Issuu

From the Deepest Thoughts to the Shallowest Realities

Poetry and prose by 916 Ink’s Author’s Lab High School Group

From the Deepest Thoughts to the Shallowest Realities Poetry and prose by 916 Ink’s Author’s Lab High School Group

About 916 Ink 916 Ink is the only arts-based literacy nonprofit in the greater Sacramento region dedicated to providing creative writing workshops for youth, ages 5-25, to transform them into confident writers. We empower students to become the authors of their own lives, one published story at a time. Since 2011, we have served over 3,000 kids in the Sacramento Region, and published more than 100 publications. Our mission is to empower children and youth through creative writing. We envision a Sacramento region where every child and teen is given access to a creative writing program that leads them to believe in themselves and to understand the power of the written word. Learn more about us at www.916ink.org, or send an email to info@916ink.org to learn how to become involved.

DISCLAIMER

This is a work of fiction and poetry. Any resemblance of characters to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental. The author and publisher hold exclusive rights to this work. Unauthorized duplication is prohibited. Copyright 2021.Â

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Dear Reader, What you hold in your hands is the hard work and dedication of a community of youth and adult writers working together to tell stories that inspire, entertain, and heal. At 916 Ink, we teach young people how to write, listen, and support each other in the pursuit of creating literary art. The words in these pages are carefully chosen and crafted to reflect their unique voice. This book is a celebration of “taking the yes,” which is a motto of 916 Ink students. “Taking the yes” means that students are unafraid to collaborate with each other and themselves. It might sound weird—how does one “collaborate” with his or her own self? By shutting down the inner critics in our head that tell us that we aren’t good enough, our stories don’t matter, or what we might say is stupid or unnecessary. Stories are how we create meaning and make sense of the world. What’s better than to teach young people how to tell stories, create meaning out of their lives, and understand the world? Creative writing carves a path to a better life. Writers know this, but maybe the rest of the world doesn’t. A writer is someone who truly gets to live twice—once through their senses and once through the page. Everyone needs writers. Favorite television shows? Go thank a writer. News articles? Thank a writer. Education? Writers wrote the curriculum. Business? Can’t happen without writers creating marketing tools and business plans. Writers make the world go around. By reading this book you’ve supported the growth of a writer. Thanks. Please consider making a donation to this great cause on our website at www.916ink. org if you’d like to further our mission of populating the planet with youth who can “take the yes,” and lead a happy life. Ink-tastically yours,

The 916 Ink staff, the Board of Dreamers, volunteers, and youth writers

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From the Wordslinger Dear Reader, This group of student authors is tenured, treasured, and tenacious. In order to be a part of Author’s Lab, students are required to have completed another writing program at 916 Ink. Some of these students have been attending 916 Ink workshops for years, and it shows in their writing and their craft. They have crafted evocative poetry and short stories. Their group story questions authoritarian regimes but also craftily questions the fine line of acceptance and equity, of standing up or standing by. Through the nonconforming characters of the group story and their outspoken natures, you are sure to feel a part of your consciousness sparked. The range and gradient of writing produced within Author’s Lab is stirring. There are chapters from novels, short stories, and poems. No matter the genre, the result is equally invigorating for writers and bookworms alike. If this collection of youth prose and poetry were a color, it would be cornflower or the royalty of violet, the color of hope and possibility and drive. As one eloquent writer illustrates: “The truest beauties of the world are found where humanity has failed to touch.” Their perspectives are fresh and radiate curiosity and justice. This collection embodies an “abstract aura” and crescendos you through an “arrangement of emotions” so raw, you’ll be a slightly different person with a slightly altered perspective after trekking and transcending through their verse. It has been an honor to write with Autumn, Ash, Estella, Natalie, and Sia this past fall and to ignite creativity alongside Zuzu Schmitke. In gratitude,

Nena Larieze

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Acknowledgments Nena Larieze

Wordslinger

Zuzu Schmitke

Wordslinger

Anthony Ziba

Guest Editor

Priya Ramchandran

Eagle Eye

Katie McCleary

Founding Executive Director

Michael Spurgeon

Founding Board President

DJ Waldow

Board of Dreamers, President

Dr. Beatrice Tetteh

Board of Dreamers, Vice President

Shelley Blanton-Stroud Board of Dreamers, Secretary Kathy Flynn

Board of Dreamers, Treasurer

Chris Worden

Board of Dreamers

Daniel Kaufman

Board of Dreamers

Lynn Lizarraga

Board of Dreamers

Rekha Tejpal

Board of Dreamers

Vince Wong

Board of Dreamers

Xenia Schutt

Board of Dreamers

Ian Hadley

Executive Director

Angela Tannehill

Creative Director

Allison Stelly

Director of Development

Nikki Cardoza

Director of Programming

Paulette Greenhouse

Program Manager

Jay Oatis

Program Coordinator

Emma Hoppough

Production Coordinator

Maria Gavia

Office Manager

Christina Nelson

ReadOn! Program Manager

Tory Scott

Bookslinger

Will Evans

Outreach and Development Associate,

AmeriCorps VISTA

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Contents Group Work . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 1 Corrupted Shards: Children of Two Worlds. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 2

Ash Bridges. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 11

The Mystery of Halloween. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 12 The Ideal Space . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 13 Hanging Around . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 14 To Be Told . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 18

Autumn Peterson. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 19 Gray Skies, Gray Dreams. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 20

Of Bees and Blades . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 21 Daisy, Cornflower, Daisy, Cornflower . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 22

Estella Bacsafra . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 31

Diary Entry #124: Cloud Whales. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 32 Like Real People Do. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 34

Iris Vyalkov . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 39 Behind the Window. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 40 Patience to Excellence. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 40 Reality. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 41 Ultraviolet. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 41

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Hazel Elliott . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 43

The Adventures of Depression. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 44 I’m Tired of Being Told. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 45 The Ruined City. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 46

Sia Salgia. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 51 Now that I Think About It,

Amnesia Seems Like a Better Option. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 52 Heaven Is Earth with You in It, but Not Anymore.... . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 54 If You Can’t Rob a Bank, You’re Obviously an Imbecile . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 55

Wordslingers. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 57 Planetary Perspective-Shift. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 58 Blog Post 1569 . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 59

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Group Work

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Corrupted Shards: Children of Two Worlds Group Story

“I’ll take Axel,” the woman howled. They knew what they had to do to keep their twins apart. If danger was to be avoided, the siblings were to grow apart. Before falling back, they both knew they would never see each other again and embraced one last time. A woman from Monochromia and a man from Acidstorm falling in love? Impossible. The government had found out, and there was only one fate for those who defied them: death. The man grasped Avery and stepped through the mirror. He was nearly able to escape, but not before the shards consumed him. This separation shattered and altered gravity. Avery was thrust forward into Acidstorm. The bond between the twins, however, was stronger, stronger than they realized. Fate required them to meet, but their parents did not know that, nor would they ever. But the government on Monochromia did. They were surveying Axel’s journal and watching Avery very closely in case they ever tried to reunite.

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In Monochromia You don’t really miss color if you’re born into a world without it, but there’s always an eerie sense of something that is missing. It all started the day the government trapped the color. Over the course of several years, people have been trying to bring it back, but the color is locked safely away in a box somewhere. One of my only belongings is a tattered map and a severed and crumpled photo of what appears to be my family. Axel in Monochromia

Without color, life has been

challenging but tolerable. What would the people think if I showed them color? I had tried, and I was met with a knock at the door not even an hour later with a warning. But I won’t give up; I will continue to fight for color. I hear a voice in my head that guides me, that reminds me that those in power are not the only ones that are powerful. Sometimes it feels as though it’s more than an inner critic, like someone almost as familiar as my own consciousness. When I close my eyes, sometimes I travel to another planet, one with color and family. Sometimes, memories feel like a strange dream, distant. That morning, as I forced my feet into my shoes, without tying laces, I heard a voice telling me to take my time. One that warned, That was close, anxiety layered on top of constant dread, so I shrugged it away. But maybe it’s protection? Continued on next page

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Wisdom has no place on this godforsaken planet, Monochromia. Wisdom wouldnâ€™t understand that survival is all that I know. The rebellion that I had started two years ago has become more widespread, and the government is hunting me. They know that I found the shard of glass, that I saw myself, that I saw color, that I saw a person that looked like me, that I heard them speak my name, Axel. I heard their voice aloud and recognized it as the one in my thoughts.

On Acidstorm Acidstorm is a planet full of giant, colorful mushrooms the size of sequoia trees, many colored waters, and creepy, neon, poisonous bugs that roam the undergrowth. Acidstorm is not a storm of acid but rather a large, freeing land filled with toads and frogs, humans, giant mushrooms, and bugs, once living in equality and in synchrony. Hues of highlights streak the land in crazy blues, purples, pinks, yellows, greens, and oranges.â€Š

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Avery is out scouting in the giant mushroom forest on Acidstorm. They are hanging out with the bugs when suddenly a clan of toads and frogs attack with fire and pitchforks. Avery uses their plant powers by shooting vines to tie up the toads and frogs and keep the bugs safe. Avery takes a pitchfork and does a heroic pose for the bug children. The children don’t realize that the frogs and toads are teaming up with the humans to exterminate all the bugs on her home planet, Acidstorm, or that she must stop the extermination. She blows her strawberry blonde curls out of her face and adjusts her neon green overalls.

Avery on Acidstorm

“That was close,” she whispers. Avery returns to the mushroom village where they are from and sits on the bathroom sink. Unbeknownst to them, the dimensions are aligning, creating a phasing effect that is causing mirrors to become portals to different dimensions. When they investigate the mirror, they see a kind person, a person who loves bugs, toads, and frogs, a nonconforming and gender-neutral person. A person without parents or siblings. A person suddenly losing ground. Avery feels like they are falling, but there is no ground to be seen. What is going on? What is happening? They rush to the cottage on the mushroom and then into the small bathroom and check their appearance: nothing special, nothing new. Then...there is a smudge on the mirror—when did that get there? Avery places their hand on the mirror, analyzing the smudge. They are certain that there is something on the other side. Something greater than the reflection of themselves. Avery applies pressure on the mirror, pushing in hopes that something will happen. Continued on next page

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When Dimensions Collide “AHHHHHHHHHH,” Avery screams as she falls from the sky. Axel looks up. She is so colorful, so bright. “What are you? Who are you?” he interrogates. Where am I? Avery thinks to herself. Definitely not Acidstorm; everything is gray, black, and white, even this boy. She backs up, not knowing how to navigate this weird place. Avery is hit with shock and confusion instead, because this person has an eerie resemblance. He seems to catch this fact as well. “Uh, sorry,” Avery apologizes. “Um, it’s OK,” their doppelganger responds. To Avery, his mannerisms are rebellious and overconfident. He smooths his dark brown hair and rubs his matching olive complexion, which is dark gray in Monochromia. At sixteen and standing nearly six feet tall, he has a Bond-like vibe. “What is this place?” Avery asks, still confused. “Monochromia. Clearly you’re not from here,” the boy says, emitting a shy smile and motioning to her bright clothing.

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“Uh, no, I’m from Acidstorm. I’ve never heard of Monochromia,” Avery remarks. “Acidstorm; where is that?” The boy seems confused despite being so outspoken. She stops mid-explanation out of fear.

Avery had slipped into the dimension of Monochromia, and the government immediately became aware of this. Upon the arrival of Avery, a new hope spread through the resistance. Right in front of them was a living vessel of color and sound. Everything that had been taken is slowly starting to be restored. Avery has enjoyed a celebrity-type presence in the revolution. Axel is a little jealous. He has been fighting for longer than she even knew about Monochromia, and yet there they are getting all the praise. It doesn’t matter though, because the thing about Avery is that they inspire him, too. Avery is a beacon. They are a spark, a spark that is slowly catching fire. It has been three months since Avery showed up haphazardly on Monochromia, and the revolution is planning a full-scale assault on the ministry of Monochrome, the government organization that was responsible for removing all the color from Monochromia. Rumor has it that there is a giant device zapping the color from the world, but no one knows for sure. No one has been in there and come out alive. Now Avery is being chased, trying to escape from the government agents. They lock themself in a room and realize the room has a mirror in it. They lock the door and go through. When the guards break through, they are gone. Avery had escaped through the mirror. The guards then realize what happened due to a piece of evidence left behind: the shard. They now have free passage between worlds. Axel and Avery run through the woods together as the agents chase them. “I swear...If they get away!” One of them yells. The brace on Axel’s ankle electrocutes him every step of the way, but he pushes on. He takes out the broken piece of a mirror and sets it down on the forest floor. “Get back to Acidstorm; I can handle this.” Avery refuses, but Axel pushes her, and she falls back into her dimension. Axel braces as the agents get closer and tackle him to the ground. He is once again arrested and taken for questioning. Continued on next page

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“Who is she?” an investigator asks. Axel sits handcuffed, looking down.

It has been three days since Avery returned from Monochromia. They have heard nothing from Axel or the revolution. Nothing from the piece of shattered mirror they held in their hand. Axel promised that he would say something, reach out. But 72 hours of silence ensued. Across Acidstorm, the toads and frogs have grown more militant against the bugs. Bug villages have been burned to the ground, and the survivors were gathered and sentenced to gruesome deaths. Avery loves the bugs but knows that they can do nothing about what is happening. It is so big, and they are so small. Avery thinks back to the revolution on Monochromia. Another thing that feels so huge and so daunting. Taking down a government and ending a genocide is just too much for any one or two people to do. Tears begin to pour from their eyes. Avery clutches the piece of mirror in their hands. I must do something, they think. Then the mirror starts to glow. Axel’s face appears on the other side. “Hi, Avery,” Axel says. Avery lights up with joy. It feels like a lifetime since they have seen Axel. Axel warns Avery about the Monochromian government. They want to conquer Acidstorm and make it a colony of Monochromia. Axel can’t do anything from his prison cell but warn Avery about what is going to happen.

The long calls through the shard of mirror are draining. There is now less color in Avery’s hair. The long calls and talks are slowly draining their color. Avery tells Axel about what is happening to her, but there is nothing he can do. Avery needs that information. They need to find a way to stop Monochromia from conquering Acidstorm and plan the counterattack the next morning.

Avery runs outside—only a little while before the guards wake up. Good thing they left their equipment; it could tinker with the reception and make it unavailable to use and shatter their passage mirror. Phew. Now, the colorful sun is rising. Avery reaches out to Axel one more time, and they agree that they should try to put an end to the corruption on both planets. The guards make it through, and as soon as they see the color, they start tearing it down, removing color. They want to make it just like their world;

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they wanted a civilized, government-controlled world. They wanted it to be their world, another thing to take over. Avery steps in, wanting nothing to do with the government. She tells them she wants a free world. The guards do not listen, but it doesn’t matter; Axel is channeling through the shard, out of prison, to fight alongside his sibling.

Axel and Avery stand in an open field in Acidstorm. They both see the Monochromia military coming toward them. They have managed to bring in fleets of soldiers. Axel and Avery stand strong in their place, now knowing that they are twins. They hold hands and brace for the worst, though confident in their plan. A helicopter quickly flies over, booming, “You have one minute to turn yourselves in.” The sound of the helicopter’s blades is deafening, blowing harsh wind onto Axel and Avery. They both stand their ground and do not move. Axel can feel Avery’s grip tighten. The announcer in the helicopter begins to count down. The tanks start up again, moving slowly toward them, soldiers marching, the sound of their heavy boots thundering. “Five...four...three...two... one...Are you sure you want this?” The announcer in the helicopter inquires. The tanks pick up speed, charging at them, the twins not moving. “Wait until they get close enough,” Axel mutters. “Now!” Axel shouts. The twins both take out shards of mirrors and place them together, creating an explosion that opens a portal back to another planet entirely, where they will work to plot to use plant powers and devotion to finally end the genocide and oppression on both planets. When Universes Open When unpacking, Axel notices a crumpled photo featuring the silhouette of a tall man of color standing next to a caramel-streaked woman with green swirls orbiting within her otherwise colorless form. He frantically searches for the side of the image, the picture he has held onto for sixteen years. “Hey, you might want to look at this, Ave.” He nudges her shoulder. Each parent is holding a bundled baby, grinning profusely. “What in the…” Avery mutters under their breath. The photograph is dated 2158, and faded writing on the back reads: “Viva la

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revolución, may our twins know a world of color, acceptance, and courage.” “We have to keep trying, Ax, even though all of this feels too big for any one or two people to handle,” Avery exclaims as they continue to hold the image together despite shaking hands. Avery and Axel rush to put the pieces of their shredded map together, to rebuild their past together, so that it may give clues to their future.

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Ash Bridges

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The Mystery of Halloween Ash Bridges

It’s that time again. Her favorite time of year. She had been hyping herself up the past few months. She continually practiced her idea. By now, she had mastered it. All her decorations were ready. It was so perfect. “Honey?” her father called, worried. “Yes?” she replied while removing her makeup. “Come down here,” he said hesitantly. “Quick.” She rushed downstairs, peeping out the window at the porch and front lawn excitedly. The decorations...were gone? She stared outside with a confused look. “Where did they go?” she said, looking to her dad. “I don’t know, I let the cat out and saw they were missing,” he said with a grim look on his face. She didn’t understand. She had just seen them this morning, 3:00 a.m. to be exact. She went outside. Her plans went down the drain. She had no extra decorations. There was no time. Halloween was today. She spent all her money on that. “I don’t understand what’s going on,” she said as she was quickly backing up the stairs. She was still going out. She put on her look. Though it was not the same without the decorations, she could come up with a new idea.

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The Ideal Space Ash Bridges

The ideal place to write or do art would be an outdoor area. It would be surrounded by bushes, shrubs, trees, and flowers. There would be pillows and cushions on the grass and in stacks around the wooden fence. A few baskets of books here. Cups of pens, pencils, and coloring supplies there. Pull-out and mini tables against the one wilting bush. The area would be covered by a clear covering or glass. Perfect for rainy days or nighttime moods. There would be speakers—mini, with a couple bigger ones—and headphone baskets nearby for music of your choice. There would be baskets of toys, fidgets, and projects. Canvases on shelves on the singular wall. Shelves of books also on the wall. Jars of prompts on a table. The centrals would be Writers’ Corner, Artist’s Square, and Project Central. You could explore the field and the trees, take a basket, collect flowers, and more. There would be more additions to come. New areas, and maybe some more projects. This area would be perfect for the creative minds and ones that are not as creative.

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Hanging Around Ash Bridges

Well, I’m dangling off this cliff, not sure if I am going to make it…I haven’t seen anyone in a while. Maybe I should explain how I got here. It all started with wanting to go for a jog; see where I went wrong there? I wanted to be good and exercise. Ha! That was my first mistake. Anyway, I drove up here to this gorgeous trail that is off the beaten path—mistake two! But now...to fix those mistakes. I’m NOT going to be like one of those people from movies. I’m going to stay still, not going to move around and lose my grip. I’m not gonna scream. I could ask my phone to call for help using the speaker option...might not work though. After all, I am on a cliff. But then, I decide to call for help. “Phone?” I say. The phone responds and says, “Yes?” “Call for help,” I say. “Calling 911,” my phone replies. “911, what is your emergency?” a dispatcher responds. “Um, yes, my name is Lara, and I am currently hanging off the edge of a cliff.” “OK, let me ping your loc—” the phone cuts out. “Seriously!?” I kind of expected that, if I’m honest. I am in the middle of nowhere on the edge of a cliff. Sigh. OK, let’s look around and see what I can do here.

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Back to what I was saying before that phone disaster: I decided today would be a good day to be healthy and get in some exercise. See, but on the way here, I got the feeling I probably should have stayed home. The universe was giving me signs, and I decided to say, “Nah, I am good, universe, I can do this.” So, when I went to start my car, it didn’t want to start. I had to turn the key in the ignition THREE times! I had three chances to get myself back inside. Did I? Obviously, I did not. I decided, No, no. I won’t let this stop me. I backed out of my driveway and almost got hit by someone flying down the street. I had to calm my nerves after that, but figured, Hey, there is some cardio before my jog. Then, yes, it continues. I know I should have listened. Shh. I got out of my driveway to the stop sign; I was getting ready to make my left-hand turn, and someone ran the stop sign and almost T-boned me! Wow. Some more cardio, I thought. OK, so now that you have some idea about how my day is going, what do I do now? Gotta think. “Phone?” I ask again. “Yes?” “Call for help.” “Calling 911.” “911, what is your emergency?” “Ping my location! I am hanging off a—hello? Hello?” It disconnected again! Really? Well, I hope they heard me that time. I will try again, but first, let me finish my story. So, where did I leave off? Right, I was nearly getting T-boned. Yet again, another sign that I decided so smartly to listen to, huh? Don’t judge; I just wanted to be healthy. This is the last time I jog—hopefully not because I die, but just because I am never coming back to jog near a damn cliff again. OK, OK, anyway. Almost got T-boned, finally made my way here. Continued on next page

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When I arrived, there was a light drizzle. The weather app did not let me know this. What the heck? I searched my backseat for a jacket with a hood or something. I didn’t have one of course. Why? Because the weather didn’t call for rain! But look at that: it stopped raining. Geez, now I can I finally start my jog?! I thought to myself, getting out of my car. I stepped out of my car, and my foot slipped. It was a little wet from the drizzle, but no big deal, I thought. I am going to be on the path; it should be made for any day, right? Well look at me now, how right was I? Anyway, I started my jog, thinking about my motivation for being healthy. I wanted to look nice in my bridesmaid’s dress; my little sister is getting married! How sweet—that isn’t for me, but how nice for her. So, I wanted to look my best for her. So, this is why I was going on a jog, and no, she doesn’t know—and she loves me how I am; she doesn’t actually care what I look like for her wedding. She would just be happy that I am there. So, I am jogging, right? Enjoying the view; the air smells so nice after the little drizzle. The path isn’t bad, just like I knew it would be. So, I am on the path, just jogging away. Then, I see a damn bear! A bear, what?! Where do I live? Why are there bears?! Whatever. My smart idea for jogging where bears live. So, I dash for cover…And slip again. As I tried to gain my balance, the pine needles acted like butter on the floor. My legs flew into the air, and I was horizontal before I knew what was going on. I was trying to grab onto anything I could, but—is that sirens I hear? Yes!! I hear sirens. I wonder how far I went; I mean, probably not that far, if we are being honest here. So, like, why aren’t they moving a little quicker? Wonder if that bear is still there. That would probably stall them. Wait, I think they are calling to me. I don’t want to yell; everyone that yells in those movies ends up falling off because they are screaming and thrashing around like a toddler. I hear someone’s feet stomping toward me. Wonder how long I have been hanging here; my muscles aren’t even aching yet. Which, like I have mentioned before, I am in need of some exercise. So, this is surprising to me—must be the adrenaline. I have heard that that can make you lift a car. I wonder if that is even true, or is it just something they tell you? So that you think that if a car falls on your child, or whatever, you have the chance of saving them? I don’t know—oh—I think that I hear them getting closer. “Hey!” I yell. They are just standing on my fingers! What the hell?

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“I see her!” “She’s down there!” “Is she alive?” “I don’t know, it doesn’t look like it.” What the...? I died? I fell off the cliff and died? Because I wanted to get fit for my sister’s wedding? Well, I guess this really is my last time jogging, huh? Why am I still hanging here then? How do I get up and move on? Could this guy get off my fingers at least?

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To Be Told Ash Bridges

I am tired of being told to keep my mouth shut. Because when I do, I get yelled at and told to speak up. I am tired of being told to act like an adult, but when I do, I’m told I’m not one and to “act my age.” I am tired of being told to stop crying. I am human; I have emotions. I am tired of being told that there is something wrong with me, but if there is, then why don’t you take me to see someone, or talk to someone? I am tired of being told that I am fine, and to stop yelling after getting yelled at after the hundredth time that day. I am tired of being told I’ll never make it off my art and that I will never be successful in life. I am tired of being told a lot of things; it’s just toxic now, and there’s no reason for it.

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Autumn Peterson

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Gray Skies, Gray Dreams Autumn Peterson

“Imagine if mankind reached for the stars instead of trying so desperately to annihilate each other,” he said, looking up at the midnight sky, pinpricks of light like liquid silver splattered across the dark canvas. “What a world that would be.” She pulled out a tuft of grass, a dull but glossy green in her hands. “Keep talking about such nonsense and they’ll come for you.” She managed a weary smile, thin-lipped and dry. “You know how I am.” He wheezed his signature teakettle laugh. “Always with my head in the clouds.” He pulled her close, letting her lean into the soft white fabric of his hoodie. She huffed, willing to believe in this moment, willing to believe in the quiet. “I read an old book once,” she started. “It mentioned something about a yellow sky; I thought you would like that.” He pondered that for a moment. Yellow didn’t seem exactly right. Of course, all he had grown up with was gray, a gray sky. That’s all anybody had known. Instead, he picked a cornflower that swayed by his right foot, snapping the stem easily and tucking it behind her ear. Cornflowers: they reminded him of the cloudless expanse above them. When he voiced that thought aloud, she looked back up at the heavens above. “Imagine that,” she whispered like a secret. “A blue sky.”

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Of Bees and Blades Autumn Peterson

Tommy, despite everything, found himself with a lot of time alone. Just him and thoughts, thoughts that he despised. They were self-deprecating, selfloathing, questioning, paranoid, and bittersweet. Just like his personality. He violently shook his head, swinging his sword sharply against a tree. Tommy jerked the blade back out with a yank, taking out a chunk of the tree with it. He only felt a little churn of guilt in his stomach for that. He felt a chuckle claw its way out of his throat after that thought. Guilty for hitting a tree? He was obviously spending too much time with Toby. Ah, Toby, the clingy, bee-loving idiot Tommy called his best friend. Toby, the boy who looked so out of place holding a sword. The boy whose armor looked two sizes too big. Toby didn’t belong in a war. He didn’t deserve any of this. Tommy wondered why his friend even agreed to fight when it brought him nothing but nightmares and heartache. Why does he stand so tall, like the world isn’t against them? Stiff, like this stand might be his last...maybe it was. “I want to do my part, Tommy,” Toby replied honestly when he had asked. “I know I’m not a fighter like you...but I want to help, and if helping means throwing myself to the end of a bow...I’ll do it.” Tommy hated how sincere he was being. You see, Tommy was violent. He acted first, regretted later. Saying things he didn’t mean, lashing out with a sharp blade and sharper tongue. He jumped headfirst into the heat, uncaring if he came out burned and bruised. He fought and fought and fought. Toby wasn’t like that. He tended to bees in a garden. He picked flowers in a field. He talked things out. He cried, he laughed. His hands were calloused from gardening and not from the hilt of a sword. His eyes were bright at night, untouched from the labors of war. He was peace, he was serenity. He was Tommy’s best friend. Alas, he also knew Toby was a fighter in his own way. Standing his ground with nothing but a smile. And Tommy didn’t deserve him, but he fought for that smile all the same. F R O M T H E D E E P E ST T H O U G H T S T O T H E S H A L L O W E ST R E A L I T I E S

Daisy, Cornflower, Daisy, Cornflower Autumn Peterson

Tommy never bothered with soulmate flowers. They weren’t important to his life, and after he had stored away his pot, the little packet of seeds in his drawer lay forgotten. He remembered it existed when, during a stream, Wilbur’s phone went off. “Hm? Oh, sorry, I have to go water my flower,” Wilbur had laughed sheepishly before muting and departing. In the silence he left behind, Tommy had the time to contemplate what that implied while he placed down gray cobblestone. He was talking about his soulmate flower, that much was obvious. The blond couldn’t help but suddenly be hyperaware of the ceramic pot collecting dust in his closet. Maybe it was time to take it out. An hour later, after saying his respective goodbyes to Wilbur and the chat, he spun around in his chair, eyes staring at his closet door with alarming intensity. When he brought it out, he winced at its condition. It was dusty, the colors slightly faded but not cracked. Altogether not that bad, but still enough to send a twinge of guilt through him. He raked through his desk drawer contents, finally finding the little tulle pouch filled with what everyone dubbed “soul seeds.” It was an uncreative name overall, but Tommy couldn’t find it in themselves to care. Along with the three medium-sized seeds was a little white slip of cardstock. “You Are: Cornflower” it read in loopy writing. Tommy scrunched up his face. A cornflower, that was it? Sure, the shade of blue was nice, he supposed, but didn’t that plant have some stigma attached to it? He waved away the thought, instead choosing to focus on the directions. 1. Plant seeds 1 inch (2.5 cm) down and water 2. Keep the pot in 68-80 degrees Fahrenheit (20-26 degrees Celsius) conditions 3. Water every 2-3 days (Note: Germination period varies with plant)

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Tommy nodded to himself absentmindedly, grabbing his pot. The directions were pretty standard and easy to maintain. He could do this. He could always make like Wilbur and set a reminder on his phone. Humming and poking three holes in the soil he had placed in the ceramic flowerpot, he halted. Was he sure he wanted to do this? Tommy knew a lot of people went about their lives never planting their soul seeds; hell, some even said they were happier without it. He sighed, opening his Discord and letting it ring. After a much-needed conversation with a man who never planted his seeds, he had his decision. He was going to plant the dang flowers, and he was going to do it well. He ignored how the dirt stuck under his fingernails when he finished, instead admiring how the pot sat innocently on his windowsill. Maybe it would grow into something beautiful.

Thirteen painstaking days later, Tommy’s dutiful work was rewarded amply. He couldn’t help the smile from blooming across his face when he spotted three bright green stems nursing from the soil. They were small and oh-so fragile. He was afraid he’d crush them. He pushed the pot to the side, adjusting its spot on his sunny windowsill. He wasn’t attached to it at all. But as he found himself stroking the leaves fondly...he wasn’t sure if that was the truth. “Do you like flowers, Tommy?” Toby asked him one day. Tommy distantly noted his friend breeding some passing bees with the alliums the brunet had in his inventory. The blond didn’t have to reply; it was one of those random questions Toby Continued on next page

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blurted without any forethought. He almost didn’t, but remembering the sprouting flowers on his sill, he suddenly felt obligated to defend his flower. “They’re pretty PogChamp,” he responded with what he hoped was a casual voice. “Why, do you?” “Oh, I do! My soulmate flower is Pog, too,” his friend chirped. Tommy supposed he was expected to ask what the flower was, but he didn’t, and the topic was dropped.

The first thing Tommy did when he saw his bloomed flower was take a picture and send it to Toby. Toby im not a plant nerd what the hel is rhis, he texted. it deysie, he got in response not even five minutes later. Tommy only felt a little guilty. He knew Toby didn’t naturally wake up this early. Oh well.

Silence filled Tommy’s room. His house had been robbed, his computer and his other belongings thankfully untouched. The criminal hadn’t thought anything was worth taking. But his room was a mess, upturned drawers and everything strewn everywhere. And oh...he felt his heart shatter and something suspiciously wet build in the corners of his eyes. Ceramic shards lay on the carpet amongst the chaos, the dirt scattered everywhere. Tommy knelt in front of it slowly, hands shaking as he brushed a finger over the crushed petals. Daisies represent innocence and purity. He didn’t know why that made his chest ache. He eventually replaced the pot, aching as he clipped the broken flowers from their stems after transferring the plant. He knew logically it would do no lasting damage, soulmate flowers growing back stronger and more resilient after damage, but it still hurt.

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It was safe to say he was in a sour mood for the next three days. That fact was not overlooked by his friends. “You sound tired,” Wilbur mentioned, Toby agreeing in the background of their voice chat. “Not sleeping?” “Editing,” Tommy gritted back, placing down more blocks. Building, building, building. It was always building, wasn’t it? “You should take a nap then,” Toby chimed in. Tommy’s expression soured. “Already trying to get rid of me?” He didn’t mean to sound so bitter. “Tommy, I—“ “Save it, it’s whatever, I don’t even care. I’m tired anyway, see ya later guys.” Tommy quickly left the voice channel. They threw themself on their bed, finding minute solace in the potted flowers on his window. He never cared for daisies before.

“Cornflower, cornflower, cornflower,” Toby sang to himself in the otherwise silent voice channel. “Cornflower, cornflower, cornflower.” Tommy halted his clicking with a blank expression. “Toby, what the hell?” OK, maybe that came out meaner than he expected. To the brunet’s credit, he didn’t flinch. “Oh, just talking to my flower, do you want to see it?” There was some distant noise of ceramic as his friend fetched his plant. Tommy reluctantly switched over to Toby’s stream, watching him come back in the camera’s view with a potted plant held carefully in his two hands. “It’s a cornflower, if you didn’t know.” A cornflower. Three cornflowers, actually. They were sprouting from the ground, unfurling their vivid blue petals toward the sun. They looked pretty, Tommy supposed. When he voiced that, the brown-haired Briton barked out a laugh. “Yeah, they are pretty. They look healthy, too!” Continued on next page

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“Whatever you say, Big T.” “What’s yours?” “You already know, a daisy.” “Oh right, sorry I forgot.” With a greeting, Wilbur joined the voice call, and the topic of flowers was left behind.

Tommy more or less forgot there was a person this flower represented. His soulmate. The blond screwed up his face at the thought. The destined one for him; he scoffed. Who needed soulmates when he had his best friend in the whole world and his found family? Unlikely he’d ever admit that aloud to their faces. After all, if this whole soulmate thing did go sour for him, he’d always have people to fall back on. That begged a clear question in the end. Who was his soulmate? Who has the guts to deal with me? Tommy wondered absentmindedly as he worked out his math homework. All he could think of was glittering eyes and honey yellow bees.

For the next two weeks, the question wouldn’t leave his mind, and neither would the lingering suspicion in his gut. He’d dug out the white cardstock from wherever he ended up throwing it. “You are: Cornflower” the writing still read. Toby said he had a cornflower. Tommy remembered vividly the beautiful blue and unfurling leaves as it reached for the sun. He also remembered Toby’s soft smile and tender expression as he delicately put it back out of sight. Tommy felt a dangerous hope bloom in his chest.

“What’s your flower, Tommy?” came the lazy question from Wilbur. Tommy shifted in his seat, ignoring the rolling chat in the corner of his screen.

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“Why?” “Mine is a rose,” his friend shrugged in his face cam, stretching out his fingers. The stark gray background of his office walls burned through Tommy’s retinas. “It’s a daisy,” he finally conceded. “I haven’t killed it yet, by the way.” Wilbur smiled in mild amusement, waving away the comment. “Toby’s card said he was a daisy, did you know?” Hope was a dangerous thing, Tommy knew. Yet he still felt it bloom like the flowers on his windowsill. “Yeah, and I’m a cornflower,” he forced himself to speak casually. “Toby has a cornflower.” “I know.” “There are such things as platonic soulmates, Tommy.” “What are you getting at, Wil…” “I think you know very well what I’m getting at.” Tommy did…he knew all too well.

Tommy hurried and shoved spare pieces of junk into his closet, throwing away various Coke cans. He smoothed out his sheets, blue eyes sweeping over the room. Toby was coming over today; he lived two hours away. Toby was coming over today. Tommy wasn’t nervous; no, he didn’t use that word in his vocabulary. He was just…excited, yes, excited. It wasn’t every day he got to see his best friend in the flesh. His fingertips brushed the smooth terra-cotta of his flowerpot as he shifted it so the sun beamed down on the green leaves. His fan whirled above, circulating the breeze from his window into the room. Was it too cold? Did Toby like the fresh air? Would he— “Knock, knock!” came a distant call from downstairs and his heart jumped into his throat. He spun around on his heel, scurrying from his room and down the stairs. He slid with his socks across the smooth flooring, grasping the door handle tightly and slamming it open. Continued on next page

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Toby stood there, hand still in a knocking position, with a familiar expression of faint surprise on his face. Tommy didn’t blame him; after all, the door did all but vanish under his knuckles. “Er—hello,” Tommy greeted, straightening upward. Why was he so tense? “Hello, Tommy,” his friend smiled, blue eyes shining and brown hair rustling in the breeze. He walked past the blond, putting down the suitcase he dragged behind him. “Is your mom here?” The taller of the two shook his head. “Went shopping for dinner, she’ll be back soon though. Wanna come up to my room?” Toby nodded, and they thundered up the steps. Tommy walked into his room, closing the door behind them. “Welcome to my humble abode!” He plopped into his chair, throwing his arms out and spinning around. Toby looked around, probably beside himself in the glory of Tommy’s room, obviously. “It’s nice here.” He experimentally sat on the bed. “Is that your setup?” He pointed a finger toward his desk. Tommy nodded, maybe or maybe not puffing out his chest a bit. “Yep, that’s mine. Great, innit?” He stood up, flicking off the lights. “This is way better, though.” Toby huffed out a breath of laughter as he looked up at the ceiling. Sticky glow-in-the-dark stars were slapped onto the surface, arranged to the pattern of make-believe constellations. “I like it!” Tommy nodded, leaning against the windowsill. “I originally wanted to make it an actual pattern but decided, ‘To hell with it, I’ll make my own.’” His friend outright laughed at that. “Sounds like something you’d do.” The blond rolled his eyes, stretching out a hand and— The potted flower tipped off the sill, plummeting outward the ground. It was going to fall it was goingtofallITWASGOINGTOFALL— “Whoa!” Toby reached out, stumbling forward, just barely catching the plant. Unsettled dirt spilled over the edge of the ceramic, but the flower was unharmed. Tommy felt his heart thud in his chest as his friend brushed his fingers over the petals. “They’re pretty,” the brunet smiled.

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He swallowed, nodding stiffly. “Y-yeah.” He gently took back the daisies, placing them out of harm’s way. “Thanks for…y’know.” “No problem!” Toby chirped cheerily. “You know, Wil told me that we’re soulmates.” Tommy choked. Of course that jerk did. “What?!” Toby’s smile wavered for a second. Hell. “I-I wouldn’t mind—but if you—” Tommy surged forward, grasping Toby’s shoulders tightly and pulling him into a hug. “Know this is dramatic and stuff but bear with me. I don’t mind at all, actually. I think it’d be weird if I was soulmates with anyone else—so just…shut up,” he spoke in a rush. Toby was silent before he burst into laughter. “So, you do care!” Tommy flushed, sputtering and releasing his friend. “Shut up!” The daisies on his desk swayed ever so slightly. They had grown into something beautiful after all.

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Estella Bacsafra

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Diary Entry #124: Cloud Whales Estella Bacsafra

“The truest beauties of the world are found not when you least expect it.” I truly do not understand why my sister would write something of the sort. I suppose there may be a bit of truth in her statement; however, I firmly stand from another point. “The truest beauties of the world are found where humanity has failed to touch.” Everywhere our kind goes, we bring destruction and death. The industries fail to see the jackrabbits that have lost their homes due to yet another salon. ‘Tis not that hard to place curlers in our hair at nighttime and throw in some scented herbs. Or perhaps the birds that had to migrate to another patch of land that feels so much less than home…It is absolutely enraging. And maybe I should include that the beauties are found not only where we have failed to touch but also where we have failed to see. To prove my point, only around five percent of our oceans have been discovered. What awaits us when we decide to explore even farther than we already have? Besides polluted ecosystems, what effect do we have on the marine life that is yet to be seen? Perhaps a remedy to heal is found, but all good comes with a price. Perhaps a particular piece of coral is found to be useful in leukemia patients. What is to happen if we fail to realize that that particular piece of coral is the main source of shelter of a fish at the bottom of the food chain? This brings me to my divine discovery. I do not plan to share this with the world. We would do nothing more than to see it gone in a couple hundred years. Therefore, I write of it to share my excitement.

It was the calm after a storm. The large, puffy clouds that poured and struck our land in retaliation had cleared our home with a significant bit of damage. I hurried outside to see what was left of our yard and flower bed, only to see the most stunning sunset I have ever witnessed. The sky was painted in an array of pinks, oranges, and purples, along with pastel yellows and peaches. Bits of red and magenta were laced inside as well. The clouds were outlined

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in an angelic white, so hopelessly beautiful that I could not avert my eyes, especially when the whales started to fly. They were magnificent beings, bigger than a blue whale, so big I could make out their intricate features from miles away. They were a light shade of blue with a heavier, gray undertone and with big, innocent black eyes. But I think the most beautiful part of them was their wings. Enormous, angelic, feathery wings navigated them through the clouds. They danced, spun, and sang in glee. The clouds were their homes. Their wings must have been almost enchanted to not disassemble the clouds. I stood, awestruck, for as long as it took for the sun to drop beyond the mountains, and the clouds faded to a series of dark blues until the stars said hello. As for the whales, they disappeared along with the color of the clouds. They had turned their tails to us and flew away until they were mere specks in the air. They unleashed one final song, and at last, their wondrous beings had vanished completely, leaving me and my heart both heavy and light at the same time. As soon as they left, I missed them and their feeling of freedom and weightlessness. It left a gaping hole in me, a hungry part that would always crave to see them again. I blessed the air with a kiss, picked up the bottom of my dress, and exhaledâ€”as far as the corset would let me, of course. I plucked a flower from my garden. I rarely did such a thing, for they were a beauty that I did not deserve. But on that particular night, I felt beautiful. I placed it on top of a curl on the side of my head and vowed to forever remember the creatures and keep them a secret. They deserved everything but humanity. They deserved the world.

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Like Real People Do Estella Bacsafra

To call this man sane was the same as saying that pigs could fly. In a tale, it might be true, but in reality, it was far from it. Reality is a tricky thing to grasp because who is to say that your green is my blue, but we are both convinced we see red? How do we compare what each of us perceive as reality when there is no way to see directly through another personâ€™s eyes? However, logic aside, I do believe that any man or woman could call this man insane. The people of the past had not yet discovered this particular mental illness, and therefore, he was to be admitted to a mental hospital where all sorts of unnecessary treatment were to be administered. Most that entered never returned, either from the brutality of the â€œdoctorsâ€? or suicide. Many also did not have a home to go back to, and that had resulted in lives lost that could have been saved. This was not the case for this man. His mother, 50 by the time her schizophrenic son was 32, knew of his fate if he was to live in these asylums. She had heard the stories and made the rightful decision to remove him from the program and bring him home. The woman was oh-so frail for a woman her age. She had worked nonstop for the life of her son so he could grow up, get married, and do much more than she ever could. But when things started to go downhill, the bags under her eyes became suitcases. Sleep dwindled down even further, as did the paychecks now that her son, her only hope, had betrayed her. Of course, she did not fully blame her son. Naturally, she blamed herself. Was there anything she had done wrong? Absolutely not. Unfortunately, she had no way of knowing this. She lived out the next decade and a half caring for two, living on old bread and milk that was always a day from spoiled. She sacrificed so much for her son. She sacrificed her youth, beauty, innocence, and even her happiness. Many pitied the woman and her dysfunctional son, but none stopped to help, for the time was all too harsh. Human kindness flew out the window more and more as rations decreased throughout the years. There was always less to be had and more to be done.

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At times, the woman would give up hope. She felt awful for it, but she always wondered if the afterlife for them both would be better. Although the worst was when she had hope. Occasionally, the son would wake up one day as if he was still eighteen trying to figure out a way to propose. He would walk around and ask her if she still had the ring, if the flowers were properly trimmed and if she needed any help with the turkey. There was no turkey. There was no longer a girl. There was no longer a ring, for it had been sold a long time ago. And there was no longer a son, for just as soon as the episode had started, it was over. He would scream and yell, saying that the bees were back again. There were no bees. Aside from the screaming and yelling, there was more to his condition. At times he was not such a burden. At times, he would talk to his friend. His friend was a girl, most likely another version of his girl. The mother had never been able to figure out what she looked like. All she knew was that she seemed to calm him down and he would be temporarily entertained. Whether it was a conversation about the new model for the wells or the carriages being pulled by stallions, he would talk to her as if she was not imaginary. Not all in his head. The mother had a suspicion that her son was once again falling in love. At age 32, her son might finally marry. She could not tell if it was a good thing or a bad thing. No mother would wish to not see her child happy; however, this might mean that for him to be happy, she must remain in despair. Longing for the son in love that he had been years ago, with someone real, with someone with the high potential of her last name being remembered for at least one more generation. Longing for the long conversations about what exciting things await him in the next years as he has now officially turned into an adult. Longing for him to say to her, hands cupping hers, â€œMother, she is the one.â€? The mother did, indeed, fall into despair as her son had begun to live his life with another girl. He would lock himself in his room so they had privacy to chat. He would burn himself on accident trying to make her dinner for their Continued on next page

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date because he would forget common things, such as fire burns. He had told her that she was constantly bothering him, that he needed her to move out of their house, that she should just go back to her husband and bake him something. Even with the sonâ€™s temper, the mother remained patient and loyal despite the toll it took on her. The little sleep turned to none most nights, resulting in terrible migraines that required pills she could not afford. Juggling the pies being made to sell, the trips to the store, and keeping an eye on someone who wanted nothing more than to be away from his mother just about killed her. And when that happened, the son chose that day to become conscious of his old self, only for twenty minutes. The son woke up to brew a pot of coffee for his girl, when he stumbled on his mother passed out on the kitchen floor, a knife in her hand that had cut her on accident as she had fallen. A pie on the table had been half cut and dragged through, and that pie was no longer able to sell. For whatever reason, the sonâ€™s mind had processed that his mother was hurt and rushed to help her. On most days, he might have interpreted the scene as his mother resting peacefully on the bed in her bedroom, as he had a tendency to mix up the rooms in the house. Or perhaps he would have seen it as bees. It was a blessing that he chose that day to wake up. He was still mentally only eighteen, but his eighteen-year-old-self had a decent amount of knowledge and had properly bandaged her wrist before she had bled out completely. He had remained calm and composed and helped her into her bedroom. He tucked her in the sheets and placed a slice of the pie that could not be sold, a piece without blood, along with a glass of warm tea for when she was to awake. The son left the room and immediately noticed that his girl had woken up, and he greeted her a good morning. Soon enough, the mother woke up confused. She vaguely remembered falling asleep, but why there was a bandage on her wrist, and how she had managed to lie in bed, was still a mystery. She crawled out of bed, and as soon as she did, a wave of stress and worry nearly knocked her back into bed. How long had she been asleep? And what had happened to her son? Had he run off and away with his girl, or had he stayed put, still asleep? With her heart in her stomach, she ran out of the room, failing to notice the pie and tea her son had set out half a day before. Nearly to tears in fear, she

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poked her head into his room. The son sat with his back against his bed, conversing with his girl. He listened intently to whatever his imagination told him through his girl, not noticing his mother staring wildly at him. When he finally did notice, he got up and promptly shut the door on her face. The mother, bubbling with emotion, leaned against the wall, suddenly exhausted. She raked her hands through her hair, falling to the floor, weeping uncontrollably. Why did her son have to suffer like this? Why must she suffer like this? She knew that she had not sinned like the others. She never had an affair nor hurt anybody. She had no secrets like the woman next door, who had become a widow as her husband had “heart failure,” though she had overheard them fighting the night before. So, what was the reasoning behind this? After no more than 30 minutes, the woman mentally composed herself and rose from the floor. She always had. She set to the kitchen to remake the pie she had lost with her little accident. She headed about with her life and chose to remove the incident from her memory as best as possible, to avoid any sort of emotion that might affect the system she’d worked so hard to create. The son continued to confine himself to his room, only eating the smallest portions, and he slowly began to lose more weight. One day, the mother went about her routine as usual. She woke up, made breakfast for her son, and baked pies until her knuckles became sore from gripping the handle of the spatula too hard. She sat down at the table in the kitchen, feeling dizzy, and had a horrible migraine. She vaguely remembered not having eaten or drank anything for the past two days. And...how much sleep did she get, exactly? My, she hadn’t slept for three days straight. A slight drop of the eyes here and there, but otherwise, she had most definitely not taken care of herself lately. More than usual, at least. The mother sat at the table for many minutes until she could regain her balance. She meant to head straightaway to bed to avoid any more incidents with falling asleep while cutting a pie, though she found herself heading toward the room of her son. As if in a trance, she half walked, half crawled, to see her son. Oh, the blissful delirium that consumed her whole! She had not felt this alive in ages! The flowers on the wallpaper had never seemed so bright. The carpet had never felt so comfortable. She had never looked so beautiful while looking in the broken mirror that had fallen onto the floor Continued on next page

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without being removed. Why, she looked none too much above twenty! A giggle escaped her mouth without consent, and soon the giggle turned into a manic laughter. This madness is amazing! She must now join her son! Two mad heathens, drunk on the fragility of the world, come together at last! Fully crawling now, the mother opened the door to her son’s room, only to find him kissing his girl. Rather harshly, too. The mother could see the girl now, and indeed was she his soon-to-be-ex fiancée. Her long, brown hair was the same, as were her nimble fingers. The mother watched, amazed, at the tension in the air. The scene was almost so unreal, she could not believe her eyes. After a minute, she watched her son and his girl separate, foreheads touching and gentle hands raking across each other’s cheeks. “Oh, my darling,” her son whispered, refusing to look into her eyes. “We should get married...like real people do.” The mother clapped generously as his girl smiled and crinkled her brown eyes, laughing softly. At last, she looked into his eyes. “If only we could,” she said. And strangely, as a telegram would, the girl’s figure blinked in and out of existence. One moment her son’s hands were stroking her loose strand of hair, and the next, she was gone. She was back again, but only for a split second, until the room was empty except for two hallucinating people barely grasping onto reality. The last strand of sanity was promptly extinguished with another fit of inappropriate laughter filling the room, as the house darkened with smoke, with the smell of yet another burning pie.

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Iris Vyalkov

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Behind the Window Iris Vyalkov

Faded memories of yesterday Youthful naive minds Too young to know that “see you next time” meant “goodbye” Containing somber emotions turned to hours of weeping Leaning on a gray windowsill, head heavy in my hands Gazing at endless rows of birch trees Over time, I understood the calls of sparrows Understood I won’t see you again

Patience to Excellence Iris Vyalkov

Winners are failures they just never say how shattered their hearts are or how many tears were shed, but I suppose that a single win could patch up the wounds of loss.

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Reality

Iris Vyalkov

I stood in the cold mist that gripped my ankles. My heartbeat was audible all around me. I took a deep breath, catching the scent of my perfume. As my chest lifted and dropped, the crystals on my outfit glistened in the darkness. Commotion was all around me as I heard music starting to faintly play. My back faced the blue satin curtains that I had pressed my palms up against. I saw a shadow approach me on my right. “Here’s your mic,” he said. “You can do this.” I clutched the microphone, and the music boomed to life. I heard as the heavy curtains opened and the spotlight shined on me. I turned around with a big smile, now the star of the show.

Ultraviolet Iris Vyalkov

An abstract aura Arrangement of emotions Described by what we see In all its brilliance Shades that range Darkest to lightest From the rage of red To the royalty of violet But all have their magnificence A reminder of memories Almost lost In the chaos of the world And our minds

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Hazel Elliott

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The Adventures of Depression Hazel Elliott

My name is Depression, and I rule many people, kids and adults alike suffer from me. Unlike Joy or Happiness, who are yellow, I am dark blue or black. I either force people to listen to hard rock or extremely emo music. I enjoy illegal sports like dogs fighting to the death or people gambling their lives away. The best season for me to flourish in is winter, where, even if youâ€™re not a depressed person, I can make you feel even worse than the weather does. My best friend is Sadness, we hang out all the time in your memories and dreams, eating your good emotions and spitting them back out as bad ones. Your happy thoughts become sad, and your sad thoughts become worse. I love to play chase with your happy thoughts and memories, never letting you catch them. I am as old as time, and I will never be destroyed. The best part is that I live with you forever and Iâ€™m impossible to get rid of.

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I’m Tired of Being Told Hazel Elliott

I’m tired of being told that my problems don’t matter I’m tired of being told I’m a child, I have adult problems I’m tired of being told that I shouldn’t have problems because I’m a white, privileged girl I’m tired of being told how perfect my family is I’m tired of being told I should be grateful for what I have and stop complaining I have problems, and they matter I am a child, but my problems impact me like I’m an adult I am white and privileged, but that doesn’t mean I don’t suffer I have a loving family, but they’re not perfect I am grateful for what I have, but like everyone else, I’m human My human problems and human emotions matter Notice me for me, Not for what you think I should be like.

The Ruined City Hazel Elliott

Chapter 1: The Escape Hopeless, depressed, mournful...none of these words describe how the world was now. Rain dashed against the windows of my parents’ old, run-down apartment, where I stayed with my little brother after they died when we were young. Over the past twenty years, the king has killed everyone with eye colors other than red or purple because we stand against him and are a threat to his throne. Although you might think he hired someone to kill his enemies for him, he murdered them himself. He already eliminated his stepsiblings, and now all that’s left that threatens him...is his own people. When the king ascended the throne, he made two changes to our land. The first change was to imprison the crooks and thieves who for twenty years ruled our land because of the war. The second change he made to our land was to imprison all those who opposed him. No matter how innocent they were. It was my turn to get captured and imprisoned because I had stolen from the king for the younger kids where I lived…or, should I say, where I hid out from the soldiers. I was walking calmly away from the scene of my crime before I realized I was being followed, so I started walking faster and faster until I was sprinting away and the buildings were only blurs. I felt like I was running forever and like I would never have a full breath again. My knees were weak, and my heart was racing. Unfortunately, I was too slow, and the next thing I knew, I was in shackles and being taken away from the crime scene by three soldiers dressed in all red. When we arrived, I was immediately shoved into the examination room, where they determine whether you’re better for the games or auctions the king spectated. Once I was examined, they determined since I am a healthy fifteen-year-old girl, the best thing to do with me was sell me to the highest bidder instead of using me for the games. For me, it might not seem like it, but that was a relief because if I was sent to the games, I would never see the light of day again.

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I’d be killed off too quickly to escape. If I was sold, I only needed to escape from one family, and that should be easy enough. I’d escaped from far worse. At the prison, prisoners could keep their belongings with them in their cells. Because there was so much security and the soldiers were so well trained, no one had been able to break out of their cell and prison before. But I also liked to break the boundaries of reality. As soon as I was thrown harshly into the cell at the back of the jail, I noticed a girl about my age with her belongings, wearing a pair of sunglasses. Odd; we all knew her eyes aren’t red or purple, so why was she wearing sunglasses still? I didn’t want to have anything to do with this strange girl. All I wanted was to be auctioned off as soon as possible and find the right time to escape, so I moved to the farthest point of the cell, away from her. “Hello there, why are you here?” said a voice. “I’m here because we live in a place where kids have to starve to death because the great and powerful king is threatened by people like me,” I explained to her, not wanting to give anything away about where the refugees hid from the soldiers. “And you, why are you here?” I asked her in return. “Because I’m like you, and I was running, so the soldiers thought I did something wrong, but they didn’t care that I didn’t. All they care about is pleasing the king,” she explained to me. “Oh, I’m sorry,” I apologized to her. “What are you sorry for if you haven’t done anything wrong to me?” “I just thought someone should apologize for the way you’ve been treated. You know our city wasn’t always like this,” I told her as I lay down and put my bag behind my head for a cushion. “How do you know what it was like twenty years ago? You weren’t even born yet.” Continued on next page

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“How do you know I wasn’t born yet?!” I demanded. “I can tell you’re about the same age as me,” she told me as I blushed because I also thought we were the same age. I continued to tell her, “Before my parents died, they used to tell me these stories about how, before the king, we were ruled by a group of people, not just one person looking for power, and how back then there was no reason for crooks and thieves because everyone was fed and there was no difference between people with red or purple eyes and the rest of us. It was peaceful… it was perfect.” “I’m sorry,” she told me when I was finished. “For what?” I questioned her. “Your parents,” she told me. “I don’t want to talk about it,” I told her, and we both went quiet for the rest of the night. When I woke up the next morning, she was doing pull-ups on the bars of our cell, and it looked like she was looking for something. “What are you looking for?” I asked her sleepily. “How did you know I was looking for something?” she asked in return. “This isn’t my first time in prison, and I know the look,” I told her. “Now answer my question.” “I’m looking for weak points,” she told me. “Why? There’s no point...this place is impossible to break out of,” I asked her in a solemn tone. “Well, if you say so, I have already found two weak points, and if you help me make one more, we can break out of here in no time,” she told me, and suddenly my eyes opened wide and I asked her what she wanted me to do. She told me how the best way to loosen the bars was to do a pull-up and just drop our weight on the bars and let gravity do the rest, so for the next ten minutes, we did a pull-up and let to bar take our weight, and it worked: three of the bars came out, and we were able to escape. We climbed out of the cell and ran into another problem.

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We landed on top of the prison wall, which was only covered in soldiers, and the only way to get away safely was by jumping in a river which led down a cliff. “Do you trust me?” the girl asked and took my hand. “I don’t even know your name; how am I supposed to trust you?” I asked like she was crazy, but before I got an answer, we were running toward the river that led off a cliff! “You’re crazy!” I screamed as the girl still holding tight to my hand jumped off the wall into the river and I had no choice but to follow. When we landed in the river, it felt like I was never going to be able to get back up to air and like there was an elephant sitting on my chest while I tried not to breathe in the water. Thank the universe, because just before I lost hope forever and gave up, I felt the girl’s hand tighten around mine, and we were moving toward the sky. We made it above the water, and the first thing the girl said was, “My name is Lydia, and no matter what, you shouldn’t trust me; you shouldn’t trust anybody.” As I rolled my eyes at her, we were moving closer and closer to the cliff, but before I could say anything, we were already falling. I closed my eyes, fearing for what death might feel like, but it didn’t come...nothing came. It felt like we were floating above the ground, and right as I opened my eyes, we hit the ground hard. “What just happened?!” I screamed, but Lydia was unconscious next to me. I tried waking her up, but she wouldn’t open her eyes, and her sunglasses must have fallen off during the fall because now I could see her whole face. The first thought that came to mind was that she was beautiful, but I had to push the thought out of my mind because she wasn’t waking up and the soldiers started coming after us. When I was young, I learned how to do the fireman’s carry, so I knelt by Lydia’s head and stuck my arms under her armpit and around her back, and I raised her to her feet. I shifted my weight to my right leg and stuck it between Lydia’s to get a better stance to carry her. I draped her arm over my shoulder and wrapped my arm around her right knee. At this point, I was Continued on next page

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finally able to lift her over my shoulders, and I started carrying her away from the soldiers to safety. By the time I got Lydia on my shoulders, my knees felt like they were on fire, and my breathing was so fast I thought it would never slow down. After a few minutes, luckily, my shoulders adjusted, yet I knew I could carry Lydia for a few more hours. At some point, I would have to stop to rest and make sure Lydia was OK.

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Sia Salgia

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Now that I Think About It, Amnesia Seems Like a Better Option Sia Salgia

I woke up like any normal day, except for the fact I had the worst headache of the century. Another weird thing was I couldn’t remember anything about last night. All I remembered was walking into my room, a flash of light, and then nothing. I got up from my bed, still groggy, and looked out the window. I gasped. Everything looked like it was on the water. My house was still the same; I wasn’t on a boat or anything. Now fully awake, I barreled through the door and nearly collided with someone. My sister. She rolled her eyes. “Finally, you’re awake. Mom was getting mad at me!” “Why is there water outside our house?” She looked at me like I had twelve eyes. “What do you mean? It’s always been like this.” “I mean, why are we living on a body of water!” She sighed. “Did you hit your head on the door again?” “No, why are we on a body of water!!” I was starting to become more freaked out. “This is how it’s always been!” “But what about land?” “Land, what’s land?” “You don’t know what land is!?” I shrieked She shook her head with a concerned look on her face, then narrowed her eyes. “Are you an imposter? Or my twin sister, who has amnesia?” “I don’t have amnesia!” “So, you are an imposter?!” “No.”

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“Fine, then what’s my middle name?” “June.” “How many pillow pets did I have when I was five?” she asked. “Seventeen.” “So, you are my sister, but with amnesia?” “FOR THE MILLIONTH TIME, I DON’T HAVE AMNESIA!”

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Heaven Is Earth with You in It, but Not Anymore... Sia Salgia

He was staring out at the dark blue waters. He had come here frequently, more than he should have over the course of two weeks. He tried to get rid of the pain, but it always came back. It was inevitable. The police had concluded she had been drowned, murdered, only there was no physical evidence. She would never get justice, the justice she deserved, the justice they all deserved. He remembered when he saw her last; he would never forget it: “Bye, Ethan!” she called, as she got into her car, driving home. “Bye, Lauren!” he called back. That was the last time he talked to her. She had said, that day, she was going straight home; if only he knew then that it wasn’t true. She had been his best friend for as long as he could remember. And he couldn’t imagine life without her, but he had to, had to accept the painful reality; it seemed it would never end. The whole experience was so surreal. She had been missing for twelve days; then, one day, they went to the lake and found her body. The autopsy had concluded she had been killed eleven days before, the freezing waters keeping her body intact. He remembered his heart dropped when he found out. He broke down and sobbed. The worst part was that he was in love with her; he always had been, even when he didn’t know, but that didn’t matter now, did it? He couldn’t talk to her, tell her, laugh with her; he couldn’t ever do any of that again. Ethan had never thought that something like this could’ve affected him so personally. You see stories like this on the news or in documentaries and you say, “Aww, that’s so sad.” Now, he could see how insensitive that was.

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If You Can’t Rob a Bank, You’re Obviously an Imbecile Sia Salgia

I looked at the tiny vial of liquid gold, a shape-shifting potion, supposedly. There were so many possibilities: I could turn into someone else and scare the living daylights out of them; I could get away with a crime; I could turn into some sort of an animal. Yeah, it wasn’t really a contest; there was one obvious winner, so it was time to rob a bank. The question was tough: Should I frame someone else, or should I transform into someone who doesn’t even exist and give the police the hardest time of their lives trying to figure out who committed the crime? I considered both options carefully. Then, I decided to become someone who doesn’t exist. It was going to be hilarious to watch the police try to figure out the crime. I downed the liquid in one shot. As my features began to distort, I checked my reflection in the mirror, and once the potion took my command, I looked like no one. After forever, I made it to the bank. This was going to be fun. There was no point trying to hide my face, that was the fun of it. Robbing a huge bank was easier than I thought. Really, you just hold someone hostage, demand they take you to the vaults, take the money, and go, without the hostage of course—they were pointless to kidnap; they just bawled their eyes out, lips trembling, as they pleaded to be taken back. What an annoyance! Of course, the police had to chase me. Whatever; I wasn’t scared. The best thing, though, was the police officers’ reactions when they saw my face. It looked like when my baby cousin tried a lemon for the first time, shocked and sour. Seriously, I was expecting a challenge, but it was honestly kind of boring. Well, except for the cops’ dumb faces. Maybe I should try this again?

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Wordslingers

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Planetary Perspective-Shift Nena Larieze

This planet is post-pandemic, situated within a hemisphere where science is scripture, spinning upon an axis where sunsets are worshipped as money and accomplishments are nowâ€” and they let the light in when their darkness invades. This planet is post-power, aligned within an atmosphere where falling into the arms of strangers is second nature, thriving within an ecosystem where self-worth is placed above net worth, where the mountainscapes are worshipped as control is now, whereâ€” now is eternal.

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Blog Post 1569 Zuzu Schmitke

June 19, 2556 This is the ninth time those dastardly lemurs came into my pod and stole my spoons. Why the spoons!? How am I supposed to eat my cereal without a spoon? Anyway, I was about to start up the sub to go to town, but (much to my dismay) the lemurs also stole my STARTER! I had to put on my hab suit and swim all the way to the supermarket (and it is by no means a short swim). So, all of this to say, itâ€™s been a rough morning. Darn lemurs...I donâ€™t even know how they got underwater.

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THIS BOOK WAS PRODUCED IN PARTNERSHIP WITH

WITH MAJOR SUPPORT FROM

AND FUNDED IN PART BY

The Albert and Elaine Borchard Foundation