New Castle, Kent and Sussex Counties’ Teen Magazine IMAZINEIMAZINE 20142014 vv o o l l . 44 cover: Mask by Sierra R. Age 17 IMAZINE 2014 Table of Contents Pg # Title Author cover Mask Sierra R. 5 Wordy Writers Rachel W. 8 Eris's Mirror Taylor B. 9 Forever Bethany F. 11 The Scream Sierra R. 12 Little Lawler John F. 13 Broadway Bustle Taylor B. 14 My Gravelly Grave Rose D. 16 Life is Like a TV Show Anna S. 17 Dreamless Jared G. 19 Misty Blossoms Allen W. 20 Weeds Bailey R. 21 The Good-Luck Song Taylor B. 23 Lips Bailey R. 24 Catgazing Sierra R. 25 Meerkat Warriors Ana Lane 27 Alright Father Brianna T. 28 Glimpses Sierra R. 29 The Darkness Donovan T. 30 Urban City Julian I. 31 Milky Way Allen W. 32 That's When We Know Sierra R. 33 Strike in Sea Rock Ishraq A. 35 Stand Still Bethany F. 36 Echoes Sierra R. 37 The Lighthouse Donovan T. 39 Outcasts & Pie Taylor B. 40 The Monster Under My Bed Rebekah M. 41 Dragon Nyree P. 42 Bonfire Allen W. 43 Foot Steps Rachel W. 46 Owl Nyree P. 47 A New Morn Taylor B. 49 Forever, Love Taylor B. 50 Midnight Walks Rebekah M. 51 Title Transposed Anonymous addition of online submissions from here: 53 Silver Dandelions Taylor B. 55 Unnoticed Rebekah M. 56 Man Overboard Julian I. 58 Reincarnation Taylor B. 59 The Summoning Pts Will J. 60 Window Bailey R. 61 The Mysterious Mansion Donovan T. 62 My Verse Anna S. Wordy Writers by Rachel W. age 17 Rather than starting a fresh new page I find myself delving back into the past; Booting up every disk drive, Every CD, Scouring every email to find words that I had previously written, There is strength in what has already been done, Too much uncertainty in what might come a new, My work fresh has not ripened in the same way these others have, My poems and my language I have spent hours studying, Nights thinking about, And days etching into the back of my eyelids- I like to feel in control. I like to pull out the big shots- And by big I mean well oiled- I mean well edited- I mean well dictated, Well read, Well thought over, Well-accepted pieces of my work. My world. My self. I know that my poetic sense is only a fraction of the way I communicate But it is an identity all in its own, And lately I’ve been realizing that I have so few spaces where I am free to express my true thoughts that maybe There is no point in even writing If it has nothing to do with me. I get the point of fiction, I have characters so lifelike they’d fool you, I have plot lines so intense you’d be hooked- line and sinker; I have worked in cliche s to the point where I know you won’t see them coming, I have hidden in my words. Wordy writers find hope in extra verbage, We reread and reread and reread to feel safer, We hope that our vocabulary will hide how we really feel, We rely on the few masterpieces we crafted, 5 We are afraid to get messy, Afraid to make mistakes, Afraid to break away from our boxes, We write in the terms “we” rather than “I”, We make plural what is singular, We invent bodies to identify with, We fail at doing ourselves justice, We forget what our own thoughts can do, We look back onto CDs and disc drives for what we know is safe, We imagine other wordy writers sitting at computers, Laying asleep at night, Fumbling with half dull pencils to scratch out half thought-out words, We limit ourselves, Make spaces for ourselves, Return to our work and ignore our own world- It is easier to jump into our rhythms than create a new one- We find it is easier to let palpitations take over than try to discover why our heart is beating that way- We write and we write and we write and we start new pages and erase it all, We write and we write and we write and it isn’t good enough- isn’t eloquent enough- isn’t structured enough- isn’t “us” enough- until we come to the realization that nothing in this world except our own words can define us, And we break away from the pattern, have a moment of clarity, dirty the page, type the forbidden words, worry less about eloquence and more about substance and we write and we write and we write and we write until our brains can no longer handle the words of our world- rushing by so fast they make us blind- too quickly for our not so nimble fingers to dictate- too sickingly beautiful to grab before they are gone- and we write and we write and we write- And then we read. And then we question. And then we format, And then we edit. We censor, And clear away the blemishes, We show it around to a fake cast of characters, What will my mother think What will my teacher think What will my friend think And what will I think of this at a 2 am when I can’t sleep? Will this poem be enough to etch into my eyelids? 6 Will this poem be enough to send away for someone else to read? And maybe we forget that in that moment We mask “is it good enough” With “is it too real”? Is it telling them Something about us We could never let them know Will they discover That we don’t sleep well at night, because our minds won’t shut off, Will they see how we hide behind our words, Will they see how much their opinion matters, Will they see how we click through the well-rehearsed works? Find them in the Disc drives, Pull them off of the flashes, Download them from old edited emails, Will they see how we find comfort in what they already know? Will they- the world- see the truth- That we talk in “we’s” and “they’s”, When what we truly mean is just “I”? 7 Eris's Mirror by Taylor B. age 18 8 Forever by Bethany F. age 16 It was said that the river was haunted. Ennis Isle was a small port, forgotten by everyone except the few unlucky enough to live there. It was a sleepy little town, cloaked in shades of blue and gray. Time moved sluggishly. The rusted hand of the clock slowly inched along, awaiting the arrival of ships. The people were even slower, shuffling along the cobblestone streets in the cold January air. Everyone repeated the same dull, monotonous tasks― gutting cod or carving fishing hooks― as their lives drained away. Killian McCrae peered from his frosted window as it all unfolded below him. He watched the baker marching to and from the oven; watched the solemn schoolgirls file away from the schoolhouse; watched the seagulls circling overhead. The sky was bleak, a melancholy canvas blanketing the town. Killian’s gaze kept returning to the river, a silver thread cutting through the dreary landscape. There was something about the way that the water moved that called to him… Killian shook his head and let out a sigh, his breath visible. He shivered, pulling his seaicead tighter around him and knotting his hands together. Under normal circumstances, he would be down near the wharf, hauling in nets of fish from the sea, instead of moping about his dingy cottage. But these were no ordinary circumstances. Rumors followed him every waking moment, whispers plaguing his mind. He was the talk of the town― the bearer of sympathy and grief. Everyone felt sorry for the young man whose bride drowned on their wedding night. Killian dragged his hands across his face, over sharp cheekbones and tired eyes. He hadn’t slept in days, kept awake by visions of his beloved bride. His lovely, radiant Aisling― with her honey hair and eyes that rivaled heaven’s stars. His beautiful Aisling, who grinned at him from over the pages of her book and danced with him under the moonlight. Aisling, who was supposed to be his forever, now forever gone. Killian could still remember when they had met, her angelic image seared in his memory. He was a poor fisherman, relying on the goodwill of the waters, and she came from a wealthy Irish clan. From the moment that he laid eyes on her, he fell madly in love. All that Killian knew was, in that moment, she was the prettiest girl he had ever seen, and he gave his heart to her completely. They were in love as anyone could ever be, linked by an everlasting, unrelenting bond strong enough to gain the envy of angels. He gave her everything she wanted, and she made him never want for anything. She was his entire world. Two lovers of different backgrounds, brought together by chance and entwined by fate. Until the world was ripped away, and the future crumbled to dust. Killian gazed out of the window, trying to ignore his gaunt reflection. Whenever he closed his eyes, he could still envision Aisling floating in the river, lips tinted blue and hair drifting around her. She had looked like she was sleeping, but she never woke up. Such a waste. They were to spend their whole lives together, a little speck of color in a gray and blue world.