A Little Interior of Gray Mirrors (Manifest) by AHSJournalism

Manifest

Fall 2014

Alpharetta High School

Vol 4 Iss 1

Dedicated to:

Versace Versace Versace

Manifest Staff Co-Editors-in-Chief Quasmirah Augustin

and

Mallory Rosten

Content Isabella Perlee

Frank Fortunato

Dhakshi Balakumar Sami Beckham

Layout Shreya Hedaoo

Jessica Brummel

Camryn Chapman

Marketing Kavya Balaji

Savannah Jackson Courtney Koop

Me f af St

Faculty Sponsor

Catherine Mills Philip Rabenold Rebecca Rose Courtney Stuart Katherine Williams

Alpharetta High School 3595 Webb Bridge Road Alpharetta ga, 30005

Emily Williams Wendy Zheng

Susan Lee

Table of Contents 8 The Leather Chair 10 The Donor 14 Love is No More 15 Break 16 The Enemy in Our Eyes 18 Unattainable 19 Reflections 20 Nonevent 21 Land of Desires 22 Western USA 24 Land of No Expectation 26 BLANK 27 30 Stardust 31 Sister 32 Where 34 The Apparation 35 Kryptonite 36 I 38 The Writer and the Written 41 Ghandi A Still Wheelchair Rocking Back & Forth Like a Vacuum Cleaner 42 43 Not Quite 46 Nature at its Finest 47 Hearts 48 Legacy 49 Being Free A Crevice of the Mind

1, 2, 3, 4 Fun House Mirrors No Response Pretty Things Donâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t Sparkle TwoTwelveTwo Blame Gemma Winter and Summer Hiding Behind Judgements Ghost Town The City Floats Untuperbed Rockies Live Failure Peace City in the Distance Colorblind Mirror, Mirror Laying in Red in White I Hate My Clairvoyance (Sometimes) Hey Last Breath After Blob

50 51 52 53 54 56 57 58 59 60 62 66 68 69 70 72 73 74 77 81 82 84 85 86

Forw

hen planning first began, our faces were perpetual blank stares. Optimism and pessimism clashed:

This is gonna collapse in on itself.

This will be the best magazine yet!

The Originals are gone, leaving behind a legacy that we knew would be a challenge to uphold. At first, we had doubts. The staff barely knew each other: 19 new faces clustered in small, separate groups. A staff that knew just a little less than we did. The pressure was on. And with two non-original editors as the inheritors of that legacy, the future seemed uncertain. This year, we created an entirely new system, with no guidelines or instruction manual. At the time we could only depend on one another. 6

We needn’t have worried. The litmag spirit took over. Soon, cat memes covered the walls, Fort puns were born, and we finally created t- shirts.This spirit, which had lifted Manifest from the ashes three years ago, now propelled us toward greater heights. It’s a pulsing energy fed by creativity, slight insanity, a bit of pretension, and a deep bond over our commitment to the magazine. It’s the reason why, within a week, virtual strangers seemed like they had known each other for years. It is because of this that we succeeded in our goals. Although there were attempts, no previous magazine had ever released two issues in one year, let alone one in full color. This was a feat to be proud of, but the prospect of color was overwhelming at first. Naturally, debates ensued. What constituted blood orange? What blue went best with what red? How can one define midnight blue? In an effort to compromise, blue and red merged into the purple that permeates this magazine. Purple is mystery. Purple is the haze of sub consciousness. In other words, purple became the emblem of our little interior of grey mirrors. When we sat down to choose our year-long theme, we argued about stardust and fractals and potatoes. At last, we settled on a line from Insomniac by Sylvia Plath: “His head is a little interior of grey mirrors”. This essentially summed

ward

up our vision for the magazine: a portrayal of our minds, with the endless reflections of countless ideas constantly reverberating throughout our brains. We wanted to express those almost invisible corners of our minds, where we tuck away ideas deemed too odd to be out in the open. This magazine celebrates those ideas. It is our collective interior. In this issue, we’re excited to offer more adventurous layouts. Breaking away from the standard format of most literary magazines, Manifest is a feast for the eyes. Visual art is here in abundance in the form of Sam Morton’s breathtaking photography, Astin Jean- Pierre’s beautiful drawings, and Shreya Hedaoo’s clever digital designs. And for the first time ever, nonfiction graces the pages of Manifest. From Wendy Zheng’s narrative about struggling to accept her Chinese culture to Jessica Brummel’s provocative commentary on beauty standards, our pieces offer more than just beautiful poetry; they offer something to think about. With a print issue waiting in the wings, our creativity continues to thrive. The Manifest legacy isn’t yet fulfilled. Despite (or in spite of) the uncertainty, we succeeded. Manifest has now officially gone digital. The spirit of the old, quirky litmag is still present, but a new era has been born.

Mallory Rosten

Quasimirah Augustin

Crevice of the Mind Quasmirah Augustin

The LeatherChair Sami Beckham

Mr. Grahams, A leather chair. A deep, dark, leather chair, worn down with visible crackles and wrinkles. And elegantly curved, shiny, dark wooden legs, modeled after a lion’s paw. Beautiful dark woodwork for the frame...Yes, that would be perfect. The musk of leather and dust, the beautiful throne’s cologne...The little splatters of red and brown near the top..it must be THE leather chair. For your word that you will get the leather chair, as promised, here is my part: I shot up out of my coma-like slumber, thinking, perceiving, knowing what must be done. I am not the type of man to leave ends of long rope untied before I rest but this was the only exception. The cautious and curious man that I am, not to mention intelligible, I had decided under my previous lucidity that I was only to handle this very complex and fragile issue with a very keen mind, which every man knows is best and most easily gained following a deep and fulfilling slumber. It is through dreams in which we can truly live a life made of trial and error, a world that understands each man’s mind, only because it exists inside of the particular reality of that particular man. And, as all men innately know, our own reality is the only one that matters. So, after long periods of being out of the world I belong, it only seems fitting to allow myself to take all the time I need. And it worked. Now, if I am to explain my inner reality with you, I must before remind you that I am not the type of man who believes himself to be superior of any other man except for men who believe themselves superior to me, and even more to men who believe themselves superior to women. And, through 10 the contradictory elements of that statement, it can be correctly assumed that I am, or at least consider myself to be, a “wronged wronger”, as my friend I will discuss later referred to me as, which I find much pride in whether or not you think two wrongs make a right. That is simply your perception of actions “committed” by myself for something that has very little to do with you, and in my reality these actions are completely just. It is not my intention to sway you to agree with the latter, but to give you a small peep into my reality, so you can understand why it is that I believe I am just in what I was preparing to do. It is through my acquired experience that each man has his opinion as to what is “right” and what is “wrong”, and the daunting question I have wrestled with is whether I was...predisposed or...innately hardwired, if you must, to, well, be considered a “proprietor of the wrong” (and I must emphasize these are my own words summarizing a compilation of others’ voiced opinions pertaining to their limited knowledge of my life), or whether I had been wronged so repeatedly, so horrendously, that I myself became one who wronged. Sure, I have been emotionally distraught for a large portion of my rather short life, but I do not believe it is any more distraught than a mind in which the beholder has inherited the ability to continue on to be a rather prestigiously-viewed and high-ranking individual with a few empty prescription drug bottles open, laying on their sides on the bathroom floor, the “successful” individual following the same description as the bottle, perhaps with a future in an expensive facility to strengthen their relations with alike individuals, though stating their intention to be the opposite. Just for fame. I apologize for my blunt phrasing here, but, as you will soon understand, the world of drug abuse is a world I grew up in after my mother left, and it was a world I simply observed others in; I myself do not partake in any sort of mind-altering substances, for it is very obvious that they leave individuals with a strewn inner reality, an altered dream world and real world, and the two lay on such a fine line...it is just logically illogical to blur the line any more than it already is blurred.

Sami Beckham I suppose the disclaimer I just provided is equally as important to you, though in my opinion slightly less important, than the prelude to my “heinous crime”, or the “backstory” if you will. No, no, this is not my tragic past, but the tragic past of my eldest brother. I refuse to fall into pity of you reading this if you think everyone is good unless otherwise taught, which you would consider me to fall under the category of the wrong education. I still believe I’m “good”, even after what I have done (which you consider to be “wrong”), as I had evaluated the different outcomes of all of my actions--whether it was to act in any one in a number of different ways or to simply lay dormant--and upon my evaluation I decided that this was best; it was not simply what I was taught was the best. Even after being tormented throughout my youth by everyone around me, I was still able to construct my own opinion. Once again I feel like I should provide further information before delving into the actual events. Concerning ethics and moral dilemmas, many of the people I have encountered in here tend to agree with my decision. I would like to heavily emphasize the statement of one man with whom I shared most of my meals, as he seemed to possess the best moral compass. This man, whom I will refer to as Danny (though this is not his name; it is the code to not disclose personal specifics, especially in writing), did question my motives in the beginning, when he initially heard what I had done. But, following my explanation, he said he would have acted in quite the same manner as I. And many others here agreed, but it was Danny who truly understood. But, I digress. I was raised on the fifth level of an upper-level apartment complex in upstate New York. My mother and my father both held reasonable positions in corporate companies, so my brother and I lived better-than-average lives, fiscally. But two days prior to my eighth birthday, my mother went missing. My father, who loved her very dearly, spent an enormous amount of time trying to find her, and could not even bare to speak to me and my brothers. I was the youngest and closest to my mother while my older brother was twelve, which for some reason had enhanced his heartbreak, even though many would believe that his emerging adolescent mind would care less than a young child’s. I was devastated as well, but I turned to books and sciences to focus on reality versus imagination, something no one would have otherwise taught me in the midst of all of the chaos. I remember the last memory I had of my mother before she went missing: Mother picked me up and put me in the leather chair in my father’s study while she reached up to grab the book that I had requested. This book was far above my age-level, but she got it for me anyway without questioning or trying to belittle my confidence. I remember studying the binding of the book, which had been so badly weathered that I never did figure out the title or author. It was falling apart. But I sat in that leather chair and flipped through the pages, barely understanding what the story line was, and Mother just watched me and smiled. Months went by but the police had nothing. No leads. No evidence that she was even taken. This registered to my father as the work of a mastermind.

Sami Beckham

None of us ever expected to get a phone call from her nearly a year later, on my older brother’s birthday, but especially not Father. As it turns out, Mother had run away with a writer she had been having an affair with for some time at this point, and had turned herself in the day she called for evading police efforts to locate her. But she was not coming back to live with us. I cannot express to you, and you will never be able to fathom, the rage that erupted from my father in the deep confines of our household. It started the day Mother called and did not cease until his death. We did not celebrate my birthday that year, or any of our birthdays for the next five. Birthdays were just days. We reminded Father far too much of our mother, whom we were never to speak of unless it was to criticize women as a whole--which father did in quite the horrific tongue--and if we so much as alluded to her, Father would beat us. I learned quickly and my memories of her faded just as fast, thanks to my young age and my fascination in living through the stories I read or looking towards the future while I studied my sciences. But my older brother--that was a different story. Michael, whom I had previously referred to as “Milk” (I had a speech impediment until I was five and the name stuck), was probably beat thrice a day for the first few weeks after that call. I would be beat a maximum of once per week, because I had my mother’s curly brown hair, but I did what Father asked. I could see the sadness in my father and I pitied him. I pitied him the way I never want to be pitied. And I would hear Michael talk to his friends about how pitiful it was to live with such a father; he claimed he had engulfed the emotional qualities of a woman while maintaining his masculine form and rage, something I never thought was something to be ashamed of but Michael found pride in not being that way, even though he adored Mother when she was around. I suppose her abandonment made him vile. By the time Michael was eightteen he was an entirely different boy than I can remember. I watched him slowly become something my mother never wanted us to be. He would bring girls into the house every day, sometimes more than one. He would completely defy my father, not that he cared that much. He threw punches back at him during the first few fights, but Michael slowly began throwing the first punches altogether. Our lives had gone from desirable to horrific; from picturesque to pitiful. I don’t remember when exactly Michael began doing drugs, but I certainly remember him trying, unsuccessfully, to convince me to try with him. I suppose over time Michael replaced his memories of Mother with rage; she had left him, and now our father taught us to never trust women. Father recalled specific events in which she acted “as women should not act”, though I detected these were fabricated. I knew in my heart that Michael would never be the Milk I had known ever again after he hit one of the girls he brought over one day. Why would he do this? Because she spoke to me. She must have been drunk, or at least under some sort of influence, for she looked at me while I worked on my experiment on the floor (I was studying gases and liquids and solids and my teacher had recommended I observe the results of penetrated plastic bottles full of air or water), and she asked if I

Sami Beckham needed her to be a mother-figure. She said it in a caring voice. I understood Michael’s shock as it was appalling even to me, but she had good intentions; her eyes met mine when she spoke and I could sense her sincerity. But Michael punched her in the face without any hesitation. She was crying and apologizing over and over, to both me and Michael. His words were words I will never forget: “I don’t care if you’re sorry. I don’t even care whether you’re dead or alive. You’re a woman. You mean nothing. You just ruin everything that any man has ever strived to become. Don’t you ever forget that.” His syntax struck me as odd because he never once acknowledged me or that she had brought up a sore topic. Michael was angry because she had thought of women as a necessary component in a family dynamic-surely a horrible thing to be angry about. But over time, I witnessed more and more of Michael’s destruction. Unfortunately I know I cannot describe to you the extent to which Michael spat his words, and I know with certainty that I cannot illustrate his deceitful eyes; I believe in my heart that you benefit immeasurably from my lack of adequate vocabulary pertaining to the feeling of disgust the target of Michael’s eyes was filled with, but I can only attempt to describe my own experiences. His face would not move. It would be entirely blank. And his pupils would dilate and he would lock these monstrous black holes of hatred onto me, his prey, and he would not release until chills raced down my spine and the back of my neck and my shoulders seemed to meet. He would not stop until he could sense nothing but fear. Luckily for me, I rarely had any physical encounters with Michael. But I felt these were far worse. There would be nothing but disgust and hopelessness that spread from my upper back at my spine, down my arms, and hugged me like a baby swaddled in madness. In darkness. He saved this look for men. Women, in his opinion, did not deserve such a darkness. Imagine that! Imagine the darkness that consumed his male victim, but further more the darkness that engulfed him. Late in my senior year my father was found dead in his favorite leather chair. The one with the beautifully curved wooden legs. The one my mother had put me in to read in my last memory of her. 13 And now it was stained with blood. The police say it was undoubtedly a suicide, as the autopsy revealed high alcohol levels and opiates in his bloodstream, but I knew it was Michael. I knew it was. And, as I previously expressed, my dreams provide me with answers. So I slept, and I awoke two days later. My dreams are private. I will not go into details about what exactly I saw, but I did witness my father’s murder. And I witnessed my brother beating and screaming at women each time he did so, even the times in the future. Lastly, I witnessed the attack and brutal murder of a street-walker in Miami what seemed to be roughly seven years into the future. Michael’s future. I then explored the possibilities: do I simply go on as if I didn’t know him? But that seemed unreasonable and immoral; besides, now that I had this inner knowledge of the street walker’s murder, I could be considered an accomplice, or at least I would be in my head. And I did not want to take credit in my mind at all because it was a sloppy and disorganized murder. It wasn’t even impressive. So then I thought about the methods I could take against him. You may say that an eye for an eye will make the whole world blind, but I believed he had taken more than one eye. I had to kill him. The methods, though, that was undetermined until I awoke. You know how it happened. You wrote the newspaper articles on it. You took the pictures of his body. You knew every little bit of what happened to him. If you want to hear me explain the details, you can come to the execution. Besides, aren’t you curious as to what the chair looks like? Yours truly, Brother of the “Male-Chauvinist Found Dismantled”

The Donor Dhakshi B.

A pawn. A shadow. A player in a larger scheme. Blindlessly listening. Offering without second thought. Isolation. Pain. Does she see me? Does she know why? Does she understand? I do it for her.

Love is No More Camryn Champan

I stare into the reflective glace, Not at all liking what I see. How could that ugly being, Really be me? I didn’t start out So cynical and mean But with what everyone says The truth has finally been seen I’m ugly and stupid No one cares about me I’ll never amount to anything That’s clear as can be With each and every insult I lose a little fight I just want to give up There’s no end in sight I’m just so afraid Of whom I am now There’s no turning back

I notice a hair is out of place on the woman sitting across the subway from me as she unrelentingly stares in my direction. I’d be foolish to actually believe that she cares about who I am over how she looks, and she looks fine apart from the hair dragging diagonally across her otherwise perfectly symmetrical face. Casually, she comes over to sit by my side and leans closer to get a better view, finally adjusting that forsaken hair to its rightful place on the right of her part and exhaling a satisfied sigh. The relief that she feels travels through me as her relaxed facial expression reflects off the section of my upper arm that she seems worryingly fixated on. It’s soon gone as the train doors open and let in the flow of the people in a nervous hurry, causing my heart rate to speed and my anxiety to spike. It continues like this for the ride home. I’m used to it.

Bre Wendy

The door to the apartment creaks, and the floorboards sag under my feet. Another chip breaks off my sole and falls next to the lines of nails holding the foundation together. A gap is left in its original place, yet all I see and feel is the brown on the walls. The glass stands out like a star in a sea of dirt in the slightly faded oak 16 underneath me. I know that I’m supposed to see something back while staring at the reflective material, but my mind blurs the lines until it feels like the image is never ending. The ongoing battle to be distinguished between the two mirrored surfaces does not end until I look away and the glass chip fills with the ever so familiar brown.

Those that actually feel inclined to tolerate me long enough for a conversation tell me that I am extraordinary, a sight worth taking appreciation of. However, the way they describe me makes me feel more abnormal than equal. They emphasize how I’m a mountain of glass pointing in all directions, reflecting everything in the near distance, the epitome of beauty and self-confidence. I outwardly express my affection with a slight nod and wave of acceptance, but soon their compliments lose meaning once I realize that the one they were calling beautiful was the image reflecting off my body, themselves.

eak Zheng

Individual thoughts always seem to stop mid-process, never completely able to take their full shape or form until someone interrupts them by intently staring to fill their vain needs. It’s fascinating to find how those reassuring themselves of their beauty seem so secure in their thoughts when I can’t seem to have one clear opinion without someone else looking at me. When they feel happy, I feel joyous. When they feel mad, I’m enraged. Every emotion is magnified as the reflection burns into their eyes, their souls- until we become one. Reflection is what they see, while their image and soul embody my character.

The push and pull between what’s given and what’s taken has consistently held an uncomfortable balance regarding the actual benefits. I have always considered myself on the frayed end of the rope, adding so little pressure that it barely feels as if I’m part of the exchange at all. I neither feel what I’m meant to or am able to see what I even look like. 20 years living this way and just now I have started breaking. The walk to the grocery store is long and exhausting. The flurry of school kids that run by and gape do nothing but aid the continuing ache in my brain. Confusion, hope, despair, and fear all barge in at once, a cacophony of noise. Another piece breaks when I walk through the entrance. I trip.

Rows of cereal boxes and granola bars greet me in aisle 7. A plentitude of colors, shapes, and sizes become a beautiful mess inside my head, splatting in every which direction, a variety of colors that a rainbow would envy. The colors are supposed to illicit feeling, a propaganda to buy the nutritional beast, except all I see are the colors as they continue to bloom until they all mix into a life stealing brown. My foot twists. I fall. The seconds it takes me to meet the floor shock me into a realization that I never wanted to see. Trying to remember the brightest parts of my life causes a surprising struggle as the forced regurgitation of memories from a life threatening situation fails to succeed in its intent. My brain tries to rack through the entirety of what has happened in the past two decades, running through streams of figures that never fully took shape while all I can focus on is the taunting white of the floor coming rapidly closer. How is a mirror supposed to give all the answers when I can’t even bring up a memory where I felt something other than what was laid before me? The crack of the tile grants me entrance to bliss as “my” thoughts stop and all my pieces shatter. The noise stops.

The Enemy in Our Eyes

Jessica Brummel

My mother always said that mirrors were the enemy. She’d say this while posing in front of one, her eyes lingering on her “trouble spots”, falling from her face, to her arms, to her stomach. Every time in front of a mirror, Mommy would stop and look at the enemy. After some time, I saw the same. Mother knows best, and the little daughter follows. The mirror wasn’t fun to stand in front of, and I would look at my “battlegrounds”, my face, my arms, my stomach. I was a chubby little girl with blonde hair and bright eyes, but the mirror focused on the swell of my belly and ignored the swell of my smile. I wasn’t alone either. I had little girl friends, and we’d play make believe and put on these pretty dresses. None of us would say a thing if one friend was too big to fit inside the princess costume, but the mirror was good at showing us reality. When we stood in front of the enemy, it was a firing line in front of a bunch of little kids, and its bullets flew in silence and hit their targets with perfect precision. As we grew up, we learned that blush, powder, and red stained lips make the enemy seem a bit friendlier. I learned that sucking it in and skipping a meal made me seem prettier, and my goal was clear. I wanted to be the woman on the cover of a magazine, or spread 6, page 17, the lean brunette with the flawless skin. On TV, there were so many bubbly advertisements of girls with white teeth and thin bodies, who seemed so happy and free. In front of the TV, there was thirteen year old me trying to grow up so fast-- so, so fast. Because in the swirl of things I felt, not a single one meant “pretty”. Not a year later, I was sitting in class, and the teacher pulled up a picture of a “pretty girl”, skinny with long, shiny hair. My teacher spoke very clearly, “This photo is a lie.” She changed the slide, and the perfect model grew fatter and gained flaws. “Magazines edit these beautiful girls,” She explained as she showed us slide after slide after slide. “They want to create an unreachable standard. They want you to buy more.” I zoned out for the rest of the presentation, my mind fluttering between images of my friends and my mom, to the women on the magazines, the women who were paid to look beautiful and weren’t enough. It was too hard to believe. A trudging war doesn’t just end that fast— years of raging war on battlegrounds can’t just be rendered ridiculous. But, if those models weren’t enough, with their pretty smiles and curvy hips, then why should I even try? I was angry, there was so much anger, because I was a little girl and I’d seen grown women look at their bodies and cry.

Unattainable Julia Evelyn

She and her Brown eyes 19

Melting with eagerness, But of course He was out of reach

Reflections Astin Jean-Pierre

Nonevent Sami Beckham

Broken, still, bright, loaded Walk in the kitchen Don’t move the air Look, Mother’s working Shhh, she’ll smell your fear PLEASE!

Don’t look at her directly

Dog is in the pantry?

No, dog is in the closet.

Lights hang down to fill the view

Look out little child,

Your mind is soon.

PLEASE!

Make films from thoughts

Grammies for memories

Simple by sample.

MOTHER PLEASE BLINK!

Tight blue jean dress

Buttoned all the way up, but not for you.

“Pray for him, pray for his mind,”

It’s false, do you not understand?

PLEASE!

Take judgment in vain

Thoughts beating through your clever throat

Put the knife down Sophie.

Watch the air float.

The Land of Desires Camryn Chapman

I stared out the window of the plane looking at the clouds, wishing, wanting, needing. I wanted so badly to . . . if only I could just . . . I just needed . . . the thoughts ran through my mind as I drifted off into a restless sleep going on an unwanted journey of a life time. I felt the strange wind caress my cheek as I stared at the unfamiliar landscape before me. A million questions were running through my mind but the most urgent: WHAT HAPPENED?! I thought back, or at least tried, but I couldn’t remember anything.

My eyes were being assaulted by the neon colors surrounding me: pink trees, orange grass, green mountains, and red rivers. My bare feet pounded on the soft grass as I ran away. From what, I don’t know, but I did know my instincts were screaming flight as I couldn’t see any enemy to fight. I ran and ran until I came across a small village with tiny people, unaware that just a few feet away my life had been turned upside down. A small blue man came up to me with a questioning smile on his face and asked, “How may we serve you, my dear?” I stared blankly back suddenly feeling very bare in my skimpy surfer costume. He then repeated, “How may we serve you, my dear? Perhaps some hydration or a bed for rest?” “Uh . . . I guess that would be nice,” I stammered nervously. With that everyone stopped what they were doing and scrambled to fulfill my every need. I was guided to a beautiful violet house with a bright green door, and as I entered I got chills. I was terrified by the sight that lay before me: people chained to beds being massaged, bathed, fed . . . “W-w-what happened?” I stammered.

Camryn Chapman

“They are being pampered like they asked.”

“But they don’t look happy. And why are they chained to the beds?”

“They appeared here just like you, and when asked what they would like, we provided them with that, just like we were made to,” the strange man explained. He began to walk down the endless aisles and pointed to a girl a few years older than me having her bare back stricken as she cried out in pain. “Lisa Stanburg came in and requested a massage. Timothy Michealson wanted all the candy he could eat,” he announced as we passed a puking, obese seven year old boy being force fed candies.

“But why are they chained to the bed?” I asked again horrified.

“Simply because they didn’t want our services any longer. A person’s greatest desire is granted forever and they wanted to leave before we could fully grant their wish.”

“Didn’t they ask to go home?” I questioned.

“Then we can’t fulfill their desires. There is no way home. Everyone who comes here has a burning desire for something, that’s why they end up here. Once you’re here your desire is filled and your one wish is granted. If one person got two wishes then that wouldn’t be fair. So tell me my dear, what is your wish?” My mind went blank with fear at the possibility that my one greatest desire would be turned against me, but I resigned myself to an eternity of pain and told the strange man that my greatest desire is . . . -The End-

Western USA

Sam Morton

Land of No Expectation Jessica Brummel

I discovered a land that was barren of intention with vibrant hills and no depression. Here the people just laze about and roam to and fro, their minds not laced with doubt, for the world to them, just is.

There is no time, and there are no appointments. No assignment grades and no disappointment. I spent a part of my life, how long I do not know, in its vibrancy, for not even the sun was expected to set at all.

But in that infinite day, I saw an infinite dark. for in the Land of No Expectation, I found a lack of determination.

Not a soul went to work, and all responsibility was shirked, and Iâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;m certain the trash would have stacked, but for their goods production severely lacked. And while this land had no glum, there certainly was no glee, for as far as the eye could see were people laying in a quiet hum. I left the land, full of doubtful speculation. for I felt in me a starvation, for a day with motivationfor a life of healthy expectation.

Blue Moon Sami Beckham

Through and through The tides fall from your eyes, Pulling in those little Martian men But common is not to understand your wit Time again, repetition of comets Words dancing and soaring to break through your eyes Leaving marks of experience from loveâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s inertia

And hateâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s concussions

Sami Beckham

Curious Martian men, but no matter how vast The deserts theyâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;ve explored Modern maps will do no good For their expedition in your universe And those little moons of blue 28

Orbiting around your flaming lungs And planetsâ&#x20AC;&#x2122; thoughts, Stars of concepts and ideas in such dark, Will lure them in each time.

Sami Beckham

But you know theyâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;ll get lost In your space where theyâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;ll die And their lives leave yet another dulling star In this solar system of curious disgust

Stardust Shreya Hedaoo

Sister Quasmirah Augustin

You’re withering now; Always shaking, quivering-It’s breaking my heart

You’re drooping so low Close enough to kiss your old Black petals, now dead.

Where you’ve gone, I’m unsure Lost in a sea of leaves But not forgotten.

Where Wendy Zheng

“Ew, that’s disgusting!” That was the last time I brought tofu to lunch. I was five. Originally, my cultural background made me feel unique, like I had something to live for, something that made me different from all the little white girls and boys running through preschool eating their bland sandwiches and chips. I remember when I went to China for the first time; I had an utter fascination with the milk offered: boxed, room temperature, and wonderfully full fat. A break from the industrial-sized watered down carton standard seen in every fridge in an average American household. I drank it every day. However, as I started to grow up and interact with the community around me, the lukewarm milk lost its significance, turning from a treasured marvel to a freak of nature. Why isn’t this milk cold? Why isn’t it normal? The turkey sandwich felt pointless as I chewed, shyly looking around at the other kids around me laughing as the calorie-dense chocolate chip cookies stamped them with the culture that I felt so pressured to be part of. Not only did my taste preferences change, but my entire personality suffered such a drastic shift that I could actually see thin cracks every time I looked in the mirror as it struggled to find the person that I used to be. My closet was no longer filled with Chinese dresses or graphic t-shirts with my ever so beloved Monkey King, but rather with purchases from the nearest Limited Too. Every tag said “Made in China”; however, I never felt more separated from my heritage than when sporting my sparkly “USA” logo sweatpants.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Wendy Zheng

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ It got to the point where I couldn’t even bring my own friends over without being preoccupied with the scent of my house being “too Asian” for the white standard. Apparently, I felt like the aroma of stir fried fish, garlic, and ginger took away from my character, and standing as I failed to meet the expectation of normality set even by those who I saw as amiable acquaintances. Every time a friend would enter my house, my mom would try to commit acts of Chinese hospitality by serving traditional Chinese dishes; however, I would immediately stop her in her tracks, thinking that once they tried something different from the spaghetti and meatballs I had the night before in their house, they would outcast me for being too “different”. I never ate more pizza in my life than during elementary and middle school. I even dropped out of Chinese School after 8 years because I was under the impression that the language itself was much more complicated than the seemingly sensible alphabet. Even with the multitude of silent letters and exceptions seen in the English language, I found more solace in writing a five page essay in familiar words over a single paragraph in Chinese characters. I found Chinese to be too outdated and excessively complex for anyone to comprehend, as each word had its own picture with no correlation to its potential synonyms. To this day, I can’t even carry on a complete conversation with my relatives without stuttering or squinting in confusion at the foreign tongue. Once I entered high school, my perspective completely shifted as I started to recognize the beauty of the culture that I left behind. China held thousands of years of history, while Grand ol’ America held a mere couple hundred, filled with recurrences of oppression, racism, and white superiority. At a young age, I had fallen victim to the community around me that consistently promoted the Caucasian lifestyle, as white people were constantly seen as successful, beautiful, and the power-holders of every single nation on Earth; however, once I broke out of that cloud of delusion and misconception, I accepted my heritage with open arms and excitement previously squelched by the persona I once held. I am exactly what I avoided being in the past, and I have never felt more selfassured.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The Apparition Susan Lee

In the moments before I blinked I thought I saw myself in the yellow glare of the street side lamp And when I looked again I was gone and all that remained was a bare sidewalk And the next day I woke my eyes stared back in the bathroom mirror but were distorted in the fog of a morning shower

And later that day I looked up and the weather was flat and gray The dogs would bark when I walked past And in the night I woke to footsteps that must have been the beating of my heart against the pillowcase And the next morning the mirror was still blurred The birds wouldnâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t sing And last night I looked outside again and saw a tall shadow cast under the yellow light

Kryptonite Clay Batley

Infinitesimally small is the scope of language That which can only be felt but not spoken of Has occurred to me I am lost to the depths of my mind Searching for the suitable vocabulary

To communicate my estranged thoughts of which I have no real understanding There is no means to classify, specify Explain this feeling and that which I have felt becomes meaningless to all but Myself. I wish I could Comprehend and render The magnitude of such a feeling Beyond its restricting three-worded Code. Unlike all else Saved for me. This love.

Mallory Rosten

The Writer and the Written Act I 38

Philip Rabenold

Scene I [A study, dimly lit. Thick stacks of paper are assembled in the upper right hand quarter of the desk. A figure scribbles furiously, left handed, onto paper, drawing from another smaller stack, assembled on the left side of the desk. Two doors are on either side of the room.] Author: Just a few more pages! Then my masterpiece will be complete! Af ter ten years of work, it is finally finished! [He scribbles with more fury.] Assistant enters, via the right hand door. Assistant: Dear Lord! You’ve been down here for days. Aren’t you even the least bit hungry? Author: Hunger will not deter me in my final hours of labor! Be gone, mere understudy! Assistant: I worry for you. You rarely come out of this room. This must be an utter Hell! Author: It is a heaven, one which you so rudely interrupt my time in. Assistant: If you so truly wish. He exits via the door to the left. Author: At last, he is gone. Pen scribbles furiously again. The ticking is au dible again. The Writer laughs for a bit. Scene II [Two friends, Charlie and Sydney sit on a couch. A large book sits on the table in front of them. Charlie picks up the large book.] Sydney: Ah yes, Halterbergen-Smithson. One of my favorite writers. I haven’t had the chance to read this one yet though. Charlie: I can’t even begin to understand the summary. It’s like three dif ferent books are being written here. Or two books and a play. What’s this guy’s deal? Sydney: Ah, H-S here doesn’t disclose his-her-first name. Charlie: Wait… Syndey: No one knows very much about H-S. He supposedly never leaves

Philip Rabenold

his house. He writes reviews of books too. They’ve included Pynchon, Wallace, Joyce, Dickens, Gaddis, Miller. I recall Spenser, Milton, Whitman, and other poets. He must be a voracious reader. Charlie: So, what’s his other work like? Syndey: It’s audience centered. The book exists in a world that the reader actually lives in. Frequent fourth wall breaks. No plot, but somehow in credibly compelling. Charlie: Then how is it good? Sydney: You just feel compelled to read it. It’s hard to explain. It’s like some god in the sky makes you read it. Charlie suddenly grabs the book. His actions are almost spasmodic, impul sive as he lunges.

Scene III [A backstage area of a theater. A playwright sits hunched over a desk.] Playwright: Hmmmm. scratches chin. Could you really over-do it? This is a person who spends years and years of his life working on a book. His mind is obviously warped a bit. Actor 1: What is this play even about? It’s a writer sitting at his desk going 39 mad. How can I possibly keep it up for three acts? Playwright: Drawing out the words. It’s meta. Muh. et. ah. Do you get it? You’re just as mad as the character. I’m just as mad for wanting to write this. The joke is for the audience. Actor: It’s just I sit here in utter boredom for hours! A few people walk in every once in a while. I just talk about how excited I am to finish the whole time! Playwright: So do you ever finish?

Scene IV [The living room again. Charlie puts the book down.] Charlie: The book exists inside of itself. Sydney: What? Charlie: People talk about the book the whole time. That’s the plot. It’s a bunch of living room conversations and book-club meetings. The book is a mirror tunnel. Infinitely inside itself. It’s like a criticism of literary criticism. There’s also a guy trying to adapt the apparent subject of the

Philip Rabenold

novel into a play. Sydney: So, the only venture into the novel’s apparent real plot is through a playwright, trying to direct a play about the book Charlie: That’s about right. Sydney: His last book was similar in usage of meta-narrative too. Charlie: How long was it since that book came out? Sydney: Ten years ago.

Scene V [The playwright in the drama rehearsal. He’s taking notes furiously, left handed, while yelling at the actor] Playwright: [screaming] Why don’t you listen! Actor: [defensively] Because this is totally pathetic! What kind of person even does this? Playwright: I do you idiot! Actor: [under his breath]: God help me… [The playwright stops yelling and thinks for a second] Playwright: You know what, it’s good enough. Actor: [again under his breath]. Thank you Lord... Playwright: Yeah, I guess it’s a dumb play after all. But the show is tonight. Actor: [still under breath.]: You do work in mysterious ways.

Scene VI [A crowded theater. Charlie and Sydney walk into the theater a bit late and engage in shoving and pushing] Syndey: I can’t wait to see this play! It was quite a good book wasn’t it? Charlie: A bit confusing, but I enjoyed it. [The two settle down in seats. The stage is a study, dimly lit. Thick stacks of paper are assembled in the upper right hand quarter of the desk. A figure scribbles furiously, left handed, onto paper, drawing from another smaller stack, assembled on the left side of the desk. Two doors are on ei ther side of the room.] Actor: Just a few more pages! Then my masterpiece will be complete! After ten years of work, it is finally finished!

FIN.

Gandhi Utkarsh Raheja

A Still Wheelchair Rocking Back & Forth Like a Vacuum Cleaner Sami Beckham

Dim. Yellows and greens become the air Sentences make up words Time isn’t enough to stare At the silence that sits still in your kitchen Cannibal! Her eyes, to you, consume The repetition of the rain. Today this is your movement. FOCUS! Don’t close your thoughts off from the sane. It’s here, it’s here, you know it is! Just one moment more, you’ll find it again. Oh well, enough for today. Which object would you like to pretend to be now? Yes, yes, that lamp shade looks nice. Over there is Cindy, trying to be tile. Good job, everyone. Be still, be silent. Life is good. Life is real-----------------You zoned out again? That’s the third time this… This… ...month? Week? Day? It’s okay. Just rest. Tomorrow you can try again And maybe then your eyes will move. For now, keep staring. Stay deathly still, Just like everybody else.

N ot Quite

Quasmirah Augustin

My eyes are brown, I think. I haven’t looked in a mirror in over a year. I can’t tell if people stare at me and are freaked out by my strange eyes, but I’d like to think I don’t care. I thought that when I woke up after the surgery, nothing would change. I bumped into a lot of things, and I caught snickers around every corner. There’s that whole speech that the doctors give you, about how your other senses will make up for the lost one, but I guess I’m the wonderful exception. I never felt more hopelessly useless than I did in those first few days of being home. I’d cry for Dad to help me find my way to my bed, not knowing I was just a few steps away. I’d fall down the stairs, thinking I was near the bathroom. That actually led to my mom putting up a 43 gate. Now, I’m a caged dog. But, things are getting better. I guess. If it is still not obvious, I can’t see. Like at all. My eyes aren’t scary like other people’s when they lose their sight, so I’m told. Mine are beginning to cloud to a misty grey, but it looks natural. My hands are… becoming my eyes, if you will. I tend to take peoples’ hands, and the ridges and valleys within them somehow pop, now. The roughness, smoothness, mid-digital hairs, and slightly protruding knuckles are what I see. It’s a rainbow, with a trillion different colors that only I see. My best friend for instance, Carlin, has hands that are quite honestly the softest and gentlest I’ve ever felt. The ridges and valleys that coat them are very shallow, as if he’s fallen on them a lot, but never severely cut himself. He has really nimble fingers, and I feel the cool metals of his rings every time I reach out

Quasmirah Augustin

to see if it’s really him talking to me. His joints are huge, but then again, he’s a huge guy. Not huge in the essence of fat, but more of a muscular-huge. There’s a long scar that starts at his pinkie joint, winding around his hand and thinning as it reaches his wrist. Y’know how skin feels years after it’s been scarred over and smoothed out? The texture is really different from the rest of the body. Rubbery almost. Carlin spent a lot of time with me, like he always had. He’s actually how I learned to use my hands to my benefit. The first week after I had come home, he’d drill me for hours on end with questions about my room, like what shoes were lying in which corner, what I kept on my computer desk, where all of my junk was supposed to be and more imperative things such as how far I was from my bed, window, or door at any given time. For the longest time, it seemed hopeless; it was as if I hadn’t lived in that room for 19 years. But slowly, I began to understand. How was I supposed to be okay outside of my house if I didn’t even know what it felt like? 44 A couple months after the surgery, we decided to venture outside so I could feel the rest of the world. We left my comfort zone at about noon, when the sun was sweltering, but not quite scorching. I had a hunch we were going to absorb whatever the beach had to offer today, because the concrete slowly began to morph into the powdery Hawaiian sand I’d grown up on. Plopping down on the ground, we sat facing the ocean. He watched the waves, and I listened. They sounded like two walls being thrown against each other, breaking, reforming, and then roaring back to life as they charged again and again. It was funny to hear them in this way, being that any time someone says waves, you think… well, “waves”. I sighed a little. “Everything all right?” he asked, squeezing my arm. So much for the ecstatic look I’d been working on. “It’s just so… different, y’know?” I said, shrugging him off. Carlin jumping on the sympathy band-wagon was the last thing I needed. I hated that everyone thought it was okay to sympathize with me. Seriously. The chorus of “are you okay’s” and “do you need help’s” was a bit more than an-

Quasmirah Augustin

noying. I was fine, really. Just in the dark forever, y’know? “Um, no. Not really. Not in your minds’ eye,” Carlin said sarcastically, playfully punching my shoulder. “Yeah. I’m just in the dark forever, no big deal.” The sentence came out louder than I meant. Harsher, too. “You see more than I do because you’re in the dark.” “I don’t.” “You do.” “I don’t!” I shouted. Silence. Then, I was being dragged on my side across the beach. The life cycle of the waves grew louder, and I realized where we were going. I let him drag me; Carlin forgets that petite people aren’t the equivalent of him. He was like one of the waves, and my hand was the foam being pulled onto the beach. “What’s this, Radana?” “It’s the ocean!” I chimed. The amount of sarcasm should’ve burned a hole through the ocean. “What do you see?” 45 “Darkness.” “Seriously?” I swished my hand back and forth. The water flowed easily through my fingers, maybe because it had its own natural purifier. It wasn’t freezing like every other ocean, but pleasantly cool. The sand felt powdery instead of sandy, and it didn’t hurt that it was just as warm as the ocean. ”Like a… a…” “Exactly; it’s too beautiful for words. I wish I could see what you do, ‘cause then I’d actually pick up ladies with some killer romance,” He said, jumping up. I reached for his hand, and he pulled me up too. I could feel his goofy grin all over it. I looked approximately where I thought his face was and rolled my eyes as he chuckled.

“Shut up.”

Nature At

Its Finest Utkarsh Rehija

Hearts

Lexi Bryant

Hearts are for beating, Pumping blood and repeating. Hearts are for opening, Allowing pulses and closing. Hearts are for holding, Love to share with the codlings. Well what if my heart is different from the rest? Not the absolute worst, but certainly not the best? My heart doesn’t beat, Pump blood and repeat, More like it swooches, It moans and it whooshes. Blood goes in and out as it pleases, No doors and no leashes. Certainly one thing is similar, though? Sure! This heart has a lot to show. It tries and it tries, But gets tired of the lies, Probably from its owner, Who was saved by a donor. Because she longs way too hard To put her heart out in the yard To jump and run and play; The little heart can’t stand to stay. It wants to beat out of its clothes. It loves the hardships that it loathes. Strong little heart can do all things, Ignores the chest as it stings, stings, stings… All she really desires, Is to somehow acquire A heart more like the rest, Farther from the worst, and closer to the best.

Legacy Quasmirah Augustin

t is stressed to us from the moment we enter this building that we are members of a team. It is our job to make the graduates from the previous year proud. I believed this to be true for the first three years. With senior year in full swing, I know now that it is not. I can no longer express myself through a written melody, because now I am required to analyze it.

Was it sharp, or was it flat? Am I bending the pitch up or down? Would the principal Trumpet from the year before play a note like that? What would (insert graduate name here) say to you? I don't know, that's never what I was here for. I don’t care either. The fact that I could produce sound was enough. The fact that other people could produce sound with me was enough. 48 I picked up my instrument of choice because it defined everything I wanted to be. Powerful. Courageous. Fearless. The trumpet is not for the weak of heart, and yet, I am none of those things four years later. I still don’t play loud because I fear I sound terrible. I still can’t bring myself to practice in your presence because you’re overly-critical of me. And what for? Because I’m a female, black, and I play trumpet? How dare you. I am told that I will never amount to anything because I'm a woman in a maledominated musical world. "Little girls don't march trumpet." No, little girls don't march on broken toes and concussions, for a season, and refrain from making it a big deal, no matter how much it hurts. This program was something I’d break bones for, and still, I am not enough. I was here for the passion and the drive of our first-string ensemble. Now, I am here because my profession has become work. Practice, rehearse, and repeat. There’s no time to laugh, because this is band— this is serious. I will only enjoy it when I have a good performance, not when I’m wide awake on a bus to a Florida competition, making memories that will last a life time. How could I, someone who breathed life into a program that was everything I could’ve possibly wanted, enjoy it?

After all, I’m only here to make the graduates proud, right?

Being Free Savannah jackson

Let your soul take flight and soar amongst the clouds Let your mind be free and wander while the sun delicately kisses your face with rays of warm light Unleash your passion as you lay your head on the blank page that is your never ending cloud of peace Be free within yourself and let your thoughts remind you of who you really are as the blue in the sky darkens and the stars come out and twinkle with the purest of emotions Reach out and feel what is around you Open your eyes and see what has always been in front of you Dare to think of what has always been inside you

Clay Batley

“1,2,3,4,”

“1, 2, 3, 4”

One, Two, Three, Four

One nose

Two eyes

Three hairs

Four limbs

What I would give

To go back

And be an infant

Again.

Fun House Mirrors Jessica Brummel

A four year old in front of a funhouse mirror holds mommy’s hand but doesn’t cry any tears. She takes a step forward and changes in size She takes a step backward and sees the mirror’s lies. A four year old in front of a funhouse mirror knows her reflection doesn’t change what’s inside.

No Response Courtney Stuart

“Boys will be boys,” they always say. “Why?” I always ask. No response. Covered shoulders, cloaked knees.

“Girls have to learn,” they always say. “Why?” I always ask. No response. It’s never his fault, but it’s always hers. “She was asking for it,” they always say. “Why?” I always ask. They only take one side. “Why?” I always ask. No response. There is never a response.

Pretty Things Donâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t Sparkle Shreya hedaoo

TwoTwelveTwelve

Rebecca Rose

You may look at this picture and think it’s pointless. A corner of the school? The main entrance? There’s a post in the corner, not that it really matters. This white corner is no different than a corner you would ignore or just pass by on a regular basis.

This corner matters to me.

Every time I walk by this corner it makes me feel lightheaded, and my heart feel heavy. Kind of like that gut feeling you get when you know something’s not right. I look at this corner, and it means something to me. It brings back memories of that one Friday afternoon in February; the Friday that happened over two years ago, the Friday I will always remember.

I was leaving the building on my way to practice, making my way through a

Rebecca Rose

crowd of students in the hallway. The hallways get really crowded really quickly when the bell rings at the end of the day, but I remember seeing you through that crowd of people. You stood out to me. Of course I ducked my head and tried to not get caught looking at you. There were butterflies in my stomach, and I wanted to save myself from embarrassment. I knew of you, though, and you knew of me too. We had sixth period together: art. You were so talented and cool and it was one of those scenarios where I admire you from afar and am too scared to actually talk to you. Not that you were scary, but because I was shy due to all the butterflies. I might have talked to you twice, but other than that it was just a little crush. So anyway, I’m walking and I see you standing there, in this corner. I guess you were waiting on a ride. Even though I had looked away, I glanced back at you, and you were looking right at me, smiling. I was caught off guard. Me? Smiling at me? Is one of your friends standing behind me? No. You were definitely looking at me. You started to walk towards me with your arms open, still smiling. I was so happy; my butterflies started fluttering even faster, and I could feel heat rise to my cheeks. All you had to say was “hey” and put your arms around me for a hug. That was it. I was confused, because I hardly even knew you, but I was so happy. It made my day. Hell, it even made my 55 weekend. I was so eager to see you in sixth period on Monday.

But I never did.

You were on my mind before I even heard. And when I heard, I did my best not to believe it. It couldn’t have been you; it could have easily been someone else. I was terrified, I was on-edge the entire morning. I needed reassurance. I needed to make sure it wasn’t you. It couldn’t have happened that way. It’s too horrible; things like this don’t really happen. I mean, they happen, but not to people like you. Not to the kind of person who gives hugs to people they hardly know. It couldn’t have been you.

But it was. It shouldn’t have been, but it was.

And now two years have passed, and somebody else makes my butterflies flutter. Life has moved on, and it’s pretty good. I’m leaving this school in a few months, and I don’t see any reasons why I would ever come back. Yet every day, I pass by this corner. This empty white corner, and I get that feeling in my stomach every time. Even typing this story is making my stomach turn. My eyes are watering, and your smiling face appears in my head. I will never forget you.

Blame Mallory Rosten

Gemma Mallory Rosten

Winter and Summer Courtney Stuart

Ridged and cruel, The cold of winter cuts; Soft and smooth, The warmth of summer heals. There is no one without the other 58

Two sides of the spectrum One noticeable, One barely recognizable. If we did not have this Would you notice a difference?

g n i d i H d n i h e B s t n e m g d u J Philip Rabenold

Every move is thought out. Calculated.

Every “what if ” carefully considered. My every thought on paper is judged. Judged by people who don’t Know what I’ve felt. Who don’t know how I hurt. Ramifications of every word are considered. Is this too revealing? Is it too scary? What will they think? Will I be sent to a counselor? How can I let them know? Naming my pain makes people scared And it hurts. And it cuts m---e in half To know that what I’m allowed to say won’t ever match how I feel.

Ghost Town

Sam Morton

The City Floats Unperturbed Philip Rabenold

A Colony- Sector A The view outside the windows is a yellow haze. It never changes. The clouds are always here. They are always around the floating cities. I watch outside the windows. Behind me, another citizen of Venus 5-A walks past the window. The footsteps echo in the hallways. I know his step well. He’s Dr. Restry, a physics professor. He’s in charge of keeping this portion of the floating city level. A slight tilt could be lethal to the station as a whole. He always walks around the station with a level. He checks it on every table. I leave the window, and crawl under the tables in the restaurant next to the lounge. I can only stare at the clouds so long. There isn’t a break. You can’t make a picture out of these clouds. No simple little teddy bears or more complex dragons. Just yellow, unending. The Venusian day is lengthy. Not like it matters. There’s no sun anyway inside the clouds. The colonies float inside of Venus’s dense atmosphere. I take little napkins and stuff them under the tables. They all tilt in the same direction when I’m done. Restry is checking every single table in the nearby restaurant for the telltale 62 tilting that means that the station is off level. A Botticelli painting hangs in the room, “The Birth of Venus”. I don’t find it funny. I get the fact I was born on another planet, in a floating city. I get the fact that I’m here because my parents are both physics geniuses; engaged helping keep the Venus colonies afloat. I tried physics in high school and I couldn’t do it. Especially not the fluid mechanics that are so vital to keeping the colonies afloat. I’m incredibly bored. “Hey Restry! If you keep checking how straight everything is you’ll level up soon!” I yell to him. I duck and hide. Restry is smart, but at the same time he’s slow to recognize things in the environment around him. He slowly turns in my direction, but I’m already hiding. I crawl away from the space. I turn a corner and take off at a run. A Colony-Sector 5 Because of all the scientists aboard the A colony, there is little of anything else. The A colony is what my friend in the C Colony calls “The Nerd Colony”. Sector 5 is dedicated to shopping and other non math necessities, and so is spared from the absolute worst. The squad of level equipped scientists still walks through all the time. Sector 5 is filled with nooks and crannies. Something about my spine is messed up from the ever slightly lower gravity on Venus.

Philip Rabenold I’m hiding in one of these nooks and crannies when Alsem walks by. Alsem is one of the few Venus born children like me. “Hey Al!” I call out to her. “Sup?” she answers. “Harassing Restry?” “Of course.” “Get your head out of the clouds1 ,” I tell her. We fall into the easy silence of friends. Alsem is someone who I can tell would rather be on Earth or at least one of the less science driven colonies. She’s tall for 15, appearing nearly adult. Next year she plans on flying to the B-Colony and staying. Her parents are absorbed in their work. Alsem is directionless here on A. “I want to know what the air tastes like, what freedom tastes like,” she says. “I’ve got something to show you,” she adds. She holds out a drawing of the A colony. There’s X’s over some of the pumps that transmit air to the massive ring shaped balloon that holds the colony in the air. “I hate it here,” she adds. I get what she means. A Colony-Sector A, Police Office “Rollenson, do you admit to having helped Alsem Trellic cause grievous harm to the Venus colonies?” “…” “Why were you captured trying to cut power to the pump in Sector 4?” “...” “Why were you found in the pump room?” “I was trying to help Alsem.” “Why? “I wasn’t level2 at that time.” Due to the changing nature of language in location, the phrase “Head in the clouds” means to be rash, almost suicidally so. The expression is derived from the toxic clouds. 2 The term level on Venus has adopted a meaning of substantial mental instability. 1

“And why was that?”

Philip Rabenold

“Love, maybe?” “And why did you love Alsem?” “I guess I saw myself in her. Did I have my head in the clouds too? Maybe.” “So would you have done this without the urging of Alsem?” “Possibly.” Sector 8 Restry is distracted now. “Roll, are you ready?” I whisper through the phones we all keep. He says he’s in the Sector 4 pump room. He was hitting the switch when the call abruptly dropped. I kept moving. The pump rooms, which I had spent a good deal of time hiding in, had terrible reception. Restry was yelling about how the tables weren’t level. I could feel the station slowly listing. Restry was simply too observant and detail oriented to understand the plot Rollensen and I had concocted. Sector 4 64 I stumble in the dark pump room. The tubes, previously bulging with air lie limp on the floor. I trip over one. I can see a thin rectangular light. That’s the door. I just have to get to it. I crawl on my hands and knees. I think I hear the phone on my hip buzzing, but I’m too busy at the moment. Sector 8 He’s still not responding. I’m already heading pump 7. The walking time between the sectors is a little long, but hitting a switch and getting out isn’t too hard. I approach a window and wait for the call to go inside. It occurs to me that the glass used to make the windows is probably not that strong. I feel the station notably listing now. Sector 1 “What was your plan again?” “We were aiming to take down the pumps. The goal was to make the whole A station drift into a collision with B or C.” “What do you think Alsem wanted to accomplish?” “I don’t know. I guess she wanted to prove she could be something. She would tell me ‘ If you can’t build stuff, break stuff ’”.

Philip Rabenold Sector 4 I see a pair of level carriers. I can feel the station turning underneath me. The level crew isn’t even using the levels at this point. I start to feel a heart sickening drop. The station is falling. Another level crew appears behind me. I realize what they’re doing. They grab my shirt. I think about Alsem. Then I think about the windows. My dad designed them. They aren’t that strong. Sector 8 Rollensen is captured. I reach the conclusion after milling around for 15 minutes. I see a crew of level carrying scientists. I know that there’s no escape via the hallways. I look at the window again. I throw a fist against it. It shatters. Sector 1 “So then I assume she jumped out the window.” “She really did have her head in the clouds.” “In both Earth and Venus slang.” “Rollensen, while you may be only 17 years old, you’ve threatened to kill over 3,000 people” “So what will my fate be?” “Exile to Earth or life in prison.” “Send me to Earth. I want to get out of here.” “Prison it is.” “What? No, you can’t-” “Court adjourned.” Accident report released by Sector A officials concerning the pump room attack. It is believed that Alsem Trellic, whom Jeremy Rollensen was romantically interested in, told him of a plot to sabotage the A colony’s pumps. Trellic laid material under the tables in a Sector 8 restaurant to confuse Restry while Rollensen killed the power in Sector 4’s pump. A team of guards disguised as levelers captured Rollensen. While on her way to pump 7, Trellic realized what had happened to Rollensen. While waiting she noticed the window felt fragile. She broke through it and threw herself out of it.

Rockies

Sam Morton

Live Kavya Balaji

Dare to live?

Name the unnamed. Be the un-been. Change the unchanged. Wake up, brush off, clean up Face it. Become your own hero.

Its time to make a difference.

^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^ ^^^^^^^^^

Failure Utkarsh Raheja

It hurts when u fail Especially when u get that little email Dreams are shattered Confidence is battered What to do next What if my friends ask me in a text? Am I to face the shame And learn to turn around the game Or sit there and lament And let this memory create a dent? Success is something I must attain To prove the worth of my brain This seems so unfair It portrays that I don't have the flair I will return and give it another try And step into my dreams, and fly

^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^ ^^^^^^^^^

Peace Emily Williams

I sat up; wondering if the sun had really risen or if the drawers were really open. Yawning, I tried to go back to sleep, only to be reawakenedâ&#x20AC;&#x201D;by the noise.

It wasnâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t just any noise, like a bird chirping or leaves rustling. It was horrendous. It was my worst nightmare; the sound of my parents fighting. I tried to block it out. I covered my ears and burrowed my head into my pillow, but the noise never ceased.

So I lay there, hoping that the sun would soon rise. I leaned over to find that it was only one am, almost sobbing as I thought about how long the noise would continue. Then, as if the curse was broken, I closed my eyes and fell into a deep slumber.

I dreamt about life; life where noise ceased to exist. A life in which there was complete peace, where fighting and bickering were only mere illusions. Why did we even need sound? What made it good?

The noise is my anxiety, my biggest fear. It internally makes me insane, while at the same moment, makes me think. I think, about how hard this must be, for people to get through their maze of fear. Fear is what life runs on. It is the barrier between insanity and reality. Traveling the physiological path of insanity I try and reduce the pain. The hurt in my heart is not from someone rather than something; life. Insanity, to me, is not merely an immoral act, but a maze of wonder. We are all insane; we all have worries and wonders. I think about the nights long ago; peaceful. The dog yelped and the neighbors were loud, but the noise was not awakened.

Emily Williams

Staring at the mirror, I see right through myself. I can’t comprehend the immense fear I have for a creation as simple as noise. I try and find a path; a path to my true self again. I worry and I feel sorrow, but all the same I cannot see a way to tread these rough waters. I am drowning, but not simply of fear of the noise, but of the fear of no recovery. I try and believe that I can overcome it; that it will one day cease. But even if it ceases in my home, it will never exit my mind. Like a broken record, I will always hear words of anger and hate. I cannot surpass such a powerful wall.

They say a good heart can overcome anything, but I say only a broken one can. Crippled and depleted of love, it will strive to beat strong, live on its own, without having the weight of other’s worries. If I will ever overcome the 71 noise, I must first separate myself from my family. I love them, but I cannot fight with love, I cannot get through my hardships with goodness, but with my own strength of will. I must not lay my worries unto others shoulders, nor should I let them settle worries upon me. Secluding myself from others, I will survive the journey. Happiness comes with consequences. If I will ever to achieve happiness, I must exterminate my beliefs, must be subjective and avoid all objective thoughts. But I’m human, and we thrive through our opinions. But then, if this is true, then I do not want happiness; I do not want a route to a secluded world of pure facts. In order for me to overcome my fears, I must objectify my opinions to myself, must only look at the situation through my perspective.

Stop worrying about the outcome and start acting in the moment.

City in the Distance

Kavya Balaji

Colorblind Catherine Mills

Roses are Grey.

Violets are Grey.

I think I am color blind.

73 73

Mirror,

Catherine

In a box is where her heart lies In desperation, her arms fall flat by her side, Cold and numb that’s all she felt The room around her spinning, fell still With shame bursting from her eyes, She exhales deeply and murmurs a familiar lie.

“Mirror, mirror on the wall, You won’t send me into a downfall. I’m fine. I’m okay, And if I don’t eat, I’ll be pretty someday.” Anger courses through her veins, With a grumbling stomach, she throws her lunch away. ‘If only someone cared,’ the dangerous thought leaks in, ‘When I am skinny, my life will begin.’ The pressure, the pain, the mental agony, Bring the broken, blonde girl to her knees A cry for help is all she can muster up, “Please, someone make it stop.”

, Mirror

e Williams

“Mirror, mirror on the wall You won’t send me into a downfall. I’m fine. I’m okay, And if I don’t eat, I’ll be pretty someday.” Her heart fell heavy, But her feet were light as air The mirror dictates her next move, A controlling force that she didn’t choose, The voices of others taunt her mind, “Ugly”, “Fat”, and “Worthless” She feels dead. “Let me loose, cut me free” She begs, she pleads. Limp and lying down, Like a broken Porcelain doll, Slowly once again, she tilts her head, And with a last breathy cry,

“Mirror, mirror on the wall, You won’t send me into a downfall. I’m fine. I’m okay And if I don’t eat, I’ll be pretty someday.” But then altogether, Ever so suddenly,

Despite cuts on her wrists, A fake smile covers her glossy lips. She wipes her eyes, And walks away; She can fake it, Just one more day. Her friends never knew what to say, But, if you know this girl, Tell her it doesn’t matter what you weigh. Anorexia and bulimia are dying battles, Don’t let her lose, Or at least tell someone the truth. “Don’t tell” is such a shallow promise Compared to the day, her pure joy and laughter Once again did fall upon us. No one is a lost cause.

Laying in Red in White

Sami Beckham

I can only do what she does. It’s terrible, really. I have no control over my actions, just my emotion. When she walks before me, her brown hair knotted and her cream gown wrinkled and stained with drool, she has this look on her face and it makes me sick. But that’s the thing; my face looks the same way. The only difference? Hers is pleasure and amazement and success, not terror and surprise and remorse. It’s funny how that works. We make the same expression, but our eyes convey different messages. Mulysa and I walk to meet each other now, separated only by framed glass stacked on top of a small, dark wooden dresser, and she looks right at me. Using her fingers, she attempts to untangle the mangled mess of dark brown hair framing her pale, porcelain skin. Her eyes dash to my eyes and I study the intensely purple eye bags drooping from malnutrition and lack of sleep. I wish I could turn away and stop staring but I can only look away when she does. There’s truly a part of me that wants to get away, but I would not know what to do without Mulysa. She has been with me since I’ve been in this room, and she acts with my best interest in mind. But I still think she’s a little extreme. The door locks turn and click one by one before a tall, skinny, redheaded nurse clicks her heels into Mulysa’s stark white room wearing a uniform that’s just as white. I turn to watch her come in behind me, just as Mulysa does. She commands, “Ms. Enasni, it’s time to record your submission for Pharanol Pharmaceuticals. Come on, change into this fresh gown.” Down she slaps a folded gown, crisp and white, and then sets up a recorder on the dresser’s counter that separates the Mulysa and I while we each change into the new gown. “All set?” I study the nurse’s name tag, which reads “Su O.I. Riled” in black engraving. That’s bizarre..I wonder what “O.I.” stands for. I turn and stare into Mulysa’s eyes, following her reaction to what she must’ve figured out first: “Operation Intern”. A warm rush of anxiety runs through me, starting in my upper chest and pulsating out all over my body, but Mulysa remains expressionless, staring into my eyes. I know the best option is to do whatever this nurse says, up until she tries to convince me into trapping myself (whether it’s arm straps or medicine). Maybe she’ll tie me to this seat right before the counter, and the experimental medicine she’s telling me of is just a ploy. I bet you anything she’s here to take out my brain to study it. Or maybe she wants

Sami Beckham

to take out the extra stuff that I’m not supposed to have..but whatever the reason, she will try to push a saw through my head. Everyone here thinks I deserve it. They’ve been trying to come in here for weeks to do it. Do they really think I’m dumb enough to not notice “O.I” on a nametag? For God’s sake, the thing is shiny and flashy and just begging me to read it. I have to play into this..I can use this underestimation to my benefit. It’ll be easy to outsmart them. Wait..what if she’s here to take Mulysa away? Mulysa looks into my eyes and I see her flash an evil smirk for just a millisecond before it disappears back to inscrutable. She must’ve been amused at my thought they could take her away, and I know she will try to protect me now. I wish she didn’t have to try and waste my energy, but she’s the only one on my side here. I stare into her eyes as I stand in front of the seat, absorbed by her completely. “Sit down. Remember, you need to include background information. Who were you before this institution? What are you missing in life? This is the best way we can get them to feel sympathy and see that you still have a connection to reality, making you a considerable candidate.” Nurse Su Riled explains. Operation Intern Su Riled. I wonder why they put her position in between her first and last name while I continue to stare into Mulysa’s eyes. “Once we prove you know more than you should about life, we can dissect and study your brain. Otherwise, this will all be just a waste...” They want me, not Mulysa. I don’t have the strength or energy or desire to take on this task now that it’s up to me. Why are they going to kill me? What’s wrong with me? I’m not supposed--“..sit down, Ms. Enasni,” she repeats, more firmly now, interrupting my thoughts. “Please. I have other patients to record today,” Without deviating from Mulysa’s blood-shot and tired eyes, I slowly sit down into the seat the nurse has placed behind me. Mulysa does the same. “Wait five seconds after I hit the record button. Then state your name, age, sex, and institution. Explain the troubles you face. Your feelings,” the nurse instructs. “Last words.” She steps out of my peripheral view, but not before a red fingernail catches my eye and leaps in front of me to click a button down. The button stays down and the little wheels inside start churning, and for some reason I find the little spinning wheels and tape very interesting. I feel as though Mulysa is still looking at me, and so I glance back up and stare into her eyes, still vacant. I can’t be sure what Mulysa will do at this point but I hope she

Sami Beckham acts quickly. I don’t know what to feel; who should I be more scared of: Mulysa or the nurse? This confusion mixed with excitement and fear and sadness begins to take its toll, and I feel like I’m in a movie. Everything is happening slowly, and I’m not totally convinced that any of this is anything more than a dream. I count to five in my head and then I hear Mulysa’s monotone voice, matching the such minute movement of her unamused mouth. “Mulysa Enasni. Twenty-seven. Female. Detroit Center, Sixth Ward.” It surprises me at how calm and uninterested Mulysa seems to be; her whole body is perfectly still, all of her concentration on moving her lips. She does not waiver her voice. She does not even blink. I am paralyzed just by looking at her as she continues. “Some people have claimed I work for the devil. So they brought me into this room. But what a waste, as my potential was thriving then. I was doing what was necessary--what no one else would do.” For just a moment, I feel a pang of sympathy for Mulysa that brings me back into my body. I can relate because I wanted to be something. I wanted to become successful. I wanted to clean and cook and make someone happy some day, but I barely remember anything besides this little white room and Mulysa’s little white room. It’s still, always. Nothing moves. I wish I could walk out, but I can’t. I can’t. I need to leave here. I need to leave. I need to leave. I hope Mulysa can get me out. I hope she comes with me. My mind is beginning to detach again, and I lift numbly above my body. I’m so tired. I really don’t care about this whole thing anymore. “They told me that’s frowned upon. One thing I’ve learned in here is that more things are frowned upon than not. Sometimes the people frowning don’t even know why they do. They just do. But no one thinks I can frown, because I used to want to smile. I still don’t have to frown. So I don’t. “You may think to yourself that I should stay in this little white room with little white walls and little white dresses with a little white bed and little white dressings for my pale-white skin to rest,” she says, seemingly in a daze. Her voice still remains unchanged. “Everyone thought they could help me learn to frown. But you can’t make me frown. So you think it’s best to leave me with no emotion. With no smile. But that’s the fun part. You’ve given me all the power to make you frown.”

79 79

Sami Beckham Mulysa starts to smile, and the smile is warm and inviting and lovely. I start to feel better, knowing everything will be okay. Mulysa gets up and backs up slowly away from the dresser, knocking over the chair, letting the space between us grow. I can see the full dresser in front of me now, as it gets smaller, but I don’t care about any of that. Just Mulysa: hair brown hair messy and tangled with her arms limp by the sides of the plain white gown. I don’t feel anything now. I turn towards the wall, away from her, and step out of view of the mirror. My face presses against where two of the four walls meet and I close my eyes. Then I disappear.

I can hear some far away static and turning of gears followed by a click and termination of this noise and the onset of silence. I can see lights and shades of white. I can see shapes. I see a nearly-white oval sitting before me with blobs of brown surrounding it. I begin to make out the picture: Mulysa is brushing her hair with her hands. And I can see the red dripping from her mouth and onto her white gown. She slowly and slyly smiles, revealing yellowed teeth with blood in the crevices, dripping down over her bottom lip. My mouth tastes salty. I gaze down at the tape recorder on the counter before me, and then at the counter itself. The light wooden counter has a drop of red, which engages my curiosity. I turn around and look at the floor, following the smeared red on the white floor, all the way to my white bed, which is covered in red as well. The blanket has been drawn over something, but I see some red hair peeking out on top of my little white pillow, a little bit of red to the left of it. Everything else is soaking wet with red, including my gown and my hands. This doesn’t really amuse me, so I turn and pick up the chair and put it back in front of my dresser before I sit and begin to try to work out the tangles in my matted brown hair. I look at Mulysa in the reflection as she vacantly does the same. I’m exhausted but I feel oddly reenergized. I silently count each strand of hair as I make sure it is not wrapped up with another. I feel comfortable and alive again. Finally.

e c n a y o Clairv I Hate My

(Sometimes)

Indy V. Jewel

I think it’s getting harder and harder to exist again. The first time was rough, but when I came back with a changed outlook, I was too naive to realize that a changed perception is not necessarily the same as a changed world, a changed routine. I still go to school. I still drive a car. I’m still not enough for many of those around me, I just don’t care as much. Well, I do concerning one person. The world around me is confusing and empty and it’s difficult to decide where I stand, if I even stand at all. My whole life has been centered around where you are and it’s been years since I’ve even looked at the ground my own shoes trek upon. And in these past few months I’ve tricked myself into thinking that just because we stood near each other, we stood together. That because we stood on the same floor, we stood in the same dimension. But I’m getting better at understanding that when I died I left that place, and now I sit alone and you stand on a rock, three feet up, more visible than me. I always wondered if you would come to my funeral, because even years after we went our separate ways I still longed to know you once more. I convinced myself that you longed to know me too. But I didn’t have a funeral, and you don’t know that I died. I wish I could tell you what I know but you would think I’m crazy. Not that you don’t already think of me as insane for feeling awkwardly attached to you; for even writing this. I never thought I would ever be this, but now that I am I see that each side has its own story just like each story has its own side. So now, here we are, pretending like we don’t know each other most of the time. Except, my heart remembers you, from many different lifetimes, that we shared and will share, together, and you remember nothing. Funny how I remember the future and you don’t even recall the memories of us from two weeks ago. But I get the message now and I know it’s not meant to be anyway. I just wish it didn’t have to be some vague uncertainty that pushed me away. Maybe when we live in New York, a few lifetimes from now, you’ll remember this and I’ll remember nothing. So maybe, just maybe, you’ll treat me like more than just any person. You’ll see that it’s hard to know more than you should.

Hey Isabella Perlee

You—with the short attention span! Yeah. I’m talking to you!

So…um, now that I’ve got your attention, I’m afraid there’s also some bad news. See, you and I, the both us, were hoping—well, expecting, really, a sort of story, or poem… something, anyway, to start right about now. But, buddy, as much as it breaks my heart to say it, that’s just not gonna happen. And, I know what it may say at the top of this page, with the fancy font and formatting and everything that so rudely interrupted me, but I’m telling you right now that this page, and the next, would be better off blank. I’m sure that’s a real bummer for someone like you, since, obviously, you’ve read so much already, (I mean seriously, sheesh! Just look at all those pages.) so you’re probably used to all of the authors’ usual tricks and bluffs, such as, the classic fake-out. Y’know; the ploy where they start out with some meandering, seemingly aimless character who yammers on, and on, and on, and on about nothing—practically forever, until they suddenly switch gears and get to the point? Well that’s not about to happen, and because you seem like one of those nice, bright people who don’t ever seem to have that much time, I’m telling you right now to skip the next couple of pages. Seriously, this is no joke. The author didn’t write anything, no irony or nothing, except this notice—which is not in anyway worth reading a-hundred times over—and see, she didn’t put much effort into me either. I’m not any sort of action-type, moody, mysterious reflection of a hero. Just some guy—worse, just some voice! I’m like the instructions, or spam-mail, or one of those hollow, automated voice-memos that you’d rather skip over, to get to the good stuff. Speaking of which, that “stuff ” is only a page and a-half away. So, concerning our relationship; we haven’t known each other for that long, we haven’t exchanged phone-numbers or anything else special, and I’m highly confident that there’s some other splendiferous, fantabulous somebody waiting for you in the beyond’s beyond, move on. Go ahead. You’ll get over me quickly, I promise.

Wow.

Anybody smell a skeptic? I mean, I basically just said to shove off, and yet you’re still staring at me as if I’m the author. Hah! If only… Although, I guess I can’t blame you too much. Everything I’m saying must seem pretty paper-thin (Har, har, har).

Isabella Perlee But, buddy, this is really all there is, and I don’t know how else I can explain it (You can’t picture what you can’t describe) Though a person would be more plausible, trustworthy, and admirable, in your eyes, I can’t help it if the author lacks the imagination to make me one. All you’ve got to go on is my voice in your head (sooo not creepy), and whether or not you listen is up to you. So, again, I’m offering you an out, before its too late and I’ll be forced to do my job (Didn’t I mention somewhere that I did not like reading it? That it was not even worth it? Keep that in mind). I swear, on whatever credibility my author has, that there are some other better, real characters hanging out on the next couple of pages (sure, they’re kind-of dramatic, but they grow on you), and all you have to do is flutter past one page! Trust me. Buh-le-e-e-e-eave in me! Peace out and goodnight!

Well, isn’t some-body persistent!

I mean, its not that I don’t appreciate the attention, cause if I’m honest, it gets pretty lonely hanging stuck out here. Speaking of which, you don’t even know what “here” looks like either. Well, let me tell you, its anything that you can think that’s better than pure-static. Just a blur of figures, which might translate as something like colors or emotions outside, I think. But I can’t sleep and I don’t dream (I mean, you just read, therefore, I’m supposed to exist). Sometimes that makes me wonder about myself, since I know I have a mind, there’s just the question of if it’s mine. Ugh.

I’ll settle for just being made of words.

Anyway, back to business. I’m afraid, that was your last best chance outta here, and I since you wouldn’t listen to reason—you give me no choice.

(Ahem)

“To whomever is regretfully reading this,”—oh and by the way, these are her personal words—“Not, to… name any names in particular, but a certain author, of sorts, sincerely apologizes for any amount of frustration, irritation, or lack of entertaining quality that this page has caused. For she”—her poor and most gracious-self—“was experiencing a severe and long-term case of writer’s block,”—Oh, PUH-leaze, as if that’s any excuse! She had the effort to write this piece of garbage, didn’t she? Now you know where all her time really went, anyway—“however, she promises that it is only a setback, and that better and brighter work will occupy this space in the future!”—Oh happy day!

Well, I hope you’re happy now, cause this sure this sure is one way to kill five minutes.

Last Breath Courtney Koop

With pen to parchment poised at the ready My thoughts are quite different than before, I glide through a world that is quite heady But hastily depart through the rear door. Eyes I adored, I verily despise, 84

Your pitiless soul so somber and bleak, My depth of despair haunts me with blind cries The well of my love runs empty and weak. Callous indifference leaves my soul numb It grips like an infection so viral, It wears me down like the beat of a drum I tumble and spin in deadly spiral. A creature cold has consumed my last breath Nothing left for me except dark and death.

After Mallory Rosten

angels shudder violin shaped shoulders a cold madness desecrated me.

the bluish remains lay at my feet congealing.

i am an alien in my own skin my bones and their metallic reverberations.

a cloudy film coats my eyesa gossamer veil for the blushing bride.

blob Wendy Zheng

Contributor Biographies Quasmirah Augustin

Quazy is a senior at Alpharetta High School, and is still wondering how she’s managed to not break her neck falling down stairs in the past four years. For some reason, she falls just below eye-level at 5’1”, and is basically invisible. Come on guys, show the girl tumbling down the stairs some mercy.

Kavya Balaji

Kaaviiya, Kaviiya, friendly neighbourouss, Kaviiya. Looks for publicity, brings the litmag to the people. Kaviiya Kaviiya, she is an amazingggg PERSONNNN!

Dhakshi Balakumar

Sweet, but weird. Funny, but not so funny. Either way, Dhakshi will dance her way into your heart.

Sami Beckham

Sami is a semi-nomadic person living in the Arctic area of Sápmi who enjoys herding reindeers in her free time. You can most likely find her wearing a gákti, either writing or reading literature.

Jessica Brummel

She’s like Versace Versace Versace. Your basic 40% American, 40% Russian, 6% Mongolian, 12% Dutch, 2% Native American girl. She’s probably stalking you on Instagram right now. Hermione Granger’s child.

Lexie Bryant

My name is Lexie Bryant, and I am in the tenth grade. I love to write and play lacrosse. I am a devoted Christian. :)

Camryn Chapman

Camryn loves riding horses because horses are cool. Camryn loves writing because writing is cool. Camryn loves her friends, although they are not cool. Camyn loves herself because Camryn is cool. Camryn loves bow ties because bow ties are cool.

Shreya Hedaoo Savannah Jackson

“She’s horrible, just the absolute worst. I love her.” —Quazy Savannah Jackson. The name says it all.

Astin is currently a junior, and has been drawing for as long as they can remember. They aspire to work in character design and animation in their future. When they're not doing (procrastinating) their homework, they enjoys reading, drawing, writing, and listening to music.

Astin Jean-Pierre

Indy V Jewel is an extremely delusional and confused old soul, trying to understand social circumstances. Initially off-put by her differences, she now embraces them to try and find her place in the world. Indy is extraordinarily talented at misreading typical situations which is where she gets her exceedingly "unusual" inspiration.

Indy V Jewel

Courtney is literally obsessed with the Percy Jackson book series and the Australian TV show “Dance Academy.” She doesn’t understand why people are always surprised when she tells them her middle name is Tyler. She thinks that she was a cat in a previous life.

Courtney Koop

Dearest Reader, Susan Lee is honored and grateful that you are reading her contributor biography on this day. When asked to describe Susan Lee in one sentence, one person said, “cool. o i thought you said one word. Whatever, it’s still the same.”

Susan Lee

She doesn’t know how to spell well. She killed her venus fly trap. She lost her turtle once, it came back.

Catherine Mills

Sam Morton is a Junior and apart of the AP 2D design class focusing in photography. Most of her photographs are inspired by Colorado and outdoors. She aspires to become a photojournalist and alpaca farmer after college.

Samantha Morton

There once was a girl who started to write. (She never stopped)

Isabella Perlee

Philip Rabenold

Philip Rabenold is a high school senior. He enjoys writing both words and music and deals in absolutes, sometimes.

Rebecca Rose

Rebecca is a koala trapped in a humanâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s body. She enjoys black coffee, doodling, music, and serial killer documentaries. You can most likely find her on her computer at home in a t-shirt.

Mallory Rosten

In her free time Mallory enjoys reading the Wikipedia pages of European monarchs. Her diet consists of macaroons and pizza, which give her the strength she needs to dismantle the patriarchy.

Courtney Stuart

She's this vat of useless information that no one really needs to know. She likes sports, crime tv shows, acting like she's a wallflower, writing, and reading. When she isn't insanely obsessing over television actors (*cough*Spencer Reid*cough*), she's normally making people call her Winter because she thinks she's cool.

Catherine Williams

Catherine Williams is an 11th grade student who loves cats, sushi, and High School Musical. In her free time, she likes to gorge herself in icecream and play Lego Hobbit while listening to Taylor Swift. Her hobbies include doing policy debate, mentoring novices in debate, and singing badly in her car to classics like Bye, Bye, Bye, I Want it That Way, and Quit Playing Games with My Heart.

Emily Williams

Emily is a girl who enjoys writing. She is attempting to figure out the wonders of photoshop. Merp.

Wendy Zheng

Her big toe is small.

Patrons We would like to thank everyone who contributed to and supported the Alpharetta Manifest Literary Magazine.

Raider Patron of the Arts ($60+) Deborah A. Rose Michael McBurney Lucy Loftin Williams Laura L. Perlee

Index Augustin, Quasmirah Balaji, Kavya

8, 31, 43, 48 68, 72

Balakumar, Dhakshi

Batley, Clay

Beckham, Sami Brummel, Jessica Bryant, Lexie Chapman, Camryn Evelyn, Julia Hedaoo, Shreya

10, 21, 27, 42, 77 18, 26, 51 47 15, 22 19 30, 53

Jackson, Savannah

Jean-Pierre, Astin

Jewel, Indy V.

Koop, Courtney

Lee, Susan Mills, Catherine Morton, Sam Perlee, Isabella

34 73, 74 2, 60, 66 82

Rabenold, Philip

38, 59, 62

Raheja, Utkarsh

41, 46, 69

Rose, Rebecca

Rosten, Mallory

36, 56, 57, 85

Stuart, Courtney

52, 58

Williams, Catherine Williams, Emily Zheng, Wendy

70 16, 32, 86

A Little Interior of Grey Mirrors

Alpharetta Highschool Literary Magazine

Manifest Volume 4, Issue 1 Fall 2014