Lost Stories of the Walnutwood Tree
Poetry and prose by the young writers of Walnutwood High School in conjunction with 916 Ink
Lost Stories of the Walnutwood Tree Poetry and prose by the young writers of Walnutwood High School in conjunction with 916 Ink
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, Hold onto your seat as this group of students serenades you with pandemic parables. This is a collection of seriously suspenseful tales of shame, misery, loss, and redemption. Some of the characters created in this manuscript have endured tragic pasts, but it is evident that their resilience will pave tremendous futures. Many of these tales are just downright spooky, so you may want to leave more than a reading light on as you peruse. These are wayward and mysterious stories. Within this book, you will be tantalized by not only verse but also visceral visualizations. The illustrations within this publication are original student artwork. These are stories are of “fateful days,” “the legend of the dead ballerina,” and “scars” and feature memorable characters such as Elenora, Elka, Kit, Derrick, Xenia, and a girl with a tragic past. These stories are set within haunted carnivals and bewitched books and amid nightmares, stages, endless planes of snow and ice, and new worlds. These student authors and illustrators are multitalented, multifaceted, and are equipped with perspective that is bold, uncensored, and sometimes zany. The fact that some of these tales are equal parts mischief, witchcraft, and all things supernatural does not detract from the expressions of longing, reflection, and coming to terms with a series of altered realities. It has been an honor to write with the students of Walnutwood High School this past fall and to ignite creativity alongside Marcene Gandolfo and Kathy Brunner-Bookout. May these wayward stories guide you into a safer and more serene reality this new year. In gratitude,
Nena Larieze
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Acknowledgments Nena Larieze
Wordslinger
Marcene Gandolfo
Wordslinger
Dana Stokes
Guest Editor
Samantha Caiola
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 The Tragic Pasts . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 2
AALIYAH HICKS. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 11 Untitled . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 12
CATHERINE COCKER . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 13 Elenora . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 14
DEAN BALILA. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 15 Fateful Days. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 16 Brewing Feelings . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 19 The Moon Is Beautiful. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 21 Things That Give Warmth in the Night. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 24
FLETCHER NESS . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 27 Untitled. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 28 Untitled. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 32 Liquid Jake. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 33
JAYDEN HARDY. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 35 Far Apart . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 36 In My Room. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 37 Peace. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 37
MICHELLE COCKER. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 39 Be Brave. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 40 Memories. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 41 Be Bold . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 41
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NATE BURKART. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 43 Geldia. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 44 Somewhere to Be. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 45 Scars . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 46
PAIGHTON MONDAY. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 49 Campfire Stories: Her Last Dance– The Legend of the Dead Ballerina . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 50 Spirits Unrest. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 53 The Murders of Foxworth Manor. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 54
WILL OXMAN . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 59 Untitled . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 60 Letter to my Former Self . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 61
WORDSLINGERS. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 63 i remember. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 64 Picked . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 65
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GROUP WORK
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The Tragic Pasts Group Story Artwork by Dean Balila
“I wish these voices would go away,” Xenia whispers in the lunch line. She stands behind the newest transfer, Noah, in line. His red hair makes him stand out like a sore distraction. She scans the lunch tables, seeing Elka, a foreign exchange student from Sweden, and a boy obsessively doodling about “Astro-world.” She instead opts to sit next to a girl who carries a notebook she has titled A Tragic Past. “Sup?” Xenia propositions as she barely avoids spilling the grease from the Wednesday pizza onto her new white jumpsuit. She’s feeling angelic today. The girl with a tragic past just shrugs. “What’s up with your sunglasses, anyway?” the girl inquires through a face full of bangs. “Oh, it’s nothing, diagnosed with glaucoma at a really young age...so...” It’s immediately obvious to anyone eavesdropping that she’s lying, but the girl with a tragic past allows it. “Do you have a name, or...?” “My government name is Margo, but you can call me Mai. My brother used to call me that.” A faint smile visits the corners of her lips. The red-haired boy catapults on the bench across from them and inhales his barely edible pizza and chases it with, “You ladies going to finish that?” Xenia shakes her head and Mai shrugs. He engulfs the contents of both of their trays before confirming. “Thanks, I’m going to see if Elka is going to finish hers, too. Gotta carb up for the chemistry final and field trip tomorrow. See you ladies there!” He adds finger gun motions to an already awkward exchange. The girls sigh in sequence.
“I can sense it, the power you have,” Noah whispers to Xenia as they exit the bus and shuffle into single-file lines on Alcatraz. A windy day, a storm brewing on the horizon. A chill runs down Xenia’s spine...He knows? How?
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she wonders and starts to sweat. Her eyes narrow on Noah. She has to keep him quiet; Noah has to go. A few kids turn their heads and send them a weird look; with a glare from Noah, they turn back. The group walks through the old, rotting corridors surrounded by levels of rusted prison cells. The rising water laps at the waterweary cement. Xenia begins to stretch her wings. She is poised to protect herself. She takes her sunglasses off and throws them on the ground and summons the daggers hidden in her clothes. “Noah, I don’t want to hurt you,” she says, adding, “If you can’t tell by now, I can’t control her.” “Then maybe I’ll force that power out of you,” Noah glares. His flames ignite. Both poised to attack the other. In the blink of an eye, Xenia goes out of sight. Noah feels the wind against his hair, knowing that she is behind him. He turns around, seeing Xenia pointing a dagger at his face. He stretches his engulfed hand to grab her. Noah, in seizing the dagger, unintentionally creates access to a portal. Suddenly, as they are running toward each other, they run straight through a wall, an uninhabited and water-worn jail cell. Both exhausted, they see a violet and gold scrapbook. Distracted from their fight, they race toward it, being equally drawn toward it. Their spines tingle as they get closer to the book. Xenia places it in her backpack. “Let’s find the group. We can settle this later,” she urges.
On the bus heading home from Alcatraz, Noah and Xenia turn. They see Mai studying the golden scrapbook. Continued on next page
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“How did she...?” they mouth in sequence, and they crowd into the seats closest to her. Mai had found the scrapbook in the back of the bus with its history of characters and student profiles. Xenia is the first page, Noah on the next. “I’m in here, too.” Mai’s whisper trails off. The huddle together and read more about their secret profiles as the bus driver screams for the students to take their seats and turn their music off. The fear and secrecy suddenly transform them into an instant community.
Student 345: Xenia Age: 16 Gender: F Personality: A calm soul with a side of inner demons Preferred Weapons: Small, daggerlike blades she uses to pierce her foes while flying. She has stronger, undiscovered abilities. Backstory: A girl with black eyes is born to an angel and a human. Legend says that a girl with black eyes will destroy them all. Not knowing this until her sixteenth birthday, Xenia, a black-winged angel, hides her black eyes in the hopes of not being bullied. She races against time to try to prevent the legend about her from coming true. She has natural brunette hair and wears a skirt and shirt combo to blend in with her peers. She wears darkened sunglasses so no one can see her eyes. Some days she goes insane. She wears a butterfly charm that suppresses her abilities, so she doesn’t attack anyone. She works on the daily to try to control her powers, constantly fighting her inner demons and the spirit that wants control. If the spirit is in control, Xenia gains skull-like pupils. Home Life: Xenia lives at the edge of San Francisco near the beach. A place for her to clear her mind, the calming waves and the pine trees help her keep Ainex [A-nex] at bay. She hides her wings and halo to fit into the school environment.
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Motivations: Stop her inner demons from taking her over and destroying the world. She works constantly to perfect her combat. If she’s ever defeated, her world would be destroyed. If her inner demon gains control, the world will end. She sometimes wanders the forest at night, hoping to find clues on what happened to her mother and father.
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Student 163: Noah Backstory: Noah has been a demon since the day he was born. Everyone fears his power to control bright, blue, searing flames. Everyone has to hide from him. Until one day the Black World, known as Ishikimi, the man who has the power to manipulate his bones and sharpen them, challenges the young demon to a fight, claiming that his powers are the strongest on the planet. The fight ensues, and Noah is left on the ground and bleeding until the people around him pick him up and carry him to a medic. Fun Fact: Four years go by, and Noah finally challenges Ishikimi again. He beats the young wolf and claims the title King of Magic. Character and Motivation: Noah has deep red hair and red eyes. He’s six feet tall and has wings and a hidden tail. His horns release a dark plume of smoke. He was considered the demented omen and banished from towns and cities because of his appearance. He lived in the forest alone and decided to learn how to use his ability without hurting people. Two years pass before Noah returns to his hometown, and to his surprise, there are others like him, people with abilities and who are nonhuman. He has people like him, but he prefers to keep this side to himself and agrees to enroll at the local school in order to graduate.
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Student 457: Kit In a Nutshell: Kit is the last of his people after a group of thieves ravaged his home, and now he wants revenge. The problem is, he doesn’t know how.
Continued on next page
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Background art by Rashed AlAkroko
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Girl with a Tragic Past Downloaded Memories: “That’s what they want you to think, isn’t it? That my downfall was caused by a man? No, my dear, it was society, or humanity to be more exact.” Girl with a Tragic Past eyes the seagulls. Then she chugs her cream soda and chucks it into the bay. “Aren’t you supposed to be some kind of environmentalist?” Kit inquires, eyebrows sky-high. “Obviously; my littering makes me ironic and lets me channel and project some of this inner rage…besides, everyone knows that otters love snacking on aluminum.” “Nobody says that,” Kit says in a sigh. “Exactly.” She pulls her hood up and they head off together to meet up with Xenia at Golden Gate Park at sundown.
There was once a girl that was abandoned at childbirth. Her parents grew to hate her because she was not what they were hoping for. Not even bothering to give her a name, they left her on the side of a road. Her older brother, who was only eighteen at the time, found her and took her in. Raising her as his own, eight years passed. On her eighth birthday, her brother got into an awful accident that ended up taking his life. Left alone once more, she wandered. Soon deciding to go to the place where her brother had died, she came across a piece of paper. On the paper was what seemed to be a note. Picking it up, she looked at it before starting to read. Tears streamed down her face as she looked upon the words etched onto the paper, blood staining it. Her brother had written how he had not been able to continue living on because he had to take care of his little sister that had been abandoned at birth by his father and stepmother. Explaining how, at first, he couldn’t. Walking across the street, the girl looked around at her surroundings. There were cars that zoomed down the road as each one seemed to be faster than the next, as if they were in a hurry. Tall buildings reached as high as the eye could see, and she still thought they were higher than that. This was the first civilization she had seen since she was Continued on next page
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eight years old. Now sixteen, another eight years had passed. Jumping when any car honked, she stumbled backward as her heart began to pound from out of her chest. Watching the cars speed away, she ducked behind a trash can. Many people turned their heads to look at the strange girl who looked as if she was a scared child lost in the biggest city. Which, in a way, she was.
Student 777: Elka The Would-Be Nemesis: Elka, a girl from a small town from a far land. She had dreamed of being a hero of the town and working with renowned adventurers. She spent many days training in speed and agility, so that she could help people from all through the land. Eventually she made connections with the adventurer world. She took a few successful jobs, saving families, fighting monsters, and doing what was best for others. But after she faced death eye to eye, she realized that the only way to survive in this world is to help only yourself. She joined a rogue party in her late teens, and quickly climbed the ranks, using her heroic childhood training to commit foul crimes.
All three drop the book of student profiles, its accuracy burning through the realities they thought they had shielded. “What do we do now?” Mai asks. “We tell the others...” Noah trails off. Xenia joins them as they march toward Kit and Elka, waiting to be picked up in front of the Walnutwood tree.
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AALIYAH HICKS
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Untitled Aaliyah Hicks
It was a cold, dark, and windy night. Fall had just started. Leaves were on the ground. Some nights, when I cannot sleep because of the wind banging on the window, I go downstairs and pour myself a glass of milk and cookies and then fall asleep right after. But tonight was different. As I finished my milk and cookies and went to my room, I heard loud noise. I turned around and went back downstairs. I looked around the whole house, but I did not see anything. Out of nowhere, I felt some chilly air going down my neck. I got so scared, so I ran upstairs as fast as I could, screaming my sister’s name as I ran. “Alyssa, Alyssa!!! Wake up, wake up!” She jumped out of her sleep with a scared look on her face. “What is going on, Aaliyah?” With a scared look on my face, I said, “I heard noises, so I went to look around, and this gush of chilly wind hit the back of my neck as I looked around. I screamed!” Alyssa turned around and started to scream. We both ran into a small, dark closet. Then, we both looked at each other, “Alyssa, did you see that? “Yes, we must go back there. We have to see what that thing really was.”
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CATHERINE COCKER
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Elenora Catherine Cocker
I don’t remember having climbed up the tree, or why I felt the need to climb it in the first place. I looked around, trying to assess the situation I was in. I was dressed in a long, frilly, maroon-colored dress that was fitted in the bodice and flared out slightly. I looked around me and saw a handful of people walking around the barely-awake town. I noticed that they were dressed similarly to me. The tree was located nearly eight feet away from a stone wall. There was a small black sack hanging from a nearby branch with a note attached to it. I pulled my skirts out of the way and carefully shifted my weight precariously to an adjacent branch and reached for the sack. Suddenly, I lurched forward as the unexpected weight of the sack threatened to pull me down. I quickly scrambled back, trying to go back to the branch I was on before. I pulled my knees up slightly and rested the sack on my lap. Remembering the note, I turned the backpack around and untied it from the handle. Your name is now Elenora. There are three things you need to know. The first is that you are a rich heiress. Your father recently passed away, and you are to inherit everything. Secondly, everything you need to claim your birthright is in the bag. Whatever you do, do not lose this bag. Lastly, do not trust the man in the dark green suit with a scar under his left eye; he will do anything he can to stop you‌
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DEAN BALILA
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Fateful Days Dean Balila Artwork by Dean Balila
Kit had hated how the two of them had met. At any event with friends, he would come up with a story—they had met online; they got their coffee cups mixed up; they had the same class together. If any of their friends had caught onto the lies, they hadn’t bothered to say anything. In reality, they had collided with so much tension that the thought of it made him grind his teeth. And they had literally collided. Kit had the memory unfortunately etched into his head for the past year they had been together, and shame washed over him every time. Thomas had told him he really didn’t hold a grudge, but he was a gentle giant of sorts. Kit had been angry and seething for the past few days; a bad meeting with his father and the annoying jabs his brother gave him were truly not something he wanted at the start of his first semester in college. They had chastised him again, pointing out his flaws, and left him gaping and picking at the open wounds. They complained about how young he acted and how he wasn’t ready to step higher into the family. All the time and money they had spent to get him ready to be a part of high society had all been a waste. He had stormed out of his father’s office, angry and near tears; he never knew how to defend himself in those types of situations. And he supposed that they were right; he was a bit too immature about his life. Evident from the very fight he had instigated, as if he were in high school once more. Three frat guys had knocked him off his skateboard, only looking back to chuckle to themselves.
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“Hey!” he had yelled, causing some heads to turn. “You going to apologize?” They had laughed once more and sarcastically had given him his wish. Something about the three of them had reminded him of his older brothers, and the need to defend himself crawled up and burned his throat. He got up and ruffled the dirt off his jeans. Embarrassment washed over his whole body. A stray comment from one of the boys about who he was and what he was doing in such a prestigious school had reached his ears. And unfortunately, the only defense he had come up with was physical violence. Before he knew it, his own fist was sailing to hit the closest one in the chest, knocking him on the floor. A voice in his head told him to stop, and to talk it out, that this was just what his family was jabbing at him for. Another told him that they had started this, and he couldn’t think of anything else to do. A brawl had broken out, and he had taken a beating, though he gave as good as he got. A crowd had formed around them, dozens of students staying to watch the fight instead of heading to class; they pushed and shoved each other for access to the best video quality. In the midst of his adrenaline rush, another body had slammed into his. Six feet tall and towering over his frame, he didn’t look like any of the three guys he had been fighting with. “You want a piece of me, too?” he yelled. Looking at the scene, it felt more like a middle schooler throwing fists with a college student.
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The guy had held his hands up, and Kit had taken the initiative to throw the punch. Looking back at it, he should have heard Thomas telling him to wait and noticed that his hands were up to block his blow rather than to throw one at him. And a few hours later, Thomas had woken up in the school nurse’s office with an ice pack on his head and Kit sitting next to him. Both sported matching black eyes. Thomas had sat up with a groan, slow as a snail, and asked Kit if he was OK.
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Brewing Feelings Dean Balila Artwork by Dean Balila
Kit sat at the edge of the porcelain tub, his bruised face cushioned between strong, trembling hands. Every dab of cotton and antiseptic stung, but he did not move, not since he had been ushered down. It terrified him, the festering feeling deep in his chest that crawled up his throat. It was foreign and uncomfortable, but he couldn’t tell Thomas that; couldn’t tell him that his gentle hands were too much or that his care confused him more than it comforted him. He had been scared, then, at how absolute it all seemed. Never had he imagined the intricacy of love and the complicated feelings that came with it. Being together was the one thing he could treasure to himself without the eyes of his father watching him. Without the judgement of his brothers. Kit could understand what love truly meant in those arms. The bruises that littered his body were caressed with care, the cuts were bandaged, and the blood was wiped off. Kit had not known how warm hands could be until Thomas had shown him. He was ashamed and frightful; he did not want the red staining Thomas’s dark hands. He did not want to smother whatever happiness he had found with his own regrets. Just as he was about to tug his arms free, they were set down in his lap, and those beautiful, careful hands circled his cheeks. Without a second thought, Kit leaned into the warmth and smiled. “Are you feeling better?” Thomas had asked, his voice reverberating in the small room. And with a sigh deep from his chest, he let out his turmoil. He felt his body deflate, the knots inside of him coming undone. In lieu of an answer, Kit slumped down into waiting arms
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The Moon Is Beautiful Dean Balila Artwork by Dean Balila
It was Thomas who really stepped up first. He had brought Kit out on some misty night, a picnic basket in one hand and Kit’s hand in the other. They had set up their blanket near the edge of an overhang, a popular spot to look over the town and the rising light in the distance. Like the gentleman he was, Thomas had poured them nonalcoholic juice, and like the klutz he also happened to be, they needed a few napkins in the process. Kit took notice of his shaky hands, the way the juice sloshed in the bottle as he held it. Something was festering inside his stomach. It was never truly silent where they sat; the insects of the night made sure they knew they were there. In the distance, they could also hear a few howls. It was not like them at all to be silent, especially when the need to speak was almost bubbling out of them. Thomas spoke first, or, well, “spoke” would have been a very loose term. “I really, really like the moon,” he had almost yelled out frantically. The wine glass full of apple cider sloshed as he jerked to the side to look at him. Kit stared back at him with something akin to apprehension, “I-I mean I guess, yeah. It’s really pretty tonight.” Thomas could only swallow the lump in his throat and adjust his shirt collar; he was sure it was getting too tight. “Yes! Yes, the moon looks beautiful tonight! They look beautiful every night!” “That’s, uh, good?” Silence once again engulfed them. “I wish the moon knew how beautiful he-they look! I wish the moon could be happy without feeling bad. I wish the moon could enjoy being the moon without having to change.” Kit scratched at one arm nervously. “I don’t get the joke.” Thomas was perked up in an instant; he sat up straighter and held his gaze intensely. “It’s not a joke! I really do appreciate the moon. It almost hurts how much I adore it.” Continued on next page
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“Sounds awful,” Kit whispered awkwardly. Words were drawing blanks in his mind; Thomas was acting strange. “I don’t think loving something should hurt.” “OK, wait,” Thomas backpedaled. “It doesn’t hurt! I mean, loving it doesn’t hurt, I suppose. It’s the...” he paused for a few moments, “it’s not being able to show it how much I do love it.” Kit pursed his lips. “That sounds really complicated.” The gnawing in his stomach continued. “I feel the same, though.” He all but whispered out. “It doesn’t hurt, but it feels like I should be ashamed, like I should hide. To some people, I suppose it does hurt.” He played with a frayed string that sat on the blanket. “The moon is lucky to have people who love it. Who can show it that they care.” Neither spoke for a moment again, until Thomas clasped one hand over his wrangling one. “I don’t think we’re talking about the same moon.” Kit paused, and then pointed up at the sky. “What other moon is there?” The other did not answer, only holding his clammy hands tighter. Kit turned away from the soft light to ask him what was wrong. Thomas looked restless; it made him pause, the words getting caught in his throat. “What other moon could there be?” Kit asked, almost voicelessly. Rather than answering, Thomas continued. “Sometimes I think I don’t deserve the moon; I don’t deserve how bright it is.” “The moon is inanimate; you don’t have a choice in the matter,” Kit said with a soft smile. “I know, which is part of the problem. The moon deserves someone who can be there, who can always make him smile. I wish I could be that someone.” Kit brought a hand up, and this time it was he who held Thomas as he trembled. “I think…” he took a deep breath and willed his throat to work. The lump seemed to continue to grow. “I think you’re selling yourself a little short. I hate—I mean, the moon must hate it when you do that. Because they know how important you are in their life. If you weren’t here, how could it be so bright tonight?” Under the light, Kit’s eyes shone with unshed tears. “And stop talking about ‘deserving.’ The moon isn’t someone greater than you.” Kit’s voice cracked. “I know for a fact you deserve the world anyway.”
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“I-I really hope we’re talking about the same thing right now,” Thomas said, a breath away. Kit could feel every word on his own lips. “Me too,” he told him.
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Things That Give Warmth in the Night Dean Balila Artwork by Dean Balila
Like the many nights he had spent in bed, huddled to himself to keep the warmth, tonight was no different. His sheets, old and tattered, were wrapped around his body, the cold barely being kept off. The sad excuse he had for pillows squished around him to the point where he could smell the conditioner he had the night before. The cold seemed to be persistent that night, for his toes and face could not be saved; they felt numb to the touch, and his body shivered involuntarily. Under the covers, he saw his fingers turn red. It was so unlike the life he grew up in, it was almost laughable. The old money that cushioned him and his childhood gave him everything he could want except the warmth of those who could love him. Some nights he had missed the comfortable lifestyle: the nights he couldn’t afford his electricity bill and the days he had to pay for gas with the pennies in his car. Though the thought was fleeting, it always left him with gnawing guilt that made him nauseous. His nightstand, old and from the corner shop, had cost him less than a cup of coffee; it held his valuables. In the dark, they could barely be made out, a few knickknacks here and there, the things he had thought of as worthy from his old life. His phone, huddled beneath a worn picture and a few gift cards, woke up with a message and lit the room. Warmth seemed to bloom in his chest, and he reached over with painfully
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numb fingers to bring it closer. The screen went dark and he fumbled with everything he had on his nightstand; the cards and some loose change fell to the floor. His phone went off again, vibrating in his hands with an incoming call, and a picture of Thomas had greeted him. He clung to the screen, and something inside didn’t feel so lonely anymore. He answered the phone, trying to clench his jaw so his teeth wouldn’t chatter so much. “Hello?” Thomas’s voice, as gentle and warm as sunlight greeted him. “Open the door, haha, I’m outside and I brought soup from that shop by Peterson’s that you like.” He took a moment to close his eyes and wallow in the comfort. “I’ll be right there.”
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FLETCHER NESS
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Untitled Fletcher Ness
Chapter One: The Book On my birthday every year, I have to tell a ghost story. It’s my tradition, but tonight, I didn’t expect it to happen . Let me go back one day before my sixteenth birthday. A Friday, which meant that I could stay at home along with my friends. I usually distract them with books. I love to read the scary stories because it helps me think of new ones. The only problem is that I was all out of new ones. We decided to go down to the brand -new pawn shop and find a book to scar everyone for life. It was a little after noon when my friends Noah and Ivy came. Noah looked similar to me. He was the same height as me. He had ocean blue eyes and short, blondish hair. Ivy, on the other hand, was tall and had emerald green eyes and long, black hair. “HAPPY BIRTHDAY!!” they screeched. A smile spread across my face. “Ready?” I asked. We took our bikes down Cold Street to the corner of Frost Avenue (coincidence, right?). The pawn shop, from what we could tell, basically gave everything away. We spread out to look for a book to read. Noah got immediately distracted by comic books and Ivy was mesmerized by coloring books of famous artworks. I stayed on top of things by searching the books aisle. After finding nothing and almost giving up, one dusty old book caught my attention. I slowly pulled it out from the bottom of the shelf. It had something green embedded in the middle, but it was too rusty to see what it was. “Hey, guys! Look at this!” I yelled to my friends while trying not to draw too much attention to myself. They walked over to me and stared at the book just as I had. Minutes passed until Noah broke the silence. “It’s scary just lookin’ at it alright,” he muttered to himself. “Let’s have a peek.” Ivy winked. I began to open the book, when the owner and cashier came limping to us.
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“Find anything you like?” he rasped. He wore an eyepatch and a brown leather jacket with rain boots that almost covered his dusty blue jeans. “How much for this one?” I asked. His eyes slowly narrowed to the book. “F-fifteen cents,” he started sputtering. “That’s cheap, even for a pawn shop,” I told him. He started to sweat and laugh nervously. “Look kid, I’m trying to make a living, so are you going to buy the book or not?” He was shaking his head. I thought something was up, but I bought it anyway. As we made our way out, I noticed something unusual. Wasn’t there a door there? I thought, but I decided my eyes were playing tricks on me, for it was nothing more than a bookshelf. We rode to my house as fast as we could. Once we arrived, we rushed upstairs and Noah rushed home. My room was pretty normal. I had a laptop on a drawing table. Books were scattered across the floor. I had an untidy bed. Ivy sat down on the bed. I took the book out of my backpack and opened up a new window on my laptop. I looked at all the books I typed, scanning the titles. I picked out every ghost, ghoul, and zombie in every story I made. It was 11:30 at night when I finished the book. Finally, I was going to read it tomorrow. Ivy decided it was time for her to head home and went down the street to her house. Once my head hit the pillow of my messy bed, I was out. Chapter Two: The Magic I awoke the next morning with a sparkle in my eyes. About six more hours; then it’s time to scare, I thought, only one thing was missing: my book. Someone must have stolen it and looked inside so that they can’t get scared by it, I thought, so I scoured the house, every room, closet, and dresser, but there was nothing to be found; my head was hurting just thinking about who might have stolen all my hard work. I collapsed onto the floor. Continued on next page
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That’s when I saw a flicker of light underneath my bed. I reached toward it. My book, I thought, but something had changed. It had an emerald in the middle that was so clear I could see myself. When the dust disappeared from it, there were words on the emerald, but it looked like gibberish. Noah and Ivy must have been waiting downstairs patiently, because they yelled, “SURPRISE!” at the top of their lungs, which made me jump to my feet. “We decided to clean up your book,” Noah said with joy. I thanked him, and all three of us high fived. A red glow then began to engulf the book, and writing appeared.How could this be! was my first thought. “Oko sinta talisma?” I read off what was engraved on the emerald. The book began to heat up. I dropped it on the ground. Then millions and billions of ghosts and ghouls were shooting out of my book; all of my creations were scattering across town and vanishing into thin air. At the end of it all, the ghosts were nowhere to be seen, all but one. A little cat girl was standing there and flew right into... I blacked out. Chapter Three: The Transformation I awoke to Noah pulling at my head. “OW, OW STOP IT!” I yelled while pushing Noah away. “Look at you, let me remove those stupid cat ears. THEN we can worry about getting out of town,” he spoke angrily to Ivy. What the heck is going on? The thought kept crossing my mind as I backed up toward the wall. Suddenly, a tail of a cat touched my face. It was blue with a red tip, I touched my head and then ran to the bathroom mirror. Noah was correct; the ears were blue all over with a red tip. And I had cat teeth growing from my normal teeth. My body didn’t feel like my own; it felt different, like another person owned it. It took me a while to realize the creature that walked inside my soul was the dead cat queen, Liz. A soul that could help others with magical powers, like life itself, controlling the sun and the moon. At first it felt like my whole body hated me, but after a while it stopped, and that’s when it hit me, like knives to the back of my spine.
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Chapter Four: The Quest of a Lifetime It quickly clicked that I wasn’t in my home, I was in a world where everything was pitch- black, cars and houses were floating, the sun was like an eclipse, and in the middle, there was a beam of red energy shooting straight up like an aura of disease and suffering. “It’s the future, unless you do something.” I spun around to see a girl wearing a dress that was pink as the twilight hour in the summer. She had blue cat ears with a red tip on top. Shelookedabouteighteen a ndhad atailthat reflected the color of the ears. “Why me? Can’t anyone else be up to the task?” I questioned. “Yes, but none with the knowledge that you control. Only you can lead the people to victory, young master.” Then, all I could hear were the distant sounds of Noah calling out to me, and with that, I woke up. The floor was cold, like ice, and the walls looked as if they were rotting. Noah and Ivy were right by my side; they sighed in relief. “Dude, how did you rot the house?” I opened my mouth to say something, then I looked around to see the walls burning with green and brown liquids. The walls had melted, and at the center there was my handprint. “I did that?” It was strange to me, knowing that I rotted the house without realizing it, without even having a faint memory of it. “Due to the fact that we now have demons from the book you made and are now flying around the world, we’re going to have to cut your party short,” Ivy joked. “Now is not the time to joke around. The only way we can stop them is to find a power strong enough to kill them,’’ I explained to Noah and Ivy, and I sat there for a while trying to figure out how we were going to find them. “The book; we need to try to hop into the book,” I exclaimed. “How are we going to do that? Dude, I think you’ve lost it. I think we are all collectively high,” Noah proclaimed, but he immediately stopped talking. It took us a few moments to realize that if the ghouls got out, then we could get in, but the question was how?
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Untitled Fletcher Ness
“Where...where am I?” I questioned. I tossed and turned as the darkness attached to my hands like it was a leech to my skin. “Give into the pain and misery!” I saw two gold eyes staring at me through the darkness like a snake ready to bite. I couldn’t move; my heart sank and burned. “Or...you can become something more than pain and misery...you can become a hero...Just allow your true self to show,” a voice calmly spoke. A beam of light hit me, and the darkness was gone. I spun around but saw nothing. “What’s happening? Who are you!?” I yelled. “We are your future, but you must survive the trial to get here.” Then I woke up. I was in a cold sweat and on the floor; my head was pounding. Just a dream...just a dream. I sighed in relief. The early morning was still dark. It sprinkled outside, so the grass was damp and soggy. I looked at the clock. 1:45 in the morning. “Artimis! I heard a loud bang. Are you OK?” It was my mom. She came bursting through the door. “I’m OK, Momma! Just a little nightmare is all.” She let out a sigh of relief. I got dressed and ready for school; I needed to be there by 4:00 a.m. so I could get all my homework done before Mr. Night lectured me again. I live in Chicago, on the edge of the lakeside. I go to Progressive High School, the top school in my area.
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Liquid Jake Fletcher Ness
Headlights are so much...brighter when you get hit by them going 120 miles per hour...makes you think about life. Oh! I forgot to introduce myself to you! My name is Jake, Liquid Jake...Yes, my first name is Liquid...and currently, I’m dead! Well...not really...I’m more on the border of death and life. I’m a ghost! But...I can’t go through the walls...or fly...and I can touch things, and people can see me...but I’m dead! I swear! Anyway...my life has been...a bit of a bad luck streak...I woke up and stepped in my cats’ dung, and then my razor broke and I didn’t have a spare. Then, when I went outside, I found I’m behind on my rent, my credit card got declined... Then I got hit by a truck! And now I can’t even die properly...and now we’re here! Hehe! I’ll just resume my story...the story of Liquid Jake! So there I was, watching as my body got taken away on a stretcher into an ambulance...Confused and scared... But...I’m right here...why are they...? I helplessly thought... “Are you that man’s twin brother or something?” one of the medics asked me. “Um...I never had a twin...I’m an only child...” I quietly said. The medic looked me up and then down. “Hmm...strange world we live in,” he laughed. The ambulance pulled away toward the hospital. I looked at my hands and feet; they were pale and light...I could kind of see through them. I began to walk around the streets; my brain was surprisingly not in panic mode. SLORP. My foot stepped in dog dung...Well, I see I still haven’t lost my bad luck, I thought, irritated... I turned into the dark, messy alleyway... “Oy, don’t make this difficult. Hand over your valuables,” a voice said from behind me...I spun around to see a short man with a gun pointed right at my chest...Before I had time to answer, BANG! Continued on next page
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“What do you wish for?” a calm, soothing voice whispered...A girl...I opened my eyes to see that the bullet had slowed down...the world was in a gray vision to me...and behind the man, there was an angel...wings and everything, I swear! It was crazy! Ahem... “What’s happening to me? Who are you? Why do I have bad luck?” She stopped me mid-sentence. “God made a mistake. You were supposed to be born a lawyer, but he got a little too tipsy and gave you bad luck on accident, so as a sort of...forgiveness...we’re giving you a choice. Either...you can stay here, and I give you ONE power of your choosing, or you can come up to heaven.” At this point, reality hit me...“I’m dead...I really am dead...Holy sh**.” “No, no saying that word!” the angel yelled. I let out a sigh...“One power, eh? Anything?” I questioned. She nodded. “OK... then I’d like the power to control anything I touch.” I giggled. “As you command, but I will tell you that I will be your guardian and personal parole officer.” Parole officer? Am I in prison? I wondered. Her wings and halo vanished, and she looked...cute...in a way...She had black hair and green eyes; she was tall and thin. She wore a white hoodie and blue jeans. “My name is Seraphim, but you may call me Phim...and you are…?” I raised my hand to shake. “Jake, Liquid Jake. Nice to meet a woman of heaven.”
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JAYDEN HARDY
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Far Apart Jayden Hardy
I drove past your street today. I used to see the gas station on the corner all the time. I almost turned into your neighborhood out of habit. As I passed it, I wondered how many times you’d seen it, a reminder to enter your neighborhood. I wondered if you’d ever driven by it on your way home from my house, and if you ever thought of me when you drove past. The rain pounded on my windshield, and I flicked my windshield wipers to a higher setting. They began wiping faster. I blinked hard, trying to clear my head. How was it that so many little things could remind me of you? The raindrops falling from the sky near me were the same raindrops that were falling on your windowsill.
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In My Room Jayden Hardy
My room is an escape from the real world. I love the soft lights, the burning incense, and my colorful tapestries. I can turn on music and listen to quiet music and write whatever comes to mind. When I sit against my pillows with my notebook, it’s almost like my pen flows by itself. My room is a cozy and colorful world where my thoughts are safe with my pen and notebook.
Peace Jayden Hardy
I think the world needs to learn to love. I hate that there are so many anger-filled hearts. I wish some peace would rain down from whoever’s up above. I learn about the abundance of cultures; it shows that there may be good in some parts. I love how society is learning to accept and love. I regret my close-mindedness from the past, I needed to learn to accept all hearts.
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MICHELLE COCKER
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Be Brave Michelle Cocker
Be brave. Put your pen to the paper and just write. Do not be afraid to write. Just write. Be brave. Write what your heart craves. Let your imagination soar and take flight. Just write. Be brave. Now that your imagination has soared, it cannot come back down. Now that it has flown, let it roam. Just write. Be brave. Put your pen to the paper and just write. Do not be afraid to write. Just write.
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Be Bold Michelle Cocker
Be bold. If you believe you can do what you want, then you can. If you believe you can succeed, you will. Be bold. Be bold. Take the leap. It will set you free. Be bold. Be bold. If you believe you are free, then you will be. Spread your wings and fly. Be bold.
Memories Michelle Cocker
She went outside, and a large raindrop plopped on her nose, startling her. She closed her eyes and inhaled deeply. The sharp, crisp smell of rain slid through her nose and brought her back to many memories. That crisp smell brought her back to jumping in puddles and not caring that her leggings were getting wet and of her splashing her sisters. The smell of rain reminded her of taking long, barefoot walks with her sisters around her block with their arms entwined. The smell of rain brought back many memories filled with fun and laughter. It reminded her of being carefree with her sisters.
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NATE BURKART
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Geldia Nate Burkart
A breath, a singular breath. My body was in a state of paralysis. My eyes thawed, and my eyelids peeled apart. I looked out to my surrounding shuttle, a home of mine for 31 years, and yet it was still new to me. As I felt the crystallized water begin to melt from my skin, my iron lung opened, allowing me to step out into the hull. I pulled myself out, almost collapsing to the ground. I had forgotten how to walk, how to move, even. But I forced myself onto my feet, a feeling which I had long since forgotten. As I stood, the great window of the shuttle revealed a white desert. It was an endless plane of ice and snow. I opened the shuttle door, and an instant frigid chill struck my skin. I awoke from my drowsy sleep from the crisp cold and rubbed my hands together as I stepped out into the frozen snow. The atmosphere was a yellowish blue. Luckily my rebreather protected me, because I would surely be breathing sulfur had it not. I realized my thick fabric suit was not nearly enough to guard me of this impossibly cold planet. It reminded me of the frozen sleep I had fallen into for those 31 years.
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Somewhere to Be Nate Burkart
Somewhere there is a place To Be Human To hunt To build To explore To collect To learn Not to write a memo by Friday Not to package cardboard boxes Not to sell the product Not to work for others But to work for your community But to be free But to be healthy But to be happy To act on what we feel is right To be primitive Somewhere there is a place to be human
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Scars Nate Burkart
I heard the sounds of an old engine running in the dead of night, muffled by the heavy rain clashing against the roof of our rusted house. I had spent so many nights waiting for him to arrive, my hope had been crushed under the polluted fog of delusion. I heard thick footsteps nearing the front door. I quickly arose to my feet, creeping into the living room to see out the front window. I saw the silhouette of a familiar shape. I rushed to the lamp by the fire, quickly filling the room with synthetic light. Darting from the fireplace to the front door, I rapidly unbolted the decayed lock and swung open the door in an excited haste. I could see a faint outline of his jaw. His darkened eyes met with mine, and a fake smile grew on his face. As he approached me, I could see his once-playful and life-filled eyes were dull and empty, only being surrounded by held-back tears. I ran out to give him a hug. When we met, I felt his muscular body and tense posture. There was a deep silence between us with only the rain to fill in as background noise. He had changed; he was not the boy I married; he was not the man I married; he was not the person I married. We went inside, and he took a seat on the unraveled couch. I offered him food and drink, but he politely declined. It was like having a guest in my house, a guest whom I had once loved. We sat next to each other in silence. “Have you ever watched someone die?” Jack suddenly asked. “N-no, I haven’t,” I replied, caught off guard by such a seemly random and grim question. “The screams, Sherly...the screams.” I could see his eyes coat with a layer of tears. I noticed his hands were trembling, but it was as though he was attempting to hide it. “That’s the worst of it, the screams. The images, you can push those down, but the screams always find a way back up. I just keep hearing them.” His voice trembled, and he was shivering as if he had been left in the coldest place on Earth. “My comrades, the Germans, even...even the civilians.” He looked up at me with a face of fear and disgust.
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“Sherly...We killed them. We killed the kids, Sherly! They told us we had to do what was necessary, but there was no reason! There was no reason behind any of it!� Jack collapsed to the ground, curling up into a fetal position, streaming tears leaving his eyes. He screamed in agony as if we were still in the war. I tried to comfort him, I tried holding him, I tried telling him everything would be OK. But this was no longer Jack, it was man who had seen hell and come back, just to keep relieving it in his head. This was no longer Jack, the young, energetic boy who lived across the street. This was no longer Jack but a tormented soul stuck inside a scarred body.
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PAIGHTON MONDAY
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Campfire Stories: Her Last Dance– The Legend of the Dead Ballerina Paighton Monday Artwork by Paighton Monday
Centuries ago, there used to be an alluring ballerina whose dance was as graceful as a swan. She was known as one of the best in the world. She grew up with a happy family, with her mother and father. But late one night, before her grandest performance, her mother stabbed her in the chest. The ballerina was left to bleed on the ground in her once vibrant pink leotard. The mother was jealous of her daughter’s talent and beauty and wanted it for herself. Before she could steal it, the ballerina’s spirit attacked. She danced around her mother, singing her song. Small demons appeared around her. They danced with her to restrain her mother. It’s said that on a full moon, the ballerina performs on her stage in her mangled, bloody form. That was the legend my mother told me when I was younger. As a little girl, I grew frightened of this ghostly spirit. But I grew older, and I’m no longer afraid of an old legend. The story grew with so much infamy that animatronics were constructed around the world, thus keeping the legend alive. People say that in the dead of night, the ballerina haunts an animatronic, exacting revenge on those who dismay her beauty. On certain nights, you may even hear her song. The few who survived say that once she sings, your fate is sealed. They were branded as insane, as most believed she was merely a legend. Late one night, my friends dared me to stand on her stage. I did it because I wanted to prove to them that I wasn’t afraid of the old legend. I remember wearing a dress. I don’t know why I was wearing that dress. I just was. I entered the room with the ballerina and the mini ones. It was close to midnight on the full moon. The moonlight shone in my eyes in a nearby window. My dress got caught on the edge of the stage as I climbed to get a closer look at her. The animatronic itself was breathtaking. She fluttered around the stage. Her beautiful golden hair shone on the metal. Her attire was nothing I’ve ever seen. It struck midnight. The ballerina began to shake and stutter, moving with a mind of its own. Stunned, I backed away from the stage. My heart froze
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as she began to sing her song. As she sang, I dashed toward all doors and windows. To my horror, they were shuttered and locked. I turned to look toward the ballerina. A mangled body appeared where the animatronic once stood, covered in bloody bandages and dirt. Her clothes were torn and covered in dried blood. Her hair was messy and knotted. Flames sparked and fluttered around. The mini ones turned to demons. “Come now, dance with me,” she said. Her eyes remained shut. I began to inch closer, curious of her words. Before I knew it, I was dancing. I was doing a performance with the dead ballerina. I was trapped in a deadly pas de deux and I knew if I took one misstep, my life would be over. I carefully did the show with the demons watching my every movement. I was doing quite well until I realized my most fatal mistake. I stepped on her toes. Fire began to ensnare me. She opened her eyes. Demonically, she began to grasp me, her hand crushing my arm. “You failed my challenge. You shall perish for your mistakes,” she told me. I struggled with my fiery restraints. The fire tore through my skin. The pain was unbearable. The fire was slowly crawling up my arms. With a bit of luck, the fire alarm went off. The burning shackles washed away. All my wounds Continued on next page
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disappeared as if they were never there. The ballerina began to malfunction. She sparked and made jagged movements. I broke the closest window and began to run. As soon as I reached a safe distance, I looked back. It was engulfed in flames. Smoke flew out of the windows in heavy plumes. I felt sorrow for the ballerina. Her vengeful spirit only wanted to rest and to dance one final dance.
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Spirits Unrest Paighton Monday
What is a spirit but a decaying soul on its deathbed to the afterlife, living on fear filled with life? Spirits sink into the dirt-covered ground to their flesh and bones. The body is severed from its host, though it still holds on and still it will give up, collapsing into its pile of decayed and destroyed bones. I buried my family over the hill, and as I look now, I see their spirits wandering across that very hill, looking for something larger than life. I say to them, Let your spirits rest. The world above is waiting for you all; I can’t be the one that holds you back. I cannot fathom what becomes of you all if you never leave, and you should go soon. Though instead of leaving, our souls were sewn together, forming one large spirit, bound by our love for one another.
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The Murders of Foxworth Manor Paighton Monday Artwork by Paighton Monday
Derrick Foxworth, the son of Lord Foxworth, roamed around the old family manor. He was known as a kind, generous son who gave to those in need. He was always looking for something new, something unique. He and his old family lived in the grand manor filled with history and knowledge. As an upcoming scholar, he found his old home the perfect place to study. So, like any normal day, he ventured out to the family library. As he entered the vast library, he always felt a sense of awe toward the shelves that towered to the third-floor roof. He always made sure that all the lamps were lit for whenever he wished to read. He approached a nearby desk with a stack of books left out from the previous day he was there. I’ve already read all of these twice; are there any more I haven’t read? he thought to himself. He decided to lean against a nearby wall lamp to think. He accidentally fell off and pulled on it, revealing a secret room. Inside was a book, locked up. Confused, he inched closer to inspect it. He noticed that the book was damaged by age. The once bright leather cover was faded. Its binding was frayed. There was something odd about it, though. The lock placed upon it was new. There was no rust to be seen. Curiously, he carefully picked up the book. He grabbed the trusty sack he always carried and put it inside there. He decided to try and find the key. Weirdly enough, it was sitting under the book. As if it knew somebody was going to find it. Slightly startled, he decided to put the key in the bag. Instead of inspecting it in the library, he headed toward his room. He knew something was wrong with the book, and he wanted to figure out what. As he stepped toward his room in the dusty hallway, the old floorboards creaked. He wasn’t trying to sneak past anyone. Everyone knew Derrick and his scholarly ways. He passed by his sister, Liliana, who was walking toward the kitchen with her messy maroon hair. “Derrick, anything new in the library?” she asked.
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“Not really,” Derrick lied. He couldn’t tell his sister about the book. He didn’t know if she knew why it was locked up. He was away from the manor for a couple years to attend college. “I’m just reviewing a book that I haven’t read in a year.” “OK. I’ll leave you to it.” As soon as Derrick lost sight of her, he scurried to his room and sat on his bed. He carefully unlocked the book from its chain-bound prison. He slowly opened the aged cover, and a blinding light appeared in his face. Frightened, he instantly closed the book and put it inside a drawer that lay nearby in his room. It was later than he previously thought. Derrick decided to go get changed into his white button-up and went to sleep... Later that night, the entire household was awoken by the screaming of Liliana. Everyone rushed toward her only to notice something horrifying. Uncle Graham was murdered. He was stabbed multiple times and was left to bleed out. Everyone swarmed his body. The only evidence was the bloody knife still implanted. Why are my clothes different from the ones I was changed into earlier? Derrick thought to himself, away from the crowd. I swore I was wearing a white button up rather than a black one. Nobody knew who the killer was based on all of the accounts. They all hid themselves inside the manor, hoping that the killer wasn’t among them... This continued for the next couple days. A new family member would die with a knife in their chest. Even with the new deaths, not much was found. Liliana, who said she passed by the killer unseen, noticed that the person had blood-red eyes, with a pierced heart. Every time he woke up, Derrick noticed that his clothes were different from the ones he went to bed with. It was always the opposite of what he was wearing. Continued on next page
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His clothes that he wore previously had also mysteriously disappeared. Then, he noticed something. Something had been on—no, in—his mind. He decided to go into his room and confront whatever was hiding within.
He lay on the bed and shut his eyes. When he opened them, he slowly backed away. A pale white figure with bloodred eyes and sealike hair was in front of him. Her colors were the opposite of his teal eyes and maroon-shaded hair. She then approached him, expanding her wings and curving her tail toward him. “Hello there, sweetheart,” she spoke. With her ice-cold voice, he was frozen in place. “Thank you for opening that book. You’ve freed me from my eternal hell. And now I’m doing what has been prophesied.” “A-and that is?” Derrick shuttered out, cold and afraid. “To kill off the entirety of the Foxworth family from one of their own.” Stunned, Derrick became angered. “So you’re the one that’s been killing everyone! And you’ve been using my body to do your dirty work!” “I’m trapped in your mind, but that doesn’t mean I can’t take control, sweetie.” She inched closer with her vibrant red boots. She held her hand out and was about to slap him awake. “Oh, and before you awaken, call me Ruby.”
Derrick woke. He was confused, then recalled everything that had happened in his head. He opened the book again, hoping to find out something about Ruby. The bright light didn’t appear this time. Thankful, he began to read through the book. A couple hours later, he came across something that shook his spine: demons, like Ruby, can take control of a “host” when they sleep. Noticing how late it was into the night it was, he decided to stay awake before she tried to take control once more. He continued to sift through the book to find more information about Ruby. He accidently turned to the page about a demon separating itself from its host. “If she kills enough, she’ll be free.” Horrified, Derrick counted how many deaths happened. Five different family members were dead. Ruby needed a total of thirteen to be freed from his mind. Derrick, knowing that he needed sleep, found some rope and tied himself to the bed.
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When Derrick fell asleep, Ruby took control. She noticed he was tied up. With her demonic power, she broke free from the rope, summoned a knife, and killed Derrick’s father, who was mourning the loss of his wife. Covered in blood, Ruby covered Derrick in a cloak and ran back into his room. She changed Derrick’s soft white shirt into a brown button-up. She then decided to put him back in bed.
This process continued until the twelfth death. Derrick tested new ways to keep Ruby from taking control, but each one failed. Her blood red eyes would always take over Derrick’s teal. Each death, no new evidence was found. Derrick was scared for his sister. He was always close to her and didn’t want to lose her. On the thirteenth night, Ruby broke free once more, taking control of Derrick. She approached a nearby maid and slit her throat. Blood streamed from her neck. Ruby jousted the knife into the heart of the maid and threw the body to the ground. She quickly returned to Derrick’s room to finally begin the ritual. She finally had enough power to free herself. She then summoned candles and began chanting an ancient hymn. “Eerf em morf siht nosirp. I llac nopu eht Sdog ot evig em eht htgnerts ot epacse mrof Derrick!” A blinding light engulfed the entire room, and when it faded, two entities were found: Derrick, lying on the ground, and Ruby, freed from her prison. Derrick, weak, tried to stand up and face Ruby. Unbeknownst to them both, Liliana went to go check up on Derrick. She was horrified to see Ruby, who resembled an old friend. Ruby began to approach Continued on next page
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her, with the intent of killing her. Her demonic eyes locked onto Liliana’s ocean blue. She’s going to get killed! Derrick thought. That demon girl has taken control of me for too long. I’m not losing my sister to something I can’t control. Not today. Derrick jumped in front of his sister, protecting her from her oncoming slaughter. The knives used by Ruby punctured his heart. Ruby, in shock, backed away. Liliana fell toward Derrick’s pierced body, starting to tear up. Derrick slowly looked into his sister’s eyes, proud of saving his sister. He coughed up some blood. The shine in his eyes slowly faded away. Ruby began to dissipate from the room. She cried out in agony. She was returning to the underworld. She looked toward Liliana. Her bloodred eyes faded into a calmer pink one that resembled Liliana’s old friend. “Liliana, please forgive me,” the old friend said. “I know I couldn’t control Ruby years ago, and I can’t control her now. I plan to go to the underworld to take back control of my body.” Liliana began to tear. She had a feeling this was going to happen. She knew she should have burned the book, even if that meant she could never find her friend again. “I hope you’ll come back safe. And if you find my brother, thank him for me. He didn’t deserve being controlled by that roach.” The old friend faded. Liliana looked toward her brother’s body. She slowed her tears. “Thank you, brother.”
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WILL OXMAN
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Untitled Will Oxman
One day, I was at this carnival in Southern California, 30 minutes off Los Angeles. During the day it was alive, happy, and always packed. At night, the mood was different; very few people working there, all very unenthusiastic and gloomy. The customers who were there tried to enjoy themselves, but their behavior seemed strange. One night, something changed. The carnival was empty yet was still open, with only one employee who was standing in the corner of a hut titled Tickets for Sale. These were little coupons for rides. The employee seemed off, slightly slouched. Suddenly, the carnival went dark. Two seconds later, the lights turned back on; the employee was gone. This day haunted me for the next year, finding myself always searching to see if this person would ever appear again at the carnival...
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Letter to my Former Self Will Oxman
Hello Will, This is a letter to my former self, so I will catch you up. Sophomore year has been crazy. COVID-19 is a lot worse than you will think. Please be safe in 2020! The NBA and MLB seasons are going to restart soon with new teams. Hopefully this is a fun season! Freshman year was a tough one. Remember, make the smartest choices you can. It is very easy to make dumb decisions and fall behind. Be nice to Mom and Dad, as they deserve it for everything they have done and will end up doing for you. I hope you learn something and take away some ideas from reading this. See you in the future! Sincerely, Future Will
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WORDSLINGERS
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i remember Marcene Gandolfo
elastic chatter down the hall wooden memories
warped in rain—my life in half-written
chapters—my shoelaces coming undone
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Picked Nena Larieze
This key opens her mind so that she can better comprehend it, unlocks who she is beneath the barricades sculpted as mood, sends visions of a young girl huddled in a cabinet crying—she knows as inner child. Her hair golden, her eyes blue, then green, the color of mountainscapes in Northern Germany, her freckles sprinkled like wildflowers, blooming defiantly in the sunshine state. She will want to scoop her up, love her in all the ways she deserved. She will want to mother her; she will have the urge to wipe away damp face, rinse off flushed, but she hesitates and instead, hands her the key, as if a four-year-old will know what to open, but she has faith, somehow that she will.
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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
The Sacramento Office of Arts and Culture, with support from the City of Sacramento.