Zenith 2023

New York, NY

a letter from the editor

Dear Reader,

Welcome back to another edition of Zenith, for many of you, your first, and for me, my last.

This one’s a little melancholy, if I’m being honest. Zenith has sincerely been one of my greatest pride and joys during my time at Sacred Heart. Back when I was a freshman, I adored going to Zenith, even if I never shared any of my writing and never published anyting in the magazine that year. I loved getting to be around writers, getting to see inside their heads, and getting to see the ways they thought about writing and storytelling and the structure of words. To have so many people gather together every week who are so passionate about writing, who are so talented in and of themselves, and so creative -- it’s quite magical.

Since my sophomore year, I have been on a quest to make Zenith the magazine as grand as all of the aspirations Zenith club members have had for it -- trying to make unique, complex cover art that’s a reflection of the spirit of that year’s magazine, reworking the formatting so that it’s easier to read and is that much more elegant, and gathering submissions from all across the school, not just from club members, to publish in the magazine.

This year’s cover is a bit of a love letter to literature: classics, YA, sci-fi, mystery, historical fiction, fantasy (although there are many other genres.) I wanted both to pay homage to the writing that inspires us as creatives as well as to allude to all the writing that we may someday create.

One of my favorite parts of putting together the layout for Zenith every year is being a part of the culmination of so many students’ creative efforts. The writing in here is passionate, personal. It’s really moving to see so many writers in the various stages of their creative journeys.

The writing in this edition, as in every edition, is here because so many individuals were passionate enough about an idea to labor over their words, hour after hour, carefully crafting, shaping, and editing a piece, and then having the courage to throw themselves out there, into that state of vulnerability only achieved by having their writing published for everyone to read. It’s an admirable feat, and I’m so honored to have had the chance to have been so involved in so many people’s writing journeys.

And so, for the last time, Reader, I hope you enjoy reading this year’s edition of Zenith just as much as I have enjoyed putting it together.

Your Zenith Editor, Faedra Hose ‘23

Face

Nora Gallagher

I long to be a face.

Yet I, only disembodied parts that awaken at your will.

Irises observe you with painstaking perception, eardrums vibrate as you tell me how you have been wronged, nostrils sniff out the ways in which you are right, lips distance to say how could they I hope you’re okay I’m so sorry.

I once thought you wanted me to be a face, a whole.

But clearly

I am better as the toolbox I have become.

Mother, My Own Aary Baptiste

Born from your deepest marrow

Ripped out gently

By rough hands

Suckling on a sweet nectar

Your warm love

Your milk, my own

Accursed woman

her name mine

She has coiled around me

Mouse and snake

Sweet venom sinks into my throat

Guzzling down

Senseless Slow

It tastes of your milk

With a full mouth

I could not voice my thanks

Grateful,

I should have been

To be freely indulged in such gluttony

Now pulled away roughly

By gentle hands

My teeth chatter in the cold

Frostbitten, I look for

Your face, my own

To search

To forget

Ignore the fear

Coiling around me

Too similar to your love

I feel around in this thick milk

My hands trace your teeth in the dark

Biting down, I scream

Tinted pink, this sweet milk blinds me

The eyes on her face, My own

The tips of her fingers, My own

The curl of her hair, My own

The blood on her teeth,

My own

Reaching into the marrow

My birthplace

I have felt another’s face

In looking for you

I have found myself,

Holy and unborn

Reaching into the marrow, I rip her free

Cradle her to my chest

She suckles on pink milk

Mother, my own

Burns

Hannah Alssaidi

I never liked the kettle.

I loved the tea it made, warm and comforting.

It seemed to cure everything

No one ever told me how dangerous that comfort could be.

I understand that I am greedy.

I understand that I want too much warmth.

Too much comfort.

I want so much.

But each time I search for it, it burns me.

Leaves me with bitten nails and raw skin.

I remember the first time I was burned, searching for warmth.

Wanting the heat so desperately no matter how much it hurts.

I see the scar it left behind and still I want more.

Teeth

Madeline Wadsworth

In the first-grade class photo, every other girl is sitting cross-legged, bows in-tact with shiny hair pulled perfectly into place, flowing down like waterfalls of golden curls and brown locks; meanwhile, I sat with lips concealed behind my tongue, my headband set too far forward, my hair jumbled into straggling electrons. I was “other” despite how hard I tried. Girl, they said, “sit up straight.” Still, I slouched until I was sinking into the ground, my insides melting until my heart was the only thing left, crumpling into a thousand pieces watching as I slid from the top of the seat to the basement until I reached the earth’s core. Even once mother nature pressed my lips upon the magma of hot rocks, I was still deemed unruly until I became obsessed with trying to be the shell of a human, because I crave being empty like how you crave being held, because empty is moldable, and I will sculpt myself into perfection.

manic pixie dream boy

Johan Domingo

beautiful but tragically misunderstood self mythologizing lives in the moment figment of my imagination embraces life and its infinite mysteries impulsive, plays by his own rules

you made me see the beauty in everything but now everything reminds me of you i’ve grown to hate what i used to love all i see now is the worst in everything

fleeting moments

how much pain you’ve caused me in such little time

he’s only special because you made him special you can always find another tall lanky boy with long hair and shitty opinions

this poem is ugly

Abby Vazquez

ugliness cowers in the low shadows and i see it and i approach it with gentleness and offer to pet it ugliness shrieks and cries and pees on itself and i pat it and whisper i love you ugliness calms and i kiss its forehead and i tell it be brave i hold it in my arms and look it over i put salves on its pulsing wounds and bandage it i soothe it to a fitful sleep and i give it a bed next to mine and a pillow and a blanket that it covers in scabs and grime and i tell it i love you

Loose Thread

Hannah Alssaidi

I sit among thousands of others.

Do I really matter at all?

Even when all on either side of me are exactly the same?

When on my own, I am nothing?

My importance remains only if I lie still, flat, tamed.

Only, the moment I stand, I am alone.

One loose thread, unimportant to the whole.

I am nothing to others.

So pull.

Wait to see the result.

Pull, and pull, and pull, and–

Oh.

It all falls apart.

P a s t T e n s e

Madeline Wadsworth

I say my vows as you walk down the aisle of a grocery store. You stand in contemplative silence. It’s not settling if I keep us moving forward. It gets heavy carrying our love in a plastic red store basket, but if I stop thinking of how your cheeks blush when you see me overthinking, I will put you in the past tense.

So, I will buy cornstarch and pour it all over our wrinkles, and by the morning, I will stiffen. I’ll iron out the irony and sew the small holes from our setbacks, so I won’t send you back. I will avoid putting you in the past tense.

Blanket

Nora Gallagher

A baby blanket knit of shame and you swaddled me in it, turned my frail body warm with flushed cheeks and overcompensation. You wrapped me in invisibility and lived on in invincibility, and I held those soft fibers close and I have never let go.

The Flaws of Art

Hannah Alssaidi

One day, I want to be a piece of art.

Charcoal or clay, marble or paint, it all makes no difference to me. There is something in art that does not need to be pretty to be beautiful. If I was made of stone, there might be something to see in me.

There might be a reason to hold my gaze even when every shape seems to be fundamentally wrong.

I might not feel the need to cover every part of myself if the black scars that cover me were drawn on or painted to perfection.

Even with every flaw, art is still something to be admired.

I might be able to hold my own gaze for more than a few seconds when I look in the mirror.

SPARKLE? (deficit)

Shelly Vasquez

glitter and iridescence

bouncing off the ceramic

It seeps into the gaps while the water pours on the stained ceramic and rises above my head

Its constant buzz engulfs me so i let myself lose consciousness so i can still watch the sparks fly

left to right

i turn the handle where it says cold but where it actually gets hotter i turn the handle where its written unbearable and i bare it

Its tears flowing on my neck

Grieving through my vessel

Feeling each bead as they run through my chest

Dripping to my stomach

Down my hips

Rushing toward my feet that run me across the world

Quicker than i can keep up

running in circles but I love being dizzy I love the sparks that fly left to right

I love the buzz that penetrates My vision as everything fades to and from black

I let myself lose consciousness while faces come and fade

where time disapears

Im sitting in the shower like I always do

I turn the handle to the left where it says colder And I keep turning And I keep it there

dead bird

Olivia

Thompson

She remembered feeling everything yet nothing at all

She remembered her heart racing and every nerve in her body was moving yet she was completely still

She remembered the ear shattering sound of the gunshot that e r u p t ed in her ears

She remembered the bird; the way its blood burst out when the bullet went through its chest, its dead black eyes staring at her, looking her as if it was saying how could you…

how could you do this to me……

why did you hurt me……

She hated that look. She hated that it judged her even in death

She hated that despite it being dead

It was crying

So she shot it again

dead in the face

Fuzzy Pink Jacket

Madeline Wadsworth

I have a fuzzy pink jacket that has four pockets but two have holes that I’ve been meaning to patch up but never did, which seems symbolic because you fell through my heart like loose change free-falling onto the bustling city avenues. I used to wear it while I went on long walks with cotton candy skies somewhere in-between farewells and longing stares and writing poetry that no one will see until they turn into snowfall which I reclaimed since you made footsteps in my happiness, stomping over my freshly fallen success. The first day I showed you my poems you said nothing, and it crushed my heart completely as I watched your eyes scan the page, feeling time tick.

Love.

Love is like water. needed.

Glass of Love

Ilina Brin

in a world full of thirst in a sea of hands grasping for a sip. everyone is born with a glass. As we grow our glasses remain full. Filled by those around us.

Give, Give, Give Sip, Sip, Sip

we grow up taking sips from those who raise us we grow up oblivious to their thirst as we grow that oblivion fades

Be gracious and kind like those before you kind enough to offer a sip to all those in need. Everyone needs a sip including those closest to you

Protect those closest to you like those before you

Give, Give, Give Sip, Sip, Sip

When will it stop?

My glass is almost empty.

Give, Give, Give Sip, Sip, Sip

The last drop is gone.

The hands are satisfied

Oh

My hands are not

It fled my mind as fast as the water from the glass.

But

My family’s hands are satisfied.

My friends’ hands are satisfied.

The endless sea of hands are too.

Was it worth it?

My hands are now grasping

i can’t grasp anymore

Starting to sink into the sea of hands

Feel the dryness drowning you.

Give, Give, Give

Sip, Sip , Sip

Sink, Sink, Sink

trickster

Abby Vazquez

do you know what?

i see your wickedness and that part i love too. i love that you don’t like it.

i love that you are blemished. i can still love you like this, even after seeing the cracks hidden on your other face.

11/4/22

Madeline Wadsworth

It comes with the noise one creates in complete silence. The gestures are small but big enough that they haunt. Tiny, miniscule hand-strokes brush over her back. A phantom breeze reminds me of my lack as my pink sweater lays untouched and unloved. Suddenly, I feel frostbite.

Sandy Shores

Hannah Alssaidi

Nowhere has ever been a comfort to me.

Not the cool tiles of the kitchen floor.

Not under layers of blankets that pile on the soft expanse of the bed, no matter how it threatens to swallow me whole.

Not in the food brought back to me that tastes like home.

It seems like a bone-deep cold that no jacket or thermostat can fix. It isn’t warm enough anywhere I see.

Maybe not warm enough because sweat doesn’t stain everything I wear, even inside of crumbling pastel houses made of concrete.

Maybe because I can’t smell burning rubber on every road.

Maybe because I have no desire to swim in the waters of the world when I know that a place exists where I can see my legs through the saltwater.

A place where I can see so clearly that I can point out every fish in the waves that come crashing down on me.

A place that I can be and no one chooses to look down and pretend not to see me.

something in me cannot find the strength to care that your waters do not carry me as far as they do here.

Not when I can’t see my legs to stand when the waves come crashing down.

white rhino

Abby Vazquez

today my mother died and now i am the last of my kind

narrative

Madeline Wadsworth

i was born on a wednesday, which is to say i’m indecisive and messily so except when it comes to words, which i guild with poison and protect so possessively one would know that i buried my nails into soil writing in turmoil until my knuckles turned bruised i grew up near a monument that is crumbling, which is to say i find metaphor in everything except in my own irony which drips from the page tasting sweet until it turns into bitterness but that doesn’t age well so i store it in a jar for later or in a locked note on my i-phone

i know someone who wanted to kill me, which is to say i have breakdowns about worth every scheduled Tuesday except when i forget how to breathe on Friday and gasp for punctured air until i can see a break in the clouds white space beckons me back

i was named after a book character, which is to say that i am one for a dramatic story but care desperately, erratically, passionately which is to say, i find myself in every ink swell at each mark of punctuation i hitch my breath every stanza a brush from the breeze

this paper world is my origin which is to say, welcome to my narrative

Belief

Hannah Alssaidi

I have never believed in the gods I read stories of.

These gods have too much power, too much strength, too much.

These gods take and do not return.

These gods do not love; they were never meant to be kind.

I see you, in all your divinity.

And for the first time in my life, I pray.

The god you are was never meant to be kind.

The god you are owes me nothing.

I understand now what it is to kneel and thank a god that brings pain.

bloodred

Veronica Lytle

A thousand nights did I lie still

Awaiting her glacial embrace

Drifting along the icy river of the fallen

Wallowing in my disgrace

A breath held for eternity

Let out from uncertainty

Straining my fingers to grasp the piercing air

As I reach for her pleasant countenance

The smell of carnations draws near

Her sanguine smile shines from above the ice

And soon she begins to disappear

Panic ensues

How my darling grieves

Plagued by an incurable disease

Yet I swore

That for her

And her alone

Within the concupiscence of gore

I give my cruor

A fine tune

Rippling whispers in the moonlit lagoon

Pearls found lying on the shore

The waves creeping up forevermore

A carmine droplet falls

Deep down it crawls

The azure waters glow

A full moon emerges with a smug grin

Shining far below

So it shall begin

Clean clear tears

Fade to dark red fears

A drop of crimson Glowing behind the moon

The sweet smell of persimmon

A dance to the tune Of ever flowing sanguinary serendipity.

Waterfall of vermillion

Lit up in a cascade of iridescence

Falling from a lofty pavilion

Delving into obsolescence

Disordered sanguis

A misguided mishap

Amongst two friends

Caught in a clever trap

Both beholding their miserable end

Birthing incarnadine chaos

One bellicose

The other benevolent

However the scene went on

The dagger infinitely plunging

Water continuing it’s flowing journey

Yet time stands still

A drop of crimson

The moonlight fading abaft clouds

Mabolos rotting still connected to the tree

The only reminder of that wretched event

Laid deep in the stone:

The ruby lament

Allow me to preface

It wasn’t my fault

I had checked nearly every crevice

Yet I could not prevent the assault

A taken life

In great strife

Inevitable annihilation

A disintegrated location

So you see I could not prevent

And I shall now begin the lament looking into your cold ruby eyes

I’ve finally found the lies

Your turn to finally die

A portrait must be made

And a mighty one it will be

Crimson clouds set with a somber night sky

A bolt of red lightning strikes the sea

Total desolation sent from no fault of mine

Utter obliteration through every fault of mine

It’s time to sit back and relax

And watch the whole world collapse

P u l p . F i c t i o n .

Madeline Wadsworth

Sometimes, I think of you as the last speck of daylight. You capture gold and suck it in with your teeth, slurping and chewing chunks of sun-like pulp.

Fiction.

I would be the scut because pumpkins are orange, and you like the glow. Red oozes from your pressure; even time couldn’t outrun you. I couldn’t either. Sucker punch to catapult darkness, but you like white; Dresses, lines, lies. Cheap fights. You eat up promises and churn them out; empty and unfufilling.

I swear I saw you smirk when the last flash of light flickered. You still pull the trigger.

Your sand of gold

The Beach

Mary Kate Corrigan

So soft beneath my feet

Can burn sometimes

On days of extreme heat

The seagulls and terns

Dive bomb my head

The sun so strong

It turns my skin red

How I hear your waves

Crashing on the shore

The smell of salt

I cannot deny your allure

The wind that blows

Messes my hair

The sun so warm

On my chest a bare

Like a siren of the sea

Calling to me

Your ebb and flow, I must go

To the place with a strong undertow

My Grandparents’ Love

Madeline Wadsworth

I could have spent all my days with my nose halfway in the page,

my soul stuck between the imaginary world smeared with ink torn between character arcs and my heartbeat’s breath feet stepping in tandem with a chuckle of forced laughter and crinkled hazelnut eyes

But you and your little stories steeped in sarcasm but laced with sweetness soaked into silky sentences and echoing laughter that spreads throughout the stone staircases painting the hallways

yellow as you sing poems from Russian literature down an empty hallway as you wink your chocolate-rimmed eyes

You had other plans with devilish smiles lined up inside your coat

pockets with spare change and a little note I wrote you last Friday wearing your heart on your sleeve that I stole for a while since the first time we walked around the foliage and fell into a conversation that lasted for lifetimes and banter that carried us with the wind onto an unfamiliar street with a fancy French name and the intersection of two hearts

You were my best years

Our Lovely, Little Loaf

Brooke Klausner

AMC

Nora Gallagher

Sticky linoleum meets gleaming caramel leather, the shoes’ usual confident stride slowing to a discouraged shuffle. Outfitted in smart navy rayon, Grant trudges through the movie theater with the confidence one would expect from a man who has just been deserted by his girlfriend of seven years. Attempting to fill the void once occupied by weekend picnics and Sunday drives through St. Louis, Grant finds himself at the AMC, his hopeless eyes scanning film posters as he looks to escape despair in the comfortable anonymity of the theater. The mere pressure of choosing a movie feels insurmountable, though, so Grant stumbles into the nearest auditorium and slinks down into a seat nearest the door. Just then, the vague outline of a woman slides in directly next to Grant, their bodies uncomfortably close. Irritation tugging at his every fiber, Grant considers moving, but, unable to muster any energy, he simply slides farther down into the seat’s scratchy velvet.

Yet, as if to render Grant’s miserable afternoon a case study in Murphy’s Law, the woman begins to speak. Incredulous by now, Grant resigns himself to listen, staring straight ahead as if his defiance will somehow prompt his companion to quiet herself. His efforts are futile, though, and as the movie begins–Grant still does not know what is playing–so commences the hum of the woman’s voice. Still refusing to look at her face, Grant cannot help but notice the woman’s scratchy murmur, indicative of an elderly person. She mutters incoherently for a few moments, and then, as a freshfaced Grace Kelly takes the stage, the woman whispers hoarsely to Grant, “I was once as beautiful as her.” Once again guided by the false notion that the woman will take his indifference as a cue to curtail her speaking, Grant offers no response. And once again, the woman charges on in her shaky whisper.

“Yes,” she croaks, with a reflective sigh, “I was discovered at twenty-three for my music–I could really belt, my boy.” Grant is both put off and shockingly comforted by the woman’s possession of him. She starts again: “I was so charismatic, so gifted, that the man who discovered me later married me! Can you dare to imagine?” And from here, Grant’s companion launches into a whirlwind tale of her adventurous life. Although the woman did indeed wed her musical producer, she later had an affair with a married man. “Imagine”–this is the fifth time she requests Grant’s imagination in the span of a few minutes–“the most picturesque summer in the world, and then you would know what it meant to be in Maine in June of 1949. I was swept off my feet by my childhood sweetheart, and I was overwhelmed by young love all over again.”

What had once aroused annoyance within Grant now prompts compassion: he folds to the woman’s whimsical stories, feeling tenderness towards this elderly enigma. The woman speaks as if every word is delicious candy, euphoria radiating from her stories. She briefly had a stint as a socialite in Chicago, Grant learns, where she fell into a love triangle; later in life, her chaotic romance continued when she had a fantastical run-in with a dashing prince after wishing for a knight in shining armor upon a fountain coin.

At this moment, Grant can no longer keep his eyes straight ahead. Rather than avoiding this woman, Grant now wants to know her deeply. Perhaps it is the heartbreak speaking, but Grant feels moved by his companion: here is someone who knows what it means to love life. Grant thus breaks his defiance and turns to his seat-mate. And recoils. Staring back at him is an oval of swollen, stretched flesh, bunching around the eyes to cover barely-visible blue irises. The woman’s skin is flaking off, her lips charred and frozen into an eerie half-smile. Grant directs all of his energy toward ensuring that his disgust is not evident, yet, peculiarly, the woman seems

entirely unaware of anything unusual. Questions consume Grant’s mind, and the phrase “What happened?” tumbles out of his mouth before he can contemplate whether he truly wants to know the answer.

“Whatever do you mean, my dear?” the woman replies, with a confusion so genuine it stops Grant from any further inquiries.

Grant leaves the theater weighted down with bewilderment. The following morning, he is up at 8:00 am to visit his psychiatrist. Grant is there to get Miltown, a small-dose tranquilizer for anxiety, but at the office he feels more anxious than ever, shaken by the events of the previous night. Nevertheless, he goes through the motions of small talk with his doctor, a stately man named Dr. Wilson. Soon, though, Wilson breaks the rhythm of their half-hearted ping-pong game of conversation and begins to divulge a matter too personal for pleasantries.

“I tell you, Grant, I had the strangest case. This kind hearted young lady comes into my office, tells me her mother went on a psychotic break after a traumatic car accident and has been missing for years.” Wilson clears his throat, lowers his glasses, and continues. “So I ask her, ‘Alright, what was so traumatic about this car accident?’ and the lady says, ‘My mother got burned real bad. She used to be a dazzling Southern Belle, and then suddenly she was so horrific to look at. She just up and left after that, and I feel I’ve looked everywhere for her, but I just can’t find her.’ Wilson concludes, “So I tell her I’ll see what I can do, meanwhile I’m thinking to myself ‘How the hell would I know where your loony mother is?’”

And Grant marvels at the absurdity of his world.

Any other day, Grant would have scoffed along with Dr. Wilson, but today, Grant cannot believe how foolish his psychiatrist is.

The charred lips, the swollen skin, they fill Grant’s mind, and he immediately knows exactly where this “loony mother” is. Miltown in hand, Grant rushes out of Wilson’s office, consumed by adrenaline. As he walks around St. Louis, attempting to piece together this unbelievable coincidence, there is still one thing Grant does not understand: his theater acquaintance had described a life too full for a recluse. Though Grant is sure he met the same woman whose daughter Wilson spoke with, he cannot grasp how someone in hiding, ashamed of their appearance, could live a life bursting with such adventure and intrigue. Grant thinks on it, contorting his face in perplexity for a good while.

Eventually, though, the adrenaline dissipates, and Grant grows weary of playing detective. By the time the sun dips below the St. Louis skyline, Grant has abandoned this conundrum for someone else to solve. On the other side of town, the woman sits alone in the AMC. In one sense, she has been discovered, yet in another, she remains as inexplicable as ever. Not one moviegoer has solved the paradox of her hidden, concealed life coupled with her courageous tales.

Maybe, if Grant had returned to the movie theater that day, once more sitting down in the rear of Auditorium 1, he would have figured out why the woman’s tales carried such a distinct air of familiarity. Maybe, if Grant had probed just a bit further, he would have learned that this woman–her name is Sloan, and maybe he would have learned that, too–has spent the past twenty-seven years of her life at the movie theater, spinning tales of her life based on the films she has seen in order to dissociate from her own tragic fate. Maybe, if Grant had pondered just a few moments more under the setting St. Louis sun, he would have recognized the similarities between A Star is Born and Sloan’s rise to musical fame, between A Summer Place and her Maine fling, between A Place in the Sun and Sloan’s time as a Chicagoan socialite, between Three Coins in the Fountain and her rendezvous with a prince.

Unfortunately for both Grant and Sloan, though, the language of maybes is a dialect seldom spoken by the tides of life.

And so, years pass. Grant meets someone new, marries her, moves to the suburbs of Missouri, while Sloan stays in the theater. She slinks in and out of the AMC’s dim hallways, operating under pure delusion as she constructs a false life that stands in stark contrast to the one she has let slip away. Hidden from her daughter and the world, Sloan spends her days as a woman of the shadows, stealing away bits of buttered popcorn for subsistence and sleeping in the nooks unmonitored by the theater’s security guards. And when she sits down next to other moviegoers and begins her narration, Sloan always looks down at their shoes first. Never giving up hope that she might one day be truly seen again, Sloan scans the auditorium floor for loafers of shining amber leather.

What A Bite Holds

Amanda Huntington

What was Christmas time for Eliphalet Oram-Lyte?

Christmas time was time for redemption.

It was that time of the year. The time when the bitter air of winter began to nip at the hands of school children, and Jack Frost’s hesitant touch transformed the world into a crystalline paradise. All along the small village road, houses were decked out with the first of the season’s evergreens, holly sprigs and berries turning what once was commonplace into something magical. It seemed as though all the world was merry; that is, every place but the churchyard at All Souls. When villagers passed its chipping iron gates, they held their breath, crossing to the other side of the road. For the yard’s mass of impenetrable twisting yew, and forgotten tombstones seemed to suck up any thought of happiness like the devil’s own vacuum.

The ghost of Eliphalet Oram-Lyte was not tortured, not in the kind of way other ghosts are–those who are consumed in the anguish of their purgatorial imprisonment, longing to pass on to that other country. No, Oram-Lyte was untroubled, content even, because he had a purpose, a calling. To make the lives of every being he knew, in his earthly life, a hellish one. He had sat patiently, never moving, ever observing, for five years, till the once immaculately varnished surface of his rosewood casket cracked and his bones, free from their fleshly imprisonment, rattled under the impenetrable winter soil. This season, however, was different, for Eliphalet knew this was the time, the season in which his spectacular nefarious plan could unfold.

The churchyard where Eliphalet took his ungodly rest was right next to Bunnington and Sons, the renowned bakery whose treats were said to surpass those in Buckingham Palace. Each morning, as the golden

winter light first spilled out across the lichen-stained epitaphs, the graveyard would fill with the pungent smell of baking bread, yeast, butter, and sugar. The bakery had, in life, been his place, the place he would look to find inner peace. He would get his favorite each morning, a Sally Lunn and a strong cup of milky builders tea. But that was of little matter now, for bleached bones have little use for spongy tea rolls. Redemption and malice were to be his sole nourishment, the vittles of immortality.

The showcase of the Christmas season was the Yule Ball. There, the entire hamlet would gather, rich and poor, under garlands of pine, hemlock, juniper, and, ever the favorite, mistletoe. The belle of the ball was not that year’s doe-eyed country girl but another creation: a mammoth, colossal, pungent rum cake, as big as a hog and just as heavy. It was Ben Bunnington’s, of Bunnington and Sons, pride. Ben would begin soaking the fruit in rum and molasses in the dog days of summer, and they would sit marinating for the entire season, till St. Andrew’s day. The cake was so boozy, a respectable person could only handle a few bites before their head swam and the world spun.

That morning, perched upon his grave, Eliphalet could see the silky golden batter, through the leaded panes of the bakery’s kitchen window. Even behind glass its sugary minced meat-perfumed aroma called to him. All that mattered to him was the cake. His world briefly turned red. Galvanized by the inferno of his anger, he charged toward the window, smashed his fist through the panes and dropped something borrowed into the vat of batter. He let out a ghostly cackle of exhilaration, charged back to his grave, and sunk into the earth’s sweet embrace. He was at last gone from this world.

All was right in the world and no one was the wiser. The only thing missing: the gangrenous pinky toe of the churchyard’s most recent resident,

Newly Dead Fred. But he would not miss that because, well, he was as dead as a doornail.

Walking Over Ashes

Rachel Lee

A woman who I don’t know is brewing coffee in my kitchen. There are actually a lot of women whom I don’t know, walking around my mansion, muttering and moving about skillfully. They open some of the monstrous windows, rummage through my closets, and try not to look me directly in the eyes. One opened the coffee pot, peered into the brewing coffee, and yelled at the one who started to make it. “You call this coffee?! Ba! You’re a worthless lot.” After some shouting, a fight ensues, and I lean on the doorpost watching as if it’s a regular occurrence. I gather myself and go back upstairs to my room. I sit on the ledge of my windowsill, looking down at my vast garden, extending miles and miles away. Filled with thousands of different colored flowers, with mountains towering above the ends of my garden, the scenery is breathtaking for most. Not for me though. The blue skies, fluffy white clouds, and sunlight streaming into my room warming everything it touched meant nothing to me.

I am the daughter of a Korean delegate living in Thailand. Why Thailand? Well, it truly is a beautiful place, but it’s also a sanctuary for my dad who has enemies in every inch of the world. There are some here too, but it’s always been pretty quiet. We own thousands of workers and one of the biggest mansions in the area.

When I was nine years old, all my friends, family, and closest neighbors were invited to my ninth birthday party. It wasn’t just a normal nine-yearold birthday party, rather, it was like a holiday dedicated to me. Food made by our personal chefs, professional dancers, award-winning musicians, and mountains of activities; I was the main character. There couldn’t have been a better day, I swear.

My family had a tradition of walking to a small, green hill at the edge of our boundless gardens and watching the sunset by yourself on the night of your birthday. So, my mom called me over, telling me it was time for me to set off on my mini journey to watch the brilliant sun slowly sink into the Earth. I started to head towards the mountain, skipping every couple of steps, and breathing in the succulent scent of our flowers. I had my family, friends, and pets waiting for me to get back to being the princess of the party after peacefully watching a beautiful array of colors in the sky. Life really couldn’t seem to have gotten any better. I was full of life.

“Boom! Boomshhh...” Before I could even hear the sound in my little ears, my heart vibrated from the sound waves emanating from the unknown source. It’s like the time I requested a DJ for a sleepover party and the speakers were so loud, the music touched our hearts before we even heard the songs. I thought, “They must be playing a game. They are always so extra with all the sounds.” Shaking it off, I continued my walk, until I saw a flash of light coming from behind and heard the screams of my life being taken away. I turned around to face my mansion, glowing red with hot flames; the aftermath of an explosion. I ran faster than I ever had before back towards the mansion which looked worlds away. Why did our garden have to be so uselessly big?

My life was trapped in the flames. Everyone and everything that made up my life became a blazing ball of fire. Ash and debris fell from the sky like rain, sticking to the trails my tears left behind on my face and clouding my vision of what was left of my life. The last glimpse of the sun setting behind me was swallowed by the Earth and the sky became a sinister blue.

Now, I sit in the house built on top of the ashes of my past life. No one knows what happened, and no one intends to find out.

I snap up from my hunched position at the narrow windowsill, accidentally pushing a flower pot off the edge, as I hear the bell for dinner ringing in the distance. The servants who are meticulously cleaning my room look up at the noise, and then nonchalantly go back to work as if they didn’t care for the life of the little flower pot. I watch the broken shards on the ground with all the soil scattered around it like blood. Perched up on the edge, I wonder if I would resemble the broken pot if I were to slip off.

I get up to slowly walk back to where the earlier fight had settled into a friendly, clamorous atmosphere. I sit down at the edge of a table that was meant to serve twelve, but now, just one, and eat my food in silence.

I turned 21 today. My birthday now shares the anniversary of my death 12 years ago. After I lost everything, my aunt, who hadn’t come to the festivities because of a fever, took me in. She treated me well enough, but the moment the clock struck twelve on my 18th birthday, she left me. I was left alone, again. This time, in the possession of a newly restored mansion even bigger than the last and all the fortune my parents had left behind. On account of my affluence, there are many people who pretend to be my friends and family but are actually just vultures circling a small, dead bunny. I know what they are after and quite frankly, I don’t care.

I can’t remember the last time I had a full conversation with anyone except for an occasional, “The dinner was good”, or “I need water” to the servants. They don’t want to talk to me and to be fair, I wouldn’t either. It’s my fault for trying not to make conversation. I’m always surrounded by workers, but I’m alone since I am dead.

I couldn’t and wouldn’t dare to live a life when I so brazenly walk on top of the ashes I should’ve been buried with.

The Tunnel

Katherine McConnell

It was in between drenching rain and chilling sunshine at the bus stop. The girl turned her head to the vehicles rounding the curve. The exposed skin of her hands felt frigid and her backpack weighed her spine and her shoulders down. The air was foggy and misty, carpeting all of the waiting people and her phone screen in a blanket of mist drops, obscuring the predicted wait time of zero minutes for her bus. She was thinking of what work she needed to tackle and how she would probably just end up scrolling on her phone instead. She turned back in the direction of the turn, her gloomy atmosphere lit by the fluorescent glimmer of the bus name. Like rusty clockwork, the bus lurched forward and stopping, lurching forward and stopping, until it arrived at the stop and squeakily forced apart the doors.

Lugging her backpack, she mounted the stairs and paid her fare. The stink and sound of people bumped into and edged at her as if she was in a real crowd. She shuffled down the cramped aisle, drearily moving from side to side so as to not bump her lead colored backpack into the other tired commuters. She saw two empty seats and slung her backpack into a sickeningly patterned seat. She opened up her phone, loading up a TV show. The air of the back of the bus curled her stomach. She felt the air nauseate her with its grimy claws sinking down her throat. She closed her eyes resting them on the not quite clear windows soiled with scattered ghost white dots. The bus lurched forward, sinking back, and then quickly tilting back forward into motion. They rounded another corner repeating the cycle of lurching and sinking until they finally made it into the tunnel to Brooklyn.

The putrid white monotone surrounding swallowed them up. The hum of passing quickly through a closed off environment made her restless. She disliked going home through the tunnel, though it was something necessary

for her. The dismal surroundings and the lack of internet coupled to make it a thoroughly unenjoyable environment. She wrinkled her pleated catholic girl skirt. It was ugly. Her scratchy collar choked her as she tried to turn her bumpy and uncomfortable backpack into a suitable resting place. She closed her eyes, but found herself in that restless state public transportation gives everyone. She eventually reopened her eyes, trying to find something of interest that didn’t need the internet. She eventually settled upon photos. She flipped through her phone trying to find some photos that she took of her bus stop. They weren’t there.

Confusion furrowed her damp eyebrows yet no matter how she looked, it wasn’t there. Was it broken? Did she delete it? She took a quick selfie to check the state of her camera. Nothing ended up in her camera roll. Something was wrong. She tried messing with her files, deleting apps, doing anything to mess around with her phone only to see when she closed her phone everything was back to normal. She turned to look across the aisle at the person next to her. Breathing deeply a few times to steady her confidence, she inquired to the old lady as to if anything was wrong with her electronics. The lady smiled an unnervingly perfectly U shaped smile, revealing toothless rotting gums. Black gunk oozed between where her teeth should’ve been.

“For God’s Kingdom is not a matter of eating and drinking, but of the righteousness, peace, and joy which the Holy Spirit gives,” the woman said, spitting black specks onto the next seat.

The girl pressed herself back into her seat, her breathing quickening as she felt horror shake her. Romans? Why would some messed up lady be quoting the Bible at her? She turned to the people in front of her only to be greeted with mangled and grossly injured people. The tired business people had turned into people who were missing appendages, had holes in their bodies, or were crushed. Yet, no one was bleeding or paling in countenance.

“Everyone who lives and believes in me shall never die. Do you believe this?”

“Truly, I say to you, today you will be with me in Paradise.”

“I am the resurrection and the life.”

Propitious Bible verses echoed throughout the chambers of the bus all in sync, all out of harmony. The metal walls echoed their words throughout the bus as if they were in an ornately designed church chamber.

Then, all at once, it was silent.

Heeding some silent command, the injured people started a sermon like chanting. One would start and the others would continue, none stumbling over the intricate verses. This wasn’t right. No, something was clearly wrong and she needed to get off of this bus. She knew that she needed to march up to the driver’s box and exit through the doors, but she was scared. The girl felt lost at a sea made up of crazy people and brick colored scratchy carpet. The aisle seemed as if it stretched on for miles. She closed her eyes, breathed in and through, before sprinting down the aisles as fast as she could. She felt cold and rotten flesh grab at her, trying to pull her in, but she kept running. Fingers clasped her ankles, pulled through her hair, and tore at her clothes, but she would not sink. She crashed into the front of the bus, her hands pushed out to halt her motion. Looking through the glass windows, she could see no observable end to the tunnel. No light shone through. She turned to the side, banging on the strangely tinted windows of the bus driver’s box. She was shouting as loudly as possibly against a chorus of Godly vows.

“Save me, please!”

“He saved us, not because of righteous things we had done, but because of his mercy.”

“Let me in!”

“He who has believed and has been baptized shall be saved; but he who has disbelieved shall be condemned.”

Tears welled up in her eyes. Who was driving this bus? What was happening to her? She fell to the ground in a pile of anguish. Her breath was fast and she wanted to curl up in a ball. Abruptly, she heard a perfectly toned voice deliver itself to her. The words felt like perfectly harmonic music and rays of sunshine to her ears. They lifted her up from the ground. She realized it was coming from the driver box. Entranced, she pulled herself up. Helplessly, she walked over, tears of joy replaced the prior tears of pain. With perfect radiance something said,” Why are you making such a fuss?”

She stared in awe for a few seconds before realizing the question was addressed to her. The voice had the comfort of a better mother than hers and the warmth of a loving hug. Ignoring the question, she asked the voice, “What are you?”

“An Angel of sorts.”

The window lowered to reveal beauty. No adjectives could come close to narrating what the girl saw. She crashed onto her knees, a painting of salvation on her face. Stuttering before forming words, she dared to ask another question,”What’s happening to me?”

“Humans were not equipped to see ethereal beauty. Now go back and

continue your penintence with the others.”

Something crashed down on the girl out of it when the Angel said that.

“Penintence?...” she questioned, the spell somewhat broken.

“To reduce your time spent in Hell.”

The girl’s eyes widened. The tears of joy continued, mismatching the questions racing through the girl’s mind.

“You belong in Hell. You did not go to church every Sunday or read the Bible as much as you should have. Now go along, join the others, girl.”

Hell. Hell? Hell?! That must be a joke. Clearly, she couldn’t be going to hell or even be dead. She was up and walking, wasn’t she? Sure that would account for some of the things that she was seeing but. But. It was not true. She was not going to go to Hell for not being some perfect Christian schoolgirl. She was not going to Hell for not scraping her knees in the chapel, praying to some omnipotent being. She was not going to Hell for not spending her days in cramped enclosed chapels, being choked by the devout people and her scratchy Sunday clothes collar.

“I am not going to Hell. I shouldn’t have to suffer for seizing my life.”

The Angel was quiet.

“You cannot drag me back into the pits of Hell!”

The girl started rushing down the stairs, before banging on the doors. The thick sound of glass pounding grew unnaturally loud with every bang. The sound distorted and twisted like the cracks forming.

BANG.

“For freedom, Christ has set us free,” the choir shouted, their voices cracking with.

“What is the meaning of this? You are dead, you can’t abandon the bus.,” the Angel demanded.

SMASH.

“You are severed from Christ, you who would be justified by the law; you have fallen away from grace.” Everyone in the choir was now screaming the verses hysterically.

“Stop. Stop it. STOP.” the Angel’s voice grew garbled and inhuman as rage consumed it.

CRUNCH.

The glass flew apart, slicing through the rough skin of the girl’s hands.

The girl grabbed onto the handle rails, not daring to look back. The wind of the tunnel was rough and burning. She bent her knees before launching herself out with an arc of dark red blood flying trailing behind her.

She kept her head pointed forward, steadying herself to land on the side passageway of the tunnel.

The impact knocked the wind out of her, smashing her into the concrete like a ragdoll. She lay down for a few seconds, breathing in and out, in and out.

As she got up onto her knees, she noticed that something had changed.

As cars rushed past her, blowing her hair all around her face, she noticed light. Not artificial light, but sunlight. The end of the tunnel-light. She looked back to where she had begun. She looked forward once again. Picking herself up off the ground, she took her first steps forward.

Lucia

Olivia Natarelli

In seventeen years, I think I have heard the word mangia! – Eat! – more times than I can count, most often by my beautiful nonna, Lucia. For her, creating and serving food was just like the love she gave us: both were bountiful.

More than just a great cook, Lucia was one of the strongest people I have ever known. Immigrating from Italy to Canada, she left everything she knew behind and started a new life in a cold, foreign country. Even after losing her husband in 2013, Nonna did not shut down or back away from life. She summoned her strength and thrived after his passing.

During the years after Nonno’s death, we saw a more light-hearted and amusing side of Nonna. She would, without fail, find ways to make me laugh. Even in her final days, she would joke with my sister and me, urging us to finish our studies so we could invent a more comfortable hospice bed.

Using the past tense to write about Nonna is especially excruciating. Somehow, it is even more heartbreaking than being a pallbearer at her funeral. I was not prepared to carry her casket with my sister and our four cousins, and even if I had been, I still think it would have flipped my world upside down. Leading Nonna down the aisle of the church before her funeral mass with my white-gloved hand on the casket, I realized that this was the closest I would ever get to her again.

I was just as unprepared to follow right behind the hearse as we processed from the funeral home to the cemetery. Along the way, we stopped at Nonna’s house, 144 Zinnia Place: the place where I had celebrated every Christmas; the place where Nonna would feed us delicious food of her

own creation; the place where loud, joyful gatherings would commence. It was now empty and silent because she was gone. When we placed flowers at her doorstep, it felt like a bulldozer to my heart.

After we laid her in her final resting place next to my nonno, the funeral ended, and only my immediate family, cousins, aunts, and uncles remained. I embraced my aunt, Zia Anna, and I broke down for what felt like the billionth time that day. The circumstances felt changed now that Nonna was sealed away forever. “You are still so loved,” my aunt assured me. Then my cousin, Sarah, took me in her arms and whispered, “We love too much.” At that moment, I knew exactly what she meant. We stood there, in a puddle of tears, proud granddaughters of Lucia, feeling and loving everything beyond limits just like she showed us.

Nonna constantly put others before herself and ensured that everyone was being cared for. Reflecting on her passing, my nonna taught me what true love is, how it feels, and how it can be expressed. Her love molded me into the person I am today, and she has shown me how to live a richer and more meaningful life.

Mystery at the Caddo Drive Thru Safari

Elizabeth Matheson

The silver Toyota bumped down the dirt road which was part of El Camino Real de los Tejas. El Camino Real de los Tejas was the old wagon road leading through Mexico, Texas, and Louisiana and linking Mexico City to Los Adaes. The dirt was moist from the rain from the night before. The red mud sprayed up as the wheels of the car spun through puddles and soon the car was splattered with red spots. Tilly, sitting in the back seat with her sister Marigold, was looking out the window. The shadows of four big birds darkened the window. She looked up and saw a group of buzzards swooping in the pasture on their left.

“Did you know that a group of flying buzzards is called a kettle?” Tilly asked.

“Yes, I did. Pawpaw told you yesterday,” Marigold responded.

From the front seat Pawpaw threw in his two cents, “Good job, Tilly! Do you remember what a group of buzzards feeding is called?”

“A wave?” she answered hesitantly, “no! A wake. I remember now.”

“Very good.”

“I wonder what they’re swooping at,” Tilly remarked.

“An armadillo most likely. Could be an opossum,” Marigold answered.

“Where do you girls want to go?” Pawpaw asked.

They had played outside that morning on their bicycles, scooters, and pogo sticks. Then they had decided to go for a drive and their grandmother came with them.

“We could go by the family cemetery, or we could show them the houses where we used to live,” their grandmother recommended.

“That sounds interesting,” Marigold said. The other day they had gone with Pawpaw and done a floorplan of a historic dogtrot home. The past was so interesting. But Tilly was more interested in excitement now.

“I know!! We can go to the drive through safari!!” The Caddo Drive

Through Safari was in the next town. Someone had collected a lot of deer and cows and a few exotic animals like zebras, camels, and kangaroos and put together a safari. Caddo was three hundred acres but had lots of animals. It was unique and special. The animals came right up to your car and you were allowed to feed them pellets. She had been to the drive through safari before but had told everyone that she would never get tired of it.

“I don’t know Tilly…”

“Here’s ten reasons why we should go” she forged ahead, “First, it would make me very happy. Second, the car is already dirty. Third, the animals need to be fed and we would contribute. Fourth, it is a pretty day so the animals should be active…”

“She’s right about the pretty day,” Marigold thought. It was a gorgeous spring day. The redbuds (or rather pinkbuds as Tilly called them) were abundant in lawns and woods. The other day they had counted over one hundred. The Texas bluebonnets were mixed with Indian paintbrushes in an intense color field of blue and orange. The Bradford pears emitted a hum from the multitude of bees gathering pollen. Even the dogwoods had begun to bloom today.

“…Fifth, it is a local business and we want to support local businesses. Sixth, it’s relatively cheap,” Tilly continued, “Seventh, it’s close.”

“If forty minutes away counts as close,” Marigold remarked snarkily.

“It is,” Tilly’s enthusiasm would not be dampened, “Eighth, it is a learning experience. Ninth, we haven’t done it this trip and we have driven by the family cemetery. And tenth, I will die if we don’t go!!” she ended dramatically.

“Can you repeat those?” Marigold asked.

“Wow Tilly! That was impressive. How ‘bout it, Pawpaw?” their grandmother interjected.

“It’s fine with me.”

“Yippee!! To Caddo Drive Through Safari!”

As they drove along to the neighboring town, their grandmother

pointed out historical sights and places that were important to her. Marigold and Tilly listened attentively. Tilly was so excited!

Finally, they saw the sign welcoming them to Caddo. Inside they parked the car and headed to the building to buy their tickets and feed for the animals. The lady at the cashier gave them their tickets, car tag and food bag along with a long list of rules including a disclosure that “Caddo Drive through Safari is not responsible for any damages to vehicles or injuries to people due to animals or reckless driving.”

“Better be careful Pawpaw!” Tilly said worriedly.

“Don’t you worry doodlebug. I’m not a reckless driver.”

The lady wished them a good visit but seemed dejected.

“Is everything alright?” their grandmother asked.

“Not really mam. We’ve tried to keep it quiet, thinking it might have been our fault but it can’t be. Every day one of our zebras disappears. It’s a mystery. We’ve checked every fence for holes- none. We reinforced the fences even. We checked all three hundred acres in case it wandered away from the usual zebra area but no sign at all. It’s downright impossible! It can’t just disappear! If the animals disappear then our customers will too. We called the sheriff yesterday but still no news,” she poured out her story in whispered exasperation and anxiety.

“I’m so sorry! We hope you figure it out soon,” their grandmother said sympathetically.

As they got back in the car to start the safari, the mood was pensive. Suddenly Tilly said passionately, “We’ll find the zebras!” They’ve got to be somewhere!”

“I bet someone is stealing them,” Marigold said caught up in the mystery, “And if they’re stealing one every day then I bet they’ll come back today! We can catch them in the act!”

“The zebras probably just wandered off to die in peace and seclusion. Animals do that sometimes. Three hundred acres is a lot and they probably just haven’t found them yet,” Pawpaw stated.

They entered the gates of the safari and drove on the cattle guard

that made sure the animals didn’t escape. They leaned out the window to feed the different animals. Tilly’s favorites were the Blackbuck antelope. They would run after the car for a long time and Tilly enticed them holding pieces of feed out the window as the car kept moving. Marigold’s favorites were the little ostriches. They had such a sweet face and long eyelashes and seemed so nice compared to the big black emus with beady red eyes and evil intent in their faces. They did notice that there seemed to be considerably less zebras than usual but there were still a few. Their grandmother took photos of them feeding the animals and it was an exciting experience. They almost had the whole park to themselves. There was a black electric pickup truck in front of them, but that was all that they could see.

Tilly was suspicious. “They’re spent a long time with the zebras. Wait a second! He touched the zebra!”

One of the rules was to not touch the animals but it was not strictly adhered to. Marigold wasn’t sure that he actually touched it and Pawpaw and their grandmother couldn’t see that far but Tilly was adamant. She had keen eyesight so the rest of the car believed her.

“It doesn’t necessarily mean that he abducted other zebras just because he touched that one. We can’t jump to conclusions. And by the way, I just saw a big white van far behind us in the rearview mirror,” Marigold remarked.

Now they had reached the camel section of the park and the sign told them that they were three quarters of the way through the park. The van behind them disappeared behind a tree with a zebra as their own car moved forward.

“Girls, roll the window up,” their grandmother ordered.

“Why?” they asked together.

Simultaneously a large hairy neck reached into the car and grabbed the bag of feed from Marigold’s hands with its teeth. The bag ripped, food sprayed everywhere and Marigold began clawing her way away from the hairy neck in her face. By the time they could grasp the situation and begin to scream, the camel calmly and quickly pulled its neck out of the car and

began munching on his prize. Tilly quickly rolled up the window. Marigold was pretty shaken up and could hear her heart thumping.

“That actually terrified me! My heart is still beating at 1000 beats per minute!”

“I learned something. Obey those who are wiser immediately and ask questions later,” Tilly decided.

“Listen to your grandmother and ask questions later,” added their grandmother.

Pawpaw sat in the front seat with composure. “Can we keep going yet?” he inquired.

“Yes.”

They were nearing the end of the park and in front of them was the extra exotic animals’ cage.

“I wish that we could pet the kangaroos and capybaras,” Tilly sighed.

“That would be fun, but I personally think we had an exotic enough experience when the camel visited us in the back seat,” Marigold supposed.

They could now see the exit and both the truck in front of them and the van behind them were in view.

“I guess we didn’t solve the mystery,” Tilly concluded, “but I sure did have fun!!”

Outside the animal enclosures, they stopped in the parking lot to stretch their legs. The van sped through the parking lot and onto the road.

“I saw zebra skin! I promise!” Marigold gasped.

“Not again… you just imagined it. But I memorized the license plate. Now I know four license plates: the van, Aunt’s car, our car at home, and Pawpaw’s car. I also know four phone numbers: Mommy’s, Daddy’s, Pawpaw’s, and the kennel across the street from us at home.”

“We don’t even have a dog!” Marigold observed.

“But they have a photo of a dalmatian outside and I love dalmatians so I memorized their phone number for when I grow up because I’m going to have one hundred and one dalmatians. When we get home can we watch

one hundred and one dalmatians?” Tilly requested.

“Of course, Tilly!” her grandmother responded.

“Anyway, let’s see if you remember the license plate: I memorized it too,” Marigold stated.

“TKF5934” Tilly recited.

“I’m sure that it was TKF9534!” Marigold contradicted.

“You’re crazy!” Tilly exclaimed.

“It’s okay, you’re just tired,” Marigold consoled patronizingly.

“Girls…” their grandmother warned.

They fell quiet.

On the drive home they talked about the mystery.

“I’m sure the person who was in the van was the culprit!” Marigold reiterated.

“But you did imagine that zebra in the black pickup truck.”

Earlier when they were around half the way through the park, Marigold had thought she saw the zebra in the bed of the truck. It had turned out to be a dog bed which they could see more clearly when the truck slowed down to feed an adorable llama.

“I have a right to be suspicious of someone who drives an electric truck through a drive through safari. It’s unusual! And I’m sure the van was the real one.”

They turned on to County Road 320 known by its old street name, Lower Lemrose Road where their house was. As they drove, they looked at the houses. Suddenly Tilly cried out.

“Wait I see the van!”

Pawpaw seemed unphased but slowed down. Sure enough, on their left there was a white van shrouded by bamboo. In fact, the whole house was surrounded by a bamboo barrier and you could only see parts of the white planks of the house through spaces in the bamboo.

“I can see the license plate and it says TKF5934!” Tilly exclaimed. Marigold forgot past quarrels about what the license plate read. “Pull over Pawpaw! Can we watch!”

Pawpaw obligingly pulled over.

“This is so exciting!” their grandmother said.

The driver of the van, clearly unaware that he was being observed had begun to unload something from the back. The bamboo was serving as both a blessing and obstacle to both sides. He couldn’t see them but they were struggling to see what he was pulling out of the van.

“I’m sure I saw zebra skin again. He has to be the culprit! Call the state trooper! Call the game warden! Call the sheriff’s office!” Marigold suggested.

“Sweetie, we have no proof and we can’t just call the authorities,” their grandmother pointed out.

“Then I’m investigating!” Marigold said. “Me too!” Tilly chimed in.

“Girls, if ya’ll trespass and he’s who you think he is, you might be shot at.” Pawpaw’s tone was grave but the girls had already hopped out of the car and crossed the street. Hidden by a clump of bamboo, the girls listened to the man who was unloading something from the back of the van.

“This one’ll bring in a hefty sum with the buyer. It has a nice coat and a friendly disposition. The people buying zebras don’t care about the zebra’s background.”

“I think this better be our last haul. Then we’ll have enough to buy that big red brick house on Stardust Street. I talked to the owners and not only are they anxious to get rid of it, but they want to sell it to someone who also has a history of… how do I put this… business ventures. They’re worried that a new owner may get suspicious of their past activities,” a shrill woman’s voice responded.

“Why stop now? We could make even more!”

“Let’s stop while we’re still ahead. Plus, we now have three sleeping zebras which we have to somehow get to the buyer.”

The girls backed away and hopped quickly into the car.

“Now call the sheriff’s department. It’s them- I’m sure!” they said simultaneously.

“Why don’t you two call and report.”

“Tilly, you keep an eye on them and I’ll call.”

“Sheriff- I found the people who are stealing the zebras.”

She related the story and address as well as advising the sheriff to drive up without his siren. The man and woman disappeared from view (the four of them guessed that they had gone inside.) Soon the sheriff appeared on the road. Seeing the parked car, he waved but put a finger to his lips to indicate quiet. Three deputies hopped out with him. Then they all vanished behind the bamboo. Soon after they had entered, the girls heard a gunshot. It seemed an eternity but eventually the sheriff and one of the deputies reappeared smiling. With them they had the man and woman handcuffed.

“What was that shot?” Pawpaw asked.

“This man fired a gun at one of my deputies to scare us off but missed. He claims he thought we were trespassing. We searched the property and found three sleeping zebras in the back. Seeing the way this man fires a gun, I suspect that they were drugged through food and not by a tranquilizer gun. We also found some pellets that I’ll take to the lab to verify my guess. Two deputies are guarding the zebras. We’ll get a unit to transport them back to Caddo. Good detective work!”

Tilly and Marigold beamed.

“If there’s a reward, I’ll be sure to let you know and the next time we are hiring a detective, I’ll be sure to recommend you,” the young sheriff smiled down at them with his good-natured face.

As they drove home all they could talk about was the adventure. Everyone had a different side of the story. They definitely had a story to share that night when the girls’ parents would arrive in time for dinner to take them back home the next day. The whole family would be there including their aunt and uncle.

“Can we still watch One Hundred and One Dalmatians?”

Music

Hannah Alssaidi

I’ve always had a connection to music that I haven’t had to anything else like it. I never liked loud noises and clattering. When I would sit in my school’s auditorium, at least a hundred conversations in the same room, something in me wanted to scream or cry or just beg everyone to be quiet. The clashes of voices and laughter would be too much for me. Most sounds bothered me in one way or another. The sound of erasers on paper left my skin itching. The scraping of plastic chairs against vinyl flooring made my teeth hurt. The squeaks of a hand running along freshly washed dishes had my lip split open from how harshly I would bite it.

Something about music is just so unlike any other type of sound. Soft melodies and screaming make no difference to me. Violins and drums provide the same amount of comfort. A whisper might be a thousand times more irritating than headphones turned so high that a warning appears to inform me that the volume could cause damage to my ears. Music is often the only thing that can calm me down. It doesn’t matter if I’m the one to make it or if it’s a stranger that I will never know. But I’ve come to realize that music is all around us.

I’m much more calmed by the creaking footsteps of my torn up boots when I count between each step. Rhythm is all around, in the cracks of knuckles and the bouncing of nervous legs. It’s not so difficult to feel safe when you give yourself the opportunity to look for patterns or make them yourself. Music needs no wires, no strings, and no voice. Music doesn’t even really need to be heard. If you let yourself, you can feel it even in the silence. Music has never needed anything but for someone to know it is there.

Newwood

Katherine McConnell

There was once a girl who lived in the forest named Elsie. She lived in a wooden cabin with floors that creaked familiarly everytime she made her way across them. She had no parents and no one thought to ask. She had never had them and no one could ever remember how she lost them if she had even come with them at all. The cabin was a short walk from the town, yet Elsie was rarely seen in town for anything beyond the bare necessities that she couldn’t find in the forest. But anyone who heard of her knew one thing: she was an incredible artist.

Those who dared visit her cabin were met with walls of art. Trees, animals, plants, anything you could imagine in a forest was likely somewhere on one of the walls. There was only one reason the town knew more about Elsie. Once the tiny daughter of the Bennets had knocked on the door of Elsie asking if she could come with her. Elsie had obliged her and they had trekked through the forest. According to the report forced out of the tiny girl and spread across the town by the Bennets, they had simply walked through the forest, stopping to collect anything edible or interesting enough to illustrate. Others had tried to come with Elsie to find out more but Elsie simply refused everyone else. Once, someone had suggested that they send another child, but Elsie had somehow coaxed the boy into admitting his ulterior motives.

This was all very long ago, however. There was always going to be talk about Elsie through the town, but things seemed to be quieting. A woman living alone in the woods stirred up less excitement than a girl living alone in the woods. Once-notorious gossips began thinking themselves better people for not harming this poor girl, despite the reality being that Elsie was old news. Or was she? Elsie began to be sighted more often on the outskirts of the forest, gazing longingly. At least,

so said Mrs. Farrow, but that sounds too melodramatic. In fact, she had actually been coming into town to draw, something never seen before. Theories began to blaze through the town. The cabin had burned down and she was seeking architectural inspiration, some species of berry had gone extinct and she needed more food than usual, she was casing out some joints so she could rob them silently. But the real answer was much simpler. She had run out of things to draw.

It had to happen eventually, right? There was only so much you could find in a forest and she had been drawing in the forest for so long. The truth came out on the day that Elsie prepared to leave the town for the first time. She had gone into the bus station with a large bag and purchased a ticket for the next bus out of there. Mr. Drayton, the man who sold her the ticket, had immediately told his wife who had told her book club who had all told everyone that they knew. The next day, prying eyes had peered through her cabin windows and nosy hands had knocked on the wooden logs. There was no response.

Foot traffic in the town increased tenfold, especially around the returning bus stops. Everyone slowed their step in case they might be the first to witness the returning artist and spread the word. But, no one was there to see her bus pull in. Only Ms. Madison, starting to put her loaves of bread in the oven, saw the artist blow into the forest, eyes red and face streaked with tears. Elsie did not come into town for a longer period than usual after that. Some people proposed they go check on her (a disguise for going to snoop), but no one was quite brave enough to ever go through with it, not even for the gossip.

But Elsie was seen in town a few months later. Yet, something felt wrong about her. She didn’t stride with the confidence that she had gained from her mystery. She was stumbling messily and she was absolutely filthy with paint splatters. No one in town had ever seen any

kind of evidence of art ever on her clothes. It was assumed she was simply a very neat artist. Everyone in town who could was watching her. Housewives began washing their dishes in front of windows and store employees and owners began washing their windows. It was a good thing that day that so many were watching for this was a tale that others longed to have experienced for years to come.

Elsie walked through the town, stumbling and leaning on walls, a parcel clenched tightly against her stomach. Sensing her route, most people went straight to the post office, wanting to get an eyewitness report of whatever was about to happen. Some ended up regretting this, but many did not. When she made it to the crowded post office, something slipped, they say. Her calm, aloof composure slipped, a scowl creasing her face as she stared with a glare of hatred at the people gathered to watch her. Dropping her parcel on the desk with some change, she told Mr. Rodgers, the mailman, that he should “show them all.”

Now there’s a disagreement upon this part split nearly perfectly in half. Half of them said that her face had drooped and any expression she had melted off of her face as she collapsed. But I find the other half’s story much more interesting. They say she smiled, chuckled, and then fell down, crumpling like paper of her old artwork. Her crimson red blood pooling onto the orange wooden floor. The bundle that she had handed to the mailman had been a collection of new pieces. No one in the town could look at them for too long without feeling grossly unsettled by them. Yes, the subject matter of each painting was creepy, but it had more to do with the fact that they were completed in very blood-like red paint. There was a sort of pain (or terror, according to Ms. Atkinson) that had never been present in her other works. There was also a rejection to an arts academy attached, citing the reason as “too little depth” in her artwork.

The townspeople put everything together eventually. There had been debate over whether or not to send Elsie’s artwork in, but (as she had paid the perfect amount of change) Mr. Rodgers sent them in. And of course, because the people wanted more for their story, a letter returned near instantly. The exclamation marks that should have sparked joy over the recognition of someone-in-the-town’s art as special felt tone deaf. And, of course, because so many had been watching soon everyone in the town, not to mention the plenty of out-of-town relatives knew of Elsie’s story.

Elsie became less of a person and more of a legend, her personality drooping away to fit her into some mold of a children’s cautionary tale. Don’t hide yourself away from the world or you’ll end up like Elsie Fitzgerald! In the end, maybe, Elsie got what she wanted. Her name was known across the art world for her mysterious works but the person that was Elsie faded in the town with the only people she had really known. People who had pointed at her, spread rumors, and never let her live a single normal day.