Battlefield HS 2016 Literary Magazine- Vox Populi Volume 2 by Battlefield High School

Vox Populi 2016

Closed Book Photography Tony Lin

Policy

Last year, under the guidance of a new advisor, our publication underwent a change of philosophy and was appropriately published under a new title: Vox Populi. Since then, the program has doubled in size and the publication has continued to expand as it works to portray the Voice of the People, as defined by the new denomination. As the title entails, this publication is entirely student driven, and through the efforts of our highly dedicated staff, the magazine continues to grow. Vox Populi is an artistic forum dedicated to expressing and showcasing the creative talents of the aspiring writers and artists at Battlefield High School. With the influx of new writers enrolled in the course, we have captured a body of literature and art that reflects the diverse student population. Authors and artists retain the rights of all submitted materials, but grant the Vox Populi staff the right to print submissions as selected by the editorial staff. The opinions, ideas, and materials expressed within this collection of works are those of the authors and do not necessarily reflect those held by the magazine staff, publication advisor, school administration, or school board.

Blurry Trees Photography Sabrina Drescher

Special thanks to the following contributing artists...

Marissa Alessi Emily Beitzell Imi Cabacunga Lauren Cardenas Jasmin Campbell Claire Capasso Kyla Carte Emma Curley Sabrina Drescher Jessica Garcia Erica Garrigan Christina Greene Emily Harrison

Lauren Havill Marli Hayward Reilly Hayward Rachel Hong Liz Huseman Tony Lin Sarah McAllum Jillian Page Edward Park Annie Patterson Sierra Reynolds Brigid Sexton Kirsten Strother

Title

Author

Style

Hands Breaking Free Good Winter Beauty The Constant Fight Regret & Reevaluation The Moments Before Twilight Still Breathing Are You Ready For Change? Five, One, Eight Requiem Nikki Hold Your Fire Taking a Cab Reunion Practice What You Preach That Direction Should’ve Gone to Denny’s Lockdown The First Hunt Shopaholic Lost Time Hero Forgiveness Venturesome Standard Issue London Riots The Prisoner of Time One and the Same It’s Okay

Sabrina Drescher Zach Ortiz McKenna Roper Sydney Guyton Darius Chernitsky Elizabeth Wheeler Karlee McAllum Trevor Mello Andrew Young Meg Gerlek Kevin Calderon Connor Dahl Chase Pacchioli Sydney Brown JP Colvin Iza Lazaneo Davis Bryars Mackenzie Gleysteen Liam McLaurin Zoe Voettiner Shania Mitchell Emily Clark Antony Acevedo Chris Marin Kyle Dean Zaynab Siddiqui Hayley Miller Alie Paoli Jakob Gottschalk

Cover Art Fiction Poem Poem Fiction Poem Poem Poem Nonfiction Fiction Poem Poem Poem Fiction Poem Poem Fiction Fiction Fiction Poem Poem Poem Poem Poem Fiction Nonfiction Fiction Fiction Poem

Page Cover 6-7 8 9 10-11 12 13 13 14-15 16-17 18 18 19 20-21 22 23 24-25 26-27 28-29 30 30 32-33 35 35 36-37 38-39 40-41 42-43 44

Glass Eye Mixed Media Lauren Havill

Title

Author

Style

Inside, Insane Hospital for Souls The World The Black Swan Cell 152 Donâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t Wait Technology Today The River Normal Hygge The Daughter of Space Breathe Waiting on Death Under Pressure Undiagnosed

Joseph Bendekovic Amanda Wynes Jenna Spedden Victoria Caron Sam Scott Mikayla Sova Ryan Williams Essam Temuri Shelby Bennet Megan Kim TJ Eagle Emily Surabian Bethanie Thill Matthew Delgado Marissa Lloyd

Poem Nonfiction Fiction Fiction Fiction Poem Poem Fiction Poem Poem Fiction Poem Poem Fiction Nonfiction

Page 45 46-47 48-49 50-51 52-53 54 55 56-57 58 59 60 61 61 62-63 64-65 5

Good Winter By Zach Ortiz Ernestâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s breaths were thrown out in the frigid Saskatchewan winter twilight like dust in a vicious wind, sending their vapors across the breadth of the frozen lake near his cabin. The trees surrounding the stretch of ice seemed to rise like sentinels up into the cosmos, and the sun penetrated his soul with its ever expansive last reach of light as the sky itself turned over. There was a timid wind that started from the top of the lake, working its way ever southward, blowing slight specks of snow and ice onto the lake and its lonely, uncouth inhabitant. Ernestâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s large winter coat and boots had protected his red, wind-burnt skin from the freezing temperatures of the surrounding air, and his gloves, hat, and scarf were the last few layers of defense against the perils of hypothermia that seemed to rest readily on his back. He walked along the frozen lake with a sizeable caribou, a bedspread, and tent trailing behind him all packed on a wooden sled, along with two rifles slung on his shoulder. His greying hair, grown long for the cold, was now tucked under his fur hat, and his scarf was pulled up to his nose; the only thing that offered any sort of protection from outside forces were his striking, opal eyes, that seemed to move through the growing dark of the oncoming woods, and to the shadowy shape that marked his cabin. 6

He observed silent smoke stacks rising from his chimney; Ernest took note of the faint, tiny light of the heater from his window piercing through the fading veil of day and beckoning him to move faster. His breaths were becoming slightly heavier and his strides longer, the thought of warm food and drink spurring him on. The wind began to pick up steadily, assaulting him with tiny bullets of ice and splinters, stinging his exposed skin. He traveled on. Once he reached the cabin, the day had fully retreated from his hemisphere, leaving with it the last breath of solar warmth, imitated by the promising interior of Ernestâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s home. Before stepping inside, he made sure to haul the deceased caribou into his makeshift cellar that he had dug some time before to keep it safe from the beastly thieves of the Northern tundra with a set of two locked wooden doors. Once he had hauled the animal into the relatively compact space, he lost himself for a moment as his breathing became slower, and his thoughts became fully envisioned. The otherwise dark room began to shift in tone to a glowing, amber tint, gradually overcoming the strength of eyes, and blinding him momentarily. As soon as this strange occurrence had begun, it ended, leaving Ernest quite starstruck. With a blink of his eyes and a particularly startling sniffle that broke the dead silence of the room, he

shrugged it off, exited the cellar, closed the thick, cedar doors, and latched their weighty bolt behind him, walking now to the entrance of his house and hauling the rest of his gear on his tired back. He heard a faint meowing from the inside as he let himself into the dimly lit, single room abode, and bristled at the ensuing warmth that slowly engulfed him. Once he had set everything he carried to the ground, he walked a bit to his favorite chair, and slumped down with a heavy, elongated sigh. His muscles felt like compact bricks, and his eyes were shut with an invisible glue. Ernest was not always accustomed to this lifestyle; he was originally a New Yorker, and had set up a successful life for himself with his occupation as a stockbroker. On his 60th birthday however, he felt an absence, so naturally he took a great sum of his life savings, leaving the rest for his grief-stricken wife of course, and moved north, driving a beaten down Chevy. He had no particular goal in mind besides the desire to vanish from himself. He purchased a few guns, a cat, a few home necessities, and a good deal of lumber, and set to work in the Canadian sub-arctic Spring on a cabin. Working all day naturally took its toll on the aging drifter, so he enlisted the help of some local hands from the nearest town and built the cabin over the next four months. With the freezing temperatures of the fall setting in, he furnished his home, and took up living off the land with the aid of several pamphlets and books he had picked up over the past year. For the first time in his life, he felt as if he was finally doing something for himself; he felt the ache in his muscles coalescing with the heat of his home and thought for the first time in his life, he knew what happiness was. In this state of ecstasy he drifted off into a deep slumber, and felt himself float up with the smoke in the chimney, his body separated into a million little shreds among the black, man made fog of the fire.

One with Nature Photography Annie Patterson

Beauty By McKenna Roper

She steps outside into the open air. Her slim fingers touch her silky brown hair. She smiles and shows off her pearly whites, and readjusts her dark black tights. Her nails are shining with glittery gold. The shape of her eyebrows, strong and bold. Her eyeliner drawn to perfection, her skin glows revealing her dazzling complexion. She walks flawlessly in her four inch heels. Her exceptional body comes from skipping meals. Little do they know what’s beyond her beautiful appearance. The girl who wants all the attention, but really just craves disappearance. Behind her long, goddess-like locks come chemical-filled, damaging products. She runs her brush through her hair, trying to ignore the ripped strands falling everywhere. Every other month she gets it cut, spending her hard earned money all for what? She grabs her curling iron out of the bin, being very careful not to burn her skin. Despite how hard she tries, the pain of the heat brings tears to her eyes. Her teeth as white as brand new sheets, She flosses where each tooth meets. Two years she spent with braces, Five thousand dollars just to get rid of the spaces. Cutting, poking, pulling, scraping, The doctor files down her teeth for perfect shaping. Minty mouthwash smells so fresh, the unbearable burning all for sweet breath.

She spends all her money on name brand clothes. She works two jobs but nobody knows. “Oh, her parents just bought her that,” everyone assumes. Her earnings go to clothes, shoes, and flowery perfumes. “She’s just showing off,” all the girls remark. She reveals her skin, but really wants to hide in the dark. She goes to the salon on a Saturday afternoon, “It will be quick, the pain will go away soon.” She goes to the back in a little dark room, The lady looks at her brows, ready to wax and groom. She smears the wax on her face. The lady rips the paper starting at the base. Her eyebrows are shaped without a flaw, The final result leaves everyone in awe. She hides the redness from the burning pain, but she continues to go because she is so “vain”.

Her slim body makes everyone talk, they all just stare when she tries to walk. She goes to the gym and runs a lot, hiding her eating problem so she doesn’t get caught. She knows it’s not healthy but she has to look good, She’s tired of feeling so misunderstood. She stands in the mirror and looks at herself, then reaches for her makeup sitting on the shelf. She thinks beauty is what meets the eye, and can be achieved with the things you buy. Deep down she knows that’s not true, hoping for the day when she has nothing to prove.

Identity Chalk Sabrina Drescher

The Constant Fight By Sydney Guyton

Society has destroyed your idea of human. With skinny legs and perfect faces, You can’t even see your aces. Honestly, they aren’t perfect.

Flipping through the magazines, Scarless people with no flaws, No imperfections nothing wrong, Looking perfectly content with who they are.

Edited, concealed, slimmed and trimmed. By the time that they are done, They don’t even look like the same person. It’s not worth your time to poke and prod.

Staring at your reflection in the mirror, To you it couldn’t be any clearer. Those imperfections stand out so bright, It’s an inevitable fact you cannot fight.

Those scars on your face do not define who you are. They will not hold you back from going so far. The places you’ve gone and the people you’ve met, Take some time to realize your best assets.

So, you hide yourself and cover it up Because you don’t think you’re good enough. They have destroyed your confidence, Wrecked your esteem and self consciousness.

Do not compare, do not complain, Do not put your body to shame. Treat it well, treat it right. Body image is a constant fight.

No Escape Mixed Medium Sabrina Drescher 9

Regret

Reevaluation By Darius Chernitsky Abon took his seat in the raggedy booth. It was caked in dirt, the old leather stained and worn from years of use. The diner sat on the edge of the old highway, barely used anymore. All the traffic was directed to the superhighway, but even if a straggler did pass by every once and awhile, they never noticed. The passengers were too busy. You would think that with the easy access to self-driving cars, people would have more time to appreciate the world around them, but instead people had less time than ever. Abon continued staring out the window, occasionally taking a sip of the dark black coffee placed in front of him. He was alone in here, well, except for the cook and the waitress, who were both smoking cigarettes at the counter. Abon was startled out of thought by the sound of the door opening, a bell that was too high pitched and happy

Nevada,” Abon thought to himself, taking another sip of his coffee. After a few more minutes of silently watching, Abon stood up and sat down opposite the woman in the booth. She glanced up from her book--“Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas”-- made eye contact with Abon, and then silently put down her book. They stared into each other’s eyes like that for a moment in silence, with the only sound coming from the sizzling of meat on the stove top. “Hi,” said Abon, reaching out his hand. “I’m Abon.” The woman reached out her hand, and before she could close the distance, Abon grabbed her hand and shook. “I’m Delilah.” she said, obviously blushing. Delilah had come from New York, visiting relatives out in New Mexico, and decided to tour Nevada

In a word, she was

innocent.

for a place like this. The sound grabbed everyone’s attention, and all their heads snapped to face the door. Everyone stared at the woman who just walked in. For a few seconds, everyone remained still, until the waitress got up, and the cook went back to the kitchen. Abon looked on silently as she took the booth at the other side of the diner, and she pulled off her large white sweater. “Strange--she’s wearing a sweater in 10

for a bit while she was in the mid west. She was a quiet and sheltered girl; always very shy towards people, yet always thought the best of them. In New York, she went to private school all her life, never getting to know what the real world was like, not even getting to know the real New York City. Her family was strictly religious, raising Delilah with all the core Christian values, and instilling that sense of

Catholic guilt she now knows all too well. In a word, she was innocent. They talked about Delilah until the daylight left, and the sunset bled across the desert. Delilah grew tired of talking about herself, and asked what Abon was doing here. After that question, he sat silent for a moment, creasing his brow and furrowing his eyebrows. After what seemed like hours, Abon took a step up and out of his booth, outstretched his hand towards Delilah, and said “I’ll show you.” It was midnight when they got to their first casino, the lights outside on the strip painted pictures with tracers in your eye, turning your head from one spectacle to the other. Delilah was in a dream. “I’ve never gambled before,” she said sheepishly, looking for comfort from her companion. Her dad had a gambling addiction, but now that she was standing at the gates of hell, she couldn’t walk away. “Don’t worry, it’s easy,” Abon said with confidence as he opened the door, strolling into the casino with Delilah clutching to his arm. That night was a blur, a blur of alcohol, money, and romance that moved through Delilah’s life like the lights from the signs outside had moved through her eyes. She had her first taste of alcohol that night, after much coercing from Abon, and in the moment it was fun, but the feeling that replaced the happiness was not worth it. Delilah looked around the hotel room. White. White, where the only breaks

from the color were a beautiful view overlooking the Las Vegas skyline, and the red stained sheets that lay on top of her. The entire room was very clean, all of Delilahâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s belongings were neatly folded in a pile below her bed. Abon was nowhere to be seen. Delilah got up, closing the distance between her and her purse, but not before being overcome by an intense wave of nausea. Looking into her purse, Delilah was reassured that all her belongings were in order, but after looking into her wallet she realized that there was no money. Memories started

flooding her brain, and she realized that she gambled it all away. Delilah was empty inside. She treated her body unlike the temple she believed it to be. She betrayed her father by dancing the same dance he did with devils many years ago. She gave her most prized possession away to someone who ran off. She betrayed all of her core beliefs for the first boy who payed attention to her, flashed her a smile, and told her she was pretty. In a word, she was corrupted. Delilah sat in the raggedy

booth. It was caked in dirt, the old leather stained, worn down from years of use. The diner sat on the edge of the old highway, barely used anymore. All the traffic was directed to the superhighway, but even if a straggler did pass by every once and awhile, they never noticed. The passengers were too busy to notice. You would think that with the easy access to self driving cars, people would have more time to appreciate the world around them, but instead people had less time than ever.

Girl Tied Down India Ink Sabrina Drescher

The Moments Before Twilight By Elizabeth Wheeler I reach for you in the moments before Twilight, when the sound of songbirds begins to fade and the trees no longer glisten in your light. To the west we both look, you strained, and I remorseful. Your eyes glitter, and as I look into them I see my own. Brightness bathed your furrowed brow, and the sun arched towards the far hills. This cruelty, my dear, is unlike any other, that you shall soon pass into that poor night. I reach for you in the moments of Twilight, greeted by your glassy gaze. This time of day, comes much too frequent. The burden too heavy, The darkness too cold. I reach upwards in the moments after Twilight, your memory no more than a dream. But I could no longer see the stars, wretched, lost, and lonely scars.

Are You Ready For Change? By Trevor Mello

Sunlight is lost in space Trying to return home Afraid to touch people Change their mean outlook People need hope to celebrate But the dark wants to stay Pushing and pulling the darkness challenges them Today it’s halted by sunlight Fortune is to come people seek the adventure urging those at home to follow Tonight I will stop darkness’ wrath But the challenge cannot end It picks at my happiness creeping up on me when I sleep But I still see a change a chance to catch a break I see change that’s possible A chance to make a difference

Still Breathing

By Karlee McAllum

This night is dark where do I go The stars are high above so slow They haven’t seen her at her worst She’s in much pain but they don’t know She feels alone just like a hearse Thinking and feeling about to burst Nobody helps or sees her sorrow The darkest hollow she is cursed She stops her screams as silence comes To see if there is someone here The only sounds are humming cries Pain and hopeless make her fear Her mind is crazy, full of lies But she still cherishes and tries She still wants love before she dies She still wants love before she dies

Corolla Photography Alie Paoli

By Andrew Young

There was no event more comforting than our car turning onto Googas Road after sundown, the return from another day in my hometown of Albany, New York. This area, the state capital, was the world for the little nine year old me; it was the center of my earth. The Hudson River was my eastern boundary, for my family rarely ever crossed it. My western boundary fell in a town called Altamont, a place reminiscent of the south, yet only twenty minutes from the city. It was, and is, my home. It will forever be my home, as I have never received the kind of magical feeling from any other place in the world. I get a feeling of belonging when I go home, like I never left. I get the feeling like I’m that nine year old boy again, playing kickball in the street

with all of my neighborhood friends on Erie Drive. I found out we were moving away from that place in the early spring of 2007, a moment that left my third grade self devastated. My teacher had just told my class of eighteen kids that she would be moving up to fourth grade and taking the whole class with her, and now I figured out that I would not be there. The last days in the capital region then came too quick, as we moved out of our home on June 28th, 2007. We were moving to a place that I had no idea about. In truth, I didn’t really even know what Virginia was until we arrived, but alas, we did. On June 29th, I moved into my house in the “Piedmont” neighborhood, the place I called the “suburban zombie neighborhood” because everything, from the homes to the people, looked identical. The environment was completely new, and at first, hostile. The youth football league here intimidated me, as the one in Albany did not compare in competition. The stares of the new children at my amputated left arm drove me insane, and I began to wear long sleeves every day, based entirely off of insecurity. Four years later, I finally had the guts to break the habit. The move to Haymarket was a culture shock, as Albany and Northern Virginia boasted completely diverse lifestyles. Moving away from everything I have ever known was extremely painful to a growing child. It was like life had pressed a “reset” button. It took time for me to adjust.

In fourth grade, I burnt through two different teachers because I couldn’t handle the new environment. When middle school settled in, I finally started to handle it. I reconnected with an old friend from fourth grade named Jordan, and he soon became like a second brother to me, one that I could confide in, and one who I could always depend on. When hard times approached me during my father’s overseas deployments, Jordan was there, as I was for him when he struggled with the paints on life’s palette. With Jordan came other friends, and I finally began to develop my feeling of belonging that I hadn’t had since my years in New York. I visited Albany every summer in middle school. I flew up in the first week of July each year, and paid visits to my old friends, switching off who I was staying with so I could balance the visits. When the plane would descend over the city, I felt that feeling return to me. I would see the unmistakable skyline, and I felt at home. I felt that I was where I needed to be. I would visit my old house at 16 Erie Drive each time, and I would notice the small changes. One year, the grass was overgrown. The next year, the owners changed the shutter colors from our green to dark red. The final year, they took down our swing set from when I was little. However, that eighth grade year, something changed. I felt a change in the atmosphere of Albany. I began to feel that the sky was constantly grey there. I felt that when I moved away, so did the opportunity for me to be successful there. I still held the town near and dear to my heart, but I did not feel like I was as at home anymore. I now felt more like a visitor there, but at the same time, I did not feel at home in Virginia either. I felt like a gypsy,

like someone without a true place of belonging. It did not feel the same to me at fifteen years old as it did to the six year old child inside me. I have not returned to Albany since that year, and thus far, it has been four years. As a high school senior, I now find myself applying to a college in my hometown, one that I grew up three minutes from in my first nine years of life. I may finally be returning to my hometown as an adult, a dream I held tightly to my heart in my first three years here. However, as the years withered away, my love for the town matured. I did not need Albany in my life to be successful, I did not need Albany in my life to be happy. The truth is, that town will always be a part of me, a building block of what makes me who I am. I did not need Albany to love someone, as two years into a relationship with the girl of my dreams came completely independent of my hometown. I did not need Albany to develop my passions, as I learned to play music in Northern Virginia, and to fit into both a community of athletes and musicians. I did not need Albany to be a successful student, as I learned very quickly that Virginia schooling is survival of the fittest. I adapted, and brought Albany’s culture with me. Blue collar, grit, and hard working values were instilled in me by those

New York State of Mind Painting Liz Huseman

surrounding me in my upbringing, and I applied them to my passions and objectives in life. What the move from Albany taught me is that growing up comes with two sides, the good and the evil. The evil comes in the form of snatching a child away from his nurture, severing the connection between him and the immediate world around him. He, at first, loses his sense of self due to the restart, and it takes a bit of time to develop that belonging again. The good comes in the form of growth, and maturity. I moved forward with my life in a new place, a place crawling with opportunity at every doorstep. I matured in my views, and made my life better from what I learned in my hometown. The good comes from what you learn, the good comes from your upbringing transcending a place. The good comes from your nurture, your hometown, becoming tattooed on you, becoming a part of you.

Requiem By Meg Gerlek

Cissa doesn’t know how long she’s been here. Sometimes, she thinks she’s always been on the beach, under the sun, with this tanned young man by her side. It doesn’t really seem to matter, anyway. She is the best kind of content. She is happy in a way that is all-encompassing and brimming with possibilities. She builds castles in the softest of sands, and swims in a sparkle-blue sea. She is always collecting bits of glass, dulled by waves and sand, and putting them in her pockets. Her favorite activity is to sit and watch the waves come in with Eli. Much of the time, Eli is the most agreeable kind of company. He is handsome and kind, and very thoughtful in conversation. It seems they are never truly apart, so they talk often, although Cissa knows well that there are times when a blackness descends on him, weighing down his words. “Sometimes I think I’ve never felt so free,” Cissa tells him one day, overwhelmed with the wide open blue sky above them. A shadow appears on the brow of the man’s face. “Freedom,” he mutters darkly, “is an illusion at the best of times.” To Cissa’s eyes, the shadow grows and lines his face, which abruptly becomes older and gaunter, with wild and matted hair. Then he turns back to her and smiles, achingly, and the sudden apparition is replaced with golden Eli, healthy and strong. Cissa smiles back, relieved. She turns her face up, looking towards the sun. She doesn’t feel the need to squint. *** 16

Far behind the water’s edge, a dark forest of pines rises up from the edge of the sand. Most days, she turns her face away. There is something about the murmur of the trees that unsettles her. Today though, it compels her closer, until she can hear a persistent beat, dull notes of sound. As she approaches, they become clearer, and a dread starts to form within her. Her breath comes in faster, and the sound is getting quicker, sharper, louder“Cissa!” She whirls, eyes wild and wide. It’s Eli, and he’s smiling, stiffly, staring at her. “Cissa,” he laughs, a bit choked, “don’t you think we should be getting back? The sun will set soon.” All at once Cissa needs to touch him, feel that he’s there. She runs to him and throws her arms about his chest, and he feels broad, and warm, and real. He lets her, of course, murmuring soft reassurances while she holds him. After a while she stills. She pulls back and looks up at him, smiling through her drying tears. “The sun will be going down,” she reminds him. “Let’s go watch it, watch the sunset on the beach. I just want- I want to see some color.” They walk back to the shore, Eli leading, and the world solidifies around them, leaving the faint smell of antiseptic behind. *** Cissa and Eli watch the fading sun together, the orange-gold light now skimming the horizon. “I’m sorry,” says Eli. His face is drawn, and the shadow licks at its edges. “I’ve been selfish,”

he admits, “you don’t belong here anymore.” “But I can’t,” says Cissa, panicked without quite realizing why. “If I go back, you’ll be alone.” “You couldn’t understand. This place- this is where I belong. Here, in the dark. Please go, while you still can.” Cissa has always known that Eli is unhappy, but never has she seen him so resigned, so deeply sad. She looks out to where the sun has vanished, and then behind her, to where the trees bend forward, beckoning. “You’ve been very good to methank you,” she tells him, and kisses his cheek before making her way across the sand. *** It is twilight, and the world is blanketed a deep blue. Cissa is ready, and the waiting pines no longer seems so sinister. There’s a soft sound, from somewhere in the trees, and she strains forward to listen. She hears the notes of a guitar, a slow melody that takes shape the closer she gets. The rumbling bass of a man’s voice joins it, a warm sound that seems to fill her, pull her in. Entranced, she moves forward, away from the sun-warmed sand, into the inviting shadows of the forest. *** In a hospital bed in Ohio, Carissa Randall opens her eyes for the first time in four months. *** “It’s not unusual,” the young specialist tells her, “that in cases like these a patient experiences vivid, lucid

dreams. It’s called REM intrusion. Your brainwaves actually slowed while you were comatose. It’s fascinating stuff, really.” It doesn’t seem right, she thinks. Something’s wrong. “There was someone else there... a man. He would calm me down, when I started to get scared. He seemed so-” she clutches her head, frustrated. His name is already slipping from her grasp. “-So real? Yeah. Most likely, your mind was trying to work through something. A car accident of that magnitude would have been traumatic for anyone. You bring someone into the dream with you, and you’re not completely alone. It’s stabilizing.” But she was never alone. He was there first. *** Cissa decides to move on. She does her physical therapy, she reconnects with friends and family. She doesn’t think about the way her car flipped, over and over... she doesn’t

think about blue oceans, reflecting blue skies. She goes back to her life. And sometimes, when she wakes up, she tries to remember her dreams. *** She sees his picture in the paper. It’s on the the bottom of page seven. Millionaire Still Institutionalized After Attempted Suicide. Her coffee cup shatters on the floor. *** It takes her months to track it all down, to find a way in. In the end, it’s too easy. *** “As few as three years ago,” says the esteemed psychiatrist, “this establishment was in constant state of chaos. Its leading doctors employed primitive techniques, quite messy and painful for all of us- my revolutionary new treatment makes all of these obsolete, even for the most resistant of our patients. One might say,” he chuckles, “we practically treat them while they sleep.”

The woman’s thin hands grip tighter around her notebook. “Clearly,” she says, “your facility must yield the most remarkable of results.” The doctor’s thin mouth stretches, a razor slash of a smile. “Oh yes, my dear, and I would very much like to show you. The grand tour, if you will. As a reporter,” he enunciates the word, “you must want to see for yourself the remarkable treatments we have to offer our patients.” He gestures for her to walk with him along the hall, and she follows, helplessly. When they reach the big metal doorway, Cissa hesitates, glancing back down the hall to where sunlight still filters through grimy windows. Her hands tremble with fear, but before her lies the possibility of uncovered secrets, and a glimmer of hope. The doctor is on the other side, holding out his hand for her, waiting. Summoning up all her courage, she puts on a smile and steps through the door. The grate closes. The lock clicks. The lights go out.

Lake Placid Photography Emily Beitzell

Nikki is her name She’s dangerous, a killer She’s an ugly girl with a sweet name Who can seduce you to inhale her She wants to be in your life It’s not for the money

By the time you finally come to your senses It’s too late She has already taken over your life The damage she has done to you is horrifying By the time has come and you’ve gotten rid of her She is finally out of your life You find a way to rehabilitate yourself

It’s not for the love It’s for her pleasure She wants you to suffocate But the pain comes back She can kill you with just one drag And you are no longer here She stays with you after only one time She is out there trapping the innocent She has won... You are hooked and can’t get enough of her Everytime she touches your lips You feel the blissful sensation in your lungs But all you feel is poison She’s killing you from the inside out

Nikki By Kevin Calderon

Officers line up ready for duty They stand proud with their given authority However, with great power comes great responsibility Something law enforcement fails to see as morality

Hold Your Fire By Connor Dahl

Arkansas in a late 2006 winter 21-year-old suffering from a cerebral disorder Lies down near a highway, unaware of incoming danger His existence banished by careless bullets of a State Trooper Washington in a 2010 summer Unjustified shooting sounded off from a Seattle Officer The death of an innocent deaf woodcarver Surely led to this Officer’s resignation and dishonor Arizona in the year 2011 Man gunned down by Officer Chrisman His own roommate and his dog, they almost ran Chrisman took them down, pistol in hand If that isn’t enough to prove a point about manslaughter The state of Pennsylvania seems to be a large offender From the 90’s onward, the savage cruelty spans further One would debate between law enforcer and murderer And shouldn’t humanity regret The deadly fate Michael Brown met? By the hand of Officer Wilson whose conviction was never set The uproar in Ferguson we shall never forget

Taking a Cab

By Chase Pacchioli

Why as you walk out of the bar do you think that it is a good idea to get in the car? As you swerve from left to right on the freeway You start to think this path to get home is not the right way faster and faster pressing on the accelerator when you drift into the left lane and you see them an instant too late A minivan with a mother, a father, and two kids Then the moment of impact like a flash of lightning the cars collide metal ripping glass is shattering airbags expand you feel glass hitting your bare skin and your leg breaks you see the other car the front bumper looks like a childâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s drawing metal jutting from all angles the family in the wreckage trapped, no way out you think of your family the pain they will feel then they see you having to see their dad, their husband a mess of cuts and broken bones at the hospital what if it had been worse what if you had died your kids having to grow up without a father your wife having to provide for them herself how would they survive how would they go to college now you think about this as you put the key in the ignition as you do this you take out the key and open the door you breath a sigh of relief knowing youâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;re doing the right thing and taking a cab Wings Photography Tony Lin

Reunion By Sydney Brown The old photos made her conscious of her age, of how much time had passed - and of what an interesting life she’d had. Tammy’s lives had felt so long when they had first started, but now, stacked neatly on top of each other in the form of polaroids, they felt like an instant. She was so tired. Tammy wondered if being dead would feel like going to sleep. She hadn’t felt rested in ages, not since her first life. Being a young revolutionary had really taken it out of her. Tammy wished she had pictures of that life, but that had been a time before pictures. Even if there had been, it wouldn’t have been the same. Even with her other lives, pictures Beach Life Photography Sierra Reynolds

couldn’t quite capture the memories as clearly as she wanted. The only life that had come close was her fourth one, when she had fallen in love with a photographer. He had been sweet, always hiding behind a camera and taking pictures of her when he thought she wasn’t looking. Tammy

left of that life were some slightly out of focus pictures of herself in a field, and a few dusty old notebooks. Now, she had nothing but memories to remind herself of what her photographer had looked like. Tammy sighed and continued sorting the pictures and keepsakes into

She was so tired. Tammy wondered if being dead would feel like going to sleep. wished she had more of his pictures, but most of them were up in an attic in a tiny house in Prague. All she had

piles. The world had changed so much since her first life. Now, on her tenth and final life, she felt at peace. Tammy

Urban Fetus Photography Tony Lin was an old woman now, and had already gotten to see so much more of the world than she had planned on. For the longest time, she had felt doomed. Her first life had ended before she had done half of what she wanted to, so she had welcomed the chance to live again. She wasn’t certain why the cycle had kept repeating itself, but she had never complained. Reflecting on it now, she didn’t understand much of why she kept living. She knew that this was her last

nothing but a scrap of a dress from her first life, and from her second, only a few sketches of her daughters and a lock of her oldest daughter’s hair. During her third life, she had gotten smart about it and had kept diaries her whole life. The set wasn’t quite complete, but there were enough journals for her to remember her third life well. Her fourth life had felt insignificant except for her photographer. She had died young in that life as well, and maybe that was

She had welcomed the chance to live again. life, but she didn’t know why she had kept living in the first place. It might not have been a secret for her to know while she was still alive. When placed next to each other, it was obvious which lives had been longer and more substantial. She had

why she had gotten to live so many times. This final life was the only one in which she had lived older than thirty. She thought, not for the first time, that she should have written a book. She could have published her diaries from her former lives, or become a scientist

in order to explain what had happened to her. Instead, she had simply become an old lady with nothing left but memories. Tammy picked up her pen and began to write: If someone should someday find these items, know this: I lived long and I lived well. If time is a wandering path through a wood, it took me far too many years to find my way to the end of it. I have seen sights that words cannot do justice, and I have seen things I would rather forget. If there is an afterlife (and I suspect there is) know that I am there now, and if I am lucky, I am with all those I have loved. To those that read these journals in the future: live. Tammy sighed and closed her journal for the final time.

Practice What You Preach By JP Colvin Your book says to spread love and always try to relate be peaceful and kind like a dove but instead you only spread hate. You have a cross on your neck so you think you can judge people’s sins You think you can call them a wreck and you’re the one who wins. Well sorry, but you’re a hypocrite, no one wins in the eyes of my God and I’m really sick of it, because you make us all look like a fraud. And just because someone’s gay nothing gives you the right. But just because they don’t obey? Whether they go to church every weekend or they really couldn’t care, because your own spot in Hell has deepened for every time you give them a stare. “Love your neighbor as yourself ” even if he’s a sinner. So take the bible off your shelf before your chances of salvation grow any thinner. So if you are part of my religion practice what you preach because you are not God’s carrier pigeon you don’t need to give everyone else his speech.

Chandelier Photography Rachel Hong

That Direction By Iza Lazaneo We are all posed in one direction, faces all around the world, we’re smiling, that we are all in that same direction. But why isn’t anyone happy and why are they apart? Some with an expression paler than a ghost from ear to ear, Others with a storm in their mind and a fire in their hearts, broken by the words they hear. They are all different, but in that same direction, They argue their beliefs, customs, whatever is made of them without connection, how every face is never treated well. There are cracks and some slip and fall, but no one is bound to make a sound, of what is there to see of all, Is a plastered smile on their face. If something erupts, it will mean nothing, of how every face is expected to stay in that direction, Finding a way to be something, and behave the same as everyone in that intersection. It’s a curved slope, a mountain of the unknown, yet we cross it, to reach it, a fate to be sown? Something that will never quit? Others pave their own direction, but if we never do, How will they strive for their own definition of perfection? It was not anything we ever knew, Definitely not in that direction.

Should’ve Gone to Denny’s By Davis Bryars

“Jesus Christ, Josh, what happened to you?” Alex came running up to his best friend, who had a black eye and his arm in a sling. “Ugh, I really don’t have time to tell you…” “Don’t worry, there’s like 10 minutes before the bell rings. It can’t be that weird,” Alex said as he got to his seat. “Alright, alright. I got beat up by some bikers.” Alex was shocked. “Whoa, what? What the hell were you doing with bikers? You get initiated into the Hell’s Angels over the weekend?” “No, no, man. Cyclists.” An uncomfortable second passed before Alex realized that being waylaid by a

gang of marauding bicycle enthusiasts didn’t make any more sense than Josh’s skipping town on a motorcycle. “I’m going to need this story now,” Alex demanded. “Well, it all started when I took that girl from English class out to dinner at IHOP.” “Classy.” “Shut up. Anyway, the date ended about as well as you would expect from me…” “With you by yourself and a Coke poured over your head?” Alex supplied. “No,” Josh said indignantly, “It was a Dr. Pepper. Now do you want to hear this story or not?” “No, no, please, continue. I’m

enthralled.” Alex wasn’t the only one. A group of Josh’s classmates had formed a rough semicircle around him and were hanging on his every word. “So apparently there’s some triathlon or race or whatever being held here soon, and a bunch of these guys were hanging out loading up on simple carbohydrates and cheap protein. They were everywhere, but I didn’t really pay attention until I had gotten out to the parking lot. I was distracted by that night’s snafu, and not really paying attention to where I was walking.” By now most of the students had trickled into class, and were adding their numbers to Josh’s audience. “So I was still in the process of wiping the soda out of my eyes, when

Color Splatter Graphic Design Sabrina Drescher I walked right into a parked bicycle. Now, I don’t know if you’ve ever encountered a pack of cyclists, but they like to park all their bikes lined up next to each other. It adds camaraderie or something.” Alex started to see where this was going. “Oh, no, Josh, you didn’t…” “Yup. They all fell over, one after the other, and made enough noise to wake Lance Armstrong’s dead career. And since a crashed bike to a cyclist is akin to a baby crying for its mother, they all came rushing out of the restaurant, ready for blood.” “And that’s when you got the crap kicked out of you?” interrupted Alex. “Nope. That’s when I picked up the nearest bicycle and made my daring escape.” Josh followed that development with a dramatic pause, which was filled with the faint slapping sounds of hands

hitting foreheads in disbelief. “So let me get this straight,” said Alex, “You pissed off a group of bikers…” “Cyclists.” “All of who are stronger, faster, and more athletic than you…” “Yup.” “Stole the very thing they’ve been training to use…” “Mhm.” “And tried to ride off with it?” “Exactly,” Josh said proudly, “I was hoping they would be too surprised to do anything until I had gotten some distance.” “Did it work?” asked one of Josh’s slower classmates. Josh fixed him with his swollen, bruised eye and deadpanned, “Absolutely.” With all the excitement, no one realized that the bell had rung five

With all the excitement, no one realized the bell had rung...

minutes ago and the teacher had yet to make an appearance. “So then what happened?” Alex prompted. “Well, to my credit, they were a little surprised. I had made it out of the parking lot before they started to catch up to me. All but one, I mean. Anyway, one guy-- who I can only assume was their leader-- was a little faster than the others, and caught up to me first. He reached over and grabbed me by the neck, you know, like you would a cat, and lifted me off the bike and tossed me into a tree. And get this: this guy didn’t even slow down. If I wasn’t unconscious, I would have been impressed.” At the apparent conclusion of Josh’s story, the teacher showed up. “Sorry I’m late, class,” he said, “I didn’t get much sleep last night. I had trouble getting home after some stupid kid stole my bike.”

Lockdown By Mackenzie Gleysteen Rachel was aware that it was odd; she used the bathroom as an escape from the pressures of her exhausting classes. The optimum time to go to the bathroom for a break was during class. If you tried to go during the passing period, the bathroom was flocked with insecure girls checking their clothing in the mirror and doing their makeup for the third time that day without even using the restroom. Rachel’s classes were long and grueling, and the three minutes a day she spent in the bathroom gave her freedom. She closed her eyes, took a deep breath, washed her hands, sipped some water, and then looked at herself in the mirror, mentally prompting herself to go back to class prepared and ready to achieve her goals. Rachel smiled, embracing the feeling of the warm water dripping from the old ratty sinks at her high school and cleaning her hands with the low grade foam soap the school ever so graciously supplied. Rachel’s eyebrows furrowed as she heard the announcements click on and a monotone female voice repeat, “This is not drill. We are in lockdown. Teachers please close and lock your doors and whatever you do, do not let anyone enter your room.” As the announcements clicked off, Rachel felt as if someone had just cut the single thread that was supporting her. It was like she could no longer balance on a rope that was keeping her from a deadly fall below. As beads of sweat began to form on her forehead, panic rapidly filled inside of her as she contemplated her options. Rachel was aware of the lockdown procedures: teachers would gather their students in the back corner of the room, turn out the lights, lock the door, and let absolutely no one inside. Still, Rachel thought it would be worth a try

to attempt to run to her teacher’s door and see if she would let her into the safety of the classroom. Peering out the open bathroom entrance, Rachel was startled to see the hallways already empty; you could hear a pin drop on the floor. Rachel even became conscious of how loud her breathing was. Suddenly, she heard footsteps approaching; her stomach dropped to the floor as she crept backwards into the bathroom. Running back to her class was no longer an option. Thoughts spun through her head. What would be the safest? What would my Dad tell me to do? Am I going to die? Rachel questioned herself. Slowly, she inched backwards to the bathroom stalls and chose the third stall, as if which one she hid in mattered at that point. Unfortunately, the only “safety” information Rachel could muster was the scenes of kids hiding in bathrooms, fearing the approaching bullies, and then miraculously changing the stall they occupied between the bully kicking each door open. Rachel knew if the intruder came into the bathroom, she could hide quietly standing on the toilet so they wouldn’t see her feet, but if they checked each stall for a person, Rachel would never be able to gracefully climb over the other stall walls without the intruder noticing. The thought crossed her mind to lock the stall door she was in, but that would be obvious someone was hiding in the stall. Should she lock all the stall doors or leave them all open? Finally, Rachel settled on leaving the stall doors open and simply hiding and praying for her life. If anything else were to happen, she would rely on her instincts. Just as she had mapped out her basic plan, the footsteps finally reached the bathroom. At this point, Rachel was sure the drumming sound of her heart would give her away until the intruder started talking… to himself. The fact that he was a male in the female bathroom wasn’t even the odd part, it was that he was a student at school, Ryan. Rachel could barely hold her gasp of

surprise in. As she peered out the small gap between the stall door and the wall, her eyes grew wider in disbelief as Ryan paced the bathroom mumbling to himself. Walking the room in a panic, he finally paused and looked at himself in the mirror for a split second and saw the reflection of Rachel’s eyes peering through the bathroom stall. His eyes narrowed. Horrified, Rachel receded back into the corner of the stall knowing that he had discovered her. “What are you doing? Gonna try and stop me? Think I’m gonna kill ya?” he scoffed. The tremble in his voice was apparent, but Rachel thought her nerves would kill her before he even reached her. She knew she had been discovered and there was no turning back now so, bravely, she lightly touched the door and gently pushed it open. As the door swung back, Rachel stood and approached him in the bathroom. Surprising herself, she scolded, “What do you think you’re doing?” Stunned at her audacity to approach him, his fake exterior of confidence was shot. Rather than continuing to torment Rachel, he stuttered and answered her question, relaying his malevolent plan to harm all the students and staff in the school with the help of his friend Luke. At least, until Luke chickened out last minute. Ryan felt he had to continue the mission to hurt everyone just as they had hurt him. Oddly, as he relayed the horrifying details of his plan, Rachel was calm and grabbed his hand. As Ryan spoke, Rachel held his hand and gave it a pulse to remind him she was paying attention. Tears welled in his eyes as he finally said out loud that he planned to kill himself afterward. Rachel extended her arms and embraced him in a hug. Ryan’s body lay limp in her arms, as if he were exhausted by his choices and could no longer hold his own weight. Rachel held Ryan in the girl’s bathroom, and even took that deep breath she had waited for all day, knowing she had not died. She had saved a life.

The First Hunt By Liam McLaurin The fire had begun to burn down to nothing but embers, casting an ominous glow on those sitting beside it. A grizzled man sat amongst a group of patient children. They all stared at him, as if waiting for his black, unkempt beard to burst into flames. None of them had moved for hours, except to stretch their cramped joints or change sitting positions. Ever since they had heard the rumor that the man before them was an adventurer, they had stuck to him like glue, pestering him for a story. “So,” he started, “you lot want a story? A tale heroes, villains, and all the like?” “Yes!” They all sat up, enthralled by the veteran’s sudden change in interest. “Well then, go find a bard. I’m no storyteller.” His words seemed to dash their hopes almost as quickly as they had been raised. “Aw, c’mon. Just one story. Then we’ll leave you alone, promise!” He eyed the children for a few moments, wondering how they even got into the tavern. “Fine, but listen up, and no questions, got it?” The group nodded in unanimous agreement. “Alright,” his gaze turned to the smoldering remnants of the fire pit, its light casting an eerie glow over the scar just below his left eye. “This is the tale of a small band of nobodies, and their first hunt...”

“After it! Don’t let the beast get away!” “It’s the size of a bloody barn, Donnal. How could we lose it! Especially after Star winged it with an arrow!” The shouting carried through the darkened trees just over the sound

of splintering wood. A group of three, two men and a woman, raced through the shadowed forest, leaping over rocks and dodging under fallen trees. They steadily advanced on their wounded quarry, but slowed when the sound of shattering wood ceased, indicating one thing. The beast had broken into the clearing before them. When the party reached the forest’s edge, they halted to catch their breath. Donnal, a clean shaven young man, turned to face his panting companions. The other man looked much older, a dark ragged beard matting his face with a similar look on his head. Sweat trickled down his face as he leaned against a tree to catch his breath. “Looks like the beast is gonna stay in the clearing for a bit,” he said, casting a glance through the shadowy clearing ahead of them. “Let’s catch our breath before heading after it.” Donnal nodded and sat his weary, leather clad body down on a nearby rock that looked as if it had been scraped by half a dozen sharpened blades. “Gods,” he exclaimed, “Ren, what exactly is this beast?” The grizzled man let out a fierce laugh, the mismatched pieces of metal armor rattling harshly against his leather padding as he did so. “That’s right, you didn’t even see the beast before Star here set about making it her personal pincushion, did ya? By the way, nice shooting, lass.” The woman, who was now sitting cross legged with her back against a fallen tree, nodded a silent thanks. “You still haven’t answered my question,” Donnal pressed. “Hmph, not a pleasant sight by far, especially considering this will

be the first, and perhaps last, time you ever see a wolven. So I might as well tell you what we’re up against.” Ren paused, took out a canteen, and passed it around after taking a thirsty drink from it. “Ah, nasty beasts, these wolven. Big as a barn, and yet still surprisingly quick. Their jaws hold two sets of teeth, sharper than any regular dagger. Still, the claws are what you need to watch out for. Forearms bulging with muscle and fur, and at their end lay half a dozen sharpened knives ready to cut you to pieces.” Ren took another swig from the canteen when it made its way back to him. Despite his best efforts, Donnal was shaking with a strange mixture of fear and anticipation. He’d always been a little too headstrong for his own good, but that’s always been what has set him apart from the others. Seeking to calm his nerves, his eyes traveled over to the woman still sitting quietly next to the fallen tree, its bark harshly torn and splintered. “And you? What’s your take on the beast?” Star brushed a wet clump of hair back, revealing a surprisingly pointed ear. “The beast is quite large, it’s true, but my arrows should have slowed it down considerably. I made sure to aim for the legs, and considering that it’s stopped running, the poison has started to take effect. It won’t kill it, but the beast won’t run from us should we attack in force. It’s in too much pain.” The elf ’s soft voice only added to the power of her words. The conversation had done the opposite of what Donnal had hoped to achieve. “R-Right then,” he said shakily. “Beast’s not getting any deader. Let’s go.” The other two nodded, unwilling to question why the youngest of the three was giving the orders.

Donnal drew his blade and stepped into the clearing, Ren walking by his side with Star bringing up the rear. The beast crouched before them in the middle of the clearing, eerie clouds hanging over head obscuring most of it in shadow. All was indistinguishable but its bloodshot red eyes hanging like two dull embers in the darkness. However, as the party drew near, the beast let loose a low growl. A warning. The hunters did not back down. The beast’s growl slowly grew in pitch as it reared up on its hind legs until finally it climaxed in a fierce howl. Then, it bolted for the two unprepared hunters. Ren threw himself aside, Donnal mimicking the action as the beast’s claws came whistling through the air, narrowly missing Donnal’s throat. “Star, what in Kima’s name is going on! You said it would be….” Ren was interrupted as the beast slammed into him, knocking him off his feet. Donnal ran to his side, cutting into the creature just as it opened its jaws to tear into the prone warrior. It only had one row of teeth. The monster howled in pain at the touch of Donnal’s blade. Leaving Ren, it turned and brought a heavily muscled forearm around into Donnal’s chest, knocking him across the clearing. “That’s no wolven,” Ren cried, spitting the blood from his mouth. “It’s a bloody cursed one!” As if on cue, the sheet of clouds parted just enough for a sliver of moonlight to cover the forest’s clearing. The cursed monster stood on its hind legs still, fur bristling and eyes emitting a message of pure rage toward all it saw. Several arrow shafts protruded from the beast’s thighs and even a few from its back, implying that Star hadn’t been sitting on her hands. However, to say

Colors of the Woods Photography Marli Hayward conventional weaponry is ineffective against a cursed one would be quite the understatement. Star wasted no time after this realization. “Run you idiots! We can’t kill that thing! We’ve no silver, and certainly no magic!” “Bloody Blackwell,” Ren cursed, taking off for the patch of trees from which they had arrived. Unfortunately, the sudden movement drew the attention of the man wolf. Before Ren could so much as blink, the beast descended on him with ravenous hunger. Pinned to the ground, Ren fought desperately to keep the creature’s slavering maw away from his throat. Star rained arrows upon the beasts back in a vain attempt, but they seemed to have little effect. Frustrated by the tenacity of its prey, the cursed beast lashed at Ren with its claws, missing mostly due to its uncontrollable blood rage. However, one of its razor sharp claws caught Ren’s cheek, leaving a deep bloody line just under his left eye. Then, without warning, the cursed wolf shot upright, its eyes glazing

over to a blank red. It uttered a final bloodcurdling howl, just as the pale edge of Donnal’s blade shot through the cursed beast’s blackened heart. They all remained that way for some time, Donnal panting, sword in both hands, and Ren gripping his cheek painfully. Then, as Ren backed away, Donnal let the dead mat of fur and muscle slide to the ground. They all eyed each other, and for a moment, no one spoke. Then they all burst out laughing, more out of hysteria than anything else. Even Star managed a soft chuckle as she approached her two victorious comrades. “Well, what are the odds,” she breathed, eyes locked on Donnal’s blade. “Where did you get that?” Donnal smiled, “it’s an old family heirloom. Knew it would come in handy tonight.” He spun the blade in his grip once before returning it to its scabbard. “Now then, we have a reward to collect.”

Shopaholic By Zoe Voettiner

She wants more, she always wants more What she has will never be enough Each new item turns out a bore All Jane wants is more and more stuff The workers in every store know Jane They know that she never stops buying They always have an item to keep her sane What would happen if they stopped supplying? Jane always missed school And she didn’t have any friends No one thought she was cool All she had was her Mercedes Benz From dresses to purses to shoes Jane’s got it all After wearing an outfit once it’s old news She’s been shopping since she could crawl Bigger is better And more is better But is bigger and more Really much better? Those with less always seem happier They are content with what they’ve got In the end does it really matter How many things that you have bought

Lost Time By Shania Mitchell

Waiting for a taxi or waiting on the bus, Or the warm toast or the daily news Or for the sun to rise or the rain to fall, Or for a text message from one you miss dearly Or waiting for someone to smile back Waiting for more... Waiting for more strung out time Or waiting for a new video game to drop Or watching people dance without me Or a long road trip with a few best friends Or perhaps, for your mother and father Or a glass to break...or your mind to break Or simply making up for lost time

My Collection Painting Christina Greene

Down by the Beach Painting Lauren Cardenas 31

Intangible wounds. They exist, no one can deny it. Drowning in the absences of hope, We aren’t alright. We may never be alright Painted masks rest above our wounded faces. Cloaks of diversely tinted skin lay over the tightly sewn patches In and out, Pull tight, repeat. Tenacious thread holds our sanity in place. No one can ever know. Keep safe, keep them all safe. Protect. We’re programed to protect everyone else. Not ourselves, No one can save us. We’re not worth saving. No one can ever know. We protect them. Keep them safe from the rotting cliffs of hell Willingly we fight for them. As others sleep we drown in the depths of our own self loathing They can never know. Smiles plastered our faces. Angelic eyes fade into darkness. We walk the lonely lines of fate each night, Tetering the edge with every sway of darkness. Worthless, Pathetic, Despicable, Useless, Coward “That’s cute, You thought we cared.”

Hero By Emily Clark

Words drown us all. Words camouflage themselves. Spelling maybe be different but they’re all the same, They’re all meant to torment us, Corrupt what little happiness we have left. The unbearable, undeniable truth is, Though we are alone in this world, Though we stitch our wounds, Though we protect everyone from their own demons, Though we accept those camouflaged words, Though we walk the faint lines of terror each night, Though we know no one will save us, Though we are scarred, burned and broken, Though we paint a smiling mask to hide the pain, Though we are cursed with this burning hell of a fate In the end, it will be okay. That much will always be true. I don’t know how yet, but I will be okay. I promised myself that. We protect the underdogs,

We protect them because we see life in their hopeless eyes. We chose to see what little hope they’ve buried in them. Their dying flame of hope is what keeps us fighting. Drawing swords, Daggers, Overcoming our misery to fight, Fight hard, Fight with passion, Fight for them, Give your heart, Give it your all, And in the end if you lose yourself, You lost fighting for the underdog. You died a hero. A hero to the son whose father bruised his innocence, A hero to the girl whose bullies carved anorexic upon her bony hips. A hero to the guy who’s branded a sissy.

Golden Hour Photography Annie Patterson

A hero to the man who loathes his very heartbeat. A hero to the son who’s drowning in grief. A hero to the girl whose beauty was charred. A hero to the little girl who can’t form the word no. A hero to the husband who drank away the sorrow of love’s death. A hero to the lonely mother who works four jobs. A hero to the youthful man who fears rejection. A hero to the girl who sharpens her knife at every hateful spat. A hero to the father who couldn’t protect his angel. A hero to the friend, losing herself to unpredictability. A hero to the little girl blindsided by truth. A hero to the people who abandoned hope. A hero to the people holding on by a thread. A hero to the people deemed worthless. A hero to the people who were told they will never be good enough. We don’t have a hero to save us, We are the hero. We have always been the hero. We dig deeper and deeper Until we find it… We find our needle and thread, Sew our intangible wounds, Sew the camouflaged words to our cloaks of skin as tattoos. We stand with broken bones, Slowly ripping away the camouflage. Intangible wounds. They exist, no one can deny it. We know they exist. We wear our intangible wounds with pride. They made us who we are. They are apart of us, Apart of our soul. We are the protectors. We are those intangible wounds.

Footsteps Photography Reilly Hayward

Venturesome By Chris Marin

Away from my thoughts and my dreaming land I withhold my mind and come to understand The desires of mine are closely upon my hands With my life being a bitter dark blue Though my heart shines bright during the night I seek only with my wits and undying spirit To which is more precise than gold As time passes day by day I’ll never back down from anything along my way As I cast away toward my home land My life’s purpose has come to its end I’ve finally found my friends

Forgiveness

By Antony Acevedo

A pale grey room, with bars on the windows filled with orange jump suits. absent for 14 years, but there he stands. at the other side of the room, a man looks upon me. He is as much a stranger to me as I am to him. We both step forward, in a room that is as much a trap for me, as it is for him. My mother standing next to me, fear in her eyes, not for her but for me. Afraid of my reaction, my emotions. This was what I wanted, and if it wasn’t now I would never meet him. So we sit and say things people say when they talk. I pretend familiarity, and he pretends regrets. My life interrupted his, and now he interrupts mine. He sits here looking at me, as his son. But he is not my father. I see him and feel nothing. No pain. No anger. No sadness, nor love. The absence of emotion, just existence. I sat there in front of this male, not a man. And I forgave him for all the pain he caused. And when I left that room, I was freed.

STANDARD ISSUE By Kyle Dean Sergeant Walker held his gaze steady, surveying the land about him and mentally assimilating tactical data. A pair of special issue binoculars he was trained to operate allowed him to document each area of the surrounding town, as to make tactical decisions easier. He later went back into the small room where his men stood, and told them to bring him the ‘book’. Tassan’s magnum opus was called Militant Definition, and happened to be the whole package in strategic wartime affairs. It was not a book, so to speak, at least not in the traditional sense where it would be bound in leather and filled with ink. In truth, it was a comprehensive database contained in the squad’s tablet computer. The most successful militaries throughout the last three centuries used it, and Walker was trained to follow it by the letter, never deviating in fear of mistakes and failure.

unguarded central solar array. Of all the buildings in the desert hamlet, the one Walker’s squad occupied was the most defensible. The ‘book’ had told them as much. The enemy was due to arrive in less than an hour. Intelligence had told them they would be unpredictable, and that the only solid objective that had been discerned was to retrieve the solar array and the stockpile of chemicals. Using laser technology, Walker’s men sliced out windows in the stone walls. They were in the process of mounting large cyclic turrets to the cutaways when they heard the ‘book’ give off a signal. It displayed the locations of no less than nine hostiles entering the deserted town, caught by ultra-sensitive computational radar. “Alright,” Walker began, “headsets online, and to your positions!” This was his first command

It was not a book, so to speak,

in the traditional sense where it would be bound inleather and filled with ink.

Walker inserted the data card from the binoculars into the pad, waiting only a few seconds for the database to react and create a full suite of strategic plans. Walker laid the pad down on a small table, and surveyed the environment once more. The building they were in was a small, backwater single-floor of sandstone. There was a nearly broken AC unit on the far wall, connected to the village’s power line that led to an 36

situation, so the jitters could be heard in his voice. He was more used to the ‘book’ giving orders, but he had felt the urge to say something ‘commandworthy’ before they each left to their stations. Each man knew the weapons the enemy would carry like the backs of their hands. The ‘book’ had told them that Jahar militants used standard Series 44 Rail Emissions rifles, GlasgowHybrid kinetic side arms, Thermic

Tactical grenades, and a variety of less-than-terrifying CQC bowie knives. Militant Definition ensured that Walker’s squad was above surprise and unpreparedness. The fighting began as several shots rang out, flying from the corner of a house 50 yards down the baked dirt street. The militants were armed as expected, and the ‘book’ called out over the squad’s intercom: Aim turret A 3.4 feet left, fire three seconds, aim turret A 1.8 feet right, fire two seconds. With expert obedience, the deed was done; three militants were dead and the building crumbled from the impacts. Remain within building, aim turret C 2.9 feet right, wait two seconds, fire two seconds. The ‘book’ rattled on, and 2 more militants fell. The enemy was utterly suppressed with only four survivors. The radar showed that they seemed to be retreating. Disarm turrets, enemy has been routed. With only a bit of sweat on their brows, the men began packing up. Walker spoke, “Good work, men. We’ve been guided to another lossless victor-“ He didn’t have time to finish as a huge explosion wracked the right wall. Sandstone shrapnel closed the distance in milliseconds, opening grievous wounds in three squad members and killing one instantly. Walker was only scratched, but the force knocked him to the ground. He crawled over to the now flipped table, snatching up the ‘book’ in the thick, dust-filled air. His men emptied out of the room quickly, coughing and panting. “What was that?” Walker screamed at the ‘book’. It replied, Scanning… please wait.

“We don’t have time to wait!” That was Rico, pointing at the distance as the ground settled. Walker had lost his helmet in the blast, so he covered his eyes a slight amount to get a visual. It was something he’d never seen before. Some sort of walking, metallic monstrosity, armed to the teeth. He held the data pad up for a split second so it could record photographic information, then sprinted motioning for his men to follow. He rounded the next building over and crouched in cover, waiting for Militant Definition to tell him what to do. Unable to find data entry. Calculating options… Walker waited another 10 seconds, with no further instructions. “What do we do?” His squad was as puzzled as he was. Another explosion nearly destroyed the building they were cowering behind in a single blow. The sandstone wall they were crouched against began falling, and most of them dove out of the way. One man, a stunned look in his eye, seemed to be waiting for instruction. The wall crushed him, ending his life with a snap of bones. Walker began running for a new cover zone, all the while screaming at the ‘book’. “Can we fight it? How do we fight it?” he was nearly crying, and a little ‘loading’ circle was illuminated on the touchscreen. Rico piped up as they dove behind another building, “We need to stop asking that damn ‘book’ and just shoot it! Take command, Walker, or I will!” The metal beast was strolling up the lane, aiming another shot at their current location. Walker was crying by now, his tears rolling only an inch down his face before they evaporated in the shimmering heat. “I

Rose Pages Sculpture Kirsten Strother don’t know what to do!” He slammed his fist on the data pad over and over again. “Why won’t this damn thing tell me what to do!?” Rico snatched the pad from his hand, tossing it several yards down the street. It broke into little machine bits on the rough dirt. “If you want to live, then do-“ Rico was interrupted as high powered laser ripped through the sandstone wall behind him, slicing him neatly in half and killing two more squad members. Walker and three soldiers were all that

was left, and each was as confused and terrified as the next man. The war machine approached them as they sat, stunned and afraid. Their lives were ended quickly, Tassan’s Militant Definition no longer calling in their ears.

Middleburg Photography Bridgid Sexton

London Riots By Zaynab Siddiqui

London’s grey, unpleasant land had erupted into a fiery storm of resentment, as the downtrodden urban class filled the streets. Mark Duggan had been shot two days earlier and it only took 48 hours for riots to spread like wildfire.The brutal murder had caused the already high tensions between the police and the black community to spiral into chaos. I watched as the city that I had loved and grown up in crumbled around me.

Thursday:

The body of Mark Duggan had not even entered the ground, and protesters had already lined Tottenham’s streets. Fresh with the vigour of youth, they marched with purpose and pride. The idea of speaking up against police brutality was a relatively new concept, so when news of the protests entered our living rooms, it shocked the nation. More than anything it shocked me. At the simple age of 11, I asked myself how

anyone could ever question the motives of a police officer. How could those who impose the law, be under the law? Although these unanswered questions bothered me, my fleeting mind had more pressing issues. Like when I could start playing tennis again, or when my best friend Sommer would be coming over.

Friday:

The cracks were beginning to form, and the threads that held the police force together were beginning to break. I was blissfully unaware of all this as I was going through an internal turmoil of preteen angst. That summer I felt alone. My dad and brothers were in India while my mom and I were in England looking after my grandparents. Everyday I would Skype my brothers, which was always a mistake because a deep jealousy would bubble inside me. Servants were waiting on them hand and foot in my grandparents’ hotel as they pranced around the valleys of the

Himalayas. And although I was skyping them from a comfy house in the nicest part of London, I couldn’t help but feel a little resentment at the fun they seemed to be having.

all some intrepid journalists ran into the Hell on Earth to capture it. When we were done absorbing what we could, my grandfather turned off the TV, leaving us all in a state of shock.

For a while a facade of normality glazed over the suburbs of London. People buried the protests deep in their subconscious. Life continued as normal... or so we thought. It wasn’t until late that afternoon that we heard that violence had broken out in east London. When we turned on our TVs, the images we saw were horrific. Pieces of shattered glass spilled onto the road as teenagers, laughing like hyenas, ran in and out, yelling “**** the police,” as they sprinted down the street with TVs, clothes, and jewlery stuffed under their arms. The whole of Tottenham was covered in thick smoke and fire. Police and street kids had begun to attack each other, forming a huge indistinguishable mass. In the haze of it

A harsh tension had fallen over London in the four days that followed the first outbreak of violence. The streets were filled with deafening silence, and rumors filled that they were coming towards Wimbledon. My mother doubted this because Wimbledon was a primarily white area. She was right, and we all knew the riots wouldn’t hit us because the police made it a priority that the predominantly white areas received more protection. It was an unspoken, yet universal truth. The suburbs around us had been destroyed, yet we stayed in a bubble of security. People walked to the stores in haste, before the sun set. Storefronts were boarded up and police patrolled every corner and watched your every move.

Sunday:

Thursday:

The Aftermath:

I don’t really remember how it all ended, and if one were to ask me when it ended, I wouldn’t be able to give an answer. Unlike my family, I wasn’t entirely focused on the events around me. I was naive and couldn’t fully comprehend the enormity of the situation. It wasn’t until a few years later that I stepped back and looked at the systematic violence that occurred there, realizing how big the riots were. While I was playing with my Nintendo DS, a class and race war broke out. Although it died within two weeks, the feelings of resentment are still present in London today. Businesses were destroyed and families were torn apart. When I return to England every summer I see the effect of the riots and how London is still recovering. Through the riots I have learned the power of communication. What happened in Baltimore and London could have all been prevented if we sat down and listened.

Floral Generations Drawing Kyla Carte

The Prisoner of Time

By Hayley Miller

Time has always passed slowly for me. Minutes become days, hours become years, years become decades. I stand still while the world evolves around me, a prisoner behind the bars of time. As his captive, I remain forever frozen at the age of 24. I’m never aging and always hiding from attachment to anyone whom I may outlive. But would I consider this living? Or am I running from a life that I wish so desperately to have? I leap from one place to another, careful to avoid second encounters and eager to forget my position at Time’s mercy. I live for the thrill, finding new things and new places to help me feel alive. Yes, time has cursed me, but over the years I’ve used it to my advantage. Everlasting beauty can be beneficial when I want something, but the emptiness still haunts me. I love to win, to hear the crowd roar my name, to feel pride from my accomplishments. After over a hundred years of living, I’ve had many opportunities to do so. It has become my pastime, along with people watching. While I stand still, I observe different faces, families, and the love they share. I satisfy myself by living through the changing lives of others. Still, it’s never enough.

1923, Chicago People danced past me in blurs, all in the same drunken state. The prohibition did nothing to stop us from coming here, only now we needed a password. I let myself drown in the smooth rhythm of the trumpet as my dress swung in circles around my hips. I revel. Waiters dodged the swaying bodies as they handed fresh glasses of champagne to people that probably didn’t need any more, giddy on the freedom of the speakeasy. Four girls took the stage, clad in flapper dresses and flamboyant hats as the crowd fell silent. Jazz music broke the thick silence and the flapper girls moved as one to the beat. I looked down at my own attire and realized I was dressed in a similar sparkly flapper dress. In my foggy state, I found my glittering attire amusing. The champagne made me brave, giving me the brilliant idea to join the dancers entertaining the crowd. I walked unsteadily up the steps and promptly stumbled onto the stage. Everyone seemed lazily amused as I laughed along with them. I proceeded to move as one with the dancers and scanned my cheering audience. I spotted a man in the crowd that resembled a child I’d watched many years ago. I recognized the clever blue eyes that flowed with knowledge and his cheesy dimples that hadn’t changed from the younger boy I knew so well. Studying my old friend all grown up, I remembered the intuitive suspicion that he always had for my lack of aging. As I caught him staring intently at me, I prayed that my ageless face didn’t register in his mind. After I successfully embarrassed myself onstage and surrendered to the back corner of the bar, he hesitantly approached me. “Alice? You look exactly how I remember you ten years ago,” he whispered with a curious glint in his eye. I smiled sadly and tried to wipe the delinquent tear from my cheek before he noticed my misery. A hint of pity crossed his face, but he quickly

replaced it with a smile to spare me. “So do you Charlie, although I would say you’re a bit taller,” I responded, attempting to change the subject. We continued to catch up, which felt foreign compared to the shallow conversations with acquaintances I’ve encountered over the years. All the while, he kept staring at me suspiciously and studied my face shamelessly. As he said his goodbyes he whispered in my ear, “Maybe if you stop running from time, he’ll stop chasing you.” 1956, Las Vegas “Well, it’s one for the money, two for the show, three to get ready, now go cat go!” blared through the speakers in the upbeat casino. I glanced at my cards one last time, pleased to see that my perfect straight still remained. I plastered on my best poker face and gingerly placed another 300 dollars in the center of the table. The small crowd gathering around us cheered as they waited for the next person’s move. I had acquired many stares and pointing fingers as I won thousands after thousands of dollars. With years of experience at my disposal, winning became an easy pastime. I predicted almost every roll of the dice, every flip of the card, and every penny that was bet. Every time, I saw new faces and smirked at another group of clueless people as I won yet another round. I sang along to the lyrics of Elvis Presley’s Blue Suede Shoes as I waited for my opponent to reveal his cards. I smiled at the sight of his feeble 3 of a kind as I slammed my cards onto the table, collected my earnings, and sauntered away with a glint in my eye. As I reveled in my victory, I felt a firm hand grip my shoulder. I spun in my chair and came face to face with the 56 year-old version of Charlie. It had been over 30 years since our last encounter, and the effects were evident in the lines on his face. I didn’t even attempt to hide my still flawlessly young face, as I knew he was well aware that I

didn’t age. He rubbed the pad of his thumb over my preserved face and sadly said, “Alice, why are you still running from time?” The words he had whispered to me long ago resurfaced in my mind. His wise solution almost seemed too simple. If that was the case, Time would’ve gotten bored with torturing me a long time ago. That didn’t stop a little bud of hope from taking root that suggested one day I could live a full life. Some could say I’ve lived more than enough lives, but none of them included growing old with the people I love. “So, how exactly do I stop running from time?” I asked, finally deciding that my hopes outweighed my apprehension. “People are your anchors to time. Embrace people and time will embrace you,” he responded. 2006, Los Angeles 50 years later, my hair is almost completely grey and I have age spots from the scalding California sun. Wrinkles line my face, providing evidence of the laugh lines that my family has gifted me with. Yes, I have a family, a husband, children, and even a few grandchildren. My legs may not be as nimble and my eyesight is definitely questionable, but I wouldn’t trade it for the world. Since 1956, I stopped running and started living, and somehow time moved with me. The doorbell rang throughout the house and I shuffled from my rocking chair to open the front door. Charlie stood on my front porch, not looking a day over 56. I stood at the threshold, taken aback. Eventually, I remembered my manners and invited my savior inside. “Aging seems to have done you well, Alice,” Charlie said as he grinned at me with a twinkle in his eye. I blushed, and responded, “What about you? You look younger than me now!” “Well, you know, sometimes time stops,” he said as he chuckled to himself. 41

One and the Same By Alie Paoli

It’s hard to imagine everything had gone so wrong. Yet here I sit, stranded in the middle of the woods, numb from more than the cold. With tired eyes I watch as my hands shake uncontrollably. It’s a weird sensation to see your body moving and knowing you aren’t making it do so. I had gone blind to the cold dew seeping through my thin skirt as I sat crumpled among the rotting leaves of the forest floor. My mind no longer registered the rough bark digging into my spine— I was focused solely on the sticky crimson staining my trembling palms. Somewhere in the back of my mind I was conscious of the fact that I needed to keep moving, that if I didn’t I would most likely just be another tally in the death count of these woods. How could I keep going after witnessing what I had? The echo of a branch snapping pulled me from my mindless reverie. A twinge of pain flowed from the back of my head and my vision danced as I snapped my head toward the sound. Far too dark for me to identify any threat, I was driven to my feet by a new wave of paranoia and panic, the perfect concoction for survival. On quaking legs, I continued to trek through the leering shadows, wincing with every step my bare left foot took. The eerie silence surrounding me was broken by the subtle squelch of tires on wet pavement. My heart swelled with hope at the sound, and I took off running. Breaking through the treeline I stumbled towards the oncoming car, standing like a tear and blood stained effigy straight from a horror movie in the middle of the street. With my shaking palms stretched before me, a pleading sob tore from my lips. As the car screeched to a halt, I collapsed to my knees before it, my forehead falling 42

against its bumper. Muffled sounds ensued around me as a man rushed from the car and appeared at my side. I watched his lips move but I couldn’t hear beyond the ringing in my ears. The golden glow of the headlights reflected off the the puddle riddled pavement, emphasizing the shadows dancing along the treeline. Vacantly, I stared past the stranger’s concerned expression, watching the woods for the punchline of tonight’s sick joke. As though carried by a ghost, I barely felt as he lifted me from my disheveled heap and placed me in the passenger seat. As my vision faded further into black I heard his whisper of reassurance, “It’ll all be okay…” But is a pyrrhic victory ever okay? Subtle beeping and a tightness around my wrist drew me from the fog. With blurred vision I tried to gain a perspective of my surroundings, tried to remember where I was. The more I came to my senses, the more apparent the whispering in the room became. As I attempted to push myself into an upright position, the clanking of metal and a sharp pull against my wrist drove me into alertness. All my earlier panic crashed onto me like a tidal wave, drowning any rational thoughts— suffocating me. Frantically scanning the room, I pressed myself further into the pillows behind me at the enclosing uniformed strangers. The closer they approached the heavier and more frantically the breaths tore from my lungs. “Miss...Miss calm down, we just want to help you.” An officer with a vaguely familiar face and outstretched palms took point of the encroaching strangers. “Do you remember what happened last night? A man brought

Leaves With Droplets Photography Annie Patterson

Motion Photography Reilly Hayward

you in… he said you came streaking out in front of his car? Does that sound familiar to you, Miss? ” His bombardment of questions brought on a slew of memories I would have given anything to never have recalled, even my own life. The tears were instantaneous, and the sobbing hysteria wracked through me like a hurricane. Awkward glances were exchanged amongst my visitors, but the tears raged on. “Please… please I’m sorry I shouldn’t have left,” I blubbered incoherently. An increase of beeps exploded to my right, tracking my increasing heart rate and drawing the attention of a slew of nurses. “Shouldn’t have left who? Left where?” probed the officer. “I’m sorry sir, but you need to leave,” demanded the nurse in a stern voice that contradicted her kittencovered scrubs. Without even being conscious

of my actions, I had latched onto the officer’s wrist as he was herded out the door. “Please you have to find them, oh god my sister, please we were at the Overlook,” I begged. He gave a slight nod before filing out of the room with the rest of them. Slumping back into the bed, I still couldn’t shake the feeling of paranoia clutching at me. I decided to heed the nurse’s suggestion to sleep. The dreariness didn’t overpower the queasy fear coursing through me as I had hoped, but merely translated it into my dreams. In my dreams I was back in the woods, spinning blissfully. My uncontrollable laughter mixed with that of my sister’s, blending into a beautiful melody. The silver flask fell from her loose grip as she slumped against the rocks of the overlook, a dazed smile gracing her face. Soon enough grey clouds had rolled in and I tipped my face up deliriously to enjoy

the soft patter of rain. The impression faded and was replaced with the padding of my feet as I ran from a man without a face. A flash of my sister’s face, twisted in pain, and her scream of agony echoed through the memory. The closer he encroached the faster my heart raced. Soon enough he was directly above me, wielding a thick crooked branch. My arms crossed before my face in an attempt to ward of his bludgeoning strikes. I winced as the stick grew closer, but as it made contact with my face its bruising sting was replaced by the sensation of firm pressure and scratchy fabric. Slowly the assailant’s face came into focus as I came to recognize the officer from earlier and my attacker were one and the same. Somewhere outside my dream I could hear the rhythmic beeps flatline into a sound of solidarity and the pillow fall from my face, but by then my senses had faded entirely into darkness. 43

There’s the boy whose mind pinballs everywhere, his attention is not a static concept There’s the girl who can’t get up in the morning, her thoughts too heavy for her tired head There’s the boy who is always afraid, something or other keeping him from breaking his routine There’s the girl whose feelings gets the best of her, emotions reacting before her mind says so He’s getting chewed out for losing all of his work again She’s in trouble for getting up late and missing the bus again He’s been caught skipping class when it was too much She’s back in the office for the third time this week, blood on her knuckles

It’s Okay By Jakob Gottschalk

He’s ‘scatterbrained’ and ‘poorly focused’ She’s ‘lazy’ and ‘not trying’ He’s ‘overreacting’ and ‘unreasonable’ She’s ‘violent’ and ‘short tempered’ And the other kids call them ‘crazy’. His mother says there’s nothing wrong with him, after all, he’s not failing Her father tries his best for her, but it’s harder without her mom His father doesn’t get it, doesn’t understand, and his way of helping doesn’t help at all Her mother doesn’t seem to care, yelling until she’s forced to cry like a hurricane in her room It’s his math teacher who calls him up after class It’s her father who calls her into his room before she goes to bed It’s his best friend who skips class with him one day It’s her counselor who intervenes before she gets suspended “I’ve noticed you don’t do as well in other classes as you do mine… “I’ve noticed that you’re not who you used to be, and I’m sorry, honey… “I’ve noticed that you’re freaked out all the time, man... “I’ve noticed a lot of things about your behavior, and I’m not mad at you… ...but I wanted to know if you’re alright. You can tell me anything.” After a moment of processing, he shakes his head After a moment of silence, she wraps her arms around him and cries After a while of consideration, he spills his guts After a surge of emotion, she lets go His math teacher nods, placing a hand on his shoulder Her father holds her tight, tells her it’s going to be alright His best friend leans back, then tells him they have an idea Her counselor smiles, letting her vent, and picks up the phone Days later, he stands outside of the therapist’s office, staring down at a piece of paper Days later, her father pats her shoulder and gives her a comforting smile before her first visit Days later, he’s debating on whether or not to bail, but heads into the therapist’s room anyway Days later, she and her mother head into the building together, unsure of what lay in wait He exits with another piece of paper, a prescription, and a grin She greets her father with a hug once she emerges, and he ruffles her hair He leaves the room, glad that he didn’t bail, though unsure if he can do it again She’s done before her mother, and wonders how this will change things And although what they’re dealing with can’t be ‘fixed’ by a single visit, it can help

Inside, Insane By Joseph Bendekovic He lives in my head He requires no provisions Rather he feeds on my sanity In the confines of my room I weep And I feel him grin All ask who he is And I cannot answer For I do not know myself My companions flee Women never stay in my company Because of him And at night I lay awake He whispers in my ear Of things they could only speak of in hell They canâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t remove him, they say So I will do it myself And in the confines of my grave

He still whispers to me

Creep Painting Emma Curley

Hospital For Souls By Amanda Wynes

I sat in the hard, brown and burgundy chair for what seemed like decades. The short African American lady, in her well pressed pant suit, looked at me with such disgust it made me cringe. I don’t want to be here, this is a mistake. I don’t belong here, I’m fine. “Ms. Wynes,” she began, “when was the last time you hurt yourself?” I glanced at my mother. There were bags under her eyes. It was almost 2:00 A.M. now. We had left the hospital, forcefully. I was made to ride in an ambulance, separated from my mother. About two hours later, we arrived here, in Richmond, at a hospital for lost and damaged souls. “Ms. Wynes?” She asked, her tone more forceful and impatient. “Over two weeks ago,” I said, desperation clawing its way up my throat. She didn’t miss a beat as she looked at my mother, “two weeks ago your daughter was still hurting herself,” she stated, “two weeks ago, she was still hurting her body.” I couldn’t breathe, she looked at my mother like this was her fault, I opened my mouth to start fighting her, but she hushed me with a look that could kill. “I have made my decision. She stays.” My tears were flowing freely now. They had stopped when I got here, but now it was as if a dam had broken and tears flooded my strained eyes. My soul cried for help, and my heart broke for my mother. She stayed strong throughout this whole thing. The first lady left the room and another entered. 46

“I will take you to your room now,” she said frankly. I got up slowly and looked down at myself, noticing I had been in the same ugly blue scrubs since I had been admitted into the ER. The lady came back to see what was taking so long, and when she looked at my face, she paused. Her face softened and she put a hand on my arm, gently leading me out of the room. I trailed behind her, and my mother followed along beside of me. “We’ll stop and get you a change of clothes, and then down to the rooms,” she said, sympathy in her voice. I broke even more at this sudden kindness. She got me a change of clothes, and down we went. We traveled down several flights of stairs,

Mia Photography Marissa Alessi

around many corners, and then finally came to a halt in front of a door marked “Block A.” She unlocked the door and led me inside. There was a skinny girl, maybe 17, sitting at the table eating cereal. I glanced at the clock, it was almost 4:00 am. She looked at me with curiosity and started to speak, “you must be the new girl, I like your hair.” She went back to eating her cereal. Another lady approached me and led me to a door with a letter E marked above it. “This is your room,” she explained. “You can write your name on it in the morning.” I didn’t say anything, just nodded and walked into the room. I glanced around, the room was plain, four white walls, a small bed in the corner, and four small blue shelves pressed up against the wall next to the door. The same lady left and came back with a pale pink bucket. Inside were all things I needed for hygiene. She walked out of the room and beckoned me with a wave of her hand, I followed after her. She told me where the bathrooms were and that it was best to shower after dinner, that would help me relax so I could sleep. She kept asking me if I wanted anything to drink, I told her water was fine. I walked back into my room and sat on the bed, a few moments later she arrived with a plastic cup of water. I gladly accepted it with shaking hands, letting the cool water race its way down my parched throat. I sat down on the bed and pulled my knees to my chest. The lady stood across from me and explained the rules here. She droned on and on about things

I didn’t care for, don’t do this, don’t do that. Be up at this time, breakfast, lunch, and dinner is at this time. Physical, occupational, and emotional therapy is at this time. It made my head throb and my heart hurt just to listen. “You’re staying,” she started, and suddenly I was paying attention to what she was saying, “for only three, maybe four days.” The rest of the week… I nodded and squeezed my knees tighter to my chest. “It’s quite late, you should get some sleep now, and we will get you up at 8:30 to take your vitals and blood.” “Blood?” I whispered. She didn’t seem to hear me. I had just had my blood drawn earlier that morning, I thought. I laid back on the hard stone of a bed and closed my eyes, curling into a tight ball. Four days. Four days. My brain was tormented with thoughts of everything and anything. I tried to drown them out,

to silence them. It only ever worked for a couple minutes or so, then I was awake, wishing I could stop thinking. I just wanted to sleep, I hadn’t slept in so long, and I physically could do this anymore. I tossed and turned all night, cold one second, extremely hot the next. The next three days went by in slow motion. I learned some things while I was in there, I learned some things about the girls that shared the same space as me. I found myself coloring a lot and playing Uno with a little girl, no older than seven. She told me that this would be the second time she had been here, I cringed at the thought. Another girl was on high suicide alert and was enduring electro shock therapy. It saddened me to watch her struggle with her memory, she would say something then forget it the next moment. She always apologized for repeating herself, my heart cried for her. Another girl, maybe a year younger

than I was, she had been sarcastic and funny. I would find myself wrapped up in a blanket and out of my room talking to them, playing cards, or just being silly. I felt normal around them, like a weight was lifted off of my shoulders and I could breathe again. The fourth day came… I was saddened to leave this place where I had finally fit in, where I felt at peace with myself…at peace with myself. I gathered my things, changed into my own clothes, and walked out with yet another lady. I said goodbye to my friends, and left…looking behind me several times. I followed the lady up the stairs, down hallways, said goodbye to my favorite nurse, and goodbye to the therapy dogs. We were outside, right before the final door to leave when the lady turned to me. “I wish I could say see you soon, but I pray that I won’t.” I smiled a little and turned to my mom,“Let’s go home.”

Man’s Best Friend Photography Brigid Sexton

The World By Jenna Spedden I first realized how small I was when I flew from my small town to London, England. I boarded the plane with my family, surrounded by a hundred or so people ready to move from one place to another. Everyone had their own agenda, so focused on themselves that they were unaware of the vast world around them. I sat down in my cramped, uncomfortable seat and stared at the ceiling. The flight attendants came around, repeatedly asking me if I wanted water or juice. I declined all offers. I was prepared for the overnight flight since I had done it once before. The dark night surrounding the dimlylit plane gave me a sense of comfort. I grabbed a blanket and threw it over myself. The roar of the engine starting up filled my ears with a loud vibration. The captain’s voice boomed over the loudspeaker. “Ladies and gentleman, this is your captain speaking. We should be arriving in London at approximately 9:32 their time. It’s going to be a chilly day in London folks, with a high around 10 degrees Celsius. It should be a smooth flight, so sit back and relax. Thank you for flying with us today.” With that, the plane was off of the ground, gliding through the air. I closed my eyes in annoyance as the squeal of babies and stressed mothers swirled around me. With my headphones in and the volume turned up to drown out the chatter, I drifted off. Four hours later I was awoken by the dinner call. With reluctant movements, I opened the window cover next to me and peered out at the black night. What I saw redefined 48

my view of the world. Thousands of miles beneath me was the ocean, as dark as the night sky. It stretched for miles upon miles. There was no end in sight. I suddenly felt so small and vulnerable in comparison to the vast sea. However, in my drowsy state, I didn’t quite appreciate the full effect of this phenomenon and quickly dozed off into another deep slumber. I didn’t wake up until we landed. As I stepped off of the plane into the hectic city of London, I was again blown away by the lives happening around me. The airport was a bustle of lights and noise. There were people

Billboards on every side of me lit up as if alerting the world of their presence. Trees seemed to be the perfect color green, almost like a candy apple. The smell of fish and ale wafted towards me from the variety of restaurants scattering the street. The architecture was unlike anything I had ever seen before. It seemed to connect those of the past and the present through arches and columns and beautiful structures that did not compare to the stale brick I was so used to. The people were like nothing I’d ever seen before: so different, so unique, yet all connected through a sense of national pride. Cars and buses

everywhere: some speaking English, some speaking French, some speaking languages that I had never heard before. There were people walking hurriedly or walking slow, talking on their cell phone or yelling at the ticket kiosk worker. I heard their conversations: “Can I convert this change to Euros?” a man wearing a fedora asked. “Emily, hurry up,” a frustrated mom wearing a peacoat and dragging her little girl along with her said. Compared to the sleepy town where I grew up, I had no idea that the world was so diverse and full of color. As I stepped outside of the airport onto the scuffed concrete, I saw the tall, antique buildings coupled with the modern buildings, and was in awe.

flew by as I stood still on the street— too immersed in the culture to move. I realized just how small I was in that busy city. Later that week, as I flew home, I watched the screen on the seat in front of me playing the flight path. I traced my hand along the electronic simulation of the teeny plane slowly making its way across the globe, thinking about how I was simply one in billions of people. I had a new perspective on life. While my problems had seemed so big, so lifeconsuming in my little town, I came to the conclusion that they were not so big at all.

The people were nothing I’d ever seen before...

Looking Photography Sierra Reynolds

Bright Suns Photography Erica Garrigan 49

The Black Swan By Victoria Caron

The sun set in the west, turning the sky into a work of art. The sunlight struck the undulating waves like light on a mirror. The waves slowly lapped against the side of a glimmering black sailboat. Sarah Jensen released the portside sail and the boat began to drift off towards the horizon, the coast of the Hamptons slowly getting smaller and smaller. Sarah let out a deep breath. “Here we go,” she muttered to herself. This trip was a once in a lifetime experience, Sarah only had one shot at this. She’d spent all of her life savings on the Black Swan, a boat she’d had her eyes on for years. Ever since she was six, she’d wanted to sail to the Canary Islands. It’s a dangerous task to sail across the Atlantic solo, but Sarah was ready. She left her family owned bar behind to go on this week long trip. Aside from the bar, she was leaving her best friend, Charlie. They’ve been best friends since birth, practically soulmates. She’d sailed on his boat, The Serenity, for years. He had been helping her plan this trip for months, they both knew it like the back of their hand. She had decided to leave Charlie in charge of the bar, he was the only one left to do it since her father passed away. The minute that she was ready to go, she packed up her things and set sail, bringing her black lab, Oscar, alongside her. After a few hours, Sarah called Charlie to check in, something she promised to do every night for the next week. “Good evening Captain Jensen, do you miss me yet?” Charlie chirped. Sarah could hear the smile in his voice. “More than you could imagine.” she said with a smirk on her face. “How’s the bar?” Charlie chuckled. “You’ve been gone for a measly six hours, and you’re already worried about the bar? Don’t worry. I promise I won’t burn anything 50

valuable,” he replied. “How’s the weather so far?” Sarah gazed off at the approaching storm clouds, a worried look creeping onto her face. “Uh, it’s not too bad. The water is a little choppy, but it’ll calm down in a few hours.” She didn’t want Charlie to worry; she wanted to know that she could handle this on her own. “Alright, well I’ll let you go. If the weather gets a little nasty just give me a call and I’ll come right out there and get you if you don’t think you can

They’ve been best friends since birth, practically soulmates...

handle this on your own. Be safe.” The phone clicked off and Sarah was alone, only Oscar to keep her company. Once she reached a sandbar, Sarah anchored the Black Swan, crept into the confines of the boat’s cabin, and snuggled up next to Oscar to keep her warm on the cold, hard mattress. She stared at the ceiling and pictured her boat being pummelled by harsh thunderstorms, the contents of her ship being hurled into the ocean never to be seen again. Once the anxiety faded, the constant rhythm of the ocean lulled her to sleep. Sarah awoke abruptly to the sound of Oscar barking and a light drizzle on the roof of the cabin. Then she heard a distant rumble of thunder. It was so faint that she thought she might have imagined it, gradually the rumbling became more distinct. Oscar stopped barking and ran into the cabin, curling up at her feet. Sarah scrambled to find her map, pinpointing her location and trying to find the quickest route to land. She was about

three hours away from Nantucket. It was off her path, but this was her only choice, unless she wanted to wait it out. Lightning flashed across the sky, a loud crack of thunder following a few seconds after. Oscar whined. Terrified, Sarah picked up the phone and dialed Charlie’s number. He answered after the first ring. “How’s it going?” he asked. “Charlie…” Sarah muttered. “There’s a storm coming and I don’t know what to do or where to go,” her voice cracked as she began to panic. “Where are you?” Charlie demanded, the concern evident in his voice. “Three hours from Nantucket. I would still have to sail through the storm, but it would be over quicker than if I just sat here and waited it out.” Charlie remained silent for a few moments. “Don’t move. I”m coming to get you. Don’t sail into that storm by yourself. Do you understand?” he pleaded. “No, I can do this. I’m going to stay here for an hour and decide what to do. When I make up my mind, I’ll call you, but don’t come and get me.” Sarah’s words were heated, but sincere. “I’ve always had a bad feeling about your bravery,” Charlie revealed, “If you don’t call me in the next hour, I’m coming to get you.” Sarah attempted to reassure him, but he hung up before she had the chance. She went back onto the deck, only to see that the sky had turned black. After a few minutes, she could feel cool wind blowing from the darkened sky. In another few minutes, the whole sky was engulfed by dark, swirling clouds, and the wind had increased in intensity. Angry waves smashed into the boat, causing it to sway, and Sarah had to grab onto the mast to keep her balance. She tied down everything that she could and secured

herself in the tight cabin. 30 minutes passed by and the storm was still raging, and Sarah was growing impatient. “What if this just keeps going and destroys the boat?” She thought to herself. After imagining her possible fate, she came out of the cabin and released the sails. The boat swung violently to the right and began to sail further into the storm. She gripped the rudder tightly and tried to keep the boat on a straight path. Suddenly, she heard a loud thump on the deck. She turned around to see a ball of hail. One after another, they came down like raindrops, tearing the sails apart. The waves grew taller and started crashing onto the deck, the water growing around her. In the dark fog before her, she saw a large rocky mass quickly approaching, a cove. Sarah looked at her watch. “It’s been three hours,” she said subconsciously. She let go of the rudder and sprinted to the cabin, grabbing the phone. Charlie didn’t pick up. She

tried again, nothing. She called three more times with no answer. Cursing, she hurled the phone at the wall and it shattered upon impact. Before she could even open the cabin door, the Black Swan collided with the rocky cliffside of the cove, throwing Sarah and Oscar violently against the wall. The boat began to tip downwards, water rushing into the cabin. Sarah grabbed Oscar and lifted him up onto the top of the cabin, he leapt onto the rocky ledge of the cove and hid inside. Sarah searched desperately in the rising water for her emergency backpack, but the water rushed in too quickly and submerged her in the small box. She came up for one last breath, and dove deeper into the room. After searching for a few seconds, she felt like her lungs were going to explode. She felt the fabric of the backpack and began to swim to the surface, but there was none. The door of the cabin had shut tightly, more water pushing down onto it. Pushing as hard

as she could, Sarah managed to open the door slightly, but not enough to escape her airless deathtrap. She wedged the hard metal first aid kit in between the door and began to kick as hard as the could, using all of the energy she had left. It opened just enough for her to make her escape and she slipped through the small hole, leaving her backpack and first aid kit behind. She surfaced and let as much air rush into her lungs as she could, gasping and choking. She swam a few feet to the cove and tried to find the strength to crawl onto the rocks where Oscar was. But she had nothing left. She felt blood rushing down her face, her vision began to fade out. She held onto a rock near the ledge of the cove and tried to keep herself awake. After a painful two hours, Sarah’s vision began to fade out completely, she slowly lost consciousness as the sound of Oscar barking and the familiar sound of the Serenity’s ship horn got closer and closer.

Black and White Boats Photography Marissa Alessi

By Sam Scott

1978 was the greatest year of

my life. All of my memories from that year are of crisp, clear, blue skies. They smell like an open field and gasoline. They feel like a light summer breeze and the grease of that old Impala. Every time I inhale now, twelve years later, 1978 courses through me, into my blood. And every time, he is there. My most prominent memory of him is what got me here today. The two of us went for a drive, late October in Bar Harbor, Maine. The leaves were a mosaic on the wind, and the air smelled of pumpkin and ginger. I could never forget that smell, or that scene, no matter how hard I tried. He and I drove smoothly on the

newly paved roads of Hancock County, that Impala purring with every shift of the gear. The top was down, and the car rode with us. It wasn’t merely carrying us, but was one of us. We zoomed carelessly around the town, singing along to whatever came onto that old, scratchy radio. Neither of us had any reason to be worried, any reason to believe that we would be forever changed in the moments to come. He was driving that day. I wasn’t allowed to drive the Impala, he loved her too much. If anything was going to happen to her, it would be his fault, not mine. And it was. It was all his fault, everything. I saw the little girl, and I tried to

warn him. He wouldn’t respond, drunk on pure carelessness and adrenaline. He couldn’t hear me. He wouldn’t hear me. I clawed at him, cried to him, screamed. It was no use. The little girl died on impact, she must have. The car rocked, and he kept driving, the first bump in the smooth afternoon snapping him back to reality. He knew what he had done, and he had let it happen. After the girl, there was silence. The radio could not tempt us, the smell could not please us, and the leaves, those marvelous leaves, could not distract us from what we had just done. The two of us sat in something that was more than quiet. It was a pool of regret, a dark chasm of “God save our souls,”

Path of Petals Photography Emily Beitzel

the first of Marley’s chains that had ever found us, and we knew they would never let go. The Impala no longer sang its song of the road, and the drive home contained some of the worst moments I’ve ever lived. To this day I have no idea why he didn’t turn around. Why he didn’t go back and take responsibility for what he’d done. If he had, maybe the police wouldn’t have shown up on our doorstep that night. Maybe neither of us would’ve gotten a life sentence for manslaughter during a hit and run. Maybe we wouldn’t have had to leave our families, our friends, and our dreams for the slab of gray cement that is Hancock County Jail. I’ve gotten to know Cell 152 pretty well in these last twelve years. It never had much to hide, and I think that some nights it likes listening to me talk. Talking to these gray walls, these sad, confining walls. That’s probably how I’ve spent most of my last twelve years. I know I’m losing it, and honestly, I don’t really mind it anymore. It’s all his fault anyway. Out there, I forgave him, but these steel bars have beaten the truth into me. Now I see things for how they really are. This time, let’s cut to the chase. It’s 1978. I’d just graduated from Mount Desert Island High School in Bar Harbor, a happy, complacent little town in Maine. Bar Harbor had never seen a dark day, a sad day, until I came around. I did alright in school, but it’s not like I was the valedictorian of our graduating class. I dragged through high school sporting Bs and Cs, constantly having teachers screech at me for not using the mind that I was blessed with. That summer flew by, quicker than any other. At the end of the break, before we went to college, I was over at my friend’s house to drink. His parents weren’t home for some reason, something more important than their son leaving them for the rest of his life. We got caught up in some game, table tennis, I think it was, and the alcohol never came out. We were having a good time, trash talking, play fighting, and

Rearview Photography Alie Paoli having our own miniature farewell party. I left early, the weight and the stress of school gone for the warm summer months. I wanted to enjoy a trip in my Impala, my beloved car, before I went away to Colby College, where the campus is so small, you didn’t really need one. I stepped outside and inhaled the cool autumn air. It smelled like pumpkin and ginger. The leaves fell around me, into the thick, dewy grass, and the sun warmed my skin as I stood. It was the last true moment of peace in my life. Bar Harbor was a blur around me, and I was loving the purr of my car, the chill of the breeze, everything. It was all perfect. Everything was perfect, until a little blonde girl chased after her toy into the middle of the road. I saw her, I heard her, I even smiled at her,

but for some reason that I will never understand, I didn’t process her. My mind didn’t realize she was there, until it was too late. I was behind the wheel that day. I know it, whether I admit it or not. I came here, to Hancock County Jail, alone and mortified of what I had done. But I was a different person then, wasn’t I? I’m better now, right? He isn’t here anymore, now it’s just me, the one who tried to help the girl, who tried to save her. Just me, alone, from sunrise to sunset. But then night comes, and he returns. Every night he haunts me, and I know he loves it. Every night he lays with me as I fall asleep. Every night he is here. Every night, Cell 152 listens to me scream, and every night, I swear I can hear him chuckling. 53

Don’t Wait By Mikayla Sova

Kids these days have it all wrong, Technology blending to their fingertips. More concerned with the lyrics of a song, Rather than what life used to be like out in the sticks. What about the adults now, Were we really better off with pen and paper and walkmans? Today, technology gives us a “wow”, And saves lives, where in the past a flu could have killed millions.

Clockwork Painting Jillian Page

Think of the age everyone lives in today, Think of all the starvation, the suffering, the pain. Think of the kids these days, the ones we like to blame. Think of all the knowledge we grew to gain. “Give it to the kids”, our elder generations said, After all it won’t matter in my lifetime. Give it a rest, no really I’m fed Up with all the blaming, the laziness, the lies. It’s not a problem for the future, it’s a problem for the now. And there’s not much else I can say, But, “Do something about it, don’t let them drown. The Earth and our posterity need to be saved.” Don’t let it pass to your children, don’t turn away, Don’t let it grow more after today. What a difference a change would make. Don’t give them the burden, don’t turn away, The time of ignorance has to go - Don’t wait.

Technology Today By Ryan Williams Technology; it’s the future they say Then why is it that we drift further and further each day? One will text for hours, on their phone they plan to stay But yet when it comes to those in front of them, they can’t find the words to say You may have a thousand followers, but how many do you really know? Who will be there for you when you’re down and feeling low? Don’t get me wrong, technology can have great use But look how negatively it’s impacted today’s youth It’s become a rare sight to see kids outside playing When they’re always on their phone, it’s hard to tell how much attention they’re really paying Relationships used to be based on communication, face to face But it seems like endless texting has come and taken place In the past people were required to have skills and learn things on their own Today people struggle just to complete tasks without using their phone No matter where you go now, you’ll find someone trying to share every moment Has impressing others become our only form of enjoyment? People get upset when they’re somewhere that doesn’t get service Ignoring the fact they’re surrounded by others in which they can converse As time goes on, this issue only gets worse and worse Technology may be a blessing, but it is also a curse Each day I try to keep my technology use to a minimal But it seems that society has had an impact on this individual As mankind we’ve come so far but I think it’s time to realize

The River By Essam Temuri They both saw each other in silence — a silence that resonated a deep compassion, and a deep yearning, but statements are misconstrued at times, and what manages to be said tends to be left in just an air of mystery — one that seems to drive people insane. So it was completely unorthodox when he sat down next to her on the train, filling the air with warmth and awkwardness. It was not because she did not notice, it was because she did notice, and did acknowledge his presence. It was just that her acknowledgment was in the form of a broken smile — one that made his heart sink further into the labyrinth of himself, causing a huge wave of yearning to fill inside of him. He wanted to know her, because in some twisted way, he concluded that by knowing her, he might find the courage of knowing himself, and it seemed as if she could have been the only one to guide him on his river of uncertainty. Still,

regardless of all the love that he felt for her, the only thing that escaped his lips was an empty, “how are you,” causing her to flinch, as if a giant had woken up in that mundane world that laid beyond the train window. “I’m fine,” she stammered with her teeth close together. “How are you?” she asked from the train window, fearful of looking at his pale face. “Fine,” he replied, completely detached from that sentiment, and ashamed of the lackluster conversation that he had attempted to endow on both of them. The fact was, that he desperately wanted to know everything about her, and not just the image that kept burning in his mind. He memorized her almond hair that matched her eyes, he memorized her pale skin, methodically placing every freckle where it laid on her, he memorised the warmth that radiated from her, and he memorized every word from every poem that she had so carefully sought to hide in that grave of

forgetfulness. Now he wanted to know what laid beyond that; he wanted to know what was burning in the solitudes of her mind, and what was tormenting her everyday. “Isn’t the weather nice today,” he asked laying his head on his seat, and closing his eyes with regret. All she could say was “yes,” whilst continuously looking at the progressive darkness that was closing in on the world. She pondered, pondered why she could not say more than these empty words that were of no value. Tears began to glide down her eyes and drip from her cheeks. “Please God, take away this curse,” she said almost inaudibly, her tremulous bosom rising with every intimate word unspoken. “Please…” she said once again choking with resentment towards herself. She wanted to hate herself for not having the courage to say those words that people took for granted everyday. She wanted to scream out those words and let them fill the air around him, but Festive Lights Photography Rachel Hong

she was hopelessly cursed, causing her to also just close her eyes and escape to an easier, ethereal world gowned in light. “If I had the courage to say how I truly felt about you, I would,” they both said in their own worlds; worlds that were separated by massive oceans of fear. Still, both of them spent countless mysterious hours on the edges of their respective worlds, yearning for each other, their hands stretched out for one another. “I would not protect you as I would a child. I would simply treat you as an equal human being who I would love forever,” he said from his world, quietly hoping that she would hear him. “I know,” she replied from beyond the progressively weakening ocean that was draining into nothing. “And I would not care if you do not have the means to provide me with a comfortable life. I am ready to struggle with you.” And at that moment, she opened her eyes, letting the light from the real world hug her. She looked over at him; his crimson lips at peace, and his eyes still closed. His dark hair was long and messy under the top hat, and his tattered clothing reeked with perspiration, but she did not care. In fact, all that she knew was that this man, this seemingly frail man, was the person that she wanted to spend her life with, and she knew that she would with ecstasy. And, unable to resist herself, at that moment she embraced him suddenly. He did not jump in fright though, rather he stayed put, and embraced her also — both of them traveling back into their worlds. That mysterious and terrifying ocean was just a blissful river now, immensely clear and warm. He pressed his lips on her forehead and gently ran his fingers through her short hair. The awkwardness was gone now, and in its place was replaced a silence that danced around them and hugged them. Tears of sadness were replaced with tears of

happiness now, gently waltzing down both of their cheeks and warming them. They both opened their eyes, and gazed into each other’s eyes for the first time. The hollow emptiness was no longer there, the pain of not remembering words was no longer there. Their eyes, for the first time in both of their lives, were filled with bliss and rest, and the lips that they only had the liberty of tasting in dreams, were now pressed against each others. “All that I would be able to give you is my love,” he said, slightly ashamed. “I would not need anything else,” she replied, letting those words caress him wholeheartedly. “But I would not be able to be the perfect housewife for you and for your children,” she said as she looked down into her hands. “I just need you to be mine,” he replied, gently lifting her head from the gaze of her hands. “And don’t think for a moment that they would just be my children; they would be our children.” A smile escaped both of them as they stared at each other in silence. It was a kind of silence that was filled with understanding; that was filled with hope; that was filled with a kind of love that danced in the wind, and even Cupid fell in love with it. And at that moment, it seemed as if the world was just them, that everything was merely passing by, everything except time. “Stay with me,” he said. “Always. Even when you are dead.” “I love you,” they both uttered, as the world around them grew lighter. Neither felt any pain. … When the police came to investigate the crash, all that they saw were mountains of bodies. And in the corner, separated from the rest, they saw the two lovers; still holding on to each other, traveling on that clear river that connected their worlds.

By Shelby Bennett Let’s pretend for a moment you’re right You said that this thing wouldn’t last, that I should put out my light You said it was only a “phase” bound to pass Like a plane taking flight You said it wasn’t too late to change, that it would be easier if I did But what you find normal I find strange Being myself is forbidden I would tell you constantly about the abuse You would say they’re only teasing me I never knew what to do I locked myself away and gave you the key And you swallowed it whole, insuring I lose Soon you have me talk to a shrink Twice a week I tell her what I feel, twice a week she tells me what she thinks She notices my pain and tells me that I’ll heal I tell her I want nothing more in this world than to sink You and her both agree that I am “unstable” So you prescribe me normal pills; one every meal To you and everyone else I’m an unclaimed label They say that “people like me” aren’t real Because what we are, you cannot possibly fable You said I was only confused I tell you again and again that I’m not You wouldn’t accept it, you wouldn’t accept me You refused. You leave me with nothing but feelings I’ve constantly fought That keep me emotionally bruised Now I’m surrounded with no more air in this closet I want so badly to come out but I’m drowning They whisper when I walk by and I tell myself it’s only gossip I’m still inside, someone locks the door and I start pounding Let me out, please let me out. I know you wish so badly that I wasn’t yours Because no child would rather have a broken toy No one wants to believe that it’s true; they confuse pain with joy You think that I’m ill Like how I feel is somehow comparable to a virus, or the flu Because to you, that is the only explanation for why a boy could love a boy. 58

By Megan Kim

n. an absence of anything annoying, taking pleasure from the presence of gentle or soothing things I lie awake at the sudden thought of you my mind set unease This continues to go on for days after the lingering scent of you still around I lie awake at the sudden thought of you another night passes Your imprint is still there but your side remains cold I wake the next morning only running on a couple hours of slumber Minutes go by as I contemplate in the end I decide to make your side of the bed

Flames Photography Sierra Reynolds

Starry Sky Painting Jessica Garcia

The Daughter of Space By TJ Eagle

he victim had tried to write something as his skin began to bubble. It clumped together in wet chunks, falling off of loosening muscle as his face contorted from the pain of being melted alive by the living nebula. His attempts to scream were choked by his tongue and gums liquefying, the slick mix sliding down his closing throat. The messily scrawled message was ruined once it had been set aflame from his melting palms. With this all official information about the nebula was destroyed. It tore apart the ship, enveloping the metal chunks and the once living beings inside its glowing maw. The flesh of the humans sparked a violent reaction, and the cosmic creation began to ripple intensely. Its form fluctuated and shrunk, imploding with blinding fiery light, and from this a humanoid was born. Their skin shimmered with starlight, bones and hair growing in and on the translucent shell, and marking their newfound sentience, they curled their fingers one by one. Across existence, divines, 60

star lords, moon monarchies, and a crystalline cosmonaut felt the matter and energy of galaxies build a new god. This was the daughter of space. “This is The Cosmo to moonbase gamma one. It seems that there is a rogue star-seed entering Earthmoonbase territories. How should we proceed?” The only returning audio was the moon base’s crackling line. Gregory held his hands against the visor of his helmet in exasperation. While star-seeds were peaceful, it would be difficult to make it leave as they had no concept of territory. “You don’t have to wear the suit at all times you know,” Commander Holly called from the lab space across his sector of the ship. “Yeah, but it takes too long to take off and put on between open space walks. Especially when I’m out there every thirty minutes walking with your dinosaur eggs. I’d wear it less if Commander Walter were still here to do it for you,” Holly rolled her eyes at him and set an egg experiment on his desk. “I won’t complain anymore then. Thanks for not calling him

‘Commander Cosmo’. After he got his powers from that blue matter rift that wrecked The Asteroid the moon bases just won’t stop with it. Can you take this raptor out?” The astronaut nodded, taking the incubator carefully in his gloved hands. He took several minutes going through several sectors of the ship, and finally out as far as the cord tethering him to the vehicle would allow him. A flash of red, pink, and white suddenly blinded him, and cut his return line to the ship, sending him out into the open space. “Gregory, we’re going to retrieve you, give us a sec. Moonbase gamma one sent in a message and it’s not a star-seed. She’s the nebula we’ve been searching for. ‘The Daughter of Spa-” Commander Holly’s line cut out and the sound of tearing metal rung in the astronaut’s ears. There was pain and there was blackness. Then there was only her.

One, two, three, four, Swallow it down until there’s no more “Get over it,” “move on” You wish you could, but you’re already gone Five, six, seven, eight, The world around you turns to hate You slip again, they can all see It’s time to go, you must flee Nine, ten, eleven, twelve You feel like you’ve been left aside on the shelf The pressure, the pain There’s nothing left but disdain Thirteen, fourteen, fifteen, done You knew you could have never won This is the end, you’ve decided yourself Goodbye to the world, goodbye to your self One, two, three, four The news spreads and they hit the floor, Why did it take this much strain? To realize in the end, they were the ones left with all the pain

Waiting on Death By Bethanie Thill

Breathe By Emily Surabian

You hate the world, You see the dangerous snake in the dark, In fear, believing, in this unforgiving land, Sucking up the life given in vain, useless. Do you even care at all? So what forces us to move on from the next life? They say you can’t abandon this life, Don’t imagine nightmares that can turn to real living darkness, Fact is there’s another presence held binded, Only you remember who you are. Annihilating, All rule over your soul, The light at the end has gone. You can’t control your fate, Let your failures continue on. You worthless naught human, just die, Resurrecting my soul for them. Just an empty sorrow, Roses, black, even they bare the shadows But you would know never the desperate millions. It’s worth the pain, Tormenting my soul, Dropping like a drip-drop forever on. Hoping continues but to end at all. Outside is a life dreading The not stopping The not ending Pain that waits anxious, Time not stopping me, As I await for death to come.

Musical Reflections Photography Rachel Hong

Under Pressure By Matthew Delgado

ship wrecks on the shore at the break of dawn. Two people crawl onto the white, untouched sand; their names are Logic and Talia. In the midst of coughing and panting Talia catches her breath long enough to activate Watson, the artificial intelligence built within the projector watch on her wrist; to find her location, the time, and the date. Her watch projects her location as the Bermuda triangle, the time is 5:00 AM, and the date is March 15th, 2040. Talia asks Logic, “In which direction should we head towards?” Logic responds, “We should head due north, there is a chance we may be spotted from the peak of the 62

mountain in the center of the island.” Logic pulls out navigational flying drones from his backpack to send ahead of them in hopes that they will find the simplest path to their destination. He views the live stream video footage taken from the drones through the projector on Talia’s watch to decide on which path to take. Talia chooses the quickest path, not the simplest, telling Logic, “We have a limited food supply; the sooner we reach the top the sooner we can be spotted, giving us a greater chance at survival.” Logic agrees, and they venture towards the rocky cliffs which were

casting an unfathomable shadow over half of the island. The closer they are to the base of the cliffs, the more conceivable the voices of the loved ones in Talia’s life become. To her left she hears her mother telling her that her addiction changed her from the lovely girl she once was to someone she could not bear the sight of, to her right she hears her little brother telling her that her beauty emanates through the art she creates, and that she has to share it with the public to receive the satisfaction she deserves. Logic tells Talia, “Ignore the voices on the path, the past contains

voices of both good and bad, but you cannot dwell on either of them.” The message Logic conveys alleviates Talia’s worries and she drowns out the voices by running towards the base of the cliffs. She increases her pace to a sprint, with which the only sound she hears is that of her own heartbeat. She sees the cliff up ahead, but one of her legs cramps and her momentum is much too fast to come to a complete stop. Logic catches her seconds before she would have ran into the mountain head first. He hands her a pair of climbing gloves and proceeds to launch a grappling hook to a ledge that appears to be at the top of the cliff. Logic secures the rope to Talia’s belt then to his own belt. Talia ascends the cliff at a pace such that she is able to reach the top before the sun sets. She reaches the ledge and is unable to pull herself up without a forceful push from Logic. Talia offers her hand to assist Logic up the cliff, and when he reaches for her wrist his backpack slips off his shoulder

and falls upon a patch of grass about 50 feet below the ledge. He tells Talia, “I’ll go back down to get the bag, it’s the only source of food we have for our duration on the island.” Talia unties the rope from her belt and Logic begins his descent down the cliff. She takes refuge in the cave that encompasses the ledge. Talia activates the flashlight on her watch and ventures further into the cave. She notices a shadow taking the shape of a female in one of the corridors. “Is anyone there?” she shouts. The shadow walks out from the corridor towards Talia, and reveals herself. The shadow speaks to Talia, “Welcome to the island, I’m Nikki.” Nikki signals Talia with two fingers to follow her deeper into the cave. Talia obeys Nikki’s gesture, but comes to a halt when her guide stops walking. Talia sees more shadows in the corridor, the figures illuminated by a fire lining the wall she’s standing next to.

Suddenly, Nikki declares, “I found a sacrifice for the ritual!” Talia freezes and turns around to see a bright light pointing towards her. Logic appears and picks up Talia, carrying her on his back, and sprints to the entrance of the cave. Talia recognizes the source of the light as a helicopter’s headlights. Logic makes it to the ledge of the cliff and jumps into the helicopter. The helicopter ascends into the sunset. Talia, drizzled in sweat, wakes in her bed. It was all a horrible dream. She realizes that she no longer wants to be an outcast. She does not want to live like a shadow because of Nikki, her nicotine addiction. She thinks back to how Logic was there to save her when she could not save herself, and realizes that Logic was a representation of her ambitions. She had to share her music with the world and not be afraid of the critique that she would receive. It was the only way she would no longer feel under pressure.

Throwing Shade Photography Sierra Reynolds

Undiagnosed By Marissa Lloyd

I rested my arm on the cushion provided for it. The nurse observed the “juicy vein” as she called it. The alcohol invaded my senses; the smell burned my eyes and made them tear; the cold gave me goosebumps. I stared at the other blood tubes that stood in their vials on the counter across from me. The thick redness sent chills down my spine. Blood scared me, it always had. Just the thought of it made me feel nauseous. I felt the slight prick of the needle going into my skin and the pull of the blood being extracted. I wanted to pass out. The nurse continued to count down as she filled the tubes up with my blood. “Five...” she paused for a minute, attached a new tube, “Four...” I must have whispered every time, “Stop,” but she didn’t, because she couldn’t hear me, because the words didn’t come out. After she was done, she looked at me and asked me how I was feeling. I was fine: this wasn’t my first time giving blood, it was probably my second time this month. Twelfth time in the nine months that I’d been sick. She smiled and held a gauze strip over the small dot, placing a Muppet band aid over it. 64

“I’ll send the results to L.I.J. as soon as it’s done being tested,” She explained to my mom. I stood up and headed toward the exit. I just wanted to go home. I was absolutely miserable, not because I’d just gotten blood taken, but because it’d been nine months and the doctor still didn’t know what was wrong with me. My legs constantly felt like shards of glass were lodged in them and were being moved around, sending shocking pain through my body. I wish that description explained how they actually felt, but you wouldn’t understand until you felt that pain. It’s an intense pain that never goes away. At times my legs would go completely numb and I wouldn’t be able to walk or even support myself, the intensity reaching an unbearable peak. Sometimes, they’d just become weak out of nowhere and, though I’d be able to walk, it’d be hard to hold myself up. I hadn’t been able to run at all since it happened. I also hadn’t been able to climb stairs like a normal human. That split second when you have to lift up your foot to get to the next step and use all the strength in that leg to pull your other leg up is the most difficult thing you could possibly imagine for me.

I shouldn’t have to focus that hard to move my legs. It doesn’t matter if I walk, exercise, stretch, or stay on the couch all day, I’ll always have a problem with them. I’ve gone to the arthritis doctors, orthopedic doctors and a bunch of other doctors that have complicated names. I’d gotten over a hundred lab tests done, MRIs, cat scans, ultrasounds, and multiple images of my spine taken as well. When I can’t walk, I normally use a cane. I’ve gone to school with the cane before. I’ve taken in the stares. The pitying looks make me want to fall on the floor and stop trying. They focus in on me and I can see the questions in their eyes. What’s wrong with that poor girl? What happened to Marissa? Then you get the brave people that have the balls to ask. “What’s wrong with you, girl?” I can’t reply with anything except ‘I don’t know’. Not because I don’t want to tell them or because it was too long of a story to tell, but I really don’t know. My parents don’t know, the doctors don’t know, no one knows. Many have given their ideas on what it could be, but it seems that their answers are always incorrect. Everyone seems like they are tired of hearing

about it. Every time the doctors tell me that they don’t know what it is, I feel like the pain is all in my head, even though realistically it’s not. The numbness is real, the paralysis is real, the weakness is real, it’s all real. I don’t want to keep bugging people with my complaints. I don’t want to seem petty. I just want it all to go back to normal, back to when I could dance, when I wasn’t miserable, when I didn’t snap on people for the smallest things, when I was able to stand for long periods of time, when I was treated like a person and not someone that everyone felt bad for, when I went out with friends and didn’t have to say… “I can’t, I don’t feel well.” I used to think depressed people were always miserable, always looking sad, being

antisocial and distant from everyone, contemplating killing themselves, but that’s not the case at all. They don’t have to physically do any of that to be sad emotionally. I smile and laugh with my friends still, but I always have that mentality in the back of my mind of the problems that this sickness could cause me at any moment. I can’t walk without feeling nauseous. Picture feeling that, whenever you walk, nausea comes over you, making you feel with every step like you’re going to faint or throw up. You can take every medication: ibuprofen, Aleve, dramamine for the nausea. It won’t make it go away; it won’t take even one symptom away. So attempting to take it is pointless. If it’s not going to help you, why take it?

Sometimes I just want to stay in my bed, let the sheets and mattress suck me in and smother me, let it take away my pain, but that can’t happen. I have to have hope that the doctors will find what’s wrong with me and find me a cure. Life would be a lot easier if this hadn’t happened to me, if God had just chosen a different victim. Honestly, I wouldn’t wish this pain on anyone else. This has also made me consider not having children, because of the fact that I don’t want to pass it on hereditarily. I’d be content if this sickness would stay with me for the rest of my life, but I just want a solid answer on what it is and what I need to do to treat the pain.

Same Inside Chalk Pastel Sabrina Drescher 65

The Sound Oil Pastel Emily Harrison Branching Oil Pastel Imi Cabacungan

Calm Sidelines Oil Pastel Edward Park

Summer Memories Oil Pastel Megan Rogers

Special thanks to the Battlefield Staff who have supported Vox Populi... The editoral staff would like to voice a special thanks to Mr. Hintosh, and the rest of the Administrative Team. In addition, Vox Populi thanks the English and Art Departments for supporting our program, particularly Mrs. Burns who welcomed us into her art classes and encouraged students to submit their works.

This yearâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s publication would not have been possible without the help of our staff... Editors in Chief: Elizabeth Wheeler & Alie Paoli Advisor: Jared Bridges Managing Editors: Hayley Miller & Sydney Brown Design Editors: Kyle Dean & Mackenzie Gleysteen Poetry Editor: Emily Clark Copy Editor: Davis Bryars & Emily Surabian Creative Staff: Marissa Lloyd & Essam Temuri 68

The publication would like to extend their gratitude particularly to Mrs. Ethridge-Conti who has supported the Literary Magazine program since its start. She has remained a constant proponent of the program, and her support with all ten editions of the publication will always be appreciated.

Colophon

All art was provided by Vox Populi staff or other contributing artists. Vox Populi 2016 was printed by Master Print, Inc. in Newington, Virginia. Prepress was completed by the Vox Populi staff using Adobe InDesign CS6 and Photoshop CS6. Text and pull quotes are set in Adobe Garamond Pro. Headlines are set in Modern No. 20, Kalinga, Gills Sans MT, and Euphemia.

Special thanks to all of the following Patrons and Donors... Without these generous donations, the publication of the Battlefield High School Literary Magazine, Vox Populi, would not have been possible.

The Bendekovic Family The Bennett Family The Blethen Family The Brown Family The Brunelle Family The Bryars Family The Bui Family The Bull Family The Butler Family The Caron Family The Chernitsky Family The Clark Family The Colvin Family The Dahl Family The Dean Family The Delgado Family

The Eagle Family The Gleysteen Family The Gottschalk Family The Kim Family The Lazaneo Family The Lloyd Family The Marin Family The McAllum Family The McLaurin Family The Mello Family The Ortiz Family The Paccioli Family The Paoli Family The Plaster Family The Ray Family The Roper Family

The Scott Family The Shapiro Family The Siddiqui Family The Sinclair Family The Sova Family The Spedden Family The Surabian Family The Temuri Family The Thill Family The Thistle Family The Voettiner Family The Wheeler Family The Wynes Family The Young Family

www.armorfenceco.com 70

DESIGN MAKES A DIFFERENCE At New Look Kitchen & Bath Co., our reputation is about more than award-winning designsâ&#x20AC;&#x201D;itâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s about award-winning service. Since 1981, our kitchen & bath design expertise has shaped homes in Front Royal, Northern Virginia, and the surrounding areas.

Koi Fish Drawing Imi Cabacungan

Split Drawing Sarah McAllum

Mixed Reality Drawing Jasmin Campbell Metamorphasis Drawing Claire Capasso

Volume II