When We Were Together

Foreword The OCHS Magazine of Literature and Art is a student-run publication to honor student art and to connect over the universal emotions of love, loss, and teenage angst. This year is distinct in many ways, with the sudden death of a member of our study body and other instances of grief, big and small. Naturally we seek community to experience these emotions together, to delight in the wonderfully mundane moments of life, and to viscerally endure the painful. Please do not feel the need to read memorial pieces if they will negatively impact your well-being. After 3 years of working with Mr. Hellman and the other lovely editors, I am pleased to present my final edition of the magazine; we hope you enjoy reading it as much as we did curating it. -Kristen Burris

Editors:

Jakob Anderson Jessica Niemetz Kristen Burris Jared Reeves Erin Esterburg Sarah Trusty Alec Hankins

Advisor:

Greg Hellman

The ceramic figure on our front cover, “Confidence” and back cover “Confidence (reverse)” was created by Kelby Beyer. All authors and artists retain the rights to their work. By submitting to the magazine they authorized the reprinting of their work as seen. ©OCHS Lit Mag 2020

Index

Together and Apart, by Spencer Rosenau and Kristen Burris page 4 Untitled Digital Drawing, by Allison Walker page 5 Two Bendy Straws and a Chocolate Dust Ring, by Wynter Davis page 6 Untitled Digital Drawing, by Allison Walker page 7 Untitled Photo, by Vector Benoit page 8 Howl, by Emily Ott page 9 Untitled Photo, by Athena Turner page 10 Big Kid, by Bekah Arrache page 11 Collage, by Ella McBride page 12 Dear Future, by Alec Hankins page 13 Untitled Photo, by Kaden Cardwell page 13 Places to Wait, by Spencer Rosenau page 14 Untitled Photo, by Tomas Pak page 14 From The Book Of Denial, by Jonas Lee Robinson page 15 Untitled Photo, by Anelise Thomas page 16 Happiness Is, by Jessica Niemetz page 17 Untitled Photo, by Faith Frost page 18 Ink Drawing, by Paige Baker page 19 A Beautiful Collision, by MacKenzie Hood page 20 A Deteriorating Picket Fence, by Genevieve Olsen page 21 Animal Kingdom Lake, by Madison Wilcox page 22 Haiku, by Annabella Mumma page 22 Heart Mechanics, by Elizabeth Carlson page 23 Animus, by Ava Freeman page 24 Freedom Flight, by Genevieve Olsen page 25 Rosy Pen, by Taylor Rogers page 25 Taking Flight, by Genevieve Olsen page 26 Untitled Digital Drawing, by Emily Instenes page 27 Open Letter, by Gracie Marsolini page 28 Untitled Photo, by Ariana Walsworth page 28 The Grind, by Garrett Bergerson page 29 Greed, by EH page 30 Cream Cheese Wontons, by ‘Oni Achong page 31 The Bright-eyed Soldier, by Emily Edel page 32 The Sneaky Beatle, by Christian Hoffman page 33 A Vivid Memory, by Lauren Henderson page 34 Untitled Photo, by Madison Wilcox page 35 Haiku, by Grant Didway page 35 Haiku, by Jane Arterberry page 35 College Football, by ‘Oni Achong page 36 Untitled Drawing, by Sara Vitale page 37 The Boy and the Fish, by Tyler Batdorf page 38 Frogs… , by Ileah Johnson page 38 Stationary In The Wind, by Kathryn Butler-Parrish page 39 Untitled Digital Drawing, by Katie Adrian page 40

Haiku, by Stacey Choi page 40 Direct Thoughts, by Kathryn Butler-Parrish page 41 Untitled Photo, by Sabrina Beadle page 41 Sleep, by Jakob Anderson page 42 Untitled Photo, by Baliee Taber page 42 Morning, by Thu Vu page 42 Untitled, by Cadence Cox page 43 Untitled Photo, by Jessica Niemetz page 44 Impromptu Loneliness, by Elizabeth Carlson page 45 Untitled Photo, by Gracie Fink page 45 An Ode to Hendrix, by Alex Pineda page 46 Perceptible By Touch, by Genevieve Olsen page 47 Our First Sun, by Spencer Rosenau page 48 Untitled Photo, by Alyssa Rainforth page 48 Two Haikus, by Grace McLeland page 48 The Closing, by Tatum Fisher page 49 IT WAS A DARK AND… NIGHT, by Calvin Pfenning page 50 Untitled Digital Drawing, by Sara Vitale page 51 Haiku, by Ali Washington page 51 Macarons NOT Macaroons, by Genevieve Olsen page 52 Haiku, by Crystal Lehigh page 52 Ode to my Mom, by Ash Mathews page 53 Haiku, by Brennie Shoup page 53 Untitled Photo, by Brooke Peterson page 54 Bright, by Jakob Anderson page 55 Untitled Drawing, by Chiara Petroni page 57 Ever-More, by Genevieve Olsen page 58 Two Haikus, by Kelby Beyer page 58 What Goes Through the Head, by Elena Stover page 59 Disease, by Landon Sheesley page 60 Untitled Etching, by Josie Willard page 61 The Big Number One, by Jessie Jones page 62 Untitled Photo, by Jaden Lindquist page 63 Untitled, by Taylor Robbins page 63 Fishbowl, by Alexandria Smith page 64 To The Quiet Cities, by Audrey Bunce page 67 The Old Way, by Sedona Williams page 68 Portrait of Billie Eilish, by Elizabeth Adams page 69 Untitled Photo, by Jon Millard page 70 Grief: A Guided Tour, by Audrey Bunce page 71 Unraveling, by MacKenzie Hood page 72 A Voice that Stands Alone No More, by Annika Fuller page 73 Untitled Photo, by Kataleya Benjamin page 75 Left and Leaving, by Emily Peterson page 75 Untitled Photo, by Kaleb Garcia page 77 Prologue of an Unfinished Novel, by Jared Reeves page 78

Together and Apart By Spencer Rosenau and Kristen Burris

We breathe We live irrationally in our rational flesh Our complex feelings are unique To ourselves and our experiences And our background, and our history To our lives To say, “I feel more relaxed not going to school Because there’s that threat of school shootings” To feel There’s also anxiety about death About planning for the future A space to wrestle with your own insecurities There’s, of course A loneliness A personal struggle We cut our comfort from different cloth Solace within our emotions From a knowledge of others Companionship Memory To say “Coffee reminds me of my dad” To feel there’s nostalgia Voting for the first time A sense of control Like I have a hand in what’s going on in the world To know People are feeling what I feel One and the same Together, and apart

[Bolded portions are excerpts from Kristen’s responses in a StoryCorps interview conducted by Spencer]

Two Bendy Straws and a Chocolate Dust Ring By Wynter Davis

The day I learned what it was like to love is engraved into my mind. Like initials engraved into a tree, like paint on a canvas, it is forever. We laughed, my great grandma and I. The puzzle was not going to build itself, so we sat. Our backs up against the brick fireplace behind us and a very large, dark wood table in front of us. The gold and navy Nesquik container, placed perfectly on the countertop across the room, was calling out to me. “Oh how I could just die for a glass of that chocolate milk,” I thought to myself. We mixed the chocolate powder with a glass of milk. Chocolate dust spilled over onto the counter top, leaving a clean ring where the cup was. It was chocolate milk that filled the glass to the brim while two bendy straws flopped over the edge of the glass, dripping drops of milk onto the dark wood. It was chocolate milk that we drank while puzzle pieces were scattered, reaching all ends of the table, and confusing all ends of my mind. It was chocolate milk that we drank when I first learned what it was like to love. Reaching to only just below her ear, her light grey hair shimmered and sparkled in the light. She had the most pure and loving smile, bearing her beautifully straight and white teeth to express the utmost love possible. She had the most subtle wink, but even nine years later I can remember that wink, and the love I felt with it. Her eyes shined with a lifetime of experience, wisdom, love. Her hands, crafted from vulnerability and passion, had lived over eighty years, touching the world ever-so-softly with kindness and magic. Her beauty radiated from within, and gracefully overflowed into the world, painting the sky with purity and the soil with love. I vulnerably left my heart and soul open, and she accepted all of me with open arms. She taught me about life, and what it means to love. She took a hold of the wild child that I am and showed me the magic of living. And then, she forgot me. Like a train derailing, her memory went fast and all at once. Crashing and burning, she forgot about all the lives she touched, and the lives she made worth living. She forgot about the life that she lived. After having forgotten about me for about a year, there was one time that was different, where she saw me. She slowly walked over. The confused and puzzled look that was plastered across her face broke my heart. In a living room that she had been in before, in a house that should have been nothing but familiar to her, she looked scared, and she decided to sit by me as if I was familiarity in the utmost unfamiliar situation. It only took a second before she glanced at me and smiled. “You are so beautiful,” she said. Taken aback, I hesitated only slightly before I replied, “Thank you. You are beautiful too, Grandma.” “I love you so much,” she continued. “And I love you, Grandma,” I spoke, with nothing but the truth. She continued on, telling me that she loved me. I had to physically get up and leave, because as soon as I turned that corner out of the living room, I cried. Tears rushing down my face, as if my eyeballs were

Niagara Falls. I found beauty in the pain that I felt. She remembered me. Even for just a split second, I crossed her mind, and she knew that I was her great granddaughter. And in that moment, the only thing that I wanted was to go back to when the puzzle was on the table and not across her face. To when the chocolate dust ring on the counter top was my only concern. To when there was a glass of chocolate milk with two bendy straws and she taught me how to love. Years went by, and she forgot it all. She lived for years, knowing nothing about who she was. My family and I tried to help her remember. Pictures were glued to the ceiling, so while she laid back, she could look up at the joy she used to know. She was put in hospice. She became skinny, because she forgot how to eat. The dementia that overtook her life, overtook her family too. Seeing a loved one, who changed your life, not knowing what life is, can kick you while you are already down. The night that she passed was the night before her late son's birthday. We believe she left when she did, to go and celebrate with her son. We went and saw her for the last time. Her lifeless body, laying on a bed that I spent so many hours beside. I held her hand, kissed her on the cheek, and I said, “Thank you, Grandma, I love you. You are going somewhere better.” And in that moment, all I wanted to do was be sitting beside her with our backs up against the brick fireplace, and a dark wood table in front of us. A chocolate dust ring sitting on the countertop, a puzzle scattered across the table, and a glass of chocolate milk with two bendy straws.

Howl By Emily Ott

The hallways have always been filled with a thick fog, even if you haven’t seen it, know it’s there, Fog, Fog of the forgotten, fog of the tortured, the fog excreted from the deep exhales of metal machines who were once thought to be children, Pain, Pain in their chests lighting the withering candle flame in their hearts, their souls, their hearts, their souls, their hearts not enough to keep the metal warm, moving on for eternity it seems the body rots, from the outside in, the body rots just as it reeks with the sickly sweet smell of hope and death Some feed off of this caricature, some try to restore the children where they stand, graduates of the halls now permanent residents of the classrooms purposefully feeding off of, or gifting light to those who have no choice but to attend the endless game of time, Pump Pump hope into their veins like oxygen, love filling in as the blood, CPR of the soul, intangible, invisible, hopeless, hopeful, lost yet always found these sparks remain unsure of themselves.

Away from this demented daycare, the place they call home is no better, lungs stuffed with smoke and vapor to cope with the never ending war against ourselves, our planet is burning and it’s our fault, Burning and melting, crying acid tears from the heavens our planet screams for us to stop Life The only life this universe has discovered, dwindling, shrinking, screaming, crying Life So many in fear, students afraid of death at every corner, any vehicle below speed is enough to set them off, fireworks or gunshots, tinted windows, murder around every corner, sexual assualt swept under the rug Fear instilled deep Parents fear intensifying, guarding to the point of entrapment

Perspective is fixed, chained to this view of the unholy, confidence low, sanity is lower, manipulation is high, hopelessness soars Hope

Just turn your head and you’ll find it, hope restores the lost, there is a balance in the dark, without, there would be no light. Duality.

Big Kid By Bekah Arrache

I’m from razor phones and razor scooters, from Super Mario and Mortal Kombat. I’m from unibrows and, ears pierced at Claire’s and dinner at Applebee’s. I’m from grubby fingers and missing my four front teeth, picking my nose with my tongue. I’m from crickets dancing in my front yard, spiders in the garage, and lizards under the bed.

I’m from down the street, the house with the wildflowers and collections of a thousand books. Stephen King, Joe Hill, Neil Gaiman, James Patterson, Dean Koontz, H.P. Lovecraft, Poe, Obama. I’m from messes, peach fuzz, missing home. I’m from getting anxiety making me feel twenty when I’m twelve. I’m from being called a dyke in middle school. I’m from body-shaming. I’m from hatred. I’m from regret. I’m from listening when you don’t think I am. I’m from eating raw cookie dough and breaking plates and being scolded for both.

I’m from shaving my head and going vegan for two weeks. I’m from big pink boots and starting to say “f**k” too much. I’m from marionberry patches and sticky fingers and thorns stuck in my thumb and finding the love of my life. I’m from joy. I’m from stress and grief; grieving over things that aren’t lost. Just different. changing. I’m from going to sleep on time and eating breakfast. I’m from getting older and feeling smaller. I’m from trying. I’m from failing. I’m from getting up again.

Dear Future By Alec Hankins

Dear Future, I’m sorry we burned and cut down every forest that ever existed. I’m sorry you live in a barren wasteland. I’m sorry we didn’t care about global warming as much as we should. I’m sorry the Arctica doesn’t exist anymore. I’m sorry we killed most species of animals. I’m sorry for your genetic mutations from nuclear warfare. I’m sorry we used all of the fossil fuels on the whole planet. There was so much we could have done. If we did anything else, then you could live in a better world. It sucks you can’t live in the utopia we promised you. For all I know, the Sun swallowed every planet in the solar system. I don’t know about others, but I sincerely apologize for not taking action. I’m so sorry for not being a part of the change the world needed. I’m so incredibly sorry we couldn’t think about you. I am so astronomically apologetic we killed the Earth during the short time we were on it.

Sincerely, Someone who gives a damn

Places to Wait By Spencer Rosenau

Where river stones lie dormant, blank Amid that haste like gifts disguised Although I cannot hear their minds Wisdom whispers silent words

From The Book Of Denial By Jonas Lee Robinson

My Void is Different From Your Void A void is typically described as a completely empty space. When I first met you, you always spoke of the void. I must have never assumed we were experiencing the same driving pain, but when you described your void to me, it sounded extremely wonderful. My void is completely empty. There is nothing there, only complete blackness. It smells like the soothing smell of rotting blood, but I don’t know where it comes from. I believe my void is very dangerous. I have never gone there by choice, but when I have only for a few seconds. That suffocating feeling and intense pain in my heart. I feel crushed. Once a pink rose grabbed my scarred hands, and let me there. I couldn’t leave. She trapped me. I was going insane, unable to shake the flickering lights from my head. Seeing all the death and decay, unable to stop it as the bones increased larger and larger. My void is different from your void. Mine is dark, mine is dangerous. It is so much more than an empty space.

Pink Roses Have Gray Eyes I once knew a beautiful girl with grey eyes, her name was Pink Rose. I remember once I was holding her in my arms. She was so warm and smelled so nice. It was sunny outside, the cold seed of winter had just been sent. She had been crying, I remember the tears at the end of her lashes, glinting in the sunlight. Her grey eyes looked at me, I was all she felt she had. She was scared of all her friends, she didn’t trust them. She didn’t want to be left alone again. It’s one of the only things I can seem to remember, just holding her because nobody else was there.

“Last Night I Recognized Myself for a Second” I don’t recognize myself in the mirror anymore. I don’t recognise myself in photographs. I only have a basic understanding that what I see is myself because of what I’ve been told. So sometimes I wonder, how long has it been since I could recognize that that’s me I’m looking at? How many years? How long have I been a stranger that I by default accept is myself? I have been lying to everyone, introducing myself with some else’s name. Who’s life and body have I stolen? But sometimes, only every once and a while I recognize who I once was. For one terrifying second I realise the monster I have become. I abused and killed a little boy for this life because I couldn’t stand who I was. I shed my skin with fancy pills in a little orange bottle with a misprinted label.

I saw who I once was shining through this new skin I grew into and claimed as my own, and I feel sick. Once, you wrote to me. You wrote to me and you said, “last night I recognized myself.” And when I had written you back I said I wanted you to be able to recognize yourself every second. Now, I see how that that might not have been a good night.

Happiness Is By Jessica Niemetz

Happiness is freedom Happiness is peace Happiness is a mystery

Is happiness Love? Is happiness Beauty? Is happiness Fame?

Happiness isn't a reward Happiness isn't a race No, it's not that either…

It can't be gained through objects It can't be bought And it can't be sold

What even is happiness? Maybe it's just a chemical Maybe it's not real at all Maybe it's an unreachable goal Maybe we climb the mountain to success Working day after day But when we get to the top All we find Is other lost souls Screaming the same questions A broken record in a merciless void Not a response in sight

Or maybe Just maybe You find happiness yourself

Maybe we won't even know When we do find it Because happiness is Just maybe, happiness is When you no longer Feel the need To keep searching

A Beautiful Collision By MacKenzie Hood

-Dedicated to Charlie Brennan

They dance gracefully upon the earth, delicately intertwined, Moving to the echoes of the haunting harmonies That seeps into our soul. They feel so far apart, So distant, so undeniably different. But their hearts beat to the same rhythm, the same song. And They dance on, Through the warmest and loving of days And the coldest and unforgiving of nights.

But every so often, They collapse into one another, creating

A Beautiful Collision. Life and Death, united as one. Both touching our hearts in the same way, The same pain, the same anger. The same overwhelming love.

Although this collision is brief, This graceful act will leave deep, dark scars Reminding us of when the world stood still. But They do not stop dancing. Time continues on, and eventually So will we. Scars will fade, but they never fully heal. And the memory of a Beautiful Collision will remain.

A Deteriorating Picket Fence By Genevieve Olsen

The once stoic and well-fortified gate Lay warped and rusted on the verdurous soil Yet still, among the stretch of havoc, Guards the secrets of generations past Seemingly untouched by man itself

A girl of only seven years Her Sunday finest brushing past The long, coarse grass A field of blackberry bushes lays behind Oh how her mother would scold her

A winding path within the thorns Ripped and stained with wine Oh how her mother would scold her A crooked white-washed fence A peculiar door open but a sliver

A secret awaits beyond the door But what awaits? But what awaits? A woman’s voice calls her name From a little church across the way “Lyla, Lyla, My little summer breeze” “Where have you wandered off to?”

Perhaps the secret can wait There will always be another Sunday Another little white dress drying in the wind “Oh Lyla, Lyla, where is it that you always go?”

Haiku By Annabella Mumma

We wished school to end; It's not what we meant when we Said, "senioritis".

Heart Mechanics By Elizabeth Carlson melt it down, take the tape, shove it all together and call it done. a shiny airplane with wings that go “burr” when you spin its rutter, connected by a sad rubber band who's been wound one too many times awkward jokes that'll only make a turtle laugh, sometimes they’re funny. Usually stolen from a book because he’s an original comedian give a piece of cardboard life with a razor blade and hot glue, fly it through the skies or watch it spring, spring along the ground procrastinating on work because looking at pixels dance is much more entertaining. Not doing your hair because it’s a jungle, untamed. Not cleaning your room because you're a wild hyena living in the hot savanna, not bound by rules of the wild but of rules of how far you can go outside, knocking on my door to show me your latest work of art and it works, too it’ll probably break like an old shoe

Freedom Flight By Genevieve Olsen

Walking through The early morning dew

Every blade of grass Moving in rhythm with The sharp spring tempest

Powder blue skies with Blazing amber rising on a Backdrop of blushing wisps

Specks of black dot the sky Birds beginning their freedom flight

Taking Flight By Genevieve Olsen

The wind leaps from sycamore to camphor Stopping but only once In its freedom flight Curious to see A bright-eyed lass With mahogany hair, Vintage aviator goggles, And handcrafted wings, Strapped to her back

Taking a few Anxious steps back With a fierce determination She runs towards the edge A leap of faith is all it takes She knows this all too well And with a deep breath She flies

The wind carries her Above the sycamore trees Higher than the tallest camphor Her hand just barely grazing The wispy, blushing clouds

She had flown And all it had taken Was but a leap of faith

Open Letter By Gracie Marsolini

Dear Mom, You remind me of an ocean, crazy powerful and dark deep down. Everyday your waves crash into me and I fall. Still getting up every second, minute, and hour, wiping the tears from my face. I keep floating above the water waiting for a day when I will be saved. Through the waves there is change, sometimes we find our true direction in them. Your ocean has guided me to the direction of my father. See he has built me a boat that will help me float. Not an ocean that tears me down or makes me drown underwater. He gave me a map to guide me in the route of my future. Now I can finally see happiness on the horizon with the help of my guided boat. I’m sorry mom but your waves have hit me hard, my limbs have broken. It’s been painful to stay above the water this long. I hope you know that your waves have not always knocked me over. Sometimes you help me stand in the shallow water. Though lately I feel like I can’t breathe. I can’t take the impact of your waves anymore. That’s why I have to leave your ocean and go to my father's boat. I won’t let your storm sink my boat or my dreams with it. I know that forgiveness doesn’t come easy. It will be the most difficult thing. I have let the guilt run out, to let the forgiveness in. If only… you had built me a boat like my father. I could have been standing on the shoreline of your ocean. In time I hope your ocean lightens, so I can return to see calm waters. I love you, but now I need to sail. Sincerely, Your Daughter

The Grind By Garrett Bergerson

Ever since I was a young boy, I would examine the pictures of the beach. And my mouth would start to water uncontrollably. I couldn’t handle myself, An insatiable, Horrific, Desire ruins my mind. I want sand. I need sand. I’ve waited too long to suck the salt-soaked soulless sand into my mouth. The time is now, My saliva runs to my toes as I’m two inches deep in the holy grain. My surroundings, Only washed up sea spiders, Dead cancer sticks, And ocean dirt. I dig in. I immediately get greedy when I greet the grind in between my galvanized gums. My pearly whites chomp down on the precious rocky remains, Soon my grinders, my tongue, and my throat are damp with pre-glass, I need more. I bury my face deep, deep, deep into the earth. Sucking the sand like a vacuum, Would my ancestors who fought to be in this country be proud? The sodium intake gives me a blood-gurgling headrush that only demands more. I need the sand. I am the sand. Where am I anymore? Home.

Cream Cheese Wontons By ‘Oni Achong

How they’d fit in my small hands when I’d grab them at dinner, Being told not to grab too many so my cousins get some Then I’d always go and get more The crispy wonton wrapping crunching in my hands My grandparents laughing at me, as I try and get more

Earlier that night, I watched my Papa, my grandpa, make them Taking the wonton wrapping into his hand, and putting in the filling Then after making a few, putting them in the oven to cook them My cousins sit beside me, eager to eat them, my Papa always made the best We’d get told not to eat too many, as we’d have dinner later that night

When it was time to leave, we’d always take a plate home Hawaiians never let you leave without a take home plate We’d get wontons, kalbi ribs, rice, and more We’d get told to take more, but we couldn’t And on the ride home, I’d fall asleep with my plate in my hands

The Bright-eyed Soldier By Emily Edel

The American Flag in the background, The glimpse of a smile on the face of bright eyed soldiers, You wonder how many people have worn that exact uniform,

How many of those brave soldiers died for that flag, How many of those soldiers lost their best friends to defending that flag, The camouflage uniform that made you feel invisible,

The dirt and dust kicking up at you as you look at the camera, The feeling of pride as you stand next to your new brothers, They signed their name on the dotted line and now they’re on the front line,

Some won’t make it back to hug and kiss their families, Some will come back but, it doesn't feel like they’re all back, They will stumble and fall,

But, in the end they are soldiers, Bright-eyed recruits, They signed their name on the dotted line to be on the front line.

A Vivid Memory By Lauren Henderson

We’re in costumes I’m Thing One and you’re Thing Two We have blue tutus which were itchy A red shirt And an excited smile on our faces

Standing in front of the white chipping porch With a green bird wind chime That is chiming high Thirsty rose bushes White and red

Goosebumps on my arms As well as yours I’m much taller than you We’re both young Barking dogs and people walking past

Vibrant scent of candy And treats Blisters on our heels And crunchy leaves under our toes Disappearing voices from screaming with excitement

I miss that day We spent hours and hours outside With no one but each other And the light of the moon It was freeing

Haiku Haiku By Grant Didway By Jane Arterberry

We’re all out walking. Snow, then rain, then sun Does it take a pandemic Mother Nature is confused To know our neighbors? In more ways than one.

College Football By ‘Oni Achong

It’s my dad, In front of the school, With his football uniform on, Football in hand, and foot on his helmet, Throwing up the shaka, or as others know it the “hang loose”

He was in college, his hair was long back then I wonder how old he was Sometimes he’d even put beads in his hair I wonder what school was like Was it easier than today?

He was barely smiling in the photo, He hates having his picture taken, so he practically never smiles But I guess he had to, so he barely smiled I’m guessing it was in the 80’s, cause my dad had hair still He doesn’t have hair anymore though

I wonder what his teammates looked like, He’s still friends with a few, but not all of them I wonder how they all acted together, My dad tells me stories sometimes, Though they’re mostly stories about fights

I wonder if he took a group photo, of his whole team I wonder what it looked like, if he smiled in that one Or if he kept a straight face I have more pictures he gave me, from years ago Maybe I should look at them now, maybe my mom’s old photos too

The Boy and the Fish By Tyler Batdorf

He’s all smiles And the happiest he’s ever been Since he caught a big slimy fish

Behind the camera Everyone is feeling the good vibes Laughing and feeling like a million bucks

In the background There is a big and comfy R.V. With a few little bikes waiting to be ridden

Very far away You can see unknown people Chilling and soaking up the distant sun

The main focus Is a big wet fish waiting To be eaten by the surrounding crowd

Frogs… By Ileah Johnson

Frogs frogs frogs frogs frogs Ribbit croak ribbit croak stop Why are they here now?

Stationary In The Wind By Kathryn Butler-Parrish

I am from feelings I cannot comprehend I am from days spent running until my legs couldn’t stand anymore I am from the colors of my first rainbow, stationary in the wind I am from the fears of being lost, encircled in my own head I am from my mothers, their whispers of blue I am from our earth

I am a kaleidoscope of butterflies I am the yellow dandelions taking over your yard I am the roots of the tree digging deep into the ground I am the sound of beads falling off the table I am the glitter on the edge of a snowflake I am human

I stand for all we lost to themselves I stand for all who can’t stand for themselves I stand for all our planet and the beauty that it is I stand for all of myself

Haiku By Stacey Choi

Days begin at twelve. Picked up retired hobbies, But I miss my friends.

Direct Thoughts By Kathryn Butler-Parrish

A pen is A scratch A scribble A sketch

Bleeding words Into the world Like ideas Coming To life

Clicking Clicking Clicking Thinking

Can’t erase

Sleep By Jakob Anderson

And now, I return to nothing. Where I once began, And where, next, I will end.

Morning By Thu Vu

Sunrise Rays of sunshine Whisper A gust of wind flew by

Blue sky wakes up Night is disappearing Birds winding in the sky Busy cars on the road

The sweet morning greetings A hot cup of coffee The endless tick-tock of the clock My daily morning scene is like that

Untitled By Cadence Cox

Tall and looming Filling up empty space The red cedar stands strong

Beacons of life to many Used and destroyed But very rarely protected

They are homes But not treated as such

Cut down and run over Arms broke and skin peeled Little by little, they are torn away

They are great beauties Framing the sky And setting our backgrounds

Providing shade to rest in Holding together the ground under our feet And simply being things to ogle

We look and see their size Which ones would make good wood And which are too old or falling apart

Never the great spirits who stand So much stronger than us So much wiser and never harming

They are better people than us And they cannot even move From their rooted spots, they observe And feel the pain we cause everything

We take a page from their book But that just causes more harm Sit back and observe is what they silently say But we can’t listen.

Impromptu Loneliness By Elizabeth Carlson

Forced to stay at home, like a hermit crab unable to leave its too tight shell. Not being able to leave its sleepy cove to see its friends, watching the tide move in and out dizzily.

From life which goes on without us, cowering over something so small. The blossoms, magenta and white popping out in bundles on the cherry, plum, and apple trees.

Some are driven mad by doing nothing, some desperately wishing life would return to what it once was. But they know better.

An Ode to Hendrix By Alex Pineda

A magician Who never revealed his secrets An artist Whose pieces were never understood A performer Who remains second to none.

Hands not just playing But instead weaving and flowing Sewing together air and sound Materializing musicality

The noises Not from his instrument But instead his head Gravity pulls his skin Down towards the ground Making the ugliest face For the most beautiful music

A scream, cry and wail Made by the strings of his guitar Opening the eyes of millions

Single- handed creation Of a new formula of music Not a soul knows what music Except himself A pioneer of rock and roll The king of the strings One more for the 27s

Perceptible By Touch By Genevieve Olsen

Music is More than just Beats, repeating Drums, succumbing Bass, racing, chasing

It’s a world Just outside our reach

Dusty blue skies Icicles gently melting away Frosted blades crunching under her weight Birds singing hopeful songs of spring All is real, all is tangible

Yet, when she opens her eyes, Spring has long since passed

Our First Sun By Spencer Rosenau

With sunshine shining sunshine dreams Beaming beams of sunshine beams I can give vibe with sunshine vibes I can photosynthesize

Two Haikus By Grace McLeland

Weather Blooming

The sky is greying, Flowers all around, Heavy water droplets fall, Wilting, falling, everywhere, Silence fills the air. Spring will bloom no more

The Closing By Tatum Fisher

As I got home the closing began, Everything started to close, the stores, The mall, the schools, the events, the clouds Closed together.

Even the friendships that were once So open now closed. After the closing Ended the eroding began, the sun now closed Off, everything began to erode and die, The trees that once stood so tall Now just slouched over waiting to fall Over to begin life for the next.

Now began the revolution, after any major Toll in the world's population, people will Revolt against the closest breathing thing, but this One was different, people coming together to make The world a better place and no one stood in their Way because as the people of the world we Must strive to be the best we can for one another.

Now began the opening, everybody saw What needed to be and so it was done, everything Began to open again the stores, the schools, the sun’s Gateway to the Earth, the friendships, and even the trees Began to regrow from their dead brothers and sisters. So now We can only wait for the next phase of humanity.

IT WAS A DARK AND… NIGHT By Calvin Pfenning

Wind howling creaking through the old wooden house Each step echoes with the pounding of the immense rain upon the roof of the seemingly abandoned house A storm is upon us

The bell rings School is out You see the rain racing down the windows You grab your umbrella Ready to head out A tug of your arm, you turn It is the girl you've so long watched from the back of the class Wanting to talk but never having the courage She begins to speak but all you can do is stare in her dreamy eyes You catch a few words that stick out She asks of you to walk her home and share the cover of your umbrella You abruptly say yes You jump in puddles and laugh As you leave she lands a kiss on your cheek A storm is upon us

It fills your shoes You know you don't have much time You can't escape The water floods in Your chest submerged You say your final words Your head goes under You give up You sink Drifting off You hit your head on the bunk bed above you The sound of pounding rain awakes you You close the window And drift back to sleep A storm is upon us

Haiku By Ali Washington

Now I can work out But there is nobody to See how buff I am

Macarons NOT Macaroons By Genevieve Olsen

Macarons are often confused for Macaroons One is a decadent, delicate french confection And the other is a tasty, toasted coconut cookie Both are perfectly, tantalizingly delicious delicacies Yet only one is crowned with the title of Most Elegant

Made with the highest quality ingredients The freshest berries, finest sugar, and almonds Crafted through tender care and consideration The hopes of the baker riding upon each To create a visually perfect product

But most importantly The baker spends hours upon hours To create not only a visually perfect product But also a confection that excites one’s taste buds And sends them straight into the heart of Paris

Macarons are a portal to another unknown world Even if it is only for one delicious second, one bite alone The exciting emotions you felt and raw experiences you had Always cause you to search for something more, something new An eye opener of a delicacy is what a macaron is in its essence

Haiku By Crystal Lehigh

Monday afternoon: I have eaten all the chips Oh, how I miss them.

Ode to my Mom By Ash Mathews

Callie, a mother I love but always feel far from She's a hero of a hundred singing awards medals that call through the thickest of storms

Unconditional love like sneaker waves tossing you back and upside down that love at times it burns the same as sand covered ankles rub, never long or too bad just enough for you to bare I know she cares like debt that's never fully paid

To me she built the world she gave life to me and the other three that will make roots and branches in my family tree There's nothing the same it's not just a name No other that held our hands, no other that makes them feel safe She doesn't feel like baby’s skin, she puts up with the thumping and bumping of little girls the rowdy names, scrapes and games of bad mannered boys

Callie, a mother I love but always feel far from She's a hero of a hundred singing awards medals that call through the thickest of storms

Haiku By Brennie Shoup

I scrub my hands raw, don the mask, the gown, the gloves, wondering who’s next.

Bright By Jakob Anderson

While walking my dog around the block, pondering life, on the verge of tears for no explicable reason, I realized that teenagers are the future. They work so hard and teach themselves of a life they were pushed into against their will with no secondary route (for most). They have to balance a life full of activity with the internal, hormonal effects of puberty. They have to meet standards inescapable, with their list ever-growing and their capability remaining constant, if not minimizing. They have to live a life which is unfair; they have to travel the Styx and back before they may feel successful; they have to do the impossible. And the child wakes to see darkness entrapping them, hardness beneath them: fear drenching them with the sounds of madness and speaking the wishes of the damned and of the lost. Within the child belongs true light furled. It is a true statistic that nearly one-fifth of teenagers suffer from depression before they reach adulthood. Countless hours of household duties and issues, homework, societal conformity, sleep deprivation, malnutrition, and much, much more wear on the human body and human soul as to cause wear, tear, and overheating like a machine -- a human being that is being abused and treated like nothing more than a mere pencil sharpener or desk lamp: “oh damn… it broke.” Such insensitivity at such epidemic. The outcry is minimal, the support quality is poor- and yet something keeps these abused beings going. These humans with lives and emotions (which are often of poor quality due to their situations) and interests and passions find ways to stay vigilant- to stay persevering in the face of a society that rejects them and treats them as nothing more than a topic for political debate on guns, or education, or healthcare, or whatever… These teenagers find ways to express themselves and be persevering through the pains of life. And the child stood; but couldn’t. The weight crushing, the darkness heavy, the teeth gnawing at sanity. Spinning in the darkness were shapes of past lives. Spinning in the distance was darkness and blankness- no prize. Spinning within the child was light furled, which the child reached for, struggling, ignoring impossibility.

As a teenager, my bias likely shows, but my story has aspects that may represent the undeniable truths of today’s world.

I am incredibly privileged. I am a white, middle class male, raised in an area with generally low crime rates and a high-quality education system. My life has been set for greatness from birth- all I had to do was not throw it away… and yet I have still struggled. I work my hardest, study for hours a night, I make attempts to learn and care, and I am overloaded. Within an average week, I have one to five hours of homework a night, I have marching band two hours a night, two days a week, I have five hour long shifts at work two or three days a week, I have a social life, I have college stresses such as applications and scholarships, I have chores at home: I have too much to do. Perhaps I do it to myself; I need not go to a nice college to survive in this world, or get straight As, or do any extracurriculars -- but society tells me I should. I am a near-ideal poster boy for society. I jump through the hoops, do cute tricks, work hard, concede to change in my limits and abilities… I’m such a good boy! I follow the rules of what society wants teenagers to do and be, and I’ve seen the consequences of this invisible adult-making factory that our country has in place: I have suffered severe anxiety, stress, paranoia while trying to conform. After years of this quality of life (or lack thereof), I’m fried. Yet, it will not improve with the workload of a college student starting next school year. Every day is a battle to get out of bed, brush my teeth, be on time, do my work, and stay sane. So repetitive and degrading. And every time I attempt to relieve stress -- go to a concert, go out to eat with friends, etc. -- I suffer for missing work. And I’m lucky. Most don’t have the luxury of their only problems being about school and time management. There is no loosening of these chains, and freedom would be impossible without death. Every teenager must deal with these stresses. Every teenager has their demons. And yet through this pain, I see the light ahead. I have a dream that I am willing to work towards.- A light at the tunnel that is my North Star through the fields of conformity. I have hope: I can do what I want, and no society will tell me I can’t. The child reaches against impossibility. The weight arguing the motion towards light; the darkness to agony. The child reaches deep, towards the light. In an instant, the light is grabbed. The child radiates true. The truth shows through. The cave walls are exposed to something never before known: something new. Something beautiful. A sky, blue; a sunshine, too.

Ever-More By Genevieve Olsen

It’s the little things, That make life worth living

A tree’s spindly branches reaching out, Drinking in the early morning light

Cherry blossoms floating into the vast ocean that is our sky, Raining delicate petals onto dewy blades of grass

A wildflower in full bloom surrounded by a field of petals, Filling the air with the intoxicatingly sweet fragrance of overripe plums

Violetear hummingbirds with their intricate designs and color palettes, Tasting an alluring iris’ tantalizing, honeyed nectar

Within a broken society, Nature grows ever-more beautiful

Two Haikus By Kelby Beyer

Nails for breakfast, and tacks for snacks, berries later, and apricots last.

Lag time has never been so immense, fearful, or Educational

W hat Goes Through the Head By Elena Stover

After so much pain strikes you, you get this Barren sensation throughout your entire body Causing you to do nothing but sit there in Disbelief hoping it all is a nightmare. You repeat Every moment of every second in your head only to Find out it was real. . . You can’t tell anyone about it because of the fear of being Generalized by everyone as “the one with issues”, so you hide it Hoping no one will ever notice the affliction behind that forced smile. In an attempt to feel better again you splash cold water on your face, but it Just never can wash away the agony you stand against. Now you face the fact of Knowing you are nothing but a zero in this game of numbers, because that is what the Little voice inside your head screams at you on a day-to-day basis. You lack the Motivation to get out of bed, to eat, to do anything. The words “Nothing will numb the pain” resound inside your head until you begin to believe its song. Your Only option is to act like you’re okay. So Pretend to be that happy, joyful girl that everyone thinks. Don’t ask Questions because people will start to suspect that you aren’t okay. They’ll Realize that you aren’t what Society theorizes as normal and They won’t accept or understand. They will talk about you and cast you out Until you learn to desensitize the Very thing that follows you around: the pain. You will feel every amount of pain While you cry until you can’t cry anymore, and your eyes and the skin beneath becomes Xerotic. Don’t begin to think you’ll be fine because your conscience will remind you that You are nothing but a Zero.

Disease By Landon Sheesley

A truly surreal sight, from the roof of the High-rise. A city empty, without its creators, like Stonehenge, silent, its purpose long forgotten. As I step to the pavement I look out across the street, void of life like a dried riverbed. As I walk down the empty road I see the school, swingset gently rocking, only phantoms at play. The wavering, hollow wail, of sirens in the distance. I walk under the hostile glare of street signs. Stay home! Save lives! Fight the unseen enemy! I stop and find myself speaking back to them. I must get food! Keep my job! Support my family! Is this what Quarantine has done to me? Justifying my actions to street signs? Oh well, this is how it is now, what an awful way to live……. Or is it? What we all sit at home, dreaming of what we’ve lost, we fail to see what we’ve gained. Go outside tonight beneath the cold glow of the stars, brighter than they’ve been in years. Listen to the birds chirping happily, free to go wherever they please. Look down into the clear waters of the river, undisturbed by ship screws.

Is this truly a pandemic the likes of which the world has never seen, or is it just earth's cure, to its longest standing disease?

The Big Number One By Jessie Jones

The first one is always the hardest. The big number one. Most of the first things we did were huge: crawling, talking, walking, or even our first loss. Even though how we perceive things is fully up to our thoughts, it can be hard. Passing through the trees as if they were people. My first betrayal was when I was about six years old. I remember it like it was yesterday. I was young, unknowing. I wasn’t supposed to go over that day. I wasn’t supposed to know. I wasn’t supposed to have met him. I’ve lied to myself. Unfortunately, I have to share it with you. His name was Christian. Christian, I trusted you, you devil in sheep's clothing. The person that made me feel like an angel on water. You must’ve started this because you knew. You must have known! How...why? Why did you look at me with those blue, sea-born eyes? Why did you show me the forest as you unraveled your heart? That metal container I only saw in movies came to life with your colors. Colors I didn’t know about. I saw your mouth “I’m sorry” and I saw the light and I saw the red and I felt the vibration and I felt the pain. All of the pain. This was where it started. All because of you. The next was more clouded than the first one. The feel of their fingers as they fell from the sky. Then the next becoming, even more, blurred. The crash of your skull and my heart on the road. More, more, more until I feel nothing at all. The more I tried to help the more I saw, the more I went to war inside my head, and the more I felt how they felt. The things I saw are nothing anyone should, but I take it all on; alone. The latest not quite adding to the list of unfavorable memories that I’d rather shun away. The latest more revealing conceded. Knowing that it wasn’t my fault or the fault of others. I cried; let my emotions spill, but only for a second. This isn’t fair, this wasn’t supposed to happen like this, this is put to rest. He is put to rest. Not I, but for him. We will celebrate his life instead of sullying his death. So I walked up to his casket in many shades of pink, blue, reds, and silvers. No one else was dressed this way. No one else knew what this meant to me, and him. No one else knew that on the inside I was broken. I held my head high so he would know that I won’t forget. I won’t ever forget him and what he has done for me. I will protect his image of me and portray myself as what he thought I was: colorful.

Untitled By Taylor Robbins

I was fourteen when I decided that I would put as little effort into my outward appearance as I possibly could. I figured people should be friends with me based on personality, and I didn't want to be friends with people who would judge others based on their outward appearance. It was a weekend, Saturday probably, when I decided I would shave my head. Not to the skin or anything too crazy, I just wanted something short and low maintenance. My hair wasn't too long before, maybe three or four inches. I gently draped an old, worn out towel over the sink to collect the hair and stop it from going down the drain, then I grabbed my dad's clippers. My dad's clippers are honestly pretty gross. They have tiny bits of silver hair all over the blade and are coated in hair dust, but they get the job done. I plug the clippers into my outlet and flick the switch to turn them on. They emit a low, but loud buzz that fills the room. Slowly raise the vibrating clippers up to my head, second guessing myself for a minute and wondering if this was really something that I should do. After that I just went for it. In less than ten minutes I had very little hair left, but it turns out buzz cuts are not for everyone, certainly not for me. It did not suit my face shape. Some people have the right face shape for certain haircuts, and some people simply do not. So I let my insecurities take over and decided that I would show no one my hair, covering it up with hoodies. I didn't even show my best friend at the time. It was my little secret, and let me tell you, it is quite tortuous to wear a baggy hoodie outside in the hot, Colorado summer.

Fishbowl By Alexandria Smith

Perched atop my neck, Where you’d expect a head to be, Is a fishbowl. Filled with water, nothing more. I wish I had something more substantial up there: A little color, A little life, Even some sand and pebbles would do it, But no. There’s only water. Heaviness with no color.

I suspect that some condensation has built around the sides of the fishbowl. Nothing sticks, you see. Everything I must remember, All tidbits of unforgettable information, Are all written down On pathetic, unlined sticky notes of varying shades, Everything from manilla-folder-yellow to pear-vomit-green. The notes are placed by the hand of memory Onto the fishbowl’s glassy sides And they fall right off. Gracefully, though. The notes float down like autumn leaves, Swirling in the breeze, And I’d love to pick them up again After watching their gradual descent, But I’m afraid to bend down And retrieve those missing thoughts, Because I don’t want the water to spill over.

It’s hard to keep the fishbowl up there. It gets heavy, and sways front to back, Side to side, Back and forth. It takes all of my energy to prevent water from tipping out

Because once the water starts to flow, It won’t stop Until I’m empty. But when I wish to lighten the weight I’m carrying, Tip the bowl, And let the water pour, The fishbowl remains perfectly upright. Unmoving, Unfeeling, The fishbowl has no pity.

My already abysmal hearing Is now completely gone. The sound waves of others’ voices Bounce around the shining waters Before escaping out of the bowl’s top. I have no time to process what they say. I’ve heard others complain About their own lack of understanding. “In one ear and out the other,” They whine. But at least they have ears. The glass has no responses to what is said around me. All that stays is the “Claire de Lune.” It’s been playing since Thursday, January 30, At approximately 8:04 pm.

Those notes were played As I stared around myself Seeing hundreds of candles, Glowing as the night’s darkness Pressed down on us, Stifling our breaths. Maybe that’s where the fishbowl came from. Heat and pressure make glass. And let me tell you, The heat of the candle wax dripping down my fingers, And the weight Of the knowledge that I’ll never see him again,

Were plenty. Water was pouring down my cheeks, So the bowl wasn’t hard to fill, either.

But what do I do with it, Now that it’s here? Maybe one day I’ll wake up, Go about my activities, And stare long and hard in the mirror, Wondering what changed. Then it will hit me That it’s gone And that I haven’t given a thought to him In a while. Then the bowl will return, Just for the purpose of tipping And letting the water flow once more. It's not pleasant, Nor is it pretty. But it’s a reminder Of what I lost Of what his friends lost Of what his family lost And of what the world lost. Now I don’t know if I want the fishbowl to leave me, Like he did, From the face of the earth.

To The Quiet Cities By Audrey Bunce

To the quiet cities And the empty subways To the once-sparkling skylines That have now gone dark To the world of people Living indoors And on the edge of their seat: Look at the way Sunlight reflects On puddles of fresh rain Was it always like that? Remember the sound of applause A thousand feet sharing the same floor When six feet apart Was a foreign concept And we packed ourselves tightly and With reckless abandon Into trains and concert halls and movie theaters How could we not see it then? How could we not recognize The simple wonder Of countless voices speaking at once A sea of faces filling the sidewalks And spilling out onto the street Now we are islands Solitary and afraid Weathering a storm that seems to have no end Perhaps not alone But lonely nonetheless

The Old Way By Sedona Williams

The old way Welcomed in Fed with warmth Sheltered with love A race so giving but we came nowhere At least we’re somewhere Hearts so big but you just took Take, take, take Now searching and wanting to go back Back to the old way Back to my homeland and sea We only just survived Completely changed the ways Push us down But we get back up Keep pushing us down But we don’t give up And still here burning the fires Which way do we go now? Dig deep every day Pull by pull Song after song Ten on ten off Beat after beat we grow It’s your turn now Here take the paddle Steer from the back and lead from the front Paddle forward for today and tomorrow Look back But not for long It’s coming together We’re just around the corner We’re nearly there Let’s get back on our water hunt our lands and climb our mountains Find a better way and keep the old way strong When the journeys complete it hasn’t ended

It’s only the beginning Some say the old ways are gone But it never left It’s inside somewhere Ready to wake Ready for you and your people It is what it is I am the ocean The ocean is me It’s our canoe You and me It’s become we That’s us

Grief: A Guided Tour By Audrey Bunce

Walk past the thorny bushes of Shock; Feel their prickly branches snag And scratch your skin each time you move. Every word and sound and sight and smell A reminder of who you lost.

Next are the quicksands of Denial Relish in the false comfort of their gentle pull Only to be suffocated when you return to reality.

Rage is not far off; A steel baseball bat, and A glimmering glass vase that refuses to shatter No matter how many times you swing. Serving not to relieve your anger, Only to heighten it.

A bit further on, and You’ll find Bargaining: A dilapidated chapel, with an alter Before which you kneel, And beg desperately to an entity you didn’t know you believed in, Offering absolutely anything in exchange for One last word.

The Rivers of Despair, Despondency, and Depression are nearby. The water, sharp blocks of ice, And the current? Far too strong for your weak limbs. Let it pull you under, the freezing waves numbing you Until you cannot feel a thing.

Your path is criss-crossed with detours. But beware of these roads that lead to nowhere, Tributaries into feelings unknown.

Brave the elements, and You’ll find the house of Acceptance. It is modest, not perfect, by any means. There are pieces of them there, A picture or a book, And sometimes the thought will pierce you

As if it all just happened for the first time. Some mornings when you rise, You’ll indulge in the bliss of ignorant denial. Or pent-up frustration Might make you lose it When a simple task proves too difficult. The cross on the wall Will always prompt A subconscious pleading For things to go back to the way they were. And when an unforgiving storm passes through, Pools of rain will collect in the dips and divots of the floor And you’ll think just how easy it would be To slink back into sadness.

But Acceptance is safe; It is warm and it is kind. It holds you As best it can, An honest attempt to recreate The embrace of the one you loved and lost.

Unraveling By MacKenzie Hood

You took time, and unraveled it Like a ball of yarn, laid out and exposed to the world. Frantically, I try to collect it in a heap in my arms, But the seconds slip away And I trip over the knots.

I wish I saw the few seconds you still held, So that I could see you smile once more. But good things never last. Seconds taken for granted have slipped through my grasp, And all I have left is the mess that remains.

A Voice that Stands Alone No More By Annika Fuller

I never knew that music would be able to shine a light to melt my heart, but it did. Somehow, it did. The sounds that echoed through my ears could cause goose-bumps to rise within me. However, those beautiful and full sounds can bring the bleakest, the darkest, the scariest pit in my stomach. Music is something that fills me with excitement. Nevertheless, that excitement would turn into a pit of isolation whenever I alone brought out the sound within me. Still, it's the thrill that fills my soul as I sing as one with others. Sound blared throughout my room as I stood alone, a constant tone filling my ears as I rocked out to some PAN!C. I bellowed out Brendon Urie’s Pray for the Wicked album from start to finish. My face stretched as I couldn't get rid of my grin. Turning to grab water, I stare at the slightly moving curtains. Blood rushed to my face as I was struck by the sudden realization as a breeze carried faint honks, chatter, and children laughing. My skin curled, I sprinted to my window and slammed it closed. Diving under my pillows, I could feel my gut clench as I thought if my neighbors heard my estranged singing… Shyly singing, I straighten my dress to be seamless, seeing the simple girl sensitive to the fact of being late to the much-awaited concert. My dad was taking forever to come get this stressing girl. I practically walked a hole along my wooden floor, pacing in nervousness. I heard the crackle of the asphalt. He was here, waddling with my high heels I ran to the door. I gripped the doorknob and yanked the door open. The cold air rushed past me as I raced to the car through the chilling rain. My dad was frowning. His face scrunched up with confusion of why I was rushing. “Hurry up, we need to go!” I jerked my hands to my side as I finished signing to my dad. I was getting too emotional as tears itched my eyelids. They threaten to stain my pale face. I shouldn’t be terrified of failing to arrive on time. Was I scared of that or disappointing others by my singing? A pit of frustration bloomed in my stomach while fear held my heart. The car rumbled as my dad pulled out of the driveway. The fear held me and the music… Music filled the small, silent space. The radio vibrated, “I got high, high hopes for a…” Grinning, I bobbed my head to the rhythm. I had this song memorized. Mouthing it was no trouble. Pausing to stop, I slightly turned to look at my aunt as she was focusing on the speeding road in front of her. She had no change in her ice-cold face from what I was doing. What if I just took a breath and released a note, a word, a phrase? Gut-crushing pressure gripped my throat causing me to swallow. The words fell even before I could think. Fidgeting against the leather seat, I turn away to stare at the speeding landscape zoomed by as the small car droned on… My whole body leaned as the turn of the quick car sped on to the highway. The tension in my whole core was thick enough to cut with a knife. Mumbling through the set, my dad saw me stone-faced while muttering and immediately knew that I was nervous that we were going to be stupidly late. I sent a tight-lipped smile to him, “It will be okay, sorry for making you late.” He signed one-handedly. I just nodded in affirmation. “It's fine.” I shot back at him. I stared at the

road in front of me, my face hard as I let out a quiet sigh of despair as the fluorescent street lights shone on the widening fissures within me caused by my fear… The small kitchen table glowed fluorescent white as I prepared my attack against my friends. I couldn't hide the mirth leaking out of my triumphant soul as I placed the world-ending attack spell and ended my turn. They muttered and shuffled through their hidden hands trying to plot against each other. Adriana started to play some music out of her phone to relieve the tense, quiet, focused atmosphere. The grand mixture of chords and a beautiful tenor voice resonated in the space, “How do you sleep when you lie to me? All that shame and all that danger. I'm hoping that my love will keep you up tonight.” I couldn't quell my exuberant mood and started singing the song. Soon the pressure crept and crawled, it was to clench my throat like how a spider catches a butterfly. A low register sounded out across the circular table. Adriana with her old velvet vibrato hummed along as the spell cards were shuffled out by her. No one knew that I felt my heart open up as we sang softly in harmony… Weaving through the sea of bodies singing in harmony was like a million hands pulled at me at each step I took. The sounds they produced were magnificent and awe-inspiring as the sound of 100 voices arose to be one. I shuffled to sign in as late. Eyes must be boring into my shame-ridden head. I rushed to my friends, hiding behind them to make myself as small as I could. The time flew by as I joined the voices warming up and the sound flowed rhythmically onward. Soon time slowed as our voices split into raucous chatter, the nervous tension filled the all-to-familiar space. My friends couldn’t keep it in and soon turned to balls of excitement. I stood all too silent and stiff. My heart couldn’t stay still under my brain’s command. It beat crazily and stupidly and fiercely. I couldn’t help encourage that activity within me and knew I am soon to be up on stage and I knew I couldn’t mess this up. A fist was strangling my stomach as I clenched at my dress, wrinkling it. I ramble on to my friends, hoping for relief. But there is no relief for the pressure inside my stomach. I knew I was being judged for being late to the concert… I came in late as my group started singing the part; however, that didn’t deter me. I heard the soft caresses of the sweet high notes. I was heated into a fluster as we crescendo to our split of harmony. I strained my voice, my whole core tightened as I sang to forte with my peers. The lucky souls walk past the cold hall to hear our voices call to them. They could only stop and listen to our words. I felt sly as I knew that we were good. I wanted to show that there was a solemn story to our dynamic song, not just that we could sing, that we could sing and stand firm together. I stood firm against the blazing lights and slyly grinned. Falling and raising chests stood side by side as we looked into the mysterious crowd hidden by the glare of a thousand lights. Everyone stood with proud postures. This moment was endless like the arctic nights, seemingly unending. My mind was a grand but unfortunate hurricane that swirled and surged in my head. Suddenly, the bright figure of our beautiful conductor stood even taller and presented us with a move of her hands. Everyone stiffened by the sudden pressure, but our bodies visibly shifted to

relax as the sweet soothing melody was plunked out by the hands of our pianist. Our chests rose as one as we breathed as one. The last crescendo of the chords and the decrescendo to silence. Within the stares and silence, we leaned forward as we stared back and directed our voices to reveal the strong forte notes of the song to sing. The words billowed out as I truly believed these proud words being sung by my peers was the clarification I needed for my fear, “I stand at the sea and turn to face the desert endless and still.”

Left and Leaving By Emily Peterson

Honey-drizzled lemons When he was evicted, he gifted me a single sour lemon in my mind, Sprinkled with sugar, drizzled with honey, The thought of his absence filling me with solace. Inhale, one; exhale, two. Carry on, and savor the honey that will soon run out, Let it drip from your face in a sticky mess in which you can’t help but smile.

Little darling why do you fret? Incarceration and separation is a gift that time isn’t generous with. Savor it. Inhale, one; exhale, two. Breathe. It isn’t your fault he made you bruised, It isn’t your fault you were abused, It isn’t your fault. But it is my fault, they just can’t see. Guilt mixed with consolation. What a relief it was to be set free; gifted with wings from an angel.

All until those wings were clipped by time herself, Now she leaves me falling from the heavens back to a reality I can’t survive in. Why? Why should he get out so soon? It is not my fault, It is not my fault, It is not my fault, I repeat. My words fall on dead lips, a dead soul, rotted lemons, They are honey-drizzled, sugar coated no more, Savored not nearly enough. 2 years. 2 years and his lemon was never turned into lemonade, no. It was left to rot, and mold, and ferment, and I am left breathless, empty. 2 years go by and I cannot fathom what he contemplates doing to me, What if..? What if the restraining order doesn’t work? What if he tries to— no, I simply cannot go there, the risk of falling apart is much too great. Falling into a deep chasm, to never return. How? Terror runs down my spine--how could they let him out so soon? 2 years, 24 months, 730 days, 17520 hours, 1051200 minutes, One breath I cannot take. One pill I cannot swallow. Arriving, one; leaving, two. Inhale, one; exhale, two. B r e a t h e.

Prologue of an Unfinished Novel By Jared Reeves

Frontera, Arizona was a quiet, rural town situated in the middle of the southwestern deserts. Its main source of income was from the many trucks that would stop there due to it being conveniently located halfway along the old highway. Many of the visitors who stopped there on the long journey down the highway saw the appeal of the small town and eventually put down roots. This flower in the desert grew steadily over time, and all seemed well in this small corner of the world. The decades rolled on, however, and a new, more direct highway was built which rendered the old one obsolete. Regardless, the citizens of Frontera were blinded by the seemingly immaculate success of the town and chose to stay. After the trucks stopped passing through, the income of the town was severed almost completely, and many of its facilities and homes fell victim to this isolated depression. Only the most successful of the remaining inhabitants could afford to leave, while the rest were left trapped in this struggling town. Amazingly, the town adapted and survived though it still remained in a state of decline. Half of the remaining residents became used to the new times and grew complacent, while the other half (generally the newer generation who were born in Frontera) saved every last penny they earned to hopefully one day leave for Phoenix where opportunity for a good life could be found. One peculiar resident, however, was situated firmly between these two extremes. His love for the whole community kept him anchored there, though his heart yearned to leave. It was this resident with a heart of gold that would forever change this dead-end town and its people, no matter what it would cost him.