Table of Contents Fall Writing Contest Winners st
1 : Moira E. - The Mirror 2nd: Mikayla V. – The Hourglass 3rd: Maria D.G. - Zoned Out
Writing Calm Current by Taryn K. Escalation by David C. From lilac to lily by Atticus P. Eternal Memories by Hanna B. Seven P.M. by Moira E. Sharks by Mikayla V. The Haunted Man by Magdalena R. 12 by Cassie K. The Hourglass by Mikayla V. The Hunter by Magdalena R. The Laughing Boy by Martin R. The Mirror by Moira E. The Prince’s Song by Martin R. You’re The Reason That I Write y Magdalena R. Zoned Out by Maria D.G. Captivate Review by Martin R.
Art Liberty Bell by Koby T. L. Lawliet by Kole A. Breaking Light by Koby T. A Smile for the Children by Unknown Voice Forest Fungi by Asa P. Abe by Carley E. Ride Down by Koby T. Faint by Atticus P. hikaru no go by Kole A. Cover Art: Yellow Lab by Kaitlyn W.
Fall Art Contest Winners 1st: Atticus P. - Faint 2nd: Koby T. - Ride Down 3rd: Asa P. - Forest Fungi
Calm Current by Taryn K. I’ll walk each morning To be close to you You, I’ll keep drawing You comfort me, too Wading, washing, tickling feet Either cold or lukewarm Sandy, smooth or rocky You’ll never cause harm Oh river, how I love you You tell me all your secrets And I can trust you with mine While wading and listening to crickets Whether there be wind or rain You’ll always be there So please do not leave, my friend All I’ll have is air
Liberty Bell by Koby T.
Escalation by David C.
The Report James walked into a small room with a desk. The lighting in the room was dimmed. “Is the job done?” “All taken care of, Boss.” James handed over the briefcase. “Good.” The boss opened the briefcase. The boss then shot James twice in the chest. “Don’t lie to the boss. No one lasts long in the Mafia anyways.”
The Job James walked into a quiet alley. James saw a silhouette walk past. James made sure there was a briefcase. James drew his pistol and shot. James knew he had done the job right this time.
The First Attempt James waited a while for his friend. Finally, after a few hours of waiting, James’ friend walked by with the briefcase. James did his job. James then realized his mistake.
The Pickup L. Lawliet by Kole A.
The man was ordered to get the briefcase along the peer at 11 pm. He was told to get it by the bike rack. He found the briefcase and left. Now he was off to get paid. The Trick
James’ boss went to the peer at 10pm. The briefcase was in place. The boss took the briefcase and swapped it with an empty one.
The Acquaintance James asked the man if he would like to make some money. The man asked doing what. James explained he would have to bring him a briefcase. Later that night, James would meet him somewhere to pay him and get the briefcase. Do not look inside the briefcase. The man agreed.
The Recruiting James was standing on the side of Park St. He saw a man walk by. James looked at his watch. James started following the man he spotted. After following him for three blocks, James tapped the man on the shoulder.
The Soliloquy The Boss was sitting on his chair in his room by himself. “Retrieve the briefcase, you die. Have someone retrieve it for you, you die.”
The Orders James walked into his boss’ office. “Yes, Boss.” “Your job today is to have a briefcase picked up and brought back to me. Detailed instructions are on the job list.” “Yes, Boss.” James walked out. “No one lasts long in the Mafia.”
From lilac to lily by Atticus P.
The number of steps – between you – and me – it may as well be – an infinity Whether I walk straight – or at a slant or along the path of a bee; from lilac to lily from sea to sea The distance between us – from you – to me will never decrease – or cease to be
Breaking Light By Koby T.
Eternal Memories by Hanna B. The first time I walked through the Whispering Pines Assisted Living entrance, the alarm sounded. I had forgotten to enter the four-digit code on the remote beside the doors. This mishap, along with my initial jitters of being surrounded by wheelchairs and oxygen tanks, only worsened the butterflies in my stomach. I was greeted by emotionless stares, beeping monitors, and the overly-enthusiastic smile of Cheryl, the Activities Director. It was the summer after my sophomore year, and I had decided to fill my days with something besides lounging around the house. Cheryl invited me to help with Bingo, an afternoon favorite for the residents. I gathered residents around the long, oak table, maneuvering around wheelchairs and walkers paused in their tracks. The game started, and the various personalities of the residents bubbled to the surface. There was Florence, who glared at distractions and always won at least one round of Bingo. Marion was the queen of sass, mouthing off and constantly mumbling about the current lawsuit her lawyers had against Virginia. Virginia, who was awed over my blonde curls and tall stature, called herself “Herman’s girlfriend.” Herman would make jokes about his and Virginia’s relationship. And it continued. Always-thirsty Carolyn, prayerful Bernice, loud-voiced Ernie, sweet Mary Ann, stubborn Mary, shy Norma. It was like a house full of kindergarteners, except with Alzheimer’s disease.
The Alzheimer’s factor is the one that broke my heart, each and every day. I spent a total of 102 hours of my summer at the home, and each and every minute of those days, I was a new face to the residents. Now, if I had refused another cup of coffee to Fran and upset her, this could be a good thing. But the rest of the time, a resident and I would have a hearty conversation, or reminisce about the past, and two minutes later they would tell the same story again, with the exact same questions directed towards me. They didn’t remember short-term details. We made A Smile for the Children By Unknown Voice
molasses cookies one day, and when I
brought them out to eat, Ernie asked who made them. I told her that she had, just a few minutes before, and she laughed at the suggestion of such a thing. Ernie is only sixty-two, but a stroke had stolen the use of her left leg and her memory for life. By the end of the summer, I didn’t want the visits to end. I had become a professional Bingo caller, burnt my hands multiple times on the old-fashioned popcorn machine, and gained strong bonds with the residents, even if they didn’t know it. I decided that since they couldn’t retain the memories of us together, it’d have to be my job to ensure our memories lived on forever in my heart. They had taught me the joy in life, the preciousness of every moment, and to never let anyone cheat you at Bingo.
Seven P.M. by Moira E.
Blackness And a whisper Of cobalt Murmurs And a glimmer Of music Silence And a quiver Of worry Creaking And a rustle Of curtains Tension And an outburst Of brightness And it all begins
Sharks by Mikayla V. I just want To be okay To not hang in the balance To not dangle from a cliff like meat over a tank of hungry sharks with a cut dripping blood into their water They jump and snap their jaws at my feet or is that my imagination? A tan teddybear with a red santa hat drops into their tank and is shredded Or was that my imagination? I debate dropping myself to rescue to stop this; I do not A dark haired boy with bright eyes A slim but muscular build and a breath taking smile is dropped into the water, tied at his hands and feet Or is this my imagination? I dive I swim I circle myself In desperate hopes to see him
I search the depths the sharks chase me down
I need air I surface There he is Outside the tank Looking at me He was never wet It was never real It was my imagination He smirks, and now, I'm a meal
The Haunted Man by Magdalena Rocha A cloaked man hangs his head over the river of his home. The clouds are dark and stormy, and the river black and slick. The man is not alone. The ghost is with him. The man lowers the ghost into the river’s icy waters and the ghost says, “Thank you.” Yesterday, the man was traveling to his home. The ghost was with him, and the ghost was calm. The ghost carried a small smile as he haunted the man. The man cried. One week earlier, the man spoke to the ghost. Two weeks earlier, the ghost was sullen and stopped haunting the man. The man waited for the ghost to continue haunting his steps again with a patient smile. Three weeks earlier, the ghost was livid as he gazed into a world that was no longer his own. The ghost realized he had no past worth remembering, for his children didn’t mourn him, and now he had no future. The man sat waiting, as he always did. Four weeks earlier, the man met the ghost, and the ghost began to haunt him. Five weeks earlier, the man waited as a terrible person died. Five weeks and a day earlier, the man watched as a terrible person bought a gun. Six weeks earlier, the man watched a terrible person become drunk on his sorrows and come ever closer to where the man waited. Seven weeks earlier, the man was waiting and saw a terrible person with his fists upon a child and alcohol on his breath. Eight weeks earlier, a terrible person was happy and played with his children. The man waited. Two years earlier, the man waited and watched as a terrible person held a newborn child. The man wept. 20 years earlier, the man watched a terrible person being born. 21 years earlier, the man hung his head over the river of his home. The clouds were dark and stormy, and the river black and slick. The man was not alone. The ghost of a terrible person was with him. The man lowered the ghost into the river’s icy waters and the ghost said, “Thank you.” “Since the day of my birth…death began its walk. It is walking toward me, without hurrying.” --Jean Cocteau
12 by Cassie K.
She didn’t wake up when the clock struck 12. Before that, she spun into a funnel cloud and saw a clock ticking down, only 12 seconds left until midnight. Before that, she tried to attack the Lava Bunny, but failed, and was thrown into a tree 12 times. Before that, she disobeyed him and only had 12 minutes to live. Prior to that, she walked on a path through the forest for 12 days. The Lava Bunny secretly followed her. She got hungry. The Lava Bunny warned her not to eat the carrot. She did anyway. Before that, The Lava Bunny told her she must go find the source of power in order for her wish to be granted. Before that, she wished for more wishes. Before that day, he held out a lava carrot and told her it would grant her one wish, however, she must figure out how to make that wish occur. Before that, she rolled down the hill. At the bottom of the hill, lava flowed rapidly. She was greeted by the Lava Bunny. Before that, she got up and wandered down the road a little more, tripping on the uneven sidewalk, not realizing that the sidewalk was about to end Prior to that, her arms and legs were gashed open, bleeding heavily. Before that, she walked along the dirt road and a massive truck approached her from behind. The exhaust that spewed from the end of the truck caused her to choke on her own lungs and collapse onto a barbed wire fence.
Before that, instead of winning the bet to take the car, she was required to walk to her friend’s house. It was 12 miles away; much too long a walk for her due to the fact that she was suffering from lung infection. Before that, she had to roll an even number on the dice. Her luck didn’t work out that way and an odd number was rolled. Prior to that, her dream began. Before that, she went into a coma. Before that, she was being wheeled from the emergency to a hospital room. Before that, she was staring at the clock in the emergency room which read 12:00. Before that, she was lying at the scene where the accident happened. Before that, a bunny ran out in front of her while she was biking. Before that, she was biking to her friend’s house.
Forest Fungi By Asa P. Art Contest: 3rd Prize
Writing Contest: 2nd Prize The Hourglass by Mikayla V.
Seeping slowly through my body The sands that make up my life At my toes, crushed into barely reachable memories; There is childhood Grade school Middle school These current moments; Passing I'm filled to the shins with what I have done, my life that has passed
Seeping slowly out of my head Are the thoughts I have every day The wishes I make The fear that makes me quake The sadness that lets me cry The happiness that keeps me going
Seeping from the tip of my tongue are the words I say The meanings I read
Seeping from my eyes is the pain I see The horrors I face Read me like a book
I'm an hourglass But I'll never be re-tipped
I fear the future I fear reality Yet all of this sits It rots and ends up in the trash bin of my mind I am an hourglass The difference between us? I can't do a handstand To start over.
The Hunter by Magdalena R. Run rabbit run Don’t try to hide. Peek in your hidey hole, Find out what’s inside. I’m waiting for you, Little tasty treat, So hurry up and arrive. Run rabbit run, It’s all for fun, To skin your shiny hide. Run rabbit run, To your small dark home. A little bait to find, Goes a long way in wait. Run rabbit run and hide. But I will find you, My small tasty friend. Your feet can’t outsmart me. Run rabbit run, I dare you to go, Go to your hole, And find out what’s inside.
Abe by Carley E.
The Laughing Boy (Late Halloween special) by Martin R.
Emmet Brown watched his parents, clad in fineries whose significance he could not fully understand, speak with a girl who looked like the people he saw on the television. There was some back-and-forth; some words which Emmet did not understand. His mother periodically turned to look at him and smile oddly, to which he would just wave while grinning, his entire mouth on display for the entire world to see. Emmet’s mother kissed him, his father hugged him, and then one girl was present where his two parents, strangely, weren’t. Still, the girl seemed eager to learn his name and play with him, and in a few minutes he knew her name was Shayna. They tossed a ball to one another and became, as far as Emmet was concerned, immediate friends. Shayna, however, had to go cook dinner and lightly kissed him on the forehead before she left the room, leaving Emmet to bounce the ball to himself. And thus the cycle repeated, one bounce leading to another, and then another, until an imperfect throw caused the ball to bounce at a strange angle, sending it over a gate. Laughing at the novelty of it all, Emmet walked through the gate to pick up the ball, and then sent it flying in a random direction. Absorbed as he was, it took Emmet a long time to realize that, somehow, he had walked into an entirely different house that looked vaguely familiar to his own. But, still… That couldn’t be right, could it? The pictures, the windows, and everything else was so terribly high. Surely, Emmet concluded, this was a house for giants! This could not be his house. Curious to see how giants lived, Emmet shuffled through the building, his ball forgotten entirely. His inquisitiveness was rewarded by sights that he could not have dreamed of: Tables fit for kings whose height was such that they could see an entire kingdom. Gargantuan screens many times his own size. Over the fireplace a monster’s head that struck a mixture of awe and fear into Emmet’s heart. It was a new world, one where his imagination could not produce what his eyes saw. Yet, infuriatingly, doors of monumental size blocked him at every turn,
firmly shut, hiding wonders that, he was sure existed. Whose voice was that, singing? Why, he questioned, did everything need to be behind doors? Emmet became frustrated, and then leapt with joy when he found one door ajar, leading down into a dark room. Joyful, Emmet tottered down the steps, clumsily descending until he fell forward onto flat ground. His hands and knees began to hurt, and he saw a small cut develop on his palm. A drop of red fell to the ground, and Emmet knew, instinctually, that it was bad. Suddenly, he didn’t want to be here anymore. He wanted his parents, or even Shayna! He felt a tightness in his throat, a tightness that begged to be loosed. His face scrunched up and he was about to cry when something else caught his attention. Something alien. Four pairs of scissors were moving towards him, and all four were connected to a body that too was made up of strange objects, some of which he couldn’t Ride Down understand. What were By Koby T. those things at the front? Art Contest: 2nd Prize The eight balls with numbers on them? They were not balls which he had seen before. Its body was some odd squares that were also unfamiliar to him. Emmet stared at the creature, which came closer and closer until he could have reached out and pet it. The creature then stopped and drew back a little, then cocked its head to the side. It made a sound like a squeak.
Emmet stared at the creature until he decided that he would try to befriend it. Reaching out with a tentative hand, he lightly placed his palm on the creature’s forehead, causing the creature to draw a little closer, and then pick up one of its scissor blades and rest it on the child’s shoulder. Then the creature drew its leg back. Emmet was transfixed, not just by the motion itself, but also by the blue string attached to his shoulder, which the blade pulled away from his body. Emmet reached out and firmly grasped the string, to which the creature squeaked. The two locked eyes with each other, something that Emmet decided was the funniest thing ever, and began laughing. Emmet’s laughter only grew stronger with time. A rising crescendo that the creature watched with increasing twitchiness until, eventually, it squeaked excitedly and began to pull more and more blue string from the boy, which only convinced the boy to laugh harder and harder until, for some reason, his voice gave out. Confused, Emmet stared at his neck and then realized that his feet were gone. The blue string flew faster and faster from various parts of his body which he realized were also disappearing. Already one arm was gone and he could feel his head drooping. Then he knew. Emmet’s face contorted and he opened his mouth as wide as it could go. He screamed and screamed as his body continued to disappear, drawn from his being in the form of string. He cried and pleaded but all he could hear was the excited squeaking of the creature. Emmet began to cry while he still had vision, and the last thing his mouth formed as it vanished was a drawn-out shriek of terror. And the sound of laughter was heard in the room even when Emmet was a condensed ball of string which the creature took back to its den.
Writing Contest: 1st Prize The Mirror by Moria E.
A teardrop fell, The ripples scattered Beneath its touch— The mirror shattered A flame arose With tremulous light, A protest weak Assailing the night A tree raised arms Above where I lay, Bringing the night To replace the day
With snarls of thunder, An ominous day The rain was lashing The trees and the earth, A baptism desperate To bring a new birth Then stillness came, The ripples ended Beneath its touch— The mirror mended.
Birds spread their wings Beneath the white stars, Their figures black Ethereal scars The darkness came, And nothing moved Beneath its touch— The mirror smoothed With morning’s break The winds arise, Fragmenting the mirror With prismatic lies The clouds of storm Were gathering grey
Faint by Atticus P. Art Contest: 1st Prize
The Prince’s Song by Martin R.
Six billion men considered good One billion dwell in night We’d all be heroes if we could But thou must hold the light
The sins of virtue press around So swiftly hone thy wit The noble heroes have all drowned But strong remain the fit
Remorse and penance matter not Thou dare not waste thy day When there are wars still to be fought A wretched game to play
Take no chances, make no move To satisfy thy rest Since mortal thou shalt surely prove Ensure thy run be best
Thou art from a furnace born By steel thou shalt die The coward’s life thou wholly scorn Indulgence thou shant try
To honor thou shall have no claim Thy soul is bound to hell Because thou shalt not speak His name Thy fate is just as well
Thou shall keep one maxim great Thou break it, thou hast lost Thy charges must not bear thy hate It matters not the cost
Demise and terror be thy sword Dispense them as thou will Use likewise thy “holy” word Thus thy grand role fulfill
Thou shalt be the people’s church Tending to those below If the heroes grasp thy perch Let them their folly show
Now my prince thou hast attained A kingdom kept with strife And if thy conscience be once pained Then thou hast lost thy life
You’re the Reason That I Write By Magdalena R.
I don’t write to be a hero I don’t write to be a saint I don’t write to be a victim Or a martyr in your place. I write to understand you I write to make a rhyme I write to make you smile And maybe laugh sometimes. I write to make you happy I write to make you proud I write to show the world How great you are right now. I write to form a whisper I write to change a lie I write to make a promise And keep it ‘til I die. I write to show our future I write to hide our past I write so many stories I hope you make them last.
I write to hold a picture I write to form a song I write to play a symphony But you’ve played it all along. I write to keep it hidden I write to shout it out I write to show my love for you Rests beyond far greater bounds.
Writing Contest: 3rd Prize Zoned out by Maria D.G.
The walls look small. This room is not particularly well decorated. In fact, it looks more like an enormous cube made of a potpourri of colorful numbers, letters and symbols. Meaningless posters and objects scattered all around. They’re just mundane elements of my every dreary day. They scream obnoxiously. They want to be seen, learned. Sad colors, miserable letters, and bleak symbols creep up to the ceiling, covering every inch of the available surface. No one cares what the decorations say and they keep calling, yearning to be understood. No one looks at the glittery formulas on the wall. Not even if they were made to be seen. A distant voice calls back my attention to the front of the room. I realize I’ve lost the flow of conjecture and that the lesson doesn’t make any sense anymore. Everyone seems frozen. I can’t tell if they hikaru no go are listening of if they are as lost as I am. I by Kole A. will never know. I squint to understand the significance of the letters on the board. In my head, I scold myself for squinting so much. I don’t want my eyes to look old. Slowly, I tug at a strand of hair that has moved out of place. Like fog turning over, the image bends and swirls. Time becomes optional and I blink twice to wake up. I try to stand up but I’m glued to my seat. Punching the air, and flailing my legs, the sound of shattering glass suddenly pierces the air. A broken piece of mirror lies in front of me. I lean in to pick it up and when I do, I snap back. I see the snow falling gently outside the window, and I wish to be on the other side. If only for a brief moment.
Captivate Review by Martin R.
I once was not reading but chilling Yearning to read a good villain Trusting in fate I found Captivate And thought (hopefully) it’s one in a million And so I deigned to bring it along Bought it, in fact, to add to the throng Of my collections of reads Some great indeed But I turned out to be horribly wrong When I began reading to my dismay I found the characters had nothing to say Plot exposition Kissing intermission And fight scenes, that about sums up their day I guess that I ought to be fair and mention There’s more to it than giving their partner attention But that’s not well done It can’t quite be called fun And to say it works would be a pretention It’s written in the first-person perspective Which everyone needs to learn is an elective A storytelling device Unnecessary, though nice Used to make your opus less objective There’s really no reason for me to construe That anything Zara says is actually true She could just be dumb Or locked in an asylum And we’re witnessing her delusional view
I’ll grant it’s an interesting tool to use Put myself in the action? Why, I can’t refuse! But put me in the world Of a regular girl And my interest you’ll quickly lose A personal “I” should only be applied When all novelty has been set aside For immersive effect For us to respect Different people are differently inclined Witness a fatalistic knight Or a girl who brings all to light A wishful absconder A philosophical monster But a regular teenager? How trite Insipid narrator, what else are the book’s bones? Certainly not love, for it’s such a bore that Jones Felt the need to insert Bloody and overt Violence to suddenly switch between tones I’m genuinely confused, asking myself And every book on the YA romance shelf Here’s my appeal: Why is love a big deal If it can’t carry a book by itself? Genuine love stories don’t have to be bad The Fault in Our Stars was good, if kind of sad Casablanca was great Surely it’s not fate That love stories will all make me mad
The other characters I need to condemn ‘Cause they have two personalities split up between them Angelically nice Or reveling in vice Okay, I agree Frank resembles a gem But that’s not because of any skill Just my surprise that Jones had the will To murder the boy But it sullies the joy To learn you can bring back what you kill This poem, you notice, is quite fat The words that fill it are flat It’s crude and it’s coarse I’m bad with rhymes (horse) And it’s still better written than that
Sascha By Atticus P.