Pinnacle Sequoyah High School Literary Magazine
2020 through 2021
Cover Art by Briana Redner
1 My dear reader, Thank you for picking up this magazine. This project is the culmination of this class's best pieces. Hours were spent on these creations, these extensions of self, and for you to open this magazine and read this message, means so much to us. So go on, and enjoy! --Dominic Lattanzio, Co-Chief Editor
This magazine is the result of long, caffeine-filled nights filled with swimming words and splitting headaches. The pieces it contains are the results of the inner emotions of a classroom of writers. Personally, Lit Mag has been a place of growth, a sanctuary, an outlet from the onslaught of the outside world. Looking back on old pieces of mine not only shows me how immensely my writing has grown; it shows me how I have grown. I want to thank Dr. Murphy and this class for both these areas of growth, for offering the timid fourteen-year-old I once was an outlet. So, reader, as you flip through our magazine, be aware that each piece contains a piece of its author. Read them, listen to them, and you will hear each author’s story. Happy reading, Alison Eltz, Co-Chief Editor 2 Table of Contents POETRY------4
PROSE------46
PINNACLE------103
SENIOR QUOTES----123
3 POETRY Letter of Expectation------5 An Ode to a Chosen Family------7 Always and Forever Broken------9 Cycle of Broken------11 Solace in the Stars------13 Searching for Wonderland------15 The Sphear------16 Consumption------18 October------20 Barbeque------22 Empyrean Emotion------24 New Vermeer------26 The Abysmal Beyond------28 Eye------30 Fulfillment------32 The Theory of Descent------33 Returned to the Land------36 Ode to Hot Chocolate------37 Music------39 Sparkling Land------41 The Prickling of Pride------42 As the Hills Roll into My Mind------43 Plastic------44 History------45
4 Letter of Expectation
BY WILL COWART
Hollow corpse of a fruitless mind tells tall tales of reality; somewhat sincere apologies conjugate my thoughts which overwhelm me. Drifting through a macrocosm, underlying my conviction towards an astral notion, believing transmutations of my perennial reminiscence. I've been here before, stepping into a pond that my mind seems to warp, but really it stays the same. Starting only to stop again, transcending.
Understandably shaken by this seemingly overwhelming thought, I sought after help. Not of a god, not a being from an astral plane, but from the energy my conscious has created in its own reality. Hopelessness is a powerful emotion, filled with all the world's metaphors warped into what we perceive to be true. Dandelions are hyacinths and marigolds even when the reminiscence of nullity sprinkles over the ashes of a dead tree. Forever cycling a standstill life which never transcends.
How can an individual break an addiction only cured by another? Minds are plagued and warped Every day creating this false narrative. Let me tell you a story seeming reminiscent of the younger days. A small boy with a brilliant mind, cursed with a true understanding of reality, bearing nothing but the weight of a problematic family and an overwhelming preconceived destiny of failure, which he is expected to upheld. Living a life he’s not meant to transcend. A flower boy with a note of passing, prancing along the dead roses covered in dust of the astral.
“Mesmerized by the reminiscent pattern of pain, torture and overwhelming feeling no one could understand. I’ll send my astral body to a place of peace, meant to transcend 5 but never to warp. Goodbye to my world, which is home to your reality.
You have pushed me to death, transcending through the space. I warp my thoughts into a fake reality, which mimics an allusion so reminiscent, a simple prosecution can be overwhelming. I’m gone, one with the universe, helping paint the skies with the astral.
The astral guides me, warping my imagination of reality. Fleeing a never-ending and overwhelming purgatory of reminiscent thoughts. Forever stuck, forever transcending.”
The boy died, forgotten in his seemingly useless life, useless reality. His existence was wasted because he lived up to his families' expectations, ultimately overwhelming him. Now he walks the stars, planting the stones of life, as he dreams of the astral.
6 An Ode to a Chosen Family
BY ELLA YAROSHIK
I walked a barren life for 40 years, dying. “Don’t be seen! You are as invisible as night,” my mother would say, in all my years of all my life. I never knew what a home was like, mistaking it for a house. I couldn’t crave it, for I never knew the feeling of love. “Don't you wish you were here?” said the taunting sea.
The unexpected train took me to the unexpecting sea where the skies were painted in a dashing array of dye of pink, of orange, of red, of blue, of love. The sun was setting, nearing its slumber for the night when I first arrived to the red-bricked house on the cliff, over the never-ending cerulean, that contained such precious life.
I always thought that to survive was to live. But now, I could start to see that maybe my quaint and quiet life was a bleak house that would make any one of these magnificent people want to die. Where the grey clouds made the day fading into night unable to be seen, where there was no hope and no love.
I never knew that what I needed to survive, no, to thrive, was love. That breathing in the salty air, and feeling the unsheltered sun rays brought me life that I needed a whimsical and mystical knight to save me above the never-ending sea. I never felt like I wanted to, but now I was no longer afraid to die. I was no longer afraid of all the inhabitants of the house.
Now I knew that what I wanted more than anything was my house to become a home with these people whom I love more than the day music died. If they accepted me, this was what I wanted my life to be, in the house over the sea. 7 But soon came heartbreak; soon came night. Day came from the restless night. I had to go back, had to leave the red-bricked house. I had to leave the sea. I had to leave my loves. But I knew, my future knew, that I would come back to the essence of my life. For my mind was stained with their cerulean dye.
Sure enough, I arrived back at the house over the sea. I left behind the dead sunflowers and went on a journey as a fierce knight. I knew that I found love, that I found my life.
8 Always and Forever Broken
BY EMMA VANDINE
There is a weight in her chest, like a boulder in place of her heart. She is in constant pain, yet she feels nothing.
If you listen closely, you can hear her heart crack instead of beat. She is like a china plate that slowly slipped from the grasps of a loved one and fell to the tiled kitchen floor.
Broken and shattered into a million pieces. She is the shards of glass that exploded around the room, while only being a shell of a human. Just skin and bones and a broken soul.
Falling apart and breaking more every day. She wishes she could pinch herself and awaken from the nightmare she is living. Awaken from being Always and Forever Broken.
9 Always and Forever Broken by Emma VanDine
10 Cycle of Broken
BY EMMA VANDINE
This poem is based on the song “Don’t Let It Break Your Heart” by Louis Tomlison.
I hid it all away under the bed in a box, a part of me I don't want to remember. And I'm doing better. Am I doing better?
Sometimes it all gets so hard. I give everything I have, but it's never enough. The highs are too high, and the lows are too low.
It hurts. This life I'm living, this constant cycle of Broken, but even when it tears me apart, I won't let it break my heart.
Most days I feel numb, and that hurts more than feeling the intense misery. I was doing better. I know I can't heal by myself, but I push everyone away, so they don't see me like this.
I want to be free from the prison that is my mind, free from the pain and suffering I feel. It's tearing me apart, but I can't let it break my heart. I hid it all away. 11 Under the bed in a box, the parts of me that are ugly and broken and sad.
But I'll take them out now, and show them to the world.
I won't let it kill me, even when it hurts. It won't tear me apart. It won't break my heart, because I AM doing better.
Yeah, I'm doing better.
12 Solace in the Stars
BY SHAYMA ABDULLAHI
Our hidden place in the world would be heavenly, with marbled arches above. Golden skies would delight our vision. The liveliest green shades would join a light, evening breeze. And they would seem to sing to us that we are finally home.
So what was once your home is no longer where you are meant to be. And so in melody do our hearts sing, when we gaze at miles of bright stars as they dance and twinkle above, while the moon stays caged by its clouds, silently wishing it could join. And you see yourself in the moon, but you choose to wish upon the stars that captivate your vision.
So while we’re here, I place my own wishes on hoping I’ll never have to envision that you may ever call somewhere else home. Not after this place has possessed us, can we enjoin in anything mundane, the way they say life should be. For you are far, far above, your yearning nature all-encompassing.
And when the morning comes, you’ll sing in such graceful, moving vision to the songbirds perched above. And when the mesmerizing sound surrounds the place, we call home, I will know there is no place I would rather be. And reality will slowly become a place I no longer wish to rejoin.
With another risen sun we will be joined by new day, new chances at conversing. It will be then that I get to thinking of where you should really be. I will be overcome with surprise at a wildly befitting vision. 13 I have found you a new home. It will be my greatest gift to you, one whose heights none can go above. A place you’ll be among the stars above, you and your crescent twin joined. At last in a home where you can dance and sing, surrounding clouds finally cleared from your vision. And remember that if you happen to peer somewhere below, that’s where I’ll always be.
And once you have joined the earth where shades of green lie above, I don’t know how I’d bear such a haunting vision— Because it would be by my hand alone that you have been sent home.
14 Searching for Wonderland
BY MEGAN MAJOR
Her nights are spent in a bed of dullness, but her dreams are spent in a mystical wonderland.
A heart-shaped key is the answer to her prayers. But the drink-me substance is what strips her layers.
Timid to those who follow the steps of society, but open-minded to the inhabitants of wonderland.
A time-keeping rabbit, an eccentric tea-party planner, and a ghostly cat, the precious souls of the inhabitants.
She strolls through the vast valleys of mystic minds, searching for an escape of reality.
In her attempts to avoid the unfeasible expectations of real life, she stumbles down the ineffable hole once again.
15 The Sphear
BY DOMINIC LATTANZIO
The weekend arrives; we two, drive up to the cabin in the woods. The openness of it all; the trees, the people, the freedom it provides. I am quite fond of the calm mornings, the serenity that a mountainous view and coffee brings. It's truly a dream.
What's more, is that this dream has already come true; it’s driven by my long-undermined wanderlust; my serene, tranquil, ordinary existence yearns for more open doors, more golden bits of existence. Much like fond is to the pan, my heart is to the woods. I wish to be free.
Because of my limitations, I must make my great escape for freedom. To slay the winged beasts, foul demons, and curling smoke, it’s like a dream. A dream I must reach. A dream worthwhile. A dream that my heart grows fonder of, as its absence prolongs. My chains will break; my will holds the drive to victory. As doors all around me close, opportunities long gone, others will open, leaving me satisfied, complete, serene.
Some might say that true inner peace, true serenity with one’s spirit cannot be achieved without the spiritual freedom of a higher power. To this, I say, “Bah, open your minds, I am free. The woods, the cabin, it’s my dreamscape. My Sphear of enlightenment, of freedom, driven into existence by myself, an achievement of which I am fond.
Although it may not matter of what I am fond, it may affect your perception of serenity. I apologize. Although it may drive you up the wall, speak freely. 16 I am here to listen. And although your dream may perforate our Sphear, that just means it has yet to fully open.
As we close the school doors behind us, we open new doors on our journey to the Sphear. I glance fondly at your delicate, refined features; dreamy is an understatement. In that cabin in the woods, my serenity is coveted. I wish, above all else, to be free, and that cabin in the woods is where I am most driven.
When I dream of the goals, I am most driven to achieve, the dreams that disrupt my mental serenity, I think of our Sphear. I am so very fond of the sweet taste of freedom.
17 Consumption
BY ALISON ELTZ Consumption ravages the sky before her gleaming eyes as the sallow sun blinks below the dwindling horizon for a final time. Blackened sky fills the night with a heaviness she has begun to befriend, a heaviness that grips at her throat in the deepest winter and a heaviness that absorbs her every thought like a muzzle across her bleeding lips. December frost has slowly swept the air with frigid glances and averted eyes, and he wonders why she can no longer meet his evil irises when they find hers.
She cannot find the strength within her to scream into the hollow night, to confide in a fleeting friend about all there is to say, for transparency has never been a strength of hers, and she wonders if it all would be best left unsaid. Fog disperses in tendrils throughout the darkened town, consuming all in its path and shrouding the acidic night from passersby, though she knows that those that amble by could never stop the absorption of blackened sky, even if the fog did not conceal its course.
Hollow silence devastates her world, but freeing her voice would only allow its vulnerability to cascade from her mouth and into the surrounding night. Devoid quiet consumes her in sleepless nights and in shedding hair and in rotting teeth and in bloodshot eyes. She denounces her voice, and the silence continues, ravaging and raging deep into the night and through the acerbic morning, even after the sun has risen from the shadowed horizon. Four letters sit stacked in the deepest corner of her closet, addressed to a home she hopes never to revisit, sealed in a box she refuses to open for it would allow his calamity to seep into her infernal soul once again, and she is tired of being consumed without permission.
But rotting night and bitterest winter continue, an unending force that together absorb the world outside of herself each night as the sun fades beneath the tree-line. 18 Consumption ravages the harrowing night, and it ravages her alongside it. Canines by Hannah Smith 19 October
BY RYAN THOMPSON
The smell of ink and cold air fill my nostrils, reminding me of all the years before when I walked these same, sad hallways.
Back when your hand used to find mine at every opportunity. Before you did the unspeakable, and before I was too broken for your tape and glue apologies to fix.
Now, the sound of your name doesn’t make me fall apart, But my blood still runs cold when I see raven black hair held back by a hat that looks like mine.
That hat. The one that was way too big for your head and smelled like all the memories you threw into the wind that cold October night.
Now it smells like him. Like sex and lies and positive pregnancy tests, and five hundred dollars for a white coat to get rid of the evidence of your wrong-doings. 20 I loved you, but you wanted everything and more. And if you had asked me six months ago, before the chill set in, I would have said you deserved it.
21 Barbeque
BY BRON AYAN
After a long day of school, I go to work, with the constant smell of barbeque. Working with who I consider being my family. Working hard during and after school. Hardly getting any sleep, learning to work with little time is hard to manage.
With effort and dedication, it has become easier to manage. I was not able to balance work. Along with my schedule for sleep. Only being focused on what seemed like barbeque, And hardly on school. As well as the most important thing to me: family.
The people who have always supported me have been my family, They have taught me how to manage All my responsibilities with school. Along with having a great ethic for work. It seems like my life has been revolved around barbeque. At this point it’s all I seem to dream about when I sleep.
Now when I sleep, I dream about my family. Finally thinking less about barbeque, Knowing how to manage, Both my work, and my school.
I will always do my best in school, Sometimes sacrificing sleep. Even calling days off of work. Escaping and dismantling plans with family. Simply just to manage, I guess it’s like barbeque. 22 It takes time and patience for the meat to turn into barbeque, It takes time to complete school.
23 Empyrean Emotion
BY CHANSEY AGLER I feel a searing heat. Flames pierce my skin. Undying desires eat away at my soul.
Limpid skies turn from a familiar blue to a surreal rainbow. Objects swirl around my splitting head. Stars. Raindrops. Tears. Vivid images of my past, my present, and my future engulf my mind. I cannot differentiate myself from my surroundings any longer. Everything I see turns to a solid crystal as I reach out to it. Stars turn to diamonds. Raindrops turn to ice. My tears fade away into amethysts—is this happiness?
Your eyes. Your mien. Do I absorb them, or do they absorb me? Only the other one of us could ever know. Underneath the veil of darkness, the landscape has cast upon me, your feelings and sentiments set me ablaze, transforming the landscape around me into an altar.
Souls of the departed, eyes of the gods, swirls of emotion. Observable beings like this could not possibly exist in the real world—is this fantasy?
Might this be another figment of my overactive, cannibalistic imagination? Unyielding silence gives me no answer. This place is not where I shall gain a response. Collapsing, my eye begins to melt—not with tears, but blood. Have I truly lost my mind?
I awaken to find my eye intact. The milk tea I purchased on the street corner last night sits on my nightstand, perfectly still. The celestial images that deluged me were figments of my dreams—but the emotions I felt… …were real. 24 Boba Weekends by Anslee Reid 25 New Vermeer
BY SHAYMA ABDULLAHI Amid the crowd of black and white, her presence is electrifying. At her appearance, some smile; others frown. The others simply exist to perceive, But what they know not— is that an artist must also be observant. Unfamiliar characters in the crowd will become her unforeseen influences.
She slowly ascends the steps to a stage, struck by the sharp glare of the spotlight. Taking her seat at the center, and looking out to the hundreds of famished eyes, she knows they are watching, waiting, for the end before she’s even begun.
She holds her composure within the deafening silence of the room. There is no hesitation in her mind once she has succeeded in making it up. And she performs her act so calmly, so somberly, her gaze breaking from the canvas ever so rarely, piercing the mindless viewers from beneath the spotlight.
After several thousand strokes of a brush, and tireless hours under intense fluorescence, her work is done; the crowd begins to stir. She looks out into the sea of strange faces, and they seem to fade into the background. All that is left in her place is her creation. The girl made of color shall be their New Vermeer. 26 Thermal by Hannah Smith 27 The Abysmal Beyond
BY EMMA VANDINE I stare off into the abysmal beyond, as it-- stares back.
The bright lights reflect in my eyes, as I-- reflect on my life.
I look out into the great unknown, and wonder what is to come.
Who will I become? With all the possibilities of the universe, Who am I?
I know wherever I end up, the stars will be there protecting me. As I-- continue to ponder,
I stare off into the abysmal beyond, as it-- stares back.
28 Lemiuex in Hues by Lanie Barone
29 Eye
BY RYAN THRONE Eye. Perceiver of All. Perceiver of Pain. Perceiver of Happiness. Perceiver of Others. Perceiver of Everything. Perceiver of Nothing.
Though it can Perceive. It’s unable to Change. Unable to Help. Unable to Maintain. Unable to Touch. Unable to Feel. Only Watch.
30 Contemplation by Abby Ford 31 Fulfillment
BY DOMINIC LATTANZIO
This piece was inspired by a piece of art by someone very special to me. The drawing, furthermore, was inspired by “Falling Into Love”, a lecture by Alan Watts, in which he describes falling in love as an “act of surrender to another.” I was moved this piece of art inspired through art, so much so that I wrote a poem to accompany it.
“The moment you take a step... you do so on an act of faith.”
On twine strung above the maelstromic abyss, she steps. Peering at her contender, its eyes strung ever so slightly too Tight.
She looks above, and sees space, full of naught. Full of all. Full of twine like her, though unbeknownst to her microcosm of consciousness.
She took a step onto her twine.
Her opponent's eyes screaming, though She had already forgotten.
She was limited only by her imagination, once she had taken the step onto twine.
She's given herself to the vigorous cosmos,
and for once, she feels free. 32 The Theory of Descent
BY SARABETH CAMPBELL The clouds I lie on are smooth beneath my fingertips. The moon above casts a wonderful glow about the bejeweled stars. I enjoy this one moment of peace and silence above in the heavens.
The rays of light bounce around me, illuminating the space around me. If I could lift my cement hands, I would reach out to touch the rays. Looking around, I jokingly think that not even kings and queens have this marvelous view.
From up here, I can see marvelous things. I can see a perfect canopy framing the gentle shade speckled with the few blots of sunlight that managed to slip through the guarded canopy as though it were slips of water through spider web cracks in ceilings and walls. The air seems to have the ability to hold twinkling sprites as if we were in a perfect storybook that happened to come to life where only we could see its fairytale's special effects.
From up here, I can see wretched things. I can see refugees running in the moonlight. Looking over their shoulders trying to see if anyone had caught them in their flight. Young boys marching for their country, unknowingly marching not toward a war, but toward the battlefields shrouded in blood and gore. Men and women drop left and right with leftover bullets from the battle. Innocents are suffering in smothered and ravaged cities.
Sight, smell, taste, touch, hearing. All come together to show me the world’s sides, both good and bad. Dark and light, yin and yang, neither can exist without the other.
I guess I could stay up here forever. No pain, suffering, illness. Just me and the heavens above. But I can’t. 33 I can feel gravity’s pull, as if it's telling me it's time to go. However nice it may be up here; I’ve got to return to normal life.
Besides, I’ve always liked the idea of falling way better than flying.
In shocking news, a victim of a local school shooting who received a shot to the heart miraculously woke up from a coma doctors and nurses never thought she’d wake up from. Stay tuned for more on this story.
34 Reverie by Hannah Smith 35 Returned to the Land
BY CHANSEY AGLER I slide through the icy sheet, my feet numb from the cold. The city is nearly empty—no one walks this time of night. The amber glow of streetlights overpowers my aged eyes. I am knocked back into the ice cream parlor. I have no money. The workers hiss at me, their eyes glowing crimson with rage. I back out and fall into a river, forgetting that I can swim. I am drowning, my lungs burning as I struggle for life. Who am I? Where am I? WHY AM I? A hairy black hand pushes through the dark, icy waters and pulls me up from the roaring river. He hurls me from the water into a net between lush, overflowing trees. The net shakes as more gorillas gather under the trees and pound, knocking me loose. I didn’t even notice that I was falling. All I could hear was the grunting sounds of primates. But wait! Here comes another human! I call to him, my voice raspy and withered. He understands nothing I say, speaking a tongue I cannot recognize. As he passes by me, ignoring my cry for help, the vines grow faster, reaching out for my exhausted body and binding me into the trees. I am engulfed, one with nature, ensnared by plants and locks of Gaia’s hair. I am pulled through the wilderness, hurled into the earth herself. Centuries pass—or is it seconds? I cannot tell—but I quickly rise up from the earth as a stone statue, confined in a prison of basalt. I have returned to the land.
36 Ode to Hot Chocolate
BY LOGAN CARRAS As the winds outside are howling And the snow falls round my house And nature works against its creatures Every man and every mouse
I laugh at the cold, harsh weather The ice frozen on my window For I have a special type of drink To serve as my warming hero
I drink from my hot chocolate And the cold just melts away The taste dances in my mouth And washes my worries down the drain
Happiness and warmth pulse through my body As the drink goes smoothly down This beverage, finer than ambrosia, I could drink until I drown!
Thank you, hot chocolate, for all you do For the feelings that you bring For when I drink hot chocolate I’m so happy I could sing!
37 Cocoa by Delaney Harrison 38 Music
BY TYLER SCHAAF In my deepest thoughts there is music. Like a conscience There is a stereo. Playing in the back of my mind Are the sounds of the music I love. I feel the sound waves as if they are a part of me Making my love for music so much greater. I feel one with the songs Almost at peace. I stand alone in this world But with song I feel like I am the world. The difference, the style, the culture Always showing me new things. I listen Not to the flow but to the words. I take apart their meaning And make it a puzzle. The world is pictured through song and music The best part about it is that I don't have to leave my home to explore the amazing world.
39 Lost in the Static by Jasmine Lim 40 Sparkling Land
BY ALAINA COTHRAN
It sparkles and reflects the glowing rays, And its enchanting mirage entraps me in a daze. Unable to think, I glide down to the shore, Waiting for my chance to see its galore.
I place my palm upon the sparkling land, But what I find is only sinking sand. My fingers penetrate through the clear bliss, Only to be met with a disheartening miss.
The sparkling land shimmers and shines, Appearing to portray itself as an invisible shrine. No longer can I touch the hard surface like I supposed, For the sparkling land devours my hand unopposed.
The sparkling land is no land at all, in fact. It’s simply a glimmering mass intending to distract. Its smooth façade alludes to a welcoming track, But deep inside, its true nature remains intact.
The sparkling land laughs--a misleading portrayal of earth’s beauty-- For I cannot walk across it; I can only witness its cruelty. Shouldn’t nature as beautiful as this shimmering glow Invite me down to walk to and fro?
Alas, I am doomed to witness it from above, For I must view it as a distant love. I cannot walk across the shimmering land, For all I will find is sinking sand.
41 The Prickling of Pride
BY CRISTEN JOHNSON
The holly leaf is evergreen Winter it spites with its emerald sheen Rubies adorn its stem, defiant In the dead of December, the flower still vibrant
But as one approaches the holly, gleeful Their smile fades upon seeing the needles On each leaf a point, as sharp as a shard Around noxious berries for which they stand guard
The arrogant holly is poison indeed And likewise is pride to you and to me For beneath its green shine, upon further inspection Lies something quite worthy of our swift abjection Its underside dull, all pale without luster Shames the outwardly shining red berry cluster Reveals that underneath, it is quite mundane Those who are boastful conceal much the same
So refrain we all must, from gloats and from brags Ugly truths once defended are revealed at long last The strain of maintaining our glittering esteem Manifests only malice, and toxicity
42 As the Hills Roll into My Mind
BY ANNA GIRZONE
The hills roll into a dismal sky, an endless fabric of grey. A tapestry of the living people and the dead brush, the plentiful souls and the barren trees.
My mood is not reflected upon nature, but the mood of nature is reflected upon me. The winter sky becomes a melancholy replacement for the summer sun that once shone upon the world.
The same mother nature who once dripped dew on the grass and grew delicate flowers, is now crying upon the world, her tears the raindrops that fall into my own eyes.
These same revered hills lie beyond the touch of man, far away in the grey sky, beyond the problems of my own grey mind. A constant reminder that the world is greater than me, and that the bleakness of my winter mind will soon be replaced by the breath of spring.
43 Plastic
BY WESLEY LANTER
You’re a piece of plastic.
Built to be used, a tool— discarded the moment your uses run out. Plastic.
Engineered in a system for a specific purpose, never taught to question your position, and especially not to ask for more. Plastic. Used, abused, forged through blood, sweat, and tears, and yet, at the end of the day, so undervalued, so unappreciated, so forgotten. Plastic.
Beaten, crushed, forged into what others want, given no individuality, no soul, no meaning, until you’re convinced you never had those to begin with. Plastic.
One day, when your purpose is done, you will be disposed of, and those who used you will never give you a second thought.
You want to rise up. You want to change the world. You want, so desperately, to break the system that forces you into submission, that forces you to become a cog in the machine, that forces you to sacrifice your very identity.
But oh, you’re getting carried away now! You cannot change anything. After all, you’re just a piece of plastic. 44 History
BY TYLER SMITH
Through calm winds and gentle warmth, the great tree stood, Tall, proud, straight, and strong, the great tree exuded glory. But when calm winds turned foul and warmth turned cold, did the tree survive as few could?
Many trees fall and crack when swift winds turn life into history, Yet this tree thrived where others fell and continued its long story.
Though battered, bent, and beaten low, the tree survived and stood to last. Despite this miraculous survival, the tree was damaged and lost its former glory. Thus, the tree began to fade into the past.
Despite its loss, the great tree was stuck in its vainglory. And of those new trees that arose, none were conciliatory. The once great tree was swept aside and replaced by those new glorious powers. With the new great trees forming a new and different story, The great old tree is bent overrun by new trees that the memory of old empowers.
45 PROSE A Dream------48 Love's Inferno------50 Someday------52 Spirits------54 Untitled------55 False Magnolia: Prologue------56 Gifts------57 Chance------59 The Man------62 Red Couch Reserved Only for Me------63 The Last Breath------65 The Garden of Qualia------67 Grapevine------69 The Darkest Knight------71 Much Canoe About Nothing------73 All's Well that Ends Well------76 Three of Cups------78 A Peaceful World------81 Jupiter and the Universe------83 1969------86 Delusion------88 Unrequited------89
46 An Illuminative Gift------92 Honeybees In Her Hair------94 The Dragon and the Warrior------96 Salt------98 Ragnarök Rising------99 Insignificant Mumbles------102
47 A Dream
BY LOGAN STENG
Today’s been one of those days. Like everything I do makes me think of something else, but I’ve gotten through it! I still feel a panic whenever the stress of the future arises. Every time it comes around, I just lose hope, but then I regain it. It just confuses me, like make a decision! My mom has always been there for me, and she never disappoints. “Mom, I was thinking a few days ago, since I have to start thinking about careers and stuff, I was thinking about going into a science of some sort.” “Why would you do that?” “Well, I really find nature interesting and would love the learn more, and maybe one day educate people about it.” “Are there any other professions that catch your eye?” “I mean--” I sigh before responding again. “I guess a chemist; I have always found how the world functions on a more chemical way very interesting. Why do you ask?” “Well, sweetie, I used to dream of being a chemist, too, or maybe an astronaut or even an activist. I guess times have changed more now, but back then women rarely held those positions, nonetheless people of color, god forbid.” “Oh, Mom, I’m sorry. I bet you would’ve been amazing at any of those. You are such a strong person. I know you could’ve done it if you'd had an opportunity!” “Well, I always thought that going into a hard profession would of course be hard, but also be accepting. After learning about the hardships that many people like me faced in those industries, I really lost interest. I would watch the news hoping to see new breakout roles for women, but all I saw were horrible events of racism, and to think in a country like America! I don’t want this to bring you down, though! I want my struggles to push you forward, to give you strength to pursue what you want.” “Oh my gosh, Mom, I’m sorry.” I couldn’t believe how different these events had made my mom’s life. “I wish you could’ve pursued those dreams. You know what, I’ll take your life as inspiration. I’m going to try to join the list of amazing women in the world. Along with you, they inspire me. I really hope my confidence, and hopefully success, will bring you pride.” “Alright honey, just try your best!” 48 We Matter by Abby Ford
49 Love's Inferno
BY ALISON ELTZ
Swirls of bittersweet flame drifted through the dazed air, turning luminescent wildflowers into mere whispers and trees into blazing lanterns. Fire pelted from the sky onto the wall that separated you from me, melting reflective metal slowly and with precision until it began to drip from the sky in teardrops, marking my forehead in black and sizzling inside my shortened hair. Maybe it should have burned, but it felt cool against my smoldering skin. And maybe the world should have gone dark, but instead it shone with newfound light. For us, oblivion was the beginning; living in terror was comfort. On the edge of our path of green stood a towering willow tree whose feeble fingers reached toward the flame ever so slowly, as if it had not meant ever to do it at all. But the flame caught the willow’s hand and held on with its own, an immoral union that was bound to end in devastation. Orange light climbed the willow’s branches with ease, whispering its love at every turn and bend. Soon enough, the willow tree was an incandescent shell of itself, possessed by flame and fear and fury. Your hand in mine, the wall before us vanquished, we watched as destruction consumed the two before us. From our intertwined fingers, ice hardened in strips of white, climbing from nail to knuckle to palm. Consumption wasn’t so bad, I found. Drowning in your eyes was a lovely practice. Plumes of sizzling fog flew from your fingers into the dark night sky. You didn’t seem to mind. Ink coated the night, snuffing the stars with grayed rage. But the stars began to fly in clusters through the night, touching down in groups among seas of trees and suburban homes as if awoken from a centuries-long slumber. One found its resting place inside my palm, streams of light tracing the creases of my hands. And maybe it should’ve burned my tender skin, but your ice formed a barrier from the fire, and, for a moment, we were safe. But my eyes glanced at our hands, lying in silence between us, and they found yours melting, painting pictures of pale fire onto the tattered blanket below us. My inferno was your demise. And as the world burned in your wake, you burned along with it, swirls of your piercing eyes fogging the darkened clouds with blue smoke. 50 The swelling flames and I joined hands, the objects of terror in a world empty for a millennium. The world burned, and, in your absence, I realized it was only I that truly thrived in oblivion. For a moment, I wondered if I could live inside the flames that surrounded, live inside the warmth and comfort for all of eternity. But water began to rain from the sky, sprinkling from a watering can in the center of the heavens. The flames sputtered, then went silent. The world was quiet. Nothing remained. My eyes met yours, floating in the sky in the midst of the dark, saddened fog.
51 Someday
BY LOGAN STENG
“Is this really what you want to do?” “No, but I have to.” My mind races through all my choices I have to change the outcome of this never-ending nightmare. We’ve been stuck here for almost two years, yet nothing has been accomplished. Most the time we have just walked around, no destination in mind, with the daunting screams from the other side of the gate temping us to try to help. We can’t help. We have tried. We prayed. We even attempted to sacrifice a small lizard; we gave up. “Come on, Janet! We don’t have all day to wait for you to stare at that bush.” “No, if you want, go on without me. I’m certain this bush is something significant to our escape. Just think about it. We have been walking for days and this is the first bush of its kind that we have seen." “You said that last time.” “Ok, maybe I did, but I swear this one is different.” Janet was so confident about that stupid bush being something special. She really thought that it was worthwhile to watch it, but it ended up being the opposite from what she wanted. She shouldn’t have been so stubborn. She should’ve listened to everyone else and kept walking. Janet wouldn’t be gone if she'd had. She would be still standing here if she just simply gotten up and walked. I should’ve pushed her more, should’ve tried to persuade her more. I should’ve been the one to not be with the others. I should be gone, not her, but they trust me. I could never break that trust over my selfishness. I should never let my emotions take over my initial thoughts of getting out of here. “Cody, are you there?” “Y-yeah. Sorry, must’ve spaced out for a minute.” “Sarah swears she saw something move in the distance,” Jack says with a sense of hope. “It was kind of light colored and was fast. I just thought it was my mind imagining something, but then it wouldn’t disappear,” Sarah says confidently. “So, we should keep walking?” Jack whines. “Sadly.” Everyone sighs. “Don’t worry, guys. We’ll get out of here someday.” “Someday,” Mia says with immense sadness. Most of us look back, just to see that darned gate’s edges emitting the same smoke that we swear comes from people's souls, as the first time we came across it. 52 That gate has been like a camera, watching all of our movements. Even if we twitch an ear, it’s watching. The rough edges of the spikes and coils of barbed wire that line the gate tempt our sanity. Its long horn-like top leads our group to think it’s a gate to hell, but it’s simply worse. It’s a gate to purgatory: an endless repetition of our worst fears.
53 Spirits
BY TYLER SCHAAF
Lying on the hard ground that seems surprisingly soft, she looks into the pitch-black but seemingly bright sky. She begins to fade. A howling awakes her. She sits up and looks around but sees nothing. The howling continues as she stands up to investigate. She still sees nothing, but the howls get louder. She turns around in circles, frantically fearing what's making the sound. The night sky goes black. As the moon and stars come back out, in the distance she sees something hiding in the dark, using it as cover. It howls and begins to run and get closer. The moon's light reflects off the beast, and she can see the mighty wolf charging her. She stands frozen in fear. The wolf lunges at her, teeth shining in the little light that is there, gnarling as it approaches. She puts her arms up to try and stop it. but realizes that isn't necessary. The wolf passes through her. Like a ghost, it enters and leaves her body in one motion. She turns around to see where it has gone. It's just standing there, staring at her as she back at it. The wolf's eyes open like it knows it should not be standing this far away from her. She begins to approach the wolf, but the wolf backs up. She is curious about the wolf's actions and begins to move towards it again. The wolf continues to back up, but she gets faster. The wolf turns and starts to run, but the girl chases her The two run around the cliffside, one behind the other into a nearby field. The farther they run, the faster they become. As they speed up the dark sky begins to turn gold, as a sea of fireflies Halt. A halt is what they came to. Not of something being in their way but of something they see. Figures of animals and people appear in gold. The girl sees her family, her friends, and her home. The gold speckles of light form and present themself in forms of past events. She is frozen as she sees her husband playing with their kids. She sees them in a field that she remembers so dearly. And she sees a mound of dirt with a handful of flowers on top. Tears of happiness run from her eye to her cheek The wolf sees her pups: she sees them jumping on dandelions in a field of yellow flowers. She sees them rolling around, kicking up dirt and getting their white fur all messy. The wolf's eyes become reflective as she looks on at her young. As the Girl and the Wolf stop to look at each other, they slowly fade away as the world returns to black. 54 Untitled
BY ANONYMOUS
Sitting there by the dimly lit fire. No noise. No visibility. No thoughts. Hearing only the sound of the fire cracking and feeling the cold winter wind. I sat alone looking into the fire. Not for any reason is it just memorizing. The sun fell into the night sky an hour before. The others around me went to bed. I was truly alone. As an hour passed, I decided I was hungry. I still wasn't tired, so I got up and went to look for food. As I stood up, the log bench I was sitting on creaked a little bit. There is nothing more terrifying than an old wooden creaky thing, dimly lit by a single fire in the middle of the night. As I walked away the darkness began to absorb the light from the fire. Soon it was as if light didn't even exist. I made it to the tent that the food was stored in and I went in. Turning on the lantern I scavenged through the boxes looking for something to fill my appetite. I found a dark chocolate brownie with white chocolate icing and decided that would do. I began to leave the tent. As I exited the weather began to pick up. The wind blew a little stronger. The night sky got lighter. And the thunder started to roll in. It was warm now. Looking around, I decided it was time to get back to the tent. I sped over to my tent looking at the now lightning lit sky. It was peaceful. Scarry as hell, but peaceful. The birds in the trees began to fly away, but the odd thing was that even the birds that burrowed began to fly away. I thought to myself "Why would birds that live in the ground be scared of the rain?" Feeling that something was off the night I looked around to see a shadow lurking behind an oak tree. I turned and began to run. As I constantly turned my head around to look at the shadow it appeared to get closer by sort of teleporting. It was just constantly closer. While not looking at where I was going, I tripped and knocked over a low hanging pendant. The coals on the inside showered over my body like the gushing water from a broken dam. I fell to the ground in pain. I looked around to see no shadow, no lighting. The birds returned and the storm settled. The darkness returned and the only thing I could see from the cold dirt-covered ground was the dimly lit fire and the old oak bench. 55 False Magnolia: Prologue
BY ASHLEE REYNOLDS
Most loathe the feeling of a knife being dragged through their skin, their veins and muscles being slowly torn apart, ripping them from the inside out, their blood flowing out at the pace their body chooses, slowly being covered in that viscous red liquid which was never meant to leave them. They release their bloodcurdling screams into an empty room until all that is left are the whispers of their imminent doom, the last attempt from their larynx to call for help. By the time the room is suffocated with the chilling metallic smell of fresh blood coating their body, they are no longer on this plain of existence. However. For someone who feels no pain and few emotions, watching the life leaving someone’s eyes is nearly the most alluring and fascinating thing, and being the one to take it makes it all the better. If pain and emotion are what make us human, then I suppose that I am no longer what I was born. I’ve walked this path a thousand times. I could even point out each rock that has slit men’s feet, though I’ve wiped away the remnants. The hall still reeks of the blood from the men who felt till they could no longer, of the fraudulent flowers I’ve bound to the walls. It smells now of peace and of pain. It is purity and bliss; it is beauty and gentleness; it is dignity and nobility that have now been covered by the carnage I’ve created. I am now what I’ve placed on my walls, a false magnolia.
56 Gifts
BY OLIVIA MOORE
The blinding headlights of the passing cars overtake my vision for a moment before subsiding to the faint glow of my dashboard. Music fills the atmosphere with a catchy tune, causing my fingers to involuntarily tap against the steering wheel. As I spin the wheel, my hands slip from the leftovers of my day’s work. I wipe my hands on my pants in attempt to dry them up. A sharp turn creates a series of thumping noises. Hopefully, the gift isn’t tampered with. As I approach the familiar mailbox, my heart flutters. I park my car and reach behind the seat to gently grasp the flimsy cardboard box. The worn- out package holds something special—something that will change our lives. I exit the vehicle and stride to the door. Without even knocking, I welcome myself inside. “Honey, I’m home!” My booming voice echoes throughout the house and calls attention from my sweetheart. “What are you doing here?” Her soft hair whips around as she runs to me. “You know you can’t be here!” I am overtaken by her gorgeous wide eyes peering up at me, eyes that are only for me. “I know, but I finally fixed it,” I proudly announce while gripping the cardboard harder, leaving indents on the damp package. She tilts her head. “Fixed what?” Instead of answering her, I present her with the box and gesture for her to open the gift. “See for yourself.” A toothless grin appears on her face, showing off her one cute dimple on her right cheek. Eagerly, she rips open the lid and gapes at her gift. “So,” I begin with a smug expression, “what do you think?” Her speechless moment slowly transitions into rapid breaths. My sweetheart starts to back away from me. Why is she backing away? After gently setting the box on the floor, I reach out to comfort her, “Baby, what’s the matter?” But before I could touch her delicate skin, she screams once she notices 57 my hands. “It’s okay, it’s okay, it’s okay,” I repeat uncontrollably while scrubbing the blood onto my jeans. “I fixed it, baby.” Mumbling to herself, she yanks the roots of her hair and jerks her head back and forth. Then, she screeches, “You psychopath!” Over and over, she bellows until her voice becomes hoarse. “Psychopath!” My heart freezes, and my blood turns cold. The sight of my love collapsing in front of me is truly heartbreaking. “Baby, listen to m—” “Get away from me!” she hollers, shoving me away. Tears flood her enchanting eyes that stare at me in fear, and she staggers away from me. I’m suddenly a stranger. I am not a psychopath. Lunging forward, I clinch her wrists and restrict her movements. My strength immediately overpowers her, and I tackle her to the ground. “You psychopath!” The same words bounce off the walls and echo in my mind as I quietly hush in her ear. “Listen to me,” I chant over her shouts, using my weight to restrain her, “I did this for us, okay! No more worrying! We can be together!” Gripping her frail neck tighter and tighter with my bloody hands, I continue to explain to her, and over time, she slowly calms down. I pause to examine my baby while caressing her soft skin. Her cheeks are stained with a mixture of blood and tears, her hair is all tangled up, and her eyes are drained of their color. Silence. There’s no more yelling or fighting. No more pain. “See,” I smile while playing with the loose strands of her hair, “you get it now.” I kiss her forehead and cuddle into her chest where her heartbeat once was. Who knew silence would be so comforting? An hour passes by, and the moment finally comes. Everything that we have always wanted is here at last. “It’s nice to have a meal with you both!” I greet the hosts at the dinner table and adjust my clip-on tie before resting my arm across my baby’s cold shoulders. “Your daughter is just crazy about me.” Her parents’ faces are stuck on their shocked expressions, but I know they are happy; I can feel it. Traces of scrapes and bumps from the car ride catch my attention. I should have used better packaging.
58 Chance
BY OLIVIA MOORE
“They don’t want us together anymore.” “Why!?” “They think you’re a bad influence.” The conversation replays over and over in my mind. I can still hear the faint sniffling from the other side of the phone. My hands start to shake at the thought of tears dripping off her soft cheeks. They made my baby cry. I don’t understand how I could be a bad influence. All I do is make her happy. Every day I wake up and care for her: bring her coffee, drive her to school, carry her books. Not to mention how much time and money I spend on her. Each penny from my construction job directly goes to her happiness. I even help her sneak out to go to her nightly outings with her friends. Every time I ask if I could join, but she says I can’t. That’s okay; I can wait. I will always wait for her. Always. Pacing back and forth in my bedroom, I claw up and down my forearms as I think. Think of a way back to her. I need her. My life is empty without her. I just need to do something, anything. Then, my eyes spot a familiar cardboard box in the corner, the same one she gave me my gift in. That was the best gift I have ever received: the toolbox still follows me everywhere in my car. An idea forms in my head, and I seize the box to rush down the stairs. As I run into the kitchen, my rapid footsteps boom throughout the empty house, and I start working on my plan all alone. After some hours, I strategize and organize my plan down to the skin and bones, finding every different outcome and creating multiple backups. Everything is perfect. Nothing is going to go wrong. Nothing. Finally, I’m here at her house. She is normally out around this time with her friends or something. I don’t know; she never tells me. As I walk up the pathway, my nerves that had been blocked out from the car ride feel once again on edge. Before knocking on the door, I scrub my sweaty hands against the rough fabric of my jeans and readjust my cheap clip-on bow tie while mentally reciting the same words I had prepared during the drive. 59 The door creaks open, and I immediately speak. “Good evening, I’m here to—” “Get out!” her father demands, interrupting any sense of confidence left within me. “I thought we made this very clear. We don’t want you with our daughter!” Behind him appears her mother, who seems just as angry as the father. “But sir, listen to me,” I begin, ignoring my twitching fingers, “I love your daughter and I think if you get to know me better—” His harsh voice overpowers my sentence once again as he leans in closer with aggression. “We know you plenty.” Praying they wouldn’t notice my quickening breaths, I attempt to compromise. “Join me over a dinner, please,” I plead, just wanting some form of hope. “Give me a chance.” “Why would we give you a chance when your own parents didn’t?” her mom snaps, darting in front of her husband to spit her words in my face. Silence takes over, and I am left emotionless with a blank stare. The memories replay like a broken record in my mind. The pair take my reaction as a sign of victory, and they shut the door. A small whisper slips the crack, “Psychopath.” Psychopath. I stomp back down the sidewalk and rip open my car door. My body crashing into the seat makes the whole vehicle shake. As soon as the sound of my door slamming seals me from the world’s gaze, my nerves release from my throat, and a screech rings my ears. I fling myself around, desperate to shake out the desire. Vigorously scratching up and down my arms, I peel off layers of skin to feel the comforting blood caress my skin. They don’t understand. Nobody understands. Then, the same cardboard box I had tucked away in the floorboard on the passenger side steals my attention again. She’ll understand. Leaning over to the other side, I gently grasp the box as if it were glass. All the stress and anxiety once suffocating me eases away, and I’m suddenly filled with tranquility. Everything will be okay. Carefully placing down the box, I snatch up a different box: my toolbox. I pace back up the pathway to the door, this time with overflowing confidence. “Open up!” Banging on the door, I continue shouting, “I want to us to chat over dinner.” “Go away or we’ll call the police.” A faint threat muffled behind the closed door. Manic laughter fills my lungs, and I pick out a crowbar from the metal box. “I’m going to give you a chance!” “One!” I twirl around the heavy bar, imagining how the paintings of blood splatter will decorate the walls. 60 “Two!” My impatience infects my body, and I decide they don't deserve another chance. The crowbar meets the door handle over and over until, finally, the solacing screams hugs my nerves. Hours pass by, and I’m left admiring my work that lies in the back of my trunk. With a satisfied sigh escaping my lips, I lay down the bloody hacksaw with the blade doused in gore and pick up the finished product. The heads of her parents are art, such clean cuts. I softly place the heads in the cardboard box and tape up the lids. She’ll love her gift.
61 The Man
BY RYAN THRONE
He swayed across the cobblestone path, feeling every bump and crack across the soles of his feet. It had been years since he’d walked this path, ever since he was exiled. He returned old and worn, far from his old image as a young traveler. One of the few things that wasn’t a mere haze in his memory was his path home. The path began to feel rougher and consisted of smaller stones. His home hadn’t changed since he left years ago, but this time instead of holding a glorious weapon in his hand, he held a long, thin stick. Tap. Tap. Tap. He felt the edge of his doorway, knowing where all the imperfections were. Entering the home, he noticed it smelled the same as he left it, a whiff of stale and musty air caught his nose. Memories went in and out his mind, too many to focus on one. He sat down. A tear emerged from his blank eye, tracing down his face following his scars like a path. He was home.
62 Red Couch Reserved Only for Me
BY EMMA VANDINE
I close my eyes, I'm back in the last seat of my mom’s old Ford Expedition. I carefully shut the book in my hand, lean forward, peer out the front windshield, and see the vibrant flags flapping in the distance. Every second the red, blue, green, and yellow flags get closer and closer. And every second we get closer and closer to being back with my great-grandmother and my uncle. As we take a sharp left across from the flags and pull on to their street, my mom tells the same story of how her sister wasn't wearing her seatbelt, how badly she got hurt here, and how we should always wear our seatbelts. My dad jokes about how we hear that story every time we come, which we do. It has become a marker we wait for because if we are hearing that story then we are moments away from seeing them for the first time this year. We pull into their driveway, and the living room light leaks through the window, lighting up the yard, as the sun is long gone. The front lights flicker on, and we all fight to get out of the car first. People and pillows and luggage come pouring out of the car, but I leave everything where it is and run to the front door where they are waiting: my mema and my uncle, waiting where they always are. I stand there with them and take in the whole scene: the tight air, the fact that even after ten at night is still hot and humid, the taste of salt that lingers from the beach down the road, the cat sitting next to my uncle, and my mema hugging me close. After she lets go, I walk into the house and see the bright red couch that turns into a bed that my mema reserves for me–– never learned why but that spot was always only for me. I hear my name get called, and I run back outside to help unload the car so we can all catch up after a long-awaited trip. We then sit around the kitchen table eating a cake my uncle made special for this occasion: for us coming back, for us being together. We talk for what feels like days but is hardly an hour before everyone heads off to bed. Here I am on my red couch bed reserved only for me, excited for what the next day will bring– – waking up to the whir of the coffee maker and seeing my grandfather outside, sitting with our feet in the cool water, watching the rising sun paint the cotton candy sky, sharing an orange we picked from my uncle’s tree, then joining my mema and grandmother on their bed, the three of us packed in close, lying together and enjoying the calm before the chaos of the day begins. 63 And then I open my eyes, and I'm back at my house and it was all just memories; I'm not with them. I'm just sitting here alone on my bed, not on my red couch reserved only for me, and she is still gone. I only have her golden necklace in my hand and the memories in my head of my mema left.
64 The Last Breath
BY OLIVIA MOORE
My hands block the silky light above me, desperate to reach life once again. Flashes spike my vision over and over until—nothing. The light fades away, and hope abandons me. I float motionless as any strength left inside my veins drifts away with the light. Darkness engulfs me, my last embrace. My last moment of peace. But a sliver of sparkles flows around me, spiraling with ease and elegance. Slowly, the shiny specks fill the nothingness and reflect their glow off one another. My mouth gapes at the sight, and I attempt to gasp, but my lungs refuse. Then, dots and shapes of the cosmos replace the gaps between the golden stars. Planets emerge from the swirling bubbles. I see them: Jupiter, Venus, Mars, and so much more. I want to reach out and pick them like apples off a celestial tree. I suddenly become aware of my weightless body. The strands of my hair flow around with the waves of constellations, and my clothing releases its tight grip to play with the shooting stars. Cautiously, I start to join the movements of the new world. My arms and legs flail around with facility as I try to swim with the current. As my exploration of the infinite galactical layers begins, I start to wonder about the endless possibilities in awe. I approach Saturn, and with an act of faith, I leap onto the ring. Bouncing in slow motion, I play hopscotch on the rocks. A shooting star flies by me, and with my hand I extend to grab a gentle hold of it. Riding on the star, I watch the passing planets and colorful whirls of gases. Despite the fast-gliding pace, no wind touches my face. However, my travel comes to a halt as I am knocked off the star and sent spinning backwards. The world of everlasting opportunities rotates periodically around my body, and with each rotation, the universe loses a piece of itself. Smaller and smaller the world becomes. When I finally stop whirling in circles, darkness replaces the light. It is nothing. But there is something. 65 Behind me, a looming black hole stalks my frail body. I screambut hear nothing. Frantically, I try to crawl away, but the inky black tendrils seize my ankles. My efforts are worthless. Without a sound, without a fight, I am dragged inside. I surrender to the darkness with one last ounce of breath.
A body was discovered this morning in the river by local fishermen. The body is currently unidentified and beyond decomposition. Authorities confirm that there is no sign of foul play, and they suspect this death to be a suicide.
66 The Garden of Qualia
BY DOMINIC LATTANZIO
As the morning arrives, I feel pulled by an insuppressible force as I enter the garden. This haven, with its modest plots and punctual aromas, reminds me that I am safe. In fact, it practically speaks to me. I sip cool water whilst examining the closest plant to the entrance, as it seems to have been here the longest: sunflowers, nine of them, arranged sporadically in their bed, standing tall. They're pointed away from me, their flowers peering over a battered wooden fence, and over it, I can hear the barking of a familiar pet, along with the battling of voices. I’m sent back; all I feel is the fear, the want to escape, of the child in that house. The boy retreats to the overgrown backyard, looking to those sunflowers, feeling the warmth of the day, as if He is smiling upon the boy. I am reunited with my body and continue forward. Several fig bushes are fixed on the right side, and as I approach them, the soft and comforting smells of cleanliness, warm blankets, and homemade fig cake transport me to the scene: a child, a little rougher looking, his eyes sunken, his grin snide, his body out of his control, only responding to the soothing voice of his grandmother giving him a slice of the cake. His grandmother thanks him for his hard work in picking figs for the cake. He thanks her in return and wolfs down the rich dessert like it’s his first meal in days. It probably is. The season has suddenly changed within the garden. I stroll to the several peach trees, which, as one falls with a satisfying thump, I am once again reassembled into this boy’s eyes. The air is fresh, verdant. His father sounds excited, but an almost unnatural tone of relief insinuating he has escaped something--or someone--he's happy to leave behind. The boy is older now; he seems happier, full of young energy, with a sense of insurmountable pride growing in him. With his mind brightened, and his heart now open, he feels all but unstoppable at fourteen. Who didn’t, honestly? A peach, almost too luckily, falls onto my head, and I regain full
67 control. My feet drag as I reach the apple tree nearing the end of the brick path; I am tiring. The Granny Smiths surrounding the tree seem imperceptibly abundant, as if I am not meant to see the ground below it. I take one from the pile and bite into it; a crisp, souring sensation overwhelms me, and I am transported to a vivid reality: the boy is now a young man, with a scraggly beard and long, unkempt hair. He is surrounded by comforts and is softened by them; he falls on them as if they can save him, but he is not safe. He will learn eventually. He is offered many a green apple from friends, and he partakes in each, for they are just like his comforts: crisp, fresh, their deceptive burning of his heart a pleasure he wholly welcomes as yet another distraction. His expression is full of light, but he is darkened in his mind. I am ripped out of that flashback; a storm has picked up with prowess. There is a hill to the last tree in the garden; eighty-two steps of an excruciating cobblestone stairwell break me down, tear me apart, as the screaming winds and rain like daggers beats me into reality, carries me to this tree. I collapse at its base; once I have submitted to the forces of nature, they dissolve into nothing, and I am left surrounded by the inviting and tart smell of lemons. I pick one up, and it turns to a glass of lemonade, which I sip without a second thought, which brings me to... nowhere. I look out to the horizon, and see bountiful opportunities, and I feel unstoppable, truly, now. My heart is fulfilled, my head is on straight, and my senses tell me that, looking froward from under this lemon tree, things will be all right.
68 Grapevine
BY ELIZABETH COOLEY
I remember my old neighborhood— the old powerlines that would become the final resting place for all old sneakers. Mama always told me that sneakers belonged on your feet though. She said you wear em’ till your toes touch concrete. If you didn’t, you’d best be getting ready to walk to school shoeless. I listened to Mama. I’d always watch my friends wind up, shoes ready for blast off, but I would never be able to do it myself. I wasn’t much for rule breaking. I loved my black Chuck Taylors too much. Those and my church shoes were all I had to even think about throwing on power lines. Mama said my church shoes were only for prayin’ and seeing pastor McMallin’s sermons on Sunday morning. Sunday mornings. After we all loaded in my old man’s Chevy wagon, we’d sit in our own little bubbles. Mama would knit in the front seat, and I’d have to listen Sammy whining about how he forgot his fire truck at home. Eventually, Papa would tell Sammy to “quit his bellyaching before he turned the wagon around”. If I had a penny for every time my old man told me he would turn that wagon around, I reckon I’d be a millionaire. Once we got to church on Sunday, Sammy and I would race to the congregation doors, both claiming that the other one had a head start and was therefore, a cheater. Mama and Pops would park the car and trudge their tired feet in after us. I never understood why they always looked so dead on their feet. I guess it was cause my old man worked every day, and my mama had to look over Sammy. “Mama, can we get some fried apples after service?” Sammy latched to mama’s arm once we all sat in the pew. “Hush Sammy, baby.” Mama didn’t even acknowledge Sammy with eye contact. Her eyes were watching intently to pastor McMallin’s daily knee stompin’. She was the type of woman to watch first, speak second. Mama didn’t do much thinking for herself. Half the time, the only chewing out we’d get from Mama would be something she heard pastor McMallin say. What was that song I heard in the car? I remember something about a grapevine. I couldn’t think ‘bout it too much. My ears were flooded with tales of damnation, and I forgot all about the grapevine. 69 Once service finished, we all loaded back into the wagon. Pops, of course, had to take us to “Sal’s Place” so Sammy wouldn’t cry anymore about getting fried apples. “Sal’s Place” was an old, run down restaurant between the Stop n’ Shop and the baseball field. Papa would run in, get a takeout order of fried apples, and hustle back to the car before the motor even cooled down. My old man always said he was something of a base-runner, but he was built more like ‘frigerator. Nonetheless, I knew my pops was quick on his feet when it came to shutting Sammy up with food. We made our way back home, passing by the, now long gone, gas station where mama said she met pops when he worked with the gasboys. She said times were different back then. She said times were simpler. Did I forget the name of that song? We pulled into the driveway before I could think about it anymore. Everyone exited the car— mama with her needles, pops with his pack of Marlboros, and Sammy with his brown paper bag full of fried apples. After church on Sundays, Mama would do laundry. She had a week of grass stains to get out of my old jeans. Pops said he was going to mow the lawn, but we all knew that meant he was going to fall asleep in a lawn chair, drinking beer, and listening to the old radio. He did every Sunday. After church, I would go see my friends, Mark and Tony. Mark always wanted to go down the street to see how much coin we could get off Randy Scabanger for sodas at the Stop n’ Shop. His mama wouldn’t let him have soda at home on the account of him being a little crazy. Tony on the other hand wanted to play ball. He always wanted to play ball. He even took his glove with em’ to church on Sundays so he would be ready for when they got home. We’d argue about what to do for a bit, but we always ended up at the baseball field. We’d normally play until dark, but Mark’s mama wanted him home early. I think she’d finally caught on to all the soda he’d been having outside the house. Tony and I knew we wouldn’t be seein’ Mark for a couple days. He’d get a beatin’ and wouldn’t be allowed to play. My friends and I parted ways at about 4:30 pm. I walked home, hands in my pockets, heels scuffing the concrete sidewalk. Mama’d beat me one good if she knew I was draggin’ my feet. I watched my shoes as I walked. I figured something cool would happen if I watched em’, but nothing ever did. It beat looking at all the ugly houses in the neighborhood though. Once I reached my driveway, I was bombarded with the scent of mama’s green bean casserole. I knew she thought that if she covered green beans in enough breadcrumbs, Sammy would eat it. She wasn’t wrong. It didn’t take much to trick Sammy into eating vegetables. Before I walked into the garage, I caught sight of my old man, still asleep on his lawn chair. The old radio was still playing some faint song. I couldn’t hear it too well, so I picked it up and pressed the plastic grates to the side of my head: “Instead I heard it through the grapevine, That no longer would you be mine I heard it through the grapevine, Honey I'm just about to lose my mind” 70 The Darkest Knight
BY CHANSEY AGLER
The dark castle emanated an aura of the purest darkness. Hatred. Rage. Destruction. The knight inside should never have been resurrected—his only motive was to destroy everything we have worked for. Everything we stand for. Our hopes and dreams, our people. As we broke through the portcullis, other groups of soldiers climbing siege towers to storm the castle from above, his forces pushed us back. I nearly wept as I witnessed my country’s people being slaughtered by his forces of darkness. Fighting continued throughout the night. Smoke engulfed my worn lungs as the flames of war burned within the castle’s interior. The air grew colder, biting at our already burdened troops, although the battle gave it an unnerving heat. A heat I had never felt before—and hope to never feel again. The sun finally rose over the bloody scene. The carefully crafted sandstone of the castle was ruined by the scarlet blood of both sides. Seeing their barely recognizable bodies, destroyed by soldiers from the other side, sent dejection through my body. As a leader, however, I could not forfeit myself to feelings of grief. I had to persevere. The remnants of my people’s army banded together in the dimly lit keep, looking more exhausted than any civilian could comprehend. I forced myself to restrain my emotions; doing so was just as hard as the fighting last night. I peered around to see who was in the best condition. A few men had, miraculously, remained unharmed in the conflict. Others had simple cuts and scrapes and seemed to be in adequate condition. Not everyone was as lucky as the former two categories; I could not bear myself to view the remainder of my fellow countrymen—the gore and bloodshed brought sorrow to the surface of my face, but I had to hold myself firm. If I surrendered myself to emotion, what would happen to them? Despite our losses, the battle had to continue. Our country…our freedom…our lifestyle is at stake in this fight. I marched up the cold, dank stone stairs, leading my countrymen to the greatest danger anyone has faced yet. As we burst into the room, a sinister man in a suit of jet-black armor sneered at us, calling out specifically to me— “Ah, the general leads her troops to fight me. How sweet of her to lead them directly into my grasp—and feed my hungry blade.” 71 My mind raced in all directions. If I surrendered myself to hatred and shouted back at him, I would be no better than the being of pure evil standing before me. If I did nothing, I could never forgive myself. What was I supposed to do? I drew my blade from its sheath, taking my standard defensive stance and trying to piece together a coherent plan to defeat the foul knight who stood before me, a knight of such dishonor that his name has been forcibly erased from our memories. Anger feeds him—I had to steel myself. Before I could process the situation, his greatsword smashed into my claymore blade. His strength was far greater than mine. Others began to surround him, making feeble attempts to break through his impenetrable armor. All I could hear was the clanking sound of metal, men screaming, and my heart pounding in my head as the knight in black pushed my blade downward, trying to brutally remove my defenses. I shoved my blade upward, barely exerting enough force from my exhausted arms to release the lock of our swords. His blade returned, crashing down into mine once again. I finally gave out and felt the heavy metal sword slam through the armor covering my shoulder. ______
I am not sure how long it has been, but this morning, I finally woke up again; I was in our capital city of Silvervall, with fellow generals surrounding me. Before I could stammer and protest, the consul reached her gentle arm out, telling me to calm down. She had personally led an elite group in just as I had been knocked out. The group had surrounded him with maces and hammers, furiously smashing their weapons into his armor and crushing him from within, eventually suffocating his wretched body. His armies, having felt the aura of darkness disappear, surrendered rapidly. It seemed that the dark reign of Lord Grimmond had come to an end at last, and perhaps there could be peace throughout the continent at last.
72 Much Canoe About Nothing
BY LOGAN CARRAS
*Camera pans over a lake. Two friends, Terry and Doug, are along the shore. Doug is asleep on a hammock suspended between two trees. Terry is sitting in a chair, looking out onto the lake. Suddenly, Terry gets up and walks over to Doug.” TERRY: “Doug” *Doug groans and turns over, still trying to sleep* TERRY: “Doug, wake up. You have to see this.” DOUG: “Go away, I’m tired.” TERRY: “Theres a polar bear on a canoe.” *Doug doesn’t react, staying turned away from Terry and the lake, eyes still closed. * DOUG: “Terry, how stupid do you think I am?” TERRY: “Do you want an adjective, a scale of one to ten, a comparison, a-” DOUG (Interrupting): “Terry. You pull this type of crap all the time. It’s physically impossible for there to be a bear on a boat. How would he get there? Why would he be there? Bears have not evolved enough to use boats.” TERRY: “Canoes.” DOUG: “What?” TERRY: “It's a canoe, not a boat. And it’s not just a bear, it’s a polar bear.” DOUG: “You realize that makes it even more impossible, right? A polar bear being out here? In this weather? In this part of the country?” TERRY: “Improbable. Just take a look.” DOUG: “Will it get you to shut up?” 73 TERRY: “No. The polar bear entices conversation.” *Doug sighs* DOUG: “Alright, I’ll take a look. But I’m not expecting to see anything.” *Doug opens his eyes and turns towards the lake. On the lake, there is a polar bear, standing up on its hind legs, in a canoe. It’s using a paddle to move around the lake. It is staring directly at Doug and Terry.” DOUG: “What the hell.... why is that polar bear on a boat?” TERRY (annoyed): “It’s. A. Canoe.” DOUG: “Fine, whatever, canoe. What’s it doing out there?” TERRY (smoking a pipe now): “The polar bear canoe... it’s an old story my grandpappy used to tell.” DOUG: “Terry, you don’t smoke.” TERRY: “Indeed I don’t.” *Terry breaks into a coughing fit, then tosses the pipe behind him* DOUG: “Where did you even get that pipe?” TERRY: “Irrelevant. But my grandpappy... he’d seen something out on the lake one night.” DOUG: “Was it a polar bear on a canoe?” TERRY: “He couldn’t tell what it was at first. It was dark out, and his glasses were foggy from the fog that was on the lake. But he pulled out a flashlight and shined it on the figure.” DOUG: “Was it a polar bear on a canoe?” TERRY: “It was the most beautiful sight he had ever seen, or so he told me. It was majestic, it was nature defying, it was...: DOUG: “Was it a polar bear on a canoe?” TERRY (visibly agitated): “Stop interrupting!! This story is very important. Do you want to know why that polar bear is out on that canoe?” DOUG: “Ok, fine. What did your ‘grandpappy’ see?” TERRY: “It was.... a polar bear on a canoe.” *Silence ensues for about fifteen seconds. It is broken by the polar bear letting out a roar.” 74 TERRY: “You could’ve shown at least a little bit of shock, Doug. I mean, it’s a polar bear on a canoe! Who could’ve guessed that it would be that?” *Doug lets out an exasperated sigh* DOUG (with obvious sarcasm): “Wow. Amazing. What happened to him?” TERRY: “Oh, he was mauled to death a short time after. He sent me a letter detailing the whole thing. Supposedly he had the polar bear on the canoe mail it for him after the whole mauling thing happened.” DOUG (showing signs of fear): “Wait, he was mauled to death?? By the polar bear??” TERRY: “You’re focusing on the wrong thing about this story, Doug. The polar bear mailed a letter! And was on a canoe! Truly fascinating.” DOUG: “Terry, we’ve got to get out of here. I do NOT want to get mauled to death by the polar bear.” TERRY: “He’s not just a polar bear. He’s a polar bear ON A CANOE. And it wasn’t the polar bear on the canoe that mauled him.” DOUG (confused): “Then... what did? (with a hint of anger) And wait! That didn’t explain why the polar bear was out there at all!” TERRY: “Oh, right. The polar bear on the canoe was a distraction. It allowed the chainsaw alligator to sneak up; that’s what got him.” DOUG: “The... What?” *sounds of chainsaw revs mixed with alligator noises are heard in the vicinity*
75 All's Well that Ends Well
BY BRON AYAN
Throughout time, every species has dealt with some form of obstacle. Life has survived the Chicxulub--the meteor that made dinosaurs extinct--the ice age, civil wars--yet somehow, in the end, there is always peace. Although living through these treacherous moments, we may not see a light at the end of the tunnel; despite what it may seem, there is. A bird, for example, watching over his nest or waiting for his next meal to come out of the ground is experiencing a moment of peace while waiting. We do not know the history of the bird or what it has gone through to survive. What we do know is that the bird in this singular moment has a small moment of peace making everything else in the past seem obsolete. Throughout all the crusades and wars mankind has experienced, in the end the moments of happiness and peace seem to make the negative memories fade. The simple moments of dancing for a marriage or an event of some celebration, those moments are what matters. The experiences of all this pain and hardship will not ever be forever. There is always a brighter side, and although it may take time, eventually it will arrive. And at the end, when everyone is tired and takes their shoes off for one final dance, or one final event at the end of the night, all the bad memories and moments of the past seem to disappear. In the end, all is well that ends well.
76 Tri-Colored Heart by Ethan Munoz Villalobos
77 Three of Cups
BY ROMAN BEGLEY
The rain pours outside of the old castle, and the drenched young man at the gates looks positively despondent. It would be bad manners not to invite him in. I sweep down to the front gates and open them with a wave of my hand. The young man looks startled. I repress the urge to grin; it wouldn’t do for him to see my fangs just yet. “Are you alright, friend? Are you lost?” I ask, hoping for a response. “Y-yes, I’m terribly sorry, but my car broke down, and there’s nothing around here for miles, and I was wondering if I could use your phone? Mine’s dead,” the young man says, and he only just now seems to realize my attire. We could not have been dressed more differently, with him in strange, loose fitting, and plain clothes, and me in my typical evening attire. “I’m afraid I don’t have a phone, but I would be happy to offer you a place to stay until the rain stops. May I have your name?” “It’s, ah, Adam. And yours?” “Edward. If you would join us, my wife and I were about to have dinner. But first, let us get you out of those wet clothes; you must be so uncomfortable.” Adam looks down, as if only now discovering the state he is in. He nods jerkily, as if not entirely sure he should comply. I give him no choice as I take his arm and guide him into my home. I lead him up the grand staircase, and I can see him taking in the sight of my home. It is a resplendent thing, full of mahogany wood and red velvet, but I sweep him quickly to my quarters. I am slightly taller and broader than he is, but I have a feeling both Misa and I will find him even more attractive in my clothes that are slightly too large for him. He blushes as we enter the master bedroom. I let go of his arm and gesture to the changing screen, then move to my wardrobe to pick out something appropriate. I have a feeling he would look splendid in red. Once he has dressed (and I was right about him being a sight--oh, Misa will love him), I escort him down to the dining room. Misa is there in her evening gown, and I lick my lips, careful not to alert our guest to my fangs yet again. Misa looks up and sees Adam, and I only just motion to stop her from grinning. We don’t want to give up the game just yet. Instead, she rises and says, “Hello there! I am Misa, Edward’s wife. It is a pleasure to have you join our table for tonight. I hope we will be able to… get to know each other.” 78 She sits back down, and I take my place at the head of the table. I gesture to Adam to sit at my left side, as Misa is on my right. The dinner passes amicably, with Adam trying to be a polite guest despite his obvious unease, and Misa almost eating him alive with her eyes. Honestly, I cannot say that I am any better. Seeing this sweet young thing dressed in our colors, hair damp from the still pouring rain, and drinking out of our cup sends something alighting through me (and from what I can see the same thing is happening to my wife. I catch her eye and we exchange a slight nod.) Finally, I allow a full smile to take hold of my face, exposing my fangs. He will be ours by the time morning comes.
79 Undead Cocktail by Bethany Bonner
80 A Peaceful World
BY ALISON ELTZ
Orange rays of light burned themselves into fogged clouds in the darkened, blank sky, surrounding the lone moon in a hazy, other-worldly glow for a few minutes before the sky inevitably faded to black. An oasis in the desolate sky, the moon looked on, his only companion a straggly, tangled weed of a rose, a beacon of brightness that slouched in silence atop a barren hill. Around the hill of faded green was a varied field, tall with grasses that had been left untouched for months on end. It was a peaceful world for the moon and the rose--the emptiness was comfort in a certain sense. The rose had slowly been abandoned by all the other wildflowers, which had once spotted the barren backdrop of the hill and field surrounding with bright splotches of paint. Survival in a land that stifles color was no easy task. And though the rose was surrounded by weeds and grasses and thickets of trees for miles around it, no flower or man threatened to uproot it or disturb its growth any longer. It was alone, but in that lonesomeness, it was allowed to grow. Soon, it stood at almost the same height as a young pine tree at the edge of the long field of green. The moon watched as the rose grew higher and higher in the sky, its thorns creeping closer to him each day, and he knew that for the rose, being alone meant growth. But for the moon, surrounded only by stars whose eyes lay vacant and tired, being alone meant watching the rose and the events of the earth all day. Because of this, his eyes saw when the rose touched the edge of the skyline at dusk, illuminating its pale pink petals against the ever-darkening sky. His eyes saw when the first man in months to venture near the rose took the first step onto the graying field. Knee-length cattails and grasses spotting the field and hill blew slowly in the summer wind, falling and springingback again a few seconds after the man’s tattered boots had landed atop them. He continued wading through the high grasses, eyes set ahead on the rose. It stood alone at the very edge of the hill, as if reaching out toward something. At nightfall, the chirping of crickets and cicadas filled his ears in a crescendo of vibrations that rung out across the field and travelled up the hill toward the rose in a wave of sound, shaking its stem with pure thunder. When the initial shock of the chirping bugs had left the rose, it was replaced by fear of the man, who approached swiftly and with purpose. 81 If this man picks me from the earth, all of my growth will have been for nothing. But when the man and the rose met paths in a field that had long held no connection, he stood and gazed up at the rose for a moment or two. And when the moment had passed, the rose was not lifted from its hopes, lifted from the sky and brought back to the earth, to its beginnings. From a deep pocket in his faded and torn blue jeans, the man pulled a crinkled bottle of water, still sloshing with liquid. With earth-covered, cracking hands and mud-encrusted fingernails, the man unscrewed the cap of the water bottle and let the water from within spill onto the earth from which the rose grew. When the crinkled bottle was empty of all water, the man turned on his heel and walked down the hill, away from the field, and through the circle of trees enclosing the field and the rose with it. The moon’s eyes watched as the man returned to the barren field at dusk each day to water the lone flower there. His eyes watched as the rose began to grow faster, with more intent. For a moment, he allowed himself to believe that, one day, the rose’s petals might finally reach up to him in the edge of the sky, and he might be alone no longer. And indeed, the rose did grow at an incredible rate with the man’s care, stretching high into the sky, stem piercing clouds that hung lazily above the field in crowds. And slowly, as the weeks and months passed, the rose grew closer and closer to the moon until he longed for its presence with an intensity he had never before felt. In the night sky, he was alone, stars vacant and hollow of thoughts. But the rose could grow from the craters in the moon, could grow tall and strong and happy. This, he knew. When the rose’s long stem jutted with thorns finally grew tall enough to meet the moon, he plucked the rose from the earth quickly and with precision. And, for a moment, he was happy, and neither the rose nor the moon was alone any longer. The moon’s days of gazing off at the rose from miles above were long gone. But slowly, the rose wilted, and petals began to fall out of the night sky, where they would drift all the way down to earth and land on the field from which the rose had once grown strong and tall. The man who had so enjoyed venturing into the field gazed up at the sky, up at the rose, and knew he no longer had need to cross the field and climb the hill to see the rose at dusk. Tired boots with fraying laces dug into the earth at the top of the hill as the man bent and plucked a browning petal that lay there, specks of dirt and seeds from nearby grasses obscuring the luminescent color it had once held. He turned on his heel and walked down the hill for a final time, petal in hand, with no need to return to the barren hill in the graying field. And eventually, after each petal had tumbled from the sky to the earth, the moon was alone again, and the rose was no more. It was a peaceful world. 82 Jupiter and the Universe
BY ELLA YAROSHIK
Jupiter found comfort and peace in creating art. A typical day for them would consist of doodling on homework assignments, drawing for art class, making earrings for them and their friends, and or constantly redecorating their room. Everything revolved around what to make next. It was April 17th, a not-too-hot, but bright spring day that came with birds chirping and old men mowing their lawns. Jupiter was sitting at their desk, legs curled up and their tablet resting against their knees, meticulously marked on the screen, sketching and erasing. Today's theme, well, the past few months’ theme, was fairies and mythical universes. Jupiter had been drawing little fairies and dreaming of mystical realms, wishing to be a part of their world. They drew fairies sleeping in teacups, having picnics on mushrooms, and their favorite--being a fairy with someone they loved. Of course, they didn't have that someone, but it was a dream that Jupiter constantly, and I mean constantly, dreamt of. On the tablet, Jupiter drew another version of themself as a fairy with made-up friends all relaxing in a cottage somewhere in some woods of the universe Jupiter had created. Just as they were adding touches to the moss in the background, their dog, Achilles, walked in whining to be taken on a walk. Walking wasn’t quite what Jupiter liked to do, but no one was home right now, and it was a task that had to be done or else Achilles wouldn't stop whining. Already in an acceptable outfit, Jupiter put on their shoes and went out of their room to grab the leash to pin onto Achilles. Jupiter buckled the leash onto Achilles’ collar and opened the door. All was normal as they closed the door and turned to lock it. Turning back around, it was not as they just saw it. It's like they had teleported right into the world Jupiter created. Jupiter stared, and stare for a while they did. They suddenly burst into laughter, scaring Achilles just a bit. They tried to rub their eyes, but they were still there. “What the--,” Jupiter was interrupted by a loud "Hey!" coming from their left. Jupiter turned back around and tried to see where they had come out of, only to be shocked that it was the house that they had previously drawn today. They turn to their left to see, quite frankly, the most beautiful person they’d ever seen before. The first thing that caught Jupiter’s eyes, 83 besides the mystery person’s face, was their yellow flower hat. It was what they always loved to draw on their characters. “Hey Jupiter!” they shouted with the biggest smile on their face. "Oh, you're taking little Achilles for a walk?” they asked while bending down to pet him. Jupiter looked down to reply and realized that, once a dog, Achilles was now a worm. “Uh, yeah, I am, haha,” Jupiter nervously would help if they rememembered the mystery person’s name, but the shock had left Jupiter's mind empty of any thought. “I was coming to fetch you so that we could go over to Mercury’s house! He’s having this little get together before the start of the harvest. Neptune came up to me just a minute ago and was like, “OMG you have to come! It's going to be fun before all the work starts.’ And I was like, ‘Oh I don’t know. I’m kind of tired. I think I’m going to hit the hay right now.’ And she’s like ‘Venus come on! Why don't you go get Jupiter and then head over to Mercury’s house in an hour, ok?’ And then she left and now I’m here.” Venus. That's their name. "I guess we can go after Achilles walks, or wiggles, for a bit,” Jupiter replied unsurely. “Alright then! May our journey begin!” Venus said as they grabbed Jupiter’s hand and dragged them onto the dirt path. In the matter of only a few minutes, Jupiter was away from home in another universe and utterly confused. What is going to happen? How am I going to get back home? they thought. Maybe I won’t. Jupiter began to feel a bit hopeless as they were dragged into what was going to be a probably very confusing event. Hang in there, Achilles. We’ll figure out what's going on. I promise.
84 Untitled by Nicole Tuvell
85 1969
BY RYAN THOMPSON
I always thought meeting Richard Nixon would be a little more interesting. Unfortunately, it was quite dull. All Secret Service, and “Yes, Mr. President, no, Mr. President.” I was barely allowed to shake his hand, and the agents who searched me were just a little too thorough. When Thomas Paine, the director of NASA, requests a favor, you do well to agree. So, when he asked me to go to an undisclosed location, in a car with black-out windows driven by a Secret Service agent, naturally, I said yes. Little did I know, I had just volunteered myself to be part of the greatest conspiracy the US Government had ever pulled off. I was taken to a warehouse building, in a town that looked like it would not be on any map you’d find in the store. Mr. Nixon and his guard met me in the entry room of the building. I was sat at a table with a lawyer, a stack of papers about as thick as a bible, and my choice of black or blue ink pens. When the contracts were thoroughly explained and signed by myself, Nixon, and the lawyer, I was led through a series of hallways and down two sets of stairs. A door in front of me swung open when the man to my left whispered what sounded like “Searchlight has landed” into his sleeve. A man dressed in all black carrying a giant suitcase ushered me in. “Mr. Armstrong, we need you to put on the spacesuit."
86 Man on the Moon by Ambar Reyna-Montanez
87 Delusion
BY ANONYMOUS
Daybreak bestirs me once more. The same beautiful golden yet blazing rays made by the sun approach my window blinds and collectively stream through into my room. As I start to get up, my bed draws me back in with the smell of the lavender laundry detergent and hope of resting just a bit more. However, like clockwork, the resounding ‘chirp’ outside on the other side of my window is what always awakes me. I slide my hands off my silky sheets and walk to the window. Looking outside I see the birds chase after one another, swooping up and down trying to get each other almost like a game of tag. I open my window to let the air in. Suddenly, the aroma of the freesias fills my room and surrounds my head, reminding me of strawberries. I sit down and settle back into bed. My pillow swallows my head and feels as soft as a cloud. *BEEP* *BEEP* *BEEP* Again, I am awakened. This time to a different scene.
88 Unrequited
BY ANONYMOUS Some days I wonder if she ever knew—well, more accurately, if she would’ve ever told me if she had happened to feel the same. I hope she did; I mean, unrequited love usually isn’t ideal, but it’s ultimately up to her to say how she felt about me. I’d like to say I knew how she felt, but I don’t know if I’d be accurate. Honestly, I’d more than likely be wrong. It’s somewhat strange to think that there was a time before I knew her. I remember most of my childhood; I’d say probably the amount of an average person, but it doesn’t really pertain to anything now. I suppose it was normal and all, but it just wasn’t that important to turning me to who I currently am. She was the one who had made me. Nobody had a greater impact on making me who I became than her. I’m fond of remembering the first thing that happened when I moved in across from her room. All it took was a simple “Hi,” and I felt like I could see immense anguish dissipating from her face. It was like I had brought something back to her that she had lost. I’d like to think it was the idea of hope and peace, but I’ll never conclusively know. But what I do is that, with one word, I was at least able to take her out of the trance she had been encased by. No. Not entirely I wasn’t. Though, with how she was… I don’t know if I ever could have. She wasn’t an “average” person by any means. Unfortunately, the following is something I cannot say out of love: she was a creature born from the depths of despair who always had seemingly lifeless curiosity hidden behind her eyes. I lack the remembrance of the exact time we were together, but the days, months, and years that followed meeting her were filled with everything. They were filled with a lot of pain and fear, but there were also moments of peace and bliss. There’s no denying that we went through a lot together, but what inevitably happened did. Yet I can’t say I’m upset. I don’t like that I had to go through harsh times—no one does— but those rough patches did lead to so many picture-perfect, almost fantastical, moments. Even though I wasn’t there with her in the end, at least we were able to have those perfect moments that never failed to make me fall harder in love. I’m glad I met her…I’m glad I met a girl who I’d feel happy to use every nonsensical cliché for. I’m glad I met this girl whose smile could 89 brighten a whole room. I’m glad I met that girl who I fell completely head over heels for. The girl who made all time seem senseless and unknown. That girl I'll still love till the day I can't utter my own name.
90 Modern Oz by Michelle Crumley 91 An Illuminative Gift
BY OLIVIA MOORE
“You won’t believe what I found. Look!” the young lady cheerfully shouts at her boyfriend with her hands clasped over one another, her blonde hair bouncing with her eager steps. He turns cautious eyes on her. “Would you really think that I'd trust you after what happened last week?” His arms cross over his chest; he looks skeptical of her goofy smile. “Not really,” she answers quickly as the memory of her ‘frog in the hand prank’ flashes across her mind, “but you’ll love this. C’mon, just trust me!” “Believe me, I've heard that many times before, and I've never been ‘disappointed,’” he sasses, using his fingers as quotation marks. “Your lack of faith is disappointing,” the girl says sourly while a playful grin tugs at the corner of her lips. Eyes fill with love as the boy chuckles at her nerdy reference and admires her childish behavior. “If I open your hands and something jumps out at me, I swear...” he threatens being interrupted by her sweet voice. “Ten million bucks!” she chants, jumping up and down while careful of her closed hands. “I bet you ten million bucks it isn’t bad! Just pleasepleasePLEASE open my hands!” Her enthusiastic voice and wide smile enchant him to finally trust her and open her closed palms. Fireflies abruptly explode from her hands as well as her squeals of excitement. Countless tiny lights flicker and surround the two with swirling, living specks of life. Lit up eyes follow the bedazzling motion of the sparkles, and the lights circle about carelessly. Up above, the fireflies slowly descend into the sky, their twinkle fading from their sight, but the scenery shines in their memory together. “The best surprise ever, huh?” she asks, rolling on the heels of her feet with a smug face. “In the world,” he concludes, staring deeply into her wide eyes. As they stand together in the afterlight mist of the fireflies, he takes her now-empty hands and places a long kiss upon her knuckles. “I told you so.” The girl sways her hips, proud of her surprise for him. Falling into her playful trance, he nods his head in agreement, making his fluffy hair jump on his forehead. He pulls on her soft hands to tug her into a gentle kiss. Upon parting, they cherish each other’s eyes and their stories behind them. 92 One in a Trillion by Madison Wall 93 Honeybees in Her Hair
BY MEGAN MAJOR
The wild is what truly captures my heart. It serves as my escape from reality and allows me to freely express my inner thoughts, feelings, dreams, and desires. The open fields of endless shades of green bring me warmth and comfort to my soul. The vibrant petals of sweet daisies that fill my hair as I lay between the blades of grass keep me sane as the thoughts of home race through my mind. Sweet honeybees buzz through the blue skies as the clouds dance back and forth. Once the sun sets behind the swaying trees, I gather my belongings—my hardback composition notebook, gel ink pens, and rustic Polaroid camera—and make my way back home. As I make my way down the long gravel road towards home, I begin reminiscing about my adventures. I begin to flip through the photos that I took while absorbing the beauty of the wild. I can still smell the sweet scent of nectar of the dancing daisies and hear hum of the] honeybees. Shortly, I will climb up the wooden steps of reality—home. When hanging up my backpack on the rusted hanger near the door, I hear the thumping of four furry paws greet me at the door. My Siberian husky, Nola, jumps with excitement as I make my way through the front door. She keeps me at peace I’m home. As night falls, I make my way out towards the back porch. Galaxies of twinkling stars paint the nighttime skies. While looking up into the eyes of the sparkling stars, a shooting star soars across the sky. Before it disappears, I close my eyes, wishing that one day my home would be the wild.
94 Untitled by Paige Wolosiewicz 95 The Dragon and the Warrior
BY ANONYMOUS
[In the middle of a cold dry cave, Annabeth is holding Lee, who is bleeding from a large stab wound] ANNABETH: A death isn’t meant to be beautiful or satisfying, Lee. They’re unjust, and traumatizing, and painful. Yours doesn’t get to be different just because it’s you. LEE: Well, maybe I want to pretend that it can be, Annabeth. Maybe I want to pretend that it’ll at least be unremarkable and quiet. ANNABETH: How could you expect your family to act like they don’t ca— LEE: Because they’re dead. Because everything I’ve ever been a part of is dead. We’ve fought for long enough that I’d think at least you’d know that. I have no one left that I need to pretend for me, no one besides you. And, honestly, it shouldn’t matter that much if you lie. All you’re losing is your mortal enemy, right? ANNABETH: Stop. LEE: (Angrily) Stop what? Stop lying to myself that I have any hope of redeeming myself in your eyes? Stop telling myself that maybe I should want at least you to care? ANNABETH: No. Stop lying and saying I hate you. Stop saying what you know isn’t true. You know I can’t forgive you, but you know I also can’t bring myself to hate you. (light-hearted) You aren’t an enemy, Lee, you’re just a nuisance and a pain in my rear end. LEE: (Playfully)Yeah, the pain in your butt part is definitely true, but I guess I don’t really know how to recognize you not hating me. You 96 better recognize you’re one, too, though. ANNABETH: Is this really the game we’re playing? LEE: [Coughing up blood] Come to think of it: I think I’m getting too tired to argue… sorry for the sudden change of pace… Hey, Annabeth, could you tell me a story, like I did for you way back when? ANNABETH: Yeah, Lee… yeah, I can. Now, should I tell the one of the dragon or the warrior? LEE: I’ve heard my own story enough through my own tongue. I think it’s finally time to hear yours from you. ANNABETH: (Slowly fading) Alright. Now shut your eyes, and just listen to my voice. Think of nothing more and nothing less, as I tell the story of the young warrior who went by Anna. She was fierce but found herself in a million predicaments, yet it was always because the same person. In every situation, she saw a dragon with vibrant scales of colors she’d never seen before, a dragon of pure beauty. They called her a dragon, but she looked just like the townsfolk, though she had a few more scales. Anna came to find herself fighting this dragon almost every day. After a long time, the dragon began to call Anna by her real name, Annabeth, a symbol of compassion, though they were consumed in a passionate hatred for one another…
97 Salt
BY ROMAN BEGLEY
Sometimes I think about what it would be like to choose violence. Every day I wake up and I choose peace, but this is not my nature. My nature is like salt, sharp and coarse. Salt is useful: it makes food taste better, and it can ward off demons, so I suppose my true nature isn’t entirely useless. My father doesn’t understand, all he sees is a failure of a son who will never be worthy of his pride. I really can’t blame him. After all, who would want a son that everyone sees as a daughter? I raise my brother to the best of my ability, but my body is small and unused to being a mother and a father all at once. Or, at least, it used to be. It has been many years since this began, this journey of peace and kindness. It is not in my nature. My father sends me on missions, missions full of salt and flames. At times it seems like my calling, the repetition of slashing and burning all that is evil. Other times it’s all I can do not to sob as I pour salt on the wounds of the earth. They don’t deserve this. I don’t deserve this. I am seventeen years old, why was I cursed with this burden? These multiple burdens? I move the bodies together. They were not allowed to be together in life, but I can let them be together in death. Finally. The salt pours, the flames burn, and my salty tears sizzle as they evaporate on the fire. I have to be leaving soon; my brother is waiting for me. But for now I allow myself a moment of weakness, and I look up to the sky, to an indifferent God, and I allow myself to curse the factors of creation that have led me to this point. There will be no peace for me. Peace was never an option.
98 Ragnarök Rising
BY SARABETH CAMPBELL
“Come on, it’s tradition,” Heidi whined. “Tradition is just peer pressure from dead people.” “Everyone in our family has done it,” Wendy rationalized. “Then I’ll just be the first not to do it.” “It determines your future as part of the family,” Alma informed. “Well then I quit this family.” “Oh please, do it for us,” Wendy begged. “Those puppy eyes won’t work on me, and DANG IT, WENDY! NO CLONES! THAT’S CHEATING.” Wendy allowed the clone to disappear. She backed up to the other two girls and could do nothing but watch as her youngest brother stomped off to his room and slammed the door shut. Atticus sighed as he slumped against the door. He murmured, “I can’t do it. I just can’t.” The longer he sat there, the more his frustration turned into sickening guilt. After a few more minutes of pouting and guilt, Atticus jumped at the sudden soft sound of knocking on his bedroom door. “Go away, you three annoying excuses of sisters.” “Would it help if it were your mother instead?” Atticus jumped up and threw open the door. There was his mother in the doorway with authentic Italian pizza. Atticus grabbed the pizza box and hurried to the floor. His mother produced plates, napkins, and sodas seemingly out of nowhere. “So, there’s been a lot of yelling going on in this house.” “Oh gee, you think?! Your precious innocent triplets are trying to force me to do this stupid ceremony and won’t take freaking no for an answer!” “Ok so why don’t you want to do the ceremony, Tick?” “I don’t know. Maybe it’s the fact I’m not ready to grow up yet, and don’t call me Tick. I hate it when you call me Tick.” “No, you don’t” Atticus sighed and conceded, “No, I don’t.” “You don’t have to do the ceremony just yet. You can be a kid for a little while longer.” His mother patted his knee and stood. She said, “Alright, I have to get downstairs. Your father sided with the girls and will probably hold the 99 ceremony in your sleep. I have to stop all that carnage.” “Ok Mom. Love you.” “I love you too Tick.” “Mom, wait!” His mom paused and looked at him with barely concealed concern. He then said, “Thanks for being on my side.” “I don’t take sides.” “Yes, you do.” His mother chuckled and said, “Yes, I do.” Atticus relaxed as his mom left. It was nice to have at least one person on his side. He wolfed down the rest of the pizza. Gosh, he loved pizza. Atticus tried several deep breaths before he gave up. “I have to go out tonight,” he murmured to himself. He strode over to the closet and opened it. Shoving the T-shirts aside, he came to a hidden keypad. Typing in the combination, 5-5-5-5-4-6, he entered his secret room. Atticus walked briskly over to the computer. “Let’s see who’s missing this week,” Atticus said to himself. “Oh, The Painter on His Way to Work by Vincent Van Gogh. Originally stolen by the Nazis and still missing. Locked in a fingerprint analysis vault in some rich tycoon's vault. Return to Magdeburg, Germany.” Atticus was silent for a moment before saying, “You know what, I feel like it’s a day for a challenge.” Atticus stepped back and let his flames dance in his palms. The fiery dancers jumped all around his body turning it all an ashy black. His body was only that ashy black except for his eyes which were bright red. Dad may have his super strength, Mom her quick flight, Heidi's animal abilities, Wendy and her bothersome illusions, and Alma’s a tale as old as time. But, I wouldn’t trade anything in the world for my pyromancy and necromancy. “Heroes may be good, but you gotta admit villains are just so much more exotic.” … “Hey, did you hear? One of the missing Van Gogh painting have been returned,” Alma said. Atticus nodded as he walked home from school with his favorite sister, if he had to pick anyway. He said, “Ragnarök struck again?” “Yeah, we’ll catch him.” “Oh, if Alma only knew the truth,” Atticus thought to himself as his sister turned her key in the door’s keyhole. “Yeah, no one can outwit a whole family of superheroes. Besid--” “GRAB HIM!” Heidi and Wendy shouted. Atticus shrieked as two of his sisters hugged him tightly as Alma performed the ceremony as quickly as she could. Heidi and Wendy quickly let go as Atticus transformed into his Ragnarök form. 100 “You’re Ragnarök?!?” The three sisters shouted together. “Ok, so now you know the big secret,” Atticus said as he transformed back to normal. The guilt from the previous night returned quick as an ocean’s tide. “This is why you didn’t want to do the ceremony? Because you wanted to run around being a criminal?” Alma asked. “Wait until Mom and Dad find out,” Wendy taunted. “I just don’t understand,” Heidi lamented. With those words, Atticus felt his guilt dissipate and return as anger, hot as his flames. “Well maybe you don’t have to. I don’t want to be a hero. Posing for cameras, being the darlings of the press, and those horrible costumes aren’t me! Besides, I’m not the only one who has secrets you know.” The girls stood their gaping at their youngest brother. Before they could reply, the door opened and in walked Mom and Dad. “Alright, who’s up for Chinese takeout,” Dad said with a smile. “Atticus is Ragnarök!” “Heidi has a boyfriend!” “Atticus is a criminal!” “Wendy smoked once!” “Atticus has been the art thief we’ve been chasing!” “Alma was the one who destroyed 19 city blocks in the last alien invasion!” Mom and Dad stood there paralyzed in confusion for 9 seconds. Dad then punctuated the silence by asked, “What in the Sam hill just happened?” “Your guess is as good as mine,” Mom replied with a chuckle and a knowing gleam in her eye. She then proclaimed, “Oh, did they finally figure out you’re Ragnarök?” “WHAT?!?”
101 Insignificant Mumbles
BY ELLA YAROSHIK
I met Finn in the middle of summer, when I moved into my new house, my late grandparents’ beach house. They were sitting by the shore when I first came, looking out into the sea. I wanted to know them, so I abandoned my unpacking and went. We met, we talked, and soon, it became a natural occurrence to sit out in the sand and lie together. It was after the sunset; a cool breeze drifted across the ocean, connecting the other side with us in late August. “I glow pink in the night in my room,” I sang softly up at the moon. “What song is that, Nicholas?” “It's called ‘Pink in the Night’ by Mitski. I can't stop listening to it, but it's kind of sad. Come here, listen to it with me.” They scooted closer so that we could share my earbuds as I put on the song. “I like her voice, but she sounds sad. Why do you like this?” they asked. A moment later. “Oh.” “It's good, right?” I gently replied through a smile. “I love it. It makes me sad.” “Me too, Finny, me too.” The song ended, and I put away my phone because I knew how Finn liked to listen to the waves. “We should go to the bookstore tomorrow.” I turned my head to see Finn's reaction. They expressed it in their face rather than their voice. They smiled lightly and said, “you’re always reading, but I do too. Let’s go, you can drive us. It’s going to rain, though, so we should--” Drip, drip, drip. “Mother Nature decided to cry earlier than planned, hm?” I continued to look at their face. “We should swim. There’s no lightning around.” They got up and discarded their clothing, save the undergarments. I followed in tow. “Wait, wait!” I yelled and grabbed their pale arm. “Wait for me, Finn.” they turned with the smile still there. “I’ll wait for you, I always will!” And they dragged me in.
102 PINNACLE This section contains the most intense pieces of this year because of their emotion-invoking nature, representing the pinnacle of action-- physical or emotional.
Say Their Names------104 Remembrance------105 Rapture: To Whom it May Concern------107 Don't Go Searching for Emeralds------109 Behemoth------111 Escaping Darkness------113 The Colorful Emptiness------115 Feed------117 The Feast------119 Farther Away------121
103 Say Their Names
BY ANONYMOUS
The sound of thousands of feet pounding against the pavement in unison is endlessly deafening, and yet I find solace in the monotony. This is the reality we live in. Every day we march through the city streets, loudly demanding justice. We’ve lost so many, yet we still sing. If we don’t get no justice now, We sing so loudly the whole city can hear us. Our voices individually are destroyed, but when we chant together, we sound whole. we’re going to burn it all down! We cry for those whom we march for. For the lives so needlessly taken. Children, stolen far too early. Sons, daughters, brothers, sisters. Families torn apart by power-stricken police officers. Battered, beaten, still we know, Rayshard Brooks, 27; George Floyd, 46; Trayvon Martin, 17; Breonna Taylor, 26; Tamir Rice, 12; Aura Rosser, 40; Stephon Clarke, 22; Alton Sterling, 37. these racist cops have got to go!
104 Remembrance
BY ALISON ELTZ Candlelight reverberates through the night and into the long-dozing morning. The lone flame’s flickering light lies heavy atop the putrid, tossing sea, but when slumber leaves the deepest shadows of my mindscape, a haze remains atop the land, reaching far beyond the night. Chilled air carries pictures of distant days in its haze, of a time much simpler than this, of a time lost beneath chapters of screaming silence and sobbing shouts, of broken glass and shattered windowpane. The writhing ocean steals from passersby as each wave collapses onto the sand, stripping them of time as moments pass silently beneath the shrouded morning dew.
A haze of confusion remains atop the sea and the beach; although at first glance it seems to do no clear harm to the greened grass or clouded sky, but only prolong mine and nature’s mourning of stilled ocean and peace and comfort from chilled air slipping between cracks in shattered windowpane. The single flame rebounds across the land, but it cannot pierce the fog that lies along the sea even as reckless waves rage against the heightened cliffs, angered at their immeasurable loss of what, they cannot know, only deep within them feels grief of past and grief of serene, simple night.
I and the sinking sea await our freedom from this grieving haze, await a knight in shining armor to sweep us into the safety of a home outlined with soft voices and sweetened morning dew. Flaming flakes of ash drift from the heavens and through the raging sky onto foaming wave crests, lost to the eye by the dreary haze of redundant morning. My vision falls quite short, the haze obscuring the reddened horizon so that I may not see the destruction of the world beyond the range of my own eyesight, my 105 own pain. A single bird perches on the edge of the fractured, serpentine windowpane, searching for reprieve from the heat and destruction of blackened night. And as candlelight returns to the centered sky and rebounds, I find myself longing to be closer to the fetid sea, longing to view the foaming of putrid ocean rather than repeating saccharine morning dew on my windowsill; I and the ocean lie separated by the horizon, both mourning serene sky and sweetened waves and, to all passersby, peace forgotten, lost.
Deep below the dim ocean’s surface lie long-forgotten memories and long- withheld secrets, lost behind the raging of the angered sea and enveloping fog and flaming sky as my windowpane remains naïve of the surrounding nature’s rage; for mourning once-known peace and prosperity and innocence by the light of a single flame each night is quite enough without the knowledge of pure destruction beyond the familiarity of the saccharine summer dew. The debilitating haze obscures I and the ocean’s vision, respectively; for it understands that I cannot realize all that lies atop and beyond the sacred sea.
Despair, long forgotten by years of night, conceals the incendiary actions of the raging heavens and the surging sea. The world's carnage and annihilation are fated to pass hidden in screaming silence by the haze, to be utterly lost to all, drowned completely by the deafening shouts of harmonious morning dew. For remembrance and acknowledgment, both as one and as separate entities, realize only pain from those they may inflict; and shadows by the darkened night and their forgotten surroundings last only until the sun ingresses beyond the horizon, and I and the sinking sea must continue in mourning.
Dreary nights stretch as I lie secluded behind the safety of fogged windowpane. The tossing, putrid sea, beneath the anger of the haze, is left to solitude; for I remain in my continuing mantra of the loss of peaceful mornings while the sun arose beyond the horizon, glinting and rebounding across tranquil summer dew.
106 Rapture: To Whom it May Concern
BY ROMAN BEGLEY
I swear to God you so enrapture me. The more of you I see the more I want to sob, you are just too lovely for words. And in your embrace I am made holy, and I am Lucifer who loved the fall; I am blessed to hold your wrists just like this.
The pinkness of your mouth was made for this. I burn in the fire you have made for me. Which one of us is Devil; which first fell? Either way we are both consumed with want. In our sacrilege we are made holy; this sweet, tragic love is too great for words.
We first seduced each other with our words. Was it seduction or just sweetness, this love, this passion, is something too holy for our fragile bodies, but up to me I would gladly let us burn up with love. Gave you my love freely, and we both fall.
We fell in love in autumn, in the fall, or did we? We’ve known more times than any words have existed, who’s to say that this want has not lasted centuries, and that this desire to merge into one skin, both me and you as one, wouldn’t it be holy?
The feeling of trapping you is holy; we are closer than skin, and so we fall. For is it not a sin for you and me to become gods of our own place, where words only have the meaning we wish, and this burning love is something freely wanted. 107 I want you; I am burning with this want. I need you, and that is something holy, only you can quench this flame, can snuff this fire, but darling, you love the burn, the fall. This passion is something too dark for words. Take this flame, and will you burn bright with me?
I am falling in your love, please hold me Is this holy? What is this pure wanting? I desire your words, something sweet as this.
108 Don't Go Searching for Emeralds
BY ELIZABETH COOLEY She lives consumed by the shimmer in the crossroads. Call to her wildest temptations, for she cannot resist its illusive bellows. Keep your brimstone vision to yourself, temptress of bewildered green. Age keeps her breath deep and her passion aflame. She melts in anticipation of its viridescent transformation. Born into anguish, extinguish her desire with compliments of red. Be quick my child so as to not miss the miraculous birth. Watch her fade into extravagance, as she lives nestled in the cracks of the time bearers. Love her before she disappears, and all that is left is the terrifying beauty of an emerald.
109 Headspace by Kinsley Nichols 110 Behemoth
BY SARABETH CAMPBELL
There once was a boy who tried to paint the skies. Failing in his endeavors, he traded his paints for a voice that boom, boom, boomed with the weight of his stolen authority. His sins sunk into his skin until he smelled of greased flesh marred with the ash of his dark ambitions. A boy no longer, he became a monster, a behemoth, with hair of black and eyes of the brown dirt of a grave. His presence makes your mouth run dry and taste of dust. His eyes are beady and remind you of a dangerous snake, waiting to attack. His victims wear their skins like old clothes that feel like dry leather. He is death, destruction, and ruin. Instead of painting the skies with a brush the behemoth now decorates the once blue sky with the poor souls he sends up the chimney, shoots over a trench, or lower into an unmarked grave. Including you. You are sitting at home in your living room in a moment of false peace. His men pound, pound, pounded our fragile door. Their harsh knocks gave no room for mercy. You looked up from your schoolwork. Your mother rushed to the door to reveal two stone figures, standing tall and straight, and painted as if they are human beings. They bark their orders and point to you. The meaning is quite clear, even with the butchering of your beautiful Polish language. You march, march, march, march to a foreboding van with a black and red spider on the side. They shove you inside and shut, shut, and lock the doors with a resounding click. You didn’t even get to say goodbye. The van started and rushed away. As you speed along, it’s getting harder to breathe? As you speed along it’s getting harder to breathe! You kick and punch before a thought flashes through your mind. The rumors you heard from whispering women who badger your mother in the market about poor little children fed poisonous gas. Your punches and kicks cease as you sit back down. 111 Your lungs seem to spasm, needing precious air, and you know you are never going to see the dawn of the next day. You decide not to give them the satisfaction of hearing you scream and plead for life and mercy. Your body does not feel the same way as it jerks and wriggles in a pitiful attempt to keep on surviving. As you can feel your soul slipping away, you hear something. Knocking? Knocking. Knocking! You jerk away from your hand bringing your attention to three different things, your extremely warm cheek, your frustrated history teacher, and the hand that was beating against the aging wood of the desk. Her words blur as you breathe slowly i-n and o-u-t. Just to make sure the dream wasn’t real. You look around, your papers detailing the work you must do. All around are the reminders of the suffocating assignment you must do. An essay you need to write about Hitler, the behemoth, and you just can’t bring yourself to continue any longer. You wish you could melt into the suffocating tile walls of the school and never come out. You can almost remember the touch of the rough seats of the van, hear the barking orders of the stiff stone soldiers, see the fear on the mother’s face, and feel the wispy hands on the gas wrap around your throat and- Snapping? Snapping. Snapping! Again, your head snaps up to look as teacher says something about bells and paying attention as she stalks away from your desk. A book is open, laying on its back, you close it to give it some needed rest, yet you cannot get the horrible words out of your head: “Gas vans were first used in 1940, when Polish mentally ill children were locked in a seated van and killed by carbon monoxide.” The bell rings, students leave shapes in the wall as they rush to get away, you put on your mask of a fake smile as you shoulder your bag and enter the roaring sea of students.
112 Escaping Darkness
BY CHANSEY AGLER
I sing of struggles and a person, who, in their endless endeavors, has long been chased by creeping darkness. His deathly, withered hand reaches out, transforming the world around that person into a wilted, dying landscape. But that person continues running, out of breath, longing to be in the light. Their lungs burn, searing with the flames of exhaustion. In desperation, they keep running—but the path they run on absorbs the rotting, sulfuric smell of the darkness they are trying to escape from. The road disintegrates into dust. The bushes transform into thorns. The trees all give into death’s grasp. Darkness himself disintegrates everything he touches, accelerating its life to the brink of expiration. Continuing to run, the person looks back. There is nothing behind them. Darkness has created a void that keeps rushing at them. There is no escape. There is no hope. Extending his bony, fetid hand, darkness wrenches them in. The person finally collapses as darkness knocks the last wind out of their depleted lungs, engulfing them like a shark devouring a minnow. The sun rises again over the frozen, barren landscape, its rays barely able to penetrate the layer of frost darkness cast upon the field of grass. The birds once again begin to sing, chirping of a simpler time. While nature has recovered, as it always does, the person has not. They remain locked in darkness’s dank, dreary dungeon, constantly tormented by scourges and other means deployed by the man in black robes. Outside the shadowy, lifeless tower where darkness himself resides, an eager adventurer is making her journey. She commands her gleaming, powerful stallion to halt, her heart sinking as she approaches the moss-covered, decrepit tower. The traveler has been here before. Striding over the frosty grass, she breaks down the long-rotten door to the interior. The inside of the tower is nothingness. It holds no light. No hope. No life. The heroine continues towards the stairs within the spire, despite darkness calling out to her, shrieking with an unearthly cry. As she approaches the stairs, darkness himself approaches her. His unforgiving gaze burns into her skin. She is unafraid. Nothing darkness can do affects her. Rather than run from darkness, as the hostage had done before, she 113 charges at him. The specter dissolves instantly. The heroine continues down the stairs, the moldy stones giving off the odor of death and filthy moisture as she keeps stampeding. At the bottom of the spiraling flight is a prison. The heroine peers around the hollow hallway, searching for the entrance to the prison. As she continues running her gaze along the walls, she notices the person being held inside. They are unmoving, seeming almost dead. Their breath is shallow. The virago begins to worry, her eyes darting back and forth, trying to find the way in. She was beginning to lose her hope of saving the prisoner. With hope dwindling, the assailant materialized once again, his scythe ready to be swung. I’ve got to save them, she thought, I won’t fail. This is what must happen. As she regained her hope of saving the captive, a beacon of light split the cold, dim hallway, slashing darkness in half. That light revealed a rusty, battered iron door, in poor enough condition to be broken. With her might, she slammed through the entryway, calling out to the person whom darkness had taken for his own. They seemed lifeless. She could still hear their heart beating, but their pulse was sluggish. She grabbed the prisoner in her arms. There was no time to spare. Running up the stairs back to where she had entered, the adventurer constantly whispered re-assuring words into the person’s ear. At the rotted wooden door awaited no one. Darkness had been expunged from his tower. Her white stallion was waiting outside. Without skipping a beat, she threw herself onto the saddle with the prisoner still in her arms, carrying them away from darkness. Both she and the former prisoner had escaped.
114 The Colorful Emptiness of an Empty Color
BY ELLA YAROSHIK I’ve been here forever and a minute. I’m confined in a room of an infinite shade of white yet overwhelming with colors I’ve never seen before. The colors a mere human can’t imagine and will never imagine to imagine after. The pigments are spinning and spinning around me in the room. In the middle is a chair that I’m in. The walls are going away, going to me, warping in size and shapes. It’s normal. No, it’s moving again. It never stopped moving, but I can’t see it; I can feel it. “Open me, open me!” A pixelated voice screams in a whisper. My eyes spiral around the room in search of the source. I see nothing and a screen belonging to the wall in front of me. I’m overcome with the feeling of desperation, and I begin to run. Faster…faster…..faster! I blink, and the computer is in front of me; I never moved from my spot. The colors are coming from the screen in a spiral illuminating the room, going through the walls and coming back in like a fluid. The screen is shrinking and growing. The walls are black; they are white; they are colorful; they are clear. They are everything. They are nothing. The pigments of the screen reach out to me with their thin, shaking hands. They are completely black, but the colors from the limbs’ source leak into them. The hands glitch as they come close and closer. I scream loudly, but only bubbles come out, like I’m under water. I get up from the chair and turn around to run, but the claws grab me and wrap me up in pixels. I try and fight them off, but there are too many. They crawl onto me, and I am fully enclosed in their sharp warmth. They successfully suck me into the screen that is their world. The pixels surround me like a tide pulling me under. They go on for miles, but miles don’t exist here. It’s infinite. The billions of multi-colored needle pricks are above me, but I am above them and they are below. I’m floating in the lake of soft waves of the colors that I know I will never see again. I am a pixel in the ocean, but I am the universe. I am one, but I am all. Serenity takes ahold of my mind, and I am in complete and utter peace.. I’ve reached nirvana. NO! 115 They invade the peace with their screaming. The pixels grow louder and louder. Their emotions take over, and I am no longer me. I was never me and always them. They want me to stay and want me to go. Let me go, LET ME GO! I scream, but if a tree falls in the forest and no one is around does it make a sound? I am alone, but now I’m overcome with the feeling that I will never be in the presence of goodness. I’m alone with the demons of the screen. I try to run but my legs are trapped. They won’t budge an inch. I try so hard, so freaking hard, but my legs are no longer controlled by me. I no longer have control over my body. Thick drops of holographic tears fall into the never-ending pit beneath me. 1. 2.. 3... The tears land back onto me. I’ll be here forever.
116 Feed
BY DOMINIC LATTANZIO The pleasant, floral tune runs its course through my darkened, frozen mind, yearning to be sensed, by something, by anything.
I feel cold. I wish only for success, but my heart was beaten, physically, as was my tortured, twisted, honed, perfected, acidic, empathetic head.
The weather would rain knives; I would feed my dustbin the finest escargot and black caviar that the apocryphal currency counterfeited in my savoring mind’s eyes could buy.
I wish I could feed your mind. The warmth is diminishing, now. My hands shiver as I type. I suck in cold breaths, and the ravenous eye quivers.
117 Somniphobia by Samantha Kovacs 118 The Feast
BY SHAYMA ABDULLAHI
It was a warm and pleasant summer evening in July, the long-awaited night of The Feast. The townspeople looked forward to it every year, for it was an event they took pride in and had long fought towards earning the right to celebrate. It was a historical celebration of sorts, with origins from a time when the world went through incredible change. And as such, the people revered their history and made a point to continue to celebrate this holiday. Feasts were held in the town hall of each town, and in the town of Nozama, the building could easily accommodate a few hundred people. Tonight, the kitchen was abuzz with cooks and servers jostling about, rushing to finish in preparation for the guests. Outside the town hall, people slowly began to gather; most with growling bellies and growing appetites. A pair of siblings stood arguing over what the main course would be this year. The main course was always a topic of conversation and excitement for the townspeople. These rare delicacies were highly prized, the game hard to capture. “Well, I hear the main course this year took two whole months to hunt down,” insisted the twelve-year-old brother. “Eddie, how many times do I have to tell you that your friends are lying to you?” his sister replied with a hint of annoyance. “It always takes forever to catch them, but there’s way more of us than there are of them. Even though they know they can’t escape us, they still try.” She paused, her eyes scanning the entrance of the town hall. “That’s why it always takes several months to finally catch up to them.” “Amelia! Eddie!” called a voice from somewhere in the crowd. It was their mother, who had just heard from someone closer to the entrance that The Feast would be ready soon. Once the bell signaling the beginning of the feast had rung three times, the doors would open and people would begin to floodgate inside, rushing to be the first ones to the table to see the main course. “Coming!” shouted the siblings in unison, and they began to search the crowd for their parents, who had somehow weaved their way through to right near the front. The family is together again, standing in anticipation, awaiting the signal. 119 DING DING DING What can only be described as a stampede ensued. Dozens of people pushed up against one another, all scrambling to be the first ones into the building. Any and all types of table manners were abandoned when it came to The Feast. People would usually just grab the closest utensil and immediately start to devour the main course, eating blindly until there was nothing but bones left. Naturally, Amelia and Eddie’s family followed these unwritten rules. They had all run towards the main course as fast as their feet could take them. As soon as she arrived at the table, Amelia’s eyes slowly glanced towards the head of the main course, perched atop a decorated Nozama box. Its face was shockingly familiar. It was a face Amelia recognized from books and the internet— the main course was none other than Jeff Bezos, the richest one of them all. And here he was, hunted down and caught, ready to be consumed. She smiled in contempt, proud of her hometown for achieving such a feat. And Amelia and her family dug right in.
120 Farther Away
BY LOGAN CARRAS
Space, I think to myself, is awfully beautiful. I feel like I just float here, looking at the stars for the rest of my life. In the stars there are endless possibilities, endless unknowns. I know one day they’ll all die, and when that happens catastrophes await. But I also know that all those problems are far off, lights years away. If only all problems could be observed like that. There we have a potentially world ending threat, but we take solace in the fact that nothing can be done to change it, and instead admire the beauty of the chaos. I wouldn’t have been able to see the magnificent finale to the stars’ story anyways, I tell myself, even if my suit had more than ten minutes of oxygen left. Forty liters of oxygen. This was all my suit had left before my friends had ejected me out from the station, leaving me alone in the cold- yet comforting- abyss of the last frontier. I was thankful that they had left me with this most precious resource, and I was also thankful that they hadn’t trusted me. I didn’t blame them for their decision; I could tell it had weighed heavily on them as they were deciding. Paranoia had been running amok ever since they- or, more specifically, I- had discovered the body of a beloved crewmate lying on the floor with a slit neck. But that was all behind me; I thought of the stars again. There was nothing I could do now. Nothing I could do now... Five minutes left of oxygen. I tore my gaze from the stars and looked at the space station I had called home for the past three months was flashing red. Something must’ve happened with the main reactor. Whether it was foul play or a very unfortunate accident, I didn’t know. The only thing I did know was that a massive explosion was going to ensue in the next few minutes. I pitied my friends that were still on the ship. How cruel, I thought, to have such a preventable disaster take place! The explosion will kill them all instantly- there was no way they’d be ever able to experience this quiet serenity of acceptance with the endless beauty of the stars. Their last moments will be that of panic and regret: of sending their friend to his doom, of any attachments they had back on earth, of knowing an imposter among them had succeeded in their goal with motives still unbeknownst to anyone but themself! I can’t help but wonder how much of that regret was spent on me. One minute left. The station is so far away now that it is near indistinguishable from the rest of the stars in every direction. The only feature121 I can make out is the flashing red lights that refuse to stop. There is a possibility--a slim to none one, but a possibility nonetheless- that the reactor could be stopped in time. I hope they fail in their attempt. Those bastards sent me out to die. I don’t want them to have this same, perfectly calm air about me as they die. They don’t deserve it. I’m not like them; I wouldn't subject a lifelong friend to this type of horror!! I didn’t wish death upon them, yet they saw me as the most expendable of the group. I’m not going to be like them. I close my eyes and imagine the stars, much, much farther away. My problems, much, much farther away. I don’t care anymore. I have to keep telling myself that. This rage I have... it can’t be my own. I open my eyes. I can’t see the stars anymore. It’s pitch-black. Gone is my moment of peace, my moment of realization. I take my final deep breath as the darkness engulfs me. I’m truly alone. Truly alone... Truly alone.....
122 Senior Quotes Chansey Agler: "Live long and prosper."- Mr. Spock Ryan Thompson: "Three days after Ryan T. got hit by a car, I, Ryan T., also got hit by a car." Logan Carras: "If this quote appears in comic sans, then we're in the good timeline." Logan Steng: "If anyone has a problem with me, please submit an HR report in my dm's, and customer service will be with you ASAP." Tyler Schaaf: "Spirts." Emma VanDine: "Ask me about Anime George Washington." Roman Begley: "Be excellent to each other, and party on dudes! Also, trans rights!" Dominic Lattanzio: "Pen to paper-or keyboard to Word document--is, once your fingertips flow, an outlet unlike any other." Elizabeth Cooley: "Never put my name on a single paper." Megan Major: "The desire to write is planted within you for a reason." Shayma Abdullahi: "Thank you for the tragedy. I need it for my art." --Kurt Cobain Olivia Moore: "The inner machinations of my mind are an enigma" --Patrick Star Bron Ayan: "How much is destruction worth if we only destroy ourselves?"
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Copy Editors: Olivia Moore & Roman Begley