’s breathy whisper

whisked past them.

A comfortable silence returned. There they sat, Beetle and Ant, Ant and
Beetle. From far away, they were so small you couldn’t distinguish them from
the forest, and from even further away, you couldn't distinguish the forest
from the rest of the surrounding land. At some point, if someone is far enough,
the Earth too begins to look as tiny as Beetle and Ant upon that first view.

“Goodnight Ant.” says Beetle.

“Goodnight Beetle.” says Ant.

And though they are out of earshot, the universe swears, it hears them.
 Ruins of the dandelions
by Amaudjae Rozier

“In the midst of chaos and destruction, there is often beauty that emerges, even in the
most unlikely of places. It was during a time of war, where the world was engulfed in darkness
and despair, that I stumbled upon a sight that would forever be etched in my memory a field
of dead dandelions.

The war had ravaged the land, leaving behind a trail of devastation and heartache. The
once vibrant and lively countryside had been transformed into a barren wasteland, with the
echoes of gunfire and the cries of the wounded serving as a constant reminder of the horrors
that unfolded.

As I wandered through the desolate landscape, my weary eyes searched for a glimmer of
hope, something to cling onto amidst the despair. And then I saw it – a field, once filled with a
sea of golden dandelions, now lifeless and scorched by the ravages of war. Their delicate
petals, which once danced in the gentle breeze, now lay wilted and brown, as if mourning the
loss of innocence.

In that moment, I couldn't help but reflect on the irony of the situation. How could
something so fragile and delicate as a dandelion, with its ethereal beauty, be subjected to the
horrors of war? It served as a stark reminder that no matter how strong or resilient we may
believe ourselves to be, we are all vulnerable to the destructive forces that surround us.

Yet, even in their lifeless state, the dandelions held a certain allure. Their seeds, carried by
the wind, symbolized the resilience of life, reminding me that even in the face of adversity,
there is always the possibility of renewal and growth. The dandelions, though dead, were not
defeated. They still held within them the power to bring forth new life and hope.
 Ruins of the dandelions
(cont.)
Amaudjae Rozier

Amidst the rubble and ashes, I found myself drawn to one particular dandelion that stood
out amongst the rest. Its stem, though fragile, seemed to possess an inner strength. Its
seeds, once scattered, had taken root in the cracks of the scorched earth, defying the odds
and reaching towards the light that filtered through the heavy clouds above.

In that moment, I realized that the dead dandelions were not just a symbol of loss, but
also a symbol of resilience and hope. They reminded me that even in the darkest of times,
there is always the potential for beauty and growth. They taught me that no matter how
dire the circumstances, we must never lose sight of the possibility of a brighter future.

As I left the field of dead dandelions behind, my heart heavy with the weight of the war, I
carried with me the image of those wilted flowers. They served as a constant reminder
that even in the face of destruction, life persists. And just as the dandelions would
eventually bloom again, so too would the world find its way towards healing and peace.

In the years that followed, the scars of war slowly began to fade, and the once barren
landscape transformed into a thriving oasis. The field of dead dandelions became a
symbol of resilience, a testament to the indomitable spirit of humanity. And as I walked
through that field once more, no longer filled with death and despair, but with vibrant life
and colorful dandelions, I couldn't help but feel a glimmer of hope for a brighter
tomorrow.
 We asked DHHS students
where their families are from;
in other words,
where they plant their. . .

Roots

Segment by: Naomi Kiefer

 Roots
Sarah Zedd:
“Birmingham, Alabama and
Richmond, Virginia”

Mary Jane Walker:

“Atlanta and Milan, Ohio”

Naomi Kiefer:
“Kingston, Jamaica; Alberta, Canada;
Florida”

Adah Rozell:
“My dad is from the
small town of
Ludington, MI and my
mom is from Katharine
Muskegon, MI” Markiewicz:
Rohey Saine: “Cleveland, OH, and
“Seattle, Washington” Allentown, PA”
Roots
Charlie Anderson:
“My family is from all over the place, including NC,
MD, VA, FL, CA, Ireland, Norway, other parts of
Scandinavia, and Congo.”

Beatrice Quinn:
“Me and my sister were born in Atlanta, and so was
my mom. Her parents were from rural Alabama and
rural Holland. My dad is from charlotte North
Carolina and so were his parents.”

Anonymous:
“My dad is from Brooklyn NY, my mom is from
Tewksbury MA, and my grandparents on my dad’s
side were born in Kefalonia, Greece and Lemnos,
Greece”
ART
Heartbroken
MEGGIE SEARS
Imagination
SOPHIA JACHO
Come Along With Me
KATY BURKETT
KATY BURKETT

All Eyes on
You

Awoken
 Red

KATY BURKETT
Don’t Speak

KATY BURKETT
 ANNA SIMS

Wear the Tear

Numb.
POETRY
 My Sunglasses at the Bottom of the Lake
Jane Zedd
At the end of last summer, I suffered a loss,
Not reaching their destination, at the end of a toss,
My sunglasses drifted, to the floor of the lake,
Over 30 feet, a depth I could not take.

And so they remain, there to this day,

Haunting my memories, in a peculiar way,
Today at the gas station, I bought a new pair,
To protect me from the rays I’ll encounter out there.

I like them just fine, but something is wrong,

They are missing a story, a theme or a song.
The lenses are darker and despite their high cost,
They'll never take the place of the old pair I lost.

The images and memories, that passed through those frames,

The inside jokes, the monopoly games.
It saddens me to think, that perspective is gone.
The doors are all locked, and the curtains are drawn.
My friendships evolved, even I am not the same.
It is too hot to touch, my old memories’ flame.

All the other items that people have lost,

Deep in the lake of varying cost,
Cell phones, watches, jewelry, too.
Each held a memory, and each held a clue.

What becomes of the old way of seeing?

When we lose our touchstones but keep on being?
I hope my old glasses are surrounded by friends,
And they live in a world where the summer never ends.
And No Longer Shall You Wither, My

Flower
Molly Tipping
Man is the only creature that revels in withering.
The plant will dissolve its own ultrastructure
So that it may contort itself towards the sun's forgiveness.
But man seeks darkness, seeks the aches and spasms of deprivation,
For somewhere along the way,
He confused suffering with depth
And with dignity.
The plant does not deprive itself of its most primordial needs
So that it may grow delirious off of the adrenaline rush that blurs the lines
Between madness and genius.

There was a time in my life, not so long ago

When I fell victim to man’s vain quest for madness.
I believed that my beauty was inherent to how apparent my suffering was
And I remember the sleepless nights
When I would awaken to
Muscles wailing as vicelike vines tightened around them
And a stabbing throb that encircled my skull
Like a crown of thorns.
And amidst my own self-destruction,
I found myself beautiful. I found myself worthy.
 The Light From the Coast
Jadyn Barrow

A cast of light beamed across the choppy waves

The ship sailed straight ahead in hope to reach the shore
Treasure and gold were all that he craved
The winds grew stronger and continued to roar
The light came closer, closer, and closer
His eyes were astonished at what he saw
A lavishing lighthouse came to exposure
The structure was built with no single flaw
The real treasure was revealed
It was the gem of the coast
The House Plants of Druid Hills
A Segment by: Ellis Schroeder
What house plants do you have at home?

Ellis Schroeder

Ari Copeland

Rohey Saine

Chelsea Mills
The House Plants of Druid Hills
A Segment by: Ellis Schroeder
What house plants do you have at home?

Zoe Marshall

Charlie Anderson

Susie Zaharatos
Sponsored By: