Depaul’s Blue Book

BEST OF ILLINOIS HIGH SCHOOL WRITING 2018-2019

BOX NO. ISSUE 1

Editor: Chris Green Managing Editor: Chris Watkins Series Editors: Editing Students in DePaul’s Masters in Writing and Publishing Subject: Creative Writing Department: English Editor: Chris Green

Managing Editor: Chris Watkins

Anthology & Website Design: Whitney Rauenhorst

Series Editors, 2018-2019: Emmanuel Bara-Hart Eric Canan Ana Carolina Da Silva Moreira Jorge Paulina Freedman Madelyn Funk Amy Jesnionowski Rebecca Harrison Mina Kalkatechi Eva Lopez Benedi Miranda Malinowski Clare McKitterick Caitlin Pierson Anne Redd Layne Ruda Caitlin Stout Emily Winkler DePaul’s Blue Book

Best of Illinois High School Writing 2018-2019 DePaul University, Chicago, IL 60614 © 2020 by DePaul University Book Design by Whitney Rauenhorst All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission, except in the case of brief quotations in critical articles and reviews. For more information, contact DePaul’s Blue Book: www.depaulsbluebook.com. Published 2019 Created in the United States DePaul would like to acknowledge the following faculty and staff moderators of the literary magazines from which pieces were chosen for the anthology:

Adlai Stevenson High School James Barnabee

Amos Alonzo High School Giedre Kazlauskas

Belleville West High School Amber Thurnau

Belvidere High School Janey Marinaro

Benet Academy High School Lori Rogalski

Chicago Lab High School Allen Ambrosini and Mark Krewatch

CHI Arts Tina Boyer Brown

CICS Northtown Academy James Klise

East Aurora High School Amanda G Bussman

Geneva High School Heather Peters

Glenbrook South High School John Allen

Hoffman Estates High School Kirsten A. Coakley

Homewood-Flossmoor High School Sahar Mustafah

Ida Crown Jewish Academy Marsh Aarons

Ignatius High School Rachel Turkowski

John Hancock High School Eric Splinter Joliet Catholic Academy Samantha Bush

Kelly High School Tom Figel

Lake Zurich High School Amy Pine

Latin School James Joyce

Libertyville High School Matt Tooley

Lincoln Park High School Olivia Marton

Metea High School Tiffany Gervasio

Mundelein High School Laura Garcia

Naperville Central High School John Hayward

Naperville North High School Brian South

Nazareth Academy Jeanne Paliatka

Neuqua Valley High School Gillian Schneider

Niles West High School Michele Lewis

Palatine High School Rachel S. Bartlett

Walter Payton High School Lola Roney

West Aurora High School Jen Pauley

Wheaton High School Trish Main Wheeling High School Laura Wagner

William Fremd High School Nicole La Beau

Woodlands Academy Jennifer Brostrom

York High School Jennifer Shakelton

Zion High School Jeff Burd Table of Contents

Acknowledgements ……………………………………………………………………………………………. i

Nonfiction

A Letter to Buddy by Briannah K. Cook, Latin School of Chicago ………………………………………………. 1 Behind the Blue by Allison Lie, Naperville North High School …………………………………………………… 3 He Left But I Stayed by Alexis Knight, Wheeling High School …………………………………………………... 4 Coffee Shop by Abby Rieck, Geneva High School ……………………………………………………………….... 6 The Person I Admire Most by Natalia Torres, Kelly High School ………………………………………………… 7

Fiction

The Circle by Marisa Barranco, Nazareth Academy …………………………………………………………….… 9 Excerpt from The Sun Belt by Bella Brunke, Lake Zurich High School ………………………………………….. 11 Dreams by Zane Carmine, Joliet Catholic Academy ………………………………………………………………. 12 Laces by Shane Lehnherr, Belleville West High School ……………………………………………………………. 14 Universe According to a Procrastinator by Henrik Neilsen …………………………………………………… 16 Jamaican Rum Cake by I’deyah Ricketts, Latin School of Chicago………………………………………………… 18 A Metaphor by Serena Rosado, Zion High School ………………………………………………………………… 19 Blue-Eyed Soul by Natalie Scholz, Naperville Central High School …………………………………………….... 20 The Gilded Hearts’ Café by Israel Villa, Kelly High School ……………………………………………………… 24 On Angels: Observations by Ziyin Wang, Naperville Central High School ………………………………………... 26 Quiet, Quiet by Max Zhang, Naperville North High School …………………………………………………….…. 27

Poetry

Blue’s Finale by Safa Adbullah, CICS Northtown Academy ………………………………………………………. 30 She’s Had Enough by Elianna Ayala, CICS Northtown Academy …………………………………………………. 34 My Afropuff by Abigail Brasch, Ida Crown Jewish Academy …………………………………………………….. 35 December 20, 2017 by Alexia Briano, East Auroa High School ………………………………………………….... 36 Nobody in Particular by Ally Brynolf, Belvidere High School ………………………………………………….… 39 Wild Fire by Emily Cho, Glenbrook South High School …………………………………………………………… 40 Writer’s Block by Caitlin Corso, Belvidere High School ……………………………………………………….… 41 Saint Veronica by Delaney Coyne, Ignatius High School ……………………………………………………….… 43 Found Poem in James Patterson and Bill Clinton’s “The President is Missing” by Isabella DiPaolo, William Fremd High School …………………………………. 44 Be by Hannah Dougherty, Glenbrook South High School …………………………………………………………... 45 Not Quite by Greta Elmer, Palatine High School …………………………………………………………………. 47 Firebirds by Hannah Fritz, Wheaton High School ………………………………………………………………… 49 My Name by Cayetana Geller, Mundelein High School ……………………………………………………………. 50 Legacies by Leah George, Wheeling High School …………………………………………………………………. 51 Across the Border by Alyssa Gomez, Joliet Catholic Academy …………………………………………………… 52 The Myth by Kayla Gornick, Lake Zurich High School …………………………………………………………… 53 Un Niño Nacido by Isaias Guillen, CICS Northtown Academy ……………………………………………………. 54 October Wind by Mia Huerta, Benet Academy ………………………………………………………………… 55 My Composition by Melanie Jones, Zion High School ………………………………………………………….. 56 Between the Lines by Karissa Kalnas, Hoffman Estates High School …………………………………………... 57 corybantic by Elliot Kraft, Wheaton High School ………………………………………………………………. 58 But that Star is Not the Sun by Serika Gabriella Laguit, Niles West High School …………………………….. 60 Don’t Make a Mountain Out of a Molehill by Camrynn J. Lawrence, John Hancock High School …………... 61 I am The Devil by Lex Lesniak, York High School ……………………………………………………………… 63 Gene by Emily Liu, Neuqua Valley High School ……………………………………………………..………….. 64 Star Child by Hannah Maloy, York High School ……………………………………………………………….. 65 Masks by Mia Martin, Homewood-Flossmoor High School ……………………………………………………... 66 Mediations in a quiet building by Olivia Marton, Lincoln Park High School …………………………………... 67 HuMaNs by Esha Mishra, University of Chicago Lab School …………………………………………………… 68 Never Ending by Tom Mohan, Amos Alonzo Stagg High School ………………………………………………… 69 AUTUMN by Lorena Monroy, Woodlands Academy ……………………………………………………………. 70 Because of Us by Aishwarya Pasham, William Fremd High School …………………………………………….. 71 The Right Color Brown Skin by Sophia Perez, York High School …………………………………………….. 72 Broken Puzzle Piece by Elle Plucinsky, Geneva High School ………………………………………………….. 73 Death of a Dream by Lauren Puscheck, Benet Academy ……………………………………………………….. 74 A New Beginning by Adrian Rocha, East Auroa High School …………………………………………………… 76 lessons by Stella Roney, Walter Payton High School ……………………………………………………………. 78 Imperfections by Holly Ryan, Lake Zurich High School ………………………………………………………… 79 21st Century Girl by Megha Saravanan, Metea High School ………………………………………………….. 80 Garbage in C Major by Melissa Satmar, Lake Zurich High School …………………………………………….. 81 Storms by Jessica Schardl, Belvidere High School ……………………………………………………………… 82 Intersection by Evelea Solgos, Auroa High School …………………………………………………………….. 83 The Pattern of Sound by Cassie Wang, Stevenson High School ……………………………………………….. 84 Grub by Winston Wang, Stevenson High School ………………………………………………………………… 85 Ocean-Cradled Moon by Samantha Warner, Neuqua Valley High School ………………………………………. 86 The Star-Spangled Remix by Mariah-Haussmann-Watters, ChiArts …………………………………………… 87 A Thousand Colors by Madison Wilson, Libertyville ………………………………………………………….. 88 Reflections by Avery Vang, Libertyville High School …………………………………………………………… 89 Go Ahead by Marlo Virina, Benet Academy ……………………………………………………………………. 90 Acknowledgments

Special thanks to Chris Watkins for his hard work bringing this anthology to life, to Whitney Rauenhorst for her brilliant web design, to Michele Morano for her help making this project possible, and to the graduate students from DePaul’s Masters in Writing & Publishing program for their thoughtful choices for this anthology.

i NONFICTION A Letter to Buddy by Briannah K. Cook

Dear Buddy,

Let me start by saying I’m sorry I kicked you off of my bed last night. And the night before. I can tell my tumultuous sleeping habits, best seen by the increasing number of dents in the wall, have taken a toll on you. Despite that perfectly stitched smile and your gleaming plastic brown eyes, your fur isn’t as lustrous as it used to be, it’s matted and faded, your bowtie’s askew, and your body is limp like you’ve lost weight. Time hasn’t been good to you. I haven’t been good to you. All the bloody, runny noses, coughs, and sneezes I burdened you with and never washed out. You’re a glorified piece of tissue, but that doesn’t mean I can toss you like trash. I remember when I got you. Lying on a king-sized air mattress in the cool basement, I was staring at the ceiling lost in my thoughts when my mother walked in. The basement was my favorite place in the house. I found it soothing, the subdued natural light and crisp air tinged with the smell of rubber. My mind was tranquil. The air mattress enveloped my body like I was sinking underwater. While my body was still, my mind was running amuck with visions of undersea creatures, turtles, fish, and octopuses. My mother walked into the room to tidy my mess before my godmother arrived. Beautiful as always, she was dressed with a smile, her teeth two perfect rows of glistening pearls. She walked as if floating on air, graceful and poised, like an angel. My mother emanated love wherever she went, and when my hands got ahold of your caramel fur, I felt the plush warmth of my mother. The next time I saw her she was dressed in red. We were standing in front of a mirror in swimsuits, hers red and mine pink with white polka dots. It was a sweltering July afternoon, and my mother decided we should venture out to Lake Michigan. On a dingy, white catamaran, my mother and I, along with my godmother, floated away from the tan shore, further and further into the mysterious water. I wanted to bring you Buddy, especially since daddy couldn’t come, but I didn’t know if you could swim. “Briannah,” my mother chided, “leave Buddy behind.”But my hesitance persisted. The risk of losing you was great. My growing collection of mutilated Bratz dolls, crumpled shirts hiding behind overstuffed dressers never to reappear, and my toilet clogged with colored pencils could certainly vouch for my neglectful habits. In my defense, I suffered from severe only-child disease. My Bratz dolls served as my test dummies for new hairstyles, models in my fashion shows, and as actors in my plays. By the end of any given day, my room would reek of charred synthetic hair, the floor littered with scarves that I used to dress them. What I lacked in siblings I compensated for with toys, clothes, and my imagination. And so, my disheveled Bratz had just been robbed and kidnapped by a rival, my rumpled shirts were the byproduct of a fashion show gone awry, and the clogged toilet was my attempt at creating an indoor rainbow. Even with those safety concerns in mind, my apprehension about abandoning you was greater, Buddy. You were my stabilizer; you still are. When there’s a monster in my closet, or when my dad and granddad are fighting, you make it all stop. I squeeze you tight like a lemon, wringing out all the old pains, fears, and anxieties, and transferring in the new. And so sitting on that boat, I wish I hadn’t left you at home. The angry waves crashed against the hull for trespassing their waters. I tried inching myself in, toes first, then ankles, and halfway up my calves when my godmother dragged me back, chastising my curiosity for the turbulent water. “Be careful,” she warned, but she hadn’t told my mother to be careful. It had been minutes since I last spotted her red swimsuit, and I could only imagine what was keeping her down there. I wanted to join her, to see the octopi, turtles, and fish anchoring her underwater. My godmother screamed, “It’ll be alright Briannah, she’ll be alright,” but I could read the uncer- tainty in her eyes. She was lying to try and dissuade me from flopping into the water. Just like you Buddy, she didn’t know if I could swim. I clenched my arms like I was choking myself, trying to pretend you were there. I glued my eyes closed and prayed it was just another monster in my closet, unable to shake the feeling the lake had swallowed my mother. I don’t want you to think that I resent you for the death of my mother, Buddy. At a mere three years of 1 age, I was just trying to make sense of the situation as best I could. I blamed daddy for not being there when I needed him, I blamed my godmother for not diving in the water after my mom, I blamed God for snatching my mother away from me. I blamed myself. In all of my confusion, I convinced myself that my mother dived into the lake on purpose, because she didn’t love me. Despite countless family members professing otherwise, I didn’t believe them. I didn’t know how lake currents worked and what drowning meant and the abstract concept of death. All I knew was that every loving memory I had of my mother had been erased. Like a scratchy CD, it skipped from us standing in front of a mirror to her underwater and me on a boat. I was too young to handle the burden of my mother’s death. So I blocked it out. I wish I remembered more, Buddy. I wish I could probe your cotton brain and fill in the cracks in my memory. My dad asks around Mother’s Day or her birthday if I want to talk about it, but there’s not much that I know to say. Strangers in stores or in church will come up and hug me, claiming I look just like her, and say their knew my mother in hopes of getting me to hug back. My grandma harbors countless photo albums of me with my mom. She’ll offer anecdotes about her, apologizing every time she calls me Camille, and ask if I’m okay. But my memory, independent of anyone else, is gone. It’s been blocked so long that I can’t unblock it, I can’t transfer the data onto another CD. I don’t have another CD. Even now, whenever I am hurt or upset or angry, I push it away. I take long blinks, sucking the tears back from my strained red eyes, ball my fists, and clench my teeth so hard it hurts. I stop speaking, even if I’m in the middle of an argument, like someone just hit my off switch. My melancholy engulfs me. Paralyzes me. I resist the urge to cry, trembling from the pressure inside me because I don’t want to fall apart without someone who will put me back together. I don’t want to rely on someone who could get washed away to sea the next day. So I wash away my tears instead. And then I think of you, Buddy. Still lying on the floor of my bedroom, stained and neglected, but smiling as wide as ever. I run my fingers through your butterscotch fur, pulling you close like an old friend, and I cry. Your exposed cotton absorbs my tears like a sponge, your plushness soothes me like our old basement once did, and it reminds me of my mother’s love. Thank you for everything, Buddy. Thank you for quelling my troubled spirit. Thank you for holding me together when I couldn’t do it myself. Thank you for loving me like my mother never got a chance to.

Sincerely, Briannah K. Cook

2 Behind the Blue by Allison Lie

There is a strange yet well-known agreement among speakers of the English language to use the color blue inter- changeably with the word sad. For in- stance, when a person is sad, others will often ask, “Why so blue?”, and assume that a singular color is capable of encompassing the unbridled complexity of an emotion. But this is a silly notion. How can sadness possibly fit into the simplicity of blue? Sad- ness is also the dark gray of disappointment, the fatal black of heartbreak, the sour green-yellow of helpless- ness, the harsh, violent red of self-hatred, the deep purple of worry, the warm amber of nostalgia. It is multifaceted as snow, colorful as the glisten of oil in the sun. Unexpectedly beautiful. And yet, our blind- ness allows us to see only the blue in all these colors — a dull, sickly sort of blue that we shove down hard until it is nothing but a sticky pit of tar in the hollows of our stomachs.

Be happy, they say. No one likes a Debbie Downer.

So we rush to spill yellow into our eyes and pour it down our throats and paint it over our teeth and dust it on our cheeks — so eager to see the bright rays of the sun that the beauty of the rainbow goes unnoticed, its full expanse neglected.

Sadness is not only pain; it is the marvelous sting of empathy felt when navigating the dark corridors of another’s heart — a wonderful luminescence granted only to those whose veins have been stained by shades of sorrow. It is a private glimpse of the shadow hidden behind the happy curtain — a Rosetta Stone to the soul of another.

And this is not to say that those who have never been sad to the same extent cannot be understanding. But there will inevitably be a separation — a sort of detachment — between the ones who have walked into the dark and those who stayed and watched from where it is bright.

Sadness weaves a web through the world, connecting those who are farthest apart; it allows the voice of a stranger to share the pain of a weeping girl simply because both have experienced the same heart- break. And although it may seem that sadness is a large price to pay to erase naivety and be- come more knowledgeable in the ways of the universe — a painful procedure that most would rather do away with — it is, in fact, the oppo- site. Those in the state of sadness, who, in the rush of the moment, cannot see anything but a biting black, assume they are the state if unhappiness. This is what the dictionary, which defines “sad” as “feeling or showing sorrow; unhappy,” tells us, after all.

But this definition cannot possibly be correct, because sadness is not the opposite of happiness—it is the breeder of it. It is the black amongst the stars, the silence between melodies, the empty white that gives birth to art. It may be painful, yes, but it is ultimately what makes happiness possible.

Happiness thrives in those well-acquainted with emotional eclipse—those who have encountered pain and did not fight against it, who instead sank deeper into its embrace and caressed it gently, becoming familiar with its nuances so that they could find the proper words to whisper in its ear and soothe its turmoil. It is only then that the pain smiles and lets go, stepping aside so happiness can truly shine, its rays no longer pure, but loyal and sincere and warm. It is only then that joy can be wholly itself, independent from the happy poison of oblivion.

3 He Left But I Stayed by Alexis Knight

“We’re not doing this right now.” “I am sick and tired of your bullsh**.” “Keep your voice down.” “Go back to bed sweetie...” My eyes open only to be met with darkness; it’s blinding. The covers fall off my shoulders and now rest on my hips as my back now rests against the cold headboard. My eyes flutter a few times to adjust to the all encompassing darkness. They can now make out the fragments of my room. A night-stand to my right, a TV in front of me, a lamp in the corner, but the room feels different — emptier. I look over at my mom’s bed. The covers that usually hold her body like a cast lay flat. The light under the door suddenly becomes apparent like someone placed it there. My mind, still wrapped up in a hazy mist, decides to swing my feet over the edge of my bed. I wrap myself up in warmth, jump down from my bed, and leave to investigate the light. I hear faint voices slipping through the cracks of the door, which pull at my ankles to come closer. As I open the door, the light hits me like a 4-square ball at recess, and I close my eyes to brace myself. Leaving them close for a few second, I look at the light show that dances on the inner parts of my eyelid. Once the show stops, I know I can open them. The light is much dimmer than it seemed a few seconds ago. I turn to face the end of the hallway, which opens up to the living room. On the border I see my mom’s and sister’s backs. Facing them I see the slightly taller, black figure with a deep voice emerging from the dark-ness. I can’t make out what he’s saying. I move closer like I’m being tethered toward him, yet I move slowly— cautiously— as if my feet will disappear right from under me. I squeeze between where my sister and mother stand. No one re-ally takes note of my presence. Shifting my head upward, I see my mom’s and sister’s eyes lock on my father, but their eyes looked glazed over as if they were porcelain dolls, and his words were bouncing off their perfect skin. He just continues to talk. After a moment his gaze shifts toward the small figure wrapped in a blanket that reflects his features like a fun house mirror— he sees me. “Uh...” “... I didn’t want to bring you all into this right now... ” “...but since you’re all here...” What he says next gets muffled in my ears. I feel this lump in my throat as if I had swallowed a frog that was trying— failing to escape. My tears, unaffected by the event, seem to find a way to be perfect in this moment. Perfect in how they formed in the corners of my eyes. Perfect in how they slowly roll down my cheek without a care in the world, resembling how his words so easily cripple me from the inside out. Perfect in how they sear white stains into my puffy cheeks as a continuous reminder me of the pain that is here. “I’m leaving.” My eyes dart around the room behind him, grasping onto what it can find only to come up empty. Empty because there is nothing for my eyes to grab ahold of. I lock my knees trying to remain upright in my place. “You can either come with me or stay with your mom. Who are you going to stay with?” “Mom,” my sister answers without hesitation. Then all eyes fall on me. My knees melt like a popsicle left out a little too long. As I drip down, I cling to leg of my sister as if I’ll drown in a pool of my own creation if I don’t. My lips just quiver. “Alrighty then.” Our eyes meet from my place on the floor where the warm wool rug frosts over like grass in winter, shooting chills up my spine. His eyes... they look more yellow than before, his skin... more cracked, his voice... less soothing. He takes a step back, and his face fades into the darkness before me. All I can do now is listen. Listen to the click of the lock, the motor of the car, and then to nothing. He is gone. Un-grappling my sister’s leg, I remain anchored to the spot where he left me. The pale glimmering moonlight before me now retreats from my sight, and am I swallowed by the white-yellow light left in the hallway. 4 The smell of lime, jasmine, and thyme that masked the room moments ago just barely taints the air traveling up my nose. The sharp yet potent smell soon becomes nothing more than a fading memory. Still I lay, a puddle on the floor, unable to dry, from when he left. When he left. Where he left me.

5 Coffee Shop by Abby Rieck

Dear table by the window at the local coffee shop,

You should know now that I love you. Don’t get me wrong, I know we’re not exclusive; I’ve been hurt too many times not to expect you to cheat on me with just any paying customer while I sulk with my latte in a far inferior seat. Yet every time I see your rough wooden surface clear of debris, chairs glimmering in the weak sunlight, I can’t help but return as though you are waiting just for me. You have seen me through hours-long study sessions fueled by caffeine and ambition; you have endured the spills of my gelato as I laugh with friends; and you have been a warm, safe spot on many cold Illinois nights. The first time I met you was the day before an important math test.A close friend of mine introduced us as we hunkered down to work and study together. As I credit you for the A I received the following day, it is only natural that our math class study dates rapidly morphed into a tradition. You were there before every test to comfort and caffeinate us. You saw us through the breezy units where we only needed about ten minutes of work followed by an hour’s worth of chatter, as well as the seemingly impossible chapters where we spent many blear-eyed hours talking out problems, scouring our notes for anything that might help. And when we couldn’t find the answer ourselves, you always guided us toward a helping hand—an older student a table over, or working behind the counter, who was willing to think back a year or two and set us on the right path. Of course, we always repaid this debt. From your chairs I helped many peers struggling through thick novels or long chemistry problems. Even if all someone needed was advice on a color choice for an art project, you fostered a network of helpers: the best study buddies I could ever ask for. Beyond studying, you have anchored me in this community in a way nothing else has. When I’m ready to look up from the books and notes, I know that there will always be a friend within an arm’s reach of you. Whether it’s someone I have known since elementary school or a new classmate I met last week, I am guaranteed an intriguing conversation or a friendly debate should I want one. Even when I don’t particularly feel like talking, I can flip through the notes left by generations of other patrons in the small chest of drawers just a few feet away. Some are encouraging, some funny, and some merely someone’s attempt at leaving a legacy, but all prove that you, Table, are where our town’s history was built: not in the courthouse on Third Street or the houses that have been up since the town was founded, but in conversations between friends and strangers alike over a cup of coffee and in these little notes left for whoever comes next. Most of all, you are a place of comfort. In the dead of Illinois when everything seems bleak, I know I can always come visit you with a friend who will talk through it with me. And when my friends are the ones struggling and I am the one they turn to, well, you are there for them too. We can sit with our fondue by the crackling fireplace, watching the snow out the window, and understand what it means to be home. Right now, my future is wide open with endless opportunities and possibilities. It is thrilling and terrifying all at once, but I am ready to face this challenge knowing that no matter how far I travel, I always carry with me a spot of warmth and familiarity. I can remember the countless hours I spent with you and know that I will eventually return home again, even if it’s only in my mind. Thank you, Table, for being this beacon of collaboration, friendship, and peace in a town that can sometimes feel too small. I know that I can always count on you in the times I need it most. After all, as the sign on the wall always reminds me, “Sometimes having a cup of coffee with your best friends is all the therapy that you need.” Love, Abby Rieck

6 The Person I Most Admire by Natalia Torres

The person I most admire is my little brother, Franky. He has a disability called Epilepsy and he gets seizures. Epilepsy is a type of brain condition that causes brain damage such as brain tumors, strokes, and sei- zures. During a seizure, a person experiences abnormal behavior, symptoms, and sensations, sometimes includ- ing loss of consciousness. There are few symptoms between seizures such as fainting, feeling fatigue, having muscle contractions, and muscle spasms. People see Franky’s seizures and get frightened, but I see Franky differently. Franky is so kind, outgo- ing, and intelligent. Despite his disability, he lives his life the best he can and enjoys every day without looking back on it pessimistically. He is so positive and bright that he makes my days better. Without him, my life would be incomplete. He is the happiness in my life and the spark that keeps me going. He is my motivation, my best friend, and most importantly my brother. Throughout the years, being constantly in his life, I have learned to grow and mature with him. He taught me patience and self-care. Franky is the most brightest and goofy kid wherever we go. He is a problem solver and very understanding. Franky loves his toy blocks, marbles, going to the park and his favorite music. He always enjoys a car ride with his favorite music. No other kid is like my brother Franky. Even if any one of my family members never see how special he is, I do. I love my little brother so much because he is so innocent to anything that is bad. He gets bigger and stronger each day. Franky’s disability is a great worry to our family, but we watch him with great care constantly at all times. To me, it is a pleasure to take care of Frankie. Even when he gets his seizures, he is still optimistic about life. My little brother is an inspiration to me.

7 FICTION The Circle by Marisa Barranco

Leaves flittered past her face, cascading in golden elegance down the path.With the sun coming in from behind, the scene was picturesque, almost delicate in its beauty.

Yet, sometimes true colors are not always as they appear, when the golden leaves become skeletal rust the farther down you go, the farther into the forest you go.

The sunlit path darkened the farther she went in, her breath turning ragged as she rushed to find the spot. She could hear a cackle, somewhere, farther off, but she didn’t have time to be distracted.

It wasn’t too long ago that she would have stopped dead in her tracks the second those tumultuous, shrill laughs hit her ears, turning her head every which way to pinpoint exactly where the sisters were. In the past week, though, everything had changed.

Mason was taken and after the routine search party couldn’t find a body, the sheriff’s office report officially concluded the victim, John Doe, was dead. Everyone from her small town of Fariton knew he wasn’t dead and his name certainly wasn’t John Doe, but names have power and so does what had taken him. Mason’s case was dropped and eventually the sheriff’s office stopped letting her in with her protests demanding they keep looking and take a stand against those things. They insisted that it was out of their control, that it was for the good of the town, that if they kept pushing everyone in Fariton would suffer. Maybe they were right. Maybe nothing could truly be done, even if they did keep on looking for him.

Even if her brother was gone forever, what about the next family? The next child? How many more would die before anything was done, if anything was done?

Like the forest surrounding Fariton, the town seemed like any other small town in the middle of nowhere, United States, until twilight came, of course. Then the true nature of Fariton came alive, when the cheerfulness of the townsfolk turned to silent terror and the air colder, chilled by the evil laughs flying through the air.

“We’re all suffering anyway,” she snapped back, furious at the injustice of it all. All of the times her family forced her and her brother to come in by sunset flooded her at once, the times when a classmate didn’t come to school the next day and the whispers of “Do you know what happened to Jane?” or whoever it was that month were silenced by knowing teachers. All of the well-meaning condolences, the funerals attended, and the charade every- one played were carefully orchestrated so as not crumble at the sheer terribleness of it all, and she was sick of it.

“We’re not preventing the killings, just reacting to them. We hope that’s the end of it while another family holds a funeral and is silent in their grief and we all pretend that it’s for the greater good, but really we’re just grateful it wasn’t us this time around until it inevitably is.”

Her incisive last words ushered in an oppressive silence around the office, taken in by each and every officer. It was after that they issued a restraining order on her, making sure she couldn’t come within 500 feet of the build- ing. As much as they were terrified of the possibility of their children being taken and never seen again, they were even more terrified of what would happen if they rose up, if the price would be even greater than before. And so, they did nothing.

Fear was a magnificent, powerful thing. It controlled the mind and the heart, sending out all rational thoughts in 9 favor of one that overwhelmed the senses, driving all motivations and actions. It was what made the people of Fariton so complacent in their own deaths, out of fear of an even worse fate. And it was what made her legs keep on going even after that third mile through bushes scraping her ankles and limbs of trees almost purposefully becoming thicker the farther she went into the forest.

Like Fariton, she was still terrified. Just because she was justifying herself with a noble cause and trying to save her brother didn’t make her any less scared. In fact, she was even more aware of how much she didn’t want to die and be caught by those hags. But in the time since her brother had been taken, the fear that left her wondering who’s next evolved into a fear of the death never ending. That was enough to take control of her, to force her hand into figuring out a way to stop the madness of it all, to keep on running herself ragged even when another cackle shook her to the core, closer this time.

Finally, after taking the two lefts but one wrong right, she reached the darkened ring of leaves, dead and brittle, and she was sure that was where he had disappeared.

Even though she knew the ring was key to stopping it all, this was where she broke into a full stop, overcome with hesitation. Nothing was in her way now, but once she stepped into that circle, everything would change. Fariton, the sisters, herself. As much as she abhorred the death that plagued her life, it was even more paralyzing to consider the possibility that her actions might trigger events far worse than before. It seemed the future was a terrifying monster of its own.

So instead of thinking of the what ifs she had her entire life, she thought of sweet Jane who was never heard from again.

She thought of that freshman who was the cousin of her a class-mate, who claimed could hear his screams the moment he was taken.

She thought of Mason, who went to bed one night and was gone the next morning.

Now, instead of the fear crippling her, she felt empowered by it, because she knew the alternative of doing nothing was even worse.

Walking forward, the leaves crunching beneath her feet in protest, she stepped into the circle.

10 Excerpt from “The Sun Belt” by Bella Brunke

The air was chilled and frigid when I left my house on an early, crisp November morning. It stung my cheeks and turned them a bright pink color as I clenched my hands and shoved them into my pockets like an irate toddler. I bent forwards ever so slightly, attempting to shield myself from the cold. My eyes were downcast watching the ground that existed right before my feet took it up. The world was beautiful and quiet in the morn- ing. The grass was freshly frosted and gleaming in the light, the trees clung vainly to their leaves that would soon abandon them, the squirrels quietly scampered about and the birds were just beginning to sing as they woke. As I reached my bus stop I found myself admiring the beauty that was my neighborhood when nobody but me existed in it. I liked autumn mornings this way, I liked the way the sun was barely in the sky and how the sky was a bright blue. I stopped at the corner and glanced down the road to the right of me and the sky that crested above the hilly(ish) road. The clouds looked like mountains in the far distance the way they were gathered at the edge of the sky with the sun peering at me from the tips of them. Somewhere down the street an elderly woman was walking her small dog; somewhere else a tired father was dragging the trash cans to the curb; and here was me, a girl, waiting for her bus, hunched over trying to alleviate the incessant weight of her backpack praying for the warm bus to come soon. As if answering those prayers the ugly bus coughed its way around a bend and choked to a stop right in front of me, the doors squealed open and I boarded. The bus driver was a blue-eyed man whose life mission was to greet every single student individually. I walked past him and plopped down in a seat somewhat close to the front. I was no freshman but I liked to get off of this bus as soon as possible, plus the people at the back were loud, obnoxious and definitely stoners. Besides, I liked being by myself during this time. I plugged in my earbuds and found something calm and sweet which echoed into my ears but I wasn’t paying attention to the music, not really. I was watching the world unfold around me, watching the trees shuffle in the wind and the rabbits mill around, observing the world and all it had to offer me in this city. I lived in the suburbs outside of Indianapolis, Indiana which was not at all exciting in any way. It was dull and boring but during these isolated mornings I found myself having an appre- ciation for it. These moments were the only time I felt truly at peace, the only time I didn’t question my place or position. In this moment I only knew myself, the singer serenading me, and the world outside. I was at peace here. Only here.

11 Dreams by Zane Carmine

“This too shall pass.”

My mind is racing, I remember the desert, I remember the heat of the sun, I remember the eggs and bacon I had for breakfast then... but most of all... l remember the ring ... l remember the crowds.

You don’t know me, but you could’ve. I could’ve been one of the greats. They called me the dreamer, long brown hair (the mullet was fashionable once), a winning smile, and the guts to pull off wearing purple tights. I was the underdog every time; they’d be bigger than me, outnumber me, and I’d come out on top every time. After every match, the interviewer would ask: how’d you do it?

My secret?

I dared to believe I could.

The crowds loved me. I was big in Texas, no I was the little wrestler that could. Everywhere I went, every match I was in, the crowd chanted: “Dreamer! Dreamer! Dreamer!” When I went into the lullaby (basically just a sleep- er-hold into a powerbomb with some extra flourish), the room became deafening; it was so loud I almost forgot to pin him!! A kid came up to me after one show and thanked me because taught him strength... because I taught him to face his school bullies and win just by believing. I wonder what happened to him... l wonder if he still believes.

I wonder if I still believe?

I could’ve gone anywhere. My momentum was that high, WcW, WWE-- it didn’t matter!! I was going to get out in 1983 ... 1 was going somewhere in 83.

August 15, 1982: that’s a day I’ll never forget. I was supposed to have a standard Dreamer match, not a champion- ship match, not even a match for tv, just a house show. I was horribly outnumbered, yet through my perseverance and strength of belief, a dream was supposed to come true, and the hero wins the day. It was supposed to be a lot of things.

Maybe arrogance was my problem. Maybe I thought too much of myself to too many people. Maybe none of this would’ve happened if I just kept humble. Maybe the guys felt small by always having to be beaten by such a little guy and it hurt their reputations. Maybe they were bored. I can speculate all day (I’ve certainly done it before), but it won’t change what happened.

The match opens up the way these fights normally do; they gang up on me until I’m “defenseless” and then get violent. On this occasion, two of the three guys in the ring lift my body up and steady it for the third guy: he’s got a chair.

“This too shall pass.”

That’s what I was thinking when he first started to swing at me (I wish I could remember their names ... l remem- ber everything but the names). I don’t know who said it first, but it stuck with me. It’s hope; it’s passing through the fire accepting the burns will heal; it’s an understanding that the bad moments will just be that, moments.

I knew something was wrong when metal first met face, and I felt a familiar stabbing in my forehead. Now, when 12 you bleed during a show it works one of two ways: either the adrenaline kicks in and the match gets better, or the pain kicks in and the match gets a lot harder. This time was definitely the latter.

I was thinking about all of this when I received the second shot. I’m sure a lot of people who don’t know much about wrestling ask “how do they take all those hits from the chair? How do they avoid getting hurt?”

WE DON’T.

Chair shots hurt, pretty bad actually. You’re getting hit with a steel chair-that’s bound to happen. Usually your arms are free and you can lessen the blow, but in this case that wasn’t going to happen. Since my arms were bound it’s the other wrestlers’ job in giving unprotected shots to the head to make sure they’re given in in juuust the right way to be as gentle as possible.

I felt like I’d just been slapped across the face by lronman: a full power, unprotected, bludgeoning to my skull. This time I screamed. My face was so covered in blood my wife described it as “looking straight out of Hell,” This wasn’t part of the plan. I attempted to break free ... only to notice just how tight a grip the two men had on me.

It’s been ten years and I still don’t really remember what happened next. I’ve been told they didn’t stop beating me until ten minutes had passed. My face that night has been described to me as “indented,” and I was told the guys that did it were given a huge push as “the team that killed the Dreamer.”

I remember the white ceiling of the gymnasium, the last thing I saw when they mercifully dropped me. I remem- ber that I never stopped screaming, for help, for it to end. But most of all, I remember the crowd

I remember they were cheering.

I’m still looking at a white ceiling today. My last day. I don’t how Laura did it, but she stalled this as long as she could.

After that match, I couldn’t move, I couldn’t speak, I couldn’t...do anything. Doctors say I’m in a coma, but I can see everything. I just can’t do anything about it.

I couldn’t be there for my son’s college graduation, or his marriage. I never missed my anniversary ... but I couldn’t tell Laura to stop crying. I couldn’t jump up and tell everyone to stop mourning, cause I’m okay ... and everything will be just fine.

Even if I could jump now, it wouldn’t be much of a spectacle. That’s funny part of dying aware¾is that you watch every part of you slowly wither away in a hospital bed... and suddenly it doesn’t seem like there’s much left to kill.

I meant it when I said I could’ve been somebody, at least I meant it then. Now it all feels so... far away. It doesn’t matter now, and maybe it never did. I’ve had a lot of time to think about how I want go out, whether to cries of “Dreamer! Dreamer! Dreamer!” from the archangels, or to the clashing of a steel chair and skull pounding like drum beats in a faulty symphony, but it was only thinking about it today that I know what must be done

Let me die in the darkness. Let me fade away quietly as they pull the plug. Let me fall into the void with noth- ing but the clothes I came in, and in that silence let me hear neither joy nor disgrace as death makes its presence known. And in that quiet, let me hear a voice, a whisper...

“This too shall pass.”

13 Laces by Shane Lehnherr

Clean, bright, preserved, tight, and dry. Dirty, faded, tattered, worn, and soggy. Big loops or small. Untied or tied. Bunny ears hopping along a gray pavement dancing up and down. Leaning left and right but never straying off the straight path. My favorites were brightly colored. Neon green, yellow, and especially orange. They would make you really stand out. Right now, though, I was wearing my brand-new blue pair. My brother had given me them for my eighth birthday this past weekend. Soaring out of bed this morning, I tied my new laces in a flash. Then untied them, then retied them. Each time in a new way. Tighter than looser. I kept wanting them to be just perfect. My mom called me from the other room telling me that I was going to miss the bus. I tied then one last time and they were almost perfect. I ran to my brothers room to show them to him before I left. I leapt through the hall and landed right in the doorway to his room. I looked at his bed; an empty sheet of grey. His room looked turned around with trash and clothes everywhere. He was nowhere to be found though. He must have already left. It seemed like every day, he was gone earlier and earlier in the morning. I had no idea what he did because he wasn’t going to school. He had dropped out of school in the last year. He was 18 not knowing what or where he was going with his life. It seemed like the only thing he was interested in, besides the T.V. and games, was running around with his friends. He tried to hide it, but I knew what he was a part of. Last week: 3 A.M. where he was sneaking back into the house sweat dripping down his forehead and wearing that grey tank top he would always use. I pretended I was asleep, so he wouldn’t have to make any excuses. I heard everything through those paper sheet walls though. Thuds of the footsteps as he walked down the hall but then stopped at the end. Creaking my door open to make sure I hadn’t woken up from any noise. I squinted my eyes just enough to make it seem like I was asleep but being careful to still see his face. His blackened solemn face in my doorway. No face of fear, no regret, he was tough. Backing out, I knew what I would hear next. The closing of the wooden drawer; that’s where he kept it. The stand sat right up against the wall separating our two rooms. I listened closely hearing the final click as the drawer slid back into place against the wall. POP! The toaster escorting me into the kitchen with the fresh smell of cinnamon. The ring so loud alarming anyone that the pop tart was hot and ready. I snatched it out but ouch, the next second it was on the ground. “Use your head son,” my mom yelled. I apologized, and she said it was alright, handing me my bag and another pop tart that had had the time to cool down. She gave me a big smack on my cheek with her lips. Wishing me a good day, I walked out the door taking huge bites out my breakfast. It was gone in less than a minute. I was almost at the end of my street, and I saw the bright yellow bus pull around the corner. Climbing up the stairs and in the bus, I made sure to walk through the aisle at the perfect pace one at a time. My stop was one of the last on the list so almost everyone was there observing me walk down that red carpet. That was me; the center of attention everywhere. The baby in the household, the talker in class, and the life of the party around my friends. I plopped down right next to my best friend, Jordan, pointing straight down. “Woah!” he exclaimed. “I know right?” I responded, “Pretty cool, wanna know how I got em?”. “Yea sure.” he answered. I started to explain they were a gift from my brother for my birthday. He already knew it was my birthday because he was coming to my party next weekend. But what I really wanted to explain was what happened after I got them. When he wasn’t with his “friends” my brother was always playing games with me outside. Basketball, football, and many others. All the balls we had were old hand-me downs that were tattered on each side. It was alright though because at least we had them, and they worked 75% of the time. The other times they would slip and go in the other direction not accurately at all. Whenever this happened to me, I would always call for a replay. Of course, my brother would say it wasn’t the ball, it was just me, but whenever he messed up, he would call for the replay. The only way to solve any disputes was to shoot for the ball. He would always make it, and I wouldn’t so he always got the ball. I don’t know how he did it, but he was the best shooter I knew. Whenever I would ask 14 for his secret he would say, “You have to beat me first.” So on my birthday when he gave me the blue laces, I was ecstatic. I thought these may be my good luck charm to finally beating him. We went out to play ball, and I started off strong taking the lead by 5 points. He quickly caught up though, and it became a struggle. He got the ball time after time when there were errors and started scoring more. I took a time out and tied my shoes again to make sure they were ready. We started up again, and they were serving me well as I started to catch up to him. I took the lead, and it became 20 to 18. I only needed ONE more point. I grabbed the rock, stepped back, rose up and took the deep three. Banging off the backboard, my brother snatched the ball. He shot and scored. He scored again, then again. It was now 21 to 20 him and even though he was at 21, he had to win by 2 points. So, he took the ball one last time. Stepping back, he raised the ball over his head and mine. There was no possible way for me to reach the ball; he was taller. He flicked his wrist effortlessly, and the ball floated in. I was furious. How did I just lose? I only needed ONE more point. I couldn’t get this out of my head. I thought about this for the rest of the day. It was still my best game in years, but still I knew I could have clinched that win. Later, I settled in my bed, but the game still engraved in my mind. While not being able to sleep at all, I heard it again. The door, the hall, the stop. The split in my door grew wider but stopping at a certain point. I used my same trick to see even though I knew what was there. It was different this time though. His face seemed darker than usual especially around his eyes. There was also red on his shoulders, arms, and hands. There wasn’t much but just enough to be noticed. Maybe he hurt himself on the way in. I saw it fade and the split close. Rolling over to my other side my right ear still exposed. Silence, silence, silence, *click*. I was still focused on the laces and game this morning riding to school trying to focus. Telling Jordan on the bus he was in awe. I told him I was going to try another game tonight and hopefully I would be able to get that win once and for all. Going through school today was one of the greatest struggles. I was able to show off my new laces, but I was still stuck on the fact that I had lost. I was mainly focusing on my new gameplay for after school though. The hours lasted long and recess was short. Finally, it was the end of the day, and I was on the bus on my way home. Jordan was giving me tips all the way, telling me to stay strong in the paint and be quicker if I wasn’t as tall. I was ready. I wasn’t running but I wasn’t walking either. Focused on my laces and my game plan. Watching my laces flow and my head tied. Walking down the path left to right crossover...step back...shot! Between the legs and behind my back perfecting the motion with the air in my hands. Staring down at the grey on the lane going towards my house. That’s when I saw it out of the corner of my eye. It was easy to notice because of the contrast. Red on black, a streak here and there. I had seen it before I knew what it was. My heart started to pump, and I felt it in my throat. I became hot even in the cool winter air. I was scared to look so I focused on my laces. Blue, blue, blue. RED. I closed my eyes knowing where I was. Right in front of my house standing outside in the cold. I couldn’t move I was frozen. I couldn’t open my eyes I just couldn’t. I stood for a minute, waiting, just waiting. Waiting for something unknown but I was so scared. I opened finally looking straight down at the laces. Raising my head a centimeter at a time I was eventually able to see it. Only for a moment before looking back down. On the green grass spread out there laid my brother red seeping through and tiny holes in his grey tank top. I didn’t even startle. I just lowered my head back down towards my chest. Red, red, red, BLUE.

15 Universe According to a Procrastinator by Henrik Neilsen

The instruction manual for the creation of the universe goes simply like this: “Just put your pencil on the paper and write.” Which, when put in consideration with all of the other instruction manuals out there, is really, quite unhelpful. Even more unhelpful when you read the footnote and the see the message: “pencil not included.” So you go off into the bowels of the abyss to find a pencil. And there was evening and there was morning, the first day.

You found the pencil, now the problem is what to write. Maybe the instruction manual says something else, nope, it’s still: “Just put your pencil on the paper and write.” Here’s an idea, what if, this new universe had dragons, and everyone had their own penguin, and the planets were made out of marshmallows, and people had wings. Now the problem is where to start…Maybe the instruction manual can offer some insight, nope, still says the same thing. Your pencil’s kinda dull, how are you expected to create a universe with a dull pencil? Better find a new pencil. This one’s useless. Maybe you’ll use a mechanical pencil. Mechanical pencils are pretty cool. And there was evening and there was morning, the second day.

Today you just don’t want to be productive, I mean, there are so many more fun things to do. You don’t have time to “just put your pencil on the paper and write” because you’re busy with other…stuff. But you’re not procrastinating! Nooo, you’re being distracted now so that you don’t get distracted later when the deadline is closer. Besides, you’ve got time to relax, there’s still like, four more days left. And there was evening and there was morning, the third day.

Okay, time to buckle down and get something done. Just start somewhere, anywhere. Zebra. There, you’ve gotten a lot of work done today, there is now a singular zebra floating in an empty void. Progress. And there was evening and there was morning, the fourth day.

Looking back on things, maybe the zebra wasn’t the best place to start. It just kinda screams unprofessional. You might as well be beginning with a big bang. Imagine that! A big bang, all show and no substance, just like that zebra. It’s way too flashy. Let’s get rid of the zebra and begin with a giraffe. Nope, that’s even worse. Let’s try a palm tree, beluga whale, key lime pie. Nope, nope, nope. This is pointless. And there was evening and there was morning, the fifth day.

Everything is stupid. You’re never going to finish this stupid project that was stupid to begin with. Who gives a crap about another universe? There are so many better, more interesting things to do. No one would really mind if you just didn’t do the project right. Well, the probably would, but that doesn’t mean you need to work on it today. You’ve already got all the ideas in your head it shouldn’t be much trouble to just put the pencil on the paper and write. You can get it all done tomorrow. And there was evening and there was morning, the sixth day.

Now you’ve got a problem. So little time so much to do. Everybody else finished their universes yesterday and are taking this last day to relax, but you don’t have time for that anymore. You should begin with the basics: the universe will be mostly nothing, because that means less work. Time will be simple and only move linearly forward, unless two people are moving at different speeds, and people can move around in space but not in time, you didn’t have time to fix those mistakes. Okay, maybe you should have spent more time on the whole “time” thing. Meh, hopefully no one will notice. Now you’re on a roll, everything in the universe can be broken into smaller things, but that doesn’t make sense, so eventually everything will just break down into empty space. But that means that everything is made of nothing, so you’ll just ignore that oversight. What you made people suffer for bad decisions?! Yeah, that sounds good, you should do that. What’s that? There a bug that causes everyone to suffer whether or not they made a bad decision, just ignore it. It’ll probably work itself out, and you don’t have 16 time to fix it anyway. After an hour of very concentrated and intense work, you finish the universe right before the deadline. Never mind the fact that you forgot to make humans immortal, never mind the fact that you didn’t put any thought into the universe, no underlying message, no meaning of life, resulting in a meaningless existence for all inhabitants of the universe. The whole point of it was so that people can create their own meanings for life. That way you didn’t have to do the work. You did a pretty impressive job with the time that you gave yourself, next time you might actually “just put your pencil on the page and write.” And there was evening and there was morning, the seventh day.

17 Jamaican Rum Cake by I’deyah Ricketts

Step one is to preheat the oven to 400 degrees. My mother and I stand under the heat of the white kitchen light. Before I can tame my chestnut kinks that escape the ponytail tucked behind my ears, she instructs me to butter the cake tins. I agree, begrudgingly. I’ve always hated how the softened margarine seeps into the creases of my hands and only washes off with at least 3 rinses in the sink. I watch my mom wipe spilled flour and iodized salt of the granite countertop every chance she gets. But her imperfection seeps into the perfection. I see the lines of imperfection in her callous hands and bald spots that she tries to hide under her black bonnet. Her eyes meet mine past the silver cake tins.

“Rachel. That’s not enough flour.”

Step two is to cream the butter and sugar until not gritty, but smooth, making for a rich rum cake. Our electrical mixer clings onto the yellow fluff, a byproduct of aggressive circular motions, eight minutes of mixing, and my sore wrist. Every Christmas, our family dedicates a day to baking Jamaican Rum Cake. But as usual, my father sinks into our tan leather couch, ice cold Heineken in hand, eyes glued to the squeaky shoes and effortless layups of the fast-paced basketball game; my brother assembles his Star Wars aircraft out of Legos, Luke Skywalker’s plastic body parts strewn across our wooden floor. Aside from plunging their pinkies into the thick batter for “taste testing” purposes, they leave my mother and I to do all the work. I watch my as the lime zest, nutmeg shavings, and browning swirl into the batter—courtesy of my mom. Beads of sweat form on her forehead and she hastily wipes it off with her palm. The recipe, tinted a pale yellow and crisp with fresh creases doesn’t say to blend the fruits. But my mother does so anyways, the harsh whirring of plums, pitted cherries, and currants intermixing rather violently, as our broken blender struggles to do its job.

Step three is to keep the eggs room temperature, cracking them into a separate bowl before advancing to the batter. My mother grasps each egg in the warmth of her palm. Nine eggs, ovoids of powder white and speckled brown are tapped gently as she shatters their delicate shell. The gelatinous whites and golden yolks spill into the scarred plastic bowl, stained yellow from years of use. My mother works with diligence, unaware of our kitchen ware’s imperfections as the cake itself is her own perfection. Gripping onto the electric mixer’s handle, she beats in each egg, one by one, scraping the sides of the steel mixing bowl and leaving permanent scars.

Step four is to butter and flour the pans so that the cake doesn’t stick once removed from the oven. Ruby red spatula in hand, my mother folds the fruits into the batter, careful not to over mix. Ground nutmeg, cinnamon, and allspice, rain down from her silver sieve, perfuming the air, her hill of flour flecked with chestnut dust. She instructs me to scrape out the batter, lumpy with dark purple fruits that cling to the spatula’s plastic tongue, luscious with swirls of vanilla essence and browning. But the batter doesn’t make it into her 9x9 pans. Instead, it spills over the edge, onto the freshly wiped countertop, making a mess of my mother’s perfection.

18 A Metaphor by Serena Rosado

Colorful printouts of turtles covered the walls. Something about their hard shells made them great symbols for my therapist’s practice. “Your turtle looks dead,” I told her, focusing on the glass tank set up between the two chairs. The reptile laid limp on its stomach and was unaffected when I tapped on the cool class. “He’s fine,” Katie said. She crossed her legs and readjusted her wide-framed glasses. She watched as I tapped my finger against the tank again. “Have you decided what you’d like to do after high school?” She asked, trying to regain control of our conversation. “No,” I replied in a clipped tone. “Who do you keep asking me that every session? You really like hearin’ me say ‘no’?” “I just thought you’d have an answer by now,” Katie said. “Do you think your turtle knows it’s in a tank?” I asked her, but I answered my own question. “It probably goes to sleep hoping it’ll wake up outside of it.” “It’s a turtle,” she said, giving in. “It’s doing just fine. See? It has water and food.” “And a tank,” I added as the turtle’s beady eyes peeled themselves open. I saw my reflection in the glass as I stared. My uneven haircut from the night before was more jagged and gaudy than I realized. My skin was paler than I remembered. The turtle’s eye found their way onto my face. I wondered what it saw. “See, he’s alive,” Katie said and smiled. “He’s trying to escape,” I said as the green thing slogged to a corner of the cage. It struggled to push itself on its hind legs to swipe up at the glass walls, reaching to grab something that wasn’t there.

19 Blue-Eyed Soul by Natalie Scholz

It was the summer Sunday mornings she remembered clearest—the sweet serenity in their secret pocket of the world, guarded by stoic pine trees and decorated with blooming wildflowers scattered in the meadow. Every Sunday when she was small, she would watch the warm sunrise over the peaks of the pine trees from her window, and when the cool pinks had subsided to silvery blues, she would slowly tiptoe her way through the house, maneuvering to avoid the loud creaks from the problematic stairs and floorboards in the kitchen. Once the screen door clicked shut behind her, she felt renewed the rewards of her waiting. It was pure bliss in the summer mornings. She would rub her fingers through the fuzzy soft petals of the purple petunias, wonder what could be hiding under the broad, floral heads of the pink hydrangeas, pick the ever- roaming dainty purple violets and the wild strawberries hide under the tall pine trees. “Come out now,” she would hear from the porch. “Sweet pea? Morning glory? Iris?” “My name is Irene, Daddy,” she would call loudly from under the pine trees. Slowly she would creep out under the prickly needles and reveal herself in the sunlight. “Well Irene, I’ve gotta song for you. Do yawanna hear it?” Daddy would ask. He would lean forward in the rocking chair, his banjo hovering upright above the porch in his two-fingered grip, and stare intently over the railing. “Yes please,” she would say, and sidle up to the front porch. Daddy would start playing an old song on his banjo. He would rock in time with the music in the cast-off rocking chair from years ago. Sometimes the right leg out would slide out, and Daddy would stop and push it back into place. Then he would start singing again. He would always close his eyes when he sang the song even though he could see perfectly well. Irene asked him about it once; he said the man who sang the song couldn’t see. Georgia, Georgia, just an old sweet song keeps Georgia! on my mind. Irene listened for that particular line every time Daddy sang that song. She liked how Daddy’s feigned Southern accent made “Georgia” sound sweet as sugar, and how the banjo would crackle out the chords. Sometimes she would hum the chorus while Daddy sang it, or when she couldn’t fall asleep. Oh, she could listen to Daddy sing until the morning turned into afternoon, the afternoon into the evening, and the evening into morning again.

Summer Sunday afternoons were hazy and too short. The Cubs game would crackle through the old stereo, and Mom would set sun tea on the second step down from the porch. Irene would lay peacefully on the grass, imagining what animals the soft white clouds above her might be and subsequently naming them after flowers. Mom and Daddy’s soft chatter would float over the pine trees like bird’s song, and Irene would rub her fingers through the dry, crunchy grass. Then the chatter would abruptly stop, and Irene would be called back inside to help make dinner. And that was her summer Sunday afternoon.

Then one summer the grass was too long to lay in for little Irene, and when the first violent thunderstorm shook the house, Irene felt frigid water fall on her face. In the following weeks, buckets appeared in haphazard places. Daddy would trip easily on them and curse loudly when he saw the water pool around his feet. Then the doorbell began ringing too much. Stern people would talk to Mom, and when she shut the door sweat covered her face and soaked her clothes. Irene asked Mom what was the matter over and over, again and again, and she always responded, “Oh, nothing! Everything’s fine, Iris.” But then one winter day Irene was waving goodbye and following the same stern people that made sweat soak through Mom’s clothes. And she left their pocket of heaven with tears streaming down her rosy cheeks and the pine trees unable to protect her from the people outside of heaven.

What happened all those years ago? Irene can’t help but wonder during the late shifts at the neighborhood florist as she stares out the window framed by the soft fairy lights. 20 Did they mean to abandon me? Did they mean to leave me with strangers when I was a mere child, just eight years old? She pushes the coarse blue-gray rag against the counter, cheeks burning hot red from anger. Why do I even miss them? A tear slips from her eye as she wipes the specks of brown dirt off the countertop and onto the sterile white tiles below. …Just an old sweet song / Keeps Georgia on my mind Irene looks up curiously, towards the off-white speakers in the ceiling. Some cheesy song the owners liked, she always told herself. It’s some silly phrase she always told herself, because the song reminds her of her parents. What was my mother’s favorite flower? What town did my daddy grow up in? Why don’t I know all these things? All of a sudden “Georgia on My Mind” cuts off and another song starts crackling through the old speakers. For a moment, Irene has to wonder if it is a malfunction or a manual adjustment. “Goodnight Irene,” a voice calls from the break room. Her questions are confirmed as her eye falls upon him. He extends drooping purple irises towards her, acting as a customer. “Won’t the owners notice, Jake?” she says quietly, scrubbing bits of clean counter with the same rag. He shrugs, using his free hand to push strands of brown hair out of his eyes. “The owners are hopeless romantics. You know that.” Goodnight Irene, I’ll see you in my dreams. It would be a dream if I could see my parents again. A pipe dream.

But she couldn’t stop herself from thinking about her parents every time “Georgia on My Mind” would crackle through the old speakers and the fairy lights would twinkle in the windows. When Jake would tell her it’s time to lock up and hand her a stolen bouquet of irises. When she started to hear the twangy sound of Daddy’s banjo.

Irene releases the crumpled, soggy tissue into a box of items intended for trash. Her foster mother’s untimely death just about took everything out of her, but now they had to sift through the mounds of junk that had accumulated in the house throughout the years. How could they sort all this when the pain of seeing her foster mother take her last breath is still raw in her mind? But she is lucky, she remembers as she blows the dust off old 45s, titles like The Genius Hits the Road, Lady in Satin, and Lucille. She hasn’t lost her real parents. She’s held out hope for them all these years. “Irene,” her foster father croaks from the attic stairs. She halts her thoughts to look back and see her foster father peeping through the trapdoor, unsteady on the ladder. “What are you doing? You shouldn’t be up here!” “I can do it,” he says steadily. She sighs and grabs his hands. They’re clammy and spongy, with liver spots dotting the surface. “I tell you all the time, ‘You’re a seventy-year-old man’, but you never listen, do you?” “I’m listening now, aren’t I?” he chuckles and sets his left knee on the attic floor. Irene coaxes his other knee up onto the wood floor and leads him to the cardboard and plastic boxes that fill the attic space. Brown moths circle the two exposed lightbulbs in the small space. Once her foster father finds a steady plastic box to sit on, he begins to pick what they should keep and go. When he says, “Keep”, she gives him a look like, “You’re not going to keep this”, and he relents. Dust collects on her fingers, gray with speckles of navy and red. They clear boxes and boxes of forgotten items. All hidden in a musty, dusty cave atop a small suburban home. Halfway through a box of old, musty decorations, Irene’s foster father stops her abruptly. “Look over there,” he says, pointing towards a decrepit cardboard box in the corner of the attic. “Go get that box.” Irene dutifully stands and maneuvers through the dusty, creaky old attic. She tugs the cardboard box along the floor until her foster father tells her to pick it up and carry it over to their hub. “Why did you want me to retrieve this box?” she asks him, staring at the yellowed edges of documents in 21 the box and dusty wooden picture frames. He nods at the box. There’s something unrecognizable in his eyes, something like wisdom. “Just look inside.” She sets it on the ground and pulls out yellowed, faded documents one by one. Dates and names slowly begin to register in her mind. June fourteenth, nineteen ninety-one. To Mr. and Mrs. Reed. Twenty-Seven Iris Lane. Helena Reed. Foreclosure notice, signed December 1, 1999. A letter. “They sent you letters?” she asks softly, unfolding the envelope and pulling out the piece of stationary. Two pictures fall out of the card, a faded baby picture of Irene and another picture dated 1997, when she was six. Dear Mr. and Mrs. Frederickson, We are very grateful that you have agreed to take care of our daughter… A shuffling in the box. She discovers it is not an animal, but her foster father’s gnarled hand sifting through the contents. He slowly pulls out another envelope and extends the white paper towards her. March 3rd, 2018 Dear Mr. and Mrs. Frederickson, We are writing you from our new address at 41 Derricks Lane in Englewood, Chicago. Please notify Irene if she should want to visit us…. She hugs her foster father, tears dripping into his T-shirt. “I have to go visit them,”she whispers into his neck. “Yes, you do.”

The pine trees look less stoic today, in fact they look like nomadic warriors with no leader. They’ve clustered around the house, almost overcrowding the little thing. The grass is long and yellowed in the front, a scene out of a horror story. The windows are boarded up with rotting wood and the front door has been padlocked. The once-bold periwinkle paint has faded to a gray-blue, the windows have collected spider webs and their owners. Nevertheless, Irene steps out of her beat-up Accord and onto the driveway, cracked pavement and soggy leaves line the surface. Some leaves have even left their permanent indent on the gray asphalt. She walks up through the grass and sticks that represent the front yard now and to the front door. “This is it,” she reminds herself. Where I remember them best. What is this house anyway? Stuck in the middle of unincorporated Carbondale, where the nearest neighbors were three normal house lots away. Placed on a one lane, dead end street. Where the neighbors had found better places to live. And she already knows that her parents aren’t here. Still, what is the point of coming back here? What is she expecting? Irene shakes her head and turns her back on her dilapidated childhood home. Maybe she was expecting it to feel like home.

She knocks on the apartment door, uneasy. Of all neighborhoods, they had chosen one riddled with crime and bad feelings. What were they still doing here? Why hadn’t they found a way out? “Irene?” The namesake meets her daddy’s eyes. “It’s me,” she smiles, a goofy, toothy grin filling her young face and spreading to her father’s watered-down blue eyes. They crinkle good-naturedly at the corners. “It is you, Iris,” he says, embracing her tightly. She chuckles warmly into his chest and hears more footsteps from the pillbox apartment. “Irene? Is that you, dear?” “It’s me, Mom,” she says, releasing her daddy and holding onto her mother’s frail body. She laughs in relief as her mom tells her daddy that she’s finally come home.

Daddy opens the dirty window in the makeshift living room and looks into the neighborhood. Lifts up his banjo, with the G string broken and tells her what he’s been doing every day at 5 pm exactly. 22 “Why did you sing every day? What if someone heard you?” she tells them, sitting on the mint green couch with a stain on the middle cushion. He nods with a small smile. “They do. The elderly man next door told me he loved Ray Charles every evening…. But I was hoping you heard it. All the way over there.” Irene smiles foolishly. What a foolish dream. Yet maybe it kept them alive, living in this tiny apartment in one of the worst parts of town. What is that funny feeling? Irene wonders, looking at her hands. There’s a small silence in the room. Shuffling in the next apartment. Creaking from the pipes. So many wounds to heal, unanswered questions from years ago. Will they ever get answered? she wonders in this small stretch of time when there is static silence living in the room. “You know, we never wanted to leave you. We love you,” Mom finally says. Irene smiles at her parents. “I know,” she says. And she does know. That funny feeling—that’s home.

23 The Gilded Hearts’ Cafe by Israel Villa

The sharp tang of silverware scraping porcelain gave me an aneurysm. I lie, but I wish it would. We’ve been here for twenty minutes and I’m three drinks in. My clammy hands make the silverware hard to hold. My mind slips in and out of a sh*t conversation as my uneaten, cupped noodle soup sits at home. Cars slide across the rainy, midnight streets and sort of call to me with their hypnotic headlights. Sort of because Mr. Novoselic is keeping my attention hostage with his rambling. This place’s old, pi*s-yellow lights are awful, and reflect off shabby, gilded pots that house fake plastic leaves. Booths are torn and chairs are varied. Waitresses flatter for an extra dollar. The TV plays muted football highlights as silverware tangs and the world tilts and shifts. Mr. No- voselic eats terribly. His manners are for sh*t, and he won’t stop talking about his stupid name on the bottom of some textbook acknowledgements. We’ve gone out three times this week to that same corner diner he likes. The waitress recognized us and sat us at the booth closest to the bathroom door. Yesterday, I spilled my drink on my- self. I’m wearing the same skirt tonight. I hope he doesn’t notice. “How are you liking your meal?” Mr. Novoselic asks, interrupting his own monologue. I give him a cheeky, drunken slur with a smile, which gets him really excited. He thinks I’m into him. The food’s terrible, but it’s food. I have already set my mind on a take-out styrofoam, again. There’s no reason to be beaming the way Mr. Novoselic is. He has a piece of lettuce in his teeth. I pick at my own in a sort of suggestive way, but he doesn’t take the hint and instead holds eye contact for way too long. “I have to go……….powder my nose,” I say with a sort of drunken squirm. I feel my shirt lift up a bit, and I can smell Mr. Novoselic’s mouth water. The hunger in his eyes makes me giggle a bit, and I get up. I feel his gaze burn a hole on my back the whole way there. The bathroom is quiet, comfortable, but also very cold and loud with a silent sort of whir that comes from nowhere. Graffiti covers the walls and begs to be read by uncaring eyes. I read all the strange acronyms that mean nothing. All the truths told to no one. All the dirty words written with sincere sarcasm. The mirror light flickers erratically, as the mirror itself wobbles with some strange physical uncertainty. I wobble with it. I’ve had one too many drinks. My food comes up my throat and threatens the night, but it stays down. I wash my mouth to rid the taste and catch myself in the mirror again. Where did those dark circles come from? The whir grows louder. The words on the wall become fluid and weird. What is so important that you had to write it on a wall? What makes people want to do this? What am I doing here? The answers come to me with an awful belch. I feel like I need to write too. I have nothing say. Does anyone? No. In large, unpracticed letters, I write in lipstick: HARLOT. I get back to the booth and Mr. Novoselic is telling our waitress the same joke he told me like five min- utes ago. He must’ve heard it recently. He’s too into his joke to notice me. The waitress flashes me a smile, and I give her some drunken half smile. I am not drunk, only tipsy. She is your generic server: mid 20’s, blonde, those weathered eyes, a somewhat nasally, southern after voice with fake charm. Novoselic wraps up his punch line, and our waitress takes off. Now it’s just us. Things start to stabilize, but half a glass more and the world pulses. Everything is blurry, and unclear and - “I was wondering,” he chimes in, “what are you doing for school?” A moment passes. I sort of giggle, and look at the table or something. I don’t think I heard him right, or maybe it’s a weird question. I haven’t thought about school in forever. More like a couple of days. I can’t be sure. He asks again. My throat burns. “I don’t-I don’t really go,” I manage to choke out. I tack on a “y’know?” to sort of ease the tension. No- voselic replies with silence. His forehead wrinkles; his face kind of scrunches up. His glasses glare as he stares down his plate. He picks at his food in a science and you can see him think. I wonder what he’s thinking. The thing about Mr. Novoselic is that I don’t have to wonder for too long. “Maybe I can talk to someone, someone from Clarence, to see about changing that, if you want, of course.” He goes back to his food. He picks his potato hash brown decisively. Novoselic is an odd person, but not uncommon: a teacher at the all-girls high school north from here, Clarence. He wears that same navy blue blazer every night we’ve met. I wonder if he wears it to work, too? I hope not. Something about the fit is off. It wraps around his body like a second skin, the kind of fit that those plastic men’s catalogues advertise, like the ones at the market. The wrinkles, which wind around his arms, 24 resemble cloud trails, especially against his baby blue shirts that always seem silky and tacky. It gives him a sort of stirring aura, as if he can’t be contained. It does not help that he has this sort of bounce. He sits at the edge of his seat. His feet are always planted firmly at the ground as if he’ll fly away if he loosened the f**k up. His arms fold a triangle on the table in front of him, which gives him this angular look. His eyes are always steady, always watching, while his face burns with a silent - potential? Words slip my mind right now, but it doesn’t matter. His face sort of tempers itself: easing every now and again with little quirks and ticks. He checks his watch. He scratches the back of his balding head. He flicks his double-tipped tongue. He perks up a bit and edges farther off his seat. “Well,” he chuckles with a sort of romanticized, seductive vindictiveness that’s just plain nasty, “I’d have to get to know you better.” The air thickens. “I’m sure you’ll be good for me,” he adds with a disgusting glint in his eyes. In his stare I find a dark cave; a cave without this sort of light and common decency that the lot of us have. I look closer. Do we have those sorts of things? How many Novoselic’s have I met? Especially recently. Especially through my - line of work. Would it be different if I’d stayed in school or if I’d gotten the job at the bookshop? Would it be different if I had dated boys, or played sports? Would she have made a difference? Uncle Joey, why are you doing this to me again? None of this makes sense to me, though. I can’t imagine anything being different. The Church Man says it’s all for the best. Well, if this isn’t “the best,” then what is? We sit here and watch each other. His mug is disgusting. His energy now becomes nervous and uncomfortable. I can feel him ready to jump out of his seat, ready to take me, and it repulses me. My food sort of festers in its plate, and Mr. Novoselic’s eyes burn. I can feel the things he wants to do to me, and, and I feel a raw unease, like a long walk down a crappy mountain bridge, or stopping for a bathroom break at that dirty inner-state station. There is an un- familiarity: a dissonance. I feel foreign. He flicks his tongue out. His hot breath only hints at how dry his mouth is. I laugh and fork my potato hash browns. “I’m ready to take this. To go, I mean,” I flip my hair over my ear, and tilt my head with a quirky, little smile. Novoselic’s eyes blow up with an explosion of newfound potential energy. My stomach falls. He downs his beer with an awkward rush, and signals the waitress for the check. I stand up and feel the weight of my body on my legs, then it pounds its way into my brain. Furniture doubles. Novoselic’s voice becomes spacey and weird. The rest of the night goes on and on, like a daze. There is a cab and a couple passing streetlights. My eyes shut only to open again to new street signs, passing cars and distant headlights that scream at me. A hand on my leg, but soon after in between my thighs. I don’t resist. I shrug my head on his shoulder. There’s that humid air in that midnight silence. A lobby, an elevator car, a generic room with bathroom, bed, TV and desk. Empty and spacious. There’s no sense of being, at least if there is I couldn’t tell. It’s hard to focus. Mr. Novoselic says words, but all I hear are weird whispers and groans. I lower myself. My body gets heavier and heavier. My clothes come off. The little wall lights contrast the blackness of the room. A wetness surrounds my body, which both freezes and burns. Then I feel his touch. A lot of points of contact, too many to really focus. No focus. A smell, like spit and sweat, and that thick room air freshener shooting a paroxysm of wispy spritz, bursts of fragrance that stick to the mind the way headlights and the clang of silverware do; the way Mr. Novoselic’s eyes do. I find myself with a familiar coldness. My legs and ass are exposed. There is the standard pause and then the usual sting. He twists me around with failing grace. His performance is poor and his stiff hands make my body wriggle and writhe. I become nothing more than his rag doll. The world spins. My mind is lost in the spell of booze and disassociation. Finally, leaving his hotel room with my styrofoam breakfast in hand, I vomit.

25 On Angels: Observations by Ziyin Wang

Although the angel is widely classified as male by scientific institutions, their general figure is that ofan androgynous human. The size of an angel is two times that of an average man. Their limbs are long and lithe, and their complexion is usually fair. The angel’s head is encircled by a halo of light from an unnamable source. Their face, resembling the shape of a human’s, consists of an array of differently-sized and lashed eyes, spread over the face and forehead until they reach the jawline. The eyes are solidly and darkly colored and receive a nearly excessive amount of lubrication from large and apparent tear ducts. Angels have been known to cry, though it is rare. Their long, thin ears are on the sides of their head and can swivel with ease. Angels do not grow hair. Their torsos are longer than that of a human’s by five hands. Their torso consists of 28 thin vertebrae and 24 sets of ribs, thinning as they approach the pelvis, which is of the same width as the angel’s shoulders. They have three pairs of durable feathered wings upon their back, the first two of similar size, one-and-a-half times their arm span, and the lowest, final pair smaller by the width of four hands. They do not molt. Infrequent cases where loose feathers have been found are thought to be intentional. The angel has no reproductive organs. Their bipedal lower body is homologous to a human’s and functions much in the same way.

The angel has a voluntarily corporeal form and usually maintains one appearance for a prolonged period of time, described above. When visible to humans, they can be seen to settle into a slouched position, and their eyes blink inconsistently in unpredictable patterns. They often crawl or fly as opposed to walking, as their upper body is relatively heavy compared to their lower. They are capable of moving beyond thirty-five kilometers per hour by foot and at unmeasurably high speeds by flight.

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26 QUIET QUIET by Max Zhang

Most nights, the motels were cold and empty. Dirty: the bed bugs were hard to escape; the mildew followed us with the vengeance of an ex-lover, attached but unwanted.

Mom asked me if I was happy. I said Yes. Mom said Really, Johnny? I said Yes.

Bobby and I hadn’t been to school for a year and a half. He no longer remembered the broken crayons and the gravel from the blacktop that got stuck in your shoes if you ran too much and didn’t tie your sneakers tight enough. I remembered, faintly. A woman at the head of the room opened her mouth: i before e except after c. The room was quiet.

Mom told me the door needed to be locked when she was gone or Dad might find us. I kept it locked. One night, the hair curler singed her hair and the fire alarm went off. When we left the room, we stood outside the parking lot. I re- membered it was Thanksgiving. There was no turkey and there were no leaves on the trees. I shivered in my pajamas. The motel owner looked at me.

The first time a man came over to visit Mom, he gave me and Bobby Dum-Dum lollipops. Root-beer-flavored. Bobby peeled off the wrap- per and started sucking. The woman at the head of the room said No Candy! Cavities! I remembered. I threw away the Dum-Dum. Bobby was quiet. I was quiet. We were quiet.

A week later, the motel phone rang. I picked up. The motel owner said Hi, Sweetie, You Bored? I left the phone off the hook and sat with Bobby un- der the sink until Mom came home and put it back. I told her. She was quiet.

One time, I forgot to lock the door. Mom’s make-up was all over the counter. Bobby stubbed his toe on the side of the bathtub, and we needed ice. I opened the hatch. A man stood at the end of the hallway. He looked at me.

I went back inside but I forgot to lock the door. Bobby was sitting on the ledge of the bathtub, holding his toe. I pushed him into the bath. I sat in the bath. We sat in the bath together and closed our eyes.

The door opened. The man saw me and Bobby sitting in the bath. Mom’s make-up was all over the counter. The man blinked and left. Bobby asked me Is It Your Birthday? Yes, I said. Happy Birthday, he said. I got out of the bath and locked the door.

When I told Mom, she cried. I felt bad. Mom unlocked the door and left us alone. That night, Bobby and I slept extra close. It was dark. Happy Birthday, Johnny.

The next day, Mom came back with bagels and a bruise. I asked her about the bruise.

She handed me half of a bagel. The motel owner called and Mom picked up. The motel owner said Hi Sweetie, You Bored? Mom said No and hung up. Mom told us to sit in the bathtub. i before e except after c.

The motel owner called twice more. Mom said No. We heard a knock at the door. Bobby turned on the television. Mom walked over and locked the door. There were no more knocks. I hugged Bobby and said I Love You. Bobby looked at me and said Why? I said Because I Have Nothing Else. Bobby said nothing. 27 Once, Dad called. Mom picked up. She smiled and then frowned. Big. I pulled Bobby into the bathroom and we sat on the tile this time. I closed the door and locked it. We were safe. Dad said I Love You. Mom did not say I Love You. She said Where Are You? Dad said Where Are You? Bobby and I were in the bath- room behind the locked door.

Bobby had his teddy bear. Once, the motel owner said Quiet. I was quiet. I said Quiet, Bobby. Bobby was quiet.

Mom said Stop Using. Dad was quiet. Then, Dad said How?

Dad never called again.

One night, we left the motel. I locked the doors of the car. Mom turned the engine on.

We never went back to the motel.

Mom hugged me. I Love You Johnny. I Love You Mom. Bobby was quiet. i before e except after c.

28 POETRY Blue’s Finale by Safa Abdullah the feel of pencil to paper, the words flower out and rush up. it’s intoxicating, for there is nothing like being a creator… [rewrite your present]. blue missed it. before blue was blue, he was a subtle composer of poetry. his words left him though, and the power to create left with them. but what if he’s ready again? what if blue says his words have returned and they have and they begin to appear in his vision like a literary synesthesia? blue is now forever writing, scribbling words down in his almost-too-new notebook and tapping it words on his jean-covered thighs. his hands are littered in renegade freckles, a cocoa powder dusted across an even deeper brown. it’s almost like the stars scattered against the sky. there’s a beauty in the hands, for they have touched so much, yet felt so little. blue is tired of being alone. he craves the safety that one can only find in others. he’s sat so still, been so stagnant for so long that he almost wonders if it’s too late. perhaps if blue found a semblance in others, he may find company. blue inhales. blue exhales. he cannot change his past, so it must be up to him to alter his future. ready or not, here he comes. the phrase “opposites attract” is scarcely true among humans. we are drawn to our kind, and our boy blue, he will never be an exception. he is back at a home, the library that houses more than books. it is a mansion of memories. blue recalls 30 to a time when he was young and his mother sat him [them] on her lap and read him his first book. has it been that long? is he really as grown up as he may seem? his skeleton is still the same one, but his soul is not. blue thinks and thinks and he feels an anxiety fill him so full, he gags. foot tapping and nails clawing at his arm, blue mutters to himself as he waits for a screen to load. he has his house and now, now he searches for his home. it is time for him to bloom. if you saw him now, would you sense the momentous shift that is occurring in the core of his being? would you see that blue has become bluer, that his heart has become a true testament of his being? or would you glance over and spot an anxious kid in clothes too big for their body and scratches on the surface of their skin that seem to connect the dots and form constellations on the shell on their body? would you see blue? or would you glance away and forget him into another chapter? it is time, it is time, it is time… blue stands, nearly frozen to the ground, staring at what he hopes will be his home. blue is dusted in snow and the shiver seems to chill his bones and freeze his blood. the concrete-gray building with dulled silver lettering seems drab against the white snow that drifts from the sky, so thick that it seems to fall in clumps rather than individual snowflakes. blue inhales. exhales. the icy air hits his lungs and he shakes out his gloved hands and opens the door. warmth rushes out at him and he steps in, into a room of tables and papers and pens and most importantly, people. he stands there, afraid of the 31 people who mutter to themselves as they scribble down lines and afraid of the laughter that rings against the ears that must’ve been stuffed with cotton, for it’s been so long since he had heard that sound. snow drops off of him in clumps and blue reached up to pull off his hat. blue looks around and as water drips off of him from the freshly-melted snow, he steps forward. blue can barely breathe and the scratches on his arms, they burn, but he walks towards the others. and as they look up and smile and extend hands and show him supplies, blue taps a haiku on the back of his neck. a composer of poetry, blue feels a smile grow from within him. blue begins to relax and blue begins to grin and the dimples on his cheeks seem greater than the pain that once streaked his heart. his eyes crinkle as he smiles and his hands start to still as he speaks. blue takes off his coat and sits with the others, collecting names like a painter collect colors. chatter fills the air and blue breathes in deeply. he sings out his words and the world seems to welcome him. it is as if he has found a door for the keys he once deemed to be useless. is blue home? his journey may never be over and as he rebuilds his heart with those around him, blue rewrites his present. suppose his mother had loved him as a mother should, suppose he never mustered the bravery to be blue, would our boy still smile like he does now? stanzas and couplets, lines and rhymes, they flow from within and he laughs with the others. he has recreated his own family, made sunshine 32 out of the rain. at last, our boy is not alone. at last, our blue has found a home. at last, our blue has bloomed. blue has not lost the sky. instead, he has found stars to decorate it. the sun has created a new dawn.

“i am blue.” and he is.

33 She’s Had Enough by Elianna Ayala

Push She stumbles, Trips Over the kicked-out foot Tease Hearing names she refuses to accept She’s crying for help No one is there for her She walks into the packed room All eyes are on her A wave of laughter crashes through the room She sits down, She feels a poke STOP! Another poke she tries to ignore The bell rings a piercing noise

It’s time for lunch, no one to sit with Kids crammed like sardines on one bench Just to avoid her She sits down in a corner to eat She just wants a friend

Walking to the playground Kids begin to play, she sits alone On the bright orange and yellow monkey bars Waiting for it to be over. No invitation to play An upsetting whistle spread through the air The kids slowly walk to the gate and go into the line The kids exit the playground

The last bell rings Kids run to get their bags She feels a push She tells the boy to not do it again He says, “I just did.” She’s had enough A pop echoes through the room The teacher is startled. “Go wait by the door.” The girl stands by the doorway A smile of relief appears on her face. She will never feel that way again

34 “My Afropuff” by Abigail Brasch

I got two continents/divided By olive skin and almond eyes Constraining my inner strengths Water painting this skin Mama gave

They said almond eyes means You don’t look Jewish

But my mother convert made my Jewish father more holy From Catholic confessions to Jewish judgment Orthodox babies out of Filipino-Cherokee blood

Mom and Dad worked hours While taking off every Shabbat To spend thousands on Jewish tuition Double the classes & forbidden to slack Expressing dual identity & forbidden to mask What’s more convert than that?

My almond eyes, beaming Made of Jordanian salt, in a wound Burns enough to make you scream, heals Enough to be an impromptu ointment

Stings at first dip, always scrubbing Dirt from some Judaic open-ended question, conducting Bodily purification, weaving My signature over and over again In Tagalong and Hebrew

35 December 20, 2017 by Alexia Briano

My body was not my own for days I remained curled on the same couch in your sister’s house for nights on end I laid clutching a plush monkey my sisters and I gifted you on your birthday two years prior To this day It wears the same pajamas your youngest daughter picked out Because she knew how much you slept

An utter of your name Or any thought of you passing through my head Made me a sobbing mess Feeling the world disappear from beneath me I would collapse Suffocating

How dare you? How dare you steal the breath from my lungs? How dare you leave an unfillable space in our lives? How dare you plan the worst day of my life? How dare you pour gasoline all over my safe haven and set it ablaze with your final act of selfishness? How dare you break the world into a million pieces and leave me with the shards? How dare you hide behind a mask of strength when yours was draining day by day? How dare you let me learn of your faults and strengths from someone else? How dare you let me learn of who you were as a person from others?

I was a child Spoiled and bratty and disgusted by my own family I was ignorant I didn’t get the time I didn’t have enough time to grow up To learn that you and I had so much work to do as mother and daughter I never knew you I never felt like I belonged in my own home Because it was a home belonging to a family

We rarely crossed paths You slept when I was awake And I didn’t know your favorite color But I’m sure you knew mine I wanted to know yours From your own voice and thought Not through the lips and filters of others

That night You left dramatically Spewing “I love you” Something you never did if you were to come back soon from an errand 36 But I didn’t question it

I should have questioned it I should have stopped to ask what was wrong I should have asked where you were really going I shouldn’t have fallen asleep I should have tried calling you sooner than three hours later I should have called Veronica, your oldest, sooner and told her about my suspicions I should have called the police sooner I should have tried talking to you about your emotions days before I should have helped you I should have saved you

These thoughts tore my brain apart Strangled my heart I still cannot understand who you were to me I cannot understand our relationship Or lack thereof You were my mother But the genes we happen to share do not ensure that we shared anything but Then why does my chest ache when I think of you? You left me not reminiscing over fond memories But piecing together what you broke as much as I can bear I worry that I selfishly pushed away a loving mother Or perhaps I righteously saved myself the pain of trying to wrap my love around the piercing blade that was you

You had four children All still in need of their mom And two grandbabies One who will never remember what he saw of you But the other He will not stop asking for his grandma

Sometimes I truly despise you and the way you were able to leave so suddenly

Other times I try to believe it wasn’t easy I try to understand what broke you I try to make you less of a villain than my heart feels you are because it was easier to convince myself to hate you than to accept the fact that I lost something forever I try to hold onto the few, yet precious, values you taught me I try to hold together my entire family I try to hold together my siblings I try to hold together myself

The day of the one year anniversary We did not succumb to our tears We sat together and laughed I held my nephews close 37 Much like I knew you would if given the chance I brought as much joy as I could to the room And the day passed like any other

There will be days and nights where I will cry because of you I will feel hate Anger Guilt Sadness Emptiness But they will pass

I am learning to live in a world you could no longer bear Because I know, deep in my heart, that you wanted nothing more than for your babies to thrive I will learn to live with the vagueness of our relationship Because I know, deep in my heart, that you loved me With each passing day Losing you will hurt less And I will be okay

I will be okay

38 Nobody in Particular by Ally Brynolf

Some people describe eyes like the bluest sky like the brightest star or the most captivating galaxies, but all I see in yours is air pollution.

39 Wild Fire by Emily Cho

i lay under the water encapsulated in our silken strands. cold—lovely. it’s perfectly nothing.

but you laugh, dancing. taking sips of fire and ash drenched in delicious warmth alive, intoxicatingly unapologetic. it’s beautifully dysfunctional.

and i tried to resist it. but you shatter the ice, fracture the still of my mind. for yours is an irresistible kind of fire.

40 Writer’s Block by Caitlin Corso

My pen goes to a blank page… No words form Nothing. My mind is at a standstill. Not a thought or a creative idea anywhere to be found. This is not writer’s block No, this feeling is Writers wall. It is... Never ending… My thoughts suspending. As it is reaching limits of my mind, that I never thought possible. Blocking out all chance of me Writing something So I turn to my tool box… Full with thoughts that Escaped this barricade Before it was put up. Looking into it I find… Nothing Everything in my box looks… Uninspiring. Dull. Boring. Maybe… Just maybe If I keep writing And just don’t think too much. I could come up with something Anything I write anything that comes to mind Forcing the words the ideas to find A little crack in the wall to escape.. As my hand moves across the page. More ideas escape. The wall crashes down. Slowy Creativity returns. Slowy. When it’s all there I can’t stop writing

41 Before I know it My best ideas come to me This wall… I broke it down And there is no stopping me.

42 “Saint Veronica” by Delaney Coyne

The night tastes of vanilla and oversteeped Earl Grey— If you will even call it night. It is the early morning hours where dawn is miles away,

My soul, a heavy fog hanging in the empty spaces. Damp tiles under blistered feet, The strappy high heels dangling from my pinky finger.

I know that it’s me in the bathroom mirror and yet I do not recognize that girl. I have never seen the spider legs framing her bloodshot eyes. I am unacquainted with her feathered reddish-pink lipstick, and its smudges against her skin. I am a stranger to her goosebumped thighs and the black tights running in stutters atop them.

I look at myself and it feels like it’s been years, And yet in this moment of ambiguity, The reflection is crystalline clear.

The mirror: my Saint Veronica. I am anything but Christ-like right now.

I feel the sweet relief of a quiet moment. The sweat and grime wiped clean from my soul. Beneath smeared eyeliner, I am steely-eyed.

43 Found Poem in James Patterson and Bill Clinton’s “The President is Missing” by Isabella DiPaolo

I walk on unsteady legs on the brink of catastrophe. corporate-America and confidential conversations jamming out all other signals, forget for the moment that the world may be so different, I struck up a good balance between seclusion and attention. What is about to happen has to remain completely confidential but it’s intended to stand out

44 Be by Hannah Dougherty

Every poem is someone’s story; Every painting, someone’s muse Every song, someone’s heartbeat.

Artists are the soul of the universe.

I write these pieces now so that Someone on the brink of creation Finally takes the first step, because

Artists are the soul of the universe.

I believe in the power of language — One phrase can save a life One sentence, an entire nation.

Artists are the soul of the universe.

I believe in the power of visuals — Paintings can keep loved ones alive Flags, unite people oceans away.

Artists are the soul of the universe.

I believe in the power of sound — Notes can invigorate the spirit; Movements, provide purpose.

Artists are the soul of the universe

Because they harness these powers And use them to enhance beauty, Without ever taming them completely.

Artists are the soul of the universe.

Here’s to every unfinished stanza, Half-painted canvas, unresolved song.

Artists are the soul of the universe.

Notice the ordinary: A baby crying, a couple holding hands, A student reading, the sun shining.

45 Artists are the soul of the universe.

Expect the strange: An old friend’s letter, a rose in winter, A stranger’s kind smile, a kite in the water.

Artists are the soul of the universe.

Admire their beauty: Tears sparkling, red against bright white, Pages turning, paper floating not flying.

Artists are the soul of the universe.

But above all else, Do what you love, Always remembering that

Artists are the soul of the universe.

46 Not Quite by Greta Elmer

I have never really been right I’m made of mismatched limbs stitched together with personalities I don’t have Even my voice is too gruff for what I say I grind syllables between teeth Choke on words meant to be whispered My soft speech is harsh with the accent I was raised with Chicago accents spit out vowels and chew consonants I’ve always been too harsh for my words I’ve always been Too much for myself I’ve always been too much for others Someone once said it’s not my fault I was raised how I am But I wasn’t raised this way I was raised loud Raised proud and tall Raised unapologetic and bold Raised to fit a body I don’t own Raised to stand tall alongside my mother like an unwavering force of nature I was raised in a house overflowing with assurance in yourself and your speech But my speech is ugly Words spill from my mouth like blood from a wound Violent drops of Scarlett define my speech I cover my mouth Hoping to catch the blood that’s choking me It coats my hands Finding its way into the beds of my fingernails and drying on my skin But it’s never enough Hate and anger still fall from my lips My own mouth rejects what comes from it It won’t let the words sit there Like my own body is waiting to push them out Push them away from me But they still cling to me Words I try and whisper Come out too aggressive and too loud Frantic sounds follow indulgent calm in my speech Apologizing for words I never said Tension sits in my back and closes my throat I dislike the way I can’t hold my tongue but try so hard to stay quiet So I seal my mouth I chew and mangle the skin of my lips in hopes it will distract my language It’s a nervous tick A thinking tick A struggling tick A tick that’s overwhelmed my every sense, my every thought An ‘I’m going to cry’ tick Overwhelmed and poisoned my mind 47 And left my mouth a rotting cave Filled with echoes of words that shouldn’t have been said And teeth made of damp, crumbling stone Stone made of opal and bone Glowing in the moonlight and the very core of who we are Teeth meant to be shown in smiles in family photos Smiling cherub faces of babies And the hesitant curve of exhausted parents My smiles were always close-lipped Strained and tight Never quite matching the ones of my cousin I never quite matched, always just a little off A little too loud A little too shy A little too much A little too Too there Too nowhere Too off balance Like I’m stuck on a raft beneath crashing waves and salted water Waiting to drown in an ocean of Almosts and Should Haves So I tighten my fists and hold on Hold on tight to splintering wood And hope the storm passes before I’ve torn at my messy seams Before pieces of myself are scattered farther But sometimes I want to release Let myself be torn apart Maybe the water will wash away the parts of me that don’t fit But water can rinse away all the blood caked on my knuckles Not the blood flowing in veins I know letting go wouldn’t be right But that’s okay because I’ve never really been right

48 Firebirds by Hannah Fritz

Autumn. All the leaves spiral down, Cascading Into a crisp carpet Upon the cold ground. Some are browner Than the brown dust Adam was made of, Some more gold Than the Sun’s center. But there are some That are made of the very crimson fire That lights the Sun. They are The firebirds, Little messengers on lopsided wings Soaring into the mundanity Of the modern world Singing in the breeze, “Look at all these beauties, O you weary pilgrims! Do you not breathe the air we do That smells of fires burning brightly While families gather round them, Their hearts filled with gladness? Even these bare-branched trees Whose arms we have fled Reach toward a hidden sky so blue One cannot bear it. Even the lowly leaves Proclaim The greatness Of our God. Our hearts Are filled with passionate flames Though here we lie, Crumbling into earth to die– Still we remain The firebirds.”

49 My Name by Cayetana Geller

The name I go by—Cai has a countless number of meanings: “sea” in Hawaiian and “worth” (価値)in Japanese. But Cayetana, the name

I was given, doesn’t have a beautiful, one-word meaning like those. Though, if I could choose, it would mean “strong,” just like the woman I was named after; the woman who raised my mother and her three sisters in Asia.

Cayetana screams “powerful” and “independent”, but can also be soft, like the pinks, blues, and purples that muddle together and make up our 7 pm sunset.

It was given to me—I was given the name that held independence, strength, and sunset-like softness, but I didn’t always care for it. No, it’s much more than that. Despite being named after one of the most important people in my mother’s life, despite being given a name associated with all of the things I strive to be, I didn’t want it. I was embarrassed when teachers would butcher my name to the point where it was unrecognizable; fearful that people would think I was odd and talk about me behind my back for having a name so uncommon.

Notice how I said, “the things I strive to be” instead of, “the things I was and am.” I wasn’t strong but rather weak. What people thought of me had the ability to cut so deeply which drove me to want to get rid of something that is a part of who I am. I didn’t deserve this name, this name that held power, strength, independence.

Love is complex. Loving my name is something that took me years to realize I should be doing, but I’m growing.

50 Legacies by Leah George

I will never taste bananas without tasting the scorching Indian sun, the blaring bus horns, and my grandpa’s worn out, wooden chair.

Everyday, you pulled back the peel ever so delicately, despite your shaky hands. He sat waiting patiently at the head of the table with his walker not too far away. He loved bananas, and so did you.

Now with his clothes and walker all packed away, have you lost your love for bananas? Now that you don’t have anyone to peel them for?

My dear grandma, you need not worry. Your days of standing strong for him, even with the burning pain traveling through your legs, are over. I love bananas too, and I will peel them for you

51 Across the Border by Alyssa Gomez there’s a girl that sits across the border and she looks a lot like me but her almond eyes will never see the sand of shining seas there’s a boy that sits across the border and he looks just like my brother his almond eyes are bloodshot red still looking for his mother and we’re all right here, across the border a line that we dare not cross how long will it take our people to see that their loss is also our loss dare I say that we go cross the border to save the ones we forgot “what you do for the least of my children, you do unto me” do we not?

52 The Myth by Kayla Gornick

We played Gods; I told him everything and he forgave me And I granted him immortality so he could save me And we didn’t realize, the myths we were recreating-

But him and I were tragedies in the making. In the ashes of what used to be a city Prometheus told us we burned so pretty And the Golden Fleece was just a metaphor Midas couldn’t touch us anymore Just when Odysseus’s loyalty slips A thunderbolt sparked and connected our lips Persephone sold her love to hell And yet we found heaven when we both fell We were stone statues, a tribute to emotion, And love was the titan-swallowing ocean. I thought he was above those stories That we’d be the ones that came out with glories But the truth was we were only pretend And there was no way to reach a happy end.

53 Un Niño Nacido by Isaias Guillen

Todos tenemos que crecer en algún momento. Todos tenemos que levantarnos y hacer lo que tenemos que hacer. No todos pueden tener el mismo héroe como yo, quizás yo también pueda relacionarme. Y mi héroe no necesita una capa en absoluto.

Mi mamá ha estado conmigo desde que nací. Ella me había alimentado, me cuidaba y todavía hoy doy gracias. El techo sobre mi cabeza, el tiempo que puede pasar con nosotros en su mejor momento Teníamos nuestras diferencias y, en lugar de evitarlas, las hemos resuelto.

Ella no puede pelear en una guerra, pero peleó para mantener a mi familia y a mí a salvo. Puede que no haya escrito un libro famoso, pero está escribiendo su propia historia de vida. Puede que no haya creado una obra maestra desde cero, pero su comida y apoyo es lo único que necesito Mi madre es Mexicana y ella es la única héroe sobre la que tuve que reflexionar.

54 October Wind by Mia Huerta

Fogged breaths, chimney ash whispers, and flushed red cheeks. Dimmed lights and blaring horns travel to our numb ears from down the block. Bells chime from a top a stone church to tell of time, To tell us of the times they rang so long ago. The memories and stories are etched into their ringing anthem and weave themselves through the bustling city, Through days of yore and shimmering sweet promises of now.

To the muffled snores of the humble man on the sidewalk, Slumbering to the ballads of quiet drops on the pavement. We feel the gusts of spirits and their bottles of smoke clanging in their worn pockets. We see their washed out colors, their glowing hearts no more. For the smallest moment, muted laughter reverberates off the crumbling buildings with lush hues forming through the heavy mist….

And with a final howl of the midnight breeze and a swift rustle in the darkened trees, the warmth of their souls disappear, Lost forever to the desolate graves they stumbled in late at night centuries ago. And amidst the shadows lurks the disdainful bitterness of the heart, licorice black, that reeks of hate. Teeth grind against teeth as jaws are set like stones of the prison, To keep the words from hissing themselves into the air, To keep the secrets hidden behind muddy eyes. But its mistake was letting a whisk of wind escape its grasp. Callous loathing leaks through facades of velvet moonshine and spills into the empty streets like ink.

October wind have mercy on them.

55 My Composition by Melanie Jones

My razor is my pen, my arms are my paper. I love to write. Especially late at night, when I’m all alone. Allowing my pen, to silently roam.

I made a mistake. This time my ink poured. While trying to clean up, my thin paper tore.

My ink kept smudging, all over the lines. I tried to write again, maybe it’s time.

I feel so high, my eyes got lazy. I can’t feel my legs, my head is quite hazy.

I should go to sleep, this should be the end. Maybe I can finally set down my pen.

56 Between the Lines by Karissa Kalnas

She wore armor made of pure glass. Clear, transparent, mysterious. But little did her enemies know, When her glass was bloody and shattered, She was sharp, ragged, and unforgiving. She was damaged, And she was dangerous.

57 corybantic by Elliot Kraft she had hair the curled like smoke framing her face in wild tendrils faded blue and lusterless bleeding into the sunset she was the embodiment of the horizon in every way she was beautiful destructive banished in her own mind corybantic, wind chime mind ripped the hummingbirds out of the sky impaled on white picket fences orange running down the streets she dipped her toes in one time watched as nothing happened and kept walking over and over through her own shadow like a syncopated metronome by the time she left the forest the trees had forgotten her name she had lips that painted the world vanilla whenever she breathed soothed the oceans with her freckles and flogged the mountains with her smile it seemed that she was made of shame defined by her edges too much space around her and yet not enough she wanted to be something no one could ever see instead of the secret that she had become painter with a pencil sharpener artist silk-skinned creature of salt she lived in a confessional cage without the courage to ever part her lips and make a sound she had wings that were too weak to beat against the wind they hung limp 58 from her shoulder blades skeletal and damp dripping indigo feathers falling steadily as her body trembled she shaved her silhouette with unsteady digits scraping fingernails against her own vertebrae she danced with the candles in her mind to the sound of a solitary cello mourning the loss of herself she was beautiful self destructive sentenced to her own life confessing her sins to the ceiling only to hear them echo reminding her of all the times she should have stayed away

59 But That Star is Not the Sun by Serika Gabriella Laguit

Your voice is double-dipped on both ends of that spectrum. And in appearance, you tie those ends together, becoming soft and hard at the same time. Your hair is not as bright, but that doesn’t mean you don’t struggle to hide when you need to. In fact, your brightness is dangerous. I destroy my retina so I can have the blessing of looking at you, and so that you’ll be bleached into my eyelids when I look away, never truly escaping sight. You have everything I want in someone I never thought could be real. We’re not a coincidence; The way we fit together can’t be denied. Our alignment was more than pure chance and years of waiting, watching the night sky, when I should’ve been looking at the morning one, too.

60 Don’t Make a Mountain Out of a Molehill by Camrynn J. Lawrence

He named himself after a hill in Jerusalem A God complex He feeds on the need to feel needed

People seek refuge in him. He seeks refuge inside of their head

I spoke to him Attempting to understand his Hebrew name So I can worship him even more I let his name roll around in my mouth

Zion

The land of Israel I’ve read about you once Or twice Every Sunday And Thursday

Church taught me well

The bible fits good in my hands My body felt good in your hands

I felt otherwise

I kept quiet An inferiority complex

I end everything he says with an amen

A man never scared me so much.

I felt vulnerable and I liked it? I liked it.

Yes

I promised I liked it.

He liked it

61 My bread and wine filled him up

He’s toxic

And I’m A God fearing man.

62 I Am The Devil by Lex Lesniak

I am not a God. I am not a Queen. I am not a Deity of any kind. I have no higher power. I am the sole ruler of my eternal hell. With a loving companion stood boldly, At my side. I have no tail, no horns. No razor sharp teeth. I am a reaper of my own integrity. A singer of the sadness, Composed in the confines of my bones. A poet of the phrases That haunt my nightmares. I am a lurking shadow, Casted darkly against the background. A walking corpse, Whose spirit will never be found. A voice that would never dare, To make a sound. Yet there’s blood curdling screams, Inside my head. While the silence surrounds me, In my bed. To live alone is a blessing. To feel alone is a curse. My angel, She calls me The Devil. And in most ways, I seem to be.

63 Gene by Emily Liu

So the girl’s one step from the grave. Grave like her mother the morning she

adapted a razor between her teeth, decided to shuck off skin and nail in the

bathtub. Even then, the lupus sank deeper into vacancies man could still touch

and violate. From her daughter’s mouth she wove a ballad in fives, one for

every lupine that grows in her hospital glass, stunted but bearing child as

the lark that sings because of some cold biological order. To the girl whose breast still

bears a loveless athens, know that the sky smothers today and is unkind.

It is weight she carried, carries, will carry, not crucifixion but something crueler

coded, god and god again in every annulus, lip, eye, tongue born empty from the spine.

64 Star Child by Hannah Maloy she grew tired of the people: here one minute, gone the next. she decided to dance among the stars: always a constant, there to rest.

65 Masks by Mia Martin

What lies under the cover of darkness, Under a sea of whispering white masks? I walk the chalky beaches, listening, Hear false tales invented by those drowning. They descend into hate surrounding them. I feel I am the sole survivor here; The only one upswept by the current. Blooms and sprigs adorn my crown of courage: rue, thyme, pansies. I bear strength and memories. Waves of tar-covered souls beckon my eyes, Wearing willow, tansy, and begonia. Threat ebbs and flows with pitch-midnight currents; Hues that had faded, crumbled and decayed. I venture back to desiccated land.

66 mediations in a quiet building by Olivia Marton everything is finally empty and you can breathe again, focus, think, you are found skating on the ice between moments and liminal spaces and not trapped or lost for once you sit at the end of a table where you know no one just feel their vibrations their feet tapping the floor shaking the benches around you they talk about all the things they will do at your age and you realize you’ve barely done any of them and what you used to dream up feels less inviting than this pausing. this quiet room, which smells of soft sweet kettle corn, the serrated pages of a haunted, october-born book in your bag and the promise of sleep, of existence without all the roadblocks for a moment maybe you’ve been waiting for this, (maybe that sounds sad, maybe you shouldn’t say that, maybe a thousand different ways and a thousand different prefaces and pretexts and pretenses before we get to the actual truth—) breathe. focus. or not. or let your thoughts spin. but not that way. and not too far. just breathe. (everything is finally empty.)

67 HuMaNs by Esha Mishra

Humans are simply Animals Dancing under the stars Drinking the tears of the ocean Falling in love with each other Digging up ceramic memories of our past Flying like birds through the air Smiling as the sun brushes our skin Laughing until we can’t breathe Wrapping each other in our arms when we say hello Listening to the certain arrangements of sounds Crying, clutching our hearts in sorrow Absorbing strange symbols in bound pages Lighting up our rooms late in the night Because we’re afraid of the dark

68 Never Ending by Tom Mohan

Flames spark through the air Like the embers of a fire The wounded whisper their prayer With shredded and burnt attire

The ground burnished with entrails Guns like thunder shake like torn up dirt The black smoky sky hiding projectiles Men with the hope Of being unhurt

What I describe is hell Will this ever end? But we are stuck in a spell Mankind will never let their ideas bend

Because…

War will never end

69 AUTUMN by Lorena Monroy

The golden hour has come, the red and gold leaves are done. The water in the river is gleaming, while the old woman inside is seaming.

Leaves fall and swirl around Then touch the cold, damp ground. A graceful dance in air, They brush my cheek with care.

A gentle breeze begins to blow as the delicate light makes everything glow. The aroma of autumn envelops me Only now can I feel truly free.

A bird begins to sing a sweet song I turn my head and hum along. I trace my finger against the annual rings Not knowing how much it tugs my heartstrings. Before I walk the leaf-covered path, I glance one more at the aftermath.

70 Because of Us by Aishwarya Pasham

The environment does not need any help Stop telling me that We need to protest about global warming We need to eat less meat Reduce, Reuse, and Recycle Share car rides Use efficient energy Use less water Plant trees Just stop wasting your time It is natural for the climate to be changing rapidly Do not believe that The scientists know what is happening to the Earth Animals are becoming extinct due to pollution Glaciers are melting Natural disasters are happening Sea levels are rising Garbage patches are forming Because of us (Now read the poem from bottom to top)

71 The Right Color Brown Skin by Sophia Perez

I cannot say I have it bad because I have the type of brown skin you can still see in the night. I cannot say I have had an ongoing vigorous fight. It is 3-4 shades that has deemed me alright. 3-4 shades that says my mindset is right. Who is to say I will not burn down the city? That me tan skin will not cut you up and eat your kidneys. Who is to say I won’t grab your purse and run? And laugh as your wallet comes undone. All shades commit crime but why do only the darkest of men get amplified? What would the world do if all crime reported was white? If the black man’s crime were the ones hidden in plain sight? Would we forget how to live? Would the color white be the new sin? But, what’s it to anyone who has the right color brown skin.

72 Broken Puzzle Piece by Elle Plucinsky when I was younger, I had a puzzle with one broken piece. at one point or another, someone had broken off the edge and left it behind. forgotten it. the piece had been placed back in the box and when it came time for me to complete the puzzle, there was the broken piece, alone. it fit nearly everywhere, in all the places it was not meant to fit: a piece of the sky matching with the earth. a flash of white clouds among purple flowers. but it did not belong in any of the places it was placed. it simply fit. it was not right; it was broken, in the right way. it would never be able to change its pattern, never be able to change what it had been. the broken puzzle piece was able to be everything the puzzle needed while never fully filling the cracks. it was simply there to fill the space, until the correct piece was found. the piece that filled the cracks (and the space) with no practice. no manipulation needed. the unbroken piece, found. the broken piece, lost again.

73 Death of a Dream by Lauren Puscheck

“Are you going to compete in the Olympics? Always the question posed to me After I shared to anyone that I am a gymnast. “YES,” Always my enthusiastic response To this recurrent query. Until reality set in. I would never make it to the Olympics. I would never be skilled enough.

“I can still be an amazing gymnast; I can make the top level at a young age; I can qualify to Nationals; I can receive a full ride athletic scholarship.” My new promise to myself. But not all promises can be kept. Injuries, Fears, Lack of natural talent, Something always held me back.

“A walk-on to a Division 1 college gymnastics team, I still have time. I’ll prove my ability, my validity, to everyone.” Except I didn’t. Instead I sustained an injury That required surgery. And my comeback was halted by

Fear After Fear After Fear.

At the moment, I don’t know exactly where I’m going, And I don’t know where I’ll end up. I don’t have a goal; I only try to focus on one day at a time. School, practice, homework; Over And Over And Over, Hoping one of these days I will discover 74 The direction I am supposed to embark toward.

To all the dreams that have lived and died, I won’t force you to hide. Each of you guided me for a time, And each gave a reason for the unceasing climb. I won’t forget all I’ve been through, And what I’ve fought to pursue. As heart-breaking as it could often be, The death of a dream never killed me.

75 A New Beginning by Adrian Rocha

Warm yourself by the fire that burns like beacons, That guides the lost and weakened. It will be morning soon.

I’ll tell you a story of a better time, About a place we once called home. Before we packed our bags, We left it behind in the dust. The life we had, That no one could touch.

Soon to be in a place of riches, To escape this corruption and gore. We’ll leave this place of blood and stitches, And call this new place our own.

No one feels the pain we feel, When our home is barely our own. Some have even plead to deal, With the Devil to have their throne.

Those with pride stay by our side, So you’ll never feel alone. Listen and don’t cry now. For soon, we will find a new place To call our home.

Now with the shining lights of dawn, We know it’s time for us to keep pushing forward. As broken windows and ashes now guide the way.

Stumbling on stones, We’ve crossed these lines in search of hope and change. But what’s a story without some pain? This life we dream will have to wait, For these men have a sinister plan.

Now we are kept in the dark, On broken backs and blackened eyes. Blood runs down my lips and swollen gums. But we aren’t like the others, And we will never surrender.

Our pockets may be empty, But our spirits remain unbroken. We will replenish our loss in the promise land. 76 The light of God, Now in our sight. We can finally rejoice tonight. For dawn shall be our true test.

It will be the moment of truth Where we reach the place we wish to call home.

77 lessons by Stella Roney when you were shorter they taught you to swim to hold your breath and flutter kick to float and backstroke you used pool noodles and kickboards and they saved you when you strayed too far you are taller now and your water wrinkled tippy-toes reach farther it takes less work to clear the pool yet sometimes you still feel your head sink lower your limbs become tired they ask why you pretend to drown as if growing up gave you gills as if the life preserver is not sunken they act like you can look inside yourself and the water will recede but swimming lessons aren’t enough to weather a riptide

78 Imperfections by Holly Ryan

The walls you stare at are peeling and yellow Covered in mismatched decorations Telling a unique story unlike any other

Your floorboards are worn and creaky Peeling up at their edges bending at the sides Each wooden plank singing its own melody

The pictures that dangle precariously on the wall Are kind, warm welcoming and smiling Reminders of a time when things were all pristine and easy

But I love the yellow walls The singing floorboards The mismatched decorations

Life isn’t about its clean lines or glossy floors It’s the imperfections. They’re beautiful.

79 21st Century Girl by Megha Saravanan

With the rise of every generation, There is a new stereotype and perception.

I am a girl in the 21st Century. I see trouble You refuse to see.

My battle scars are tan lines. My revolution: a tweet.

I am a girl in the 21st Century. I live in a world that You made me.

I see death by plain stupidity. I hear of life arisen from pain.

I am a girl in the 21st Century: Sheltered but jaded; wise yet naïve.

With the fall of every generation, Problems are left for the next to fix them.

80 Garbage In C Major by Melissa Satmar

Everything that comes from my hand Is garbage The poem on this page Is garbage All that I set out to do Is garbage My whole entire being Is garbage

But They call it a trash Can Not a trash Cannot And even garbage can be beautiful. After all, One man’s trash is another man’s treasure

This poem could have been called Garbage in D Minor But Trash doesn’t have to be sad And so, For those who find beauty In this piece of trash This garbage on a page I title this poem

Garbage in C Major

81 Storms by Jessica Schardl

By the grave I saw the storms The happy heatwave hitting The thundering teatime tilling The middle midnight sun midmorning I threw my sunset upon the floor The dusk, dark dawn Let the thunder roar

82 Intersection by Evelea Solgos

An elegant curve, A fortified line, A beautiful shape Through which the light Shines.

Perfectly cut prisms, Carbon pressed tight, Grace ladies’ smooth necks As they dance through The night.

Atoms form compounds Form beautiful things. Vibrations form waves From the songs we sing.

Look at a human, See dreams in her heart, See how each sinew Twists to form art.

See his eyes sparkle With passion and fight As his irises Reflect back the light.

We are all stardust; See, our carbon base Tells half the story Of the human face.

The beauty of age Forms the other part— The things we have learned And hold in our hearts.

At the center of Science and beauty. There’s an overlap Called humanity.

83 The Pattern of Sound by Cassie Wang

Fingertips gently kiss plastic chords, catching nylon between flesh and wood, the soft mixture of firm and sweet reverberating, pinching, plucking, plonking and plunking, caressing dull copper frets, humming, twang- ing, each note floating, dissolving, like snowflakes touching navy blue felt before melting away

84 Grub by Winston Wang

The grime of smoke stains paper nests, drones intoxicated by soot, Hardened stovewood strikes dents and the hive dislodges, splitting upon concrete earth, revealing honeycomb if honey was cloudy larval fluids gleaming off pulsating young, that writhe and squish like pus blisters as callus gnarled fingers dig and dump onto nonstick teflon.

Flame licks stainless steel and fumes rise as squiming curls to twitch. Blackened wood spatula sautes plump larvae, white like rice and maggots, alongside the semi-formed chitin of pupae that shrivel and crisp until browned in Kirkland and Kikkoman vegetable oil and soy sauce. A pinch of salt and sugar sprinkled evenly as the pan rises then jerks and sizzling grubs momentarily fly, wafting seared scrambled eggs scent.

Served over white rice, chopsticks raise heaps of grub to anticipating tongue, devour with a gulp and smack of the lips, which part for a second bit. Pupae crunch between molars and umami dribbles from halted metamorphosis, like egg fried rice with extra protein.

85 Ocean-Cradled Moon by Samantha Warner

Setting into the blues and greys, the land tossing about, turquoise and lilac into darker hues,

light they now lack blended into a fallacy of black, the golden globe long gone with its amber gaze, all sight held now in a haze,

silvered light thrown into flight, a different goddess her due, but what might lay beneath her play, an artist to her muse,

hear the whispers of her worship, hymns only sung into the dark, the companion to its monarch,

a welcome change from a fevered dream, a more solitary and macabre theme, until too soon an ending reign, yet within a never ending fame stays her silver reign.

86 The Star-Spangled Remix by Mariah Haussmann-Watters

O they say you can be free but that’s not America for me The only light I see is coming down the street accompanied with screams We proudly represent a corrupted government that chooses violence over peace Racism is our logo, money is out icon, and the flag is our brand The fireworks boom distracts us from our doom Which comes out the barrel of a white man’s mouth If you get out of hand you get put in a cell O the only free you will see is a murderer or rapist walking down the street But my uncle just got 20 to life for weed This is the land of lies and home of desperate cries.

87 A Thousand Colors by Madison Wilson

They say we’re green with envy, blue with sadness, I say we’re a thousand colors found in the back of a paint shop when you spin the color wheel in the wrong direction.

Foggy glass, a lake’s cloudy water. There’s someone peering in but he can’t see beneath water spilled on ink that can no longer be read.

The Mona Lisa has faded with time, but the copy by Da Vinci’s students remain. We’re undertones of a painting, not obvious until they’re gone.

Not the red of a fight’s blood, but a fight within ourselves. Bloodshot eyes, cracked lips. Red lines on paper scratching out what they say is wrong.

Cracked pavement, red graffiti stark against the rubble. The grey of ashes, diaries burned, gray half-moons under a tired artist’s eyes- pencil scribbling words we’ve forgotten.

The white of screens lighting our faces at night. The white house with intentions less pure, bedsheets we’ll never sleep on, internal broken clocks. White boards, blank slates, The previous day has been wiped away to gray dust, clinging to an eraser.

Our work may be forgotten, our words erased. But, somday this place will be ours. No more chain link fences and used bullet casings. No more hiding behind clocks like ticking bombs

88 Reflections by Avery Vang

We climbed onto the side of the bridge barricaded in by a metal bar across our stomachs leaving rust spattered on our jackets. Silky, navy linen laid below our feet. Our tangling toes tied to the lake by our shoelaces. The water looked like a cat’s cradle, strung from each side of a motionless pool, wrapped to and from each damp blade of grass. A gossamer glaze.

Time stopped for a minute and we forgot you’re leaving in a few months.

We talked while the big dipper poured mist onto our glasses. We flipped fog like pancakes through the bitter air. We talked while each tree fell over the horizon and back, doing somersaults to the bottom of the waves and handstands on seaweed. We talked while midnight mixed through the wind, a marble of memory floating through our hair. Each gust took a strand by arm and danced under the poised trees loosely tangoing above the tangle of feelings in my throat because you’re leaving in a few months.

The water reflects, silent. The time we wasted falls down my cheek and send the upside-down trees shaking. The cat’s cradle crumbles. The delicate consistency is gone with the wisp of wind. I tell myself don’t move. Savor this midnight. Run your fingers through the marble in the air through the dancers in your hair. Try to remember this midnight with your sister because she’s leaving in a few months.

89 Go Ahead by Marlo Viriña

Go ahead. I found him sitting by himself Find me. on a bookstore bench I’ll find you. so I asked him for a seat. And we’ll be together. He said “go ahead” with a smile.

Go ahead. For a brief moment, Tell me who you are. he looked up from his book I’ll tell you who I am. and asked me for my name. And we’ll say who we are together. He thought my name was pretty.

Go ahead. I said “I like tacos Teach me what you like. and burgers and steaks I’ll teach you what I like. and cute guys like you on benches.” And we’ll learn what we like together. He responded, “I like you.”

Go ahead. A month into this thing we called Understand me. love, I’ll understand you. we sat on the couch And we’ll accept each other together. with sangria in hands. He told me his deepest fears.

Go ahead. He proposed on a Friday Share your life with me. and in July I walked on rose petals I’ll share my life with you. my eyes focused on only him. And we’ll live life together. He said “I do” and we kissed.

Go ahead. He finally got a real job a year later Be proud of my success. and I was so proud of him I’ll be proud of your success. so on our anniversary in July, And we’ll be happy together. I made him dinner. He said, “I’m busy. Go ahead, eat without me.” I didn’t see him a lot after that

Go ahead. and I started to hate him and Discover the things that bother you about me. his job I’ll discover the things that bother me about you. He stopped giving me kisses And we’ll soon get sick of being together. and he didn’t have time For sitting on benches or reading books. So I wrote him a letter. So I went ahead. I didn’t have time to hear him say, “Goodbye.” He was too busy, I thought. 90 FINE! Leave me. Leave me. I’ll leave you. I’ll leave you. And we’ll never again be And we’ll never again be together. together. So, go ahead.

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