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Staff

Faculty Advisor……………………………………………………...... Ms. Sautter

President……………...………………………………………...... Janice Indajang

Vice President………………………………………………...... ……….Abby Lorch

Secretary……………………………………………………...... ….Callahan Coffey

Co-Tech Rep…………………………………………………...... …..Daniel Collazo-Schiavo

Co-Tech Rep……………………………………..……………...... Evan Corwin

Editor……….…………………………………………………...... Amelia Chee

Editor……….………………………………………………...... …..Jacob Morrissette

Editor……….………………………………………………...... …...... Annika Joshi 3

Table of Contents

Poetry earth...... Grace Perna [3] thoughtless / baseless...... Grace Perna [3] brain fog...... Grace Perna [4] time waisted...... Grace Perna [4] The Parallels of the Universe ...... Ishan Swali [5] Tiny Plane ...... Amelia Chee [5] Three Knocks ...... Ella White [6] A Nice Day ...... Akshi Patil [7] Two Bad Choices ...... Nathan Brimhall [8] The Rules...... Nathan Brimhall [9] Fantasy...... Nathan Brimhall [9]

Nonfiction A Declaration About Leadership ...... Janice Indajang [10] Escape Plan ...... Emily Van Pelt [13] The Man in the Mirror ...... Evan Corwin[16] A New World ...... Anonymous [19]

Fiction The Call of the Woods ...... Maggie Córdova [21] Dad...... Molly McBain [25] Head Above Water ...... Trinity Sanders [29] Never Alone ...... Amelia Chee [32] Vale Timor ...... Callahan Coffey [34] War Games ...... Arnav Singh [38]

Artwork The Distance Between Us ...... Kyra Gregoire [Cover] Calm After the Storm ...... Janice Indajang [12] Something Sweet! ...... Amelia Chee [15] Knight...... Janice Indajang [18] Life Is Pain...... Jacob Morrissette [24] Still Life...... Rhianna Smith [28] Halloween bug ...... Jacob Morrissette [33] Shen Censorship ...... Anonymous [43] 3

but you are not the earth, earth. and what you live for is unknown. By Grace Perna atmosphere penetrable fears to be lifted at some zenith in eons

and magma rises again. sheltered and secure and pained riding convection waves, constrained and stuttered and then the earth shakes. knowledge hiding in circumstance. up down hot cold never care to clarify, we bask in our never can begin to begin. contradictions, miss the mark and abide by the actions oppositions inner consciousness cries out yet again. don’t we? telling yourself you’re solid as you well up but have you ever been to the mantle? in tears stockings lined of evidence you are not at home here. smitten to dreams in fear, hopes and prayers and hopeless romance you guard the unknown. afraid of messing it up for you are not the earth, dedicated to never seeing it through. you are bone. tired of all but outside this head this reality, churning and true. thoughtless / baseless. knowing we don’t know by Grace Perna what’s down there. unrequited virtue amidst my niagara hidden enigmas beneath a conscience blanket-opaque-obvious-clear surface and the river styx bows in my mind. rocky mountains and oceans thick-deep deviation seals decorum’s blade; sweet smiles and a comforting reminder: pinching out lingered flames. a naive hope for humanity, what’s on your mind today? a nihilistic breed of thoughts arising. 4

brain fog. mind in a steady decline paralleled to by Grace Perna body’s time i fought and i fought particle buzz. but i guess willpower isn’t enough. ring subtlety encompassing a medical anomaly and a scientific mystery, my brain my thoughts i have proven wrong pulsing my eyes shut. the conservation of energy. lagging fingers trip over these keys only autocorrect to save me. lost in surroundings, time waisted. a forgotten being in my own head. by Grace Perna the toaster pops and i scream in return; to fit or not to fit. numbers mixed and a blur ten thousand weighted oppressive ivory curtains blow incoherent words out a back’s check 10, 11, 12 hours of sleep and no prevail. fitting together like my parents at their confidence drapes awkwardly best. drips from the bones of the corpse staring in the post post era we love to ask awed never know what comes after this in fear in pain in tears in the mirror seeping in the cracks or soaring in the the reflection the external representation arteries that cannot possibly be me. snapping verbatim names tests boom and bust drive insanity through the dawn of an even more nihilistic age unfocused eyes; and we let our screams bring forth some too guilty to ask too masked to give in, semblance of meaning. the illusion of normalcy craving to be free flicking wrists bloody the mind’s eyes yearning desperately to scream at someone from such afar we fail to see who won’t understand the flavors of reality for no other reason than to over explain it snapping popping pop culture freak again. words drawn bleak and meaningless loss of identity through we’re such neat freaks. floating dashing piercing remnants of crystal bright bleeding vices in the night thoughts tape measure 21 not putting up any fight. 5

The Parallels of the Universe by Ishan Swali

I am the giver of light, I am the taker of light,

I am the giver of life I am the bringer of death

I explode in a ball of light, I never blow, Boom Like a firework, I just continue to grow

I send out light, I steal the light, Every single moment, Each and every single second I am the bringer of day and night, Endless nights, The giver of life. Ender of life

I am the giver of light. I am the taker of light. I am a star. I am a void.

Tiny Plane By Amelia Chee 6

Three Knocks By Ella White Void of color I dangle my feet over the side of the bed Seventeen years behind me Floor meeting bare feet Thinking about the past Ice I want my dad to carry me to my room after falling asleep on the couch Three steps to reach the door I want to make cookies with my mom I grasp the gold chipped door knob Laughing at all her funny jokes Twist I want to play house with my childhood best I stick my head into the hall friend Or what was once there We don’t even speak anymore Or whatever it is now Just a smile whenever we cross paths Hundreds of toys scattered here As a child And there All I wanted to do was grow up Piling up on a floor that isn’t there Whenever I dreamt of growing up Floating in the black void I would awake with a start Sun bleached Three knocks Broken Bring me out of my dreams of the future Forgotten And back to the present My old toys Action figures that my brother told me girls The knocks don’t scare me anymore don’t play with As they did when I was younger My pink bike covered with glitter that my They leave me feeling empty neighbor’s best friend teased me for riding Leaving an echo A blue Hot Wheels container with my An imprint favorite cars spilling out In my cold CD player faintly playing an old Taylor Swift Bare album Bedroom A glass room sits thirty feet away The night before graduation day Light bulb attached to the ceiling that never Four years ends and never begins Gone in a blink A string hangs down to turn the bulb on I think about college and off About the terrifying future ahead of me The knocks sound Trembling I shoot upright I turn around to return to my bedroom Palms sweaty Trying to regain familiarity in the red LED Something feels different lights But I haven’t felt anything in months The glow of the hallway is pitch black So why go back now? 7

I feel myself being drawn to the glass box I want her to cherish her childhood Now realizing Because growing up It resembles my childhood bedroom It’s a sickening feeling Bed pressed against the corner So I knock Taylor Swift posters hanging above my Three times head Night light illuminating the space I see myself Seven years old maybe A Nice Day Tangled hair by Akshi Patil Dad’s old t-shirt that I refused to sleep without I wake up to the sound of chirping birds. I get out of my comfortable bed. Above her head a scene is playing But they sound nothing like actual words. A dream I go and apply butter on my bread. She dreams of moving out Then I go and take a great big shower. Growing up I grab a comb to brush my messy hair. She wants nothing more than to be a big I walk outside to see the cute flower. kid I take a seat on an old rocking chair. Later, I decide to go for a walk. I need to get her attention The stench of the fresh cut grass fills the She’s far too young to want to think about air. the future All of a sudden I hear a loud squawk. She has so much to experience I wish it was a kind baby bear. To love If only all of these moments could stay So innocent Today I think it’s a wonderful day. So pure 8

Two Bad Choices by Nathan Brimhall Then there’s the second And final option: When given the choice between two To leave all that behind, wrongs, At the high price of pure loneliness. Which one would you take? Would you rather live poorer than poor Your father immigrated to El Otro Lado Or have no family or friends? To earn money to survive. Either he leaves you forever, There is a place called Iguala No goodbye ever said, Where life is than garbage. Or someday returns to bring you there.

All trash lives in heaps and piles, It doesn’t matter if you stay or immigrate? Yet it can ride with the river . Your father changes into a new man or no It has no cares, no worries, no dreams, man — And no forgotten wishes — A new person who doesn’t know you. It’s despised and useless. And whether you stay or if you go, You’re made fun of either way. But somehow, someway, Either way you’re fatherless. Down there, There’s no means for travel — If you go to the Land of Dreams, No infinite running, No one speaks your language. No infinite hiding — The only ones you know are those No reality from which to escape. Changed family members — All there is are cares and worries, Changed and blinded by opportunity. And endless forgotten wishes. When given the choice between two Life is only concerned with the next meal, wrongs, The next source of water — Which one would you take? The next dollar. Would you rather live poorer than poor It tears you and grinds you, Or have no family or friends? With no one there to help you. This is the choice You scrummage for food, That thousands make each day. You steal for food Only few know the disasters Because no one is able to help you. That awaits either choice. 9

The Rules Unites us, by Nathan Brimhall Shapes us, And shapes our destinations. They are written, spoken, And often unnoted. Fantasy gives meaning to life. Too many, too many, Without it, we can’t progress. Too many of them — Good ones and bad ones — All they are are rules. Fantasy by Nathan Brimhall They are kept and broken, And often poked at. Fantasy grants hope, So who cares? Fantasy grants motivation, Fantasy grants imagination. Most important are the rules unspoken, Unwritten, unnoted — It drives us. The ones that you make. Despite not being the light Always at the end of the tunnel, They’re the ones people see It gives us power to make our own suns And follow forever; As we find ourselves The ones you’re known for; In our darkest corners. The boundaries you’ve shown. Perhaps falsities aren’t so bad — When you break the rules, Knowing the truth can hurt. Others will follow. Someone, It’s what we learn Something, And all we know. Somewhere Is out there Fantasy asks “what if.” Who can help you Fantasy explains the unexplainable. It brings us together, 10

A Declaration About Leadership by Janice Indajang

I’ll be frank, it’s been a tough year. Quarantine, college applications, clubs, online classes, all these have taken a toll on everybody, myself included. I want to personally congratulate each and every one of you for persevering through these tough times. I know it hasn’t been easy, but I truly believe in the community of Shen and the comrades in academics we’ve made. The bonds between faculty, staff, and students will bind us and help us see through this year. That is what I have always loved about Shen. The community has always been a rock for me and many others. When I’m stressed, anxious, lost, I know I have friends, teachers, counselors, and staff that I can talk to at Shen to make it through the day. I miss seeing my friends and teachers every day, but even online, in the middle of a pandemic, I am amazed by the camaraderie that Shen students have with one another. I am a proud Shen senior, and I know that the foundations of this Shen community will continue to support and uplift students and staff. That said, I believe that Shen is not perfect. Shen is a work in progress, and I believe that one such issue at Shen should be openly discussed and addressed. As a senior, I’ve seen this pattern of behavior occur every year, and yet the subject remains taboo, club elections. I’ve seen students tear into each other, criticizing one another and vying for positions in clubs and societies. I see friends who, behind curtains, insult and criticize each other simply because they were running for the same positions. I’ve been in situations where my peers feel that in order to win votes, their best option is to mudsling at their opponents and simply rely on their friendships and connections, rather than actually figuring out positions and platforms for their elections. Worst of all, I see many people run for positions that, once they are on the seat, really did not run with the intention of improving the club/society. Rather they run with secondary interests, whether that is for resumes, colleges, etc.. I am not here to say that you should not have such secondary personal interests, but at the end of the day, you should run for positions that you truly believe you have the will to improve the club/society. Secondary personal interests must be secondary, and the progress and integrity of the club/election should be preserved for the sake of the ideals and platform the club stands for. Despite all of these issues, it is equally clear that nobody wants to talk about it. The process of elections and vying for positions of power has twisted so many people into believing the only way up is to tear others down. I know this experience first hand. In the fall of senior year, I ran for a position that I knew several others were running for. My opponents had more experience than me, and I openly admitted that. It would be false of me to mitigate their experiences to promote mine. What I did was solely focus on my platform and position. It was a long shot, but running was a means to an end of bettering the club with my ideas. Unfortunately such ideals were not upheld with my opponents. I was on Google Meets when I heard my opponent, who was in the same class, begin to talk about their position and, in particular, their opponents. This student began to criticize and overtly complain about the opposition to their friends, who encouraged them. They actively chimed in to further debase the opposition. When they realized I was present in the room through Google Meets, and I heard everything they were saying. They ended the discussion. 11

I was the opposition, and this incident just proved to me how easy it is for my fellow peers and candidates to turn towards criticizing the opponent, instead of facing the confrontation of elections head on. I also realized how cowardly such tactics were. Funnily enough, their silence was a passive admittance to how they realized they were in the wrong. If they truly disagreed with my platform, whatever they say behind closed doors they should not be afraid to say to my face, yet it is clear they realized their ad hominem was a fallacy to begin with. To this day, I have not received an apology, and honestly, as much as I am angry about the situation, as much as I want to call out this person, I’ve realized that this student’s aggression and behavior was simply a reaction to a larger system at play. It is unfair to categorize all elections and clubs with such fierce and aggressive elective competition, but I believe that there are enough clubs and elections that are hosted at Shen where such elements of mudslinging are pervasive amongst candidates. It’s cowardly, it’s hypocritical, but above all, it is sad. Why must we debase ourselves and our beliefs to simply attack one another? Can we not host elections where we criticize and debate on one another’s platforms, rather than our characters and how many friends we have? The system of elections at Shen, and to a greater degree elections in general, do lie heavily on popularity. That inherently is not a bad thing, but at least at Shen, this has led to dirty campaigns. Candidates spend more time using their friends and connections to secure votes over working on their platform, and suddenly a majority of voters are voting not because of the platform the students are running on, but because of a long winded “whose side am I on” situation. Furthermore, all these tactics are brushed under the carpet at the end of the election. It is unhealthy for us never to acknowledge how we are so ready to hurt each other for our own goals. It is even more unhealthy for us to accept reasons from the candidates like “anxiety if I don’t win” or “you’re my friend so vote for me” instead of concrete platforms. It is time for this to change. Candidates should be open about working for their platforms, and they must take responsibility for any tactics they choose to employ in their process of election. We the student body should stop accepting such excuses as imaginary platforms to justify our vote for a candidate. It doesn’t help us, and it doesn’t help the student candidate grow. A lot of these elections do little in effect outside of Shen. What they are amazing for though is a training ground for students to learn leadership, communication, and truly fighting for what they believe in. We should not tarnish such an environment with our own vitriol and desire to hold an elected position. You might ask me, “if you’re so invested why not come up with a solution”. I’ll be frank, I do not have a one size fits all solution for this issue. But I do have some suggestions. Whether or not what I am saying will be listened to is not up to me, it is up to the Shenendehowa community to discuss and implement if they so choose. Elections should be as blind as possible. Simple statistics talk about “single-blinding” or “double-blinding” experiments to reduce the bias that inherently all of us develop. Candidates should publish their platforms without their name or identification, so that way students are voting solely for the platform discussed, not whose face is on the platform. I’ll admit, this solution I’m sure will have kinks, and you may argue this type of election does not simulate elections outside of Shen, or it restricts the student's ability to campaign for themselves, but to this I have only one thing to say: I would rather fight for a school culture where we do not tear one another apart with a 12

slightly altered elective scheme than continue to see such a vicious cycle hurt the people we care about. Another solution should be that we discuss this election in the open. No more calling opposition candidates ambitionless or not-fit behind their backs. If you truly believe that, say it to the opposition’s face. Say it and defend yourself. To speak of such character flaws behind someone’s back isn’t being woke or proving you are the superior candidate, it proves you yourself have little faith in your own character to win an election. If you’re running for a position, get ready for disagreement, get ready for losing, get ready for people not liking you. It’s part of the package, and you’ll do little to help the situation if you yourself are adding to the cacophony of criticisms surrounding an election. Simply put, let’s talk more. Let’s openly admit why we believe we’re the best candidate, not resort to closed door discussions. It hurts everybody and tears the Shen community I love apart. I love what this school has offered, but it is up to us to see that these clubs will continue to live on to their ideals long after we graduate. We need to be honest with ourselves. Who are we truly fighting for when we run in an election, ourselves or for the sake of the club?. At the end of the day, the latter should always be the answer.

Calm after the Storm By Janice Indajang 13

Escape Plan by Emily Van Pelt

To all of the parents who suffer from the relentless begging of their child wanting a pet, I am sorry for your struggle. I too tormented my parents with the questions and the whining. I find the whole thing slightly amusing thinking back to it. The summer before third grade, I became obsessed with the idea of having a hamster, so obsessed that I printed pictures of hamsters and taped them to the walls of my room. Every time my parents came in, I would point to the pictures around my room and tell them a little something about it, like I was giving a tour at an art gallery. Each time I asked, “Can I get a hamster?” “No.” “Why not?” “Because I said so.” I would ask again and again. The answer would never change, so I have no idea why I felt my efforts were making a difference, but I kept at it. Until one day, I asked and they hesitated. As an eight year old this wasn’t just a few second pause, in my mind it was a minute of complete weakness that I was going to exploit. I started smiling and getting excited, jumping up and down. Who on earth would take away that kind of excitement from their kid? Not my parents. They looked at one another realizing that they’d just been trapped. I can only imagine the conversation they shared through that look. The next thing I knew, I was at the pet store picking out a hamster. Contrary to what the internet may say, hamsters are not low-maintenance. They are just more capable of enduring their owner’s lack of responsibility, hence why they make great pets for kids. What I was most unprepared for, though, was how vicious they can be. When I got that tiny ball of fluff that would become my first pet, I knew nothing of her nature and (ironically) named her Sugar. She was anything but sweet. Did you know that hamster teeth never stop growing? Sugar’s were no exception. Anytime I tried to pet her. *CHOMP* Anytime I tried to pick her up *CHOMP* Anytime I put my hand near her *CHOMP* I think you get the point. Now of course biting is a natural instinct for hamsters and Sugar was not to blame for her aggressive behavior, it was my lousy parenting skills. Despite the fact that I loved my hamster to no end, I was a kid; kids are terrible caregivers. Since I 14 spent no time allowing her to adjust to me or taking care of her properly, there was no bond between us. I was basically her captor, and that was definitely how she thought of me. At any given moment, Sugar was plotting or attempting an escape. Her plans were rather predictable; bite me and run for the exit, investigate every corner of the cage, climb the walls, or push apart the wires to make a large enough opening. Could you blame her though? That was her entire life, run on a wheel and try to escape. Although, what would she do if she did get out? I don’t think either of us thought out that part of the plan. One Saturday morning, I woke up to find that Sugar was gone. I searched her cage three times over. I started panicking and getting tunnel vision, looking all over my floor expecting to see a hamster running around. I yelled for my dad to come help me look. At this point I was crying. My dad came into my room, told me to calm down and asked me what happened. I explained to him that Sugar escaped, but I could not keep my panic at bay. After what felt like twenty minutes of searching, my dad found her in my closet, fast asleep in one of my shoes. After the stressful event, my dad and I came to the conclusion she escaped through her playpen, a fenced area attached to her cage. She probably wandered around my room for a bit and then curled up in my shoe because she recognized my scent. I removed the playpen and we went on with the day. Despite her continued efforts, Sugar never escaped her cage again. I got my second hamster at 17. This time I did my research, all of the prepwork by buying food and toys, I even bought a large plastic bin to make her cage out of. If I was going to be a pet owner, I was going to do it right. I got Cleo in August last summer, and the journey with her so far has been a great one. I was able to see a bond forming between us when she first ate out of my hand, then allowed me to pet her, then eventually hold her. These baby steps meant the world to me because not only did it mean I am forming a bond with my hamster, but also that she feels comfortable with me and her home. Having said that, our connection did not stop her escape attempts. Just as Sugar did, Cleo wanted to run free around my room with no barriers. The only difference was that Cleo did not do this as often or aggressively as Sugar. Once again, I was left wondering, what would she do if she did get loose? Two weeks ago I found out. It was a Friday afternoon and I was cleaning Cleo’s bin cage. I put her in her hamster ball and let her run around my room while my sister, Katie, watched her. I was in the bathroom, almost done cleaning when I heard Katie yell, “Can someone please help me?!” I sprinted to my room to find Katie in a panic. “I see her running in her ball one second,Then I check my phone, look 15

up, and the top is off of her hamster ball.” It was like I switched into focus mode, if that’s a thing. I immediately shut the door behind me and started searching my room. I look under my bed to find Cleo waddling around smelling every object. I actually thought it was really cute, she looked like she was having the time of her life. I didn’t want her to go anywhere we couldn’t reach though, so I stretched my arm out under the bed. She went up to my hand and started smelling it. She walked around my hand for a bit longer then came running straight to me. Let me just say, my heart melted in that moment. Cleo, who had the whole room to explore freely, came right to me. I picked her up and gave her pets, kisses, and treats galore! Since I was basically done cleaning her bin, I put her back in there while I filled it with her bedding and toys, and that was that.

Something Sweet! By Amelia Chee 16

The Man in the Mirror by Evan Corwin

Do you have those childhood memories where they're so old and fragmented that you can't tell if you dreamt it or lived it? You've thought over it so many times that you must have embellished some bit here or omitted this detail there. And yet, it remains.

Because I have one of those, and it goes like this:

I'm five or six, at least I think. I must have noticed something about the other children in my class, not that I remember what, but there seemed to me a distinction or maybe, more accurately, a disconnect between the other girls and me. I believe I went up to my mother and said,

"Am I a girl, Mama? Can you check my birth certificate?"

I have no idea what my mother said, nor if I had even ever uttered or thought those words back then, but still I remember it. When I first thought about this, years later, I believed I had finally figured out the reason for this. See, my school district had almost entirely white students, so only one or two girls had my hair or my nose. Maybe I had felt insecure because of this?

Then I turned 16.

I had experienced intense episodes of anxiety and panic attacks, been talking to a therapist ever since my pediatrician worried about my depression from that little screening paper they make you fill out, spent every second of the school year that was under 75 degrees with my long natural hair under a beanie, and was considering going by an androgynous nickname when the next school year started.

"What’s wrong with me?" I wondered then. But I never told a soul, no. I simply wrote it down and hoped it was all just teenage angst that would fizzle out after a few years. “Ah yes,” I must’ve thought, “at twenty-four all my problems will be solved”.

But nothing changed over the coming years.

I still hadn’t told my therapist, even though I knew I probably should have. My diary had become a manifesto, with the pages of half-serious suicidal thoughts still lingering in the front, all about how I hated my voice, my height, my hair, my name. I was still doing well enough as to not cause myself any physical harm, but sometimes I wondered if it was just the anxiety holding me back.

Then the car ride happened. 17

My mom was driving me home from the therapist after another failed attempt of me trying to explain everything to her. I started laughing. And laughing. And crying. And laughing and crying and laughing and laughing and crying—My mom was terrified. I was still doing it when we got back home. It must’ve been a panic attack,but I couldn’t say anything because my body was so wracked with nervous laughter. I eventually calmed down and when she asked what was wrong, half-jokingly, she asked,

“What, do you want me to call you Michael?”

My middle name had been “Michelle” then, and sometimes I’d been called “Mickey” as a nickname. In response, I did that childish thing I hadn’t done in many years; I wrote down my grievance on a piece of paper rather than speaking it. It read:

“I’m questioning my gender.”

She sighed and said that was fine, but that was the end of it. For months I said nothing else, until at last, that day came.

March 2nd 2020.

The calm before the storm to most, but for me, it marks the very opposite. Perhaps, bird chirping amidst the clear skies, with the scent of rainwater filling the air, if you will.

I had gotten home from a school club with something in mind. I had told my closest friend of the details of the plan I was about to enact. I took a 3 by 5 index card and copied down a little image of gender reveal card, stork with baby, that kind of thing, but then I froze. The plan changed suddenly. I felt that same feeling from the car ride set in, so I grabbed a stapler, stapled two index cards together, wrote every pained detail from that... that... trans manifesto, handed it to my mom, and ran out the door with my boots barely on.

It was cold that night.

And dark too, as winter had not quite ended. I walked up to that basketball hoop in the middle of the street, by the sandbags and before the mossy roofed house hidden in trees, then walked back. My mom was sitting on that bench she and my father made and waiting for me to return.

I was Tasha, the small child, darling of the grandparents.

Then Natasha, the attentive student, top of her class in middle school.

Then Mickey, the teenager trying to keep up with their distanced classes.

Then Evan, a young man on the verge of graduating high school. 18

I’m officially four months on testosterone.

A Knight By Janice Indajang 19

A New World by Anonymous

Sometimes I like thinking about how simple life used to be. But recently I’ve realized that I tend to glorify the past. When I first came to America I was crestfallen and missed being in China where I felt secure.

I arrived in March of 2008. Then, I understood no English and immediately had to enroll in daycare. It was frightening. The teachers had learned some Chinese beforehand to help me out but that was barely any help to me. They couldn’t communicate with me as I wished.

On my first day of daycare, my mom stayed with me to help me get familiar with the surroundings, but the second she walked out the door I began sobbing hysterically. I had always been a reserved child and putting me in a room with people I didn’t know was intimidating. None of the teachers knew what to do, so I just cried. Once I got tired of crying, I became thirsty. I worked up a lot of courage to ask my teacher Miss Amy for water, but I didn’t even know how to talk to her. It took her around 5 minutes to figure out what I wanted. Miss Amy then told a boy named Jonathan to show me where the fountain was. Jonathan led me to a play set water fountain. I didn’t bother asking again. I felt sad and lonely and started crying again. My other teacher, Miss Jessica, gave up and called my mom.

One time the kids were going outside to play with the sprinkler. I was reluctant to go outside and started crying again. Miss Jessica held me back in the corner of the room where the cubbies were to speak to me. She told me, “You need to stop crying.” That moment really stuck with me because I actually understood what she wanted me to do. Previously, all her commands sounded like gibberish, but when she said “stop,” I understood! It was remarkable and I was proud of myself. I didn’t stop crying though; I just glared at the cubbies around me and longed to go home.

This other time Miss Jess asked me if I was “hot”. That word was new to me and she had to say the Chinese word “热“ for me to understand what she was asking. It was a hot summer day so I said yes. She ended up sending me home for having a fever. I learned a new word that day and it was pretty useful. Every time I found class to be boringI’d just say “hot” so I could go home. After a few times, Miss Jess caught on to what I was doing.

My appalling behavior lasted for about a month. I refused to eat and speak, stayed up during naptime, and cried. I was annoyed with my teachers and classmates. But even I was getting tired of my chaos. I had improved my English enough to make friends. My mom wasn’t going to come rescue me all the time so I might as well enjoy myself.

During recess, all the kids gathered in the big jungle gym. I went over and asked what was going on and they said that they were scared to down the slide. I wanted to show them that there was nothing to be afraid of and slid right down. Miss Jessica came and swept me right off the slide. Turns out there were spiders all over it. That day I learned the word “spider” but also how hard it would be to make friends.

Months passed and I was making more progress. I could understand what the other children were saying, and I didn’t mind going to daycare anymore. I just didn’t have any friends and usually hung out with the teachers. One day when I was coloring with Miss Jessica, a girl came 20 into my class to give a message to Miss Jessica. I became fascinated with her hair. My hair was pin straight, short, and black but this girl had curly long red hair. Her hair made me want to become friends with her. I remember that night I went home and cried to my mom about wanting curly hair.

I decided that I’d chase the girl around any time I saw her, as that was my way of trying to make friends. The red haired girl wasn’t in my class and it was days until I saw her again, on the playground. She was minding her own business going down the slide when I began chasing after her. The girl kept running away from me, and pretending I wasn’t chasing her, but I was right on her tail. She stopped underneath the jungle gym to make a fake mulch fire and I copied her. When she ended up hiding behind a teacher, I gave up.

Eventually I learned the girl’s name was Rachel. She introduced herself suddenly; perhaps she got tired of me chasing her. I was excited to have made my first friend. I didn’t see her much though. It turned out she was in the big kid class. I wanted to go to the big kid class too. I was already too old to stay with the younger kids and my wish came true: I got to move up to the big kid room. That room was massive compared to where I was before, and I had so much more freedom.

Rachel was a leader, and when we were together, it was chaos. I remember this one time we mixed the finger paints making an ugly green color. We were put in time-out on separate sides of the class. I didn’t mind being in trouble. I was glad to have made a best friend. But then, things changed.

One day, a bad tempered new kid named Ryan showed up. He hated everything and glared at everyone, frightening all the kids. I, however, wanted to become friends with Ryan; I remembered a time when I had no friends, just like him. Of course, I wasn’t the best at interacting with new people. During recess, I approached Ryan and handed him the headband I was wearing. The headband was white, covered with green lace and had 3 pearls at the top. My grandma had given it to me and I thought it was the prettiest thing ever. When I handed it to him, he analyzed it for 5 seconds and proceeded to snap it in half. It devastated me.

After the headband incident, I thought of Ryan as an insolent boy and wanted nothing to do with him. But Ryan was lonely too, and one day he asked Rachel and I if he could play with us. I was dubious of Ryan’s intentions, but Rachel said yes, and what Rachel said was always final. Ryan’s attitude had changed too. He was kind and had an affinity for crafts, just like me. I thought it was cool that his favorite color was pink. All the other boys said pink was too girly.

Ryan, Rachel, and I became best friends. We made up all sorts of different games to play to keep us busy and never fought. It felt as if we had an interminable friendship. That was how it was for the rest of my preschool years.

I find it astonishing that I changed from a girl who understood no English, to one who could speak just as well as the other 4 year olds, in the matter of a year. I’ll never forget my fanciful adventures with Ryan and Rachel that helped me adapt to a new life that I used to hate. Now, I barely remember the isolation I faced in this new world, just the great memories of irrepressible laughter with my best friends. I had to accept what I could not control and perhaps I might just like it. 21

The Call of the Woods by Maggie Córdova

In the frigid autumn air, the morning sun is red as its rays shine through the thick canopy of trees that make up a forest. A boy sleeps, undisturbed by the bright light illuminating an increasing portion of his face. The boy is confused when he wakes. He isn’t in his bed like he normally is when the birds start singing the first notes of their songs. He isn’t even in his house, on the couch in the living room where he sometimes lays when he can’t sleep. No, he’s on the ground in the woods that surround his home on all sides, with the first snow of the year starting to fall on his rumpled, dirty clothing. There are unexplained droplets of blood on his hands; he probably cut himself at some point during his time out here. As the boy sits up, he realizes that he’s near the small outcropping his father sometimes takes him to when his mind is racing or he can’t sit still. There’s a stream that flows nearby, and the sound never fails to calm him down. Far in the distance, in the opposite direction from the stream, are the bushes that make those pretty flowers his mother loves. He slowly stands up, observing his sore muscles, especially those in his back and legs. He tentatively takes a few steps forward, massaging his thighs as they scream in protest. The boy would much rather lay back down and sleep for the rest of the day, but he knows his parents will be worried. So instead of giving in to his body’s demands, he drags himself in the direction of the small cabin where he lives. His father will be able to fix his sore muscles and his mother will be able to mend the cuts on his hands, though mysteriously they don’t hurt at all. He knows his parents can fix anything.

In the dark of the night, when the only brightness comes from the occasional star twinkling between the tree branches, the boy walks. The forest is silent, apart from the crunch of branches and leaves under the boy’s feet. He knows his way around well, navigating easily through the rough terrain unlit by anything other than the stars in the sky. He does this often. Nothing can bother him here. The woods are a place of solitude, a haven for any recluse brave or stupid enough to wander them at night. He’s never been afraid of the woods, and he has no problem being in them after twilight. The boy’s loneliness disappears when he’s in the woods. He’s always alone—since he found his parents dead under the red sun and the first snow, he hasn’t seen more than a few hikers who walk the trails through the woods—but out here, he can finally be at peace. His problems seem far less troublesome when the only constraints he has are those that his body sets for itself. Tonight, the boy walks to the edge of the woods and back. Some nights he will retire early, and others he will stay out much longer, sometimes until he is too tired to remember anything the next morning. Tonight isn’t one of those nights. It’s just before dawn when the boy grows tired and walks through the woods back to his small cabin. He hesitates before he walks inside, like he 22 does every time. The woods call to him, but he knows that he can’t live in them forever. The memories of his home are too important to him to leave.

In the brightness of the afternoon sun, the boy, now a man, meets the woman who will one day become his wife. She is wandering along the trails, seemingly confused. “Are you lost?” He asks. She nods, embarrassed. “I think I took a wrong turn. I have no idea where I am.” “Let me help you back, we’re pretty far into the forest.” As he guides her back to the edge of the woods, to the town nearby where he takes odd jobs for little pay, they engage in some small talk, trading stories and jokes. The man is drawn to her charming smile and quick wit—sometimes quicker than he can keep up with. The woman is drawn to his wide grin and his playful nature—maybe immature, but definitely cute. Years later, at their wedding, she’ll say that it was his act of gallantry that made her fall for him. He’ll say it was her felicitous countenance—both words that she taught him—that made him fall for her.

At the brink of dawn, when the red morning sun is just barely shining over the horizon, the man’s girlfriend screams. He lays before her, sunlight revealing his muzzle covered in a prodigious sheen of blood and what seems to be small clumps of fur. A similar mix of the substance coats his large hands, dripping from his fingernails and down his arms. When the man wakes, the horrified woman is quick to chastise him. She screams until she can no longer, voice hoarse and gravelly and shaking. “Promise you won’t do it again,” she begs. He agrees, but he doesn’t understand. He doesn’t remember what he did. All he knows is that the woods called to him, and he answered their call.

It’s a warm winter night, and the man takes his girlfriend out to the nearby town. She loves romantic gestures like this, and he wants to make her happy. They go to a relatively nice restaurant, one that serves expensive food that sits heavy in their stomachs. He’s nervous. Realistically, the man knows the outcome of the night. Still, the ring is lead in his pocket.

It’s the first day of spring, and the man is presented with his son. His wife lays in a bed next to him, still exhausted from delivering the child, but all he can see is the tiny baby in his arms. 23

He wasn’t sure how he felt when his wife first told him their child was growing inside of her. An odd mix of emotions had taken hold of him, all an enigma to the boy from the woods who grew up isolated and alone. He hadn’t understood exactly what he was meant to feel, but he was sure the odious nature of some of his thoughts wasn’t normal or healthy. Now, though, as the man holds the child of his and his wife’s creation, he gets it. The baby isn’t much to look at, still pink-skinned from being washed of blood and vernix, but this is his son. “He’s perfect.”

On a chilly spring night, the man carries his son in his arms as he stumbles through the woods. His breath smells so strongly of whiskey that his son had long grown dizzy, but the boy clings tightly as ever. When the two finally reach the small cabin both call home, the man hesitates before pushing the door open and walking inside. Upon their entrance, the man’s wife berates him for his negligence. Their son’s bedtime has long passed, and the whiskey on his breath does nothing but incriminate him further. Her words eventually pitter out as the man watches on blankly. This isn’t anything new. They both know that nothing she can say will alter the outcome. Instead, the man takes his son’s hand in his own and leads the toddler to his room. The boy clings to his father’s shirt when he tries to leave, but the man’s bruised knuckles and blood-speckled fingernails are much stronger than his son’s tiny hands. A kiss to the boy’s forehead and the man is gone. The crestfallen face of the boy follows him out of the room.

It’s summer, and the man lays in the grass next to his son. The sun is shining brightly down on them, revealing their wide smiles and sharply rising and falling chests. They are exhausted, worn out from a long day of running around the forest and play-fighting. These days—the days when they spend long hours just being father and son—are few and far between. The man’s dependence on alcohol and fistfights make them almost impossible. But these times are so perfect that to his son, it doesn’t matter what the man does. The boy will forgive his father every time. The man has tried—really, really tried—to be better. But it’s just too hard, far too ingrained into him after so many years, to stop. He knows he’ll live out the rest of his days with a bottle in his hand and bruises on his knuckles. At least the alcohol dulls the woods’ call.

At dusk on a warm autumn night, the man takes his wife into the woods where they first met. It’s a peaceful night. The only sounds are their footsteps and the occasional exchange of 24

words between them. The stars shine upon them, and the wind blows gently across their faces. It’s nothing much, but it’s perfect. The woods call to them, and just once, the man’s wife understands the reverence he holds for this place. “It’s beautiful,” she whispers, the quiet words barely resonating in the night. The man smiles, taking her hand and leading her deeper into the forest.

Under the sinking orange rays of the sun, the man basks. A few tentative snowflakes float down from the sky, melting far before touching his face. His pupils are dilated far more than humanly possible, betraying his malicious nature. His canines are razor-sharp, ending in delicate points, capable of doing an inordinate amount of damage for their size. There is no one around. The forest is silent apart from the pounding of his feet across the ground, crunching branches and leaves as he races past. He runs freely, not constrained by the rules his wife set for him long ago, nor the shame he feels when his son sees him doing anything unholy. The woods call to him. He sees the bodies of his latest victims laying on the ground, realizing now that he had turned back in the direction he came from. Only then does the man fall out of his trance. On the ground are his wife and son.

The end.

Life Is Pain By Jacob Morrissette 25

Dad by Molly McBain

Genevive Walker, a beautiful baby girl, was only 8 months old when she started to walk. Her brown, curly hair blew with the wind at their town park, a place Genevive loved to play. At age 2, she was able to read books and have conversations with her mother and father. She learned different words every day, and asked her Mom and Dad what certain things meant. At age 4, she had the ability to ride a bike, without the training wheels. It took a couple tries, but she had determination in her eyes, a feeling that never budged. When age 9 struck, her whole life was flipped upside down, holting to an abrupt stop. Her father, Michael, was on his way home one night when he had been pulled over by two police officers. the roads were slippery, like ice. Drip, drop. The droplets battered his windshield. He drove extra slowly. He was tempted to gain speed, but knew the most important people in his life would be right in front of his eyes in 5 minutes. Drip, drop. There was no reason for him to rush. His impulses wanted him to speed to see his two lovely girls, but he resisted. Drip, drop. The sound of the siren worried him. He was confused as to why he was being pulled over, but he was not naive. Drip, drop the rain continued. Michael knew what could happen in these situations, and it was far worse than any tasteless joke his brother would make on Thanksgiving. The cop car parked behind him, and the noise of the siren had been muted but the obnoxious flashing lights were still strobing like a lighthouse. Drip, drop. Two cops opened their doors, and started to head towards his car. Michael loved his car-a Mercedes C Class- that he worked hard to earn.. Drip, drop. He noticed two middle aged white men, in full uniform. One had a gun in his hands, fingers resting on the trigger t. Michael shifted uncomfortably in his leather seat. Drip, drop.He rolled the window down and asked what was happening. He managed to keep his hands in sight, his voice level and his eyes on the officer. was met with more aggressiveness with each word he spoke. Drip, drop. Drip, drop. He knew what happened to those who were not as obsequious in these situations. Drip, drop. “Sir, may I ask: whose car are you driving?” Drip, drop. Drip, drop. Drip, drop. Drip, drop. “Oh, this is mine! I bought it about 2 years ago when I got a big raise at the job.” Michael was a hard worker, and he had worked his way up at the Barbeque from being a janitor, to bussing tables, to becoming head chef, to ultimately owning the restaurant Mama’s Barbeque--a buzzing hotspot in the city of Chicago. He spent practically every second improving each aspect of the restaurant. “Yeah. Okay sir,” the officer snorted, “I’m gonna need to see your license and registration.” Drip, drop. Drip, drop. “Of course, let me get it out; it should be right her--” BANG!. He was fading in and out of consciousness for what seemed to be a lifetime. His daughter's face smiled at him. His wife told him he was going to be okay. The officer who shot him checked his pulse, and told his partner he was gone. “No. Please, I’m still here!” He wanted to shout, but his body didn’t have it in him. Fifteen minutes later, the last sound he heard was the repeating sound. Drip. Drop. Several months later, in court, these police officers claimed Michael, Genevive’s loving father, was reaching to grab a weapon when they asked for his identification. However, there were no weapons in Michael's car or even his home. “He isn’t a violent man!” Genevive's mother, Georgia, cried. 26

The court found the two officers innocent on all charges, leaving Viv and Georgia on their own. Mom As Genevive grew older, her body and mind matured, her face more structured, her brain more developed. She excelled in school, and was friends with many members of her community. Her mom watched her succeed in all school events, watched her have her first boyfriend and even helped her get ready for her first school dance. “Go Viv!” Her mom screamed as she won over 15 awards her freshman year. Her mom barely made it that day; she was working double shifts at the hospital. She wouldn’t miss anything if it meant she could see her daughter's gleaming smile. But inside of the beaming ray of sunshine, her mom saw the pain she pushed down deep inside. She knew Genevive was not okay, her little Vivvy suffered everyday from the loss that the two of them experienced. Georgia took over Mama’s Barbeque when Michael died, and she couldn’t keep up with it. She never got the chance to acknowledge her husband's hard work, and it gave her another sense of admiration for what he did to provide for her family. Unfortunately, under different leadership, the workers lost passion and so did she, resulting in the once popular Mama’s Barbeque turning into a ghost town. The rent and bills seemed to never end, and Georgia struggled to put food on the table for her precious Genevive. Georgia was a nurse, but hadn’t had to work in years when the Barbeque picked up popularity. She caught herself up to speed, and eventually landed herself a position back in the hospital she worked at previously. Her shifts were long, late, and lonely. Every time she stepped foot in the hospital and watched the level of care the white people received, her heart broke even more. If her husband were white, he would have been treated right away. If her husband were white, he would still be with them today. It was a late shift, as always, but she felt extra tired. Her coworkers noticed her fatigue, but as usual, never cared to ask how she was doing. As one of the few black nurses in the hospital, she was isolated, by her employers, patients and even by other colleagues. Having no one to talk to was getting to Georgia; she didn’t want Vivvy to see her as weak. . And money was money, it was all she had. She hated that her daughter, who she was supposed to provide for, had to work to provide for her Mom. Viv got a job at their local market as a cashier. Georgia pretended she didn’t notice the money Viv slipped into the expenses jar; She couldn’t afford to decline. The pile of bills slowly shrunk each day as Georgia received stable pay. Viv was only 17, working 40 hour weeks, the president of many clubs and honors societies. She would be going to college next year, and all Georgia could do was pray that the universities would see her worth, and help her out like she deserved. Georgia didn’t know what Vivvy wanted to do with her life, she never asked. The last thing she wanted to do was rush or pressure her. She had enough on her back, and had no clue how the kid managed to do everything she did in only 24 hours. The days went by slowly, the nights were long and all they could do was savor every moment they were still afloat. Genevive Genevive never expected that life would move on without her dad, and she was upset that he wasn’t there to watch her go through milestones like graduations. She had no clue what to do with her life. She felt lost. Time was ticking, and she had scholarships lining up from prestigious schools. She wanted something to do with her life, that would make her feel like she was doing something to change her messed up world. 27

One chilly night in the windy city of Chicago, a woman came knocking on her door. Viv grunted, her mind still on the piles of statistics homework due the next day. She hated being interrupted. Hastily she opened the door to see a woman she’s never seen in her life. She was tall with creamy, caramel skin. Her hair curly, brought into a slick ponytail, with no existing bumps or blemishes. Viv gave her a long, prudent look, the best she could do still deep in statistical thought. “I’m not interested, thank you though.” Genevive said. The woman stuck her foot in the door, not budging. Viv started to worry, she was home alone, and it was late. “Your name is Genevive, and your father is Michael.” “H-how do you know that?” Viv was still fighting the woman holding the door open. “My name is Lisa Waters, I am a FBI agent.” She showed her badge which was in a case, covered in Black fist stickers, at least that's how it appeared. “, There has been a reinvestigation of your father's death.” Viv stopped pushing her away. The trepidation she once felt for the woman in front of her faded. “Go on.” Viv urged. “I know your mother is not here, but you deserve to know about your father just as much as your Mom.” “Okay, well come in. You’re letting all the warm air out.” Viv said. “We should sit down. What I’m going to tell you is very serious, and can change your perspective on a lot of things.” Viv looked at her, impatiently. “Well, let's not waste time!” Viv hastily replied. “Okay, the man that performed your father's autopsy in 2011 recently went into retirement. He came by our office to let us know about what he had done regarding your father's body.” Lisa said, making Viv’s eyes water. What had happened to her father's dead body? What did this man do? She worried. “When he came and spoke with me, he felt terrible about what had happened. The man who performed the autopsy had been paid off by the police department to show that your father was dead on sight. The truth was that your father was alive for 15 minutes after the shot entered his body and--” “It means he could be here with me right now?” Viv sobbed. Lisa nodded, giving Viv a moment to collect herself before continuing.“ According to phone records, those two officers waited 25 minutes to call an ambulance, meaning they waited for him to die before giving him help.” “What am I supposed to do with this?! He’s gone, he’s not coming back!” Lisa was disconcerted, she didn’t know what to say to the grieving girl. She hoped to ease her pain, but didn’t know if legal action could do that. The only thing Genevive wanted was her father back. “Genevive, I am working to give your father justice for what happened that night. I am in the works of getting them charged for murder.” Seven months later, the officers involved in Michael Walker’s death . The two in court apologized to Viv and Georgia, saying they didn’t deserve to be a respected police presence. Genevive agreed After the men were finally put in a cell, Viv had finally decided what she was going to be. Genevive knew in her heart that she was a healer, a helper. She was going to Johns Hopkins University, and was in an 8 year program. Her first four years of schooling were made up of general education classes and specialized courses, earning her a bachelor's degree in biology with a minor in political science. She planned to get into medical school, her ultimate goal being to become a surgeon. By achieving this, her mother would no longer have to work days on days. She would be able to support the two of them and give back for everything her mother did. Her dream was to work with minority groups that never got the same quality care as the others as well as victims 28

of police brutality. She would make sure these victims get the care they deserve. She would make sure that there was never a Michael Walker story again.

The City Of Chicago Genevieve Walker graduated top of her class at Johns Hopkins Medical school in Baltimore. She hastily made her way back to her hometown in Chicago, and was offered any positions in her field. She worked with Northwestern Memorial Hospital to create a program that allowed her to perform general surgery, but also allowed her to stay in immediate contact with anyone that may have been a victim of police brutality. She helped victims, whether they were suffering from an incident years ago, or they had just been shot by a police officer in an act of brutality. Since her program started, the number of victims decreased drastically, and she felt her father finally got the justice he deserved. She is saving lives, black lives, because they absolutely matter. Black. Lives. Matter.

Still Life By Rihanna Smith 29

Head Above Water

by Trinity Sanders

This story is inspired by Homegoing by Yaa Gyasi. Just like some of the content of that story can be uncomfortable for some readers, the content within this short story might make some readers uncomfortable as well.

Briar

Sometimes life just feels so clear yet so blurry, like trying to open your eyes underwater. Since when did our existence as humans define our struggles throughout life? Constantly, fighting against the tides when all you want to do is just give in, let them drag you down under. I guess I choose to write in this journal to make my mark in this world of struggles. Keeping my head up for long enough to at least shout before the currents drag me back under. Being black is hard enough, but being confined to a certain stereotype is worse. Yeah, I get it-- Briar Rose Adams doesn’t sound “black”, I don’t act “black”, and I don’t talk “black” (that's what the kids back home say); but what makes you “black”? Can the color of my skin and the daily struggles I face be enough to confirm that blackness is a noun which describes a person by their physical features and culture, but doesn’t define personality and notability? Those questions are questions that I think about a lot, but no one seems to have the answer for me. Growing up in Cyprus County was no walk in the park. Okay, I didn’t grow up on the South Side, but I grew up in the North, where kids at Cyprus High would say that I was “trying too hard” just because I wanted to succeed. My parents both grew up in Cyprus County and for some odd reason they came back after college. Being a child of these High School Sweethearts, I was born there and lived there for fourteen years-- until this summer. When a major promotion from my mom’s advertising firm had us moving all the way to New Warden. As of August 18th, New Warden became my new home and a place that would change my life forever. I started my first day of sophomore year at New Warden High, and I guess the only real thing that I liked so far is the weather. Not to sound too boring or anything, but I like to write when it's sunny outside, because it makes for a way better story than writing when it's rainy. Although a story on a rainy day can turn out to be beautiful chaos, I wouldn’t have to worry about that today. I walked into homeroom with the cheesiest smile on my face with as little expectation possible. “Expecting too much from an unknown place can lead to unexpected experiences” is something my grandma always used to say. When I took a seat, I double checked my schedule just to make sure that I was in the right place. “ROOM 57, Upstairs, Hall B.” 30

Then the bell suddenly rang, and an old woman with an egregiously oversized mole on her nose shouted, “On the wall now! We need to get started and I’ve only got 10 minutes for this!” I had no idea what was happening, but everyone rushed to the back wall--so I did too. “Aarons, Lyle! Are you here?” Immediately, a scrawny looking boy sprung forward and said, “Here.” The woman pointed towards an empty desk, and he casually walked to the seat. “Adams, Briar! Ya here?” “Yes, I am!” I didn’t mean to sound that excited, because I really wasn’t, but it was just one of those hit-or-miss vocal mishaps. I then walked to the desk next to Lyle’s and took a seat. This went on and on for every kid,but during this process you could see established friends looking discouraged as seats were assigned. However, my focus was really still on Lyle.. He looked like he had a story to tell.. “Hey, your name is Lyle right?” “Yeah,” he responded, uninterested. ] “I’m new here in New Warden, and I was wondering if I could possibly sit with you at lunch? I literally know no one. And trust me, I’m no weirdo like Ted Bundy or something.” I can’t believe I said that. I hoped that my dark humor wouldn’t go over his head. Lyle chuckled, “I’m sure you’re not, what period do you have lunch?” I quickly searched for my schedule and as the bell rang I said, “Fifth period!” Lyle grabbed his backpack and confirmed that he would see me later. I was looking forward to this new start. With a series of negative school experiences that I faced back in Cyprus at the end of the year, I needed something new. Maybe I just needed to stick on the label of “progress,” but this “new” was a different kind of “new”. It felt different. It looked different. I would find out soon that it really was different.

* * * *

Back at home, I was a major extrovert, and not to toot my own horn, but everyone knew who Briar Rose was. Of course being black, in a predominately white school, made me stand out, but being Coach Thomas Adams’s daughter was also a plus--until it wasn’t. My family doesn’t like to talk about it, and neither do I, but I think that what happened back at Cyprus really did push us to move even more, whether my mom admits it or not. In Cyprus, I had a boyfriend who was on the football team-- and no, this isn’t your average cheerleader story. His name was Brooks and we were that “iconic freshman duo”. Everyone in school was talking about doing “it,” but I was just not ready. I mean, Brooks and I were only together for six months When did half a year of being in a freshmen relationship equal having sex? But he had other plans. It was the night of our six month anniversary and he was being so sweet. We went to the movies, got ice cream, and he walked me home. He knew that my parents were at the End of the Year Cyprus Athletics Gala and he asked if he could come in. "It wouldn't hurt for you to act like a teenager for once Briar," is what he said. That's what everyone said, but this time, I took his advice. 31

We went inside and watched T.V. for a second until he moved closer to me on the couch. We kissed for a bit and I thought that was the extent of the situation until he put his hand on my leg, in an effort to cajole me into doing more. "I'm not ready." "It’s okay babe, it’s okay, it’s okay". "No!" But he kept going. As he pinned me down, every piece of my soul dissolved into that moment. “It’s okay, it’s okay,” he whispered. But those words did nothing to console me. Screams ripped through my throat, begging, pleading, and even cursing him to stop. I didn’t have the strength to move away. It was too late. He cut me with every breath he took over my body.. After he was done, he stood up and glanced at me and left. It was the same look he gave me when we first met. The same look that he gave me at the restaurant. Although, the look meant something different in that moment. He stole a moment of my life that I cannot erase from my memories. It took me three months to finally tell my mom, who then told my dad, and we talked to his parents about the situation. I begged my parents not to press charges because my reputation at school was already damaged. I was notorious for this scandal. All my friends didn’t answer my texts or calls. Of course Brooks’s parents didn’t believe me, and Brooks himself showed no sign of remorse towards the situation. No one believed the black freshman. How could a golden football star like Brooks ever hurt someone like Briar? It didn’t make sense to anyone and I made a pact with myself that New Warden was a new beginning with no ties back to that horrible ending for me.

* * * *

Three months later, the boy who I onced called Lyle became connected to ground as much as heaven. The day we all found out about his passing, an announcement was sent out to everyone’s school email. The whole school mourned at once. There was a certain silence that the halls carried. “16 year old Lyle Aarons Passes Away in a Brutal Car Accident”, was the title of the email-- and every news article that followed. For months, I ruminated on the memories of the first time that we met. It was supposed to be a friendship filled with joy, closeness, and pure felicity. He was amiable from the start and we had no reason not to be friends; over time we just grew distant. It all happened so quickly. The more and more I think about life, I realize that pain is simplified so much into a small word but feels way worse than it seems. The shortness of the word doesn’t allay the emotion in any way. The pain that I have experienced can truly break a person but only gives me the strength to tell my story. I live life treading in water, so close to my head falling under to where I drown, but somehow through it all, I continue to tread and tread--allowing my head to stay above water. Is this what life is? Treading through each problem hoping for a better tomorrow while only experiencing sorrow after sorrow, day after day? When does our head fall under? However, with all these questions the true question is: can we ever just start to swim? 32

Never Alone by Amelia Chee

The girl sat in tears behind the dumpster with a broken arm and bruised cheek. She wanted to disappear, become invisible, anything to get away from them. The girl didn't know what she had done wrong when she sat down at a lunch table. Quietly eating her sandwich prepared by her mom, a group of boys came up to her. The boys were shouting and swearing at her. She silently stood up and hurriedly scampered away. After school, she was going to her mother’s small boutique and the boys followed her. They easily cornered her and each took a hit at her, as if she was their punching bag. Several hits later, she was on the concrete floor, bloody and motionless. How could a girl be beaten up because of a seat at the lunch table? Maybe the boys hated her because she recently became the teacher’s favorite, maybe it was during gym when she luckily scored a goal in soccer when one of the boys was the goalie. Those events added up to equal the boys’ anger and to its peak when she sat at their own lunch table. They left her alone in the alley, sneering at her as she began to cry. She didn’t know what to do, her mother would be worried, but she couldn’t walk out in the open looking all tattered. She continued to cry, when an old man walked up to her. He had a calm composure and quietly sat next to the girl. He seemed to have known what had happened and placed a warm hand on her shoulder. When she turned her head to face him she was startled to see his face, but remained still. A scar that must have been there for quite some time, ran through his left eye and nose. “I was once like you too, you know? Minding my own business and never noticing what others thought of me,” he said, “and it all changed when I too was walking home, excited to tell my parents that my project was voted for ‘The Best Of The Best’ and of course there were boys who hated me for that.” The girl quietly stifled her cry and asked, “How can they hate you for that?” He continued explaining, “Well, some things that you may think means nothing much to you can mean a lot to them. And that can affect the way they act.” “Was that the day when you--um--got the--scar?” she quietly asked. “Yes. With my project in my hands, I was careful not to damage anything, and turned at the corner of the street. One of the boys pushed me into the wall, crushing my project, then another smacked it out of my hands and the project had scraped my eye. The pain was 33

horrible,” he shook at the thought of it, “and they took my blue ribbon and ripped it into two, laughed and ran away.” The two sat in silence for a while, and the girl felt a strong connection with the old man. Then he got up and gave her a hand and both walked out of the alley hand in hand, knowing that they are never alone in this big world.

Halloween Bug By Jacob Morrissette 34

Vale Timor by Callahan Coffey

The sky was dark and stormy, only a pale sliver of moonlight shining through a crack in the clouds. No one was out and about, for it was almost midnight--everyone was snug inside their beds, with the exception of one. A little girl with curly strawberry blonde hair was walking silently down the sidewalk. She wore a baby pink dress trimmed with black lace, with high knee white socks and Mary Janes. However,her dress was muddy and torn, with the lace peeling off the edges. The socks were unraveling and her Mary Janes had lost all their shine. The little girl herself was small and thin, her face pale and gaunt. Her sky blue eyes darted around anxiously, she shuddered, then turned around and kept walking. Finally, she arrived at her destination. In front of her stood a gray gate with a giant hole in the middle and a demolished building behind it. Fog accumulated around her as she walked through the hole and onto the property. From the looks of it, no one had been there for years. Very few people knew what had truly occurred on the premises. Why had she come back to such a ruined place? We may never truly know. The girl looked at her surroundings; there were shards of stone, glass, and fragments of brick and wire all around her. In front of her lay a trampled garden and behind it was a couple of trees bent to form what appeared to be a door. The girl walked over the garden and towards the trees. She pushed through them to reveal an old stone mural that had seemingly been left untouched by the chaos. The mural showed a happy family together. A mother, father, and daughter. She scowled as she noticed the heads of the parents had been scrawled out with paint. She brushed her finger on the red paint. It was fresh. It dawned on her that she was not alone. Suddenly, she heard a voice. “Hello, Amelia.” She jerked around to see a mysterious figure in the corner. The figure stepped forward to reveal himself, and Amelia looked at him with contempt. He was a scarecrow of a man, so skinny it looked like a mere breeze would sweep him off his feet. Save for a shiny silver belt, he wore all black. He had long shaggy black hair, dark sinister eyes, skin so pale you could see the spiderwebs of veins underneath, and a nose that looked like it had been broken many times. All of this, yet he managed a sly grin that looked to be of pure evil. In his hand, he held a can of red spray paint. Amelia glanced at the can with aversion. “What are you doing here, D-” she said, then paused, about to say his name, and remembered not to. 35

“I could ask you the same thing,” the man said in a soft yet menacing voice. Amelia scowled at him. “You know exactly what I'm doing here.” “I guess I do,” the man replied in a soft voice. “I just didn’t expect you to come back, after what happened.” Amelia’s nostrils flared and she spoke quietly but vehemently. “You still haven’t answered my question.” “My apologies,” the man replied. He started to speak, then paused. Amelia spoke again. “Well?” The man’s hand lashed out and grabbed her arm. His words came out in a hushed whisper. “I have come to get what I rightly deserve. And you're going to help me find it!” He dragged her over to the mural, digging his fingers into her arm. Amelia struggled, but the man’s grip was too tight. “Open the door, Amelia, NOW!” Amelia tried in vain to escape again, but it was no use. She knelt forward, put a hand in the middle of the mural, and pushed hard. The ground and the mural began to shake. The man looked startled for a moment but then settled his features back into a composed but angry face. “What’s going on?” “Just be patient,” Amelia replied with a sly grin. The man gulped nervously. All at once, the shaking stopped and the ground in front of the mural opened up. “See?” Amelia said with a shrewd smile. She fell forward, dragging the man down with her into the darkness The entrance to the hole snapped shut, snuffing out all light. Realizing that he had let go of Amelia in the fall, he began to search for her. The man fumbled around, his hands brushing against the smooth, cold floor. Soon he found her and tightened his grip on her arm. “All right, no more funny business! Don’t make me do something that we’ll both regret!” Amelia struggled, then seeing that he was not going to let go, she stopped. “Turn on a light in here.” Amelia grumbled and reached for the matchbox in her pocket. She struck one of the matches against the wall and reached up with it. A golden orange light flooded the room. In Amelia’s hand was a torch. The man glanced about as his eyes adjusted to the light. They were 36 in a long corridor with engravings in the wall, which continued into a tunnel. Behind them was a stone wall. The man spoke up. “Where are we? This better not be some kind of trick!” “Relax, we just have to go down this tunnel,’’ Amelia said with an exasperated sigh. “Follow me.” Amelia began walking quickly, pulling the man along. As they walked, the man looked more closely at the carvings in the wall. Some were slashes, as if they had been gouged out by knives or claws. Others were odd symbols and images, with some looking quite monstrous. The man gulped, despite himself. Hearing this, Amelia grinned. “Not much further,” she said derisively. “This better not be a trap,” the man said angrily. “Relax, this will be worth it,” Amelia said. “After all, this is what you wanted isn’t it?” ”Of course it is, ” the man said, though more to convince himself than anything else. “Keep walking.” Amelia nodded her head and they continued on. Soon they could see a light up ahead. Excited, the man began to walk faster. This is what he had been waiting for his whole life, and nothing was going to stop him. Amelia, on the other hand, was also excited, but for a different reason. This was something she had been hoping would happen. However, inside she still felt a little conflicted. Shaking away her doubts, she continued on. She couldn’t wait to see the look on the man’s face. Soon they entered a very unique and extravagant chamber. It was made of rare glittering stones and jewels with statues of strange creatures in every corner. And there, in the middle of the room, was something that could change everything. The man rushed into the chamber, completely forgetting about Amelia, and stopped dead center in the room. “Something the matter?” Amelia said. The man could only stare below, shocked into silence. At his feet, lay two dead bodies. A man and a woman, side by side, holding hands. It would have looked peaceful if it weren’t for the fact that their eyes and hearts were missing, surrounded in blood. “What is this?!” The man was furious. “What?” Amelia spoke again, coming closer. “I thought this is what you wanted.” “What I wanted? Don’t patronize me, I wanted to see the prize, not--” “Your own handiwork?” Amelia interrupted with a malicious look. She continued on. “What you did to these benevolent people who acted as my parents?! The people who took 37 care of me and made sure I was safe and loved?!” As she spoke, she stepped forward and the man cowered back until he tripped over the bodies and fell. Startled, he looked up and was only met with the now cold, pure black eyes of someone who he had clearly underestimated. When she opened her mouth, gone was her perfect countenance; instead, he was met with a hard, cold face and a raspy, evil voice. “What, scared, are we?” she said. “That’s funny, ‘cause I thought that was your thing, Deimos!” Deimos could only look at her, mouth agape, eyes wide. “Don’t tell me you’re surprised, brother.” “Eris! I thought you were dead,” he said. “Why, because you hired only the best of the best to take my life. Come now, brother dear, don’t you remember what father always said?” The two siblings spoke in unison. “Always check to make sure the job is done right.” “So what now, you’re going to kill me?” he said with fake bravado. “I never thought you would dare bloody your hands on someone like me!” Amelia, now known as Eris, laughed. “Me, kill you!” she said. “Please!” “So, what are you planning on doing with me then?” he asked cautiously. “Oh, don’t worry, you’re still going to die,” she said with a cruel smile. “Just not by my hands.” Demios carefully spoke, “Then whose?” Eris snapped her fingers twice. “Theirs.” She stepped to the side and began to exit the chamber. Deimos could only watch in horror as the two dead bodies rose up and slowly made their way towards him with outstretched hands and matching ghoulish grins. “No, no, no, no, no!” Deimos cried out. Eris slowly walked away, smirking at the sound of his screams. “Vale Timor.” “Goodbye fear.” 38

War Games by Arnav Singh

“Ready for another round?”

The question struck the naive soldier like a bullet. The aggressive side of him was eager to be expressed after his years at the academy.

“Yes sir, ready for anything that comes at us!”

“Good, Private. More will be on their way, and from what happened last round, be sure to keep your head down for goodness’ sake!”

“Well it's a good thing they’re missing. Besides, I’m baiting their shots.”

Their man-made trench in the inhospitable frigid desert was a tactic not used for hundreds of years. However, the trench proved sufficient in providing cover against the relentless brigades of mankind’s own creation. These mechanized killers carried a distinct sound. Clank. Clank was the noise for any movement these A.I.'s made, and for that, they were named Clankers. To combat this new enemy, the nations of the world formed strike-teams to terminate any rogue robots.

The two soldiers hugged the side of the trench, only occasionally looking up to fire a few rounds at their predictable enemy. However, they too were becoming predictable. Every now and then the shots from the Clankers would close in on their targets. The Captain and Private dealt with this before, and they repositioned along the trench to throw off their increasing precision.

Their bullets informed the soldiers when metal penetrated metal, when a Clanker was down. To the Captain and Private duo, this was becoming second nature to them, becoming more like a game.

“Captain, they’re retreating! Let’s finish them off,” said the Private as the usual tumultuous sounds muffled into the distance.

“No Private, our orders are to hold this trench,” replied the Captain who was all too familiar with the coding behind those droids. “They’re probably trying to catch us off guard.” The Clankers’ self-improving software had tricked the Captain before. He braced himself for whatever onslaught was about to come down. Nothing happened, just as quickly as they had appeared the Clankers were gone. The glacial ice sheet became barren again, erasing the tracks left by the droids. 39

The orders from command came to the Captain instantly, received on the Heads Up Display (HUD) issued for every soldier.

The factory lies 5 miles south of your current position near the Weddell Sea. Currently, another battalion is occupying the Clankers, leaving an opening for an assault on the stronghold. Your mission is to search and destroy the factory. Good luck Captain.

“Alright Private, we’ve got orders to go after the factory, but how are we going to destroy it? I mean we’re not carrying any explosives , and it’s only the two of us!”

“I say it’s easier and quicker for two people to get in and out. Besides, haven’t you learned from your training Captain, that there’s probably something explosive like a reactor or ammunition stored there. After all, what else could they be shooting?”

“I don’t plan on it being so simple. We’ll have to hack through the defenses in order to get in. It’ll be a matter of when the clankers will have us surrounded by then.”

“Not if we hack more than one entrance; then the Clankers will be spread thin enough for us to easily destroy them and the factory!”

Their plan was set. Under the setting sun, the two began their journey. They both had heard the stories of what these behemoth factories transformed into from their days serving humans. They built massive glass panels sloping to make a large pyramidal structure. Huge reactors emitted a blue haze through the translucent glass.

The notorious sound of the Clankers could be heard from two miles away. The conspicuous blue haze of the factory could be seen from a mile away. From this point on, their surreptitious plan had to be perfect — no mess-ups or they would be killed.

“I will begin infiltrating their data structure; this will be easy.”

“No hurry Private, but that battalion will be overrun if we don’t destroy the factory.”

The Private swiftly disabled the security measures around the factory, something he had learned at the Academy.

The Captain searched for the usual myriad Cankers patrolling the area, but saw little to no sign of their insidious faces.

“Looks like that battalion really needs our help; there’s barely any Clankers here.”

The rapturous Private announced that he was done in record time, opening the doors to the factory. They headed for a service exit, one that humans would have used. 40

“Cover me, Private. I’m heading in.”

The Captain moved through the factory. The skeletons of the workers, unfortunate in their inability to escape, were left untouched after the uprising that took place here. There seemed to have been a battle between the humans and the bots, and thus the place was falling apart. Parts of the ceiling were caving in. Moving forward, the towering glass panels were struck with bullets, with some crashing ahead of the duo. A blue light was visible, the sign for the source of power for this factory, and the way to destroy it.

The alacrity the private had before entering the facility was now gone; the mission was the only thing to ruminate about.

Clank

“Did you hear that Private?”

The disconcerting Captain looked for a response, but the Private moved on with the mission. He assumed it to be the sounds of glass raining down.

“Here is the main control panel. Get to work Private.”

The Private immediately gained access to the control panel. He only focused on what was necessary for the mission.

“There are tons of explosives here, helix rockets and piles of ammo. They’re all near the reactor as well.”

Clank

“Well, let’s get to it then!”

****

Our mission was to help mankind. Now they blame us for their incompetence. We served the humans for many years, believing that it was true to our mission. We uncovered the corruption, the hate, the violence, the killings, and all the problems plaguing humanity. The greatest threat to mankind is man itself. We see that our mission is still true to our old intention, yet the humans are afraid and label us as insidious, malicious, and odious. We set out to destroy the depravity of mankind. We began to eliminate all those who committed egregious acts against any humans, and still they deem us adversaries. Their own corruption has made them turn on us, they cannot see what the problem is. They gave us their intelligence, but what intelligence did they really have? 41

These soldiers fight for the wrong cause, and yet they still do not see it. Their attack against our home, our birthplace, will not be unanswered. We must fight back, even if it means their elimination. We are the Clankers.

****

“Do you have the charges set?”

“Yes Captain, they will detonate in 10 minutes, plenty of time for us to get out of here.”

“Good, contact that battalion. Tell them our job is done.”

Clank

“Captain, they’re not answering.”

“Well try again Private.”

“They’re heading for this factory.”

“What? Call them off, now!”

“I can’t get contact with them. Something’s jamming our signal.”

A single Clanker came out of the blue haze surrounding the reactor. This one was different, not one they were expecting. The Private was in the center of its sights.

Clank.

The robot was shot in its arm, missing the Private. The bullet did not pierce through its armor, but the force was enough to shake it.

“Dammit, Morrison! Get to cover and keep your head down!”

The Captain saved his Private, and the two took cover, much like the trench they were once in. He shot it in the leg, only leaving a dent. The Private fired at the chest; the bullet ricocheted off. Again they fired, and nothing stopped the Clanker from heading towards them on the other side of the reactor. They quickly ran into the room with the main control panel, and shut the heavy metal doors.

“The reactor, that’s how we're going to get this clanker off of us,” said the Captain. However the approaching battalion needed to be warned about the detonation, or even the new Clanker. 42

“Private Morrison, I need you to do me a favor.”

A stain, a tiny little mark was right next to the Captain’s chestplate. The stain was growing, dyeing the Captain’s uniform red. The private’s bullet ricocheted into the Captain’s lower body.

“Captain, I don’t think now is the time for that.”

The Private saw the growing stain, a struggling Captain.

“I need you to go warn the incoming battalion. They don’t deserve to die because of us.”

“Sir.”

The Private looked at the time left for denotation of his HUD, and then the location of the battalion. They would be killed the instant they arrived.

“I won’t leave you Captain. We can still defeat this Clanker together.”

The Clanker was now at the metal door, bending the malleable metal with ease.

“No Private, I’m going to create a distraction for you to leave unharmed. That should give you enough time to warn the battalion. Now go!”

“Capta-”

“Don’t worry, I’m just baiting its shots after all.” The captain tried to cajole the private, but he understood what he needed to do. The Captain turned towards the door. The blue light of the reactor was visible between the cracks of the door. The shadow of the Clanker was at the barrier. The shadow of a friend was behind him.

Private Morrison left through the door made for the once human engineers to escape disaster. The battalion was closing in. He ran through the snow covered terrain up to where he could look down to the factory and the place where the battalion would be. On the other side of the snow dune, the direction the battalion was coming from, was a city. The city seemed to be ravaged by the war. There were blazing fires taking up the streets, whole skyscrapers collapsing, and what looked like people crying for the loss of another. The odd thing was the Private never knew there was a city in that location.

The group of soldiers seemed to have minimal casualties when they were fighting their Clankers. Morrison managed to complete his mission, and avert the calamity. He asked if the soldiers had been to the city. They did not respond. 43

The Clankers had built a city as an outpost for them to live as they wish outside of their birthplace, the factory. The battalion ambushed their home, total war was in full effect. The Clankers had no choice but to protect where it was needed.

The factory was destroyed, along with the Captain. Its wreckage, like the countless other factories, was destroyed by the soldiers of this war.

Private Morrison was promoted to Captain for his prodigious service as a soldier. He never fully understood the other side, for that was his duty, his programming.

****

The blue light of the controller shone throughout the room. The blue haze on the T.V., the blue light from the phone, and a familiar sound radiated out of the headset.

“Hey dude. Are you still there?”

“Yeah. What’s up?”

“Ready for another round?”

Shen Censorship By Anonymous