Spectrum 2016-2017 SHS Literary Magazine

This literary magazine is dedicated to Dr. Murphy, who inspires and teaches us every day.

Special thanks to our sponsors!

Gary Andrews The Demars

Letters from the Editors

Dear Reader, Being a part of something as wonderful as this literary magazine for the second year in a row is a gift. Being the co-editor-in-chief of it during my senior year is an honor. I started the year viewing it as a huge undertaking and responsibility, but as the year went on, the process happened naturally and easily. It could not have been done without the teamwork and dedication of the entire lit mag staff. I am grateful to every one of them for the constant input and constructive criticism. The final product is something I am incredibly proud of, and there is no way I could have accomplished it alone. I am extremely thankful to be a co-editor-in-chief because I would have had a much harder time doing all of this alone. I am also grateful for the beautiful art that was custom-made for our pieces by the talented students in the Sequoyah art program. The art brought the stories to life and was the perfect cherry on the sundae for our literary magazine. I am thankful for all the work that went into this, and for you, who is taking the time to read and appreciate it all. Thank you for letting me be a part of something so beautiful. Sincerely, Alexis Demar Dear Readers, With a theme like spectrum, there’s not really anything more that needs stated. It’s a reflection of who we are as a collective work, as a class, as writers, and as people. This year has brought in some of the most distinct voices and personalities I’ve witnessed out of the students here at Sequoyah. And with a group this diverse, how could you possibly begin to organize and categorize it? Any label you could put would be an injustice to the quality that defines the collection of works within this magazine. So what is there to do? We did the only thing you can do without limiting the capacity for everyone to receive the credit they deserve. It took days of deliberation, debating on whether it should be love and war, hate and peace, or light and shadow, but in the end, it was so obvious the clear choice was a transition from light to dark, encompassing every shade and variation in between. I would like to take time to thank every writer, even the ones who didn’t get the opportunity to be published, for sharing your unique style and imagination with the world. This doesn’t happen as often as it should. Each person should have their talents fostered in an environment of understanding. Thank you to Alexis for actually taking up the majority of the responsibilities on top of the other publication you oversee and for also keeping me calm when I needed it most. Honestly, Emily Minnick

1. “Introducing Me” by Laila Gilles 2. “I Remember” by Abigail Carrillo 3. “On the Brighter Side” by Silence Dogood 4. “Momentary Avoidance” by Sydney Kyle 5. “Writing Poetry” by Ashley Adams 6. “Eva” by Camdyn Kloeblen 7. “To the Trench” by Leah Eubanks 8. “Alfonzo” by Kathryn Hunter 9. “Pancakes and Rice” by Sydney Cavin 10. “Kentucky” by Lauren Pfitzenmayer 11. “Sam’s Town” by Alexis Demar 12. “Countdown” by Haley Bentti 13. “Me Against Myself” by Mia Downs 14. “The Forgotten Way” by Ethan Eltz 15. “Here Lies Your Body” by Ashley Adams 16. “Icarus” by Lux Thunderrock 17. “Agoraphobia” by Anonymous 18. “Alone Together” by Sarah Martin 19. “Favorite Flower” by Shelby Geiger 20. “Untitled” by Alexis Demar 21. “This Month” by Camdyn Kloeblen 22. “Car Crash Rhetoric” by Elliot Fudge 23. “Triumph in a Minor” by Lux Thunderrock 24. “My Name” by Carly McNeill 25. “Our Anathemas” by Elliot Fudge 26. “Pandora’s Piper” by Sydney Kyle 27. “Star People and the Believers” by Alexis Demar 28. “Darling” by Tori Turk 29. “Cherry Crisp” by Garrett Haley 30. “Waiting” by Emily Minnick 31. “Hallowed” by Ashley Adams 32. “Subject 598” by Callista Tyson 33. “My Neighbor’s Dog” by Leah Eubanks 34. “Elizabeth” by Lauren Pfitzenmayer

Introducing Me Laila Gilles

I like to think that everyone has a unique story. I believe that mine has two beginnings. You might not believe me when I say that I was not even supposed to survive. I was born a premature baby, weighing about one and a half pounds. My mother was sick and in desperate need of medical assistance. When I came out, I could fit into a person’s hand. I never would have thought that I would grow up and be as strong as I am today. I thank God for watching over me all these years. I have gone through a lot of pain and sorrow, but it was all worth it. God has taught me so many lessons that will last me a lifetime. Most of my learning experiences have been behind closed doors. It’s true that I would rather go have fun with other kids my age, but that could never compare to what God has done in my life.

I know what it feels like to have a roof over my head one day, and the next feel the ground trembling beneath me—wonder where you are going to live the next morning. I remember hearing the screams of people losing their lives, and my mother’s voice begging God to save me. I reacted to everything with a look of confusion on my face. It never occurred to me that I would have to leave everything I knew behind. However, I had no idea that God had a whole new life awaiting me. I was about to start all over again.

Being from Haiti, I feel coming to United States was like getting to experience another universe, yet I knew it was going to be easy for me to adapt to the basic changes. Speaking the language was easy because I was born in Queens, New York, and traveled to Atlanta during summer breaks. What I did not expect was being admitted to a new school and meeting new people. I really did not know how I was going to fit in with all my surroundings. However, I knew that everything was going to be alright. I am someone who sets a lot of goals for myself, and I get disappointed when I do not live up to them. I want to leave behind a legacy and make my family proud.

I know what it is like to be away from someone I love because my dad still lives in Haiti. However, the distance does not faze me because I know that our family will be reunited. I sometimes want to cry inside when I think about all the circumstances of my life, but I know that my story is not over because I have been given so many opportunities, such as a good education and a good head on my shoulders. There is nothing more important to me than empowering people to be the best they can be. Throughout my journey, God has taught me how to be a fighter and dig deep inside my heart. When I have gotten into trouble, He has always been faithful to me. God has a plan for me, and I fully intend to accomplish it

I Remember Abigail Carrillo

I remember when I would wake up in the morning and hear the lovely birds singing their tune of the day. When I saw my neighbors, their own happy dogs wagged their tails when I would pet them. I know how much my dog was jealous when I paid more attention to them than her. I saw my neighbors out in their yard with their kids, who ran and smiled and laughed all day. I saw the kids running from the father, screaming, "We have to kill the dragon to be able to save the Queen!" Running to her aid, they reassured her that she would be safe. They turned around, and together both children slay the dragon with one good thrust of their swords. Seeing them happy brought a smile to my face. I remember running, feeling the wind of the early morning trying to wake me up. It felt good on my skin, but when it crept into my lungs, it burned. As I kept going, I noticed a family of squirrels in the trees fighting for acorns. I stopped to admire them and laughed at how silly they were. In the same moment, they stopped to stare at me, then took their acorns and scampered off. When they left, I had nothing else to admire, so I kept running until I got back home, all the while watching the sun rise and give off a vibrant display of colors such as a crimson red with a hint of blue. For a split second it was almost as if the sky its self was purple. I remember riding my bike around my neighborhood, just loving the way the air blew in my face as I went down a hill. I loved that sometimes when I went riding, I could see the sun go down. Then when I would stop to stare at the sky, I would see it change color. One minute it was blue, with the slightest hint of red. But as soon as the sun was almost gone, the sky turned a beautiful pink infused with the red. After the sun was gone and the night enveloped the sky, I could hear all the beautiful creatures of the night asking one another to come out and play. And within a few seconds of their callings, they all came out and started roaming around, playing and running away. Nature’s creatures have a way of making something ordinary, such as a plain garden, look outstanding by just being there without a single care in the world staring at you as if they were looking into your soul and becoming one with you. But mostly, I remember night time when I could see the beauty of the sky. With no clouds out to cover the moon or the stars, it looked like heaven. I looked up into the beauty of it all and saw all that it held. Without the stars, the sky would feel so bare. Watching all the celestial objects light up the dark night made me feel safe and secure in some way. Counting everything above and making figures from it all put my mind at ease after a bad day. From my house, in my room, I had the most perfect view of the illuminated sky, moon and all. Never wanting to go to sleep because of staring out my window made me tired in the mornings, but I didn’t care. Because when the hours of midnight were upon me, all I cared to look at was heaven

7 above to see what spectacular lights it held. Asked to show something I love seeing, I pointed up and said, "Wait for the sun to leave and then watch the magic begin." I walked away, saying, "that’s what I love seeing more than anything in the world."

Art by Emily Heeter

On the Brighter Side Silence Dogood

Some say roses are beautiful when they bloom, but why not before then? They see the flower grow and mature, yet acknowledge only the beauty at the end of growth. Do they not see the beauty within growth? These people also see bleakness in winter because of the trees. Why is that the case, though? Do they not see the beauty in how the trees look when they watch their slow dance with the winter blanket? They also say the rain can ruin the ever-warm autumn. I would say it’s beautiful. Sure, it may not feel good to stand in the rain’s graceful fall, but witnessing it—seeing the world dance through water all day—is a marvel. For, you see, beauty can’t be like a coin. Beauty is like the result of light and a prism: a spectrum. All of that spectrum holds beauty in everything existing.

Art by Taylor Jones

Writing Poetry Ashley Adams

I want to write poetry on your skin with my lips. I want to leave marks on your skin that form beautiful constellations that nobody but us could begin to decipher. Your half-lidded eyes are like crescent moons that move the oceans of my love onto the shores of time where I used to count seconds like grains of sand. I stopped worrying about how many grains of sand were on the beach when I realized I couldn’t even see an end to the dunes. The delicate ghosting of my fingertips over your skin is the calligraphy of a thousand love letters that were passed in secret. Your kiss is the sweet morning dew that breathes life into the land that stretches toward the welcoming horizon. You are the waterfall into which one steps to refresh themselves after an eternity spent walking the barren desert. You glide with wind on your wings through the expanses of my imagination. The curves and angles of the Grand Canyon are just not as kind on the eyes as the arch of your back or the contours of your smile. To hear your voice is to hear an echo through a dark cave, the essence of your words reverberating through the cavern of my mind, repeating themselves over and over until they are indistinguishable. Your touch sends electricity through my skin that keeps every nerve on edge, setting them ablaze with a fire of true delirium. I approach this new territory as though I am a settler to a foreign land. I approach it with apprehension, but any fear is vanquished by the awe of what may lie beyond the initial coast.

Art by Kiley Duncan

Momentary Avoidance of a Glorious Boredom Sydney Kyle

Honestly, there is no greater beauty than lying in a hammock strung unevenly between two trees. The unevenness, I must admit, is the result of my own laziness. The forest behind my house has what I call a land estuary, a transition between suburbia and you-can’t-walk-through- here-without-a-branch-hurting-you. Every time I reach the land estuary, my own lack of motivation sabotages any chance of finding good hammock trees. While I have no desire to walk, it’s a month into summer, and I’m beginning to descend into the glorious boredom that comes with no responsibilities; as an active child, this simply will not do. However, the plan backfired because for an hour now I’ve been lying with my head on the lower end of the pathetic slant. Sunlight streams through the vibrant summer leaves in a way that makes thin beams accentuate little particles in the air. My back finally becomes too numb to bear, and I sling a leg over the left lip the hammock in order t roll over to the edge of the material. While my legs and torso turn over, my head is the last to commit to the change as it flops to the side. After staring at sunbeams, my eyes burn and water as they try to adjust to the brown and dull green pallet distinctive to forest floors. Once I can fully see colors again my eyes focus on a patch of curiously arranged flora. Dense moss covers an area shaded with ferns and dusted with mushrooms of all sizes. Suddenly, my mind begins to wander into a state of skewed reality. Air shimmers, and the edges of my vision become hazy. I can taste magic on my tongue. Moss transforms into lush lawns for mushroom houses shaded by towering, 40-foot fern trees. Little orbs of light wander out from the wall of forest behind their neighborhood. The dime-sized creatures walk in pairs or large groups, their glow ebbing and flowing the way jovial conversations do. A few groups split up almost immediately while others pause to continue their silent dialog. Individuals who floated away from the others travel towards their mushrooms. Upon arrival, the creatures dip under the hood of their home and up into the brown specked domes making their roof. Once the creatures have fully disappeared into their houses, the stalk of the mushroom smoothly descends into the moss. Soon, the caps of the mushrooms rest lightly against their lawns. The other orb groups remain out floating around their neighborhood for hours. At dusk they slow down and seem to amble around the mushrooms, dropping out one by one to disappear into their lowering houses. When the final orb reaches the last standing mushroom, it pauses. It stands just outside the covering of its home, and for several long minutes, it doesn’t move. If I didn’t know any better, I would have sworn it was thinking and looking out over its peers’ sleeping homes. Finally, the orb slowly floats into its house and lowers the dome to sleep for the night.

I blink. The ethereal world of the orbs disappears just as the sky leeches itself of all color. Every one of the mushrooms is once again standing tall, and there is no trace of light in the area. In a daze I untie my hammock and fold it neatly to begin the trek home. I walk a few steps. Looking back at the curious patch of flora, I find myself wishing to stay hidden away with the little lights forever. However, my allotted avoidance of the glorious summer boredom has been spent, so I return to my own ethereally mundane existence.

Art by Kiley Howard

Eva Camdyn Kloeblen

She was beautiful. Her blue eyes matched mine but with a hint of hazel, and her delicate body stood a few inches taller than mine. Her long blonde hair reached mid-way down her spine, laying against her glowing sun-kissed skin. She wore a white dress but her feet were always bare. I didn’t know exactly who she was, but I knew she was my friend. Her name was Eva, at least that’s what she told me. I saw her often, however only in my dreams. The nights when I dreamt of Eva were the good nights, ones where I woke up filled with love and happiness. Even the nights when I didn’t see her, I could still feel her there with me. Last night in my dream when I saw Eva, instead of walking with me, she was running from me. So I chased her. I followed her all the way downtown, racing through the streets until she stopped. She paused to glance at me from across the street and then entered into a coffee shop. I woke up before I got the chance to catch up to her. I laid in bed trying to understand why she ran from me. Finding no conclusion, I decided to go to the coffee shop she went in. There were only a few coffee places downtown and I recognized the one in my dream. I passed it almost every morning on my way to work, but I was never bothered to go in. The distance to the shop wasn’t long, but it wasn’t short either, and by the time I arrived my stomach was growling. I reached for the handle of the shop door as it swung open in front of me. A young man carrying his latte while in a heated discussion on the phone collided into me. His latte splashed onto my sweater and down the front of me. The boiling liquid stung against my skin and I pulled at my clothing trying to escape the burn. The man was still on the phone while also trying to apologize to me. He had obviously been in a rush and hadn’t bothered to watch where he was going. I stood there, my eyes rolling to the back of my head at the man. When he hung up his phone, he apologized what felt like a million times and then offered to buy my coffee. At that point I was just annoyed and wanted to go home but I decided to let him buy my drink for his sake, so he could sleep better that night. I ordered my shot of espresso, and he re-ordered his latte and paid for them. I thanked him, expecting him to be on his way by now since he was in such hurry only a moment ago. Instead he pulled out a chair for me at a round table and proceeded to sit across from me. He introduced himself to me as Oliver and began making small flirtatious talk with me. I was beginning to get uncomfortable, as I could tell that he was now hitting on me. It wasn’t the fact that a man was interested in me that made me uneasy, but the fact that his left hand was clearly wearing a silver wedding band.

I looked him in the eyes, interrupting his story, and remarked, “I don’t date married men,” while pointing with my eyes to his ring. He was clearly caught off guard by my words because he stuttered a good bit before saying, “This was my wedding band from my wife Eva. She passed away a few years ago.”

Art by Danielle DaSilva

To the Trench Leah Eubanks

Fractals of sunlight hit my surface and burst around me I am the bottom of the ocean You stare above to the churning ceiling I give you a wreath of crab shells And welcome you home A vast crystal-blue expanse Is a beautiful sight When you’re so used to storms This cathedral I am Shields you from the wind And comforts you with a feeling of feeling alone This place is where you came To escape the air It pours into you, becomes one with you Drowning but not dying Thriving in a sinking sanctuary

Art by Peyton Harris

Alfonzo Kathryn Hunter

Victor looked up at the tree, highly unsure of this. He had just set aside one small piece of artwork in the wrong place at the wrong time, and now - now he was at Six Flags at 5:45 in the morning, trying to figure out how to get into the park. It probably would have been a better idea to have come at an earlier hour; however, it would have been a better idea to not have come at all. Having parked at the Riverside Epicenter, Victor had walked all the way here, equipped with only his bookbag and his phone. Inside of his bookbag were essential items such as another phone, a mobile charger, a flashlight, and his keys. Oh, and a knife. Just in case. Now that he thought about it, though, he had no clue how one went about climbing a tree. He couldn’t exactly… find any branches low enough for him to reach, so he… aha. His knowledge from ah… Mulan told him that if he took his phone charger’s cord and attached two really heavy rocks to it… yeah, it… worked somewhat. It didn’t really work at all, except for the purposes of practically flinging himself onto a branch above him - which was all he needed. From there, he ditched the rocks and began to climb the rest of the tree using the branches before leaping down below onto the pavement of the abandoned theme park. Victor sprained his ankle. He was fine, though, really. He brushed a bit of his shaggy, dyed, maroonish sort of hair back from his face as he looked around for the spot - yes, there it was. He went into the building which was currently blocked off with the all-famed barricade tape, carefully stepping around anything that may have been considered ‘evidence.’ As best he could, of course, with a sprained ankle. That was, until he came to his charcoal drawing he had left on the ground last night. A surreal portrayal of something as simple as the ocean’s waves flowing around the Capitol building, it was now covered in shards of glass and stains of dried blood, but Victor picked it up from the ground and stepped back out of the building as carefully as he had entered. Upon reaching the tree Victor had climbed to enter the park, a bright light shone in his eyes, and he instinctively shut his eyes and turned away from it. “Whoa, Victor!? Is that really you? Man, I never thought you would be the sort to be here - is that one of your drawings? I saw one of those things of yours in the hallway the other day, you’re really good, you know -” Victor took a moment to blink, then to actually realize who was speaking to him. His friend Alfonzo, dressed a pink corduroy sweater and gray sweatpants, was standing there with just a flashlight, keys on a lanyard around his neck. “No, wait, Alf, why - why are you… here?” Victor asked softly, looking around the park.

“I always come here to paint weird graffiti. But see, you - you’ve got that drawing there, and it’s got - blood on it, and you came from… that crime scene over there, which only leads me to believe -” “Alfonzo -” “That you must’ve done something real bad, yeah?” “No.” “And so, I’ve got to call the cops, friend.” “Alfonzo, you’re also going to -” “Murder’s worse than vandalism, though. I don’t stand for that… Thought you were a cool guy and all, but I guess like... I guess you weren’t.” Victor sighed, going over to Alfonzo, who initially flinched at the action of Victor grabbing his flashlight and shutting it off. “Alfonzo, I never - I just wanted my drawing, that’s it. I dropped it here last night before the murder, and I just wanted it back, that’s all.” “The police - they would have given it back -” “After questioning me! And what would that have looked like to my parents, huh? Their son gets all messed up in possibly being involved in a murder, yeah, I’m sure they’d be all so much prouder of me, huh? Just their precious, already disappointing son who wastes all his time on ‘stupid drawings’ and hangs out with the oddest people so he has to be tracked all the time of his location, accused of murder…. that’d go real well, yeah?” Victor looked at Alfonzo carefully, handing his flashlight back to him before stepping away from the other teen, dropping his bookbag to the ground and shoving the drawing inside of it. “This artwork is mine, I came here to get it with no trouble, it makes no difference whatsoever. None.” Alfonzo blinked in confusion, holding his flashlight in one hand and taking his phone out, turning its screen on instead to light the scene. “Okay, but - wait, when was - your parents have that Life360 thing on your phone? Won’t they know you’re here anyway?” Victor shook his head. “No, I - I turned my phone on airplane mode, they can’t - see where I am right now. However, you - you…” Victor took out his own phone, switching over to the all- hailed location app and scrolled down a few scrolls to reveal his trip from Six Flags to his house at around 9 P.M. last night. “See, you can believe me, right? I arrived at my house at 11 P.M. and the murder happened at 10:30, my house is two hours away. Is that proof enough for you?” Alfonzo nodded, clicking through the app and just sort of verifying the information displayed. “...yeah, yeah, I guess that makes sense… yeah.” He whispered, looking up at the tree. “I guess I could just… go back to making my grafitti now?” Victor grinned at the other, “Sure, if you want to walk around this place alone after a murder, fine with me.” “That’s what you just did, though?”

“Mm, true. Good point. Go ahead, then. Make graffiti after a murder and have fun convincing the cops that wasn’t some nice after-murder art.” “Wait, no, Victor. I’m a bit scared now.” Alfonzo turned around and climbed up the tree like it was not a problem at all. Victor was very jealous, actually. “Are you coming too, Victor, or is there something I’m not understanding very well? You know I’m not all AP and stuff like you.” Victor stared at Alfonzo, quite in awe of the other boy, for a long while before actually answering the other’s question. “Yes! I just… uh… can’t exactly… climb… a tree that well.” “Oh.” Alfonzo looked down at the other, climbed down to the lowest branch, and extended a hand out to Victor. “I’ll let you up this time, but I’m going to teach you how to actually climb a tree when we get back, alright?” “...I, thanks. Yeah.” Victor said, taking the other’s hand before being lifted up to the branch and being able to climb the rest of the tree himself. His ankle still hurt a whole lot, but it was nothing. “Thanks.” After hopping down on the other side, he realized that the pain in his ankle was certainly not nothing, but he still treated it like it was as he began to limp all the way back to the Epicenter. “You’re limping.” Alfonzo very plainly pointed out as he stopped walking in front of the other. “I could carry you, you know. You don’t look like you weigh that much or anything.” Victor was quiet yet again, left at an absence for words as he mumbled. “Thanks…? Yes. Thank you.” He said more confidently, allowing Alfonzo to pick him up. Either Alfonzo was really strong, Victor was actually light, or Alfonzo had incredibly strong arms like Barry Benson in every Bee Movie fan- no, no. It was probably just the first two and mainly the second. Once they had reached the Epicenter, Alfonzo let down Victor at his car and Victor thanked him once more. “It’s no problem, I just - well, your ankle was sprained, you know?” Alfonzo stated plainly, watching as Victor got into his car. “Yeah, I - thanks, yes, I - teach me how to climb a tree when you can, yes?” “Yeah! Of course. I can always do that. Anytime. You should teach me how to draw cool things like that thing you had earlier, except without the blood?” “I’ll try my best, Alfonzo. See you at school.” “No, I need your Snapchat! We gotta stay in touch!” “...I don’t… have a Snapchat.” Alfonzo looked at Victor in shock before giggling a bit. “I’ll teach you how to do that, too, then. See ya at school, then, yeah.” He grinned at Victor as he turned and went to his own car, which was parked a few spots away to the left. Once safely inside his car, Alfonzo rolled up the sleeves of his sweater as he turned up the heater and the music in his car - a light jazz of sorts on a radio station.

However, the next and last thing he heard was the cracking of glass through the window on the passenger’s side as a bullet came through it.

Pancakes and Rice Sydney Cavin

Lolo is “grandfather” in Filipino So that’s what we all called you Your smile could warm anyone’s heart Your hugs felt like they had superpowers They gave everyone just a little bit more hope

“This little donkey went to town” That’s what you’d sing to the grandkids Each of us have heard that sweet song more than we can count There are twenty-two of us One is up in heaven smiling with you You loved each of us equally Even the ones who weren’t truly your own

You loved everything You loved the most evil man Just as much as you loved the saint You loved your step sons Just as much as your real sons and daughter

You were just full of love from head to toe

Every single day during Christmas with the family You’d wake up before the sunrise You’d sit at the table with your coffee Read the newspaper And wait for the rush of hungry children

The first grandkid would run downstairs You’d scoop them up in your arms and kiss their forehead “Pancakes?” The answer was always yes

Soon you would have all 21 sets of tiny toes all sitting in one room Eating your special breakfast and talking like best friends You taught me how to make pancakes the “Lolo way” I’m the only one who got those lessons

Generous, loving, and an avid rice lover You made an impact that will last forever Not just on the family but also on the four hundred people who came to the funeral

Lolo, You will be missed by everyone I wish that every single person had the chance to meet you You changed my life for the better You have helped mold me into the person I am And for that I am eternally grateful

Art by Shannon Gilbride

Kentucky Lauren Pfitzenmayer

My brothers and I sit on the big log at the end of the stream. My youngest brother, Bo, is lying down, taking up most of the log. We all stare at the clouds above and point out shapes. Bo giggles at one of the clouds, saying it looks like a butt. We all laugh. Harland’s laughs quickly dies down. “Fulton, do you remember what it was like when we were little?” Harland asks me. “Of course I do. I was the only one old enough to remember it. It’s only been eight years, Harland.” “Well, eight years is a long time,” Bo says while not breaking eye contact with the butt- cloud. We grew up on a quiet farm. Ma and Pa would wake up as soon as the birds started chirping to start working. They were always so kind to let my brothers and me sleep in before waking us up to the smell of breakfast cooking downstairs. Fond memories of the life I had flooded my head, but not for long. I loved Kentucky, but I can never go back. My past haunts me; I think about what I did— and what I should’ve done. One night, when I was about seven or eight, life changed. It was either early in the morning or really late at night. I didn’t know what time it was, but it was pitch black outside. For some reason, my head was pounding, so I climbed out of bed to make my way to the kitchen for a glass of water, but a noise stopped me. Someone was downstairs. It’s probably Pa, I thought to try to convince myself that there was nothing to be bothered by, but I knew it wasn’t Pa. Pa always slept through the night. Ma did, too. I’ve never, ever been awakened by the sound of my parents downstairs late at night. I looked across my room to see my brothers sleeping soundly in their beds, so I left the room. I tried to tiptoe to avoid making any noise. My heart started pounding through my nightgown. My feet were shaking as I peered out of my door and saw Ma. “Ma!” I said in a shouting whisper. The look of fear crossed her face, and her eyes seemed almost glazed over. She motioned for me to stay where I was, and she walked over to me. “Fulton, baby, Mama is going to check on the noise. Okay, Sweetheart? Stay right here. You’re my brave little girl,” she whispered in my ear. I knew she would keep me safe, so I did what she said. I sat on the top step and heard Ma scream. My body froze. “Ma…” I whispered to myself as tears welled up in my eyes. The screams stopped seconds later, and the front door slammed

22 shut. I never thought to go downstairs. I was so scared that I just went back to bed and crawled under my covers. I don’t remember anything else from that night. My next memory from that age is when Auntie Carol Anne took us away to live with her. I never saw Ma and Pa again, only in pictures. I was plagued with guilt my whole life, wondering what would’ve happened if I just followed Ma downstairs. Would they still be here? I knew that something horrible had happened to them. I will never forget the way her screams sounded. Auntie says I think about it too much, but I can't forget it. I really can't. Ma sounded so scared, and I should’ve been brave enough to go down and save her. I kept telling myself that I was just a kid, but she’d always said I was her brave little girl. Bo looks at me with sad eyes. Both of them hold me in a tight embrace, and we all look up at the sky together. I was the last person to see Ma and Pa. Tears swell up in my eyes. “Fulton, what were Ma and Pa like?” Bo asks. He never got a chance to really know them. He was only two when we left with Auntie. “They were the sweetest people I’ve ever met. The loved both of you to bits and pieces.” I can barely get out the words. “I love you, Fulton,” Harland says with tears forming in his eyes. “I love you, too, Harland.”

Art by Callie Blalock

Sam’s Town Alexis Demar

The sand shifts roughly beneath me as I take long, heavy steps up the hill. I curse myself for going through with this stupid idea, but I don’t turn around. I just hike up my backpack and continue walking up the hill. I think about how stupid of a plan this really is. Not necessarily any more dangerous than a normal day, but still pretty stupid. Living in a desert was hard before the Great War, but living in the desert after it is practically suicidal. A radiated wasteland was bad enough, but the desert started as a wasteland. Now it was basically wasteland squared. I look around nervously as I walk to my destination. Walking out in the open is generally a bad idea- there’s nowhere to hide in a desert. I try to scope out my options, but it’s pointless. All that surrounds me is sand, other than a large rock and a pair of half dead cacti. My best bet for hiding from radiated desert monsters is digging a hole and sitting in it. Which is a terrible idea. I take note of the large rock on my left and double check the map my friend David has given me. It looks like I’m about where he crudely marked an ‘X.’ The boulder is to my left and I am a little north of the pair of cacti. David said that it doesn’t matter if I am exactly in the spot, so I shrug my shoulders and set my backpack down. Good enough. I start pulling wood out of my backpack and set it up for a fire. Making a fire in the middle of the night is dangerous, but I’m doing a lot of dangerous things, so whatever, I guess. I light a small fire and sit in thought for a few minutes, allowing it to burn. I can’t tell if this is going to work or not. Summoning the devil? What if he gets super pissed and summons a bunch of freaky, radiated demons? Too late to go back now. I stand up and fish a sheathed knife from my backpack. Holding my hand over the lit fire, I cut my hand wide open, trying to make the incision as shallow as possible in the hopes that it will heal quickly. I squeeze my hand over the fire, making sure plenty of blood drips into the flames. I then grab a bandage from my backpack and wrap up the cut as best I can. I stand in place, dancing nervously while I wait for something to happen. I stand for several minutes before I turn around and begin to make sure everything was in my bag so I can leave. Just as I pick it up, I hear the sand shift behind me. “Hello.”

I turn around to see Him. My breath hitches in my throat for a moment, but after a minute of staring, I greet Him back. He looks pretty normal, a semi-buff dude with bright red skin and black, shoulder-length hair. He’s wearing jeans and a black t-shirt, but He has no shoes. “Sorry for the weird get-up. I don’t normally wear clothing,” He smiles at me and I think for a moment about how bizarre it is that He doesn’t normally wear clothes. I think for another moment about how even more bizarrely, He made sure to mention it to me. “So you summoned me? I am assuming for a reason. The people who summon me just to see if I am real tend to react more loudly than you.” “My friend told me that if I summoned you here that you’d make a deal with me.” “Your friend is mostly right. I will make a deal with you, but only if it’s interesting. I’m easily bored,” He says. He smiles at me again and I feel increasingly uncomfortable. “I want to live forever. And be invincible.” “That’s not very interesting. I get that one a lot. Did you know I can see the future?” “I do now.” He chuckles. “Gods are very powerful, Sam.” I don’t ask how He knows my name. I assume it’s part of being all-powerful. “Are you technically a god? I mean, in most stories and religions, you’re considered the opposite of God.” “Yes, that is true. But what do you call something that is just as powerful as your God? I am equally as powerful, you know. I control all the evil things in the world, while God controls the good. I feel that I am in a constant battle for control. But as many religions and philosophies have said, there must be balance. So, yes, I am technically a god.” We stand silently for a moment. I didn’t know how to respond to that, so I don’t. I feel incredibly awkward. What are you supposed to say to the devil during an awkward silence? “So, about your request. I asked if you knew I could see the future for a reason. I know what yours holds. Which is why I will say yes to your request. But there’s a catch.” “I didn’t really think you were going to make me immortal and invincible out of the kindness in your heart.” “I would watch the sarcasm, Sammy. I am not someone you want to make angry.” “Of course not. So what’s the catch?” “You must remain in Las Vegas for eternity. You must protect the settlements in the area and the surrounding desert from any dangers. Invincibility means a lot in a time like this, Sam.” He smiles at me, and it resembles a wild dog baring its teeth. “Every day is a fight for survival after the Great War. That is what you all call it, yes?”

“Yes, that is what we call it. So you want me to protect anywhere from fifteen to twenty settlements from the monsters that live around here? That’s kind of a big job. You said you control all the bad in the world? So that means that you were responsible for every atomic bomb dropped? For all the problems the radiation has caused, including all those freaky monsters in the desert?” I feel my face heat up, feel my hands curl into fists. This is not the best time to get angry. “Yes, yes, yes. This is a part of my reparations. But it was necessary. You may never know why, but it was. Learn from this, Sammy. From this day on, you may be immortal, but you will never be a god.” He holds His hand open, palm up in the air. A piece of paper appears, along with a red pen. “Now sign.” I grab the pen and paper from the air above His hand. He looks at me expressionlessly. I look at the paper, to see that it only had three lines of writing on it. Sam Thomas Whitmann will become immortal and invincible from this day on. He is contractually obligated to stay in the general Las Vegas area and protect it from the wild beasts that roam the area. I sign on the dotted line. The pen and paper disappear as soon as I finish my signature. “Lovely doing business with you.” The devil smiles and then disappears with a blink.

Art by Brenda Byrd

Countdown Haley Benti

I go through the motions one more time. Five things I can see. Four things I can feel. Three things I can hear. Two things I can smell. One thing I can taste. Five things I can see. I see scattered posters on the wall that always distract me, and I see the desks in front of filled with the same teenagers I see every day for eight hours. I can see the poker-faced teacher looking around the small, crappy trailer, looking for anyone who is looking to cause trouble. I can see the pink mechanical pencil in my hand that I found on of the ground in my hand. And I can also see the kid who's trying to cheat off of me. Four things I can feel. Well, that's easy. I feel the same pair of leggings I wear almost every day to school. I touch the scantron in front of me and feel how unusually light it is. Squeezing my pencil, I can feel the rubber grip at the end go between my fingers. Lastly, I'm able to feel the cold top of my desk when I lay my bare hand on it. That leaves three things I can hear, two I can smell, and one I can taste. Three things I can hear. The sound of the AC unit mainly fill my ears, but if I listen closely I can hear everyone's pencils pushing against their papers as they try to finish their test. The sound of my heartbeat fills my ears when I hear my teacher call my name. I walk up to him, trying not to focus on how I'm probably in trouble and how I'm going to get suspended because he thinks I’m cheating on a test. I try to shift my focus back to focusing on two smells, but the thoughts of doom fill my brain. The teacher asks me if I'm finished and I say yes. I quickly hand him my work and rush back to my seat while thinking of everything I did wrong in that moment. I force myself to start the exercise again. Five things I can see.

. Art by Isis Grubbs

Me Against Myself Mia Downs

“Stop. Don’t do it.” “No, I have to.” “You can’t. They’re looking at you. Judging you.” “No, they’re not.” “Fine. Then go. Get up then.” “I am.” “That girl to the left, she’s watching you.” “No, she’s not.” “Why is that boy staring you up and down?” “He’s not.” “Everyone is looking at you.” “They’re not, though. They’re not looking at me!” “That boy is heading straight towards you.” “So?” “Don’t trip.” “Leave me alone!” “I can’t.” “Get out of my head!” “I can’t. I am you.”

Art by Andreas Andujar

The Forgotten Way Ethan Eltz

As the old man sat down, he felt the weight of his years press on him. He grunted and rested his weathered cane against his right leg. He was a strange man, and not much was known about him, other than he hadn’t spoken a word in ten years and that he had once been a fisherman. His eyes and mouth looked old and tired but had a certain kind of lightness to them, as he smiled a lot. He had thin, wispy hair; atop of it sat an old-fashioned sailor’s cap. It had peeled away at the corners over the years, but it still had the general stature it had when he first got it. He wore a tattered leather jacket with a faded orange logo on its back, perhaps once reading the manufacturer’s name or his favorite baseball team, but now it was just another lost relic, as was true with many of the old man’s belongings. His jeans were of a saturated kind of blue and had far too many patched holes in them to be a fashion statement. They were much too long for him but somehow fit just right. His belt was a dense matte black, and the buckle itself was made of gold. Perhaps the strangest thing about the old man was the fact that he wore a pair of large brown boots; one looked old and dusty like everything about him, but the other looked brand new without a speck of dirt on it. He was sitting on an old rusty bench overlooking the calm ocean. The sea had an oily sheen, reflecting what little light shone through the clouds above. Just out of his view laid an oil tanker, still lodged in a sandbar where it had sunk all those years before. It had been a tragedy for the anchormen. The chemical killed all life in sight and ruptured the ecosystem forever. With little to no work, the people slowly left and never came back. It was beginning to storm out at sea, but the old man didn’t mind. As he gazed into the vast ocean, the sea almost revealed an ancient wooden dock, covered long ago by the ocean itself. The wooden dock had once been a place of gathering and great prosperity for the town, but that had been a lifetime ago. The old man shifted his gaze to the once prosperous town behind him. One shop caught his eye; he had come there once, as a child. Looking for his father. That was a very long time ago, back when the town was filled with hustling, bustling people. Now there was just the old man, the last of an idea. The once crowded city was now a ghost town as evidenced by the plethora of closed shops checkered by faded FOR SALE and CLOSING SOON signs. The streets had long been abandoned, traveled only by the old man himself. The ground was littered with bits of fish skeletons, the many forgotten newspapers, and various trash. No one had ever come to fix things. No one had come to brush away the past. He looked up at the cold blue sky. The sky was the same as it always had been. Thick black clouds covered the horizon heading out to sea. The gusts

29 of wind picked up, and the temperature dropped as he closed his eyes and remembered the past. The town had a forgotten way, perhaps remembered only by the old man.

Art by Kendrick Chun

Here Lies Your Body Ashley Adams

My darling, here is where they think you lay. But what can I really say? For I feel not in the way Of every other person gathered here today.

My dear, there is hardly a sound. No words come from those gathered around. But I know a fact which they have not found; It is not really you that they are putting in the ground.

My love, you have them fooled. Their naive eyes to which tears have pooled, And trembling lips which have sobbed and puled, Are not aware of the truth of what fate has ruled.

My sweet, I know it is not you which the soils bear. All of these people are so unaware That your spirit does not reside there; It is no longer partnered with the vessel it used to share.

My angel, I know exactly where you are. The place where you truly lie is never far. You are not just a body that they can bury or char, Claim is you, and force into a little jar.

My beau, your laughter lies within the breeze. Your smile is the winter freeze. The fruits of our love live on as buds on the trees. Your spirit puts to shame the vastness of the seas.

My light, they think that you no longer have a heartbeat. However they are the ones who have accepted defeat. Little do they know that your heart pulses on repeat

Inside the chests of all those to whom your mere presence was a treat.

My darling, although there are days Where my grief puts me in a haze, Out at nature I choose to gaze For there is where your spirit truly lays.

Art by Jacob Watson

Icarus Lux Thunderrock

I wanted more than the brandishing of black steel in your grip. Sound the bang of thunder’s gong before lighting hits

Within your eyes rested a Russian morning, breathless and frigid. Spine held fast as a steep mountain incline is rigid

I coveted more than the brush of our lips, the effect of smoke to oxygen. Blaze brazen as the bite marks resting stark on tender skin

I looked for the sky on your shoulders, broad as our continent home. Found the sun iridescent between steep planes of bone

More I begged, mind shaking, forehead brushing yours, whole form quaking. You branded me Icarus, in a whisper had us breaking

Art by Kelly Rodriguez

Agoraphobia Anonymous

Dull headaches of the midmorning noon that pull the blankets away from the dissatisfied lovers who dream of dreamless sleep. Hate-caked fingernails claw at the smattering of hair that falls into a halo of greed. Why does the caged bird sing? She entertains the notion that curls around her feet like the water and the songs that are carried in them from sirens who plead for some alone time. The fate of the church rests in the hands of the boy who holds a skull and does not believe in ghosts, and so he does what everyone else does: die. ’Tis well thou art not fish, and it’s pretty damn good not to be someone who fears the rays of dashing sunlight caress the ugly scars, our lips, which come from impeccable little lies. I’ll try to keep this dreariness from the light of day and shove it under the bed with memories of my childhood. Someday I may go down there to find them. and I hope Jim Carroll is there waiting for me in the alleyway with eyes closed and knuckles white, and we slide along the street like the yellow smoke. We are impatiently etherized upon a cross while Keith Haring is arrested again, and I’m falling down a sewer not even trying to hold on. I keep falling down the stairs Widow Winchester made for us; at the bottom that never comes is a trapdoor where Jesus has been hiding in the longest game of hide and seek. “Come back later,” he says. “I’m not feeling too well.” And off to the races they go to see the sleek bodies of Greyhounds, whose skin is tight like the faces of those who pay for it. All of our personalities covered in more makeup than that of the selfish flesh.

Sour taste of blood in your mouth helps you cope more than the sessions or the one…two… three…four… The clock is finished ticking because it has better things to do than to tell you how to ruin your life. It yearns to have purpose because time has been meaningless since it first began. How silly it must be to live life, knowing that it has a job to do like televangelists or gas station attendants. That land of milk and honey is so tempting, like that final kiss goodbye, but as it happens shards of glass prohibit the lust of “this generation.” How rude to give homeless people smokes like you toss your mail into a junk drawer. They can wipe their own ass with their Ph.D.s, and they don’t want the satisfaction of knowing they have turned into a caption of bizarre intent. Is altruism even real? The bird does not give its offspring food to make them happy; they know there is longing behind her beady eyes. As they eat, they hear of the sacrifices she made to let the world hear a new song as she rotates around life and becomes part of a world that beseeches chaos amongst the shade of leaves. And that sizzle of charred meat as the woman hopes to impress the man who just lost his job. The tile beneath their shattered marriage remains.

Alone Together Sarah Martin

The Butterflies swarm in my stomach when we are alone together. A joyful song sounds as I play your heart strings. Bright, happy colors of fuchsia, tangerine, and scarlet red light up the sky; The sun shines brighter than ever before as you crack a smile. Then the words flow out of your mouth:

“We’re done.” Time stops.

It seems as though my world shifts suddenly from a garden of joy to a treacherous ocean of despair. Butterflies stop flapping their wings, falling apart as they hit the ground. The warm colors of the sky fade into cold, deep blacks and blues. I’m praying, but all I feel is a heavy weight of water, like I’m a boat sinking in fear. As time slowly passes, I walk along the soggy shoreline, for what seems like eternity, until I see your face again. You say hello, and my heart reaches through yours, shards of broken love slicing away. “I don’t get waves of missing you anymore, They’re more like tsunami tides in my eyes”, I say, as my baby blues run the sea dry from the amount of tears that have fallen down my cheeks The boy I once knew looks at me with an empty gaze, then rips out my heart strings one by one, eternally breaking down the song of endearment. The ocean is now dry, no sunshine, with just a cloudy mind. I run for my life, heals digging deeper and deeper the farther I go; My footprints leave scars in the sand Hopefully, one day, they are found by someone who actually loves me.

Favorite Flower Shelby Geiger

It's the first time I have driven down this little windy road in a year. I used to drive on this road every day because it's a shortcut to get to most places in my town. However, for the past year, I have always taken the long way around. As I approach one segment of the road, memories of the night that changed my life forever begin to flood my mind.

It was about 9:45 on a Friday night in October. My best friend Ava and I decided to leave the football game early and come back to my house to watch movies. Ava, who was very shy, never really enjoyed any activity that involved more than just a few of her closest friends. I had begged her for days to go to the football game that night, so the fact that she even made an appearance was pretty surprising. "I just got a text from James. Do you want to go hang out with him and some of his friends?" I asked her, even though I knew what her answer was going to be. "Olivia, you know I don't like those guys." "Oh come on, it'll be fun. We'll only stay for a few minutes and then come back, I promise." Ava sat there, and I could tell she was trying to come up with an excuse for why she did not want to go. "I think we should just stay here and um...talk. What's going on in your life?" "Are you kidding me? We've been best friends since kindergarten. We know absolutely everything about each other." "Do you know what..." She paused, and I could tell she was trying to come up with a question I would never know the answer to. "Do you know what my favorite flower is?" "Daisy." After about a minute of hesitation, she finally answered, "Okay fine, we'll go, but only for a few minutes." Ava and I got up and went out to the car. I grabbed the car keys off the little hook by the door as we walked out. I pulled out of the driveway and turned onto the little windy road. We had the music turned up and were singing and dancing in the car, just like we had always done. Right when the chorus of our favorite song came on, the blinding sight of bright headlights came around a curve and straight toward our car. Everything went black. I woke up to the sound of sirens and yells as blue and red lights were flashing all around me. I was lying on the cold concrete. I couldn't feel my body. All the adrenaline flowed through my body causing me to feel no pain. I tried to scream but couldn't make a sound. Where's Ava? I tried so hard to lift my head and look around, but I couldn't. I couldn't do anything. After a few

37 minutes, a paramedic came up to me calling to others behind him for help. Two men came on either side of me and lifted me onto a stretcher. One of the paramedics looked at me, and I guess he could see both panic and fear in my swollen, bruised eyes. The taller of the two men said, "Calm down, you're going to be okay. We are going to take care of you. Can you tell me your name?" I couldn't tell him my name. In the moment, I couldn't even remember my name. I was rolled onto the ambulance, and the people around me began to work on me. They asked me many questions like what parts of my body hurt and if I remembered anything that had happened. I couldn't answer them. They kept telling me to stay awake, but I dozed off for a moment. In a half conscious state, I heard the driver say, "What happened to the friend?" The paramedic looked up and said, "The crash killed her instantly." All of a sudden, I could feel every single ounce of pain rush through my body. I opened my mouth to scream, but I couldn't make a sound. I was kicking, trying to get away to help my friend as I really started to become aware of what was happening.

Tears begin to roll down my cheek as I approach the little cross on the side of the road that marks the place of the crash. I pull over and get out of the car. While placing a bouquet of daisies, which was Ava's favorite flower, by the little cross, I begin to wish that on that particular night, I hadn't known everything there was to know about my best friend.

Art by Madison Murphy

Untitled Alexis Demar

I run frantically; my entire body is on fire. I keep my arms out in front of me and try to guard my face from the thick brush I’m running through. The forest feels eerily silent in comparison to the panic I feel, and I push my body even harder, knowing the silence is a bad sign. Suddenly the air around me gets colder, and my throat burns as I breathe in the frozen air. I hear something rustle far away and stop in my tracks. I squat down and try to conceal myself in a bush that’s partially covered by a tree. It’s so dark out that I can barely see five feet in front of me and the hospital sweats I’m wearing stick to my clammy, trembling skin. It’s so quiet that I almost wonder if this is all a dream. The silence is eerie and it takes all my self-control to keep my shaking body from rustling the bush. I try to peek around the tree, moving agonizingly slow to avoid making any noise. When I see a shadowy figure in the distance, my breath hitches in my throat. I choke a cough back, and the figure turns toward me in what seems like slow motion. A strange, echoed growl escapes the creature, and goosebumps prickle my skin. I stand and turn quickly, dashing in the opposite direction of the gnarled shadow creature. When it lets out an ear-piercing screech black spots appear in my vision. I cough, my lungs begging desperately for air. My breath is ragged as my feet slap the ground loudly, I sprint wildly, paying no attention to where I’m going. I know that as long as I’m away from that thing, I’ll find a way out. Sharp as whips, branches and twigs slap me in the face and arms, and I can feel the stinging of the tiny cuts the branches leave. I ignore the pain; my adrenaline fuels me to run faster. I can feel the earth around me shake as the beast chases me; panic fills my body. I scramble wildly to run faster, and I stumble over something. When I crash to the ground, my head smacks down with a sickening crack. My vision blurs, and my head pounds with pain in time with my heart. Adrenaline courses through my veins; my entire body trembles with fear. I can hear the heavy steps of the creature coming toward me, taunting me with its slow, methodical movements. As the monster lets out a high-pitched cry, my vision turns a blinding, agonizing white. My brain feels like it’s made of jelly, and I feel like I’ve been struck by lightning, but it’s not stopping. I scream out, begging the thing for mercy. The creature’s cry turns into a low, bassy moan, filling my chest. The sound almost crushes my lungs, and I feel the sensation of being lifted into the air.

A spot of black dots in the white abyss appear, and my bones fracture from the pressure of the monster’s strange, low sound. My head spins, and the black spot grows larger at an alarming rate. I suddenly feel a firm grip on each of my limbs and thrash about, the pain almost too much to bear. I am slammed down onto a hard surface, and the sound begins to get higher again. As I lose consciousness, I feel needles prick my body in several places. The world goes black.

Art by Nick Norris

This Month Camdyn Kloeblen

One month. 31 days have passed, and my heart has yet to heal. My life has taken a turn for the worst as I've watched everything that means the most to me spiral downward. Everybody keeps telling me that everything happens for a reason, but I just don’t see how this could be for the best. I know that none of this was his fault, but I can't help being mad at him. Mad he left this world, our family, me. He used to be our strong and steady. Without him, we all have had to find strength in places we've never before known. I wish he wouldn’t have left; I need him here for support. I should've spent more time watching boring sports with him on Sundays, and I wish I wouldn’t have said no when he asked if I wanted him to teach me how to drive a stick shift. I need to hear his laugh just one more time and feel the embrace of his hugs. Of all things, I miss mostly how annoying he was, how he drove me crazy, always ridiculing everything I did,and picking at me just to make me mad. Among the feelings of sorrow and loss, fear is the most overwhelming. I fear that I will soon forget the sound of his voice, or his mannerisms, maybe even the way he smells. But I know that every day something happens, making me think of him. When I eat dinner, and his seat at the table is empty, when I see his clothes hanging in the closet, and every day when I pass Miller View Drive and the skid marks still remain visible on the road. This month will turn into years, and eventually I will get used to him not being here, but forever I will think of him in everything I do. And forever will I wait for the sound of his footsteps to return home again.

Car Crash Rhetoric Elliot Fudge

The car ride to the church is silent. No music, no banter, nothing. It's like there's a piece missing, like the atmosphere is thinner. It happens every time, and I think I'm running out of air to breathe. We get out of the car and walk through the rain, into the church. We greet the rest of my family and proceed to the front of the sanctuary. We get the special V.I.P. family seating, an arrangement that I've grown all too familiar with.

The church is full; I recognize only a fraction of the faces, but all of the emotions in their tear-ridden eyes. I've seen it all before. My mom is breaking in a seat right next to me, and to my other side my grandparents are inconsolable; I think I'm the only dry eye left in the house. Because no matter how many ways my heart breaks, I can't shed a tear.

"He's in a better place." The words pour down like a summer-time storm, a crack of thunder and a bolt of lightning hidden in every hint of a southern drawl. "He went peacefully." Definitely, because being crushed under a ton of metal is the most peaceful way to go. Family friends and church members talk about my brother's life as if they were first-hand witnesses, as if they lived his life for him. They talk about how things used to be—when we were just kids, when our innocence was still in tact. "The good ol' days," they all say, but their point of view is limited. What they saw was a microscopic close-up of a family in shambles.

"The good ol' days" were called alcoholism and abuse. Of course, no one brings up my father—no one ever has. He's the elephant in every room that I inhabit. When it's not the past it's the present. "Where's your dad?" "I bet your father is proud."

And I bet he would be, that is if he had stuck around long enough to see me grow past the age of nine.

The rest of the service is a blur—just more people pretending to know who Connor really was. We exit the sanctuary first, and I can hear the whispers as I walk by, Like air through the hole present in my chest. But now, now I go home and continue the family tradition. Drown my sorrows in a bottle, all my father ever taught me— or Connor— to do.

And it's a mystery to the world where we went wrong.

Art by Skylar Strickland

Triumph in A Minor Lux Thunderrock

Jack at six is at home in the world. He takes his place on the right seat of the grand piano, his father, the left. Together, there is nothing they cannot do! They play until his mother comes home from work, tired, and sips a glass of wine while watching in the doorway. The house is filled with smiles, and it seems this equilibrium could never be broken. It’s a child's dream, all the more beautiful, for, at the time, he knows it to be the unshakeable truth. Jack at eleven is a fleeting creature. His fingers are long and thin, stark as they dance along the keys to the appraisal of hollow faces and hollower hearts. Jack becomes someone who understands the whitewashed nature of such gatherings. The thorns hidden behind flowery words, and silken comments. Requests to perform become fewer, for now, he has to deal with the something that wrenches in his chest every time he seats himself at the bench. The center of the bench. No longer to the right, father’s shoulder brushing him on the left. Those precious moments, long gone, are not yet lost as the room fills with melodious sound. The mummer no longer shadow him, for his hands are faster on the keys than any whispered condolence ever could be. Jack at sixteen is no longer doe-eyed. This house is not a home, and he shudders insides its walls. The yelling shakes the core of his foolish belief that just maybe the past could be restored. Mother has brought home a new man. He knew it would happen eventually, of course. He just hadn’t expected it now. He takes a seat at the chaise. Suddenly a strange feeling of absence settles over him. Where is the piano? He sweeps his gaze wildly around, already suspecting foul play. The new promise on mother’s face sweeps off the now broken oath she made before. She watches him until understanding dawns across his features as he glances unsparingly to the corner. “Oh, that old thing? Darling, I thought it was for the best.” Just like that, the fragile peace between his mother and him is shaken down to the foundations. His vibrating hands clench on his knees. He can still hear the quiet “click” of the door closing echoing off the barren walls. Her voice reverberates in his skull, mocking I thought...his mind taunts. You didn't think! You never do! Jack wants to scream until his throat is raw. The open-air ceiling looms closer, crowding in on him. He has to leave this place! It's leave or let the rage in him swell, blinding him beyond reason.His eyes watch the door knob. Any second now he is going to move. His vision blurs. The rafters slide closer the world spins. He never manages to move. Jack at twenty is a volatile being.

The rage sinks under his skin. His teeth grind so much he’s surprised they aren't stubs. A bruise rests high on his brow, a variety of purple-yellows and blue, a sad excuse for modern art. Jack feels scraped raw. He wonders if anyone else can see the open wound that he is right now. Every stranger's glance sears him down to the bone. He steals his first wallet. It’s a quick move of those slender fingers so deft at the keys, and the small leather bound thing is in his grasp. The night air becomes charged and he is electrified! He’s sure his face sports a mad grin, teeth slightly bared like a hyena pilfering a lazy lion's kill. Jack’s heart dances beneath his chest. For the first time in a long time, he admires the world as it passes around him under the pale moonlight. The arch of streetlamps curving and magnificent wrought iron statues among daring skyscrapers. He wakes up the next morning covered in sweat choked around the blankets. He stumbles his way to the bathroom. He grips the seat of the toilet bowl and wretches up cheap beer and cheaper canned soup. He doesn’t look in the mirror.The wallet stares at him from its perch on the sink. The streets now hold hidden wonders like notes within a score, just waiting for Jack to coax them out. He is alive. Jack at twenty-five is a weathered man. He’s given up pretending. The cat is his as much as one can own a cat. Jack’s long since moved on from his gray-washed apartment to a condo. Framed in by bookshelves, he places a new knick-knack on the third shelf, smiling at each of the small spoils he’s collected along the way. He’s mapped out the roads down to each crooked street sign. He knows the edge of every pothole, which alleyways open to rooftops and which leave you caught. His crime isn’t petty, it’s freeing. He doesn’t give up on music; he composes to the roar of the crowd. The breath between heartbeats when your pulse drums loudly as your feet on the pavement. Adrenaline delivered via efforts not to get caught catapults him above the gaudy hope shown by this city drowned in neon. Then he hears the piano. Jack at twenty-five- (he’s stopped counting). He finds that music on the streets isn’t the same. The feel of money in his hand is no substitute for how perfectly the keys curved and arched like a lover under his fingers. Now he can hear the opening of Moonlight Sinatra being played in a classic showman style. It can’t be a dream, he knows this. There it is! The eerie tune flies in, rattling around his head leaving no room for sleep. Jack’s out the door, tripping over stairs in his hasty exit. He is flying now, racing as fast as the beat of the heart in his chest towards the sound! Jack has to find it. Has to know. What? He’s not sure. Then he is there. Just outside a corner cafe- a little hole in the wall place. The door is propped open, bathing the surroundings with a warm glow. He stands in the doorway for an age, not daring to move beyond the stoop. The figure crouched over the instrument inclined his head slightly in Jack’s general direction. It must be nearly three am, and he realizes only now that his shirt is filled with holes and his reflection in this shop window reveals his hair to be as turbulent as

45 the seven seas. He looks haphazard at best, sleep deprived and half mad at worst. Jack shuffles his feet, frayed sneakers nudging at the doorframe then gingerly he steps inside. The immaculacy of the man playing across from him is hard to miss. The divide between them is as vast as the Grand Canyon that Jack isn't sure he is willing to ford, no matter how able. He spares Jack one look with an arched brow, a dare. Come into my parlor, said the spider to the fly. The card he takes out of his coat reads Le Chiffre, and he extends it like rope to a drowning man. Jack has eyes only for the piano- a large ostentatious beauty, haughty in matte black. He has a choice, a chance to alter everything. The only other pause in playing occurs when the man's right-hand lingers over the empty seat space beside him, gently patting it. Jack is like a man possessed as his feet move to the seat of the piano. For a moment hands hover over the keys just shy of touching. He’s twelve again staring at the sheets of music frozen alone. Chiffre is a solid weight beside him to his left. What sort of music will they create together? He can already hear the swell of sound that is both their styles entwining together. Something wild, a natural cycle, primal, ghostly in the way wolves haunt deer’s every step. Their hands brush. Chiffre smiles with just the tilt of his lips and the edge of his eyes watching in intrigue. Jack grins baring his teeth bright like the morning dawn and harsh as the rising sun. The piano purrs beneath him as each note soars hurtling toward a final crescendo. Triumph unfurls itself in the tune of A minor. Jack is at home in the world again.

Art by Lillian Faber

My Name Carly McNeill

What am I, you ask? Why, I’m that feeling. The feeling that sneaks up on you in the dead of a moonless night. The feeling that surrounds you when the lights go out at midnight. I am the monster under the bed. I am the eyes watching you from the dark corner. I am the branches that turn to claws under the sliver of a moon. The trees that turn to creatures is my creation. Can you picture it? Can you picture me? My eyes, the ones you can’t see, are watching you walk home. I am the leviathan with the long bone claws that will tear you apart. I am the wolf with silver teeth, best used to tear out your entrails. I am the shadows that creep up on you, looming over your body. I am the reason for the adrenaline pumping through your veins as you run from the dark. That ringing sound you hear when there’s no other sound is the bells on my long gown that jingle when I approach you. That figure you think is a coat rack is me, standing there. The air you feel on your neck when no one is around is my icy cold breath. I am the hiss of a viper about to strike. I am Fear, and you had better start running.

Art by Lindsey Popwell

Our Anathemas Elliot Fudge

I'm sorry I didn't mean to hurt you I didn't mean to hurt Her I'm sorry for the blood that I have on my hands Sorry for the loss that I have created

Sorry to the girl that you swear I killed Though I have no recollection

Sorry to the flower girl of seven years old Not because I seemingly killed her But because she ever had to exist Because she had to put on the dress That clung to her frail frame In all the wrong places Forcing her into silence and isolation Loneliness and despair

Sorry to the ten-year-old Who was forced to hear the words "Aren't you glad you didn’t turn out like that?" I'm sorry that she did Like that other former tom-boy Who left behind a piece of his soul

I'm sorry that she thought she was wrong Disgusting

Unnatural She was beautiful and perfect with every possible flaw I'm sorry that she had to drown to survive I'm sorry to the thirteen-year-old That only ever wanted to fit in

That created a facade of false pretenses Upon which she created an identity Repress repress repress Pretend Act like it's not there Maybe it will all go away "In the dark with a broken flashlight" Unable to find the light switch Words to describe this separation unavailable in vocabulary

I'm sorry to the fifteen-year-old whose skin I tore apart Whose spirit I decimated Whose life I destroyed

I'm sorry I made her feel so unworthy So worthless A hollow shell of a person Painted black against the walls Tied to this world by a shredding thread of love I know it was what she most desired But I'm sorry I ended her existence

But whoever apologized to me? For locking me up unwanted For forcing me out of sight and out of mind For stealing my childhood For forcing me to undergo years of reparations For creating a web of lies upon which my life was built For willing me to become someone else Just to be your ideal offspring So yes I'm sorry I killed your daughter

Bur you should be apologizing too You killed the spirit of your son Art by Meg Richardson

Pandora’s Piper Sydney Kyle

I’m looking at rainbow white walls walking on the night sky a floating box rests on a table a glittering swirling onyx galaxy I am your destiny I’m walking on the night sky toward the contents of that galaxy I am what you have always wanted my hand reaches out I taste writhing excitement my hand flips the lid open nothing pause spindle fingers wrap and curl shoe points and emerges spindle fingers pull a leg a bent body a man the nose protrudes points sniffs long slit eyes slide open looking at me serpentine smile The destiny of yours young child is here into my mind For your destiny you must pay spindle fingers produce a pipe serpentine smile plays a no noise melody I must follow You must follow And pay

50 disappear rainbow white walls surround night sky oblivion.

Art by Isabelle Torek

The Star People and the Believers By: Alexis Demar

The gaunt man sat hunched over his desk; the artificial white light produced by the computer monitor made him look emaciated and jaundiced. He clicked rapidly at the email icon on his desktop, restlessly scrolling the mouse wheel as the blue circle went round. His inbox popped open, and his face lit up, his eyes showing some sign of life as he leaned into the monitor and hurriedly read his messages. The skeletal man shook as his eyes took in the new message. They replied… The man had foolishly emailed the Heaven’s Gate address as a curious experiment. He had read online about the religious cult and had quickly become fascinated with it. Although the man was captivated by the religion, he resented the original members’ stupidity. They had killed themselves and, in doing so, killed their own faith. He knew better. The email gave off an anxious feeling, and the author’s writing was choppy and rushed. The email told him that Believers still existed. They were still loyal to the Star People, and they had reimagined their faith. But the Believers were awaiting their new leader. They were disjointed, and their faith was distracted. “The Faith is not dead. Almost, but not yet. I am ready to give up. The Faith needs a new leader. It will not be me…” The man felt a tug in his gut, and knew he had a calling. He had felt it his entire life and knew his true purpose. He deleted the Heaven’s Gate email and swore off replying to them any longer. He would be the true leader of the Star People’s following because he knew he was a true Believer. He created a new website for his faith, and began to advertise it on forums that he frequented. The website’s traffic rapidly went up, and it wasn’t long until meetings were being organized. A meeting was set to convene at a local park; the man felt his heart race as he knew his time was coming. He knew he would spread his message loudly then, and he knew that the Believers would follow him to the stars. The meeting approached quickly, and the man arrived in advance so he could meet every other Believer. He had big plans for the night, and he had to make sure everything was set up beforehand so they would go smoothly. He set the steel constellation sculpture up in the far end of a fields and hid his supplies nearby. He waited. The Believers began to arrive, and his charisma and charm aided him in befriending the people quickly. They were smart: they knew his message was true and that this plan would save them and their families when the time came. The people talked loudly amongst themselves, and the man knew the time had come. He straightened his shirt and took a deep, steady breath. He felt the Star People look upon him and fuel his

52 faith. He asked for the Believers’ attention, and it was only moments before the field of people were staring at him, silent and attentive. “I am so glad to be here, surrounded by such dedicated and intelligent people. You are all making the right choice by being here. The Star People are gazing at us through our atmosphere, and they know we are faithful to them. They know who the loyal people on this wretched planet are, and when the time comes, they will save us by calling us with the light. We will be summoned to the stars, and they will save us before they crush this planet in their mighty fist.” The people were silent, but they looked upon the man with astonishment and awe. His message was strong and persuasive, and it sated their hopes of the future. He knew what he was doing. He fed them, a teaspoon at a time, luring them in until they were in his full control. “You all must learn to control your earthly desires. The time will come when they will no longer exist, and we must fuel ourselves on only what we need to survive. We have our faith, and each other, for comfort in the time of transition. It may not be easy, but the Star People are giving us salvation, and the reward for our loyalty and sacrifice will be lofty. “You must forget all those who do not believe. They are sinners, and they will not be taken to the sky on the day of the calling. We must convince them of the truth if we hold them in our hearts; if we are meant to have them in the future, the Star People will place an inkling of belief in their hearts, and it will lead them to us.” The Believers were speechless, entranced by the man’s words, silenced by his truths. “I know you all were invited here by either me personally or by a loved one. I know you all may not know what this meeting held in store, but I want you to know that this is all for the good of the Believers. We will be able to adapt to the future, and we will be a part of a better tomorrow. What I am about to do is a display of my loyalty to the Star People, and I know if you are a true Believer, you will be willing to participate in this purging. We will prepare this world for the Star People, and we will move on to the next era with faith and trust.” The man walked away, and the Believers stood in silence, knowing something amazing was to come. The scrawny man somehow rotated the large steel sculpture around to face the Believers, and their eyes widened at the sight of a bloodied body, secured to the constellation with metal barbed wire. The man’s eyes were filled with excitement, and he moved and spoke with fervor. “It is time, everyone. It is time to prove our faith and devotion. I tried to allow this sinner to repent, to apologize for her ignorance and misguided belief. She refused, so I will make an example of her. This is what we do to nonbelievers. This is the pain the sinners face, the pain we will avoid by proving our love and loyalty to the Star People.” The man lit a firework with a lighter and set it at the base of the sculpture, which was covered with wood and kindling.

“Come. If you believe, you will help me. After this firework goes off, we will all light a piece of paper and help this sinner pay for her actions.” The man’s crazed eyes invited the people in, and they all walked forward and took a sheet of newspaper. The Believers took turns lighting their papers as the firework exploded and boomed in the background. The lights were blinding, and the unconscious body of the girl hung limply as it awaited its inevitable fate. The Believers all walked to the sculpture together, the ghastly man leading them in prayer. “This is what we must do. We will reap fantastic rewards for our devotion. We are approaching heaven’s gate, my believers. We are approaching a wonderful tomorrow, and I’m so excited that you’ve decided to join me.” The girl awoke as the burning wood touched her hanging toes. She struggled against the barbed wire, her wrists bleeding from the action, her chest heaving with exertion and fear. The Believers all stepped back and joined hands. The leader raised his, holding them to the heavens, and the rest soon followed suit. “It is almost time. It is almost time. We are preparing for the day of the calling. We are ready for the sky, we are ready to honor the Star People.” The Believers chanted this prayer as the girl screamed for mercy. The man felt the familiar, warm tug of faith in his gut. He felt the Star People’s power course through his veins, and he tried to move this energy through his Believers. It is almost time.

Art by Gabby Turem

Darling Tori Turk

I try to grasp onto your words, but it is like trying to decode foreign writing. You attempt to console me, calling me “darling,” and reaching for my hand, but you can’t look at my face, the face you may never see again.

I wave my “goodbye” again, My mouth unable to produce the words. I feel the tears stream down my face. “Now,” I think, “to wait for your writing.” I picture the paper, the pen in your hand. “Be safe,” I whisper, “my darling.”

“I’m safe and I miss you, darling,” your letter reads, and I can breathe again. I grip the paper in my hand and trace each of your beautiful words. Though all I have for now is your writing, I’m hopeful I’ll soon see your face.

I just cannot bear to face the mailman again, darling. You’ve been in battle and stopped writing, but I understand and know we’ll speak again. I long to see and read the words that were written by your hand.

I shred the letters with my hands as the sobs contort my face. Never again will I hear words escape your lips, my darling. I will never see you again.

I’ll never receive any more of your writing.

I received the official writing, confirming you were taken by the war’s hand. I told you not to leave me again. I told you I couldn’t face life without you, my darling. All that’s left are empty words.

I piece the writings back together again with a shaky hand. “I miss you, darling.” I can never face these final words.” I can never face these final words.

Cherry Crisp, Red Velvet Cake, and Rock Candy Garrett Haley

There I was in the dim light of delirium, walking through a door, which led me out the same door. Then I stop, and I see the blue bed lying on the ceiling and the red fan hanging from the floor. Walking toward my mundane-looking mirror, I smile, but my reflection does not do the same. Instead, my mirror frowns at me and then opens its mouth, as if signaling me to come feast with him. The reflection's mouth is red and has pointy and carved teeth, that of a vicious beast. I raise both of my pale hands and place them on the corners of the mirror. Then, sticking my head through the mirror, I breathe in and taste the sweet air on the other side. Then appears an ivory white and gold encrusted staircase near me. I raise my head upward to see where the spiraling tower leads. Then I hear the sounds of footsteps running in quite the hurry. The staircase is getting closer and closer to me, and then the ivory staircase, now slightly red-tinted, stops dead in its tracks. The staircase lures me with its dark monotone whispers. I put my hand on the golden railing and begin to climb up the spiraling staircase that seems to straighten out as I climb. The railing is warm, but oddly cold at the same time, and as I climb, the once almost unnoticeable tint of red becomes the only color visible. When I reach the top of the spiraling but straight staircase, I find a door that was stained red and looks as if many men have worn it out. The knob is crystal and pleasing to the eye, so I decide out of curiosity to feel the luxurious doorknob. After being touched, the doorknob caught on fire filled with crimson, scarlet and a hazy blue, but the fire was neither hot nor cold. The fire reminds me of Moses' encounter with God and the burning bush. The flames moved around my fingers, like tiny dancers, and tickled me with delight. My mind cannot comprehend the idea of a nonexistent heat from the flames. After playing with the supernatural experience, I raise my hand and notice it is now stained with what looked like blood. I then look back down at the doorknob and decide to turn the beautiful mystery. When I open the door, to much surprise there stands a man. The man is not much taller than myself. He is wearing a blue flannel shirt, which seems to be stained by dark blood. He then reaches out to open my mouth, and after my mouth stretches open the man puts in his hand, then his arm, and slowly but surely he climbs down and through my body. I felt as if I weigh double my weight, but the new found weight is oddly comforting. Then out of my throat a hand reaches, to closes my mouth. Before the hand has a chance to go back down my throat, I bite down on the hand and start to chew. The taste reminds me of the cherry crisps that my mother use to make for me. I continue to chew on the delectable hand, until there is nothing but the taste of cherry left in my mouth. I wipe my mouth and continue on my path. I do not think much about the blue flannel man; all I can remember is the amazing taste of my mother's cherry crisp. After walking for many minutes and not

57 seeing anything but pitch black light, I eventually reach a small diner. The diner has a bright luminescent red sign. The sign catches me off guard and temporarily blinds me. After gaining back my eyesight, I approach the diner with a grumble my stomach. Then I reach for the door handles that seem to grab my hand as I caress them. Then I slowly try opening the door. Exiting the door, a younger man, kind at heart and well built, runs into me. He falls on the ground in a slow manner, as if time itself has been slowed down to a snail's pace. A small, gentle dust is uplifted into the dark air. I offer my hand to help the young man up from the ground. He accepts my hand and rises up, but as he gets up I shove the young man's hand into my mouth. I bite down vigorously, tasting something different than the last man. This young man tastes like a sweet red velvet cake. The taste pleases me; in ecstasy, I crave more of him. The young man does not react to what I do; all he does is stand there and let me feast on his arm. I enjoy his hand so much that, I slowly bite off parts of the man's arm, leaving only bones behind until I reached his shoulder. The taste nearly fills me, but I cannot leave the bones behind. The bones, are my favorite part of my dessert. I bite hard on one of his finger bones, and instead of the taste of the sweet red velvet cake, which I love, the bones taste like hard rock candy, with a caramel center. The hard shell of the rock candy is delightful and the outer layer dissolved in my mouth. When I hit the sweet caramel, I am surprised by how smooth and chewy it is. The candy is so good that I eat all of the young man's arm, and then I crave something else that teased my mind: What does the inside of a man taste? I ponder the question before entering through the rest of the door. Then, as I finish asking myself the question, I decide to try for myself. At the entrance of the diner, I see a man, not much shorter than myself, wearing a blue flannel shirt. I gaze into his eye and then reach my hand out to his mouth. I open the man's mouth to a size larger than his body, and I work my way down into the man's stomach. When I reached the bottom of the man's stomach, I look to where his mouth is, and reached my hand up to close his mouth. The last thing I heard was the sound of crisp being crunched violently.

Waiting Emily Minnick

“Jesus Christ, will you just freaking answer me? I swear you’re the most useless waste of space on this entire planet.” She just stared at me. That unrelenting stare. She stared at me all day, never saying a word. It annoyed the hell out of me, but nothing I could do would make her stop. I’ve punched her, slapped her, and pushed her around, but not even then would she break her silence. All she did was keep staring at me with that glazed over look of hers. Like she hated being here. Like she hated me. “You know what? I’m going out, and while I’m gone, I want you to think of what you need to say to me when I get back.” She slumped over a bit in her spot on the couch just to piss me off one final time before I headed out. It had been a long night out with friends. I usually didn’t go out much because we always stayed out until all hours of the night and got so wasted that I had a hangover for about a week. And they always asked me about her. How she’s doing, where she’s working, and if we have finally decided to have a baby. I hated those questions and usually just answered with a shot and mumbled word. … By the time I got back, it was well past midnight, and I was still fairly drunk. When I stumbled into the house, she was right where I had left her with the same look on her face. She always did this; she hated it when I went out. “What? What are you doing looking at me like that, huh? What did I do to deserve it? I stay home with you all the time. I barely ever go out with friends, and here you are, all high and mighty, thinking that I don’t deserve some time to myself. You can’t keep me prisoner here. Just because you don’t have a life doesn’t mean I can’t!” All I got as a response was a stare. The overhead light displayed the glossiness of her eyes. “Aw, hon, you know I didn’t mean that. I’m sorry for flying off the handle again. You know how stressful work has been lately. Sometimes I just feel like you don’t appreciate the sacrifices I make so that we can have a comfortable life together. Jennifer, you know I love you, right? I have since the day I met you, and there’s nothing that’ll change that.” Stroking her face with my knuckles, I was reminded of how much I love the way it felt even if she was always stiff in my arms. She had always been stoic, my rock. But even with her cold, hard exterior, I could always find her soft spot. Feeling sentimental, I leaned over to kiss her, but her lips were dry, and her eyes stayed open. How dare she think she’s too good to kiss me! Who did she think she was? “You’re so stupid! What the hell is the matter with you? I hate you so much.” She fell to the floor with a push of my hand. “Don’t even bother coming up to bed.”

In the morning she was right where I left her from our fight. She did that, too. She was smart aleck where if you told her to do something, she’d do it unbendingly with exaggeration. When we first met, I loved it about her because it always made me laugh. That was pretty much the summation of our relationship; all the things she did before that seemed so funny were now the reasons I hated her. But I would never leave her. I don’t believe in quitting. “Off to work. Make sure the house is clean when I get back.” As I slammed the door behind me, I couldn’t stand to look back at that thing laying on the floor that was draining the life out of me. I wasn’t sure how much more of this I could take. … Driving home that night, I could feel the tightness of my muscles after the aggregation and frustration I had dealt with at work. The whole eight hours, I was on the edge; I just wanted to be home and wind down with a beer and some T.V. At a stop light I started thinking. Thinking about how if she were gone, I wouldn’t have to bust my behind every day just to make a living while she had the luxury of sitting home doing nothing. Why did I have to work so hard? Why does Mrs. High-and-mighty get to laze around all day? As soon as I got home, I was going to ask her. Stepping through that front door was the worst thing I could’ve done for my anger at that moment. Shoes still not put away from the day, dishes taking up residency in the sink, trash waiting to be taken out. All of this before my eyes. And there she was where I knew she would be. I knocked a dirtied glass of the counter, shattering into hundreds of fragments around my feet. Not even that shook her. “GOD BLESS IT, YOU USELESS PIECE OF (fill-in-the-blank)! I ASK ONE SIMPLE TASK OF YOU WHILE OFF MAKING SURE WE HAVE A ROOF OVER OUR HEADS AND FOOD ON THE TABLE, AND YET YOU THINK THAT YOU’RE TOO GOOD TO HELP OUT AROUND HERE. I HAVE HAD IT WITH YOU!” I went on and on. Everything that she had ever done to wrong me was channeled into my rant. My vision became so blurry that I could barely make out her still frame on the carpet. There was a knock on the door. I almost didn’t hear it over my voice. What the hell could they possibly want at a time like this? “Hello, officers, anything I can help you with?” “We were called about a—Jesus Christ, what is that smell?” “Oh, well, the missus hasn’t cleaned the house in a while. I apologize for that.” “Is it a dead animal that she needs to clean? It smells like death.” I could feel my heartbeat in my fingertips. “No, sir, I’m not sure what smell you’re referring to.” “Please step aside, sir.” “Excuse me? You don’t have the right to come into my house without a warrant!”

“Sir, there is probable cause that something here is decomposing. It could be like a dead raccoon in between the walls, but we should probably check it out.” There was no use in fighting them as they were already passing me as I was trying to formulate a response. “Oh god.” One muttered under his breath when they reached the living room. The other grabbed at his walkie. “We have a decomposing female at 212 Fairview Road; request for back up.”

Art by Hannah Peters

Hallowed Ashley Adams

Hallowedbe thy name and thine body. Emaciation is a word that rolls off the tongue with such poise and desolation. Locked inside a prison in my mind, I cut my own rations and wait until I can fit through the bars of my cell. Perfect skeletons with jagged smiles carved into their skulls beckon me with sharp fingers and I can't refuse their invitation toward escape. My knees collide with bathroom floor tiles like two lovers kept apart for far too long. Every muscle clenches and holds onto beautiful images in my head of willow trees and lithe lilies. Pouring my insecurities into a porcelain sea in hopes of finding a treasure chest that may not exist seemed futile, but I tried anyway, and the pearls in my mouth yellowed with time. Light faded from view as I dove deeper. My body got colder as I felt God's tears fill my lungs. Even though I abandoned the treasure and broke the surface, the drops still stung my eyes and filled my ears with warped sounds resembling the ocean. Answering to the siren's call that echoes throughout the depths of my stomach is an urge that I have to fight daily.

Slowly I drift from the raging sea and dock at the shore. The sand initially scrapes my skin, but it is a welcomed warmth.

Every now and then I smell the sea spray and taste the salt-water taffy, but I root myself firmly into the earth so I may brace myself against any forthcoming storms.

Art by Emelia Sengstock

Subject 598 Callista Tyson

Life is bleak when you live like me. Wake up, go to school, and come back home. Constant repeat. Every day of my life has been this way since I can remember. I easily slip into the rhythm. I don’t want anything else from life. Why would I? This is so easy, and my brain is in control for every second. Today starts like any other. I wake up sure to brush my teeth. I dress quickly and sit in my desk at school. The bell rings but there is no teacher, no students, only empty space and me, but really what’s the difference…that’s just my head talking. Focus Henry! Focus for once in your life! Sorry, I get too worked up. Anyway the room is empty. I wait….all day…I wait eight hours for normal. It never comes. I wet myself…twice. I get up finally and begin stalking the halls. It’s eerily silent; all I can hear is the clocks’ ticking and my brain going too fast for its tracks. There’s too much! I need it to stop. I’ve considered ending my life, but I refuse to give up hope…even if this is my sixth letter. I’ve forgotten days, but I’ve been here for 372 hours now. My brain is driving me insane. I tried to cut it out of my skull. There was too much blood. Now I have a gnarly gash on my forehead and a slightly crushed spirit. I need to escape this prison. It’s too much thinking. I can’t think anymore. If I don’t get out of here soon there may not be a lucky letter number seven. I’m not religious but God… any God please help me.

Subject five hundred ninety eight was reluctant to think for himself. He seemed overwhelmed by his own thoughts and the idea of freedom. He didn’t make it through the first trial and drowned himself in a toilet.

My Neighbor’s Dogs Leah Eubanks

Now, I cannot blame my neighbor for her dogs or their noise. I have gathered from my eavesdropping that she didn’t even want the dogs but actually they were her ex-husband’s. He got them from some backyard litter, and my poor neighbor had to be the one to take care of them after their nasty divorce (it rattled the neighborhood.) I feel bad for the both of them; they’re victims of circumstance. Those hounds do this everyday. The noise really does get on my nerves (I will never complain because then that might get my neighbor in trouble. ) Don’t they get that ten P.M. is nighttime? They bark, bark, bark, and bark. They bark at me, each other, squirrels, the wind, the stars; if it exists they’ve barked at it. These dogs are outside from about six A.M. to ten P.M. on weekdays. On the weekends, they will be outside harmonizing between the hours of ten in the morning to three in the morning. My neighbor, her name is Wendy, she works all the time. She tries to keep out of that house and away from those dogs. (They must be bad memories for her.) Not to say that she is unkind to the poor dogs; she is a good owner when she has to be. They go on walks at night when she gets home from work and those dogs certainly aren’t starving. Just sometimes I’m sure it is hard to keep track of your own needs as well as some dogs you never wanted. I pick up some of the slack. Somedays I’ll give the dogs water from under their fence. On hotter days they’ll lick the bowl dry. I had been trying to watch some late-night TV, but the barking drowns out the actor’s words and scatters my focus. What a shame, considering this show is my favorite. I could never get anything done with their barking, yet I bite my tongue about it when the Homeowner’s Association knocks at my door. I have had many chances to get her to stop, so it’s my fault I’m in this situation. Wendy’s so sweet an dso tired with the world. She doesn’t need dogs or the Homeowner’s Association to cause trouble for her. Yet it’s past ten P.M., and she should be walking them. (I hope she didn’t decide to stop walking them. I feel like if that happened the world would lose some goodness.) Since she’s late, they must be thirsty, hungry, or something else. I should go and leave them some water. I am getting up from the sofa and walking to my kitchen when I notice movement outside my front door. It’s so dark; I can’t see what it could be. I creep up to the door, sure not to make any sudden movements. It is early fall, and the raccoons are causing issues; I suspect them to be the culprits. They must be out there right now, uprooting my marigolds. I’ll scare them good so they don’t come back around. That’s what my mother used to do to scare off pests. If it worked for rural raccoons, suburban ones would fall for it, too. Moving slowly toward the door, I place my left hand on the light switch for my porch lights. I position my right hand to be ready to smack the glass of the door just after I flick the switch. Within the

64 blink of an eye, I illuminate the porch and see no raccoons. They’re pests alright, but not the raccoon- kind. My neighbor’s dogs are sitting dumbly on my porch, wagging their tails at me. I can’t see much from the peephole on my door, but I know it’s them. The yellow one and the white one. They must’ve slipped through the fence, and that’s why they aren’t being walked. Wendy must be looking for them. Sighing, I open my door. (Of course, I have to be the one to return them. Sometimes I feel like I’m the only one looking out for Wendy.) Although, now that the door is opened, I only get more confused. Attached to their neck are their leashes. They open their dumb mouths and yap at me. Their bodies squirm with urgency and excitement. Their hysterics only cause them to become entangled with their leashes. Wendy is a conscientious owner, and she would never let her dogs run rampant with leashes around their necks. I take a step outside and peek around. She’s nowhere in sight. I had been hoping to see her whisking around the corner, out of breath and apologizing for losing her dogs on their walk. But the night out is tranquil aside from the panicked dogs on my porch. They nudge at me with their noses and start toward the steps before noticing I’m not following, and then they return to repeat the process again. My curiosity and worry bids me to follow them. My feet move before my mind, and before I know it I’m being led by two lab mixes through the dark streets. They’re in a canter, impatient and eager to lead me somewhere. I’m jogging right next to them trying to keep up. I haven’t even put on any shoes and I’m clothed in pajamas. We pass by her house and the lights are off. We are approaching the end of the street when they duck off into the thin woods by the sidewalk. Pausing for a moment, I peek into the foliage. There’s something down there. I can hear the dogs barking, beckoning me from the darkness. Tentatively, I take a step toward them. I can make out their bodies, two silhouettes of creamy and sandy fur just ahead of me. They are standing above something. Something that is lighter than the sandy one yet darker than the creamy one. The twigs snap under my feet as I wander in. Their barking grows louder, more frequent. As I move closer, the features of that something become more apparent. Blue jeans, a white polo, and a blunt, bloody head wound. I barely recognize the man. “Rowe, Winston! There you are!” I whip around to see Wendy’s smiling face from the sidewalk. The dogs barrel toward her, satisfied and belligerent once more. My breathing still shakes my body. Does this woman realize that I’m standing over her ex-husband’s corpse? “Howard! Is that you down there?” Wendy peers at me. “Oh, thank you for finding my dogs! Silly loons scurried off from me!” She picks up their leashes. I stare at her, mouth agape. I feel a breeze pick up and dry my eyes. “Howard, I think you should go to bed.” She flicks her wrist to check the time on her watch, and the moonlight catches pink discoloration on her hands. “You’re usually in bed by ten P.M. on weekdays,

65 right?” She leans down to face me better. “Come now, Howard. I’ll walk you home. Lord only know what will happen if you stay down there.”

Elizabeth Lauren Pfitsenmayer

Dancing bodies circled around the fire, leaping and skipping to the beat of the drums. Young boys and girls dressed in a pale yellow, and adults in a sunset orange. The hymns they sang were barely understandable but told of their great leader— their great savior.

As the sun hid, the hymns slowed, and so did the souls. Collectively, they sat, and the two elders stood and spoke: “Tonight we give a soul to our leader. It’s a small sacrifice for the bountiful harvest. You all know how this works. The soul with the greatest energy must be given up. Now, we begin.”

The two circled the group, feeling the energy of those around them. One soul stood out, Elizabeth. The youngest but the strongest. Her red curls, pulled back into a tight bun, covered her bowed head. “Elizabeth, it’s your time. It’s your duty. You must give yourself to our savior.”

The young girl, only about six years old, stood tall. She was taken to the fire and tied to a post. One by one, the souls took turns throwing stones. Her pale yellow dress slowly turned red with each hit until the whole dress was covered, and her body was lifeless. The elders chanted louder and louder while they set her on fire. “For you! Thank you! Take her!” they chanted.

And then it was over.

The souls returned to their duties, and the elders retreated. Not a single person stood by the fire. The young girl was still burning, but she burned in silence, soon to be simply ashes. Now, they wait. They wait until the next sacrifice. They wait for their leader’s return.

Art by Jada Oprah

Gallery

Art by Georgia Kpakpavi

Art by Amanda Woodall

The Phoenix Staff 2016-2017

Front row (left to right): Kathryn Hunter, Elliot Fudge, Sydney Cavin, Leah Eubanks, Shelby Geiger, Sarah Martin, Carly McNeill, Ashley Adams, Lux Thunderrock, Haley Bentti, and Laila Gilles Middle row: Lauren Pfitzenmayer, Tori Turk, Ethan Eltz, Mia Downs, Camdyn Kloeblen, Emily Minnick, Alexis Demar, and Sydney Kyle Back row: Cyrus Holcomb and Garrett Haley

Seniors of The Phoenix

Left to right: Kathryn Hunter, Sydney Kyle, Camdyn Kloeblen, Alexis Demar, Emily Minnick, and Elliot Fudge

Senior Quotes

“I’m not depressed! Look what I made! Do you think a depressed person would make this??!!”—Elliot Fudge

“If I have got them depressed, then I’ve done my job.”—Emily Minnick

“I am literally preventing rednecks… speaking negatively to me at all tempts fate… Plus est en vous.”—Kathryn Hunter hskj

“Okay, listen…”—Sydney Kyle

“I just want to lie in a pile of warm laundry and eat bread.”—Camdyn Kloeblen

“Sometimes you gotta work a little so you can ball a lot.”—Alexis Demar