TRAVIS SHANKS: ILLUSTRATION SUBMISSIONS TRAVIS IS A PUBLISHED ILLUSTRATOR WHO USES WATERCOLOR, INK, ACRYLICS, AND OILS TO CREATE HIS ILLUSTRATIONS. MARISSA CLARK: WRITTEN SUBMISSION Seven Years Later, Epilogue What did I do, what did I say? Winged Victory My cheeks are wet, my eyes burn, my body I’m leaving. Exploring the forgotten cobblestone streets of Paris. shakes. Stop. The sun is warm against my rose skin, faintly creeping through the I’m about to give the performance of my It would be the last summer we’d spend blooms on branches above. life. together. The sounds of the city set the tone, along with birds singing their Curtain call. Why did you stop loving me? songs. I heard that song the first time I spent the My cheeks are wet, my eyes burn, my body The May breeze gently kisses the loose strands of my honey hair, weekend in your dorm. shakes. lightly stroking my clavicle. Soundcheck. I just gave the performance of my life. I can smell the bakers creations as the day begins. Rhode Island is beautiful. Exit stage right. Fresh croissants are my favorite. Cue the lights. Is this the part where I lie for you, convince I pedal faster, the cotton fabric delicately brushing against my What if your friends hate me, I thought to myself you’re still here with me. body, craving the masterpieces that await in silence. myself. Curtain call. “Bonjour!” I say through a smile to passerby escaping reality like I. Don’t worry. Seven years later, epilogue. Click clack, click clack - my Mary Jane’s echo through the halls. Wine coolers and Down With Love. End scene. I breathe in the untold stories of the maesters who came before Your secret is safe. You’re nothing more than a memory, I me. Stop. thought to myself. And there she is, in all her breathtaking beauty, the Goddess Nike. Now when I hear the first note, I turn it off. Don’t worry. The marble is crisp as my bare legs find their new home. Why did you stop loving me? Lies - you’re a nightmare, constantly Charcoal dances around, a marionette on the smooth My eyes are wet, my eyes burn, my body taunting me. parchment that once lay in my satchel, trying to capture every shakes. I’m fine. last detail of her sensual, yet majestic silhouette. I’m giving the performance of my life. Stop. Enter stage left. It hurts. Writing This Was One of the Hardest Things Do you remember that summer, I remember You left me alone with our memories on I open my eyes to the sound of the birds outside my window, the that summer. replay. sun slowly climbing the wall. Spotlight on me. Why did you stop loving me? Somehow I’m covered in blankets. Two twin beds, hardwood floors. I don’t remember falling asleep covered in blankets. Monologue. It’s little moments like this, a perfect morning feeling. I wish I could just stay with you, I thought to myself. Don’t worry. MARISSA CLARK: WRITTEN SUBMISSION

The walls are a mixture of beige and yellow. Paint my skin green. Changing with the daylight softly radiating I envy those who were lucky enough to get more of those through the window next to my bed. mornings with you. The air is perfect - warm, yet crisp. Tears come early in the morning, late at night. The aroma of lilac and pine gently glides in When the world is at its calmest, most still time. with the early morning breeze. When I’m alone with my thoughts. I listen to the wicker ceiling fan spin steadily. I dust off the candle that’s called my bookshelf home the last One, two, three - I count the spins. eleven years. I blink the dizziness away enough to quietly My hands tremble as I lift the silver covering, smelling your slide out of bed, trying my hardest to avoid cologne as if I were seven years old again. the creaks. I try so desperately to cling to whatever memories remain. “Are you awake?” I whisper. Wishing for another scratchy kiss. From under the magic blanket, a One more “I love you”. faint, “Mhmm.” Through the rainstorm, I return the silver covering to it’s home, We tiptoe to the kitchen, careful not to afraid of losing the essence of you. wake anyone. Keep a weather eye on the horizon. The Fourth of July picnic is this afternoon. For my red balloons, and whispers to the night sky. I feel a scratchy kiss on top of my head; I I love you to the moon and back. can smell his cologne. Blueberry muffins, glazed donuts, chocolate milk, coffee. Sometimes he surprised us with Munchkins too - this was one of those mornings. MARISSA CLARK: WRITTEN SUBMISSION

Chapter Thirty Junior High is weird and full of awkward I packed my life into boxes after There was a time I dreamt about I disappear behind costume jewelry and old phases. Who are we? Rock climbing graduation. What I couldn’t take with me this day. Celebrating with skating costumes, packing for my travels to adventures in the old factory down by the would collect dust in the barn over the next strangers in the streets of New the Secret Side where forgotten memories are river. We used to be friends, but then you few years. University is a strange world. My York City. Saying farewell to one locked away. Blue’s Clues, Barney, Gullah changed, or I changed, or maybe both. Now identity is not my own. I’m only seventeen. I life, and hello to Gullah Island. Blanket fort peanut butter and we don’t speak. I felt beautiful for the first don’t know what I want for breakfast, so how another. Chapter thirty. How I fluff sandwiches. The moon and shooting stars time at my 8th grade formal, and even more can I know what I want for the rest of my got here is my narrative, no one dance across whales doused in blue lava as so when he asked me to dance. The Music life. Those thoughts return and I try again. The can take that away from the fish of gold swim in their underwater Man - “Pick a little, talk a little”. We walked next few years are a drunken haze. I’m alone. me. And what’s to come is still sanctuary. I can still hear the songs of classic hand in hand to the auditorium that day. I being written. 90’s country play softly on the radio. was terrified, you were my best friend. Ice I journeyed back to New England hoping to cream celebrations on opening night. We find myself. I did when I met you. Sunflowers Late summers spent bike riding around the cul- survived. are Peter Pan’s favorite flower. I could finally de-sac with the Spice Girls playing on my smell the sea salt in the air again. Midnight walkman. Wandering through the Western Misty is my confidant, the only one who knew conversations sitting on the rocks, watching Woods of a small New England how far I was willing to go. It wouldn’t be the lost souls fall off Rainbow Road. Hysterical town. Rainbow butterfly clips hold my only time those thoughts penetrated my laughter about boy bands on the football field sunkissed hair away from my silver lake blue mind. I can hear sails and feel the waves behind your house. We saw the neon lights eyes and my bobcat grin. The warmth of my beneath her, the one who was named after together on our first adventure, and where we sunflower jumper after swimming with the me. Senior High is even more weird and full of stood was holy ground. I love you so much. dolphins at the 4th of July picnic feels like a drama I didn’t ask for. He told me he loved safe haven. I can still smell the Banana Boat me, but it was nothing more than a school-girl, We met during my drunken haze, my chosen sunscreen and his cologne. summer camp fling. I hated saying goodbye, sister. The roads I spent so long traveling lead and I hated you for making me do so. me to your small town. You’ve always been Lip Smacker kisses and Lisa Frank secrets. TGIF so kind, unlike so many others. Reba and makeup parties in my old room, now I crave the smell of sea salt in the air, instead I Barbra Jean. Have I finally found my yours. Boy Meets World, Sabrina the Teenage smell nothing. I try to escape this place, niche? Those thoughts no longer taunt me. I Witch, Step by Step. We danced in the clinging to my past self. I’m trapped. The can breathe again. moonlight, wishing for this moment. Light as a more time that passes, the more the memories feather, stiff as a board. You reminded me of of you fade. I’ve lost myself. Who am I? Misty a pop star that night with the cascading is my confidant, the only one who knew how balloons and ribbons that hung in the skylight far I took it that summer. I would try again, spotlight and again, and again, and again. HUNTER ROBINSON: VIDEO SUBMISSION

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=y6KB5vz2ARc JENNIFER CONNELL: ART SUBMISSION TITLE: “SEASONS” KIMBERLY NORMAN: LYRIC SUBMISSION

I'm picking this cotton so I can go Farmers in a rush Lord put a light in my soul. I'm the soul he can trust I'm picking this cotton so I can go Farmers in a rush Lord put a light in my soul. I'm the soul he can trust Lord turn this water into bread, Working till they bled so I can lay my lazy head. hands always a beet red.

Oh Lord! Nights I can see Turning this water into wine putting a little heaven down on me. I'm not getting paid a dime Oh Lord! Nights I can see Turning this water into wine putting a little heaven down on me. I'm not getting paid a dime Fresh to start Farmers and what they yield with god in my heart. always putting in another field