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is the middle school literary magazine of Castilleja School

Published once  each  year,  this  magazine  brings   together  the  work  of  dozens  of  young  writers,  artists,   and  photographers.  Anyone  in  grades  6-­‐8  is  welcome  to   submit. Students  in  the  Flame  elective  work  on  their  creative   writing  in  the  fall,  then  gather  submissions  and  lay  out   the  magazine  in  the  spring.  During  the  2012-­‐2013  school   year,  so  many  students  have  been  involved  in  Flame   that  we  cannot  name  them  all  here. We  are  thrilled  to  be  part  of  such  a  vibrant  artistic   community.  We  hope  you  find  something  in  these   pages  that  catches  your  fancy,  sparks  your  imagination,   and  inspires  you  to  create  something  of  your  own.  Katie  Sauvain  and  Jole  Seroff,  faculty  advisors

“Flame” leaf  art  above  by  Reese  Ketsdever front  cover  photo  by  Gwen  Cusing back  cover  photo  by  Grace  Lee

If We  Are  To  Really  Look If  we  are  to  really  look Inside  of  ourselves There  is  a  forest Deep,  Dense,  Desolate But  yet  immaculate A  forest  of  ever  growing  thoughts  and  dreams and  desires  and  ideas  and  feelings all  lurking  in  this  crepuscular  woods. Don’t  cut  down  your  forest keep  it  there,  put  on  your  red  hood, get  your  bag  of  treats  for  grandma, and  explore. -­‐-­‐Teddy  Horangic

photo by  Katie  Mishra

photo by  Alexia  Romani

Don’t Recognize  Her When  I  look there  is  a  girl  in  the  mirror You  don’t  recognize  her for  who  she  really  is because  only  she  can  tell  you  that But  as  the  world  comes  into  focus and  the  fuzziness  fades  away the  world  is  sharper harsher harder and  you  still  can’t  recognize  her for  who  she  really  is I  wrote  this  for  you so  you  could  really  see I’m  not  the  one  to  be  loved -­‐-­‐Makee  Anderson

photo by  Maggie  Gray

Rising from  Underneath  the  Water Through  this  tranquil,  turquoise  world I  see a  sun  ray, penetrating  the  water in  a  misty  beam. Then  another and  another. The  far  reaching  tendrils   of  the  upper  world. As  thin  as  paper, flipping  through  a  book. As  misty  as  a  waterfall, a  waterfall  of  light. Now  I  see  a  silvery  surface, like  liquid  silver  churning, the  partition between  this  world  and  theirs. As  I  get  closer, blurry  shapes  appear: a  green  patch  here   and  a  brown  patch  there. Like  gazing  into  a  crystal  ball, they  become  clear: a  large  catalpa  tree and  the  second  story  of  a  house. I  reach   to  touch  this  magical  surface, and  suddenly   my  hand  is  free and  heavy. I  flex  my  fingers  in  the  cool  breeze. I  can  now  see  my  hand  beyond  the  silvery  surface, a  pale  blob of  me   on  the  other  side. My  face  slips  through  after  my  hand. I  hear  laughter, and  feel  the  breeze. I  shake  the  water  from  my  hair, and  tiptoe, soaking  and  dripping, into  the  house  for  a  towel. -­‐-­‐Robin  Sandell

photo by  Jessa  Mellea  

Infinity Infinity is  the  sign  on  your  palm drawn  in  thin  trails  of  marker before  bed two  loops  following     the  simplest  eternity of  you  endless  path Infinity  is  forever it  is  the  endless  days   unknown  and  unimaginable Infinity  is  in  the  tired  smiles  of  elderly  couples bound  to  each  other  first  by  parents’  dreams then  by  love The  darkness  of  infinity laughs  its  evil  laugh   at  3  am   when  the  weight  in  your  stomach  bolts  you  like  lead to  your  fears  of  the  night Infinity  is  when   the  heavy  shackles  are  broken and  you  are  young  and  agile  again Infinity  is  the  field  in  the  sun where  you  can  lay   with  nobody  watching and  truly  be  free -­‐-­‐Sophia  Nevle  Levoy

photo by  Brooke  Weller

Aurora I wonder  what  comes  to  mind  when  someone  reads  that  word.  Sleeping  Beauty,  perhaps  the   aurora  borealis  itself?  The  thoughts  that  come  to  mind  when  I  hear  that  lovely  vowel-­‐stuffed  word  are   almost  too  embarrassing  to  share.  But  that  is  what  they  want  me  to  think. Aurora,  to  me,  is  a  sad-­‐looking  stuffed  tiger  with  short  orange  (now  brown)  fur  that  sticks  up  at   odd  angles,  but  for  the  most  part  wilts  down  into  an  uneven  clump  of  thread.  Her  tail  is  short  and  feeble   at  the  base,  and  always  sticks  up,  no  matter  how  you  bend  it.  Her  legs  are  fairly  short  as  well,  but  filled   with  little  beans  that  make  slight  noises  when  you  shift  them.  It  always  annoyed  me  how  her  face  is   cocked  to  the  left,  but  I’ve  grown  to  love  having  her  perch  on  my  shoulder  and  always  look  at  me  with   her  round,  amber  eyes.  They  are  a  tad  cross-­‐eyed  due  to  a  small  tuft  of  fur  that  dangles  precariously  over   the  left  eye’s  part  of  the  iris.  They  never  quite  focus  on  you,  as  though  she  is  modest  with  her  unblinking   stare,  and  doesn’t  want  to  creep  you  out  or  anything. She  was  the  best  Christmas  present  I  could  have  asked  for  on  December  18th,  2010.  It  wasn’t   Christmas,  of  course,  but  my  family  loves  to  move  around  Christmas  every  year  depending  on  vacation   plans,  and  I  hate  it.   I  awoke  the  earliest  I  think  I’ve  ever  gotten  up-­‐-­‐four  AM,  maybe-­‐-­‐and  snuck  down  the  hall  on  my   tiptoes  in  my  new  peace-­‐sign  PJs.  My  socked  feet  danced  rather  delicately  down  the  stairs  and  emerged   into  the  gorgeous  living  room.  A  tree  nearly  suffocating  in  ornaments,  the  naked  statues  of  the  ladies   dancing  (I’d  always  wanted  to  get  rid  of  them,  but  they  are  great  things  to  hold  the  stockings  up),  and   most  importantly  the  warm  air  of  Christmas.  And  cookies. Aurora  shyly  peeked  up  from  my  green-­‐knit  stocking,  but  in  a  playful  way,  as  though  she  was   laughing  and  saying,  ‘Peek-­‐a-­‐boo!’  As  cheesy  as  it  sounds,  a  warm,  Christmassy  feel  came  from  Aurora   when  I  carefully  placed  my  fingers  on  her  soft  back.  She  was  mine,  and  I  was  hers. It’s  funny-­‐-­‐if  you  ask  any  of  my  friends,  they’d  say  Aurora’s  been  with  me  for  five  to  ten  years.  I   chide  them  and  tell  them  that  I’m  not  that  old,  and  nor  is  she.  Her  coat  has  become  well-­‐worn  over  the   nearly  three  years,  and  she’s  gotten  plenty  of  “love  marks”  along  the  way.   Within  the  first  month  of  getting  Aurora,  I  went  nowhere  without  her.  Her  paw  was  in  my  hand   on  the  way  to  any  room  in  the  house,  waiting  on  my  bed  when  I  got  home  from  school,  and  patiently   sitting  beside  me  while  I  tackled  the  elite  opposition  of  math  homework.   That  night,  my  sister  teasingly  stole  her  from  me.  I  sat  across  the  table,  pouring  enough  Ranch   onto  my  lettuce  to  drown  it.  I  threatened  her  with  something  I  forget  now,  but  Aurora  came  flying   through  the  air,  and  into  my  hands.  Well,  that’s  what  would  have  happened  if  my  sister  had  a  tiny   milligram  of  hand-­‐eye  coordination.   She  landed  stomach-­‐down  into  the  dressing.  The  stain  went  from  a  pinkish  color  to  a  now  dark   brown  patch  that  covers  most  of  her  formerly  soft  white  fur.   I  once  tried  to  give  her  a  bath  in  some  cleaning  stuff,  and  so  I  started  with  her  paws.  My  mom   conveniently  forgot  to  mention  that  the  cleaning  stuff  leaves  stains.  Her  right  front  paw  has  a  small  patch   of  something  or  other  that  has  never  gone  away  either.  It  might  be  gross  to  some  people,  but  that  is  the   paw  that  I  always  hold  her  with. And  even  now,  at  thirteen  years  old,  I  proudly  boast  about  Aurora.  Society  has  taught  me  that  it   is  childish  to  have  stuffed  animals,  to  love  them,  to  even  name  them.  I  have  107,  and  I  am  a  proud   stuffed-­‐animal  obsessed  child  who  still  comes  home  from  school  to  my  best  friend  waiting  for  me  atop   my  pillow.  I  am  still  the  ridiculously  untalented  mathematician  that  has  a  little  tiger  perching  on  my   shoulder,  whispering  homework  advice  in  my  ear.  I  am  still  the  weird  kid  who  walks  to  the  family  room   on  Wednesday  night  to  watch  Modern  Family  in  full-­‐out  kid  PJs  and  a  tiger’s  paw  in  my  hand.  And  most   importantly,  I  am  still  the  little  eleven  year  old  who  reached  into  that  green-­‐knit  stocking  and  fell  in  love   with  an  entirely  inanimate  object.  

-­‐-­‐Jessie Karan

Sunset Every night  I  cover  the  land   like  a  patchwork  quilt.   My  colors  are  blended  together like  fruits  in  a  smoothie. I  cover  everything  like  a  cage   put  over  the  earth  each  night. As  my  end  draws  near the  sun  melts  into  the  water   like  marshmallows  in  hot  chocolate. -­‐-­‐Naira  Mirza  

photo by  Alexia  Romani

-­‐-­‐Sarah Dubbs

You must  face  it.

You must  go  through  it.

You can  no  longer  think.

You can  no  longer  see.

It swallows  you  up.

It paralyzes  you  with  the  chill.

It burns  you  to  the  core.

It’s bright  and  dark,  all  at  the  same  time.

It hurts  to  look  at  it.


art by  Isabella  Wang

art by  Ella  Henn Arthia   It  was  a  great  sensation  being  in  a  different  world.  Leaving  Arthia  felt  like  a  ton  of   bricks  was  lifted  from  me.  I  was  in  a  world  with  the  Ordines,  or  humans.  Suddenly,  my  closet   made  a  noise  that  almost  blasted  my  ears.  Cautiously,  I  tiptoed  towards  the  door.  Nobody   could’ve  made  more  of  a  mistake  than  I.    A  blast  of  wind  blew  knocked  me  out.  The  last  thing   I  remembered  was  seeing  Maria. I  woke  up  to  the  sound  of  angelic  music.  It  was  beautiful,  soft  and  peaceful.  But  the   voice  was  too  familiar.  A  teenage  girl  sat  beside  me  in  an…infirmary?    She  was  stroking  my   long,  but  messy  brown  hair.  I  looked  up.  She  had  soft  brown  hair  and  startling  grey  eyes.   “Gwen,”  I  growled,  my  eyes  judging  her.  Gwen’s  smile  instantly  vanished.  It  was  replaced  by   despair  and  guilt.  There  was  something  else  too,  an  emotion  I  couldn’t  quite  make  out. “Look,  Izzy,”  she  started. “Don’t  call  me  that,”  I  snapped.  I  felt  a  little  bit  mean  talking  to  her  that  way,  but  she   deserved  it. either.”

“Look Isabelle,  I  never  tried  to  hurt  you,  and  the  citizens  of  Arthia  didn’t  mean  to  

“Interesting. If  you  really  think  I’d  believe  that,  you  must  really  not  have  a  brain.  Like   I  said  a  year  ago,  after  you  attacked  me,  may  I  add,  I  will  never,  ever  forgive  you  or  the  people   of  Arthia  for  what  you  did.” Gwen’s  eyes  narrowed.  “So  be  it,”  she  whispered.  “Izz-­‐,”  she  caught  herself  at  her  own   mistake.  “Isabelle,  you  don’t  understand  how  much  Maria  and  I  missed  you.  She  even  nursed   you  while  you  were  out.”  Her  grey  eyes  pierced  me  like  a  thousand  knives.

First, my  best  friends  make  everyone  else  betray  me,  brainwash  my  family  so  they  think   they  hate  me,  and  then  they  leave  me  all  by  myself  to  feel  miserable,  and  this  is  what  my   former  best  friend  tells  me? “We  all  vowed  to  be  best  friends  forever,  you,  Maria  and  I.  We  promised  to  go  up  to  the   tree  house  every  Wednesday.  Unfortunately,  fate  had  it  that  you  and  Maria  tricked  Arthia  into   fighting  me,  just  because  of  something  that  I  was  framed  for  doing.  The  only  thing  that  you   and  Maria  can  do  for  me  is  to  get  OUT  of  my  presence.”  I  angrily  stormed  out  of  the  hospital  ,   leaving  a  puzzled  Gwen  alone. I  walked  down  the  street,  hoping  not  to  draw  attention.  Apparently,  everyone   recognized  me  by  my  bushy  brown  hair  and  caramel  eyes.  Everyone  I’d  passed  gave  me   sympathetic  looks,  most  of  whom  I  had  been  close  to.  To  my  displeasure,  Maria  was  one  of   them.  Maria’s  electric  blue  eyes  met  mine,  and  her  eyes  widened.  Maria  was  dressed  in  a  dark   brown  cloak  with  a  hood  covering  her  long,  gold,  and  wispy  hair.    Her  face,  which  was   naturally  pale,  if  I  remember  correctly,  was  paler  than  I’ve  ever  seen  it  before. “Isabelle!”  she  called.  Suddenly  aware  that  Maria  was  going  to  follow  me,  I  scurried   over  to  the  old  tree  house  where  I  used  to  spend  all  my  Wednesdays.  The  inside  was  a  wreck.   Spider  webs  hung  from  every  corner,  but  the  outside  was  still  gorgeous  with  the  blueberry   bushes  that  wrapped  around  the  edges.  It  was  obvious  that  the  tree  house  was  abandoned.  The   wooden  sign  (“Girls  Only”)  dangled  from  the  branches.  A  welcoming  brown  door  was  already   open,  as  if  it  were  waiting  for  someone. As  I  looked  around,  I  saw  that  on  a  sturdy  brown  desk  was  an  envelope.  The  envelope   had  the  famous  Arthenian  cherry  stamp-­‐-­‐the  picture  of  all  the  people  of  Arthia  chasing  after…   me. Fumbling,  I  opened  the  envelope.  The  handwriting  on  the  letter  was  surprisingly  neat,   even  though  the  person  writing  it  was  clearly  in  a  hurry. Dear  Isabelle  Irathy,  Maria  Norwen,  and  Gwen  Quary, I  completely  understand  you  might  not  want  to  finish  the  mission  I  have  started.  But,  only  the   three  of  you  can  stop  them-­‐-­‐the  twelve  men  (as  in  twelve  ways  to  kill  you).  I  hope  you  all  are  able   to  succeed  in  this  mission.  If  you  are  willing  to  save  the  world,  or  try  at  the  very  least,  please  just   go  to  the  main  square  of  Arthia  by  three  on  Saturday.  Maria  and  Gwen,  I  trust  you  will  tell  Ms.   Irathy  about  this  mission.  Isabelle,  I  know  you  will  not  be  willing  to  work  with  Ms.  Norwen  and   Ms.  Quary,  for  what  happened,  but  without  you  or  anyone  of  this  trio,  your  troop   will  not  succeed.  All  of  you  are  important  for  this  expedition  to  stop  the  twelve  men  from  taking   over  the  world.  I  hope  to  see  you  soon.   Safe  traveling Sir  Brandon  Lethro I  read  the  letter  a  couple  more  times.  Who  is  Sir  Brandon  Lethro,  and  how  come  Maria   and  Gwen  knew  about  him,  and  I  didn’t?  I  had  a  billion  more  questions,  but  I  knew  one  thing   for  sure.  We  had  to  save  the  world.  

-­‐-­‐Alyssa Sales

LOL i h8  txtng  lingo exponential  growth  of  its  populariT silly  minds w/o  thot they  speek cot  in  a  vortex speed w/o  a  sec  to  think 2M2handle OMG Not  @  the  CAPaCT of  my  real  thots -­‐-­‐Greer  Hoffmann

photo by  Natalie  Barch

photo by  Alexia  Romani


do not  reply foggy  windows  and  foggy  minds, all  too  soon  you  close  the  blinds.

Terror Terror wears  a  bloodstained   white  shirt  and  dark  jeans.   His  black  sneakers  are   sloppy,  but  none  of  his   clothing  is  necessarily  scary.   His  skin  is  pale  as  a  ghost,   and  carries  a  sickly  green   tint.  His  eyes  have  sagging   dark  circles  below  them,   and  are  hideous  and   bloodshot.  They  are  wide   open,  as  though  he  never   sleeps.  His  tiny  pupils  bore   into  you  across  the  yard,   across  the  globe  and  attack   your  heart  rate.  His  long   nails  click  together  when  he   moves  his  hands,  chills   racing  up  your  spine.  Terror   follows  you.  He  follows  you,   only  you,  and  no  one  else   can  see  him. -­‐-­‐Jessie  Karan

photo by  Alexia  Romani

photo by  Natalie  Tuck

Before You  Eat,  Think Before  you  eat,  think. Try  to  connect  with  that  piece  of  something   that  you  are  consuming. Imagine  its  life. The  hands  that  have  caressed  it, the  flowers  and  seeds  it  bore, the  colorful  life  it  led. Think  about  its  story and  appreciate  its  being. It  is  not  a  wonder there  is  a  peel  to  protect  the  orange  fruit. Things  as  sweet  and  fragrant  as  it Cannot  come  so  easily As  just  its  picking. -­‐-­‐Teddy  Horangic

photo by  Natalie  Barch

Every Movement Every  movement  has  a  story Be  it  a  tale  of  daring  or  drama Or  tragedy  and  perseverance   An  overview  of  a  dozen  years  and  a  million   people Or  a  day  with  one Every  story  is  worth  telling Every  narrative  deserves  a  thousand  eyes Every  movement  has  a  victim   A  casualty Of  mind Of  heart   Of  soul Of  body Whose  dead  eyes  watch  as  the  world  passes  by Bright  and  shining In  the  distance Every  movement  has  a  reason Years,  decades,  centuries  of  oppression Systemic  and  all  encompassing Smothering  not  only  them,   But  their  sons Their  daughters Every  movement  has  a  hero Great  and  small

Remembered And forgotten Nelson  Mandela Malcolm  X Martin  Luther  King  Jr. The  masses  of  people Descending  upon  Washington  D.C. Soweto New  York   Cities  across  the  country To  stand  up,  speak  out To  fight  for  themselves Every  movement  has  a  result The  19th  Amendment   The  Voting  Rights  Act The  downfall  of  an  apartheid  government Legislative,  economic,  and  social  changes Raising  them  up Lighting  the  way  to  that  bright  and  shining  world That  no  longer  seems  so  far  away Every  movement  leaves  a  legacy Of  tolerance Of  freedom Of  choice  and  chance And  that  is  what  matters More  than  anything  else A  man  presses  a  kiss  to  his  partner’s  cheek, Then  enters  the  federal  office  building  where  he   works A  man  in  a  white  house  hands  a  report  to  his   secretary His  skin  closer  to  the  black  of  his  suit  than  the   white  of  the  house  in  which  he  resides A  woman  stands  before  the  nation And  before  every  nation,  speaking  for  the   American  people  and  government And  somewhere A  child With  skin  like  night  or  dusk With  a  strange  feeling  in  their  chest  as  they   behold  one  of  their  same  gender  friends Or  perhaps  with  a  pair  of  navy  blue  pants,  a   collared  shirt,  and  a  spot  at  an  all  girls  school Looks  up  and  thinks I  can   -­‐-­‐Kylie  Holland

The Name  Jordan Jordan.  My  name. In  Spain,  my  name  refers  to  a  high-­‐quality  almond  that  is  grown  in  southeastern  Spain.  It   means  a  hard  irritable  crunch  on  your  rigid  teeth.  It  means  foolishness.  Almonds  are  so  high  in  calories   and  fat  that  you  end  up  pounding  down  on  many  before  you  realize  what  you’re  doing.  It  means   trickery,  deceiving.   A  bright  red  color.  The  color  of  a  cherry  shining  with  its  plastic  skin  in  glimpse  of  sunlight,  an   overwhelming  feeling  of  too  much  sweetness,  a  maraschino  cherry.  A  bright  red  snickering  smile.   Grinning  at  you  wherever  you  stand.  Now  an  awareness  of  the  gloomy  truth...a  realization  of  a   deepening  sadness.  Sadness  that  was  once  sunlight  bliss. It’s  that  group  of  people  in  Paris  dressed  all  in  dull  black  like  the  evening  shadows,  when  they   all  bumped  into  my  mom  leaving  her  with  nothing.  No  money.  No  wallet.  No  purse.  Empty.  Empty  like   the  soul  of  a  once  loving  woman  who  has  faced  a  darkening  loss.  Empty  after  a  bomb  strike  a  beloved   family’s  treasured  home.  Empty  as  the  beehive  after  toxins  overwhelm  their  homes  of  life  and  honey. In  English  my  name  is  influenced  by  Nike’s  line  of  Air  Jordan  athletic  shoes. The  ones  who  do  all  the  dirty  work.  Rubbed  against  gruesome  floors  with  grey  dust,  bubble   gum  covered  with  dry  dirt,  and  who  know  what  slimy  things  live  down  there.  They  are  the  ones  soaked   in  your  sweat.  Piercing  sharp  stubborn  rocks  on  your  demand.  Skinned  when  you  make  a  decisive  stop.   Cut  on  the  court  in  seconds  of  a  screech.  Transport  your  heavy  and  paining  weight  through  each  loud   step.  These  shoes  just  do  as  they  are  told  and  have  no  say  in  the  matter. The  taste  of  bitter,  salty  sweat  quickly  dripping  down  your  tired  face.  Those  toxins  that  were   just  flushed  out  of  your  body,  coming  back  in  again.   A    cloudy  yellow  and  dark  unsatisfying  green  color.  The  color  of  the  mucus  crawling  down  your   scratchy  throat,  oozing  out  your  delicate  nose,    or  out  your  mouth  after  a  shakening  cough.  A  person   getting  worse,  more  sick  by  the  hour.  Greener  and  more  pale  by  the  minute.  And  closer  to  death  by  the   second.  Tortured  slaves.   In  Hebrew  my  name  means  flowing  downwards  because  it  refers  to  the  Jordan  river.  In   Christian  religion,  Jesus  was  baptized  in  the  Jordan  River  by  John  the  Baptist. Having  this  name  means  you’re  Christian.  I  am  not  Christian.  I  am  not  even  religious.   All  of  the  unknown  colors.  Ranging  from  salmon,  turquoise,  magenta,  maroon,  and  all  the  way   to  spindrift.  The  unknown  colors.  The  colors  that  no  one  really  knows  which  primary  colors  they   originate  from.  Many  people  identify  these  colors  differently.  The  unknown  colors...the  ones  that   cannot  be  identified. It’s  the  taste  and  feeling  when  you  receive  a  “Mystery  Dum  Dum”  lollipop.  When  just  looking  at   the  wrapper,  you  don’t  know  what’s  inside.  It’s  like  looking  at  the  big  or  small  Christmas  presents  under   the  grand  green  Christmas  tree  that  eagers  you  for  Christmas  day...when  you  can  open  them.  When  you   take  off  the  wrapper,  you  see  the  color  of  it  and  you  take  a  guess.  But...when  you  put  the  delicious   lollipop  in  your  mouth,  that’s  when  you  find  out  the  real  truth.  What  flavor  it  really  is.  I  am  that   Mystery  Dum  Dum.  Reveal  the  flavor  to  find  the  real  me. A  Mystery  Dum  Dum.  Nike  Shoes.  Thieves.  Sweat.  Jordan.  My  name.   inspired  by  House  on  Mango  Street  by  Sandra  Cisneros -­‐-­‐Jordan  Jackson

Red The color  of  fire rage  and  fear. The  glint  in  your  eyes, the  reflection  of  flames. Red represents  the  mad anger  and  hopelessness in  the  world. Red blocks  us  from  positivity creates  boundaries  and  limits. It  seals  us  within  and  doesn’t  let  us  out. Red restricts  movement,  flow, substance. Red. -­‐-­‐Aditi  Satyavrath

photo by  Alexia  Romani

Buried in  the  Past if  you  were  buried  in  the  past would  you  wear  an  old  faded  t  shirt and  tattered  sweatpants  that  were  made   ten  years  ago would  you  have  old  leather-­‐bound  books that  belonged  to  father listen  to  mother’s  favorite  old  records would  you  be  sentimental sometimes  nostalgic eat  home-­‐made  comfort  food mother’s  applesauce,  hot  fudge   or  that  pot  roast  that  takes  hours  to  make but  you  only  take  minutes  to  eat  it would  you  cuddle your  long  lost  teddy   whisper  childhood  memories   into  its  chewed  up  ear while  stroking  its  matted  fur if  you  were  buried  in  the  past would  you  be  lost  in  the  flood  of  time unable  to  make  heads  or  tails of  the  future or  would  you  have  your  head  in  the  present no  time  for  lamenting   only  to  dream  and  think of  what’s  to  come -­‐-­‐Kaitlin  Rhee

photo by  Nicole  Orsak

A Piece  Of  Glass   A  piece  of  glass.  Not  just  any  piece  of  glass,  a  very  large  piece  of  glass.  A  substantial,  huge,   immense,  enormous  piece  of  glass  that  was  twelve  feet  thick,  five  miles  wide,  and  ten  miles  long.  It   separated  the  two  worlds,  and  kept  the  infection  out.  Attachaphobialusterosa  was  the  correct  term.  Love.   They  thought  there  must  be  no  love  to  infect  the  world,  nothing  to  slowly  eat  at  the  hearts  of  lovers  and   drive  them  to  madness.  The  women  and  men  were  separated,  one  in  the  sky,  and  one  on  land. Above  in  the  City  of  Glass  were  the  males.  Below,  in  the  grass  huts  and  houses  of  sticks  were   the  females.  The  men  sat  fifty  feet  high  in  the  air,  and  they  worked.  They  were  in  offices,  but  made  no   money.  They  looked  at  their  electronics  all  day,  their  faces  blank  from  the  lack  of  doing  anything   important  or  exciting.  They  wore  expensive  suits,  and  walked  around  drinking  coffee.  They  sat  in  their   glass  chairs  eating  their  chemical  food,  and  talked  about  their  newest  invention. The  women  lived  below  on  the  ground.  They  had  babies  and  raised  their  children.  At  the  age  of   ten,  the  boys  were  taken  away  to  the  City  of  Glass,  their  memories  wiped  of  their  life  on  the  ground.  The   girls  followed  in  their  mothers’  footsteps.  They  wore  rags,  and  their  skin  burned  in  the  blistering  heat,  the   city  above  them  acting  as  a  sauna.  Nothing  grew.  There  was  no  water.  Everything  was  from  the  city.  Every   step  burnt  their  feet;  every  lungfull  tortured  their  body  until  they  died  around  the  age  of  twenty-­‐five.  No   one  ever  lived  past  thirty  in  the  City  of  Dust.  Grime  and  dirt  coated  their  faces,  and  they  never  bathed.   They  were  thin  to  the  bone,  and  vultures  picked  off  multiple  women  each  day,  and  ate  them  as  they   squirmed  on  the  dirt  roads  in  agony.  But  no  one  complained,  because  the  City  of  Glass  was  in  charge,  and   they  would  kill  mercilessly,  so  life  continued,  just  as  life  should. ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ Below,  looking  up  the  City  of  Glass,  was  a  girl.  She  was  fifteen,  and  her  birthday  was  in  three   days.  On  her  birthday,  she  would  be  held  in  charge  of  having  her  first  baby.  She  couldn’t  decide  if  she   wanted  a  boy  or  a  girl.  Of  course  she  had  no  option  to  choose,  but  she  wished  she  could  anyways.  If  she   had  a  boy,  she  couldn't  bear  to  leave  him.  Of  course  she  wouldn’t  actually  love  him,  that  is  forbidden.  She   would  never  catch  Attachaphobialusterosa,  and  if  she  did,  she  would  be  killed,  hanged  actually.  But  if  she   had  a  girl,  the  girl  would  have  to  grow  up  in  the  heat  and  hunger,  and  she  couldn’t  bear  to  think  of  that. The  girl  decided  that  in  fact,  she  did  not  want  a  baby,  because  she  wouldn’t  want  them  to  grow   up  in  a  world  like  this.  Lately,  the  city  had  been  upping  its  birth  rate.  Instead  of  six  babies  per  lifetime,   they  were  demanding  seven,  even  eight  because  for  some  reason  in  the  last  ten  years,  more  baby  girls  had   been  born  than  boys.  Statistics  from  the  City  of  Glass  showed  that  90%  of  all  babies  born  were  girls,  and   they  blamed  the  women. A  scream  ripped  down  the  dirt  road,  snapping  the  girl  out  of  her  thoughts.  Three  girls  came   sprinting  down  the  dirt  road,  a  ten-­‐foot  tall  vulture  tracking  them  from  overhead.  The  girl  stood  there  in   shock.  “Adelina!”  One  of  the  girls  running  screamed.  “Take  cover!”  Adelina  took  off,  and  scrambled  into  a   hut  on  the  side  of  the  road.  She  beckoned  franticly  to  the  three  girls  running. “In  here!”  Adelina  yelled.  Two  girls  scrambled  in,  but  it  was  too  late  for  the  third.  The  girl   screamed,  and  the  bird  dropped.  The  screams  were  instantly  cut  off.  Adelina  slammed  the  broken  door   closed,  or  as  hard  as  she  could  close  it  without  the  door  falling  off  its  rusty  hinges,  and  collapsed  on  the   floor,  not  daring  to  lean  against  any  of  the  walls,  in  fright  the  whole  structure  might  topple  over. A  few  minutes  later,  the  bird  gave  an  awful  scream,  and  they  heard  it  spread  its  great  wings  and   fly  away.  Their  friend  had  died.  No  one  cried,  screamed,  or  dropped  on  the  floor  giving  up  on  the  world.   They  did  not  show  any  signs  of  Attachaphobialusterosa,  because  love  was  forbidden.  Many  of  their  friends   had  died  one  way  or  another.  In  fact,  when  Adelina  had  tried  to  count  her  friends  that  had  died,  she  had  

lost track  and  given  up.  The  possibilities  were  endless.  Contaminated  food,  heat  stroke,  dehydration,   starvation,  childbirth,  sickness,  sand  storms,  being  hung  for  different  punishments,  and  of  course,  being   killed  by  vultures  or  other  wild  animals. Adelina  looked  at  the  two  girls.  She  happened  to  recognize  both  the  girls.  Probably  from  one   of  her  long  trudges  to  get  water.  One  was  from  Sector  5,  her  name  was  Carmela.  She  came  from  a  better   part  of  the  City  of  Dust  than  most,  and  was  spoiled  with  water  without  dirt  mixed  into  it  first.  The  other   was  Zeneta.  She  was  from  Sector  27.  She  had  brothers,  and  all  were  taken  away  from  her  and  her  mother.   Adelina  always  thought  she  was  tough,  because  all  of  her  siblings  had  been  taken  away  from  her  or  died   when  she  was  very  young.  All  three  girls  looked  at  each  other,  shrinking  away  and  drawing  into   themselves,  afraid  of  some  unknown  force.  Adelina  took  this  as  a  chance  to  inspect  both  the  girls,  as   Adelina  was  a  very  curious  girl. Carmela  must  have  been  named  after  her  skin  color,  the  exact  color  of  caramel,  something   Adelina  had  never  actually  tasted.  Her  face  was  cleaner  than  most,  because  Adelina  could  actually  make   out  her  lips  and  nose.  Her  eyes  were  a  dull  brown  the  color  of  mud,  and  they  had  this  squinty  look  to   them  that  made  Adelina  nervous.  Her  hair  was  long  and  black;  it  swooped  down  her  back,  and  softly   tangled  at  the  tips. Zeneta  was  pale,  actually  the  palest  person  that  Adelina  had  ever  seen  in  a  city  where  the  sun   shone  eighteen  hours  a  day.  Her  eyes  were  pale  blue,  almost  translucent,  but  they  darted  around  like  a   deer  being  caught  in  the  headlights  of  a  car  from  the  City  of  Glass.  She  was  short,  and  a  gash  ran  from  the   tip  of  her  eye  to  her  lip.  Her  hair  must  be  blond,  but  it  was  hard  to  tell  with  the  dirt  and  mud  coating  it. A  bang  of  a  gunshot  erupted  somewhere  near  the  three  girls,  and  Adelina  jumped  to  her  feet.   Zeneta  looked  around  frantically,  then  collapsed  to  the  floor  in  a  heap  of  rags.  Her  frail  body  shook,  and   silent  tears  dripped  down  her  face  leaving  trails  in  the  dirt.  She  gasped  as  her  lungs  heaved  in  the  hot  air.   Her  whole  face  scrunched  up  in  a  big  knot,  causing  the  scab  on  her  face  to  break,  blood  pouring  down  her   face.  She  touched  her  hand  to  the  cut,  then  looked  at  her  bloodied  fingers.  She  shook  like  a  leaf  in  the   wind,  and  curled  into  a  ball  and  sobbed. Adelina  and  Carmela  looked  at  each  other  at  the  same  time,  then  turned  away.  Zeneta  was   showing  obvious  signs  of  Attachaphobialusterosa,  but  she  was  so  small  and  weak.  Adelina  took  a  step   towards  Zeneta,  then  another,  until  she  was  kneeling  before  the  crying  girl.  She  carefully  took  Zeneta  in   her  arms,  and  hugged  her  fiercely.  “It’s  going  to  be  okay.”  Adelina  whispered,  “It’s  going  to  be  okay.” “How  do  you  know?”  Zeneta  whispered  back,  wiping  her  eyes  trying  to  stop  crying. “Because.”  Carmela  piped  in,  “Because  someday,  someone  will  change  the  world,  and  then  it   will  be  okay.” Zeneta  looked  up  at  Adelina  with  doe  eyes,  then  at  Carmela.  She  stood  up,  and  they  hugged,   sharing  that  one  forbidden  moment  of  compassion. The  next  day  Zeneta  was  hanged. Adelina’s  mother  always  used  to  tell  her  that  her  name  meant  noble,  that  she  was  her  noble   little  girl,  but  Adelina  couldn’t  take  it.  She  ran  out  into  the  desert,  until  the  City  of  Dust  was  just  a  distant   memory,  and  sat  down  and  cried,  she  cried  until  she  could  no  longer  cry,  and  was  dehydrated.  She  knew   she  should  get  back  to  the  city,  but  she  didn’t  have  the  heart  or  the  energy  to  stand.  Something  small   glistened  in  the  dirt  to  the  side,  so  she  crawled  over  to  it.  A  piece  of  glass.  A  piece  of  glass  from  the  City  of   Glass.  Why  should  she  live  if  there  is  nothing  to  live  for?  She  knew  she  would  die  anyways,  there  could  be   no  joy  in  life.  Mad  with  not  only  anger,  and  delusional  with  dehydration,  she  trusted  the  piece  of  glass   into  her  side.  “So  here  I  will  die,”  she  murmured  to  herself.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ She woke  to  the  sound  of  an  engine,  something  Adelina  rarely  heard,  so  assuming  it  was  a   dream,  she  promptly  rolled  over  and  fell  back  asleep.  Suddenly  hands  were  grabbing  at  Adelina,  and  she   screamed  and  struggled.  Punching  and  kicking  at  whatever  was  trying  to  pick  her  up.  She  hit  the  person   hard  in  the  stomach  with  her  foot,  and  with  a  grunt,  they  dropped  her  to  the  ground.  Adelina  hit  her   head  hard  against  the  hard  packed  dirt,  and  she  moaned.  As  her  eyes  adjusted,  she  saw  a  man  bending   over  in  the  dirt,  coughing. He  looked  at  her,  and  his  eyes  went  wide,  scanning  her  whole  body  and  turning  away  in   disgust.  Adelina  knew  she  must  look  like  a  monster  now.  She  could  even  feel  the  fever  coursing  through   her  body.  She  had  high  prominent  cheekbones,  and  tanned  flawless  skin.  Her  lips  were  plump,  her  nose   a  button,  and  her  eyes  green  as  an  emerald.  She  was  tall  and  thin,  and  her  brown  hair  gently  fell  down   her  back.  It  had  wonderful  blond  streaks  that  sparkled  in  the  sun.  Well,  that’s  how  Adelina  imagined   what  she  would  look  like  if  the  sun  didn’t  shine  14  hours  a  day,  and  if  she  had  one  meal  a  day  and  had   enough  water  to  wash  her  face  with,  let  alone  drink.  It  seemed  as  if  Adelina  wore  her  skin  as  someone   would  wear  a  too-­‐small  shirt.  Her  skinny  legs  and  arms  showed  not  the  slightest  bit  of  fat,  it  was  as  if   anyone  who  lived  in  the  City  of  Dust’s  skin  clung  to  their  bones. The  man  was  tall,  and  muscular.  His  blond  hair  swept  across  his  forehead,  and  his  blue  eyes   pierced  hers  with  an  unmistakable  pride  that  anyone  who  lived  in  the  City  of  Glass  had.  He  looked  down   at  her  as  if  she  was  a  piece  of  dirt,  and  grimaced  when  he  saw  her  burnt  hands. She  scuttled  away  from  the  man,  knowing  the  price  of  hurting  a  man  from  the  City  of  Glass   was  whipping,  which  just  leads  to  a  long,  painful  death.  Adelina  considered  running,  but  she  didn’t   know  which  was  her  home,  so  she  cowered  on  the  ground,  shivering  in  the  hot  heat.  She  looked  away   from  the  man  in  shame,  and  squeaked,  “Please  don’t  hurt  me.”  Her  voice  was  dry  and  caked  with  dirt,   and  she  flinched  at  the  sound  of  it. The  man  bent  down  and  raised  Adelina’s  chin  until  she  was  forced  to  look  him  in  the  eye.   “What  a  poor  little  thing.”  The  man  whispered  to  himself.  Then  speaking  to  Adelina,  he  asked,  “Is  this   how  everyone  is  treated  down  here  in  the  City  of  Dust?”  Adelina  nodded  pitifully,  and  ripped  her  gaze   from  his  bright  blue  eyes.   “I,  I...”  Adelina  stuttered  off,  looking  at  the  sunbaked  ground.  “I  must  be  going  home.”  She   scurried  to  her  feet,  but  pain  ripped  down  her  side,  and  then  noticed  the  red  blood  seeping  through  her   shirt.  She  remembered  the  piece  of  glass  from  the  City  of  Glass.  Adelina  grasped  her  side,  and  stumbled,   crumbling  into  a  heap  on  the  cracked  floor.  She  sucked  in  a  breath,  her  hands  sticky  with  blood.  The   pain  of  breathing  came  upon  her,  and  she  folded  in  on  herself  like  a  wounded  dove.  Adelina  swore  quite   viciously  to  herself  as  the  blackness  of  night  enfolded  around  her  vision  and  cuddled  her  into  a  painless   sleep. ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~   Adelina  woke  to  white.  Light,  bright,  white.  She  giggled  to  herself.  Those  three  words  rhyme.   Light.  Bright.  White.  White?  There  is  no  such  thing  as  white  in  the  City  of  Dust.  Adelina  wanted  to  sit   up,  but  her  head  was  a  jumble  of  words  and  images  flashing  before  her  eyes.  She  opened  her  mouth  to   speak,  but  her  tongue  was  as  rough  as  sandpaper.  Her  muscles  didn’t  seem  to  be  responding  to  her   brain’s  commands.   “Oh,  you’re  up.”  A  man’s  voice  drifted  across  the  room  like  how  Adelina  imagined  honey   dripping  down  her  throat  would  feel.  She  had  heard  stories  of  some  women  who  had  found  a  bee’s  nest   after  a  dust  storm.

The boy  she  had  seen  before  in  the  wasteland  came  over  to  Adelina,  his  eyes  brighter  than  ever. Adelina  tried  to  swivel  her  head  around,  but  a  sharp  pain  in  the  back  of  her  eyes  kept  her  from  moving.   “Where  am  I?”  Adelina  asked,  sharp  red  fear  flashing  across  her  body,  energy  collecting  in  her   fingertips.   The  boy  avoided  her  question,  and  rummaged  with  something  out  of  Adelina’s  sight. “Where.  Am.  I?”  She  asked  again,  anger  and  frustration  building  in  her  gut.  She  clenched  her   hands  at  her  sides,  and  glared  at  the  ceiling. The  mans  voice  suddenly  got  very,  very  small.  “Well,  you  were  going  to  die,  you  know,  if  not   from  your  wound  becoming  infected,  but  then  from  dehydration.  In  fact,  I  was  surprised  a  bird  hadn’t   come  and  taken  you  off.” That  may  have  been  better,  Adelina  thought  to  herself.  Instead,  she  just  nodded. “So,  my  only  option  was  to  take  you  to  the  City  of  Glass  to  get  you  proper  medical  treatment.” “What?”  Adelina  screamed,  her  world,  her  life  flashing  before  her  eyes.  She  knew  exactly  how   this  would  end.  In  death.  “I  can’t  be  here!  I  don’t  belong  here!  This  is  punishable  by  death!”  Adelina   started  to  frantically  break  at  the  grasps  holding  her  hands  the  her  sides.   “Would  you  just  please  be  quiet?”  the  boy  pleaded  with  her.  

-­‐-­‐Brooke Weller  

art by  Naira  Mirza

My Daily  Ritual First,  the  darkness  set  in A  low  mist  hung  in  the  trees,  swirling  above omnipresent I  touched  but  the  dark  mud, and  felt  myself  sinking A  cold  breeze  touched  my  face And  every  move  I  made  drew  me  further  to  cold,  damp,  mud And  yet  I  was  still  sinking!    No  longer  did  the  starry  night  sky  hang  above  me,  no  longer  did  the  birds  call. And  I  sank  further,  and  the  wetness  caught  hold  of  my  face Asphyxiated And  then  I  was  able  to  turn  over and  I  was  in  a  grave,  the  walls  of  the  coffin  dried  mud  which  I  sank  through And  the  starry  night  sky  staring  at  me  through  the   omnipresent  clouds And  I  had  a  revelation Something,  I  decided Lying  on  top  of  me  was  an  exquisite  silver and  as  I  put  it  to  my  skin I  saw  a  creek It  trickled gently and melodiously. The  sound  of  the  placid  gush  was  music, a  sweet  aria  in  D  major,  opus  1 that  sang  in  my  body  and  soul My  soul. A  beautiful  red  rose  melting  down  my  skin. And  when  the  music  was  over,  there  was  a  sharp  pain  where   it  stopped. And  thus  opus  1  ended. Darkness  overtook,  while  a  maniacal  joy  coursed  within. I  woke  up I  had  sunk  further,  and  as  the  day  progressed,  I  drifted  down   the  layers  of  mud As  night  came,  the  rain  from  above  chilled  me The  snails  and  worms  of  my  habitation  shared  my  body  with   me And  as  the  day  wore  on  in  such  miserable  desolation, I  longed  for  the  surging  music The  powerful  opus  that  could  revitalize  my  broken  body Presently,  I  found  the  silver  that  I  had  used  the  other  day And  this  time  around,  I  pressed  it  to  my  wrist And  a  bright  opus  in  E  major  played  in  the  river  that  flowed The  trumpets  sounded,  and  to  a  three  beat  menuette  I  found   myself  dancing With  a  most  daunting  and  daring  young  man Whose  dark  stare  bore  into  the  inaccessible  crevices  of  my   soul And  then  he  faded And  I  was  stuck  with  myself In  a  mess  of  pain,  confusion,

art by  Riona  Yoshida do  not  reply

and in  desolation,  through  my  tears,  I  cried,  “more!” And  I  pressed  the  silver  to  my  wrist  again,  harder And  a  torrent  of  horrible  sounding  notes caught  my  surprise. They  spelled  out  enough And  blackness  once  again  stole  my  consciousness As  the  days  wore  on  as  such,  they  passed  as  if  they  were  hazy  summer  dreams. I  had  many  visitors  inquiring  of  me,  but  I  hardly  remember  them. I  remember  they  all  came  and  left,  phases  of  the  moon. Some  perhaps  lingered  longer  than  others,  but  my  present  disposition  surely  bored  them. My  greatest  comfort  in  such  days  was  the  silver. I  learned  I  myself  could  compose  a  piece. When  I  wished  for  the  music  to  be  louder,  I  pressed  harder When  I  wished  for  tranquility,  I  pressed  less. When  I  touched  it  to  my  face,  the  violins  would  be  heard  best When  I  took  the  pains  to  touch  it  lower,  the  base  lines,  the  darker  colors  would  show  themselves. It  was  always  with  the  most  excruciating  pain  that  I  would  force  myself  away  from  my  private  world  of  music. And  if  I  were  to  ever  forget  what  I  had  composed,  the  score  remained  with  me. Dried  music  notes  caked  to  my  body. Dried  puddles  of  rushing  rivers. Though  they  washed  off,  the  scars  stayed. At  last,  these  tasks  became  thankless  and  mundane. What  used  to  have  an  effect  on  me  no  longer  moved  me. What  I  wanted  was  a  symphony,  the  greatest  symphony  to  date. Something  raging  and  powerful  that  even  the  late  Beethoven  could  have  never  conceived. Fearful  of  the  power  I  was  to  embrace,  I  trembled. I  took  the  silver  to  my  neck and  as  it  felt  it  pass  each  layer the  music  crescendoed the  audience  petrified deafening the  drum  beats the  violins the  crashing  Niagara  falls all  over  the  place a  mess the  noise the  light the  dark the  end When  I  woke  up,  I  was  in  a  bed Tubes  were  coming  out  of  me An  ECG  and  funny  little  waves My  parents  stood  by  my  sides Weeping I  lacked  the  understanding  of  human  emotions and  as  they  wept I  was  puzzled  by  their  remorse for  such  a  being  as  myself As  time  progressed,  they  moved  closer  and  closer  to  me Touching  my  hands kissing  me Soon,  their  words  became  sounds Features  became  but  colors

Feelings became  sensations And  I  felt  a  sharp  jab  from  somewhere  within And  for  a  single  moment  my  senses  were  regathered “She  is  not...” -­‐-­‐Greer  Hoffmann

photo by  Maggie  Gray

Shut Off  Your  5:32  Alarm art  by  Katie  Fearon Shut  off  your  5:32  am  alarm   and  watch  the  morning  sky  as  it  turns   into  pink  and  splatters  itself  with   blue.  Sit  there  silently  and  wrap   yourself  up  in  the  absence  of  noise.  In   approximately  28  minutes  you  will  be   back  to  real  life.  Pippa  will  shriek   with  laughter  at  her  cartoons  and   Alfie  will  break  something  else  while   juggling  his  football.  Hiding  in  your   room  will  not  get  you  away  from  the   noise,  unless  you  manage  to  dig  up   earplugs  and  nick  Alfie’s  noise-­‐ cancelling  headphones.   The  trapdoor  will  creak  open   and  the  fluorescent  light  from  the   second  floor  will  flood  into  the  attic.   Squeeze  your  eyes  shut,  and  then   open  them  slowly  as  you  get  used  to   the  bright  lights.  Your  mother’s  voice   will  outscream  the  noise  cancelling   ability  of  the  headphones  and   earplugs  altogether.   IT’S  TIME  TO  WAKE  UP,   IMOGEN! Fold  down  a  corner  of  your   comforter  and  slide  out  of  bed,  then   refold  the  corner  and  follow  your   mother  down  the  ladder—the  only  entrance  and  exit  in  the  attic.   Follow  your  mother  down  the  rickety  stairs  and  to  the  kitchen.  See  the  counter.  See  the   porcelain  plates  and  the  bacon  and  eggs  thrown  onto  them.  Grab  Alfie’s  ear  and  drag  him  to  his   seat,  and  make  sure  Pippa  follows. Get  off,  Immy,  you  hear  Alfie  growl,  yanking  his  head  back  and  tucking  into  his  breakfast.   Being  a  boy,  he  will  devour  his  meal  in  two  minutes  and  then  begin  to  take  food  from  your  and   Pippa’s  plates.  You  will  twist  his  ear  again,  and  he  will  back  down. Get  your  own  food.   He  will  obey  and  give  you  a  vulgar  hand  gesture.  You  shield  it  away  from  Pippa’s  innocent   five  year  old  eyes  and  shake  your  head  at  Alfie.  According  to  everyone  else,  he  will  outgrow  this   behavior  soon  enough.   Glance  at  your  watch  every  few  minutes.  You  can’t  wait  to  get  away  from  your  mother’s   tiny  house  and  visit  Grandma  and  Grandad’s  seaside  mansion  in  Scotland.  You  decide  it  will  be   nice  to  get  away  from  the  noise  of  the  city,  the  cramped  house,  and  broken  windows  (and  of   course,  from  Alfie’s  football  work).  

-­‐-­‐Sof Khu to  read  the  rest  of  the  story,  email

Is it  my  fault? Or  did  you  go because  you  wanted  me  to  suffer Wanted  to  see if  I  cared  enough to  cry And  as  you  see  me  now are  you  happy with  the  way you  and  the  world  are? A  thousand  miles  away but  a  centimeter in  distance  from  me yet  you  still  manage  to  make  me  feel like  this  is  all  my  fault but  who  takes  the  blame when  there  is  only  one who  committed  the  crime? And  now, ask  yourself Are  you  happy with  the  way you  and  the  world  are?

If You  Stopped  To  Notice

-­‐-­‐Makee Anderson

-­‐-­‐Teddy Horangic  If  You  Stopped  To  Notice

photo by  Lauren  Traum

If you  stopped  to  notice the  cherry  blossom  tree

photo by  Jessa  Mellea

Are You  Happy  With  the  Way  You  and  the  World  Are?

in your  backyard during  a  bright  spring  day with  white  clouds  dotting  the  sky and  the  lark  calling  to  it’s  mate then  you  have  seen and  you  have  felt and  you  have  let  for  just  a  moment mother  nature brush  your  heart.  

If You  Stopped  To  Notice If  you  stopped  to  notice the  cherry  blossom  tree in  your  backyard during  a  bright  spring  day with  white  clouds  dotting  the  sky and  the  lark  calling  to  its  mate then  you  have  seen and  you  have  felt and  you  have  let  for  just  a  moment mother  nature brush  your  heart.   -­‐-­‐Teddy  Horangic

My Name My  name  means  star,  or  Princess  of  the  Stars,  or  woman  with  star  face,  or  Morning  Star,  or  Morning  Light  in   the  Nahuatl  language.  I  like  the  meaning  estrella.  It’s  crackly,  and  sweet.  It  reminds  me  of  a  quinceanera  ball  gown  that   glitters  in  the  moonlight,  or  the  moment  you  put  the  whole  bag  of  pop  rocks  in  your  mouth.  My  name  reminds  me  of   the  number  1.  It  has  very  few  curves  expect  the  first  letter.  The  big  C  in  my  name  especially  reminds  me  of  a  pink   concha.  My  name  means  a  big  concha  with  chocolate  de  abuelita  on  a  Sunday  morning.  My  name  is  a  tropical  red  color,   kinda  like  the  color  of  your  tongue  after   drinking  too  much  Hawaiian  Punch.   My  name  was  Mama’s  idea.  She  told   me  she  always  wanted  to  name  her  child  an   Aztec  name  to  preserve  our  culture.  My  name   used  to  belong  to  an  Aztec  Princess.  I  was   ecstatic  that  someone  else  had  my  name  until   I  read  her  story.  She  was  enslaved  by  a   Spaniard  who  killed  the  rest  of  her  family.  Like   my  mama,  I  was  born  in  the  year  of  the  rabbit.   The  year  of  the  rabbit  is  supposed  be  the  lucky   year.  Luck  does  not  run  in  my  family.  I  guess   Princess  Citlalli  didn’t  have  luck  either. I    loved  my  name.  The  way  my  mama   would  say  it.  Citlalli.  She  said  it  as  if  I  were  the   only  Citlalli  in  the  whole  world.  It  sounded   like  a  waterfall  of  words.  I  wore  my  name   proudly  like  a  new  pair  of  white  shoes.  When  I   went  to  school  everyone  didn’t  say  my  name   like  my  mama  would.  The  way  they  said  my   name  hurt  my  ears.  It  sounded  like  someone   trying  to  talk  with  those  things  the  doctor  puts   in  your  mouth  to  take  x-­‐rays.  I  tried  to  correct   them,  but  no  one  ever  got  it  right.   Whenever  a  new  teacher  would  do   the  attendance  they  would  stop  at  one   particular  name.  I  knew  it  was  mine  because   they  would  squint  their  eyes  into  small  fists  as  if  it  would  help  them  say  my  name.  Everyone  would  look  at  me,  they   knew  too.  My  face  looked  like  a  bright  red  tomato.  This  was  the  worst  part.  I  would  have  to  shamefully  raise  up  my   hand  and  say  that  I  am  the  owner  of  that  name,  and  say  it  correctly.  The  teacher,  to  make  up  for  the  embarrassment,   would  usually  say  “Oh!  What  a  beautiful  name.”  My  little  sister  Montserrat  has  a  name  worse  than  mine.  Saying  it  is  like   try  to  talk  with  a  mouth  filled  with  sticky  caramel. If  I  would    rename  myself  I  would  name  myself  Abril.  It  sounds  pretty  in  both  Spanish,  and  English.  It  smells   like  the  air  after  it  rains,  and  looks  like  the  calm  before  the  storm.  Abril  is  like  the  flower  No  Me  Olvides.  Soft  blue,  like   the  color  of  the  sky,  or  like  the  Downy  detergent  my  mama  used  to  put  in  my  clothes.    The  flower  has  a  little  golden   ring  in  the  middle  that  reminds  me  of  the  ring  my  mama  used  to  wear.  It  sounds  like  the  Cuban  records  my  papa  plays   when  he  is  mowing  the  lawn  on  Saturday  mornings.  It  feels  like  jumping  in  the  Arroyo  Seco  on  a  hot  July  afternoon.  It   sounds  more  like  me.  Citlalli  is  a  name  for  a  loud,  crazy  person.  It  is  not  a  name  for  me.   The  hurt  in  my  ears  eventually  faded  away,  and  I  gave  up  trying  to  correct  people.  My  shiny  white  shoes  I  used   to  wear  so  proudly  by  then  were  grey,  and  dirty.  Some  would  say  “Am  I  saying  it  right?”  I  would  say  yes,  it’s  perfect,   when  really  it  was  nowhere  close.  There  are  some  people  who  actually  want  to  say  my  name  right.  They  would  try   unsuccessfully,  but  it  would  make  me  feel  better  that  they  cared  enough  to  try.  Is  that  my  name  now?  The  ugly  sticky   name  people  call  me  everyday?  When  my  name  was  said  the  right  way  it  would  even  sound  strange  to  me.  It  was  as  if  it   wasn’t  my  name  anymore.  But  there  I  am.  In  a  sea  of  Katherine’s,  Natalie’s,  and  Lauren’s.  I  am  the  huge,  bright  orange   fish,  and  sometimes  I  like  that.  

-­‐-­‐Citlalli Contreras photo  by  Elizabeth  Foster

photo by  Alexia  Romani

photo by  Jordan  Jackson

A Future  Untold a  large  gaping  hole. the  starry  fabric  of  time  stretching  out  between  you  and  your  future. it  surrounds  you,  rising  around  your  feet. meeting  your  ankles,  yawning  over  your  hips. engulfing  your  shoulders. a  sigh  escapes  your  lips. at  last,  it  sinks  into  the  earth,  swallowing  you. taking  you  with  it  to  the  depths  beneath. the  bright  dawn  of  the  future  seems  so  far  away  to  you,  beyond  your  reach. beyond  your  lilac-­‐scented  time  fabric. lilacs. they  bring  dreams. you  feel  dreamy,  light  as  a  cloud. it  is  midnight,  and  the  sun  never  comes  out  of  the  shadows. darkness  dominates. time  halts,  ceasing  to  exist. it  hangs,  suspended  like  bubbles  trapped  in  a  sea  of  blown  glass too  late,  it  is  gone,  slipping  away  with  a  rustle  of  silk the  early  dawn  seems  so  far  away,  too  far. just  out  of  your  reach,  waiting. waiting,  just  over  the  horizon,  beyond  your  lilac-­‐scented  time  fabric. -­‐-­‐Kaitlin  Rhee

art by  Robin  Sandell

Friends of  the  Flawed friends  of  the  flawed, says  september’s  child, where  have  you  gone? did  you  escape  to  the  east where  the  fourth  son  won’t be  able  to  drown  out  your  mind? or  did  you  flee  to  the  west where  the  seventh  daughter can’t  sing  you  to  shreds? must  you  hide  from  us? we  are  all  one, despite  the  blustery  air of  the  third,   or  the  shivering  nights   of  the  eleventh friends  of  the  flawed, she  called, come  home. -­‐-­‐Gwen  Cusing

art by  Alexa  Miller

Alone poetry, are  you  alone? are  you  filled  with  our  sadness  and  weariness? no  poem  wants  to  be  bound  in  chains left  for  years  to  gather  dust  on  an  old  bookshelf read  in  a  boring,  monotone  voice. most  poems  I  know  want  to  be  read  with   expression,  feeling,  passion they  do  not  want  to  be  mistreated,   misunderstood,  inspected,  poked,  prodded like  a  scientific  experiment   gone  wrong they  want  to  give  ideas,  to  make  people  think they  do  not  want  to  be  written  for   school  assignments,  homework they  need  to  have  inspiration,   and  cannot  stand  to  be  flat  sentences just  written  for  the  sake  of  a  good  grade,   or  business poetry,  do  you  feel  desolate, used,  tossed  aside like  a  shiny  new  book,   read  in  great  excitement only  to  be  put  away  next  month to  gather  dust  on  that  bookshelf? or  do  you,  perhaps,  feel   loved,  treasured like  an  old  worn  book with  yellowing  pages,  a  faded  blue  cover but  no  dust  gathering   still  read  with  great  care,  deep  thoughts? and  when  the  reader  turns  the  pages, does  she  turn  them  carefully, so  she  does  not  rip  your  spine so  she  does  not  crease  the  corners     of  your  pages? surely  you  want  to  evoke  emotion have  the  reader  experience  your  words explore  the  meaning  further. poetry,  are  you  alone? -­‐-­‐Kaitlin  Rhee

photo by  Nicole  Orsak

Silently, Silently

photo by  Natalie  Tuck

December 3rd,  1847            The  wind  speaks  to  me   on  days  like  these.  These   days,  when  the  grass  is  a   dead  brown  and  the  sky  is   as  grey  as  old  Rufus’  fur.   On  these  days,  mother   tells  us  not  to  go  outside   for  fear  of  the  winter’s   chill  and  the  bog  swamp   demons.  But  Ophelia  and   me,  we  are  much  too  old   for  tales  of  monsters  and   creatures.  It  doesn’t  work   on  us  anymore.  Yet,   mother  continues.  

Sometimes, I  think  she  misses  the  way  we  were  when  we  were  children.            Oh,  but  if  you  had  heard  the  way  the  wind  danced  and  spun  in  the  air:  truly  it  was  magical.  Mother  says   many  things  these  days  and  one  of  them  is  to  not  fraternize  with  the  things  I  cannot  possibly  fathom.  But  I   can  fathom  what  the  wind  says  .  .  .  if  Ophelia  does.            Ophelia  knows  many  things,  and  I  love  her  for  it.  I  would  gladly  follow  her  anywhere.              But  then  again,  what  more  would  you  expect  from  a  sister?         -­‐From  the  Journal  of  Elodie  Fairchild          The  graveyard  is  silent  when  I  arrive  there  on  Christmas  Day.  Perhaps  the  people  don’t  want  to  spend   too  much  time  mourning  for  their  loved  ones  on  such  a  holiday  as  this:  with  carolers,  festive  lights  and   Father  Christmas.  What  more  could  we  want?  Yet  I  feel  a  slight  chill  run  down  my  spin  from  being  here   alone.            It’s  the  single  cross  on  the  family  of  graves  that  alerts  me  to  their  presence.  I  finger  the  tiny  trinkets  in   my  hand  and  make  my  way  across  the  frosty  ground,  being  careful  not  to  step  too  loudly.  Even  the   graveyard  would  like  its  peace  every  once  in  a  while.  I  kneel  down  at  the  nearest  tombstone:  the  smallest   one  with  the  smallest  inscription.            “Here,  sister,”  I  whisper,  placing  down  the  smallest  item  I  hold  in  my  hand.  It  is  a  small  raven  pendant:   not  unlike  the  one  I  was  given  for  my  17th.  “Elodie  Fairchild,”  I  run  my  hands  down  the  tiny  words  that  are   inscribed  along  the  stone.  “Beloved  daughter  and  sister.”  I  leave  the  raven  at  the  foot  of  her  grave,  only   stopping  to  take  one  look  at  it  before  moving  onto  mother  and  father.          For  them  I  leave  a  small  bracelet  and  an  old  stopwatch.  My  parents  were  not  lovers  of  material   happiness.            But  it  is  the  final  grave  I  avoid  with  all  costs.  It  stands  alone  in  the  center  of  the  three,  as  if  it  is  a  king   waiting  to  be  coronated.  No  words  are  inscribed  on  its  cold  exterior,  yet  it  makes  me  feel  sick  every  time  I   so  much  as  lay  my  eyes  on  its  body.            “Who  are  you?”  I  ask,  “why  are  you  here?”          It  is  near  sundown  when  I  return  home. December  6th  1849          Ophelia  told  me  this  morning  of  mother’s  plan  for  her  and  me.  There  is  a  man  coming  today;  a  man  of   great  stature.  Whether  he  is  a  gentleman  or  not  is  a  mystery  to  everyone  in  the  house,  but  father  insists  that   we  give  him  a  chance.

“Your future  lies  with  him,”  he  told  us.  “And  whether  he  accepts  you  or  not.”          If  the  former  is  the  case,  then  what  will  happen?  Father  has  allowed  him  to  court  both  Ophelia  and  me  but   surely  he  will  take  Ophelia’s  hand?  I  am  young  –  too  young  to  grow  up  under  the  hand  of  someone  I  couldn’t   possibly  know.            And  Ophelia  doesn’t  want  him  either.       -­‐From  the  Journal  of  Elodie  Fairchild          Nurse  waits  for  me  when  I  get  home.            “Mistress  Ophelia,”  she  greets  me,  her  voice  tired  and  hoarse.  “Won’t  you  sit  down  and  comfort  your  old   nursie,  dear?  She’s  had  a  long  day.”          I  look  at  her  closely.  Her  skin  is  sallow  and  pale  and  her  cheeks  have  sunken  in  from  hunger.  Her  hands   are  as  thin  as  spider’s  legs  and  her  gaze  is  unfocused  and  glassy.  I  shiver  at  her  cold  and  childlike  demeanor.   There  has  been  something  off  with  Nurse  ever  since  she  came.            I  sigh,  looking  out  into  the  dying  garden  of  my  home.  “Not  now,  nurse.  What’s  happened  to  my  garden?”          She  looks  up,  curiosity  crowding  her  otherwise  dead  face.            “Why,  what  garden,  mistress  Ophelia?”          I  tap  my  foot  impatiently.            “My  garden,  nurse.  Right  outside.  You  were  instructed  to  tend  to  it  daily.”        When  her  eyes  resume  their  glazed  and  far-­‐off  expression,  I  shake  my  head  and  head  into  the  lounge.  The   windows  are  large  and  rectangular:  meant  to  let  in  the  bright  sunshine,  but  today  they  only  show  the  grey   darkness  of  the  sky.  The  empty,  empty  sky.          I  frown  as  I  run  my  fingers  over  the  dusty  couches  and  the  broken  portraits.  It  has  been  so  long  since  I’ve   been  into  town,  but  Nurse  doesn’t  like  it  when  I  leave  the  house  unless  it  is  to  go  to  the  graveyard.  She   speaks  of  dangers  and  the  cruelty  of  society;  as  if  she  knows  so  much  about  life.  How  long  has  it  been  since  I   have  seen  another  face?  Long  enough  to  feel  as  if  I  will  go  mad.         December  15th,  1850            Ophelia  tells  me  that  I  shouldn’t  be  nervous.  But  how  can  I  stop  the  jitters  that  seize  me  so?  The  man  who   came  last  year,  and  the  year  before  were  all  terrible.  They  had  horrible  manners,  and  arrogant  natures  that  I   just  could  not  stand!  How  can  father  expect  me  to  spend  and  devote  my  life  to  someone  like  this?  It  is   impossible  to  ask  me  such  a  thing.            Nevertheless,  another  man  is  coming.  This  one,  I  presume  will  be  much  worse  than  the  years  before.  I  am   dreading  that  moment.  Yet,  there  is  one  thing  that  is  keeping  me  going:  Ophelia,  dear  sister.  She  promised  that   she  will  stay  by  my  side  until  the  end  –  no  matter  how  terrible  that  man  is.  Oh,  how  did  I  ever  deserve  such  a   sister?  She  is  truly  a  blessing.  Truly.          I  just  hope  she  never  leaves  me.       -­‐From  the  Journal  of  Elodie  Fairchild          I  return  to  the  graveyard  the  following  morning  due  to  Nurse’s  increasingly  strange  behavior.  I  like  to   avoid  her  when  she’s  like  that.          Bending  down  amidst  the  roses  that  grow  along  the  circle  of  tombstones,  I  pick  one  up  daintily  and  lay  it   across  the  unknown  headstone.  Unlike  the  others,  it  is  as  cold  as  arctic  ice  and  I  pull  my  hand  away  in   shock.            “Who  are  you?”  I  ask  again,  my  voice  echoing  strangely  in  the  open  atmosphere.  It  is  strange  to  be  buried   amidst  my  family  without  permission  and  a  rush  of  foreboding  seizes  my  heart.  I  gasp  and  sink  to  the   ground,  staring  at  its  cold  empty  surface.  The  mystery  of  the  body  that  lies  under  this  rock  is  as   unfathomable  as  ever.  As  I  did  not  oversee  the  death  of  my  family,  I  never  saw  them  being  buried  or   lowered  into  their  tomb.  We  did  not  have  many  family  friends  either  .  .  .  just  close  relatives.  Yet  all  had  died   ages  ago  and  I  never  saw  their  faces  even  as  a  child.

I reach  out  slowly,  brushing  my  hand  against  the  tombstone  again  as  the  sensation  of  ice  rushes  through   my  fingers  again.            A  light  shuffling  of  feet  close  by  alert  me  to  a  new  presence  and  I  freeze.          “Oh,  lady,  lady,”  Nurse  whimpers,  limping  forward  to  the  family  graves.  I  take  a  step  back  as  I  see  her   eyes:  blank.          “Nurse?”  I  whisper.  I  tug  on  her  sleeve  lightly,  but  she  does  not  react.  She  merely  shuffles  forward  and   falls  flat  on  her  face  in  front  of  the  unnamed  grave.            “Oh,  lady,  lady,”  she  repeats,  mumbling  into  the  ground.  “So  sad,  so  sad.”  She  takes  out  a  long  keychain  –   my  keychain  –  and  lays  it  on  the  stone.          “Mistress  Ophelia,”  she  whispers,  scratching  my  name  onto  the  cold  surface.  Her  nails  make  horrible   screeching  sounds  as  she  digs  them  deep  into  the  tombstone.          My  blood  runs  cold  as  my  name  appears  on  the  gray  memorial.   Ophelia  Fairchild. Beloved  daughter  and  sister. 1837  –  1855          “No!”  my  mind  screams  at  me  to  move,  to  yell  to  shout  –  anything  –  but  I  cannot  make  my  feet  budge.   “No,”  I  repeat.  “This  cannot  be.  This  cannot  be!”  I  turn  around  and  seize  Nurse’s  shoulders,  shaking  her   hard.  They  are  bony  and  frail  –  as  thin  as  a  bird’s  –  but  I  do  not  relent.            “Nurse!”  I  yell,  “Nurse,  wake  up  and  tell  me  what’s  going  on!”  but  her  eyes  remain  as  lifeless  as  always.  I   slap  her  hard  in  the  face  and  she  tumbles  to  the  ground.  Her  very  form  disintegrates  in  front  of  my  eyes.          “What  –”  I  sit  hard  upon  the  ground  in  silence.  The  blood  is  rushing  through  my  ears,  screaming  and   shouting.  My  hand  reaches  up  to  tug  the  hair  from  my  face  and  encounters  tears.  I  wipe  my  face  angrily,   picking  myself  up  from  the  ground.  As  the  wind  howls  around  my  ears,  I  scream  into  the  graveyard,   covering  my  face  angrily.          And  there  is  no  one  there.  No  one  in  the  graveyard,  or  the  town.  No  one  in  the  houses  by  the  stream  .  .  .   no  one  in  the  small  tea  shop  that  I  used  to  visit  with  my  mother.          No,  there  is  no  one  there.          Not  one  single  person. December  25th,  1855          Believe  me  when  I  say  it  was  an  accident.          She  was  going  to  leave  me.  She  was  going  to  run  off  into  the  distance  and  never  come  back.  Never  see  my   face  again.  Oh,  how  selfish!  To  think  of  just  herself  and  run  off,  leaving  me  with  that  horrible  man.  I  would   have  never  forgiven  her.          And  when  she  told  me  the  news,  believe  me  I  screamed.  I  screamed  and  I  begged,  I  threw  myself  onto  the   ground.  At  her  feet.            But  she  would  not  relent.  And  when  it  was  time  for  her  to  go,  I  grabbed  her  and  twisted  so  ferociously  it   happened  all  so  sudden.          Believe  me  when  I  say  it  was  an  accident.              Oh,  how  can  I  live  with  myself  now?  The  shame  is  overbearing  and  it  tears  at  my  heart  constantly.  Mother   and  father,  oh  how  they  grieve.  They  found  her  in  the  kitchen,  her  body  lying  limp  on  the  floor.          I’m  so  sorry,  Ophelia.          I  can  only  hope  that  you  are  happy  where  you  are.       -­‐From  the  Journal  of  Elodie  Fairchild ~Fin~  

-­‐-­‐Noel Peng


photo by  Gwen  Cusing

Pouring silver  ink Over  luscious  land Over  rolling  waves Or  over  barren  sand In  a  little  circle I  slowly  turn  around And  face  another  land And  hear  another  sound But  you  don’t  see  me  turning Instead  you  see  me  grow And  once  I  reach  the  maximum I  turn  around  to  go And  that’s  when  my  twin Turns  to  shine  your  way Her  warm  heat  and  shine Are  there  throughout  the  day -­‐-­‐Simran  Sandhu

photo by  Jolie  Kemp

photo by  Emi  Sears

-­‐-­‐Robin  Sandell

And pat  him  with  the  very  kindest  touch, For  Ely  we  do  love  so  very  much.

At night  with  the  coyotes  he  does  howl. At  day  he  chases  squirrels  and  rabbits  far And  comes  back  with  a  smell  that’s  rather  foul. We  still  let  him  sit  with  us  in  the  car

His eyes  they  are  a  lovely,  dark,  deep  blue, And  soft  white  ruffles  sit  upon  his  neck. A  long  pink  tongue  is  hanging  out  with  goo. Fur  tangled  up  with  burrs  is  such  a  wreck.

Sweet Ely  is  the  nicest  dog  I  know. He  licks  my  face  and  curls  up  in  a  ball And  lifts  me  up  when  I  am  feeling  low. He  comes  a  running  at  the  slightest  call.

Sonnet About  My  Dog

Fur Romeo’s fur  is  straight  and  short,  more  like  hair  than  the  others.  It  is  smooth  and  oily,  almost   slippery  on  the  surface.  It  is  wild,  too.  Romeo  with  the  fur  that  flies.  When  he  runs,  you  can  see   it  flying  off,  almost  as  excited  as  he  is.  While  he  looks  black,  the  individual  hairs  are  all  gray.   They  just  have  black  tips-­‐-­‐he  looks  big  and  dark  and  black,  but  underneath  all  that  is  the  fluffy   gray,  that  nobody  ever  sees  unless  they  live  with  him  and  get  it  all  over  their  clothes.  It  clings  to   them  like  plastic  wrap.  I  never  walk  out  of  the  house  without  not-­‐black  hairs  sticking  to  my   pants. Roxie  is  the  beauty  queen.  Her  fur  is  long  and  sleek,  a  nice  chestnut-­‐coppery  color  that  almost   shines  when  the  sun  hits  it.  It  hangs  down  in  ways  that  would  make  other  dogs  look  shaggy,  but   it  just  makes  her  look  like  royalty.  She  has   black  highlights  that  glide  through  her  fur   like  a  river,  and  you  don’t  even  notice  them   until  you  get  to  her  tail,  where  the  black   takes  over.  But  it  is  not  Romeo’s  surface   obsidian  black,  hers  is  more  like  a  subtle   ash  black.  Even  her  ears  are  beautiful,  with   the  fur  coming  down  like  a  waterfall,  a   small  cascade  of  black  on  the  side.  When   you  pet  her,  the  copper  is  smooth,  but  not   smooth  like  Romeo,  who  is  a  fast  smooth   that  slides  off  your  hands-­‐-­‐it  is  a  soft   feeling,  a  warm  kind  of  smooth.   Neither  of  them  have  fur  like  Riley’s,   though.  Riley  was  the  best.  He  had  a  great   big  crown  of  golden  fur,  like  a  lion,  that   rose  up  around  his  neck.  His  fur  was  like  a   sheep’s,  thick  and  wooly  and  never  ending.   When  you  hugged  him,  you  would  sink  into   it.  You  could  bury  your  entire  face  in  his   fur,  and  never  come  up.  It  smelled  warm,   and  safe,  like  the  fireplace  that  he  would  lay   near  or  the  Christmas  tree  that  he  rubbed   against.  His  fur  was  a  sleepy  kind  of   golden-­‐-­‐my  sisters  would  say  yellow   sometimes,  but  I  always  corrected  them,   golden.  He  had  a  river  in  his  fur,  too,  but  not  like  Roxie’s.  His  river  was  swirling  and  curly,  with   different  hues  of  gold  woven  in  with  the  creamy  white  of  his  snout  and  paws.  Riley  had  that  soft,   safe  golden  that  you  could  disappear  into  and  know  that  it  would  always,  always  be  there,  even   though  one  day    it  wouldn’t.  

-­‐-­‐Kate Dreyfus photo  by  Elizabeth  Foster

The Children The  people. They  walked  through  the  thickening  fog Of  fear-­‐birthed  answers   To  the  questions  of   The  world

“We are  on  the  move  now” They  said,  their  eyes  filled With  the  bright  hope   Of  an  end “We  are  on  the  move  now. Like  an  idea  whose  time  has  come.”  (King)

And in  doing  so Their  voices,  raised  to  the  sky, Pleading Came  a  great  many  answers All  lies.   All  truths.

And the  people Who  cherish  their  liberty Who  dream  of  justice Who  cry  out  for  liberation Do  not  sit  and  wait. Oh  no.  

“Help,” they  begged  the  sky,  “Help.  .  . For  my  child  who’s  lost  within  the  drowning   words That  your  ancestors  so  willingly  badgered  their   hearts  with Is   In  the  free  spirit  of  this  country My  home,  my  home  America.”

In the  silent  hours  of  the  night A  child  dreams. Dreams  of  laughter  and  brightness Dreams  of  happy  days  and  carefree  hours Dreams  of  dreams  that  cannot  possibly  come   true Oh  no.

And the  children Who  so  willingly  fell  prey  .  .  .   Listened. Listened  with  their  tiny  hearts. To  the  propaganda Of  a  thousand  hateful  souls Gathered  near  the  center  of  life  itself Which  poisoned  nearly  a  thousand  minds. Yet  the  people  continued.

For a  child’s  dreams  are  a  child’s  dreams And  child’s  dreams  are  lost  to  the  world From  the  very  hearts  of  the  people Who  stand  together In  perfect,  military  lines. And  campaign   For  something  so  much  bigger .  .  .    a  child’s  dream  is  all  they  have. -­‐-­‐Noel  Peng

photo by  Isabella  Wang

photo by  Jordan  Jackson

Magic Chalk  Art The  chalk  flew  into  my  hand the  dusty  tails  of  colored  sticks   paved  a  trail  down  my  arm.   The  sunset  gold  dripped  out,  flowering  a  smiling  sun seeds  panned  out  in  a  single  stroke growing  taller  into  trees. A  forest  surrounded  me,  frothy  branches  layering  across  the  sky.   I  swept  the  chalk  across  my  legs Thin  bands  of  leaves  circleted  the  air weaving  into  a  sheet. They  twirled  around  my  stomach surrounding  me  with  an  earthbound  blanket.                                                                         -­‐-­‐Sophia  Nevle  Levoy                                

photo by  Elyse  Garreau Firework First,  the  sky  lights  up A  poisonous  green Then  an  electric  red Flaring,  then  dying The  crowd  is  lost  in  its  beauty The  waterfall  of  sparks  pour  from   the  bridge They  ooh  and  ahh The  loud  pops  from  you Can’t  be  heard For  the  cheers And  shouts And  cries From  the  crowd. It  might  not  even  cross  their  minds But  they  are  thinking All  the  same  thing. So  this  is  true  beauty. -­‐-­‐Freya  Forstall

photo by  Christine  Cho

The Story  of  a  Girl,  a  River,  a  Jump,  and  a  Name The  first  thing  you  should  know  about  my  name  is  that  my  father  is  very  afraid  of   heights.  Whenever  standing  on  the  edge  of  a  cliff,  a  balcony,  and  mountain...  he  does  this  oddly   choreographed  dance.  First  flinching,  a  little  feminine  squeak,  and  then  walking  backwards   from  it  with  tiny  steps. I  wonder  if  he  did  this  when  he  first  met  the  girl  by  the  river. My  mother  and  he  were  engaged,  and  were  visiting  some  old  friends  out  in  the  country.   The  girl’s  name  was  Jessamine,  and  she  wore  no  shoes  and  a  wild  grin.  She  was  my  parent’s   friends  daughter,  only  a  tiny  little  thing  in  my  parents’  previous  visits. Jessamine  did  daredevil  jumps  from  the  cliffs  by  the  river.  She  grabbed  my  mother’s   hand  and  they  leaped  in,  screams  chasing  after  them.  They  climbed  back  up  with  difficulty  and   adrenaline,  shaking  and  shivering  under  the  coat  of  water  around  them.  My  mom  had  so  much   fun  that  day.  She  told  me  about  it  twenty  years  later  or  so.  Anyway,  they  decided  it  was  time  to   make  my  father  stop  freaking  out  and  flinching  each  time  a  drop  of  water  hit  his  foot.  Jessamine   scurried  to  one  side  of  him,  mom  to  the  other.  And  that  universal  woman  thoughts-­‐connection   allowed  them  to  grab  his  hands  at  the  same  time  and  jump  down  into  the  river,  his  screaming   drowning  out  theirs. The  name,  you  might  ask?  An  ugly  baby  swimming  in  a  pool  of  goo  was  deposited  on  a   white  table.  My  mother  didn’t  know  what  to  think,  and  maybe  the  hormones  were  clouding  her   vision  a  bit.  I’m  too  afraid  to  ask  her  if  that  was  the  cause.  When  she  looked  at  my  father,  she   saw  a  reflection  of  a  river,  a  girl,  and  jump  in  his  eyes.  From  those  images,  her  mind  formed  a   name.  “Jessie,”  she  said. Jessie  is  a  name  crafted  to  be  a  boulder  dowsed  in  river  water.  Surrounded  by  algae  and   little  tadpoles,  tall  and  tawny  green  trees.  Jessie  is  an  odd  word  to  say,  stuffed  with  a  mouthful   of  vowels,  but  yet  flows  out  like  a  river.  Everyone  in  the  English  world  can  pronounce  it  with   ease.  Jessie,  if  it  could  be  a  number,  would  be  infinity.  You  cannot  count  the  drops  of  water  in  a   river.  Jessie,  if  it  were  an  animal  would  be  a  sly  one...exotic,  daredevilish,  full  of  pools  of  wisdom   and  jumps  of  stupidity.  A  roaring  river  like  a  roaring  tiger?  Or  an  aardvark,  exotic,  stupid-­‐ looking...Jessie  is  undefined.   To  this  day  I  look  back  on  this  ridiculous  river  of  a  name,  and  wonder  what  Jessamine   was  like.  How  cold  the  water  was  that  day.  If  one  day,  I’ll  find  that  river,  grab  my  parent’s   hands,  and  jump.  

art by  Cali  Triantis

-­‐-­‐Jessie Karan

Domino You don’t  think  about  it  until  you  know  of  it, You  don’t  know  of  it  until  you  learn  of  it, You  don’t  learn  of  it  until  you  can  handle  it, You  don’t  handle  it  until  you  understand  it, You  don’t  understand  it  until  you  experience  it, And  you  hope  to  never  experience  it.   A  feeling  of  cold, A  feeling  of  darkness, A  feeling  of  hate, A  feeling  of  anger, Cold,  dark,  hate  and  anger. And  one  question.   Why?   Death  is  cold, Death  is  dark, Death  is  hate Death  is  anger. It  makes  you  feel  lonely, It  makes  you  feel  vulnerable,   It  makes  you  feel  lost,   And  it  makes  you  feel  trapped. You  are  a  domino. Death  is  what  pushes  you  over. It  brings  down  all  those  in  its  path. It’s  destructive, And  it’s  selfish.   It  needs  all  for  itself,   No  matter  what  age. Whether  they’ve  barely  seen  the  world, Or  finally  left  it  behind.     I  lost  a  friend, She  barely  got  a  grasp  on  life, She  was  young, She  was  brave. Vulnerability. It  takes  hold. One  domino, Falling.   And  so  do  the  rest. -­‐-­‐Jenna  Karan

photo by  Natalie  Barch

Who Am  I? Darkness,  looking  into  a  mirror I  don’t  see  anything,  only  fear When  they  come  in  it  starts  to  stink If  only  they  knew  that  I  could  think It  is  lonely  in  this  cage When  someone  comes  in,  they  take  center  stage I  don’t  know  why  I’m  afraid Some  old  woman,  she  likes  to  stay  with  me  all  day I  enjoy  hearing  her  talk  and  sing Sometimes  her  laptop  she  likes  to  bring I'm  treated  like  a  second  choice That's  why  I  like  to  hear  her  voice Death,  pain,  crying  and  sorrow   Her  daughter's  goldfish,  she  won't  see  tomorrow They  drop  something  different  off  each  day Eventually  it  ends  up  in  the  bay After  they’re  with  me,  less  they  will  weigh When  they  think  of  me  they  laugh  and  make  fun They  make  jokes  about  me  with  a  different    pun But  they  don't  know  I  have  a  heart I  guess  that's  a  pretty  good  start. Who  am  I?   -­‐-­‐Chloe  Middler

photo by  Zoe  Sarrazin

Flame Once there  was  a  man. This  man  had  a  family. His  child  was  dying  and  his  wife,  as  smart  as  she  was,  could  not  cure  it. The  mother  held  the  child  and  found  it  growing  cold. The  earth  at  this  time  was  particularly  cold  so,  to  feel  someone  who  was  colder  than  the  earth  was  not  only   unusual  but  also  scary. One  night  as  the  family  slept  the  parents  dreamt. The  father  dreamt  of  a  high-­‐speed  race  but,  this  race  took  place  at  night  and  besides  the  moon  and  stars   there  was  a  bright  light. An  unconceivable  light. One  that  looked  as  though  it  was  from  the  unimaginable  punishment  of  what  was  believed  to  be  hell. The  mother  dreamt  of  a  rainy  landscape,  which  was  interrupted  by  a  spark  of  glowing  light. However  she  was  dreaming  of  the  night  and  a  light  such  as  this,  which  was  so  small  and  so  faint,  could  not   have  existed. This  light,  as  small  and  faint  as  it  was,  glowed  softly,  which  compelled  the  mother  to  continue  dreaming. The  mother  looked  around  within  her  dream  world  and  recognized  the  place  where  she  stood. She  looked  around  longer  and  saw  two  shadowed  figures  creep  toward  the  light. A  chill  ran  down  her  spine  as  she  looked  at  one  figure. It  was  not  uncommon  for  people  to  have  a  cold  air  around  them  for,  the  earth  was  quite  cold  at  this  time. However  one  of  the  figures  had  a  particularly  cold  air  about  him. Too  cold. The  mother  redirected  her  focus  toward  the  light. She  wondered  what  it  could  do  whether  good  or  bad,  after  all  it  was  so  small  and  so  faint. As  the  shadowed  figures  made  their  way  to  the  light  the  cold  man  made  a  grab  for  it. A  thunderstorm  echoed  in  the  ears  of  the  little  family  and  it  woke  them  all  up. First  the  father  woke  up. He  saw  that  outside  their  little  makeshift  home  it  was  raining. The  mother  woke  up  second. She  too  looked  outside  but  found  no  lightning  falling  from  the  sky. The  baby  woke  up  last  and  began  to  cry. A  thing  it  had  not  done  in  a  long  time. The  parents  rushed  to  the  baby. The  father  calmed  it  down  and  then  the  mother  cradled  it  back  to  sleep. Just  before  the  baby’s  eyes  closed  the  mother  saw  a  faint  glowing  twinkle  in  them. When  the  baby  fell  to  sleep  once  more  the  mother  looked  outside. She  saw  the  lightning. This  lightning  was  the  most  powerful  lightning  she  had  ever  seen. For  a  moment  after  the  lightning  had  struck  the  air  around  it  was  covered  in  a  cascading,  golden  light. It  slowly  decreased  but  the  mother  could  still  feel  its  presence. The  mother  told  her  husband  to  go  to  the  place  she  had  seen  in  her  dreams  and  to  find  the  soft  glowing   light  and  bring  it  back  home. The  husband  seemed  wary  but  she  continued  to  push  him  outside. She  told  him  to  go  get  the  light  to  save  their  child  and  before  the  cold  man  could  reach  it. The  father  went  off  in  the  rain  past  the  places  he  had  seen  in  his  dream,  to  the  place  his  wife  told  him  to  be. When  he  arrived  he  saw  a  soft  glowing  light.   It  was  golden,  like  a  precious  metal.

Not bloody  red  as  he  had  seen  in  his  dream. It  was  soft  and  gentle. Unlike  the  roaring  pyre  he  had  dreamt  of. As  he  crept  toward  the  light  he  saw  another  man  in  the  distance. As  the  father  looked  at  this  man,  he  felt  cold. Everyone  on  the  earth  at  this  time  was  cold  but  this  was  too  cold.   There  was  something  about  this  man’s  cold  aura  that  lead  the  father  to  believe  this  man  was  selfish  and   wanted  the  light  to  be  harbored  away  and  to  never  see  the  surface. The  two  men  crept  closer  and  as  the  selfish  man  was  about  to  grab  the  light,  the  father  swooped  in,   snatched  the  light  up  and  began  to  run  home. The  sky  continued  to  rain  and  thunder  but  no  lightning,  which  confused  the  husband,  but  he  shook  it  off   for,  he  was  focused  on  running  back  home. The  light  felt  warm  in  his  hands. It  was  something  that  he  had  never  experienced  before  but  became  quickly  adjusted  to. Then  the  father  had  a  craving  for  more  heat. He  breathed  onto  the  light  to  see  if  it  could  become  warmer. It  did. However  it  became  less  soft  and  hardened  a  little. The  color  changed  from  a  light  and  precious  speck  of  gold  to  a  hearty  yellow  like  the  sun. This  alarmed  the  father  and  he  lost  his  addiction  to  the  light  immediately. He  breathed  upon  it  once  more  to  try  and  cool  it  down. This  did  not  work. The  soft  rounded  aura  became  sharper  and  smaller. The  color  became  orange  with  a  hint  of  yellow  still  existing  and  a  hint  of  red  color  appearing. This  frightened  the  father  so  much  he  dropped  the  light. The  light  spread  across  the  ground  like  liquid. The  red  was  added  more  and  more  to  the  color. Steam  began  to  rise. The  father  found  a  log  to  let  the  light  cling  onto  but  it  began  to  burn  the  log  as  well. The  light  was  slowly  charring  the  log,  coming  closer  to  the  father’s  hand  when  he  began  to  run  again. With  limited  time  to  get  back  home  the  father  faced  yet  another  problem. The  selfish  man  began  to  attack  the  father. The  man  had  begun  to  beat  the  father,  prodding  at  him  harshly,  and  grabbing  at  the  withering  log. When  the  selfish  man  could  not  hold  on  to  the  log  he  would  let  go,  allowing  the  father  a  chance  to  reclaim   it. The  man  would  yell  into  the  father’s  ear  to  give  it  to  him  because  it  was  his. He  would  yell  to  give  it  to  him  because  it  belonged  to  him  and  no  one  else. The  father  continued  to  run. The  father  looked  at  the  light  once  more  to  see  it  had  turned  to  the  light  in  his  dreams. It  was  in  fact  not  a  light  at  all  but,  pure  fury. A  fire. Then  the  father  let  go  of  the  log.   The  selfish  man  caught  it  just  in  time  to  grasp  it  once  and  then  have  the  wood  burn  away. The  fire  engulfed  the  selfish  man  and  was  then  no  more. The  father  stood  there  watching  the  rain  douse  the  smoke  and  ashes. He  saw  that  all  remained  of  the  log  was  a  splinter  that  lay  in  the  grass. He  stared  blankly  into  the  night  sky,  which  thundered  once  more. Then  he  remembered  that  the  light  was  supposed  to  save  his  child. The  man  fell  to  his  knees.

Looked up  into  the  sky  and  whispered  softly  one  word. Please. Then  the  second  lightning  bolt  struck  the  splinter  and  caused  it  to  emit  soft  white  sparks. The  father  bent  down  and  held  the  sparks  in  his  hand. This  time  he  exhaled  ever  so  gently  and  turned  the  sparks  into  the  small  golden  light  he  had  once  had  a   hunger  for. He  then  proceeded  home,  careful  not  to  breathe  upon  it  any  more. When  he  reached  home  the  father  gave  the  light  to  the  mother  who  placed  in  upon  a  pile  of  sticks  and   stones. The  father  recoiled  as  the  fire  materialized  but  soon  relaxed  as  he  found  it  was  not  the  hellfire  he  had  seen   before. Nor  the  heaven  descended  light  he  had  held  only  a  moment  ago. This  light  was  soft  and  of  an  ember  color. It  was  warm  and  inviting. It  gave  him  and  his  wife  hope. The  family,  including  their  child,  sat  by  the  fire  that  night. The  mother  felt  her  child  grow  warm. When  the  child  opened  its  eyes  she  saw  the  golden  light  she  had  seen  once  before  in  it. She  saw  the  fire  dance  in  its  eyes. She  saw  the  fire  dance  in  her  husband’s  eyes. She  felt  the  fire  running  softly  upon  her  cheeks. She  felt  the  fire  running  softly  around  the  room. She  went  outside  to  see  the  rain  had  stopped. The  fire  was  now  alive  in  every  area  that  was  once  cold. She  saw  it  glimmering  in  the  sky  and  in  the  river. She  saw  it  sparkling  where  people  had  been  born. She  saw  it  softly  shining  even  where  the  selfish  man  had  died. She  could  feel  it  awakening  the  hearts  of  all  the  people  and  animals. She  saw  it  in  her  child. Her  child  that  was  once  more  alive  and  well. She  saw  it  and  felt  it  everywhere. What  she  felt  did  not  come  from  the  light  alone. It  had  come  from  something  much  smaller. Something  that  could  grow  with  either  vanity  or  aspirations. A  flame  of  hope  and  love. A  flame  of  desires  and  wishes. A  flame  of  wonder. One  flame  had  started  it  all. Flame. -­‐-­‐Grace  Frome

art by  Isabella  Wang

photo by  Alexia  Romani

Riverbank You know  that  my  troubles  like  to  overflow And  the  boy  who  lives  down  by  the  river Hates  it  when  they  do So  he’s  helping  me  build  a  dam And  it’ll  benefit  both  of  us That  is,  if  my  troubles  don’t  knock  the  dam  down  first -­‐-­‐Natalie  Barch

photo by  Talia  Kertsman A  light  that  is  true For  you  see,  the  little  blind  girl  does  not   use  her  eyes  to look  for  friends,  or  love. She  uses  her  heart. All  she  sees  is  darkness. Yet  she  lives  in  a  world  of  light. A  world  that  isn't  like  mine.   Little  blind  girl,  teach  me  how  to  see. -­‐-­‐Isabella  Wang

photo by  Meg  Turnbull

art by  Chloe  Nicolaou

Too Many,  Too  Lonely Mary  Stanley  had  so  many  kids.   Yet  many  feel  alone,  since  they  all  have  no   friends.  It’s  not  her  fault,  you  know.  Her   husband  on  a  full  time  job  and  she’s   always  caring  for  the  three  babies  at  once.   She  cannot  take  care  of  all  eight.  Too   many,  too  much. Those  Stanley  kids  are  bad.  But   how  can  they  help  it  when  their  mother  is     all  alone  always  taking  care  of  the  babies.   Mary  is  constantly  changing  diapers,   breastfeeding  and  babying,  the  other  boys   are  ignored.  No  time  to  take  care  of  all   eight.  Their  mother  never  gives  any   attention  to  her  five  others. We  had  these  neighbors,  they   were  disgusting.  They’re  like  wild,  dirty   rats.  All  silent  as  the  dark  night  sky,   lurking  around  the  darkest  places  ever   imaginable,  and  just  waiting  for  the  best   time  to  strike.  The  best  time  to  sneak  into   homes  for  food.  Or  the  best  time  for  tricks.  Those  boys.  The  kids’  egg,  toilet  paper,  and  spit  on  houses.  Some  throw   big  heavy  rocks  in  their  neighbor’s  cars.  Even  my  mom’s  convertible.  Some  climb  those  tall  trees  like  monkeys  as  if   they  were  born  to  do  so.  They  never  hesitate,  they  never  doubt,  they  just  keep  on  climbing  up,  up,  and  up  towards   the  cloudy  sky.  Up  in  those  giant  trees  they  wait  and  wait.  Wait  till  you  come  outside  of  your  house  only  for  them  to   drop  a  big  bucket  of  who  knows  what  all  over  you.  Sometimes  it’s  sticky  as  melted  caramel  against  teeth  covered  in   metallic  braces.    Slimy  as  a  snail’s  acidic  skin.  Wet  as  a  loud  thunderstorm  of  rain,  chunky  like  cooked  beans  all   mushed  up  together,  or  even  squishy  like  neon  silly  putty. Nobody  cares  about  them  anymore.  We  all  try  to  help  but  they  don’t  listen,  they  just  keep  doing.  The   youngest  went  to  the  public  park  and  pulled  his  pants  down  and  was  showing  off  his  butt  to  the  girls  as  they  ran   away  screaming.  One  of  the  parents  told  him  to  pull  up  his  pants  immediately,  but  he  just  started  peeing  on  the   parent’s  shoe  while  saying,  “You’re  not  the  boss  of  me.”  People  try  to  help  Mary  parent  them,  but  it  always  backfires   on  the  people  with  an  injury,  a  destroyed  house,  or  a  stinky  shoe. The  kids  are  like  hunters,  searching  out  prey.  Their  prey  being  the  victims,  us.  The  other  neighbors.   Destroying  each  neighbor’s  house  with  eggs  or  spit  or  soccer  balls.  But  with  lonely  eyes  gazing  out  from  their   laughter  and  taunts.  You  can  see  it  the  way  their  eyes  droop  with  sorrow  and  their  pupils  grow  big.  They  just  want   attention.  Deep  down  they  are  lonely  and  full  of  sorrow.  The  only  way  to  express  their  feelings  is  to  hurt  others  for   all  the  emotions  that  are  hurting  them  inside.  They  got  sensitive  hearts,  but  at  the  same  time  callous  ones.  Sensitive   as  a  baby’s  soft  and  soothing  skin.  But  callused  as  an  experienced  guitar  player’s  tough  and  rigid  thumbs.  These   neighbors  were  disgusting.  But,  very  lonely.  But,  those  hunters  are  too  chaotic  so  others  ignore  and  turn  them  down.            inspired  by  House  on  Mango  Street  by  Sandra  Cisneros -­‐-­‐Jordan  Jackson

Years of  torture,   Covered  with  the  words  of  a  nation  so  cold.   Desperate  people,   Smothered  by  a  standard  grown  old.   Not  a  voice  to  be  heard,   Just  a  thought  called  absurd. All  looked  down  on. High-­‐ranking  folks  did  not  see  that  they  mattered. Striving  women,   Who  fought  to  keep  from  being  tattered. Ladies  waiting  for  change, Then  expanding  their  range. Segregation, Four  heavy  syllables  that  carry  such  weight. Pigmentation, Written  in  the  stars,  it’s  called  fate. People  fought  for  their  rights, Through  their  words  and  their  fights. Rainbows  waving, Twisting  in  the  fierce  crowd  of  blue  cloth  and   crime. Recognition, “It  was  all  those  faces  all  the   time”  (Boyce) Didn’t  look  to  be  bothered, They  worked  to  be  honored. We  like  to  think  that  it’s  over,   That  we  fixed  all  the  holes,   All  the  chips  in  the  wall.   Putting  our  masks  on  our  faces,   We  erase  all  the  traces Of  our  making  them  fall. Although  it’s  true  that  we’ve  changed, That  it’s  not  as  severe, It  is  not  gone  for  good. We  need  to  face  what  the  truth   shows, That  there  still  are  those  with  woes, Part  of  our  nationhood. Humiliation, Just  because  they  looked  a  certain  race  to  them.

Arizona, The place  that  passed  this  biased  law, So  many  blue  uniforms, After  specific  souls. Pure  matrimony, Not  given  to  certain  couples, Girl  and  a  boy, The  traditional  way  of  love, But  love  is  love, Who  are  we  to  judge? Land  of  freedom, Different  ideas  and  varying  thoughts. Old  legacy. Will  we  keep  what’s  been  already  taught? Or  let  people  with  closed  minds Open  their  eyes;  not  be  blind.           -­‐-­‐Nancy  Lopez

photo by  Jolie  Kemp

art by  Frannie  DiBona They  Didn’t  Realize  What  They’d  Done   They  didn’t  realize  what  they’d  done  until  it  was  over.  And  even  then,  it  wasn’t  clear  to  them   right  away.  They  refused  to  believe  it;  they  turned  away  from  the  cracked  streets,  caked  with  debris.   They  blocked  out  the  sights  of  the  collapsed  houses,  reduced  to  mounds  of  charred  rubble.  They  even   ignored  the  anguished  cries  of  the  starving  people  that  rang  out  from  the  trees.  They  ignored  all  they   had  done,  until  they  saw  her.  She  couldn’t  have  been  more  than  seven  years  old.  She  was  the  one  they   saw,  sitting  atop  the  fence,  her  feet  bare  and  dusty,  her  lips  blue  from  the  cold.  They  saw  her  face,   shadowed  with  hunger,  bearing  the  hardness  of  a  youth  who  has  seen  too  much.  But  what  got  to  them   the  most  were  her  eyes.  They  were  engraved  with  a  knowledge,  a  wisdom  that  had  been  forced  into  her,   as  her  village  crumbled  before  her.  Her  eyes  were  narrowed.  But  not  with  anger.  No  tears,  either.  She   had  exhausted  those  emotions  long  ago,  and  had  found  that  it  was  easier  to  function  without  them.  If   she’d  let  her  anger  boil  over,  she  wouldn’t  have  lasted.  She  would  have  gone  insane.   No.   Her  eyes  were  narrowed  with  scrutiny.  She  was  examining  them,  wondering  if  they  could  even   be  human.  She  wondered  where  their  values  had  gone.  She  wondered  if  they  could  see.  Oh,  she  knew   they  looked.  They  looked,  all  right.  But  that  was  no  great  feat.  And  she  knew  they  weren’t  used  to  seeing   such  a  powerful  stare.  Why  was  it  so  powerful?  Because  her  eyes  were  different.  She,  who  had  been   through  too  much,  who  had  watched  the  destruction  of  everything  she’d  known.  Of  course  that   penetrating  stare  of  hers  made  them  nervous.  Her  eyes  didn’t  just  look.  They  saw. inspired  by  “Central  Park,”  composed  by  James  Newton  Howard -­‐-­‐Maddie  Goldberg

I Wish I  sit  on  my  bed The  mattress  creaks  below  my  weight I  straighten  my  six  pleated  skirt and  fold  my  hands  across  my  lap

Because the  yelling  is  louder and  the  crying  is  harder and  tears  are  not  from  me But  I  know  they  will  be  soon I  wrestle  with  my  head

My hair  is  perfectly  combed  to  each  side Chapstick  on  my  dry  lips Absentmindedly  picking  off  the  skin  around  my   nails

I am  back  at  the  beach. I  step  out  of  the  water Shake  my  hair The  droplets  catching  the  sun

I am  imagining  myself  in  a  different  time A  different  skirt In  fact,  I  am  wearing  a  dress

I take  off  down  the  beach,  leaving  the  waves  in  the   distance

I break  from  the  grasps  of  reality My  hair  is  tangled My  lips  are  dry So  I  lick  them I  am  running  through  the  wind A  bird  set  free  of  its  cage I  am  inhaling  nature Then  I  am  back  to  reality My  six  pleated  skirt My  folded  hands And  I  hear  the  yelling The  screaming  from  the  kitchen And  the  skin  around  my  nails  bleed And  I  clench  my  hands  a  little  bit  harder Try  a  little  bit  more  forcefully I  am  back I  run  to  the  beach And  sink  deep  into  the  sand Run  into  the  waves Slipping  off  my  dress I  dive  head  first  into  the  ocean   The  water  cooling  off  my  lips Washing  away  my  bloody  hands And  I  am  back  into  reality

I run I  run  until  my  surroundings  are  a  blur  of  pure   speed  and  color Wherever  my  feet  take  me I  will  be  happy Because  I  want  to  travel. Travel  the  world. My  feet  bring  me  home To  my  bed My  perfect  hair My  blood  stains  on  my  skirt My  chapped  lips I  start  to  hum Frantically No,  there  is  nothing  horrible  happening  in  my   kitchen It  is  all  about  his  failing  grades His  “not  acceptable”  weight And  fist  fights  in  the  alleyways Can’t  he  just  be  perfect  the  way  he  is? But  I  just  can  not  handle  yelling Handle  fights too  many  memories  I  would  hate  to  revive Can’t  they  see  that  each  word  they  speak Every  time  they  raise  their  voice It  cracks  my  heart breaks  it

just a  little

the fists  ready  at  his  sides

Because I  know  he  used  your  money  without   permission but  can’t  he  just  repay  you I  know  he  forgets  to  turn  things  in But  he  was  born  that  way

The tears  streaming  down  my  cheeks They  are  my  only  meal Because  I  know  there  will  be  no  dinner  tonight.

I know  he  lies But  don’t  you  know That  he  has  no  friends? Have  you  noticed  he  never  gets  invited   anywhere? People  call  him  gay a  fag they  punch they  steal  his  headphones his  bike and  leave  him  notes  saying  they  do  so All  he  wants  to  do  is  fit  in All  he  wants  to  be  is  accepted All  he  wants  is  just  one  friend And  you  say  the  reason  he  is  failing  his  classes  is   because  he  is  not  trying  hard  enough Oh  no Oh  no  no  no! How  can  you  even  think  that When  you  don’t  even  have  the  slightest  idea So  I  escape  the  world  the  only  way  I  know  how Through  music I  hum  louder And  I  taste  my  salty  tears The  words  form  on  my  lips Just  gonna  stand  there  and  watch  me  burn But  that's  alright  because  I  like  the  way  it  hurts Just  gonna  stand  there  and  hear  me  cry But  that's  alright  because  I  love  the  way  you  lie I  love  the  way  you  lie Because  he  lies Yes  he  lies  to  your  face But  he  does  it  so  you  don’t  see the  hurt  boiling  in  his  eyes The  tears  building  in  his  throat

So I  sit  there,  with  my  bloody  fingers  in  my  lap And  I  look And  notice some  glue On  my  finger,  from  art  class  earlier  that  day When  I  had  slipped  into  my  skin and  plastered  on  my  smile That  glue  made  me  think that  maybe My  life  is  stuck  together by glue it  keeps  me  tight,  and  together nothing  escapes I  am  caught but  then  it  crumbles peeled  layer  by  layer melts  in  the  heat and  I  am  broken but  someone  takes  the  glue thinking  it’s  for  the  best and  seals  my  emotions  into  a  wooden  box trapped forever thinking  it’s  for  the  best but  no I  cannot  settle  for  just  my  emotions  trapped  away so  I  take  the  glue and  I  pour  it  over  myself let  it  settle  on  my  skin let  it  dry  on  my  lips let  it  clot  my  ears until  I  can  not  longer  speak a  word  of  revenge no  longer  taste the  bitterness  and  sick no  longer  hear the  scornful  cries  of  my  enemies no  longer  smell the  burning  of  our  souls no  longer  touch

you and I  am  stiff as  glue but  glue is not always a good thing And  I  know  that  he Hates  glue and  that  is  why he  uses  lies  to  cover  up

And now  when  I  hear  those  hateful  words  in  the   hallways The  pebbles  skipping  across  the  surface  of  the   water Until  they  sink  deep  into  the  heart I  stand Tall  and  proud Because  every  person  with  every  flaw is  perfect just  perfect to  me -­‐-­‐Brooke  Weller  

art by  Isabella  Wang

A Poem  to  Poetry O  Poetry,   With  your  twisted  ways Your  diabolical  simplicity Your  vivid  tales   Of  a  confused  mind Scream  of  depression And  yet  also  of  a  happy  medium Quietly  singing  all  that  is  pretty  in  this  world Poetry  is  a  blanket  made  of  gold Weighted  but  beautiful Like  the  celebrity  with  everything  implants But  poems  need  no  Botox Poems  are  elegant  by  themselves People  should  learn  from  poems What  if  Poetry  was  a  religion Would  you  worship  a  poetic  god? Perhaps  not,   because  you,  poetry You  are  an  evil  room Dark  with  no  light, Just  ink, Suffocating  any  writer It  doesn’t  matter  what  language  it  is  in Poetry  is  a  blindfold,   Everybody  tries  to  tear  you  from  their  eyes But  only  a  few  succeed We  call  them  mentally  ill All  their  creativity  pulled  out  until   All  they  have  is  the  dark  visions With  no  way  to  say  what  they  are  thinking Do  you  see  what  you  have  done,  Poetry? You  have  caused  arguments And  you  are  the  reason  I  am  writing  this   poem  at  all -­‐-­‐Izzi  Henig

photo by  Gwen  Cusing

photo by  Alexia  Romani

do not  reply foggy  windows  and  foggy  minds, all  too  soon  you  close  the  blinds. minds  are  closed  and  mouths  are  open, faking  smiles  with  hopes  broken. “do  not  reply”  they’ve  closed  the  line, however  you  seem  to  be  out  of  time. your  tearful  eyes  are  silently  pleading, your  wrists  and  heart  are  slowly  bleeding. everything  about  you  they  try  to  break, make  everything  hard,  plastic,  and  fake. and  to  think  that  this  might  be  the  end  of  it  all, with  no  one  there  to  stop  your  fall -­‐-­‐Grace  Stephenson

Swish, Swash,  Swoo!  

photo by  Yasmine  Razzak

It  was  quite  a  freezing  night   that  time.  I  was  out  camping,  setting   up  a  campfire.  Feeling  lonely,  for  my   own  cheerfulness,  I  baked  my  perfect   dream  dog  out  of  some  spare   gingerbread  that  just  happened  to  be  in   my  knapsack,  in  my  portable  oven.   Tick-­‐tock-­‐tick-­‐tock.  Time  flew  by,  for   soon  enough,  the  oven  door  sprang   open,  which  was  really  strange.  Out   bounced  the  dog  of  my  dreams.  She   was  a  bright  Yorkshire  Terrier,  and  I   named  her  Shamrock,  seeing  her   sniffing  at  the  clovers  around  her.   Peering  at  me,  she  suddenly  bounded   into  my  lap.   “OH,  the  adventures  we’ll   have,  Shamrock!”  I  cried  out  with  joy,   but  also  rubbing  my  eyes  sleepily.  The   dog’s  eyelids  closed  shut,  synchronizing  

exactly with  mine.   The  next  thing  I  knew,  it  was  morning.  I  sniffled,  and  decided  that  Shammie  and  I  would  have  a  cookout.  I’d  heard   that  this  vast  forest  served  a  speciality  of  the  rare  plant,  minalope.  We’d  have  to  have  a  treasure  hunt.   I  stared  down  at  the  brown  and  black  ball  of  silky  fur  next  to  me.   “Up,  girl,  up!”  I  crooned,  coaxing  her.  No  reaction,  not  a  budge  from  her  body,  though  I  thought  I  had  seen  an  eyelid   open,  and  then  swiftly  and  sneakily  close.  Lightbulb!  (I  thanked  Thomas  A.  Edison  for  the  wonderful  invention  in  my  mind.) “Squirrel!”  I  yelled,  pointing  toward  a  tree  trunk.  That  did  it  She  leapt  up  to  find  it.  “There  wasn’t  a  single  animal  in   sight,  silly.  But  come  on,  we’re  off  to  explore.” Obediently,  she  hopped  ahead  of  me.  We  soon  halted  at  a  beautiful  dazzling,  diamond-­‐sparkling  river.  And  on  the   lush  riverbank  was  a  cluster  of  bushes  with...emerald-­‐green  leaves  of  minalope!   What  good  luck!  I  swung  a  sack  with  tools  off  from  my  back.  Then  I  reached  inside  and  dug  out  a  bucket.  Shamrock   and  I  then  ripped  out  tuftfuls  of  the  aromatic,  minty-­‐smelling  plant.  When  we’d  had  our  bucket  filled,  I  ruffled  the  cute   terrier’s  furry  head.  We  were  turning  around  to  stroll  back,  when  WHOOSH,  SWISH,  SWASH!!!  A  frightening  current  moving   at  an  alarming  with,  my  goodness,  with  bluish-­‐greenish  piercing  eyes  and  a  long,  white  mustache  and  beard  splashed  out.  Go   figure. “Leave  your  bucket  here!  You  have  taken  the  sacred  herb!”  his  voice  boomed.  Who  knew? “No!  This,  this  is  mine,  I-­‐I,  I  picked  it  with  my  dog!”  my  voice  trembled  as  I  spoke,  hiding  the  bucket  behind  my   back.  Shamrock  tried  for  a  brave  growl,  but  what  came  out  was  a  whimper.   “There’s  no  need  for  a  debate.  My  goodness,  I  hate  politics  and  arguments.  I’ll  give  you  a  deal.  You  fit  one  more  item   in  that  bucket,  you  take  it,  otherwise,  give  it  up.” I  tried  and  tried,  but  we’d  already  built  a  mountain  over  the  top.  Every  leaf  I  tried  to  put  on  top  fell  off.  I  was   despairing.  Shamrock,  however,  scratched  her  head  and  rolled  around.  Suddenly,  she  halted,  perked  an  ear  up,  and  pitter-­‐ pattered  toward  me.  She  then  gnawed  and  chewed  a  tiny  hole  in  the  bucket.     Then  she  looked  up,  with  her  eyes  shining,  her  tail  wagging,  her  tongue  out,  panting.  Her  eyes  peered  from  me  to   the  bucket.   “Oh,  Shammie!  You  are  the  smartest  dog  in  this  whole  world!”  I  turned  toward  the  spirit.  However,  instead  of  being   angry,  he  watched  with  a  very  curious,  interested  look.     “See?  Shamrock  put  another  thing  in  that  bucket,  a  hole!”  I  waved  the  bucket  in  his  face,  grinning.   “Yep,  I  saw  all  right.”  He  had  a  much  younger  voice,  now.  With  a  swish  and  a  twirl  (yeah,  I  know,  very  unmanly),  he   turned  into  a  young  boy  about  my  age,  with  dark  brown,  sleek  but  messy  hair.     “I’ve  been  watching  you  and  your  clever  dog  so  far.  And...”  he  paused  shyly.   “And...what???”  I  questioned,  dying  to  know.   “And,  um,  I’d-­‐I’d  like  to  be  your  friend.”   “Yolo  man.  What  are  you  waiting  for?  C’mon!”   His  face  broke  into  a  wild  and  mischievous  grin.  “Last  one  there  is  a  rotten  bone!”  Shamrock  wrinkled  her  nose.   And  we  dashed  off.    

-­‐-­‐Athena Nair

Where I’m  From: I  am  from  plastic  pools, from  lakes  and  lanchas. I  am  from  piñatas  balanced  on   string. (Bright,  inviting,  I  couldn’t  resist) I  am  from  tres  leches, birthday  parties that  made  me  a  princess  even  just   for  a  day.

photo by  Nancy  Lopez

I’m from  Chapstick  and  Mickey, from  Barney  and  Good  Night   Moon. I’m  from  the  smarty-­‐pants  and  the   carefree, from  metiche!  and  no  llores! I’m  from  roses  in  June, crying  with  bee  stings, in  the  twinkling  sun.

I’m from  Denny’s  and  that  Chinese   place  whose  name  I  can’t  recall, Hotcakes  and  sweet  boba. From  the  kidneys  that  failed   my  uncle, to  the  tears  my  grandma  shed  for   another  son. Up  in  the  closet  was  a  baby  bag, bulging  with  memories, a  blur  of  kind  faces to  rest  forever  in  my  heart. I  am  from  those  seconds,   captured  on  paper, To  live  on  as  I  fade. -­‐-­‐Nancy  Lopez

photo by  Grace  Douvos

art by  Katarina  Lyseggen art  by  Katarina  Lyseggen

photo by  Elyse  Garreau

Imagine a  place  where  being  “gay”  was  normal Where  being  straight  was  illegal   You  love  the  same  sex That  is  normal Imagine  a  place  where  the  darker  you  are   the  “better”  you  are   The  paler  you  are  the  more  you  are   discriminated  against Being  white  is  bad White  skin  is  a  sin Imagine  a  place  where  men  stay  home  all   day  while  women  work Men  take  care  of  the  kids Men  aren’t  useful Women  make  the  money  for  the  family Women  do  everything Imagine  a  world  where  everything  is   opposite gay  not  straight black  not  white women  not  men “Frustration,  years  of  frustration, Tormented  us  and  ridiculed  us Treated  us  as  were  subhuman It  was  those  faces  all  the  time We  knew  there  was  trouble”  (Boyce) How  was  this  equal? How  was  this  allowed? How  was  this  encouraged? People  standing  up  for  their  equal  rights. Not  allowed,  not  accepted Is  this  who  we  are? Is  this  what  we  stand  for? Protests,  boycotts,  marches Was  that  not  enough  for  us  to  realize  the  harm  we  were  doing? Signs  saying  “colored”  and  “white” “no  gays”  “men  only” They  stood  up  for  their  rights But  what  if  life  was  still  like  this? Would  you  stand  up  for  what  you  believed  in? Or  would  you  just  watch  in  the  background, Waiting  for  a  change  that  would  never  happen? -­‐-­‐Wallis  Hess

art by  Lauren  Ashby

Night Walking Sun  droplets  drip  from  the  sky And  scorch  the  nighttime  grass  as  I Walk  along  the  pool  where  the  stars  meet. Funny  thing  be  a  weeping  girl,  with  her Back  bended  over,  and  her Hair  almost  kissing  the  water. Hesitant  is  the  silver,  wrapped  around  my   slender Ankle,  preventing  my  every Flaw  from  escaping. Does  the  world  not  seem  like Glass  tonight? Does  the  splendor  of  the  woods  not  feel  so Shameful  against  the  pride  of  the Lion,  who  roars,  asserting  himself As  the  king  of  it  all? King  of  Glass. All  it  is, Is  glass. Glass  that  reflects Itself  upon Itself  upon Itself  and Me. Me,  the  girl  in  white,  walking  through The  emerald,  ebony,  curled  loosely Into  ribbons  and  slices  of Connections. Is  it  good  enough? Am  I  good  enough? Will  I  ever  be? -­‐-­‐Natalie  Barch

photo by  Jordan  Jackson

Tsunami My  mind  is  whirling  faster  than  a  hurricane Taking  hold  of  one  and  then  another Just  off  the  coast  of  my  shores Too  close  for  comfort I  swell  to  the  size  of  a  million  suns  compacted  into  an  enveloping  box And  jump  up  so  the  jumping  rope  does  not  skim  my  knees But  instead  so  that  I  land  upon  a  terrorized  city I  do  not  pity Go  forth  with  beating  incessantness Tearing  away  this  and  that, Putting  it  all  together  in  one  big  mess That  will  soon  be  separated  into  individuals To  be  risen  to  the  heavens  at   death By  the  hands  of  me Growing  in  size  yet  again  and   beat  against  their  guilty  sins I  am  terror  coursing  through   their  veins Destroying  all  they  know And  love I  do  not  love Feeding  on  fear  I  take  back  all   they  have  snatched  for   themselves Taken  from  us From  me From  my  brethren  that  go   globally Universally  a  force  knocking  on   their  door And  shooting  them  straight   through  the  heart In  one  quick  motion Sinking  to  the  depths  of  the  earth  and  bouncing  back  up  to  the  sky Cruel  and  forgiving  in  one  bundled  package Delivered  by  a  man  with  a  curling  mustache So  thin  he  would  be  transparent  if  he  turned  sideways But  stretching  in  all  directions  when  facing  forwards You  do  not  see  him  coming Not  me,  nor  him Until  we  are  upon  you,  us,  we Invisible  death  dealers -­‐-­‐Katie  Mishra

photo by  Gwen  Cusing

A single  technicolor  sash  falling  from  the  sky As  it  falls  it  stains  with  white Until  it  becomes  invisible The  brilliance  of  the  blues,  reds,  greens,  and  purples Choked  out  so  much  that  they  can  no  longer  speak Only  left  with  the  bitter  taste  of  hate Hate The  daughter  of  Ignorance  and  Fear It  was  Hate  along  with  her  daughters  Oppression  and  Segregation  who  put  up  the  signs Whites  Only No  Blacks,  Mexicans,  or  Dogs But  it  was  Equality  that  led  people  to  march  from  Selma  to  Montgomery 320  people Both  black,  and  white 320  people  all  shouting  “My  feets  is  tired,  but  my  soul  is  rested."  (Sister  Pollard) 320  walking  the  54  mile  journey  of  equality,  and  justice Two  Great  Nations  separated  by  a  river The  cruel  unforgiving  river A  small  girl  only  the  age  of  three  crossed  this  river  to  a  land  called  America America:  the  only  home  she  ever  knew   Yet  a  voice  still  taunts No  you  are  not  American No  you  cannot  go  to  college No  you  cannot  get  Health  Care Just  go  back I’ve  seen  a  man  choose  between  his  health,  and  his  work. I’ve  seen  a  young  woman  be  denied  what  she  deserves  just  because  she  is  missing  some  numbers Even  though  I  have  seen  all  this  injustice  I  still  hear  a  choir  of  “Yes  Sir’s”  in  my  head The  work  is  not  done  yet The  fight  is  not  over Not  until  a  daughter  can  be  reunited  with  her  mother Not  until  women  are  truly  equal  to  men Not  until  anybody  can  proudly  show  their  true  colors  without  the  fear The  fear  of  being  different Only  then  the  war  with  Hate  will  be  over -­‐-­‐Citalli  Contreras

photo by  Zoe  Sarrazin

I Will  Never  Forget  That  Day I  will  never  forget  that  day  as  long  as  I  live.  I  could  see  it  rushing  towards  us,  steam  billowing   out  like  a  great  fiery  monster.  I  heard  a  whistle  pierce  the  air.  A  flash  of  light.  A  scream.  Sirens.  Then   darkness.  Total  darkness.   I  opened  my  eyes  to  a  fuzzy  scene.  There  was  a  woman  who  I  didn’t  recognize  standing  next  to   a  little  blonde  girl  in  a  wheelchair.  To  my  right  was  a  doctor  in  a  white  coat,  and  two  nurses  standing   beside  him.  I  blinked  and  the  picture  came  into  focus.  I  tried  to  sit  up,  but  was  immediately  forced   down  by  a  sharp  pain  in  my  head.  The  room  swirled  around  me.  I  leaned  back  onto  the  stack  of  soft   pillows,  wishing  this  was  just  a  dream.  The  man  in  the  white  coat  leaned  down  towards  me  and   whispered  my  name.   “Cleo?”  I  stared  up  at  him,  my  green  eyes  penetrating  into  his  dark  ones.  He  pulled  a  stool  over   and  sat  down.  The  woman  wheeled  my  sister  to  the  other  side  of  my  bed.  I  could  see  that  her  arm  and   leg  were  both  bandaged. “Aleta.  What  happened?”  Talking  required  strength.  Strength  that  I  did  not  have.  The  doctor   put  a  hand  on  her  shoulder.   “Cleo,  your  family’s  car  got  hit  by  a  train.  Both  of  your  parents  were  killed.  When  we  found  you,   you  were  on  top  of  Aleta,  shielding  her  from  the  train.  She  only  broke  her  arm  and  leg,  she  will  recover   soon.  You  undoubtedly  saved  her  life.”   Aleta  clutched  the  blanket  that  was  covering  her,  her  tiny  face  crumpling,  pushing  into  the   folds  of  soft  cloth.   “You  however,  were  not  so  lucky.  Both  of  your  legs  were  crushed  and  your  arm  is  broken,  you   also  had  several  cuts  on  your  back  and  arms.”  After  that,  there  was  just  silence.  The  two  nurses  left,   beckoning  at  the  woman,  indicating  for  her  to  leave.  She  left,  reluctantly.   Slowly,  Aleta  put  down  the  blanket,  smoothing  it  on  her  lap,  her  head  down.  The  doctor  looked   at  them  for  a  moment,  and  headed  out  too.   “It’s  all  my  fault!”  Aleta  cried,  throwing  her  good  arm  around  my  waist,  and  putting  her  head  on   the  bed.   “No.  Aleta,  don’t  go  beating  yourself  up,  it  wasn’t  your  fault.”  My  body  quaked,  though  of   emotion  or  exertion,  I  wasn’t  sure.  We  stayed  there  for  a  while,  Aleta  resting  her  head  on  me  as  I   stroked  her  hair.  “Who  was  she?” “Who?” “The  lady  that  was  pushing  your  wheelchair.” “Oh.  That’s  Ms.  Pickett,  a  social  worker.”   The  nurses  returned.  One  of  them  wheeled  Aleta  out  of  the  room.  The  other  was  carrying  a   plate  of  food.  Putting  on  the  side  table,  she  produced  a  small  table  that  she  placed  over  my  legs.  She   then  set  the  tray  on  the  table.  Leaning  forward,  I  took  a  sip  of  water,  and  picked  up  the  fork.  I  dropped   the  fork  on  the  blanket  and  leaned  back  on  the  pillows,  tilting  my  head  back  and  closing  my  eyes.  The   next  days  went  by  slowly,  yet  in  a  blur.  I  often  woke  up,  and  found  myself  nearly  hoarse.  When  asking   the  nurses  about  it,  they  told  me  that  I  had  been  screaming,  from  nightmares,  they  presumed.  In  an   eternity  and  a  blink  of  an  eye  Aleta  had  her  casts  taken  off  and  started  to  regain  her  strength.  My   condition  had  improved,  but  not  much.  Finally,  the  doctor  decided  that  we  were  strong  enough  to  be   taken  home.  We  would  gather  our  belongings,  go  to  Scotland  to  sort  out  some  matters,  and  then  go  to   live  with  our  aunt  in  France.  She  was  very  nice,  but  I  didn’t  want  to  leave  my  old  life  behind.    

-­‐-­‐Jessa Mellea

to read  the  rest  of  the  story,  email  

Cages You're a  piece  of  sharp  silver Ready  to  cut  everything  you've  made  to  shreds And  though  you  have  your  needle  and  thread,   Sewing  everything  together   Won't  make  it  the  way  it  used  to  be You're  a  bird  little  one Fly  away  before  you  get  hurt You're  a  bird  little  one And  your  wings  will  only  ever  cover  you  in   dirt Kiss  away  the  tears  of  dawn,  as  you Run  through  the  seas You  see  you're  a  beard Trapped  in  their  throats And  though  you  remove  yourself They'll  always  feel  the  burn You're  a  bird  little  one Fly  away  before  you  get  hurt You're  a  bird  little  one And  your  wings  will  only  ever  cover  you  in   dirt do  not  reply

art by  Riona  Yoshida

And when  yaou   the   chance  you   foggy   windows   nd  realize   foggy  m inds, wasted all  too  soon  you  close   the  blinds. ird are  open, minds  are  closed  Little   and  mbouths   heart  bw ill faking  smiles  wYour   ith  hopes   roken. Break “do  not  reply”  they’ve  closed  the  line, however  you   seem  at  b o  ird   be  loittle   ut  oof  ne time. You're   your  tearful   yes  abre   silently   leading, Fly  aeway   efore   you  gpet   hurt your  You're   wrists  aa  nd   h eart   a re   s lowly   b leeding. bird  little  one And  your  wings  will  only  ever  cover  you  in  dirt everything  about  you  they  try  to  break, make  everything  hard,  plastic,  and  fake. -­‐-­‐Natalie  Barch and  to  think  that  this  might  be  the  end  of  it  all, with  no  one  there  to  stop  your  fall -­‐-­‐Grace  Stephenson

Beautiful What is  that? What  is  that  word  that   came  from  your   tongue It's  foreign  to  me As  foreign  to  me  as   French  is  to  German What  is  it? What  is  beauty? A  skinny  waist? I  want  a  skinny  waist A  big  bust? I  will  never  have  a  big   bust A  perfect  shape? How  I  need  that

photo by  Alexia  Romani

All of  these  things All  of  these  things  that   make  up  beauty I  don’t  have I  don’t  have  any  of   them Why  are  they   beautiful? I  don’t  know But  what  I  do  know What  I  know  deep   down That  I  must  be  them But  is  it  truly  beautiful? -­‐-­‐Meg  Turnbull

photo by  Yasmine  Razzak

The Garments  Worn  in  Flying  Dreams The  garments  worn  in  flying  dreams, their  voices  -­‐-­‐  sun  kissed  and  ageless though  passed  us  with  a  silent  hour smiling  frost-­‐bright  in  the  evening  morning They,  who  whisper  deafening  wishes, who  seek  to  find  the  truth  in colors  of  endless  wind-­‐sung  lies and  wish  for  eternity  in  the   death-­‐hold  of  life I  see  the  matchmaker,  heavy  with loss,  who  speaks  the  future and  sings  the  past through  hourglass  words that  dance  through  the  night I  call  on  the  heaviness  of  wonder and  dream  of  the  words that  bind  us The  glorious,  and  the  magical with  the  façade  of  perfect  imperfection and  the  whimpering  truth  of  dark  deception they  hang  up  on  the  speckled-­‐leaves their  stories,  spun  with the  gold  of  their  wealthy  spirit.

I wait  for  the  moment and  seeing  the  new  light  of  dawn, I  fall  once  again,  into  that  world of  spoken  dream. -­‐-­‐Noel  Peng

photo by  Grace  Lee

And with  the  wind  in  the  ears  of  many they  search  on with  their  heads,  dipped  in  the  bright light  of  the  new  morning and  spotted  with  the  mark  of   night’s  whispered  legacy

Flame 2013  

Castilleja Middle School's Literary Magazine

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