

MOTLEY 2018
Cover art by Hailey Talbert
2018 Motley Staff
Brynne Mittleider
Ambrose McCullough
Ruby Prentiss
Karl Chamberlain
Natalia Johnson
Boden Gerry
Advisor Mr. Adams
This issue of Motley is dedicated to
Susan Krauss. A woman who not only taught history, but lived it. An educator who opened the eyes of her students and showed them how to separate fact from fiction. A person who truly understands the power that words and images have to change the course of the world. Thank you.
 
June 2018
Dear Reader, While I reread the stories and poems in this year’s issue of Motley, as so often happens, a common theme began to emerge. In years past that theme jumped out immediately, impossible to deny, but this time was different. Commonalities in the art and text rose to the surface by degrees. Pieces fit together only when approached from a certain direction and in a particular light. But like volcanos or icebergs, the small revelations were only a hint of the power concealed beneath the surface. Many of these essays and poems touch on ideas of change, or the potential for change. Whether that is manifested in thoughts about spring renewal and growth, or the moment of held breath before a character’s great epiphany, a slow transition or violent eruption, the concepts of transformation and change run through this issue like veins of precious metal in rock. Herein lies the true power of creative arts as a vehicle for change. It is through our stories and drawings, paintings and poems, that we reach out and touch the hearts in subtle but powerful ways. It is through our self-expression that we connect with others. The arts give without asking for anything in return, simply existing for the sake of putting something into the world that wasn’t there before. Art opens us to the strangers in the world and asks them to join us in creation, to work together to effect change and see things in a different light. The subjectivity inherent in the arts can be seen as a challenge to fit things into ones’ own box, or as an invitation to tolerance and the idea that there are infinite boxes. The next generation of artists, writers, creative leaders, and change-makers are here in these pages, smoldering like volcanos, or peaking up from the waves like icebergs, inviting you to join them in the future that is theirs to create, and daring you to see what lies beneath the surface.
Read on, Simon Adams
FMS Art
For The kingdom to survive all Storm-winds must die… Isabella Filler Chapter 1 “There are soldiers here,” my mother whispers. My attention snaps to the window. I shut my book of healing potions and such, my feet near silent as I walk to my mom. Why are they here? “Everything will be ok, they won't find out,” mom gives a smile trying to hide her fear, but her eyes are a dead giveaway. “Everything will be fine” she parrots. I stay quiet we both know it won't be, being a lightning wielder will never be fine, not in the continent of Melaseve. The story is always taught the story of our grand empire. It had all started with five stones, each containing the very existence and power of the five elements. Fire, water, earth, air, and lightning. A group of men had learned of the legends of these stones and went to find them. And find them they did, the power was transferred to them. Jacose took the water stone and built his kingdom in the north, and called his people the Blue-bloods, wielding water and ice. Headon took the air stone, built his kingdom in the west his people were called Toxicdrafts, wielding air and poisons. Easef built his kingdom in the south with the earth stone and the Metallics, wielding plants, rocks and metal. Gavriel took the lightning stone and
built his kingdom of Storm-Winds in the east, wielding lightning and storms. And Kosen built his Wild-fire kingdom in the center of Mekaseve, wielding regular fire and moon fire, the most powerful fire known to the planet. The five kingdoms lived in harmony for hundreds of years until Gavriel decided that he should rule all of Melaseve. War broke out on the five kingdoms and the Stormwinds were no more, those of us that survived went in hiding as the kings decided to rule their own territories but were really ruled by Kosen, and still does. Killing all Storm-winds or throwing them in the arena for his people sick amusement. All because we can control lightning and storms me and mom will meet the same fate if we aren't careful. The soldiers come closer there are five of them, one in the front and two men flanking him on both sides. Their uniform Navy blue, on their chest the royal seal, all of the elements on a silver shield. I knew the real reason the soldiers had come, they had probably heard a rumor that Storm-winds dwelled here, and they did. I can hear my thunderous heartbeat as the guards prowl closer to our home. She looks at me, her face a portrait of fear, “If anything happens you run, do you understand?” She opens a shelf a knapsack lais full of supplies for up to two weeks I nod in understanding. “I promise.” I hold my mom's hand. They won't find out, they can’t. The door falls to the floor and I flinch, mom stays still. The soldiers barge into our house cornering us, my heart beats faster and faster. Their captain takes out his
Rhys Cadigan
gun and asks, “Where are the Storm-winds?” His voice full of poison. “I do not know of any Stormwinds.” My mother answers, her voice calm. “Well it seems we have come a long long way, for no reason” he waves a hand around in emphasis to our tiny town on the mountain, the moon showing snow covered houses, the muddy tracks on the gravel roads. He turns back to us, and smiles, “get them.” Two of them grab my arms mom tries to reach me but her arms are quickly pinned behind her back by two of the soldiers. The captain smiles, “You see, we have heard, that there are fugitive Storm-winds in Escove, by the names of Venis and Malora Maliven?” He studies us for a moment. “I have no recollection of those names.” Mom's voice doesn’t waver, “Then, pray tell, what are yours”
I answer for my mom. “Esinev,” I nod to my mom, “and Havena Leros.” The names seem so real, if only he would fall for it. “Is that so, Havena?” I nod. Gaining confidence bit by bit. Maybe they would leave and this would be over. “I see,” he murmurs. “But just to be sure, we can't have any Storm-winds here terrorizing our people, you two have been accused of being Storm-winds, but if you say so,” he points at me the soldiers pinning my arms behind drag me towards the door. I struggle against their grip, but their hands are like shackles against my wrists. I look behind me, mom putting up more of a fight, than I would ever dare. These soldiers may not be elementals, and we may be Storm-winds, but we were untrained in talent, we were not much of a danger to these men, taught to kill
since the day the began to walk. Soldiers haul us to the baker's house, the snow soaking my leggings and thin leather boots, I thrash and look behind me at mom, no longer fighting, her eyes have lost all defiance. The captain almost rips the door from its hinges as he storms towards the kitchen demanding to see the baker, our captors hauling my mother and I along. People stop and stare at the sight, a captain and five men holding a woman and daughter. The plump powder-covered baker hobbles up to us, a tongue lashing waiting to explode, until he sees the soldiers, captain, my mother and I. His face instantly pales. He straightens himself, brushing away some powder off of his apron and bows low. “To whom do I owe the honor of meeting you on this blessed day,” he stumbles again before bowing again, the everyone in the bakery follows suit. The soldiers push me into a bowing position as with mother. “Skip the formalities, Kylen. Are these the Storm-winds?” Everyone stills, the whole world stills. Kylen points a vicious finger in my direction, I remain still, defiant. “Yes, I saw her use magic in the woods, I was looking for my boy, he had run off trying to pick some berries.” He shivers, “and then I saw her make lightning appear in her hand” everyone in the bakery steps away from us disgust, fear written plainly on there faces. Then her mother came by and started to use her magic to.” How could he have seen that I had only practiced meer days ago And I could only summon a couple balls of lightning. I had made sure no one was around.
The captain turned to us, “And their names?” “Venis and Malora Maliven.” No. It was over, I was going to die mom was going to die, this was the end. The captain Turns me. “Well, Venis, I think that Escove must learn a lesson for harboring fugitive Storm-winds, don't you think? But first we must teach a similar lesson to you.” He clicks his gun, “For our kingdom to survive all Storm-winds must die,” he points at mom, I thrash and try to summon any flicker of lightning something to defend with. Mom struggles to, the captain walks closer to mom and I fight harder. There is a flicker of light and the guards jump back swearing, The soldiers holding my arms me grip my arms tighter pulling me back, everyone freezes. Mom raises her hand Lightning dancing on her finger tips, Everyone backs away to a corner moms captors scrambling away. But the captain pulls the trigger, there's a loud bang and a thud, as my mom hits the ground. Blood pooling around her unmoving body. Every thought leaves my head, there’s a heavy silence. “Mom?” Nothing. “Mom!” Tears flood my eyes. She’s gone, they killed her, my mother. I blink furiously, the captain smiling at me, he was so proud to kill an innocent person who would never harm any living thing, my mother. Now dead at the hands of this monster. I cant breathe, cant think, all this time in fear of this happening because of a power we don't choose to have, all of my anger, all of my fears bottled up inside me, it explodes. There is a burning sensation on the
palm of my hands, I channel my anger and hate, into that feeling. The soldiers holding me jump back as my lightning shocks them. I turn around to see as my lightning traveling up their arms, they scream in pain falling on their backs with a loud thud. The baker yells in fear and whole bakery breaks into chaos.
There are shouts and screams, children wailing, and glass shattering as people flee the room. I scramble along with them blending in with the crowd, until a hand wraps around my wrist, and voice whispers, “we’ll make good use of you in the arena.” Before everything goes black.
Dennis Pogrebitskiy
Voldemort Andrew Nalchajian
He hates and never loves. He owns a snake he likes sicking on people He hates normal humans and wants to see their demise When he flies, there's a trail of black smoke You know, he sounds like a nice guy!
The Package Patrick Whaling It was a dark and stormy night. Sam had been standing on the dock for over two hours, waiting for [Classified] to deliver the package. Sam needed the package now. Alpha Squad III was waiting in the back of the unbranded van ready to leave. Suddenly, the radio squawked, with a voice saying, “Sir, I need more time. The cops pulled me over back on [Redacted] Street with a search warrant and tried to cuff me. I had to get out of the car and hide out in [Redacted]’s Pizzeria. The food was horrible!” Sam, shivering with anger and distress, muttered “What is your ETA, [Classified]?” “2 minutes, if I’m lucky,” replied [Classified]. This was not good. The squad had most likely put a Stingray Mobile Tracking Device, or the SMTD on [Classified]’s phone. In fact, it was no longer safe to have [Classified] deliver the package. Sam would have to bail out on [Classified] and go into hiding for a long time. “Back to Zimbabwe or Russia for another 6 months,” Sam muttered bitterly. A large car appeared in the distance. The dreaded paddy wagon. Sam hopped into his speed boat and took off.
But there was a problem. It was still night time and his boat had no lights. Sam realized this a second to late. His boat crashed into a rock and Sam went flying. When the police arrived on the scene, there was nothing left of Sam. Nothing at all. Strange . . . almost like he was never there.
Karl Chamberlain
Althea McNulty
RED Anna Greene What is red? Red is the color of a beating heart The beginning of a rainbow The beginning of art Red is apples And fresh cherries Red is what your child feels when you tell them there’s no fairies. Red is the color of salmon and bright lipstick Red is copper and ruby And a stacking brick. Red is the fire In the stone fireplace Where flames crackle And sparks race Red is tulips Red is Roses Red is a tutu When a dancer poses Red is the blood When you get a cut Red is the jelly Inside a donut Red is the lightbulb Above your head When you first understand something In book or lead Red is peace Like a flying dove Red is the color of deep, deep, love. Kat Cahan
Almost Spring Emily Mellow
It’s almost spring almost The first spots of grass are appearing. The first flower, Is blooming, and the sun is beginning to smile But just as these things happen a blizzard comes. When a blizzard comes our happy days of sunshine Are concealed By a blanket of snow 
Missing Coco Xu There is a girl who strange as she might be, seemed to be as normal as normal could be. Her parents always had a cheesy smile that seemed to be manufactured and fake, but yet their family was perfect in the eyes of others. In the eyes of others, their family could do no wrong. Until the day their world turned upside down. This girl, from the so-called perfect family, always felt like she wasn’t part of the family. Her hair was brown when her parents were blonde and she was short and they were tall. Of course, there were many explanations for not looking like her parents, but she never truly believed any of the explanations. Soon all of this was made clear when a certain “Missing” poster reached her neighborhood. In a city, far from the girl who didn’t fit in, was a family who spent all day, every day looking for their missing child.
These people had brown hair and had a striking resemblance to “the girl who didn’t fit in.” For the past 10 years they’d been looking for their missing child, but as the years passed, they started to lose hope. Little did they know one of the posters would soon reach the girl from the city from afar. The girl still sat on her bed and read a book, door locked. Wind rattled the trees, and she heard a crack as a branch fell from a tree. The wind sent a certain paper flying through the air and it stuck on her window. The girl looked up and carefully sauntered up to the window, she saw one word in big, red letters. Missing. The girl stared at the paper. How the paper reached her is still a mystery. Perhaps it was fate, or perhaps it was just the wind. However, none of this mattered to the girl, she knew in her heart she was the missing child. Questions raced through her mind. How, who, why? Looking around, and listening for approaching footsteps, she grabbed a jacket, the poster and opened a window. As she hopped out the window she started running towards her new life, to her true family.
-Jordan Roberts
Madalina Stoicov
Cretaceous I got one face (not faces) You aren’t the only one with scars I spit bars This was before there were cars we better change up the end before i go spend all my money` on the museum that tells me bout then uhh yeah uhh yeah all of the biggest flying animals lived back then this was before Michael Phelps was an olympian now listen this rap ain’t fire it's better it's higher in fact it's hotter than those really famous wildfires.
The Refuge
The man screamed in rage as I ran away from him, trying to get away from a place I never wanted to be. I hated that place. He yelled out in frustration and fury but when he saw I was off his property he stopped and collapsed in his chair. He couldn’t chase me if I was off his property. I heard the bush crunch beneath me as I crouched down, falling to one knee and catching my breath. It was always difficult for me to sprint as I got tired easily.
It was the first time I had smelled a scent that wasn’t muddled by the constant stench of chemicals. I didn’t really know what I should do. I had never been outside before. I was confused. The forest was dark and damp, I could hear the leaves crunching beneath my feet.
Kylee Armer
Dana Holman
But, I was safe now. No more isolation from the outside world. I was free. I walked slowly through the woods, breathing in the beautiful scent.
I didn’t know why but I hated walking in socks. I didn’t like the way the water seeped into the fabric and clung to it. It was uncomfortable and disgusting. My feet didn’t crush the leaves anymore, they squashed them. I peeled the socks off of my feet and chucked them into the woods. A loud growl caught me off guard. An animal with a gnarled pelt and one of my socks on its snout padded out of the darkness. I pressed myself against a tree, fear crowding my senses. The animal snarled and shook my sock off of its snout. It trotted up to me and sniffed my foul scent. It rubbed against me, its scent falling away from its body and sticking to mine. I reached down and rubbed it ear, and the beast nuzzled against my hand. I heard a rumble of what I assumed to be thunder and crouched down next to the animal. It began to pad off to where it came from and I followed it, hoping I’d have some shelter. The beast walked to a cave, hurrying inside and curling up on the cold floor. I sat down next to it and it rested its tail over my freezing feet.
I ran my fingers through its fur, combing out the snarls and knots softly. Two miniature versions of the beast hopped over and pounced on me, pushing me down onto the ground. I let a small laugh escape my lips, rubbing their fluffier backs softly as they licked me. They soon calmed down and I let my legs fall flat, the two laying on my legs. It felt like a refuge for the lost. I liked it. The soft sound of the rain falling and the wind howling made it feel like I was fully free. After a few hours of listening to the animals sleeping, I looked outside. The rain had died down and now the sky was clear. I looked out into the pitch-black night, staring in awe at the stars. I had only seen them by sneaking glances out of my window when the curtains were open. I went back inside the cave and laid down with my head on the larger animal. My foster parents had once hunted these animals, I think they called them wolves. All I knew and needed to care about was that I was one of them now.
And that’s all I had ever wanted.


Hailey Talbert
The Flowers and the Wind Anna Jane Miller There’s a place In the very heart of the biggest city You’ve ever seen In the heart Of that very big city, Three beautiful flowers grow. The most beautiful flowers you’ve ever seen. You can try, But as soon as you try to get near, The clouds overhead turn stormy gray. Then the wind comes. Like a dragon the wind comes. It’s protecting her children. The three flowers. And in return for protecting them, The flowers give the wind their fruits every year. Which the wind Carries to the people who need it most. And it is the most wonderful fruit, You’ve ever tasted. It tastes of sunlight, And of moonlight, And even starlight. And year after Year after Year. The flowers and the wind still do each other the favors. Because they are forever friends. Change There’s change And there always Will be. But change Can be bad Or it can be good.
Oeuckleydian Alfinodah
Secret Caroline Tracy
A tall wisp of a man sped into Esmeralda’s trailer. He wore a black top hat, a suit, and a tie—as if he were a businessman. The ghost was panting but managed to choke out a few words. “Need help . . . need to find . . . the person . . . who killed me . . . I need . . . revenge.” Esmeralda gestured vaguely to her crystal ball. The bracelets on her tattooed arm jingled as she moved. “Come, and have a look,” she purred. The ghost glided over and hovered over the ball, which was shrouded in thick fog. He gazed into its depths. Images passed before his sunken eyes . . . his large business, its overarching secret, the risks he took to keep it safe, a door creaking open as he slept, and then . . . nothing. The ghost stepped back, in shock. He gasped with horror. “Someone found out,” he croaked. “Someone knew about the secret, and so they murdered me.” He was on a roll now; Esmeralda could hear the anger welling up inside him. “They knew that they’d find out the secret once I was dead. And with the secret, they knew that they could do unstoppable harm, and harness endless power, and have all the secrets to—” He stopped, catching his breath. He closed his eyes tightly and began to whisper. “And they . . . they . . . wanted my secret so badly . . . that they killed me.” The ghost opened his eyes silently. For a moment, everything was still. Then, to Esmeralda’s surprise, he started to laugh. “But
now, I will get the revenge that I seek!” he shouted. Esmeralda heard him but she didn’t say anything. She just stared at the foggy crystal ball as foreign symbols appeared. She nodded a couple times but managed to unblinkingly lock her eyes on the glowing orb. After a while, she looked up at the ghost. She took a deep breath before beginning. “The symbols revealed who killed you.” “So . . . ? Who killed me?” the ghost asked, clearly apprehensive. He was out of breath, even though he hadn’t moved in minutes. Esmeralda sighed gravely as she stared at the threadbare carpet. She knew the answer, all right. Esmeralda sighed again. “The person who murdered you . . . it was . . .” She looked up at the ghost, but now, instead of looking sad, she was smirking. Her eyes seemed to have a fire in them. “. . . It was me.” And that, I can say, was the last thing Esmeralda ever said.
"Jasper: A Kitten's Tale" Excerpt 1 Madalina Stoicov
Dennis Pogrebitskiy
When people think of a pet’s story, they think of the life they had before they were adopted. If they lived on the streets, and had a terrible disease. But that is not the case with Jasper. He, as far as I know, was born from a healthy mother with the right care of a nice vet, and the proper nutrition a kitten should have. No sickness or abandonment, just a typical cat. A normal cat some would say. Except he wasn’t normal. Yes, at first he was like the typical kitten who was fairly scared at the first sight of me, the kind of kitten who slept four times a day. But as I got to meet him, I felt something, I still don’t know what it is, but I undoubtedly will figure it out. Sometime. You may not know who I am. So I will tell you. My name is Madalina Stoicov. Currently twelve years old, and, quite obviously, loves cats. I also love writing. So I bring you a story. This is the story of Jasper.
What Doesn’t Belong to You Lukas Herzog
Robert, age 11, steps out of his apartment in the city and slowly makes his way down to the cafe. School doesn’t start for another 35 minutes. He is only two blocks from his school, and he has walked there by himself ever since he started 3rd grade. He is now a 5th grader and he struts down the street, feeling a sense of maturity as he always does, which stems from the fact that he is mature. He can handle being alone in a city. Soon he arrives at the cafe and orders a hot apple cider. He waits in line and claims his drink. As steps out of the cafe, he spots something incredible! Right in front of him is a $20 bill! Gleefully, he picks up the $20 bill and walks down the street. But his ears fail to detect the footsteps behind him. Robert hears the sound of another kid behind him. He slowly turns around and sees two of his friends standing next to a woman. “Sweetie,” says the woman. “I’m pretty sure you just picked up Tommy’s 20 dollar bill.
Please do give it back. You do know not to take what doesn’t belong to you.” “I’m sorry ma’am,” says Robert. He reaches his hand out to his friend, the $20 bill resting in his palm. His friends seem to be shaking in fear, their eyes filled with terror. Something doesn’t seem right about them. Before his friend can grab the $20 bill, the woman snatches it from his hand. “I’ll be taking this back. You took something that doesn’t belong to you.” The woman harshly grabs Robert by his arm and pulls him close. “Now I will take what does not belong to me!” the woman grabs the three boys and takes them away. The boys were never heard from again. ... The next day, a small girl was skipping down the sidewalk. She stopped and noticed a $20 bill laying on the ground. She stepped over and picked it up…
Madalina Stoicov
Robert, My Boy Hailey Talbert A nervous woman stood across the street apprehensively waiting. “Come on Bill! I can’t wait much longer!” She cried, her belly bulging out under her maternity shirt. An anxious man scurried out of their subaru and held open the hospital door for the hysterical woman. Hours later, the couple emerged carrying a screaming bundle. “Bill, this is life changing!” The overjoyed woman cried. “I just… time goes so fast, and I want the best for my baby Robert.” Robert. The name Robert ran fast and clear as a shallow stream through my mind. Robert. Although the name seemed as tangible to me as catching wind in a jar, I loved it just as much as the elated mother seemed to. When the overwhelmed couple left, I felt alone, until they returned six years later. “No Daddy! I don’t want to go to school! You can’t make me!” A young six year old stamped his foot, scattering autumn leaves into the brisk air. A chunky green scarf bundled the crying boy, and an elmo backpack lay on the ground, abandoned. “Robert, school will be fun, you’ll make lots of friends!” Robert’s dad said calmly. I wanted to embrace Robert, tell him how wonderful school would be, but all I could do was stand impassively watching Robert’s father drag him off to school. Many years passed. Robert made friends, passed elementary, and middle school. I
adoringly watched Robert develop from his first friend to his first girlfriend. However, Robert ended up with the wrong crowd one night, and made a mistake I would forever remember. It was dusk, a horde of teenage boys descended onto the street carrying spray paint. They laughed when they saw me and painted their names on me. I would have run, but my stony stature prevented me of doing so. After they left, one name stood out across my chest in red paint: ROBERT. Years later, Robert carried a suitcase down the street, his parents in tow. “Good luck in college,” His parents began to tear up, watching their son leave. When Robert was out of college and business school, he trotted down the street ostentatiously, and idea forming in his mind. “Yes, yes, that would be the perfect place to build my business.” Robert looked critically at me. “But that old grimy wall has to go first.” The reality of what Robert said, sunk into me, but I made sure to be mentally ready for my final day. When the construction crew arrived, I stood placidly looking Robert in the eyes steadily. I wish I could have told Robert,“Whatever makes you happy, my little boy Robert. If this is what you have to do to succeed than do as you must. I cherished watching you grow up, and if you think I have served my purpose, than I shall calmly go,” but alas, I would go neither poetically nor calmly, because at that moment an iron wrecking ball crashed into me, blowing my bricks into a million smithereens.
Fiction Anne Smith With a yawn, the nine-year-old farm girl dragged herself out of bed, pulling the blankets to the floor. With a snap, her overalls clasped around her fragile frame shielding her from the dirt soon to come. She followed her hallway to the kitchen where her mother greeted her with a warm breakfast made from farm-grown foods. After she filled her belly with her breakfast, she skipped outside to start her work. The sun filled her golden hair causing it to shine. She loved how the sun beat down on her skin filling her with the kind of warmth that couldn’t be found anywhere else. When she came close to the chicken coop she picked up a long brown stick and prodded the door to the coop opening the entryway. Out came the chickens, Bella, Mango, Milla, Wicket, Nile, Cookie, and- another? There aren’t supposed to be seven chickens. “Hello cutie, where did you come from?” She cooed. The chicken simply stared at her with bright brown oval eyes tilting its head in question, so she replied “You don’t know? Well, I can help you! But first I must finish my chores” The farm girl collected the eggs, milked the cow, patched the roof of the barn, and fed the pigs. All the while the chicken found the eggs, calmed the cow, held the ladder, had a staring contest with the pigs, and followed her everywhere. As she finished up her chores the chicken started to walk away beckoning her to follow. Unable to resist the temptation she joyfully trotted after the chicken.
With a tap tap tap, the chicken’s feet graced the floor with each step. They traveled through the countryside and into town where the girl bought the chicken some feed. The chicken didn’t seem too interested in it though which was definitely strange, the girl had never met a chicken that had turned down food. Peculiar- but regardless they trekked on. They came to a fork in the road and pretending they were choosing a new path in life, imagining that they were gods and goddesses of a new world. They pretended that they were knights off to save a princess or two, just like the stories. After about an hour of adventuring, they came to a large fallen oak tree. The chicken scrapped a small indent in the wood, alongside the other hundred scratches on the bark. The chicken and the girl walked inside, down a flight of unnaturally stony stairs. When they reached the bottom, the light flickered on the walls showing off the surplus of statues in the corridor. There were so many statues, around the same amount as the tick marks at the entrance to the cave. As they came to a stop the chicken turned around, its eyes flickered and drifted, turning a glowering red while growing slits as pupils. The plumage on the black of the creature transformed into a long, slithering tail as its wings grew longer and broader. The Chupacabra stared down at the girl with wide, hypnotic eyes. A tiny chicken pushed a new statue into the corner of its a domain. “Yes, this will fit in nicely.” It chirped. With a bright expression, the chicken waddled through the hallway, up the stairs, and through the entrance, off to collect more furniture to decorate its house.
FAVILLA arti- Art Into Ashes Sabrina Hankins
Rhys Cadigan
I am a painter, and my life is like a canvas. Sometimes it’s blank, but when The Creator gets an idea, it’s full of color and vibrant happiness. Right now, though? let’s say the muses aren’t here. My mother had died, leaving me a lazy, gambling stepfather who didn’t let me paint unless I paid the bills and beat me If I didn’t pay on time. But I persisted. I wrote stories for the papers, I made money from paintings, and I kept what I loved close. Then one day I “overstepped”. That day I had snuck out of the house and got distracted. Little did I know that I was supposed to be working. I got fired, and had to pay the rent a week later than usual. My stepfather was furious, even though he never worked. I saved my voice for times like this, and had enough fight left in me to leave. and when I did return.. Let’s just say I was in shock. My stepfather had all my paintings wrapped in a neat bundle. I didn’t realize what he was doing until he said “favilla arti.” stepfather struck a match, and I stilled, waiting for what he was going to do. He threw it onto the pile, and it exploded in color. It was like a rainbow bomb. It was beautiful and horrifying. we didn’t live near anyone, so no one heard the explosion. I wanted to paint it. Then, I realized...He had burned all my art supplies too.
THE ROAD NOT TAKEN Aiden Hanson ONCE THERE WAS A ROAD, TRAVELED BY MANY. IT WAS HARD FLAT STONE, AND COSTED A PRETTY PENNY. AND ON ONE SHADOWY NIGHT, A LONE PERSON TRAVELED. AND ON THAT CURSED NIGHT, SOMETHING EVIL UNRAVELED. WITH LONG SHARP TEETH, AND A FACE SO VERY SCARY. THE MONSTER WAS FEARED, AND WAS VERY HAIRY. IT TOOK THE VILLAGER, AND WHAT HAPPENED WAS GORE. ONE THING WE DO KNOW, IS THAT THE VILLAGER IS NO MORE.
Tongue Twisters Emily Mellow Tongue twisters, The things that tie your tongue Into a tangled knot No one can undo They twist Tie And tangle Your tongue Until it becomes a jungle. The crazy things Nobody can pronounce Or say It’s like your tongue Stumbles And falls And takes forever To get back up And pronounce the crazy things Correctly. Have you been able To keep your tongue From stumbling?
Eliot Raeny
Shadow Ruby Prentiss & Natalia Johnson Today My shadow didn’t follow me Instead it stopped to climb a tree And way up there In the air It smiled, looking down at me I said, Shadow, please get down I need you to be on the ground So you can follow me around! So it started to come down
But fell With a yell That rang through outer space Even though it started Right here in this place He broke and shattered And fell apart It looked a lot like Abstract art. So now when I walk Around through town I don’t have a shadow to follow me around.
Lucy Ladd
Mesozoic Anna Greene The Mesozoic started off with Triassic Then came the period of Jurassic After that is the Cretaceous, That time was very spacious, It all started off with Triassic. Life hangs on after mass extinction Lystrosaurus makes Pangea a distinction Reptiles swim, fly, and walk But they definitely didn’t talk This whole poem is nonfiction. I’m still talking Triassic. I’m no cheater This next dino is a cat-sized meat eater The oldest dino fossil It wasn’t colossal It wasn’t even long as a meter! At this time reptiles were numerous Fabrosaurus, Lesothosaurus, were scary, not humorous Swimming in the seas Were dolphin sized animal marines These animals were quite tuberous! Triassic had a mass extinction at the end What might have caused it was climate bend Large outpourings of molten rock Animal life started to flock. Now Triassic is over we cannot pretend! Now we’re in the period of Jurassic A lot of things are fantastic! Dinosaurs are dominant In history they’re prominent
And now people make them out of plastic! Than later the oldest bird grows This bird has sharp teeth and a nose It has a long tail But it has no sail The oldest bird even had toes! Now we’re in the Cretaceous time There were lily pads, magnolias and nypa palms to climb! The tallest animal of all Was 60 feet tall And now it’s part of this great big rhyme! Argentinosaurus was a long-neck beast It was likely the most long animal, not the least South America’s where it dwelled I wonder how it smelled! 130-140 feet in length it reached. Beginning of Laramide mountain-building in the west This formed the Rockies, which some say are the best! For more than 30 years Mountains formed on the frontiers Later, Pioneers crossed them on their quest Protoceratops had a shielded head Fossilized eggs were found in their nest-bed Mongolia’s where they were discovered In the 1920’s this was uncovered One of the eggs might have been called Fred! The two biggest creatures Height, length, weight were their features
Giganotosaurus and t-rex Enormous in all respects “They were 45-50 feet long!” say my teachers
It was hunted by a snake who ate turtles, not cheese.
It’s still the Cretaceous period, if you please When giant marine reptiles ruled inland seas Archelon turtle was 12 feet long It’s shell was super strong
In India lava flowed from volcanoes like slime At the end of the Cretaceous time, A large comet from above Hit Mexico with no love Animals from land, sea and air died in their prime.
Abbie Ford
Grey Brynne Mittleider Hey. Hey. How do you feel? What do you think? I think you’re hurt. I’m worried. The world… it feels grey. It IS grey. Why is the world grey? Because she’s gone! I saw her five months ago and now I’ll never see her again! I know how you feel. I do. No, you don’t!!!
I’m sorry. I know you are. Talk to me, please. Tell me why your world is grey. An ‘x’. That’s it. A single ‘x’ on a single page. No word, no picture, no special difference from every other day crossed out in this month. No sign, saying, “This day was different. This day every soul should lower their eyes and take off their hats.” It was just one ‘x’, but it was the end of something that was just too young to stop. What was her name?
Her name was Michael. She could walk. She DID walk. She DID laugh, she DID smile, she DID love. She felt so many things, had to endure so much pain, but she still brought forth positivity that spread to everything and everyone around her. I just can’t believe that even someone who fought so hard, that so much positivity, could be gone so suddenly. You know, shock is a funny thing. You can hear something that you know is true, but only a part of you really believes it, really takes it in. You have to know what happens next to really accept it. So when I heard, I was devastated. But when I looked up and realized that my Auntie Michael was watching over me, and I’d never get to ask her every single question I’ve wanted to and I’d never get to see her shoulder-length blonde hair and I’d never get to watch her adopt that little boy with her husband that was when the shock truly hit me and caused the water stains on my desk.
Hailey Talbert
So that’s why the color is gone. I loved my aunt. I never got to say it. But I hope she knew it. And though every calendar might just have an ‘x’ crossing out Monday, March 12th, I know what happened that day, and my world is grey because of it.
I know you feel hurt. I know your world of color is gone. But she is watching over you now. And she didn’t love you. She does love you. And that is what will make the color come back.
Althea McNulty
Remember Anna Jane Miller
Hi… Remember me? Remember the times we used to have? Remember them? Remember when the cool air used to breathe on our faces, as we laughed and played? Remember when I gave you that necklace? And we said we’d always be friends? And I know you might be saying, Times change And they do They change a lot. I remember how you used to smile at me. But alas, That smile… Has been replaced With a glare. A big glare. I’ve often wish That I could take back All I’ve done Everything. But I can’t So I wish, You could forgive me.
Kat Cahan
Jasper: A Kitten's Tale Excerpt 2 Madalina Stoicov
Back on the highway, there was some time to let Jasper out of his carrier. Undoing the cardboard latches, I scooped Jasper out and laid him on my lap. He stood and started pacing around the back seat. 
 He found the window. Flashes of colors of cars zoomed by. Jasper balanced on my thigh and placed his front paws on edge of the car window. The reflections of all the cars danced in his eyes. He was completely focused on the outside world. Adventure and curiosity was scarred in his eyes, and head, for the rest of his life. And I have to admit, if I was a cat who had never seen the highway, I would want to know what was out there too. 
Angel By Zoe Weisenfluh Chapter 1 Heat vision “Heat, burn, hurt! Fire, creature, good, blue, light,” screamed Angela Brickstones. Pain sizzled into her foot as she lay on the ground, untouched, yet harmed in a way that seemed impossible. A tall, gangly shadow stood over her as blood trickled down Angela’s leg into a pot. A very old, rusty, pot about the size of a hollowed out bowling ball. A maniacal laugh split the silence as Angela lay there, innocent, not knowing what was happening to her. “Heat, burn, light, glow, creature, blue,” moaned Angela, grasping her foot, but not knowing she was doing so.
Brynne Mittleider
The shadowy figure looked up and through the trees, or what was left of them and shivered in the light of a full moon on a starless night. Something was moving fast, toward the figure, slithering along the burnt ground, coming slowly, but surely to. There was another shriek of laughter before the figure realized what was happening and dashed out onto the road of hot tar. Their feet burned, leaving scraps of bubbling skin as the figure left, the pot of blood sloshing on their hands and all over their cloak. There was another shriek, not of happiness, but of pain, resentment, and sadness. Angela laid there, her face pale as a ghost, thinking her eyes would never open again. The snake slithered toward her with great effort, then wrapped itself around her, not constricting or biting her, but hugging her with comfort, soothing the lonely, heartbroken soul of Angela Brickstones. With that, something marvelous happened, Angela’s eyes opened, staring at the sky on that starless night with a full moon. There was something strange though about her pupils. They did not show, nor did any part of her eyeball. Underneath those completely normal eyelids were, blue, glowing, eyes. Chapter 2 Under the Glare of Selah “Angela, Angela, Angela wake up!” Mrs. Sylvester, shouted into Angela’s face. “It’s time for school. Come along now, we mustn’t be on time, we are always early and you know that.” Angela moaned, clutching her stuffed dolphin and snuggling in back under the covers. “Angela! This is not the time to play games with me! We must go downstairs to breakfast before your classmates come.” Angela mumbled, her scar showing as her foot slipped out of bed. “Alright, alright I’m coming, but leave me be to get dressed,” Angela grunted while sliding her other foot out of bed, her hair in a tangle of woven, black, strands that went down to her shoulders. Mrs. Sylvester had sort of look of pride as she walked stiffly out of the room, having won the battle. Again. Angela got out of her bed and walked over to her wardrobe where she promptly opened the the little door on the left side and pulled out her dull tie that matched her dull pinafore. Her outfit was an ash grey, her tie a raven black color, pin pricked with dots of pearly white. Her thoughts wandered around, floating in her head about the dream she had had last night. It felt familiar, almost as if she had seen it before. She couldn’t remember it, just blurriness, a bunch of fire, and a mysterious figure that seemed oddly similar in other dreams Angela had had. As she headed down the lengthy staircase to dine she saw Mrs. Sylvester talking to one of the servant's sons.
Eden Marley
Angela tried to listen in, but when Mrs. Sylvester caught her eye she simply spat, “You common boy, go and clean the chimney. It will be cold today and I want a fire going. If you want some porridge for supper tonight, you had better get started!” The servant’s boy looked down and attempted to show a look of utter misery, but failed to when Angela saw a sparkle in his eye. What was his name? Tim? No. Tom? No. Time! That was it, his name was Time. She made a mental note to ask him about the conversation later before proceeding to the dining room. Angela’s favorite meal was already laid out on the table with her name engraved on her chair. Mrs. Sylvester joined her, and began to eat as though nothing had ever happened. Angela was about to ask why Mrs. Sylvester was whispering with Time a minute ago, but was interrupted by a feeble cluck coming from out in the long corridor. “Mus be a shicken aben,” chomped Mrs. Sylvester as she chewed on a piece of waffle, swallowing before shoving another piece into her tiny mouth. Angela longed to eat a waffle. She had had one once when she was little, but when her mother had seen her steal a piece from Sage, she had said that she was never to eat a waffle again. Angela always followed the rules her mother had set. Always!
Happy to have an excuse of returning a chicken in the hall to its rightful home, Angela slipped away muttering something like, “I’ll get henchman.” The delicious smell of bacon and waffles was getting more distant with every step she took. “Thank you,” Mrs. Sylvester called after her before drowning another piece of waffle in syrup and stuffing it in her face. Angela stumbled off thinking about what she was going to have for breakfast when she saw Henchman, the chicken, off the a door that led to the pantry staring up at her with a twinge of guilt on his small face. He backed away from the pantry, banging into a jar of relish. “Henchman,” cried Angela, stifling giggles and putting on a firm face. “What on earth are you doing in the house! You should be out with poultry and turkey brain, not in our pantry stealing our food! Bad chicken, bad henchman!” The firm face lifted off her and was replaced with gloom when she heard the echoing footsteps and saw Selah strutting through the hall. Her maid was carrying her school bag and hurrying behind, glancing at Angela with a look of disgust as she went past. But the maid did not go any farther than the pantry door, for she had slammed into Selah’s bony back, who turned around and glared savagely at both of them. Selah was the queen bee of Basalt Mansion you could say. Glossy walnut colored curls surrounded her face as she watched Angela, Selah’s green eyes scanning her as though she was a suspect in trial. Angela tried with all she had to muster a glare, but only seemed to manage a twitching mouth of pain and longing to rip the smile of Selah’s face. “Why do your chickens have such loser names,” said Selah, almost in awe at the fact that someone would name their chicken turkey brain. “Your so weird Angela Brickstones!” Angela’s face blushed with embarrassment and anger as Selah continued to walk across the hall toward the classroom, a smirk on her face that Angela swore would one day be worn by her, and with the frown on Selah. “Selah, darling, you’re here! Would you care for a cup of tea,” Mrs. Sylvester asked sweetly, not knowing how Selah had treated Angela for the past three years. “I would love one if you don’t mind, thank you very much. By the way, I never knew what ridiculous names Angela’s chickens had! Funny, you would think that I would have known by now, but it looks as Angela doesn’t like to tell me things, do you Angela?”
If it hadn’t been for Angela’s empty stomach and low energy she would have leapt onto that frog and snatched her dainty little ribbon right of the ponytail that she wore today. Her stomach growled as she stared at Selah with pure hatred. Selah laughed and said, “Oh Angela, you do make the ugliest faces sometimes!” Mrs. Sylvester looked uncomfortable at this comment and said in a voice that was not at all sweet, “Why don’t you go get settled for class Selah, honey.” Selah left the room silently, seeming pleased
Rhys Cadigan
with herself. Angela didn’t feel well. She felt faint, hot, she needed water. She needed it now. Her eyelids fluttered open and shut a few times. Through her blurry vision she could see Mrs. Sylvester ordering Time, muttering something about getting Angela to bed. Her eyes closed, to see people screaming, a fire was burning down houses, long towering shadows of giants were right behind them. She must go, she must go now. “Mother, Father, Sage! We need to go! Sage? SAGE? Where’s Sage Mother? Where is SHE?!!!” A strange figure flew across the landscape of burning trees and screaming people. Was that Sage? Angela didn’t know, her face was burning from the heat, her family was fading. “Stay with me,” she thought, “Stay with me.” And with that, everything blackened.
Astrologist Dana Holman The bionic finger clinked against the screen as the owner of the bionic arm zoomed into the geographic map of Mars. The old telescopes set in the corner were collecting dust after years of rest. The astrologist, who had lost their arm to an infection, began to measure the kilometres from Earth to Mars. Microscopes rested on the desk, small molecules of dust beginning to settle upon them. The soft symphony of shifting gears, wind, and chirping birds filled the astrologist's ears as they worked. They had begun to grow tired of the cyclical pattern of coming to work and measuring until their shift ended, going home, and repeating the cycle. They’d wake up at five in the morning and eat breakfast, then head out to work. They’d work for around eight to ten hours and then come home. After eating dinner they’d go straight to sleep as soon as they could. It was so routine they had set themselves to auto-pilot, going on the same cycle, every single day. After writing down the final few chronicles of their measurements, they
slumped in their chair, actually feeling the back of it after months of work. Letting a soft sigh float from their lungs and dissolve into the air, they looked back at their work. The minimal amount of kilometres Earth and Mars could be apart totaled 54.6 million kilometres. The maximum amount of kilometres they could be apart totaled 401 million kilometres. Printing it out of the ancient printer NASA provided, they snatched the documents and stapled the papers together in an organized haste. Hurrying to their boss, they knocked on the door before opening it. “Sir?” “Yes?” “I finished the documents. I finished the measurements.” “Good job. You are free to go, just set the documents on my desk.” “Thank you, Sir.” “No, I should be thanking you, Ari. You’ve helped NASA so much. We don’t know what we would have done without you.” “Sir… thank you.” “No problem. Now return home, you must be exhausted.” “Goodbye, Sir!” “Goodbye, Ari!”
The Book Brynne Mittleider Flickering sparks escape the fireplace beside the elderly man. Crackling fibers whine as he slowly turns the ancient page. The page of the book handed to him with a knowing smile and a wink. The wink of a father; the wink of a father’s father. The elderly man, only a boy, had stared back, doubtless, filled with an uneducated radiance. The book rested on its shelf for many years, staying in the same position, slowly gathering dust. It watched the man grow, watched as he acted stronger and stranger. Watched as he yelled at his parents in anger; watched as he was hugged in his darkest moments of desperation. Watched him dressing for his first day of school; watched him dressing for the senior’s prom. The book saw many tears, rivers flowing from the deepest parts of his heart. A broken toy, his first breakup, and finally, those for the father’s father. The book watched it all. The mother, hesitant and sorrowful, slowly walking to the boy as he lay on his bed. It watched her whisper into his ear, watched him swallow,
and watched his shoulders slowly sag as the death was rested upon his shoulders. The river began once again, spilling onto his clothes and blanket, surging past his enclosed eyelids and dripping off his slender lashes. Many years past, but the weight on his shoulders never seemed to lift. The man
graduated, married, and settled down, finally becoming the elder he was destined to become. Perhaps it was the weight on his shoulders, perhaps it was coming of age, but he decided to visit the house where it all began. He entered, smiled at his parents, now frail and elderly, and approached the old shelf. After a brief search, he found the book. Softly blowing off the dust, the man sagged onto a rustic couch and lifted the front cover. A note was sprawled on the back-


Hailey Talbert
Hello Says The World Anna Jane Miller
The world waved to me one morning, When the skies were filled with many colors, Too many to imagine. And I Waved back to the world. The world smiled at me one afternoon, When the sun was high up in the sky, Too high to imagine. And I Smiled back at the world. The world laughed with me one evening, When the skies filled with many colors, Too beautiful to imagine. And I Laughed back. The world sang to me one midnight, When it was cold and dark outside, Too cold to imagine. And I Would’ve sang back, But the world Sang me To sleep.
Distance Dana Holman
It’s difficult, Staying in contact with a husband overseas. It’s difficult, To look out of that front window, Hoping to see his boat, His face, Floating toward shore. It’s difficult, When the fog clouds the sea, I worry about him, I hope he worries for me. It’s difficult, Staring at the framed photos, Of myself and him, To climb into a cold empty bed, Wishing I was out at sea with him instead. It’s difficult, To awake one morning, With a sense of dread and mourning, But, As I look out to the marina, From the bow of his ship, He looks back at me.
A step. That was all it took. One single step, and I would fill the empty hole in my heart carved away ten years ago. I would feel the sensation of an evenness, a balance not achieved for a decade. For ten years I have known the absence of flesh beneath my left knee, known yet never really accepted the fact. How could I? Imagine you are just a weak, short little boy whose life ambition is to serve your country. That goal is all you’ve set in your bullied Brooklyn background. You’ve applied for the military five times, each time rejected for your meek and sickly appearance. After years of trying, you finally get in. Imagine your joy, your feeling of finally achieving what you knew was your destiny since the age of seven! Imagine you, a tiny boy from New York, fighting alongside America’s greatest heroes! But what I bet you can’t imagine is how my achievement was crushed, smashed to a pulp, and seemingly spat into the dumpster of an abandoned alley. The day was August 10th, 1940. I was asleep in London, stationed there to protect the citizens from the frequent German bombs occurring recently. The raids were during the day, so I didn’t expect a night attack. But it came. A deafening explosion followed by horrific screams of the near-dead. Fire engulfing half of my bedroom and ash sticking to my bloodied face. Ringing echoing throughout my ears. Soldiers rushing past my door that lay only partially on its hinges. I grabbed my bedstead, shards of wood splintering my hands, and dragged myself onto the wooden floor. I used the bed to pull myself onto my feet, my room now burning ferociously, and
Kat Cahan
One Step Brynne Mittleider
limped out of the doorway. I was not the only one to try to escape. Soldiers lay along the hallway, eyes staring at the ceiling but with a misty glaze over their pupils. No breath left their lungs. I hobbled down the hallway, fire behind me and the dead in front. One soldier lay sprawled across the floor, but his chest rose and fell with raggedy gulps of air. His eyes rolled toward me frantically and I saw the fear behind them. Although I had not much strength left, I put an arm around his chest and lifted his body off the ground. I was small, true, but I worked hard in my training. I could carry this man for a short distance. He sighed half in relief and half in pain; I felt blood drip down my front as I struggled to the end of the hallway. There lay a door, one I knew led to the outside world. Still carrying the injured soldier, I kicked open the door. I took one step onto the stained, incarnadine, British soil before another explosion shook me unconscious. Weeks later, I awoke, but to considerable pain. I learned then that the second bomb caused
Miranda Birks
the loss of my left leg, and that it was a miracle I survived. To my relief, I also learned that the soldier I took from the burning building survived as well, thanks to my courage. I do not think of it as courage, more as empathy. I too had felt the fear that radiated from his weak body, but I was the more able to leave, so I helped him. The loss of my leg was a tragedy, and it meant that I could never serve in the army again. I was crushed, but thankful to be alive. Years passed, and that brings me to where I am now. A doctor contacted me recently explaining that he had developed a new piece of technology, a way for me to walk again, a fake leg. He said all he needed to do was attach it below my knee. I traveled to his laboratory, prepared to finally feel what I took for granted ten years ago, prepared to finally relieve myself of my pain and, finally, feel as whole as I could have ever wished. I took a step.
There once was an elephant seal He slipped on a banana peel He fell to the ground And bounced around And rolled around like a wheel -Theo Kowalsky
The Gentle Sky Julian Giordano Sitting on a balcony Drink in my hand watching the sky Turn slowly to sand The myriad lights of the city Bring joy to my heart As I watch the sunset Turn very very dark My dog comes out Of the shadowy house He licks the skin of my hand While I keep watching The sky become sand
Brynne Mittleider
Lost Soul Brynne Mittleider
 A soul lives inside you Not haunting Not controlling But feeling. They are not your heart Nor your mind And do not live in the world of color. An aura loves rainbows And red, yellow, blue But a soul Is that In shade. A soul has eyes As white as the moon And bags the shade Of the night around it. Its bald head is smooth Its wings spread wide Its body like that Of a ghost. Its tail is a hope A dream A wish A passion A pleasure A source of pride. These souls can escape When the heart has taken its toll And wander in search Of a home. They are not ghosts Nor shadows Nor the trick of the eye Just lost and lonely souls In search Of a home. 
Eden Marley
What e’er men do, or say, or think, or dream, our motley paper seizes for its theme. -byline from The Tatler (Eng 18th c.) -from Juvenal (Roman satirist 2nd c. AD)