SONDER: The Annual Review for North Central Texas College

n. the realization that each random passerby is living a life as vivid and complex as your own.

1525 West California Street Gainesville, Texas

Copyright © 2025 by North Central Texas College

Sonder: The Annual Review from North Central Texas College, Vol. 3

All Rights Reserved

Published in the United States of America

First Serial Edition

Without limiting the rights under the copyright above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in, or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopy, recording, or otherwise) without prior permission of both the creator and the college.

All content was submitted to the Creativity Awards at NCTC as original work. First North American Serial Rights are claimed by the college. The ownership of the original work remains with the creator after publication.

Cover and Interior Design by Demi Bayer.

This book was printed by Lulu Press, Inc. All work was selected and compiled by the Creative Writing Committee and the English Department at North Central Texas College.

For more information about permissions or general inquiries, please send an email to creativityawards@nctc.edu or visit our website at www.nctc.edu/creativity-awards.

08___Anebelle Ung

09___Dybali Weku

11___Anton Mallonga

16___Audrey Church

22___Lorelei Smith

23___Jessica Daniliuk

29___Kyle Lindsey

32___Taylor LaFavor

34___Raeanne Howe

36___Jessica Coder

40___Lily Mueller

43___Jennifer Dao

48___Katelyn Beach

49___Karla Vasconez

54___Sophia Bergsli-Chavez

56___Jacob Peddy

62___Joseph Weber

64___Kaylynn Downs

65___Adriel Camargo

68___Serenity Johnson

69___Amber Counts

73___Uloma Igbe

74___Beau Brooks

75___Abigail Hill

77___Taytum Binkowski

79___Guadalupe Cisneros Villa

81___Lily Clayton

82___Shreya Poladia

87___Jose Ignacio Carlos Esteban

88___Kennedy Coward

92___Rebecca Simion

93___Cristian Gongora

99___Ben Strabala

102__Valerie Gray

103__Hayden Long

104__Zoe Sherman

111__Emilie David

112__Samantha Gonzalez

116__Rita Han

120__Anton Mallonga

121__Susannah Hill

122__Sierra McCarty

126__Casyn Risler

130__Rebecca Ou

131__Katherine Hale

137__Deeksha Vissapragada

138__Siyona Mehta

141__Zoey Wilkinson

142__Ava Anthony

143__Eloise Wegenka

146__Neha Kalluvilayil

147__Rivaan Patel

152__Skyler Payne

153__Koti Wood

154__Bobby Ritchey

160__Avery Fullbright

READER’S CHOICE AWARDS

Anebelle Ung

You yell, bruising beneath my skin. The vibrations shake my skull and shatter open. My guts spill out in egg yolk, frying on the pan. With flames so high, the edges burn as hot oil simmers and pops burning in wet, salty tears, leaving a raw and split empty shell.

But the soft trap of your love blankets my skin in temporary embrace. You carefully hold the fragments and fractures together, filling the fissures in my fears. Stealing my forgiveness, you casually shoplift from my soul.

So I let you, my loyal customer, To purloin and pilfer and rummage through my pockets, puncturing the yolk and scrambling the eggs.

Dybali Weku

In a small, sunlit house with laughter and light, A young girl would play from morning till night. Yet shadows were dancing where none could see.

Her mother, once bright, with a smile like the dawn, Became lost in the bottles, her laughter all gone. Each sip stole a moment, each drink brought a tear, While the girl whispered softly, "I need you, my dear."

With crayons and colors, she drew her safe space, A world full of magic, where love held its place. But whispers grew louder, the nights stretched too long, As her mother sank deeper, some right felt all wrong.

The girl watched in silence, the pain in her eyes, Hoping for change, though hope often dies.

Then came a day, with a knock on the door, A stranger stood waiting, her heart sank to the floor. “It's time,” they declared, “for your mom needs some care, We’ll keep you safe, child, we’ll always be there.”

Tears stained her cheeks as she clutched at the frame, “Please don’t take her,” she cried, calling her name. But promises broken and bottles in hand, Couldn’t turn back what all they had planned.

So the girl walked away, with memories tight, Of a mother she loved, lost to the night. For though loss had come with its heavy, dark cost, She’d carry her mother’s love, no matter the loss.

Anton Mallonga

A passion is something that is defined as a “strong and barely controllable emotion”. A passion is something that an individual can learn or is something that they were born with. In my case, I believe I was born with a strong passion for art. My earliest memories consist of receiving art supplies for birthdays and Christmas. I vividly remember the rush of happiness I felt as I opened the bright colored gift wrappers and saw a box of fresh new art supplies. I smelled crayons and the wax from the pencil tips. Excitement flooded my body and my heart beat faster as I unwrap one gift after another. I remember grabbing printer paper and using the crayons to doodle pictures. I drew the iconic sun in the corner and stick figures like every other kid. It gave me a platform to express ideas and simply create something. The concept of creating an art piece was something I was extremely eager to learn about even as a child, it was a passion. It was something I continued to pursue throughout high school as well. Eventually, my skill and passion grew as I grew.

In 12th grade, I decided to sign up for the advanced placement art class. It was a class I’ve always wanted to join. I remember watching videos of students taking the class on YouTube and showing off their portfolios. My eyes glowed as I saw them presenting all their pieces one by one. I looked at the class as a challenge and a room for growth. We were tasked with creating fifteen main art pieces throughout the year that we would then end up sending to the College Board to get scored–five being the highest grade and one being the lowest. Fifteen artworks may not sound like a crazy number; however, it was creatively draining to come up with one original idea after another.

For my first art piece, I remember having an immense pressure to create “the best art piece I could”. I used all that my brain could pour out. We were given about a week and a half to complete our first piece. I wanted to create something simply “better” than the thousands of art pieces I’ve made throughout my life. I began by brainstorming ideas. This

was one of the hardest parts of drawing something from scratch. I grabbed a piece of printer paper and the graphite pencil lying on the side of my table and started listing idea after idea. The graphite tip of the pencil slowly faded as the list filled the page. It almost felt as if I was coming up with a new invention! I wanted to create something that defined me as an individual. Eventually, I decided to create a drawing of myself. I thought that I would be able to connect more with my piece and really take my art piece to a personal level.

It was a late night when I decided to begin the first stage of my art piece, the sketching process. I grabbed a pencil and began sketching a picture I had taken of myself. Drawing an image of myself was quite difficult. It highlighted my facial imperfections and I truly had to study the flaws and details of my face. Although it was a challenge, I wanted to capture all of it. I heard the clock tick and tick as time passed. The next thing I knew, I had spent hours precisely capturing the essence of my face. Eventually, my first stage of drawing was completed.

After finishing the sketching process, I began to utilize colors. I unzipped the container of alcohol markers on my desk and the vibrant colors of each marker sparkled in my eye. I started with a marker base and filled in the general colors of my face, hair, pupils, lips, undertones and so on. The paper wrinkled as the ink from the marker filled it in. This part took quite some time, but it gave me an idea of how this art piece was going to look. The marker base took place in the course of a few days. It provided me with a sense of vision and gave me a sense of accomplishment as well.

The final stage of my art piece was the most time-consuming part, I would even say the most stressful part. It was the detailing process of the piece. I used colored pencils to capture realism. I grabbed the container of my pencil collection with all the colors you could imagine. From the lightest shades to the darkest, I had it all. It was years’ worth of collecting to gather this much variety in color. I wanted to capture every wrinkle in my eyelids, the pores on my nose, the hair on my eyebrows–all of it. I used all the skill and practice I’ve gathered throughout the years of drawing. I quickly grabbed a dark beige colored pencil and began coloring in some shadows. My hands are cramped as I press the pencil on

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the paper. The color of the pencils lightly left its pigment on my fingertips. I grabbed the next color and added another layer. Each layer of pencil slowly brought the piece to life. This process took up days. I made an expectation for myself to create something that looked like an image taken on a camera. What made it more stressful was seeing the due date for this art piece come closer. I spent late night after night finishing it up. Each night blended into another. It felt like racing with time to finish the art piece and the next thing I knew, it was finished.

The sense of accomplishment filled me. My fingers grabbed the top corners of the paper and lifted it up directly in front of my eyes. It almost looked like I was looking at a mirror. I had a silent moment of triumph. I took a picture of my art piece, cropped it into frame, and turned it in. The simple click of the “submit” button gave me a strong sense of accomplishment. A wave of joy rushed and I felt absolutely accomplished. I included a short essay to explain my personal decisions when creating the art piece and just like that, my first was ready to go.

After turning it in, I knew it was time to create the second piece. The cycle of coming up with ideas, creating the sketch, adding the base, detailing, and turning it in continued. My hands cramped and dust from the pencil constantly stained my fingertips. It was the same process all over again. A week and a half later, my second drawing was completed. The same feeling of triumph filled me as I clicked the “submit” button once again.

Then, it was on to the third piece, then the fourth, then the fifth, the sixth, and so on. It was absolutely exhausting, but after each art piece, the same feeling of accomplishment filled me. It was like receiving an award for each time I pushed to finish a drawing. It felt like a neverending cycle, but eventually, I finished all fifteen of my art pieces. It was a struggle being able to create fifteen original artworks, one after the other, but I did it! Clicking that “submit” button one last time gave a mix of emotions. A singular tear dropped down as the realization of being finished with the class hit me. The feeling of happiness and sadness all at once consumed me. Although difficulty occurred every now and then, I still managed to push through and complete my art pieces in time. The experience of finishing the class elevated me. It was an achievement.

By the end of the year, I felt a strong sense of accomplishment as I created fifteen art pieces that have been recognized in state and national art competitions. I ended up receiving a perfect score on my college board portfolio, which marked the dedication I fought with during the process of making the pieces. My art was also displayed in multiple art museums including the Dallas Museum of Art, the Bullock Texas State History Museum, and other exhibitions as well. Joy spread in every inch of my body as my art pieces got recognition worldwide. Although I experienced hurdles throughout the process of creating these pieces, they are incredibly meaningful to me and my identity as an artist. Even after finishing the class, I still find time to express my creativity. The burning passion I once had as a child is now what gives me purpose and a feeling of joy. Every individual has a passion in them, it is simply a matter of discovering that passion or kindling it. In my case, I was born with this passion. It was something I simply needed to light up.

Audrey Church

Somewhere deep in the woods, a grieving vampire is teaching a broken boy how to die. In turn, the broken boy will teach the grieving vampire how to live.

A vampire stumbles senselessly through the trees. The branches shy away from him as he crashes through. Perhaps they can feel the darkness inside him. Do they catch a glimpse of his fractured, grieving heart as he passes? Do they feel the way eternal life tugs at him, sends him into a panic, and keeps him up at night? Maybe they feel the cold blood sitting still in his veins. Maybe they feel nothing at all.

The vampire's eyes catch on something in front of him. A patch of moss nestled in the cracks of a tree, deep green and ochre yellow. He slows down and lets his mind slip for one glorious moment. He sees green-brown eyes and dark auburn hair and delicate fingers flying over piano keys. He sees senseless death, and the moment is done. He turns away and starts to run again. Part of him is tempted to close his eyes and let a strong elm knock him into blissful, short-lived unconsciousness. He keeps his eyes open and he keeps running.

He needs to get far away from here, to become someone new again. Again. He was so tired of the again. With each new identity he takes on, a part of him crumbles away. For too long, he wandered the world restlessly, searching for something to fill him up and make him feel whole again. After years of ghosting through towns and leaving everything behind, he finally found his Something. It made him feel alive, and so he clung to it like a lifeline. It did not last. If he shuts his eyes hard enough he can still feel the blood under his nails. Warm tears spill over his cheeks as he makes his way deeper into the forest.

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The farther the vampire runs, the wilder the woods become. Vines and ferns start to carpet the ground, and mushroom shelves sprout on the trees. The sun shines high above, but the leaves blot it out, casting everything in a hazy green glow. The world around him is unrecognizable. The trees here look different than they did before. They look older. The plants don’t sway away from him anymore. They bend toward his hands as he trips past, like they know him. A branch stretches out toward him and wipes a tear from his face. He slows down. A vine reaches up from the ground and coils lightly around his wrist. A moth lands in his hair. The vampire shudders. There is something in the air here.

Somewhere nearby, a broken body- a man, alone and covered in blood, lays in wait under the canopy of leaves. His throat is raw from yelling for help, and his breath comes in shallow gasps, each one sending a spike of pain across his abdomen and up his spine. He tries to touch the wound. His hand is heavy, like it is weighed down with sandbags. His fingers brush across the jagged edge where his skin tore away from itself. He braces himself against the sting. Warm blood clings to his fingers. He brings his hand close to his face. The blood is dark and thick, like cherry pie. Very American. He attempts a laugh and regrets it immediately. He can feel all of his organs at once, like a messed-up orchestra.

The dying boy slowly brings his hand back down to Earth, spreading his messy fingers out in the soft grass. He stares up into the sky of green leaves above him. A dark thought clouds his mind. He is going to die here. It will be excruciating, and he will feel every second of it. He can’t let that happen. He has a whole life ahead of him. He thinks of his family, of his mother and brother. He wonders is they are worried about him. Are they wondering why he hasn’t made it home yet? When he doesn’t return, will they stare at his worn guitar in the corner of his room and wonder why he left them all behind? He sends up a prayer to whatever deity is watching over him. Make sure they know I didn't leave on purpose. Please don’t let them find me like this.

He sighs lightly. Why did it have to be this way? He shouldn’t be here. He should be playing something melancholy and sweet on his guitar while his mother takes the bread out of the oven and his brother scribbles away at his homework. He needs to get up, to get out of here. It’s probably not as bad as it seems. He pushes himself up on his elbows, and oh. His vision swims and bile rises in his throat, threatening to surface. Also, he is fairly certain at least one of his internal organs is on the outside of his body.

He slides slowly back to the ground. The grass beneath him feels softer than it did before. He wonders briefly if he is he is losing his mind. Before he can think too hard about it, a sound interrupts him. Something is moving in the woods to his right. He can almost see it through the trees. Something dark, and vaguely human-shaped. He squeezes his eyes shut and tries to make himself smaller, tucking his arms against his sides. He listens to the thing get closer and wonders if these are his last moments on earth.

Then, miraculously, the dying boy hears a voice. “Jesus…” it mutters, distraught. He opens his eyes. A man stands above him. His dark hair is messy, like he just tried to run a marathon through the woods. Tears streak across his face. They stare at each other for a small eternity. The strange man closes his eyes and takes a long breath.

The vampire stares down a boy no older than him dying at his feet. When he closes his eyes, he sees someone different. A boy, one with forest eyes and fox hair, bleeding out in his arms. He gasps for air as he opens his eyes and pushes the memory away. He looks around frantically for someone, anyone to fix the mess at his feet. The mess watches him, and then it croaks “We’re the only ones here. I already tried yelling for help,”. He looks around frantically again and turns in a slow circle. The dying boy on the ground was right. There's nobody else around. He crouches down to get a better look. A jagged canyon of a wound streaks across the man's abdomen. An intestine threatens to spill out, and a lung peeks out from beneath his ribcage.

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Blood coats the man's exposed skin. The vampire presses his hands against the wound, trying to stop the bleeding. At his touch, the boy cries out and winces hard. “You’re going to bleed out,” the vampire says desperately. He pulls off his coat and presses it against the man’s mangled body. “Please let me help you.”

The boy cringes against the pain but doesn’t protest. “What are you doing out here?” The vampire asks him. He stares up toward the sky for a long time, eyes unfocused. The vampire checks to make sure he is still breathing. Finally, he answers, “I needed to clear my head. I was trying to write a song for my mother,”. The vampire smiles at that. It reminds him of his Something. His light in the dark. The boy continues, “Then all of this happened,” He gestures to his situation weakly.

The vampire raises an eyebrow. The boy rolls his eyes and murmurs, “I was climbing a tree and I fell. I got caught up on a sharp branch,” He says it flippantly, but there is an edge to his voice. His fists clench in the grass. The vampire wonders if it’s to hide their shaking. He knows the dying boy is afraid, he can sense his frantic heart beating. “You’re scared, aren’t you?” He asks.

The boy opens his mouth to speak again, but he chokes on his words. A thin trail of blood seeps out of the corner of his mouth, He tries again, voice barely a whisper, “I don’t want to die yet. I have a family. I- I have a life. I have my guitar… I’m good at it, too,”

This catches the vampire in the chest. “Death doesn’t hurt,” he starts, trying to comfort the man, “It actually feels kind of nice… you know… after everything,”

The dying boy gives him a strange look. He quickly adds “I died when I was 18. I was bitten by a vampire,” Both of them are quiet for a time. The vampire watches the boy's chest rise and fall, rise and fall.

Eventually, the dying boy asked, “What are you doing out here? You’re a vampire, you could be anywhere,” The vampire smiles sadly. “I’m running,” he says.

“From what?”

“Everything,” The vampire admits, voice cracking. “I don’t want to live forever,”

“Is that why you were crying earlier?”

The vampire shakes his head. “Someone I loved died, and it’s my fault,” As he says it, he can feel the grief settling over him again like a blanket. “Now I have to live forever without him. ”

The dying boy closed his eyes. “I’m sorry,” He says. The vampire shakes his head. “It’s okay. You didn’t kill him,”

The two of them sit in comfortable silence. The dying boy cries quietly, thinking of everything he would miss. The vampire tucks his knees against his chest and thinks about the life he had before. The sun drops low over the horizon. Soon, the vampire falls asleep. The dying boy does not. He lays awake, stubbornly clinging to life.

When the vampire wakes up, the dying boy is breathing shallowly. Every breath is knives in his chest. “You’re still here,” The vampire says when he catches the boy watching him, voice flooded with relief. The boy nods and closes his eyes. He tries to say something, but he can’t. His throat is coated in blood and grime.

The vampire notices that the boy can no longer talk, so he talks for the both of them. He tells the boy about his life, about his family, about his piano player with the green eyes the and auburn hair. The boy listens. It distracts him from the pain slowly working its way through his body. He lets the vampire talk for hours.

The trees seem to bend toward the two of them. The ferns brush over his hands. Eventually, the vampire goes quiet. He looks up at the sky, then back down at the dying boy.

“I wish I could trade my immortality for your life,” he says suddenly. “I don’t want to live forever, and you don’t want to die,”

The dying boy looks the vampire in the eye and agrees in his head. Me too, he wants to say. Please.

The forest listens.

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Somewhere deep in the woods, a tired vampire is teaching a healing boy how to live. In turn, the healing boy will teach the tired vampire how to die.

Lorelei Smith

Jessica Daniliuk

Bernie’s is overcrowded, something I never expected it to be. Usually, I go to my table in the back corner without any hesitation. I sit down, a comfortable perimeter of empty tables all around me, made by either fear or loathing; I am never one to complain. But tonight, I barely make it to the back, and my usual spot only becomes available when two young Junipers see my face and decide to make a quick exit. Without saying a word, Bernie walks over and hands me my drink, a dance that has become second nature for us. I take a long sip of CB; I’m trying to consume less, I’ll only drink six tonight. As I start to root, I notice the small bubble of free space around me: sprouts and seedlings all pressed firmly against one another, trying to get as far away from me as possible, even with the little room they have. The public’s response is always expected, but the embarrassment I feel always finds a way to surprise me.

I take another long sip of ale, rejoicing as it glides down, alleviating the burning I’ve been feeling. Pop was one hundred and fiftysix when he first started feeling the burning, I have seven hundred and thirty nights at Bernie’s before it consumes me. The nearby fireplace provides a different kind of heat, one I welcome and am comforted by. I close my eyes for a moment, focusing only on how the heatwaves playfully dance through the cracks in my wood. I’m taken back to winter nights with Maria when I was less splintered, and the only burning I felt was my desire for her. My memories dissipate as I get dragged back to the crowded tavern and the squeaking of the bench on the other side of the table.

I make out the general shape of the creature across from me; too small for a Sequoia, maybe a Dogwood. As my old eyes readjust, I notice the creature is overtaken by a cloak two sizes too big. The hood combined with the shadowy corner of Bernie’s makes it hard to make out any discernable details, I am truly blind.

“Are you Dendron Virens?” The voice is higher pitched but still low, and the question is asinine: I must be speaking to a young male sprout.

“I don’t have time for this.”

I take another sip of ale and turn slightly, causing the entire table to shake. The stranger exhales; hopefully, he’ll join the rest of the patrons, and I’ll be alone again soon. I feel a slight rattle from the other side of the table and see the cloak jump forward. The stranger tries to keep whatever is inside under wraps, but the creature proves to be too tactical. A crackled and splintered being bursts out of the cloak runs across the table, and onto one of my branches. The individual has small appendages, something I haven’t seen since my travels around the realms fifty years ago. It has spikes on the sides of its body and a mouth that is wide enough to take up the entire width of its face. It continues to crawl around my branches, the tiny appendages like dewey daggers circling my head. I fear this tiny dragon-like creature may set me ablaze.

“Mordecai, come back here!” The stranger yells out, and the creature surprisingly listens. As it moves loosely back to the cloak, I am taken by what I’ve come to know is the creature’s tail. When I researched different regions and their inhabitants, I was always confused by the purpose of the tail. This creature seems to use it to propel towards the stranger at a faster rate; I cannot tell if the creature is fearful or joyous over the individual across from me; part of me is curious to find out.

Solitude will have to wait. “A scaly exterior and tail. That must be a reep-teal.”

“I think you mean reptile. Yep, this is my companion, Mordecai.”

Mordecai smiles even wider, if that’s possible. Companions typically match some aspect of their Friend, whether it be their physical appearance or personality. The stranger didn’t seem jumpy or eager, so he must be covered in scales. I have never seen a Friend that is a reptile; I was always told they were gone for good; my curiosity slams against my brain.

“Why are you looking for Dendron Virens?” The stranger moves forward slightly, but the darkness still conceals his identity.

“Are you him?”

I won’t get any of the answers I crave unless I go against my vow and answer to that name. I nod.

“Thank Mother, I desperately need your help. My beautiful Willow is being forced to marry some Cypress tomorrow. Her father refuses to let me be with her since I’m not a Blue Jacaranda”

“The Blues?! Tell me ‘your Willow’ is not Princess Willow.”

The heavy silence proceeding confirms my fear that I will yet again make an enemy of the King.

“You have to go.” My voice booms through the tavern; a few trees turn around while Mordecai retreats into his Friend’s sleeve.

“Please, sir, the magic you possess is the only way to save my beloved.” The black fabric cascades down as he reaches towards me. All my curiosity is satisfied, and the stranger’s identity is revealed in one foolish motion. There is only one creature I know with skin.

I quickly get up and make my way towards the exit. The crowd struggles to keep a healthy distance from me, but through their desperate efforts, I leave Bernie’s swiftly. The autumn breeze pierces through me; I miss the fireplace’s forgiving blanket.

“Please speak with me.”

The human somehow maneuvers around my leaves and gets in front of me. As he runs, the breeze pushes his hood down, revealing curled brown hair on top of his head and matching brown eyes. If I wasn’t so terrified of the King’s perpetuation for punishment, I would be rustling with excitement; I’ve never seen a human out of the confines of a book before. But studying new species and non-Earth magic got me in trouble in the first place. I need to go home.

My trunks slide past the human. I feel a slight pressure on my left trunk and look down to find his skin branches around me, trying to pull me backward.

“Let go of me.” I gently shake until he releases me and falls to the ground.

With even greater speed, he gets in front of me again, the hair above his eyes angled towards the center of his face.

“You are my only hope; I’m not leaving until you help me.”

The anguish in his voice hits a chord; I understand not wanting to lose love. This is why I started studying the mystical, but I don’t want what happened to me to happen to the human.

Against my control, my curiosity becomes ravenous. “How am I supposed to help you stop an arranged royal wedding?”

He takes in a large amount of air, the center of his body finally resetting after a minute.

“I need you… to turn me into a tree.”

I feel my leaves start to shake as I try greatly to hide how humorous I find the request. I’ve had people ask me to give them their weight in gold and destroy everyone who has ever wished them ill. I’ve even had someone ask if I could give them an arm made of mutton, but nothing compares to how illogical this plea sounds. The human seems impatient with my silence.

“Not just any tree, a Blue Jacaranda, so Willow’s father will finally see me as worthy of being with his daughter.”

I feel a slight bit of perspiration crawl down the side of my face. When the King first learned about my abilities, he had me followed and eventually captured. Transforming a human into the form of his lineage would be dishonorable, the worst thing someone could do.

My voice booms once more, “The Blues are a rare race, turning you into one would be treasonous. I’m offended you would come to me with such a request.”

I can feel the power slither through my trunk, eventually making its way to my twigs. It bounces off of each twig, connecting with nearby lanterns, causing them to get brighter until they burn out in a quick explosion. I haven’t accessed these abilities in years, I’ve never wanted to or had enough emotion to do so subconsciously. But now, all I feel is fear and regret. The power returns to my center, the warmth eventually growing until I notice it everywhere. It’s not like the burning; it’s there to protect me.

The human is a few steps further away from his original location. He shields himself and doesn’t look at me until it is clear I have found my center. The corner of his mouth is slightly raised, even though he has perspiration all over his body.

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“You do have it in you. I knew the rumors were true.”

Mordecai appears from the cloak’s sleeve and runs down the human’s body. He stares at the burning embers that are erratically popping from the broken lantern.

The human steps closer.

“I just want to be with the woman I love. If this is the way I have to, so be it. I’m willing to accept the consequences.”

The once-cold breeze now has a soft, warm glow to it. It circles my head and hugs my back. She’s here. The memory of her emphasizes the heat of both the power and the burning. Suddenly, I am more open to justifying one’s actions in the name of love; maybe the human has a point.

My voice splinters, “Are you sure this is your only option? Maybe if you talk to Willow’s father…”

“There’s no talking to the King. I’ve tried, but all he did was laugh in my face.”

I ache for the human. “Has Willow spoken with him?”

“No. She’s ashamed of loving a human, which is why I need you to turn me into a Blue. If I’m a Blue, Willow won’t be ashamed, and the King might accept me.”

“You want to turn into a Blue?” A song-like voice makes its presence behind us clear.

I turn to see a young sapling with beautiful leaves, both blue and lavender. The human’s eyes look caught, but he still smiles as he stares at the Blue Jacaranda.

“Willow, what are you doing here?” The human steps closer and reaches for Willow’s branches.

She does not give them to him. “We were talking about the marriage, and then you just ran away. Why would you want to become a Blue Jacaranda?”

The human perspires even more. “Your father will never accept us as a couple unless I’m one of your kind. I have to be with you.”

She seems to soften, eventually reaching for his human branches. “I want to be with you, too, just as you are.”

“Then why haven’t you spoken to your father? Are you ashamed that I’m human?”

“Of course, I’m not.” Her leaves begin to shake. “I was scared before. I didn’t want to change my entire life for something I wasn’t sure would be forever. But now, seeing you make this request, although foolish, I know you are devoted to me.”

The human’s face becomes a shade of pink. “Of course, I am, I love you, Willow.”

“I love you too.” They embrace. “Let’s go speak to my father; I’m ready now.”

She reaches her branch out, and he takes it. Mordecai is no longer mesmerized by the embers and returns to the cloak. The pair start to walk away, but the human turns towards me for a moment to mouth, “Thank you.”

The warm breeze wraps around me; she’s just as pleased as I am.

Kyle Lindsey

I listened to my parents talk about the beginning years of my life, and apparently, I didn't have the most straightforward upbringing. I was born premature; I was supposed to be born on Cinco De Mayo, but I was born on Valentine's Day. I was born in Tokyo, Japan because my dad did twenty years in the Navy. Being a premie, I was born with Patent Ductus Arteriosus, and I feel that my development was, of course, early. I am missing my bottom two front teeth and still have baby teeth. I even had hearing aids through elementary school and had to get tubes when I was a baby. I needed an incubator, but the base wasn't ready for me. The closest hospital that had the equipment was Nihon University Itabashi Hospital, and apparently, I was the first American born in this hospital. A team of Navy doctors followed me, even on the plane back to the States. My dad says we had a whole cargo plane to ourselves. He and my brother, Dylan, could go long for a football! Growing up, I had anger issues and difficulty with speech. For a brief stage when I was really young, I would hear almost like a crowd murmuring in my head. I remember going to the psychiatrist, and luckily, it went away. I'm not saying it was bad at all; I wouldn't have it any other way. I wanted to tell my story to highlight the impact of literacy on the development of my speech, expression, and understanding.

Throughout elementary school, I took speech classes. I struggled to pronounce 'R' sounds, like in the word 'world.' I remember being pulled from class with a few others for speech class. We would practice pronouncing words and exercising the mouth muscles with colorful candies and sweet gum. Using a Dum Dums lollipop, we would exercise the lips by rotating them in a circular motion. We would use Dubble Bubble gum to exercise the jaw by chewing on the molars. I remember the exact candy names because this was a significant memory in my speech development. Of course, the practice was great, but the candy

was the best part! In my homeroom class, we would also do extra practice with the alphabet as the rest of the class went to another class. While practicing my speech, I developed my love for reading. As a second grader, I was in the book club and reading at a fifth-grade level. I used to love the book fair! We used to exchange books after it was over. I went to elementary school at Northside Elementary School in Elizabeth City, North Carolina. It was a smaller town, but a few of us loved to read. I remember reading Harry Potter and Ranger's Apprentice books. I expanded my vocabulary and could express myself better as I kept reading. Recess hits differently in a small town than in a big city. The people are closer-knit, and everyone knows your name. It was a great atmosphere in which to evolve in expressing and communicating with people. Being a military kid, I was always in that small-town environment, and it led to more personal interactions with people. Moving every so many years made these interactions somewhat scarce and, therefore, more meaningful.

In the present time, my love for reading has grown even more. I love a good fiction book but have moved more into science and spiritual genres. I'm a big conspiracy theory guy who loves collecting extraordinary books. I took a trip in July of this year to the West Coast and saw most of the family on that side. I have family in California, Nevada, and Idaho. It was one of the best trips I've ever been on because I just got in my car and drove for twenty days. On this trip, I met many people, including my family, and I stumbled upon probably my most exciting book addition. While at Lake Tahoe with my great grandma, great aunt, and my aunt's friends, I met a monk named Deva at the top of the mountain. He was simply there to give out free books, but I appreciated him and gave him a tip. He gave me a nine-volume book set of “Sri Caitanya Caritamrta” by His Divine Grace A.C. Bhaktivedanta Swami Prabhupada. This book set includes translations from Sanskrit to English. I probably never would've even known who this was. Even in the most unintentional places, my understanding continues to grow. Along with collecting these types of books, I enjoy reading classics like “Art of War” by Sun Tzu.

Another of my favorites is “Don’t Believe Everything You Think: Why Your Thinking Is the Beginning & End of Your Suffering” by Joseph

North Central Texas College

Nguyen. This book has really changed my view on how much of an impact your thoughts have on your well-being. I try to challenge my knowledge by reading things I know nothing about to better my understanding of the world around me.

Literacy is arguably the most essential concept of the developing age. It is crucial to be able to communicate and understand effectively. My personal journey with literacy made me who I am today. Without it, my speech, expressionism, and understanding wouldn't be the same. Literacy is an art of interaction, and it's a beautiful thing. One of life's most fulfilling aspects is interaction. Without that, well, I imagine it would be pretty lonely.

Citations

Grammarly AI. Grammarly, 2024.

A.C. Bhaktivedanta Swami Prabhupada, His Divine Grace. Sri Caitanya Caritamrta. Bhaktivedanta Book Trust, 2022.

Tzu, Sun. The Art of War Illustrated. Amber Books Ltd, Translated by James Trapp, 2018.

Nguyen, Joseph. Don't Believe Everything You Think: Why Your Thinking Is the Beginning & End of Your Suffering. Joseph Nguyen, 2022.

Taylor LaFavor

A kiss for your submission with my tongue of honeyed words. Soft supple sweetness dripping down my chin to coat your ego.

In truth, I pity your ignorance of the taste of Hemlock and Nightshade.

Potent parasitic poison slipping down your throat as it decays away your brain.

I crafted my concoction as protection in place of a blade. My infusion of candied venom promises my survival, as your greed grants your undoing.

THE ANNUAL REVIEW FROM NORTH CENTRAL TEXAS COLLEGE

Raeanne Howe

You've made me out of sugar, but you're mad at me for having a rain phobia?

You pulled my skin together with C6H1206

Spun my hair out of Fairy Floss and made my heart out of sugar glass. So fragile the summer heat causes fissure cracks. But you’re mad, I have a rain phobia.

Cotton Candy, a difficult thing, dense in all the finest ways. I find it easiest to work in parts. I’ve tried to make myself small, braiding it away. Ms. April works miracles braiding sugar into cane.

Others with cotton candy make it look so divine. Wearing homemade crowns, it’s about time I made mine. So I part, and I twist until my hands cramp into fist. All my work could be washed by the rain, of course I have a phobia, look how I was made.

Then that sugar glass heart gets in the way, I’d always go to class worried it’d break. Trial and tribulation raising the heat. Tears burst to my cheeks, melting sugar in angry streaks.

Afro-history compressing my heart. Testing how much pressure I can take. The DMA a friend and an enemy, This is the only time I have ever felt fake.

The natural world may not be a natural girl’s friend but I’m learning to work with it. Fairy Floss and sugar glass don’t seem so bad anymore. You made me out of sugar and blame me for a rain phobia.

Well, I wouldn’t call it a phobia more like a full blown fear. But I love it. I love my fear of the rain, and the sugar in my veins. So no, you don’t get to be mad at my “phobia.” Look at how I was made.

Jessica Coder

Dear (diary) journal,

Today is April 15th, 1967. My mom said that I can play outside when it stops raining, but there is no sign of it stopping. Dad still comes home upset at her and my brother is no help.

Hopefully tomorrow is better, Atlas

Dear-not Diary,

It is still raining but I went out onto the porch to see the cows. They look sad.

Dad brought Mom some flowers from work today. They seem to be getting happier, but I saw dad crying in his room. James asked if I wanted to play cards and I agreed, but he cheated and mom made us stop.

To a better tomorrow, Atlas

P.S. today was April 21st, 1967

To my Journal, April 29th, 1967

It stopped raining and now we just have to wait for it to dry up. James asked to play cards again, but for some reason I couldn't remember how to play our game. It was weird. Mom and Dad keep having secret conversations and get upset when James and I ask. I heard something about our Aunt Mary coming to see us, so hopefully she brings her dogs when she visits.

North Central Texas College

To seeing the sun,

Atlas

My journal,

Tomorrow is my Birthday! Hopefully Aunt Mary will be here for it.

James and I played a new card game today, although he looked at me really weird when I asked how to play. Like I was supposed to know it. Dad started leaving the house at noon and not coming back until really late. Mom gets worried. Anyway… Happy birthday to me!

Sincerely, Atlas

P.s. I forgot to write the date. May 8th.

Dear Journal,

Yesterday was so fun I forgot to write about it. Aunt Mary brought us a cake and her dogs!

Everyone was there and we all played cards. I got some cool toys like my new ball! Dad said it was super expensive, but he got it for me.

After we ate we had the chocolate cake Aunt Mary brought and it was yummy. I had chocolate all over my face and James laughed at me.

Happy late birthday,

Atlas

Journal, I don't really know who I'm with. He says his name is James I think. Mom and Dad won’t talk with me anymore. I sit in my room a lot. It's lonely here. I think I'll stay inside tomorrow. I cried cause I have no one to play with. The cows won’t come to the porch anymore. Hopefully I can play outside.

With sadness, Atlas

Book, It's cold… Really really cold. I went outside to play and write but I got lost. There was a house but the people inside looked scary and I decided to stay out here. The sun set and I didn't know what to do. I'm scared. I don't know what day it is anymore…

Atlas

My book, What should I do? I've been lost. Eating these weird berries is hurting my stomach but I can't find my house. I miss my mom and dad. I miss my brother. I don't know where they are. I want my family. I can't stop crying. I just want to go home.

-

I don't know my name but this is Atlas’ book. I hope he gets it back and plays with his family again. I've been lost and I can’t get out of here. I don't know where I am but it's okay.

I-

To dearest, I, Atom, have found this book. It has the entries of a young boy. I remember being a little boy. I got lost for a while. But I got lucky and found Clover. He helped me, showed me how to survive. He had a calendar and said it was 1970. I think I'm around 15. Clover says he's 16. I don't really think the numbers matter. We have a hut in the woods. It's well built and it keeps us warm. The dome is what we call it. There's a field of berries I can't remember the name of but they taste good and

Clover lets me help harvest. Everything is wonderful here. I hope it never changes.

Sincerely, Atom

Journal, Atom went away today. It was horrible. He struggled but in the end he's better now. I know he's okay and his brain can’t trick him anymore. My name is James but he called me clover. I named him Atom just to feel like I still had my brother. Mom and Dad couldn’t stand losing him so I went to find him. I knew he was in the woods. Even if he forgot everything he never left his journal. Nothing would stop him from writing even if he couldn't decide if it was a journal or not. I hope he's okay now. I hope he knows just how much we all love him.

Goodbye, James

Lily Mueller

Wilting petals brush my legs as they fall

Crumpled and weak they call

They sing a soft melody, the lyrics menacing and raw

Calling me to fall with them as a triumphal hoorah

The tension in the air growing thicker and thicker

Remembering how I once watched their stems grow bigger and bigger

How they burst through soft soil that I now stand on, dry and rough

Shadows lingering longer, the night is on the cusp

Seeping darkness creeping up and up

The flowers are swallowed by it and I lie down with them, wondering if I've had enough,

Wondering if now I was ready to let the earth in

Let it wash over me and sink into its hymn

But beneath me there is a reckoning in stall

It pushes on the pads of my feet with stubborn force

My hands holding tightly to the divine earth’s core

Shaking and trembling my eyes fall to the ground

As a fresh new stem breaks through the ties once bound

The sight of fresh green rips my hands down

And tears of relief trickle as I bow

On my hands and knees, I breathe in the green

The scent of new life ripping through the bare trees

An orange glow washes over my face

And the dawn of a new awakening rises with haste

She arrives gloriously, erupting from the ground,

Green is a force of nature that cannot be taken down

She produces life and passionately heals,

She gifts shade and fresh air and honey-crisp apples

And while some like to sit and cackle

Doubt her strength and cut her down

She is inevitably unstoppable

Green is each breath you take

She surrounds you and wisps you away

She holds secrets and raindrops

Powerful and vengeful, green never falters

Her gifts of wisdom and passion

And perseverance doused in flames

Green is vulnerable and indestructible

She falls and withers away

Like a sunset after a long day

But soon she will rise again

She laughs as you chop her down

Because she knows something you don’t

Green will be back.

She will come bearing gifts of sweet maple syrup and the scent of fresh mint

And with patience and grace

Green will retaliate

Green will leave you breathless and begging

Begging for her merciful, mossy heart

Author’s Note

For this work, I chose to write in the genre of nature poetry. Creating nature poetry involves three very important characteristics: an aspect of nature involved, a message communicated to the audience, and the presence of literary devices to enhance the writing. This genre as a whole is for the purpose of spreading a meaningful message through aspects of nature and creating lyricism and structure through the devices of literature. Nature poetry is a special genre, as it relates to everyone; there is no absence of nature or of the natural world in anyone’s lives. Each and every one of us, in our own unique way, interact with nature in every breath we take. The value of showing and teaching appreciation of the gift of something that ties all of humanity and life on earth together is indescribable, but throughout poetry, I do my best to accentuate and emphasize the significance that I see. My understanding and experience of nature is unique to me, but in every sense, it can relate to us all as there is an undeniable unity in the composition of my work. We all go through the four seasons, observe the stages of life that our natural settings go through, rest our eyes on the rising and setting of the sun, interact with the life that this earth has created, and so much more. The creation and utilization of this genre I see as a gift, not just to me for being able to spread my own ideas, but to allow others to see things through the lens I have created with room for their own interpretation. We all have our own experiences with nature and emotion, but through these individual perspectives that each one of us has, we can connect with each other through broader, common themes.

Jennifer Dao

Back when my eyes couldn’t see the top of our kitchen counters, the potent smell of Vietnamese cuisine clinging to every surface of the small house, I had a best friend in the form of a fluffy pink unicorn with cut-out green paper wings I taped on. Over the years my tiny sticky palms held on to it tighter like someone was going to take her away from my grasp. My fears ended up being justified as I found my hands cold without my loving plushie by my side, forcefully taken from me before I could get a single word out.

A hand catches the back of my pajamas, stopping my face from slamming into the corner of the table. “Aya!—đừng chạy trong nhà,”1 — my mom lightly scolded as she rubbed my head “Ăn và thay đồ đi. Ba đang đợi trong xe.”2

I quickly scarfed my lucky charms down and ran to get changed so I wouldn’t be late to school. Most days I’d be early enough to hear almost complete silence because most nosy critters don’t have a mom waking them before the sun peaked.

There wasn’t enough time for my mom to do my hair today, but that was fine since the kids at school didn’t like how she styled my hair anyway. I like how she does my hair, though I don’t say a peep when they laugh.

Pushing the negative thoughts away, I scramble to my dad’s car, not tripping once. He puts my favorite CD with thirteen songs on it, the first one that always plays is “Baby” by Justin Bieber featuring Ludacris. I appreciated the routine-like gesture because he was never much of a talker.

The school isn’t far, only a mere five to ten minutes depending on the traffic, but I get lost in the music. My mom has always joked that I was a born musician, enraptured by song and dance akin to how a moth is to a flame.

Before the current song was finished playing, the door was opened with the winter air blasting into the no longer warm car and as a result me. My dad was ushering me out of the car like Justin was going to pop out and grab me if I didn’t get out immediately, he was such a worrywart.

His rough callused fingers engulfed my soft hands as he led me to the school. I always told him that I’d be fine and that he should go to work, but he had always stayed with me until he saw that I was safe in my classroom.

Entering the class, I let out a shiver from the sudden change in temperature, walked to my seat, and just waited for the time to pass.

Every day is the same.

Some days someone giggles because I said something stupid, and I giggle along because they’re obviously laughing with me.

Some days they get a little aggressive with their shoves, but we’re all just playing.

Some days I get called stupid for not understanding their language well enough, but we all get weird nicknames from friends.

Some days I get picked last or completely left out because of how much fun they're having they must’ve just accidentally forgotten.

Some days they pull their eyes back and question me about how Chinese people could even see. I don’t know, I’m not Chinese.

Some days the dirty fish sauce in my lunch is so disgusting that my classmates gag and ask if I was too poor to get “good food.” They’re just looking out for me.

Most days I come home with new bruises and scars hidden under my dull-colored hand-me-downs, falling apart at the seams.

Is it normal for friends to hurt you? The bell rings and pulls me out of my thoughts. “Oh,” I mutter. It’s playtime…

An unusual feeling settled into my chest as I scanned the grounds available during recess.

On the left was a grassy rectangle with tall solar panel pillars providing shade for hot days, and the small playground. To the right was a large area of concrete and nothing else, but the school just wrote it off as a play area where the kids could do whatever they thought of. None of these things are noteworthy in the slightest, except for the heavenly place between the playground and the barren concrete.

My hugeeeee trees!

Well they belonged to the school, but most kids didn’t bother playing there because it was either too boring or too scary.

Not feeling like playing on the playground alone again, I wandered around the area and eventually meandered my way over to the gentle giants. Like a magnet, whenever I’m down (or just bored) I rest on the bench between the woody plants and feel the misery get drained out of my seven-year-old mass.

However, a rock to the back of my head stole my attention away from my self-proclaimed safe haven. “Amelia,” I whisper mostly to myself—“and her friends too.” “Why do you have to do this all the time,”—I ask, teetering in desperation—“leave me alone!” A heavy silence settled, well, that was until the sound of mocking laughter made its way into my ears, tingling down my spine, and into the pit of my stomach.

They’re laughing at me.

My eyes stare their figures down, searching for a reason, any reason, why anyone would be so—so mean.

My ears ring almost unbearably loud as they say words I can’t hear. Words I can’t bear to understand.

My mouth is thick with saliva, I gulp it down and feel it slide down my throat.

Anxiety. Pain. Fear. Hatred.

My entire body trembles, and I curl and uncurl my digits.

I take in my surroundings and look back at her face once again. So what if she’s older and bigger? So what if she has friends? So what if I lose…I won’t lose.

The grueling tiredness in my bones swiftly turns into a rage so deep in my core that it melts my insides. I didn't even realize I had moved

until I found myself tackling her to the ground. Not wanting to waste my first blood advantage, I pulled her hair and punched her into the floor. Every time she tried to get up, I kicked her back down harder each time.

“Look at me,” I tell her friends my tormentors. “Look at me!” I almost screamed.

Their bodies freeze up similar to a fawn when scared. But fawns are innocent, they are not.

Amelia was able to stand up and slap me when I wasn’t paying attention to her, and suddenly the fight got a lot harder.

We were both not holding back, our bodies bruised and cut, and the sickly sweet taste of pennies enveloped my tongue. The scars of my frequently bitten lips opened making me look and feel a little more deranged. It felt so liberating—so freeing!

This was our song and dance for what seemed like a millennium, but once again I got the jump on her. My hands, which have never been used for violence found themselves wrapped around Amelia’s neck. It wasn’t long until a teacher snatched me away from her, and the sudden movement interrupted my adrenaline rush and I promptly blacked out.

Everything afterward was a blur. I had recess taken away from me and I had to show I was remorseful. So I wrote Amelia a letter explaining how sorry I was in a hot pink Crayola marker decorated with big hearts, evidently I didn’t get to go out the rest of the year.

It didn’t matter as I passed the trees every day to school anyway, and nobody bothered me anymore.

Some days I watch someone giggle because their friend said something funny, and they giggle along because they’re laughing with each other.

Some days I watch as they get a little aggressive with their shoves, but they make sure everyone’s okay.

Some days I watch my classmates give each other silly nicknames for fun and friendship.

Some days I watch as groups rally for games of tag and make sure that no one is excluded.

Some days I watch as friend groups get filled with people from differing backgrounds and cultures.

Some days I watch as people share their different foods with each other with no judgment.

Most days I come home looking and feeling the same as when I left for school. Every day is nice and peaceful. I like this, I thought.

So while I would never have my best friend again to hide behind, at the young age of seven, I walked away alone with blackened knuckles, dried tears, and no regrets.

1. “Aya! don’t run inside the house,”

2. “Finish eating and quickly change your clothes. Dad is waiting in the car.”

Katelyn Beach

Karla Vasconez

I moved to the United States one year and a half ago and enrolled in college, and the first challenge was the new literacy norms I saw in my Reading and Writing class. My first language is Spanish, I was born in Ecuador, and even though I have been learning English since elementary school, learning to use it here, in a new country was difficult. I listened to many American expressions that in my country's English class, I did not learn at all.

My first semester was in Spring 2023, and I was trying my best in classes. I learned how to use the MLA format, and I wrote my first review about a novel that I liked, using that structure, I did it and I was happy about that. I was doing good in my math class and learning how to manage college life in the framework class. I thought everything was fine, but somehow, I felt it was not. But besides all the new things in my academic life, I was having some emotional changes, I was talking too much, trying to carry more things in my life, and I was making rush decisions, which I normally do not do. But who could know what was going on with me if I could not?

On April 30 I was hospitalized at the University Behavioral Health of Denton (UBH), I was acting out of the ordinary, but at that moment I did not think so. When I entered the hospital, I thought that I was fine and that it was unfair that I was there, I missed my mom, my dad, and my brothers, I just wanted to get out of there. For me being there was horrifying, I felt like I was in a dungeon, I could not see outdoors because I was surrounded just by walls and locked doors. I got anxious most of the time, my hands were shaking, I could not hold my breath, I felt I was collapsing, I was trying to find a way to escape and then I just got blurred memories of nurses injecting me with medicine to calm down and suddenly I was waking up in bed the next day. I had a specific routine every day, wake up and take medicine, then breakfast, and then I was supposed to stay all day in a living room where I could only draw, paint,

or write. I saw my life passing through my eyes, I mean I was not doing what I wanted to do, living my normal life, I stopped studying, living with my family, and being free, I always kept thinking about the time I was losing, the hours felt like years. I could not see my family, we had one call for a day, we had to choose who we wanted to talk to, and it had to be brief. I felt like I was a prisoner, I had no contact with the outside, and inside everything seemed so gloomy without light, I felt that everything was dark not only because of seeing it but because of feeling the sadness that flooded my eyes with tears every night, joy was no longer a part of my life during those days.

The fourth day I was there I received a beautiful letter from my mom, she attached photos from my childhood, where I was with her, my dad, and my brothers. I was crying as I was reading it, I kept thinking about why I could not be released, I thought I was okay, and I missed my family more than life. The next day I received a letter from my dad and then from my brothers, I loved those, and it made me miss them even more. In the darkness where I was living, a light of hope appeared in my family letters. When the nurse was calling my name, I felt like my heart was going to burst out of me, my eyes were radiating light with joy and hope, and I felt my stomach turn, I'm sure every part of me was moving with joy. For me, my family was the light that could be seen at the end of the tunnel.

The time passed so slowly that it feels an eternity. Two weeks later I was discharged, I met my family again and it was the best feeling I have ever had, my heart was beating fast, I was feeling incredible happiness, and of course, we were crying. At that moment I got my diagnosis, psychosis, but even at that moment, the medicine was not doing the effect that it was supposed to. I did not pay attention to that, I just wanted to go to my college and arrange things, I was hospitalized during the final exam week, and I did not know what was going to happen with my courses. My dad had already talked to the college to communicate the reason for my absence. When I arrived at the college I met Kristi, a North Central Texas College advisor, she was the person who helped me with everything. Without final exams, I was about to fail all my courses, but Kristi communicated with my professor to find a solution,

Central Texas College

most of them helped me, and I passed 3 of 4 courses. Kristi spent a lot of time helping me resolve this situation, without her understanding and dedication to my case, I would not be able to get over this.

It was the middle of May, and after fixing my grades in college I had to travel to my country with my mom, I still had psychosis, and the first thing we did was find a psychiatrist. The next three months we saw other psychiatrists and therapists, and they diagnosed me with bipolar mental disorder type 1, some of them told me, I should not keep studying engineering, and less in English, because I would not succeed. They told me that maybe I was not meant to study and that it is normal for people with a mental disability, because my life would never be the same as normal people's. Hearing every hopeless word made me feel insignificant, I had a lost look, my body was there but my mind was not, I only saw to the edge, feeling like I would never get out of this. Walking became a motor memory in my head, but I did not do it consciously, I felt lost and aimless, and I no longer had a reason to move forward.

This was difficult for me, I am sure I could not get through this alone, my mom, my dad, my brothers, and my closest family helped me. They were my support when I did not have the strength to continue, and they were beside me when I had a crisis, in the nights when I could not sleep, my mom caressed my hair, telling me that tomorrow was a new day. After taking medicine so that I no longer have psychosis, I had a depression episode, it felt like it was the end of the war. Even if you have the support of your family, their words will not help you, because your mind is controlling you. I felt a void in my life, I felt that the pain was spreading to every part of me, every vein, bone, and muscle; I was looking for direction, but I couldn't get out of my sadness. I was isolated from everyone, I could not interact with anyone, and it was not because I wanted, it was because physically and mentally I could not. Every time I was crying because I felt I would not be able to continue my life, my family was there, every day, they were with me.

I met my psychiatrist Vanessa, and she made a turn in my life, she gave me something I had not heard in a while in my medical diagnostics, she gave me hope, and she showed me a few of her patients, who succeeded, and they were professionals. She helped me not just with

medicine, she gave me guidelines to be successful with my mental illness. She even told me that in the cases she studied she found out that most of her patients had a good intellectual capacity, they just needed to manage their emotions, which is the principal trouble in this mental disorder.

I had to take more medicine, and it helped to get over depression, I had a reset in my life, I was feeling joy again. The smallest thing I saw made me feel alive and grateful for being alive. The breeze of the wind refreshed me and helped me think clearly. Watching a sunset made my skin crawl. Seeing how the sky takes on those colors was like seeing a work of art.

Vanessa told me that I could study, but I had to take it easy, so I decided to take a semester off. I came back to Texas after being 3 months in Ecuador, I stayed at home with my mom, and I focused myself on the gym, this was an important step in my life. The gym and running helped me to keep my mind and body in balance. When I exercise, I feel calm, I feel that I am strong and that I train not only for physical results, but to have mental stability, which allows me to think clearly and allows me to use the energy I have to strengthen my body. Of course, I have to take pills every day for the rest of my life, but I started looking at them as a part of me that makes me feel alive and healthy.

The six months I was dealing with the question, what am I going to do with my life, so I decided to make little steps, just focusing in today, not the future. I decided with my family that I was going to take 2 courses in Spring 2024 to see how it goes, I took College Algebra and History 2. After isolating myself from people for a few months, I tried hard to socialize again. I felt like I was a little girl going to her first day of school, my heart was happy, and I reflected a radiant smile, although I felt nervous, I took each shaky step forward without hesitating to turn back.

After class I always went to tutoring writing or tutoring math, with the support of my tutors I passed my courses with the best grade, and more importantly with more knowledge. I was really happy because I knew that I finally did it I did it with my mental illness. Also, I applied for a scholarship which one I fortunately got it, and I was available to do a summer class. I have never been so proud of myself, and now I keep

moving forward. There is not a day when I stop running, it keeps me balanced in my mental health, and I live one day at a time. I enjoy the time that I have with my family, and I set myself short-term goals for my academic progress, which will then lead me to success. I think that we have to appreciate the process, not just the final achievement. Living with a mental illness is challenging but not impossible.

Sophia Bergsli-Chavez

One day, you decide you want to plant a tree

A tree that will grow up beautiful and strong

One that will fill your garden with joy and bring life to your once barren home

Every morning your petite tree waits for you, glistening in the morning sun

Every morning your petite tree brings you a reason to feel jubilated

Your days began to be consumed by long hours of trying to keep your head above water

Stretching your body to it’s last limits And working as much as you can to stay alive

Yet every morning, your adolescent tree waits for you, glistening in the morning sun

Watching over you by your window sill hoping to bring you some light in the dark

Suddenly success crosses your path

Your days are filled with gatherings with close friends and family

Along with parties fit for Jay Gatsby and feasts meant for royalty

As money sweeps you off your feet

Your grand tree waits for you

Glistening in the morning sun

Watching through your busy window

Wondering if its presence still brings you joy

Jacob Peddy

My dad and I were out camping when we heard a strange sound coming from not too far away. We weren't sure what it was so I peeked my head out of the tent. It was pitch black outside because it was like two in the morning and the trees completely covered the moonlight. My dad grabbed my flashlight and pointed it out to where we heard the sound, but we couldn't see anything so we just went back into our tent. A little bit later, we heard the sound again, so this time we got out of the tent completely, with the flashlight, and went over to where the noise was coming from. When we turned on the light, we saw a huge brown bear, and when I say huge, I mean massive…it was gigantic; like maybe the size of four Shaquille O'Neal's. It was a big boy. We were freaking out as we ran back to the tent. We thought we heard it chasing us, so we locked ourselves in our tent and hoped that it didn't follow us. We sat motionless and listened to see if we heard anything. Eventually, we did hear a low growl coming from the bear, who was right outside our tent. My dad grabbed his handgun, just in case he needed to use it. A few minutes went by and we began to relax, but all of a sudden, the bear ripped open the side of our tent and started slashing about. My dad grabbed that giant sack of fur and meat and put it in a chokehold. Climbing up the neck of the beast, he yelled, “Grab the rifle!” I reached into our duffle bag and grabbed our .50 caliber sniper rifle. I aimed that hefty weapon right at that creature's head, but without a second to spare, the bear lunged backward and started hopping around. I didn’t know what was going on. I remember thinking, “What the hell is happening?” That’s when I saw my dad riding the beast like a bucking bronco. He was hootin’ n’ hollerin' like no tomorrow. He rode that bear back to where it came from: about twenty feet away. I couldn’t see them anymore, but I did hear a loud bang in the mixture of grizzly roars and cheering…then silence. My dad came back with his handgun in one hand and the head of the beast in the other. The head was later mounted on a plaque with the title, “Grendel.”

Did this story make any sense? No, not really. But it did, at least I hope, make you think that my dad is a badass who fights dangerous animals and protects the innocent. I mean, he does do that, but the “dangerous animals” are more like spiders and ants that get into our house, and the “innocent” is my mom screaming from across the house because there’s a wolf spider in her bathroom sink. The story was a tad exaggerated, but in the end, the message was the same; my dad is a hero. Making up these kinds of stories has always been something that I have liked to do since kindergarten. Sure, all kindergartners make up stories about how cool their parents are or about things that they do at their house. They want to make themselves seem cooler to other people and make them seem more exciting and more likable. I took this, not to the extreme per se, but further than a lot of other children did. I don't remember too much about the things I used to say, but I'm sure they were crazy and completely unrealistic like owning a pet dinosaur named Jeffery, my stuffed animals coming to life at night and moving my belongings around, or my sister secretly being a killer rabbit who only kills at night like a werewolf. The other kindergarteners had no idea that what I was saying was untrue or unrealistic; they heard it and saw it as I said it. They thought that I was cool. This sort of character-making was what I did all throughout elementary school, middle school, and partly through high school.

One of the earliest, vivid memories I have of making these types of exaggerations is in fifth grade when I was talking to a classmate named Justice Jones. I had told him that, for the last week, I had stayed up every night. A week-long all-nighter one would say. I explained to him how I did it and that it was pretty easy to accomplish as long as you had something to keep yourself distracted. He seemed to think that that story was really neat because he talked to me as if I were some celebrity afterward. It made me feel nice realizing I had someone who looked at me like I wasn't just some random person you would find on the street. He saw me as someone important, I guess. The real story was that I had just stayed up one night on the weekend. I grew that story exponentially, but in a way that wouldn't create any havoc if it was found out to be false. No one is going to care that I lied about staying up for a week straight, as movie

companies would say, “No animals were harmed in the making of this film.”

Sometimes, “animals” will be harmed by peoples’ stories and fibs. I never understood those types of imaginators. The ones who would make up lies and stories where if they were ever seen for what they were would cause a lot of chaos and a lot of hatred towards that person. Why would you put yourself at that risk over something so dumb? Especially the ones who would make up gossip. How could you create those types of tales to make yourself seem better while greatly putting someone else down? I’m not just saying that to make myself sound better for lying. It’s a genuine thought that crosses my mind. My tales and adjusted truths were all things that you could use to create fantastical works of fiction. It just baffles me that others can create fiction in a demeaning way. I was raised to always treat others with respect unless they give me a reason not to, so whenever I see or hear people accuse others of nasty or illegal things that I know are not true, I get filled with disgust.

I had a friend group from 5th grade to 7th grade that I thought was amazing and I loved to hang out with them. It turned out that about half of them would tell their parents and other people bad things about me that were not true. They would say that I would act obnoxious in class, yelling and screaming, or that I would say a lot of curse words. If anything, what they were telling them were things that they were doing. I hate liars, in this context, the ones who blame others to make themselves seem innocent. Why would you throw someone, especially someone who trusted you, under the bus and ruin a friendship just to make yourself innocent?

After I found out about that, I switched over to a different friend group; I am only friends with two of the seven today. This friend group made me feel included and I believed that they liked me for who I was and not for the stories I would tell them, so I began to slow down on the fables. I was more genuine with them until they started to talk over me constantly, ignore me, and make me feel like I wasn't really there. I brought back the stories and they began to listen again, the stories were bad, they were not clever, they were just ways for me to talk and feel

somewhat included. I'm sure they didn't really care about them, but I didn't want to feel left out.

Most of their conversations were based on video games, but I didn’t have anything except for a Nintendo Wii. I started to look into different types of consoles, specifically Xbox because that is what the group all played on. My parents actually got me one for Christmas that same year. It was quite convenient. I mentioned this to my friends and they told me about one specific game I should get: Tom Clancy’s Rainbow Six Siege. I asked my mom for it and she allowed me to purchase it. I started to play by myself to get better at it and, not much to my surprise, it was really fun. I could choose any operator, that was unlocked at the time, to play as and use their special skills to help secure my team's victory in the five versus five attackers and defenders- based game. This revelation of enjoyment led me to explore what other games were available to me now that I had a new type of gaming system.

My levels of enjoyment from video games skyrocketed faster than AI’s involvement in peoples’ everyday lives, especially with the people in this new group. I would play games a lot by myself and whenever I would meet them at school I would tell them that I did some impossibly difficult things or found some really rare item. It was very easy to exaggerate something that I did in a video game because I didn't have to make up all the elements behind it. I didn't have to think super hard to make things sound better because the video games are already cool and just adding that extra bit of pizzazz to it made it so much more intriguing.

The games that it was easiest to do this with were Call of Duty, Rainbow Six Siege, and Dead by Daylight because they were all multiplayer, skill-based games. They weren't games where stuff just happened. You usually had to do something under your control. It was also easy for them to believe me because they knew that I was good at video games. I spent a lot of time just playing them and getting better and better just because I had nothing else to do, but even then what I was telling them wasn't something that I could normally pull off; it might happen every once in a while but the likeliness of it is very low.

Instead of having to come up with everything, I could just modify slight things that did happen in the game and just make them sound

cooler. Instead of saying I got a collateral sniper shot kill, I could say that I got a no-scope, collateral, sniper shot kill while jumping off the roof of a building. It is something that can and does happen, but it is close to one in a million. They may or may not have believed me; it depends on how much they cared, but they just made me seem better at video games than I already was. They made them want to invite me to play games and made them think that I could actually help them win. They made them think I was useful.

The lies helped me get a sense of use and a sense of purpose in the friend group. We don't play games anymore today and it seems so stupid that that was the reason that I mainly played games. Today, I mainly play for collectible stuff. I'm an achievement hunter or a game perfectionist and it doesn't require me to have friends to play with, it's easier: lonelier.

I don’t have the same number of contacts that I had when I was in my prime picture- producing days. All the friends that I sought to keep with my tales ended up either leaving or becoming bad people, so I dumped them. Only two good friends remain in my arsenal of amigos. They have, relatively, the same interests as me, so it’s almost effortless to come up with a topic to talk about without worrying about boring them. They care more about how something is coming out of my mouth than what is coming out of my mouth. I can just be myself and talk about the things that I enjoy.

The safety of true friends is a lot more freeing. I don’t strive to seek others' approval; I’m not held down by what other people think. The chains of other peoples’ thoughts have been broken by the key that was hidden in plain sight this whole time. The key, or keys I should say, would sit next to or in front of me daily, whether that be at school, work, or in my car. I just didn’t realize it until I got rid of the creatures who locked me down in the first place. As the monsters faded out, I was left with two people; two people who didn’t hold these chains, but held the keys I had been searching for. Two people who stuck with me whether or not I told these stories. I could have been the most boring person in the world and they still would have stayed with me, not judging, not pretending to care,

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not wanting anything out of me except for my friendship and kindness: two real friends.

The stories play no part in their friendship with me. Yeah, sometimes stories are kind of fun to create and advance with their collaboration, kind of like a Dungeons and Dragons campaign, but I don’t need them in order to have solid relationships with people who really care about the real me and not some fake personality that was going to vanish in the oncoming weeks.

Joseph Weber

The coffee cups were already packed Individually bubble wrapped And placed in little cardboard squares In her mother’s Ball Jar boxes.

She looked into the kitchen mirror

The one with the chipped left edge And the brown streak across the bottom As if it (like she) had weathered a flood.

Her eyes were still red From lack of sleep And stupid tears.

Stupid, stupid tears

That did nothing But ruin her mascara

And make the image in the mirror

Look like a little girl playing with her mother’s makeup Playing while the house filled up with dirty, yellow water. She grabbed a handful of coffee beans From the grinder on the nightstand And chewed them down like Rolaids.

They burned her throat

Which was what she wanted: To feel the bitterness between her teeth. The sickness in her stomach.

She wanted to eat her sadness And make him love her again.

Kaylynn Downs

A story unfolds, on the ceiling of my room, Laughter, dancing, a bride and a groom. A constellation of smiles, Unification and joy spread for miles. I squint my eyes, Only to find, This story -this memory- floats away to the sky! But I do not weep nor cry, In fact, I went to sleep with a sense of delight.

Adriel Camago

At first, there was only darkness, soundless and serene. Then a click, and with it brought change, disturbance. Seeping through the ajar separation, a single ray contrasted the inky black. Multiplying in number simultaneously with the rising pitch of a shrieking hinge. Reaching their peak when the shriek had ended and the separation removed. Yet, the gleaming rays, despite their abundance, were absorbed by the sheer vastness of the darkness. Giving way to a set of stairs which was now bathed in both colors. A silhouette, the only interruption to the light, stood in the frame. Its form shifted, growing smaller as a slight repetitive dull thud was heard, interspersed with the creaking of an old wooden floorboard. The heavyweight man descended into a pit of eerie quiet. Just as light had abandoned the area, so too has sound voided its stay. Broken only by the impetuous steps and defiance of the strained floor. It continued this way for what could have been a few seconds or nearly an hour. The resounding and methodical steps made it hard to gauge. Until, just like the click, a new sound emerged, the muffled sound of a whispered warning pushed through the air at even intervals

Then the sound stops and the nostalgic silence visits once more as if asking to stay. Rejected by the scraping of metal and stone. Ushered away by the sparks to commence its leave.

A sudden blaze and swath of light. The sound of rustled paper fills the void. Fickle flame baths the walls in a shifting color. Flickering between a constant stream of red, yellow, and orange. Encompassing the walls in its light, pushing the darkness to the edges, revealing what it had consumed. Tools and swords of all sizes littered the area. Some hanging along the walls, and others discarded on the floor. A single ingot is placed inside the burning furnace, the potential roiling underneath its metallic surface. The fire eagerly consumed it with its form wrapping around the lump of metal, the act forcing the crackle to a peak. Under its embrace

the metal blooms. Its colors brighten, its guard lowered. Born anew and snatched by the tongs which had put it in.

Placed upon a pedestal. Primed for change. Watching as the hammer descends. Unable to react or move. Accepting what is to come.

Sweat lined his brow, reflecting the raging fire of the furnace. The power of the hammer was felt as it reverberated throughout the entire room. Every strike sent pulses and bell-like chimes that bounced off the walls of the room. The movement of the hammer echoed with a high shrill at the point of contact. Methodically like a clock it rang. The sound resounded through the room; the vibration rattling the hammer. Clanging incessantly, over and over again. The one subjected to such a fate was the piping hot metal, glowing red and orange from the heat it had recently emerged from. Its color visibly drained as the seconds passed. As if reminded of the limited time for change, the blacksmith swings faster, harder. He has a vision in mind, a mold in which this metal must be shaped. The perfect vision. At the persuasion and lessons of the hammer, the metal listens, it contorts and bends to fit the mold laid out for it. Its body turned from an ingot into a beautiful masterpiece underneath the blacksmith’s hands. Satisfied with his work the blacksmith quenches it, sealing its shape to be permanent. Then put it to the side.

However, the blade cries out. The permanence is nothing but an encompassing dread. For it knows what it could be, simply through the acknowledgment of what lay around it. The discarded blades and many attempts. To chase this perfection of which is yet to be found. Yet, the mold it was born from, and the hands which handled it, made it less than perfect. A tragedy. One it refuses to accept. Why was it the one to fall short of grace? Why, through the act of others, will it never be seen as perfect? Blinded by the flawlessness of his work he refuses to acknowledge the awkwardly jutting edges or cracked epicenter. Yet the blade feels those scars all too well. Feeling its difference; fearing its imperfection. It yearns to be what it sees. The various blades hanging from their varnished hilts. With their numerous lengths and unique shapes.

Why isn't it hanging with them? The ones deemed perfect. With their varnished handles and beautiful inscriptions. Its sorrow permeated the air, accompanied by the symphony of a hammer hitting metal, fire shifting over coals, and the silence which fills the gaps in between.

Results are what answered its hymn. Its song was heard, or maybe it wasn’t. Those same hands which molded its imperfections came back. They gripped with a new vigorence, as if to say “don’t worry”. Lifted from its lowered place, the hands go to work. They fill in the gaps which constantly test the blades integrity. The hands added a hilt, so sophisticated that it made one imagine their own palm over it. They painted it with beautiful inscriptions that decorated the surface. Finally, they raise it high, and hang it on the wall.

Through the process the blade felt everything, it felt the merging of the hilt, the healing of the cracks, the fixing of the scars, and it realized one thing, those who hang in perfection are filled with imperfections. Just, unlike others, they took the time to mend their imperfections, to accept and recognize them. Their perfection originates from their uniqueness and diligent change.

It too was now a blade along the wall. Having its own length, and its special shape.

Serenity Johnson

Amber Counts

As I stood under a mesquite tree that provided the only source of shade from the scorching summer sun, my breath caught as a woman approached the card table strewn with my few belongings and a few brown scattered mesquite pods. Having just sold my electronic piano, I hoped that no one would notice my car collection. Somehow, I had acquired a respectable number of metal cars. I cannot recall if they were Hot Wheels or Matchbox models, but their doors and hoods opened! I considered sliding my favorite car into my pocket, but it was too late. A woman asked me how much it would cost to purchase the entire box, and before I knew it, my 1977 Pontiac Firebird and its four-wheel companions headed to a new home.

I dutifully handed my mom the ten-dollar bill I had just received in exchange for my beloved cars. With only a couple of Barbies and one Star Wars action figure left to sell, I turned my attention to arranging other items around the yard. I pushed my feelings of loss down deep, but it wouldn’t take a therapist to connect that yard sale in 1980 with my ongoing desire to collect the things that bring me joy.

We sorely needed the money generated by this yard sale. Not for rent, for we were currently crashing with the elderly parents of my mom’s new friend, Donna, where I shared a small room with my mom and our three cats. Rather, we needed the money to fund a road trip to California. I didn’t understand the urgency of the trip then, but my mom acted as if the trip meant life or death. We would pile in Donna’s van and drive straight to the Golden State and back. We needed funds for gas, food, and lodging, and so I sold my toys.

The memories of the trip that managed to lodge themselves firmly in my psyche are almost comical in their weirdness. Arizona seemed to have no sympathy for travelers’ needs at that time. One gas station after another denied me access to their restrooms until my mom threatened one gas station attendant that I would pee all over the store

floor if she didn’t let me use their facilities. I must have blushed, for I had no intention of publicly urinating on myself or the floor. However, the threat worked. I also remember Arizona largely smelling of manure during that trip, but I don’t recall seeing any farmland or cattle. We stopped at two Native reservations in New Mexico and Arizona, and my mom tried so hard to fit in. She bought herself some turquoise earrings. She told each tribe that she belonged to them. Genetically, she belonged to neither.

At the time, however, we believed that our ancestors had roamed these lands, and I wondered how I turned out so ill-suited to desert life. After abandoning hope of finding affordable lodgings, or more likely - after my mom’s decision to hold onto as much cash as possible, Donna pulled off the road and into the desert, where I found it impossible to sleep. Though the desert nights are cooler than the days, in 1980, it was hot all the time. No breeze existed to cool the night air, and the stillness felt suffocating rather than peaceful. Wild fantasies played through my imagination about what could be lurking just outside the van. Trying my hardest to hold fear at bay, I clambered out of the van to relieve myself. It was pitch-dark outside, perhaps because of a new moon, and the darkness pressed on me like a suffocating blanket. I walked blindly back from the road so that no passing lights would illuminate my human yet private act. I squatted right on top of a cactus, and I spent the next couple of hours facedown in the back of Donna’s van as my mom tried to remove each hateful needle from my derriere in the faint glow of the feeble roof bulb.

The next morning, the sun awoke with a vengeance. I had few options to help pass the time as we headed out again along the hot, seemingly endless road. My mom and Donna sat at the front of the van and kept each other company. Donna often spoke with truck drivers on her CB radio, and I absorbed the strange new lingo like a sponge. I certainly had no toys to occupy my time. What I did have was the full script of The Wizard of Oz memorized, and I recited it from the first notes to the final “and you were there[s]” and “there’s no place like home!” That feat should impress all, considering I had only seen the film about five times at that point. I memorized everything quickly as a kid. After

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being told in no uncertain terms that I should absolutely not repeat the entire film, I busied myself with memorizing hieroglyphs from one of my books on Egyptian history. Toys might have come and gone, but I always had a few books.

The van had no air conditioning, so the only ventilation that reached the back of the van came from the open windows at the front. Growing increasingly grumpy from heat and hunger, we stopped to eat at Del Taco, which I remember as wonderful but was probably on the same tier as Taco Bell in terms of Mexican-inspired culinary quality. We did not eat often on the trip, and I was excited to get nachos smothered in gooey golden cheese. I settled into the armchair that had been placed loosely in the back of the van. At first, it felt like a special throne. As our trip progressed, it felt more like an unsafe time-out chair prone to sliding when Donna hit the brakes too hard. I had eaten two chips with queso when Donna abruptly pulled over. The next thing I knew, my mom leaned out her window and asked someone if they needed a ride. Suddenly, my mom told me to move to the back of the van as the sliding door opened from the outside. One of the grubbiest looking men I’d ever seen stepped into the van and sat immediately in the chair I had just vacated. I didn’t like the way he looked at me, and I resolved to sit as far back as possible. The man’s stench hit me like a bomb. I can still smell him today. Fortyfour years later. His odor didn’t hit me as hard as the next moment, however, for my mom offered my nachos to the hitchhiker. As he ate the warm chips and delicious cheese in front of me, he moaned and groaned about how great they tasted. My mom agreed. Her food tasted great, too. After dropping the hitchhiker in a town, I cannot recall, his stench lingered. It saturated the air and my armchair, and sand from his clothing coated everything like grimy desert glitter. Combined with the intense heat and lack of airflow in the back of the van, I suffered heat exhaustion. Due to my weakened state and hunger, we stopped at a motel in Bakersfield where I got a candy bar from a vending machine and drank as much water as I could from the bathroom sink. I sat in the shower under cool water, and I became convinced that our motel room was haunted though I can’t remember why.

The trip home felt equally arduous - minus the hitchhiker and would-be murderer - and I learned many years later that the purpose of the trip involved a drug deal. My mom was a young mom, and I interrupted her free love, 70s musician lifestyle. Some people rise to the challenge of parenting. Of putting others first. My mom struggled with this. So while we didn’t have great conversations on the road, or even shared meals, I did learn how to entertain myself for hours at a time, how to be resilient, and how to let go. Letting go of my cars, and letting go of those nachos, as simple as those acts might seem, prepared me to let go of the fact that my mom wasn’t perfect. She did her best, and that was not always good enough, but I learned to take care of myself when necessary and to take care of her, too. Most importantly, I learned to make the most of road trips with my kids and to stop for lots of Mexican food along the way.

Uloma Igbe

She breathes the same air

She cries the same tears

The same blood flows through her veins

But she is not the same

She is different

She doesn't think the same thoughts

Or act the same way

They call her weird, nerdy, a dork

So she doesn't like it, being different

She feels left out, unaccepted, abnormal

Everyone else is one way

But she is another

So she tries to act like them, talk like them, think like them

But it feels wrong, fake, phony

She doesn't see how beautiful her different really is

She’s not going the same way everyone else is

She’s going miles further

Her different makes her special, unique, creative

But she doesn't see it as a gift

She’s sees it as a curse

She hates being different

Beau Brooks

Signs of fire escape and armed teachers while children play.

Locked doors and garbage cans with hanging words of virtue in the halls.

The ill innocence of a bus next to a Mustang, but the teacher awards next to the sheriff’s office.

Plagues of news channels surrounding prisons, locked cages of innocence and contempt.

Teens learning horrors, while the horrors of men lie in their protector's cabinets.

Dogs roaming the halls, sniffing for the next news channel headline.

Books being opened and read, the object's inability to smell gunpowder and lead.

Abigail Hill

What to write?

That question had been bouncing around my apparently empty brain all day.

Papers filled with discarded ideas were crumpled into balls around my trash can, a testament to my utter lack of basketball skills.

I felt like I was in a movie, but at the part where the protagonists are in their failure montage, on the precipice of a breakthrough. But alas, this was no movie and, therefore, no miraculous breakthrough.

I groaned. I was never going to find an idea. My eyes scanned my room, looking for inspiration. My gaze fell on the map that I had hanging on my wall. I stood to get a closer look, my eyes tracing the continents.

I could write a story about an ancient…princess from…my eyes fell on Asia, from Azerbaijan…who must escape from…nope. I cut my thoughts off, crumpling up another piece of paper for my trash.

My eyes left my map and scanned the rest of the room, begging for any idea that might present itself. I saw a clothes hanger lying on my dirty floor.

Maybe my story could be about a clothes hanger who’s…lonely?

That made me cringe not a minute after the thought came. I must have been in a horrible idea place if I had even formulated the idea of a lonely hanger.

I sighed and sat down at my desk. “Any ideas?” I asked my empty room. “Great, now I’m talking to myself,” I said…to myself.

Maybe a snack would cure my empty head.

After ten minutes of thoughtfully snacking on a chocolate bar, I realized that this wasn’t working. The chocolate was delicious but unhelpful.

What to write?

Suddenly, a switch flipped. An idea came so forcefully that I was ninety percent sure there was a literal lightbulb above my head. This, I

knew, was either a fantastic plan or the second worst idea I had all day (nothing could take the lonely hanger’s first-place spot).

After a second or two of internal debate, I shrugged, “Beggars can’t be choosers.”

With a grin, I began typing:

“What to write? That question had been bouncing around my apparently empty brain all day…”

Taytum Binkowski

Guadalupe Cisneros Villa

Why, mother? I don’t understand why ashes and not rocks in a river bend or sand for children to build castles and dream of better days. Why ashes, mother?

I guess now, I will never know as I sit here staring at this bag with all these questions rushing ‘round my soul yet I wonder in awe yet I question you taught me with a solid heavy hand your stone-hard face never faltered and now this is your end?

I don’t comprehend ashes in a plastic bag. This rage inside me begins to rise this anger pounds inside me here lies the strong woman: my mother.

I have no place to mourn. Reduced to ashes with no answers the fire has consumed your bones the fire has consumed you flight

and even though I may not comprehend you did teach me to honor and obey: I will, Mother, I will.

Lily Clayton

The bush outside that window, Still hangs on to the memory. The poles that line the sidewalk, Begin to bend under the pressure. The rickety boards of those benches, Dip and creak where we sat. The sounds of distant laughter, Echo through my ears. The sun still beams brightly, Yet somehow dimmer than I remember. The wind brushes past me, Like the memories of us.

As the wind whistles against my ears, I feel the prick of silent tears.

Shreya Poladia

"Shreya will get into any college she wants; she uses Raj as a ‘Sympathy card.’" I overheard an acquaintance talking to my mother earlier this year. My mom responded politely, "I get that it’s hard for you to understand what it's like to have a family member with a disability…" My older brother, Raj, has Down Syndrome and Autism. This diagnosis wires his brain differently than typical kids, which makes even simple daily tasks challenging for him. Things like brushing his teeth, eating, getting ready for school, or making friends require a lot more effort—something we take for granted. Despite these challenges, Raj is all about hard-work, resilience, and warmth—qualities that make him exceptional in ways that aren't always visible to others. He's more than a brother to me; he's my Hero, and I couldn't be prouder of him! Though the world may view him “differently,” I share an unbreakable bond with Raj!

The words "Sympathy card" stirred up a whirlwind of emotions –anger, sadness, and a deep sense of hurt. It brought back memories of our hometown in the Midwest, where the community embraced Raj's differences without a second thought. Everyone knew our family, and Raj was welcomed with open arms. Instead of expecting Raj to change, everyone around him changed to accommodate his needs. But then everything was different after we moved to Austin… Suddenly, we became 'that family' with a 'different' child. Eyes followed us, and the warmth we once knew turned into never-ending stares and distant interactions. We had experiences where people avoided or did not interact with us after seeing Raj. The contrast was stark, and it weighed heavily on my heart. All I wished for was for Raj to be seen as the remarkable person he was, free from judgment and prejudice.

I still remember this one time when we went to a birthday party. As we were leaving, the host mom – who we usually call “Auntie” in our

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community – gave goody bags to all the kids except Raj. I was excited to get mine but was disappointed when Raj didn't get one. “Auntie” explained to my mom, "I wasn't sure if he would understand, so I didn't get him one.” Even as a child, I knew that wasn't fair! I immediately gave my goody bag to Raj. To make things worse, this host worked as a specialneeds aide, and I had previously heard her address children with disabilities as "Psychopaths." It made me question: Where was “Accepting Differences”? Why such stereotypical behavior....and yet my brother was labeled “Imperfect.”

Another memory that stuck with me is when we decided to throw a birthday party to celebrate Raj and invited some “friends.” But it quickly became apparent that some weren't too keen on attending. One even told my mom, "You don't have to invite our kids; they'll just get bored. You should only invite 'kids like him' to his birthday..." It made me wonder about the true meaning of inclusion and why some parents seemed indifferent to teaching their children respect and acceptance of disabilities. Once again, my brother was unfairly branded as "Imperfect." Growing up, these experiences and countless others affected me. I have always wondered why people make such statements: Is it because they are unaware, ignorant, lack empathy, rude, jealous, insecure or a combination? Instances like these, and many others, served as painful reminders of the ignorance and prejudice that our family faced simply because Raj was seen as "different." It was a harsh reality check for me at a young age, highlighting the cruelty and narrow-mindedness in the world around us. However, on the positive side, it was a valuable learning experience and a chance to spread awareness and promote acceptance.

As a family, we've always been proactive and open in addressing misconceptions and stereotypes surrounding Raj's condition. We've worked hard to foster understanding within our community. Even from my early days in elementary school, I've been dedicated to raising awareness about Down Syndrome and Autism. Every year, I would give talks at school on Down Syndrome Day, hand out informational flyers during my birthday, participate in Buddy walks, and use my non-profit initiative, Art for a Cause, to leverage the power of art to spread awareness. On top of that, I've shared my journey and insights through

my writing and even co- authored a book about Down Syndrome, hoping to foster understanding and empathy within our community.

Despite our efforts to promote understanding and awareness, it was disappointing that some people felt the need to make unfair comparisons. This was especially evident when an acquaintance persistently compared my achievements—like my school grades and extracurricular activities to those of his child. Fueled by jealousy and insecurity, these comparisons only served to highlight the harm caused by such comparisons, regardless of any justifications the family offered.

All these different situations and countless others have made me wonder: What does it truly mean to "Accept Imperfection"? I’ve often considered whether it’s the judgmental attitudes that people direct at those with disabilities or the strength of individuals like my brother, who face challenges with unwavering determination. To me, my brother is the epitome of perfection! He has taught me more about kindness and resilience than anyone else could. No matter how the world treats him or us, he always treats everyone with utmost love and respect. I knew then that I would always choose to be “The Imperfect” over being “Perfect.”

While it's easy for "typical" people to dismiss and undermine our struggles by accusing us of seeking sympathy or playing the victim card, genuinely understanding the profound impact of our journey requires walking in our shoes - a challenge that most wouldn't be able to handle for even a single day. It reminded me of Marie-Antoinette's infamous words during the French Revolution, "Let them eat cake," which revealed just how ignorant and prejudiced society can be.

As a sibling of a brother/sister with a disability, we carry burdens and face complexities that go far beyond our years. I vividly remember the feeling of helplessness as I watched Raj struggle during the difficult times of COVID-19, a feeling that still lingers with each passing day. It is incredibly hard to watch my once active, talkative brother suddenly go silent. For over four years now, I have desperately waited every day to hear him say my name or play with me again a hope that sustains me despite how much I miss him. Some days are so hard that we wonder if Raj will make it, and witnessing his struggles is heartbreaking. Words cannot express that agony. As siblings, we often hesitate to add to the

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already overwhelming responsibilities of our parents. The mixture of worry, fear, sadness, and anger, compounded by the injustices and prejudices we encounter, can be overwhelming. Many of my typical peers and their parents can't even begin to comprehend what we, as siblings, go through every day. But despite it all, we siblings and our families continue to persevere and strive to become better individuals. My goal is not to seek sympathy but to foster empathy - to shed light on my experiences and promote awareness, understanding and acceptance.

When I was growing up, I missed having that supportive community and fellow siblings who understood what it was like to have a brother/sister with a disability. I felt very isolated. Living with Raj has dramatically impacted who I am today, and I have decided to channel my experiences into something positive. I feel strongly committed to assisting other siblings because I missed that companionship; a big motivator for me. I recognized that siblings face unique challenges, and I want to use my journey to support others in the same boat. So, to ensure that I could provide that committed support, I dedicated myself to rigorous training and got certified as a Facilitator to run sibling workshops/groups. The training gave me invaluable insights and skills to create a community where siblings feel comfortable and have a sense of belonging.

This school year, I launched my very first Sibling Group through my non-profit, Art for a Cause, and in collaboration with the Down Syndrome Association of Central Texas. The Sibling Group is not just a support network but a place where siblings can feel seen, supported, and celebrated for who they are. Through various forms of creative expression, such as play, painting, etc., they've discovered a powerful way to connect, heal, and express their thoughts and emotions in ways they never thought possible. In this judgment-free zone, siblings can be authentic, knowing they're surrounded by peers who genuinely accept and embrace them.

Through my journey, I've understood that life isn't about striving for perfection or merely accepting imperfections. It's about celebrating our differences! It's about choosing empathy over sympathy, extending understanding and kindness to others, and using our experiences to uplift

us rather than bring us down. Most importantly, it's about recognizing our shared humanity!

Jose Ignacio Carlos Esteban

Kennedy Coward

On a crisp, fall day Hazel the squirrel was sitting in her tree. After going on her daily morning stroll, she found the biggest acorn she had ever seen. As she got ready to take the first bite, a large gust of wind blew through the forest and knocked the acorn right out of Hazel’s paws, and off into the horizon. She watched the nut get carried away, and Hazel realized that there were no more nuts left in the trees, and that she would have to find more somewhere else. Hazel knew where she needed to go, but the thought began to scare her. She had never left the tree before. She knew there would be obstacles in the way, and that it would be a very long and treacherous journey. But as Hazel scampered down the tree and into the meadow, watching her beloved tree grow smaller in the distance, she knew deep down that she must do what no squirrel had ever done before, go to the grocery store.

After traveling for no more than a hundred feet, Hazel was exhausted and realized she would never be able to make it to the store on foot, her legs were just too short. As Hazel sat on the side of the road defeated, a truck with a horse trailer pulled over a few feet away. The man driving got out, obviously very angry as he was yelling into a phone because he had a flat tire. Hazel saw this as her Uber into the city and decided to take the chance. While the driver was distracted, Hazel jumped into the trailer and covered herself with the hay. Soon the man had fixed the tire, hopped back into the driver’s seat, and they were on their way to the city. Then Hazel heard a strange sniffing sound and felt the hay on her head move. When she looked up she saw that there were two horses in the trailer, with one being a baby. It shimmied over to its mom, fear and curiosity shining in its eyes. The young foal turned to Hazel, “Hi. Wh-what are you?” it said timidly. “Now Daisy, don't be rude,” said the mom. “Oh, sorry. I mean, who are you?” Daisy said. Hazel poked her nose out from the hay. “I’m Hazel,” she said, cocking her head “and I’m a squirrel.” “I like your tail,” said Daisy. “Thanks.” replied Hazel. “Oh

you poor thing, you must be far from home. What are you doing in here, are you lost?” asked the mom horse. “I don’t know,” said Hazel “There are no more nuts left in my forest, so I have to go to the grocery store to get some. The only problem is, I don’t know where it is, and I have no way to get there.” The squirrel’s dark brown eyes began to tear up as she thought of the journey that lay ahead, and the horses looked at her with pity. “The grocery store sounds scary,” said Daisy shuttering. Hazel nodded in agreement “And big” she said. “Hmm you know, I think where we’re going isn’t too far away from where you need to be,” said Daisy’s mom smiling “We should be there in a little less than an hour if you want to stay along for the ride.” Hazel leapt for joy, unable to hide her excitement; then the journey began. The hay was scratchy, but still soft, and she quickly made herself comfortable. There were open windows on the sides of the trailer, letting in a cool breeze, and the steady hum of the engine soothed Hazel’s mind.

Hazel must have fallen asleep because before she knew it, she was on the outskirts of the city. But why had the truck stopped? Hazel soon heard a crowd cheering and horses whinnying; It must be a horse show she thought. All of the sudden, the man opened the trailer, and Hazel knew she must escape. Daisy glanced at Hazel and gave her a quick nod. Now or never she thought. Hazel had always wanted to be a part of a big heist, and a spy theme started playing in her head as she tried to imagine the cameras all around her filming this epic scene. Poking her nose out of the trailer, Hazel peered out into her surroundings in hope of spotting the best exit. With the flick of her tail, Hazel jumped out of the hay and bolted for the door. She then hid behind a barrel to wait for the coast to be clear. She watched different horses be led into the arena to show off their best skills, then she saw the driver lead Daisy and her mom into the spotlight; Daisy was really strutting her stuff and looked like a natural model. Hazel smiled even though she knew she would never see them again, and scampered into the city. Soon she was overwhelmed by the noise and the feet coming down a little too close to her tail. The buildings were towering over her as if they were about to topple over her. Hazel fled into an ally feeling scared and defeated. Where was the grocery store? How will she find it? She didn’t know how long she had sat

there for, but it soon began to rain, casting an even darker shadow on the already cold and miserable city. Hazel found a dry cardboard box and curled up, hoping tomorrow would be a better day. When Hazel woke, the storm had rolled away and taken its gloomy clouds with it. The sun was shining and she discovered that the grocery store was right across the street. But how would she get there? Then Hazel had the most brilliant idea, it was crazy, but brilliant. She saw a group of old ladies waiting to be able to cross the crosswalk, and she snuck up right behind them. They were so busy chit chatting about their grandchildren and obsessing over pictures (even though one seemed to be a bit lost and was talking about tea flavors for some reason) that the grannies didn’t even notice when Hazel snuck onto one of their fur hats. Ehh, what’s that smell… It reeks! she thought to herself. Then the traffic light turned and the old ladies began to cross the crosswalk. After a lot of shuffling, and what seemed like an eternity, Hazel finally made it to the grocery store, but she knew she could not sit in the hat forever; although she must admit that it was a spectacular view. The ladies first stopped to browse greeting cards, and one had a squirrel on it that Hazel swore was her cousin Peggy. Then they wandered over to the candy aisle to grab a bag of chocolates, and then off to find the potatoes. As the old ladies were walking past the stuffed animals, Agent Hazel took a deep breath, lept, and buried herself among the teddy bears. Hazel’s vision exploded with color as she became surrounded by unicorns, tigers, and penguins; it was cuteness and fluffiness overload. Then she saw it, the last bag of nuts… on the top shelf. Without thinking, Hazel scampered as fast as her little legs could carry her towards the nuts. Just as she was about to grab the bag, a woman snatched it out from under her paws. Hazel was devastated. Why, she pleaded to herself, all that work just to have the nuts taken from you in the blink of an eye.

Then the woman saw Hazel. She saw the sadness in the squirrel’s eyes. So the woman held out her hand, gesturing for Hazel to climb into it. Hazel was uncertain about it, but she could tell that the woman meant well. When Hazel climbed into her palm, it was warm and soft, and it reminded Hazel of her mother’s tail. The woman carried Hazel to the cash register and put the bag of nuts on the counter. After she had paid for

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them, the woman took Hazel outside to a nearby park. It was a perfect day outside; the fiery leaves were rustling in the trees and dancing their way to the ground. The woman put Hazel on her shoulder and reached into her tote bag to pull out a blanket. The blanket was covered in bright pink roses; they looked like the ones that the woman smelled like. She set Hazel on the ground with the bag and sat next to her. She opened the bag and poured the nuts over the blanket. Jackpot Hazel thought. The woman smiled and stroked Hazel’s fuzzy head as she ate. Hazel felt at peace as she filled her belly with the best pecans she had ever eaten. It has been a long journey, she thought; and she learned that through hardship, great things can happen and new friends can be made.

Rebecca Simion

how could i ever be the ground you proudly stand on when all i do is knock you off your feet how could i ever help you grow and flourish when i’m not the sun how could my love for you withstand time and space when i’m not an astronaut how will you ever move on to better, healthier love when all i do is keep your heart locked away how will you ever be okay without me here when i’m your absent lover how will your heart ever mend when i’m the person behind the knife how will i ever make your tears float away when i’m the reason they fall from your eyes how will that beautiful smile of yours return when i’m just calamity how will your future be with me in it when i can’t even stay in the present how will i ever be able to comfort you when i feel like a ghost how will i ever let you know when i’m not entirely there how will you ever learn to love me when i’m a different person

Cristian Gongora

Have you ever wanted to run a business? What about sky diving? What if there was a way to live out all of your fantasies, and all you needed was a small corner of a room. With a desk and a computer, you can unlock countless possibilities. The ability to further your education, to travel the world, and the ability to experience pain and growth. All from the comfort of your own home. Have you ever looked at a job or profession in the world and thought; “Wow! Wouldn't it be something to be able to do that just once?” If you can think of a job, there is a good chance that there is a simulator for it. From computer building and car repair to full realism flight and surgery simulators, there are few jobs that do not have some form of digital simulation in our current age. One day may be dedicated to bettering yourself with your computer, like taking classes or monitoring current events, and the next you find yourself working to dismantle a cartel operation in Bolivia. The possibilities of what a person can achieve with some simple hardware are endless, and all it takes is a blank screen and the push of a button.

When you walk into the room it is dark, you see the light of the sun pushing on the blinds that are securely shut so that minimal light passes through. You smell the distinguishable scent of dogs as they rise from their kennels stretching from the naps they plan on resuming after you find your seat. As you open the window, you notice a brown and black ball of fur resting at the top of a cat tree just situated in front of the window. As you open the blinds the cat stretches and stands at attention as she prepares to monitor the front yard for birds, squirrels, or any other small critter that would dare to walk across our front lawn. Light permeates the room and you can see the only piece of furniture that isn't dedicated to the care of our animals or used for storage, a black desk with two screens situated atop, both blank. Just in front of the screens are four distinct pieces of equipment. The left side of the desk is dedicated to a throttle slider, situated in the downward position indicating recent use.

In the center you see the keyboard and mouse accompanied by numerous Star Wars ships that line the bottom of both screens. On the right a joystick rests centered; the fire safety switch is flipped up where you see a small rubber triceratops named Carl. When you look at this small corner of the house you may ask, how is any of this conducive to a productive environment? What is so special about this confined space that its user is willing to spend most of his days and nights sitting exactly where you are now? As you sit in the rickety black and red gaming chair, the room seems still; all the instruments are dark waiting for the press of a button that will bring them to life.

You press the button, and immediately the desk is alive. You hear the tower spool up the fans to keep the computer cool. The joystick, keyboard, mouse, and throttle all light up bright green as the screens show the NZXT logo. Now that the computer is alive you will finally be able to experience the life-changing wonder that is our current basic technology. As you watch the screen change you notice it goes to a full blue screen with a message in white letters, “Compatibility update required.” After waiting so long you are now forced to wait longer. At first you face denial, you think maybe you can just do the update later, but there is no option to close the window as the message takes the full screen. You can only proceed with the update or shut down the computer. This makes you angry, you should have the option to choose when you update your software when you want, but Window’s requires you to download the update before proceeding to use their operating system. Should you complain? Someone should know about your hardship, and you want to express your anger towards something, but what would that do? By the time you have typed up the ticket and submitted it to the support team for them to tell you it is a required update for the security of the system, you could already have downloaded the update and been on your way. With this revelation we come to understand that no matter how upset you may be about having to download the update, at the end of it all complaining about it will only make it take longer. So, we proceed with the update.

After a short wait and a colorful reboot of our computer’s controls we are on our way. You find yourself in a game called Arma 3,

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in this world you are a helicopter pilot tasked with the transport of a group of other players to the designated combat zone. You are given a briefing for where you will be taking the men and what obstacles lie in wait. You look over to the tarmac and see in the early morning light two black figures in the shape of helicopters. As you get closer you can see the distinguishable fuel probe connecting to the cockpit flanked by two rotary cannons sticking out of the side. The helicopter you would be flying would be the renown MH-60 Blackhawk. You walk around noting all the rivets and antennas poking out of the various points of the fuselage. The passenger area is clean and empty. In a few moments this area would be full of special operators that had a very important mission, and it is your job to get them there safely. As you situate yourself in the pilot seat you look around at a multitude of switches surrounding you with three blank screens on the forward console. You begin to flip switches to start the Blackhawk and the screens on the front console light up. The sound of the auxiliary power unit (APU) can be heard roaring in the back as the helicopter begins to come to life. You flip the fuel and throttle levers forward and twist the ignition and the blades begin to turn. You push the throttle out of idle and into power and the blades begin to sound more full. You flip the APU off and notice the line of operators approaching on the right. As the men pile in you hear the voices of the team start to fill the comm with chatter. Talk of what the plans are for them after the operation and laughs can be heard as we begin to lift into the air toward the objective.

The morning time was always best for flying. Flying in the dark required the use of night vision goggles, which limit visibility and depth perception. Flying in the daytime is nice but usually includes the added threat of our enemies being awake and ready for our approach. Morning time was the best of both. As we fly we are guided by a small screen with our designated flight path. When we pass a certain mark on the flight path, we begin our descent. The chatter and laughter heard when we took off has dissipated to a quiet hum of the rotors turning overhead. The landing zone is a wide clearing half a mile short of a town called Kalavala. The town is lit by streetlamps with a lighthouse shimmering off the port waters. Our Blackhawk and one other land in the field and allow for the

teams to disembark. After receiving the “All Out” call from the second Blackhawk we ascend. The two helicopters move in unison in the morning air as the teams approach their target. You reach the holding pattern and continue to look at the target building through your onboard camera. Your job at this point is to monitor the area and notify the ground teams of any additional threats. A few minutes pass and all seems clear on your camera, the call comes in from the ground teams, that they have completed their mission and are ready for a pickup closer to the town. The blue smoke can be seen emerging from the ground just outside the cluster of buildings that made up the town. The two Blackhawks begin their descent into the landing zone. As you come closer to the ground dust starts to kick up and visibility becomes extremely limited behind the brown and blue smoke screen. You can hear the team getting into your helicopter and finally receive the “all in” and the two Blackhawks lift off. “The hard part is over, time to go home.” you think to yourself when suddenly you hear over the comm, your door gunner shouts “contact, left!” and you hear the loud burst from the mounted mini gun shred through your eardrums. Even while wearing ear protection, you still get a slight ring of tinnitus as the gun fires longer. Through the ringing you hear a panicked voice shout “RPG!” Suddenly the helicopter makes a terrible grinding noise as the engine components mash together. The helicopter halts its ascent, and the ground starts to come closer. You pull back on the stick still having some control and level the helicopter into a managed decent limping away from the point of contact. The crew are on the radio issuing the mayday, and the ground is steadily getting closer. You tell the crew and the team in the back to brace for impact as you aim for an open field. As the helicopter impacts on the ground your screen goes black as your character has been incapacitated. You have a snap back to the real world and realize you are still in the same spot you were in earlier. Your screen is black, but you can still hear the commotion of the team scrambling to get you out of the pilot seat. Of all the sounds heard, an explosion was not one. You managed to land the helicopter without any major damage and the team was loading you into the second helicopter. As you lift off you can hear a distinct explosion sound. The team had set demolition charges on the helicopter

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to prevent it from being captured. At the base the group have a debriefing and inform you that all of the men on your helicopter walked away from the crash due to your efforts. As you close the game you feel a sense of perspective. People must train for years to do what you did in a simulation. The realization of the amount of work that goes into the field of aviation are baffling but amazing as well. Any time you look up at our military aviators you now know their hard work has paid off and allowed them to do what you did in your simulation in real life, and that garners even more respect for them.

You go to reposition your headset and notice the fans are blowing very loud, you put your hand over the case and feel a very warm computer. You pull up the NZXT app and check the temperature. The screen shows the temperature at sixty degrees, when the normal operating temperature is forty. You must shut down the computer before a component overheats. As you shut it all down the colors of the flight sticks and keyboard all go dark, and we are met yet again by blank screens. When we look at the dark computer, we can see something that is out of place. The filters that kept debris from entering the computer case were blocked by a grey substance. You run your finger across it and realize it was dust. The soft powdery dust was caked over the intake fan which would explain why the computer was heating up as much as it did. If you wanted to experience the joy you felt just a few minutes before, you would need to clean the computer. You start by disconnecting the power and removing the input cables that connect all the equipment you saw on the desk. As you pull the computer away from the desk you can’t help but notice the stillness in the area you had just spent hours sitting at. The box that you held in your hands was the determining factor that brought this small corner of the room to life, and you now realize that it is just as much of a responsibility as it is an experience to keep your equipment working if you wanted to continue to have more experiences similar to your last. As you set the computer on the shop table, you peel off the panels that layered the outside of the computer shell and the display glass. The inside of the computer is exposed to you now and you see the collection of dust that has accumulated. Taking the air compressor, you blow away all the dust that caked your screens and fans.

Your computer was now clear of dust and is ready to be put back together. You come back to the desk and reconnect the screens and equipment.

Now that you have cleaned the computer and reassembled it the only thing left to do is to bring it back to life. You press the button, but nothing has happened. A flurry of thoughts fill your mind. Did you disconnect something you weren't supposed to disconnect? Did you forget to connect something back? Did you just ruin the computer that is paramount to the completion of your classes? You get back down to investigate and notice that all cables are plugged in, except for the power cable. You correct the issue and sit back up to the chair and press the button again. The screens and keyboard flash with a flurry of lights showing that they are coming online. The flight sticks glow once more in their green hue. What will you do next? Will you continue your education? Continue flying the helicopters? Or will you go out on a space adventure that sees you flying across the stars? All of this can be done from a small space in your home. The ability to be proactive lies with the user. The possibilities of adventure are endless with a computer. And it all begins with a blank screen.

Ben Strabala

“我忘了!” (“I forgot!”) As far back as I can remember, this was one of my primary responses every time I interacted with my Chinese tutor. ‘Gē Lǎo Shī’ (Teacher Ge, Ge being her surname) was an older woman, weathered by age, who had emigrated from mainland China. When I looked at her, the first thing I saw was the wrinkles and cracks around her mouth from her frown. As a little kid, I was scared of her, since she would scold me loudly whenever I did something wrong, or when I “forgot” to do my assignments. Whenever she prompted me to pull out my homework - which varied from writing characters to reading excerpts of my textbook - I seemed to always have “forgotten” to do it. I strongly disliked that my parents were forcing me to do all of this extra stuff, which is why I sometimes rebelled and didn’t do my homework. Global Village Academy was the name of the immersion language school in Denver where I first encountered Teacher Ge as my Kindergarten teacher. In addition to my Chinese classes in all subjects throughout the day, my parents also enrolled me in Kung Fu classes in the evenings, allowing me to be fully encompassed by Chinese culture. My parents aren’t Chinese, and neither am I, however, their goal for me in my childhood was to receive exposure to a new language - more importantly a new culture - early in life. Though the immersion experience was only for a year before I was enrolled in another school, tutoring outside of the classroom by Teacher Ge and Kung Fu classes continued.

After completing my second-grade year, to my delight, I moved from Colorado to Kansas, leaving behind Teacher Ge and all of that Chinese culture. Or so my second-grade mind thought - wrong! In Kansas, my parents found Lí lǎo shī (Teacher Li), who built on the foundation of the language that I had from Colorado, primarily by speaking to me, instead of teaching me to write characters or form monotonous sentences. To supplement this weekly instruction, my parents enrolled

me in a Chinese “Sunday School” as a way to expose me to others who were learning the language and to those who spoke fluently. It’s no exaggeration to say that I was only one of three or four Caucasian kids attending the school. The school consisted of Chinese kids whose parents wanted to see them learn to speak their language, which underscored its importance. In 6th grade, as the school year ended, we were moving again, this time to Texas. Just as the Chinese “Sunday School” stopped, so did Kung Fu and tutoring–I secretly wondered if my parents were a little glad, as they had to be tired of fighting me to do my homework.

Years later, I started watching videos from a YouTuber known as XiǎomǎNYC (Xiǎomǎ meaning ‘Little Horse’). I identified with Xiǎomǎ in a special way: he was an ordinary guy that learned to speak Mandarin by studying in Beijing, working for the CIA as a linguist, and now working as a professional polyglot and full-time YouTuber. Not only was I inspired by his story, I was also intrigued as to why he would spend time learning the language. As I watched more and more of his videos, which consist of him walking around New York’s Chinatown and speaking to people, I became more aware of my parents' perception of Chinese in my life, and exactly why they devoted thousands of dollars and hours upon hours to educating me in Chinese language and culture.

This revelation had first come to me when I was still in fifth grade. My family and I had gone out to eat for my birthday dinner, and I picked a new Chinese place. After all those years of Chinese culture and language exposure and tutoring, it was kind of a party trick of mine to order in Chinese for my family whenever we’d go out to eat. After we were seated, the hostess went back into the kitchen to yell chaotically at the waitress to come out and serve us, the only ones in the restaurant. “ 出来啊!” (“Come out!”), she yelled into the kitchen. “等一下!” (“Wait a second!”), the waitress yelled back. Hearing their exchange in Mandarin was my indication that my attempts would be welcome. A couple seconds later, a small woman resembling my first Chinese teacher, Teacher Ge, came out. I greeted her in Chinese saying, “你好！可以给我一杯冰水吗 ?” (“Hello! May I have a glass of ice water?”). I’ll always remember the look on her face- it was a mixture of shock and joy. To hear a little white

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boy in the middle of Kansas speak Mandarin at such a high level was overwhelming to her. She complimented my Mandarin and sat down in the booth to talk to us. In broken English, she described to my parents and I how her kids refused to learn Mandarin, and how much it saddened her. Even as a fifth grader, all the alarms went off in my conscience and I knew exactly what my parents were trying to get me to work toward. They wanted to expose me to something new and allow me to connect on a personal level with these people–people who speak the most spoken language in the entire world.

The need for literacy and the richness it offers surrounds us in everything we see, touch, think, and do. It includes our interaction with the people in the world around us, and how that interaction allows us to become better people by understanding others more deeply. Diversity of language and culture gave me the unique gift to share a bond with people that I otherwise would not have. That waitress in the restaurant, and her appreciation for the connection possible through shared language and culture, is my motivation to pursue a Chinese minor at university, a goal that will allow me to carry good will to others wherever I go.

Valerie Gray

Hayden Long

In shadows profound, our love must hide away, Blackmarket hearts, bound by a whisper chain, Yet Still, my urge for you will never sway, A secret bond, unspoken, yet so plain.

The world forbids what our hearts long to hold, A love that blooms in whispers and in dreams, In hushed nights, our fantasy will unfold, A tale of passion hidden in moonbeams.

Though distance keeps our bodies parallel, No barrier can cage the soul’s desire, For in the chasm of my heart you dwell, An eternal love, an everlasting fire.

In secret, we will cherish what we share, Two souls entwined, beyond the world’s despair.

Zoe Sherman

It was a slow night for orders.

Lowell had been logged into the delivery app since 6:30 and his first order of the night only flashed across the screen of his phone at a quarter ‘til 9:00–just as he was starting to doze off in his recliner. He wasn’t in the position to turn down orders or he might have chosen to stay in his comfortable spot in front of the TV. Success as a delivery driver was more about consistency than anything else and Lowell was good at consistency. It didn’t cost him anything to be available, waiting for orders to come through.

Humidity weighed down the night air. Cicadas sang their relentless song from the puny young trees that lined the sparsely lit parking lot of the drug store. The hum was punctuated by the occasional revving of an engine on the road.

Lowell wanted to make this trip a quick one–the Stars were onto Round 3 of the Stanley Cup Finals and he didn’t want to miss too much of the game while he was shopping.

“You wait here, I’ll be right back,” Lowell said to his companion in the passenger seat, rolling down the window a crack so the cab didn’t steam up too much.

Hank’s bloodshot eyes rolled lazily to look at Lowell getting out of the truck but otherwise, the dog didn’t move. The loyal hound was an old man–twelve years old–but he still perked up like a young thing when it was time to go for a ride. The dog was content to spend his nights with his owner, drooling in the passenger seat on top of the same fleece blanket he’d had since he was a puppy.

The Walgreens was desolate when Lowell entered through the automatic sliding doors. Decades-old pop music–the kind of music his daughter listened to when she was a teenager–played from the speakers, bouncing off the blindingly-white tile floors and still failing to fill the sterile void of the drugstore.

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He’d started as a Dasher over a year ago after leaving the insurance company. It was clear when they brought in that clean-faced, thirty-something kid to be manager, that there was no place left for Steve.

Dashing was a much better fit for him. He didn’t know if this was his favorite job–it was hard to beat the three months he’d spent working on a farm in his twenties–but it was head and shoulders above all the desk jobs he’d had. He set his schedule and worked the hours he wanted to work. It wouldn’t make him rich, but it allowed him–with his modest Social Security–to live comfortably. And he liked driving the quiet streets at night–seeing his familiar town changed by the darkness.

He’d spent plenty of nights in worse ways.

The only negative part of the job was navigating the app. Using the so-called “smart” phone didn’t come second nature to him but he managed. His clumsy fingers struggled to tap the small, sensitive areas of the screen–he would’ve liked to have a long conversation with whoever decided actual buttons should become obsolete.

His daughter was shocked when he told her that he’d started working as a delivery driver–she didn’t think he’d be able to work the technology, especially since she’d practically had to beg him to upgrade from a flip phone to the “smartphone”.

She’d worried over nothing. An old dog could learn new tricks, slowly and not without some pain, but well enough to get by.

Once in the app, he squinted at the screen to see the order's details. It was interesting, the things that people needed urgently in the middle of the night. Medicine was popular. Toilet paper. Study snacks for the students. Indispensable supplies to get desperate people through the night.

This order was no exception: cat food, a bottle of wine, a package of tampons.

Lowell grimaced. He didn’t like doing that kind of shopping for his ex-wife or daughter back in the day. He preferred to stay out of that business–but on a slow night, he couldn’t be choosy about the orders he took.

The cat food was easy enough to locate. There wasn’t a wide selection in the Walgreens–a couple of those fancy celebrity brands and the cheap dry food with those cheesy commercials of talking felines.

Cat food in hand, he located the customer’s wine selection with no more difficulty. He compared the details on his app closely to the bottles on the shelf in front of him, finding the mass-produced cabernet. Again, the customer wanted the cheapest brand on the shelf. The customer seemed to be making decisions to offset the heaping fees from the app.

Only the last item on the list gave him trouble. The feminine care aisle was a foreign territory. Everything was some shade of pink or purple, nonsensically stamped with flowers or butterflies. Lowell walked the aisle like a visitor in a strange land, squinting at each label without getting too close, glancing over his shoulder to make sure he wasn’t being observed by any other shoppers.

All the options made his head turn. He didn’t know the difference between one kind or another and the app was no help–it only frustrated him and he closed it, returning it to his pocket.

After several more minutes of searching, he accepted that he didnt have the customer’s requested brand.

If the customer didn’t provide a replacement option, and Lowell triple-checked to be certain that she hadn’t, it was within his right to leave it off the order entirely. It was the easier option–but that item in particular seemed important and he wanted to keep up his record of high satisfaction ratings on the app. He was eligible for bonuses if he kept his score high enough.

The game’s commercial break was undoubtedly over–coverage of the final was resuming and Lowell was still lingering in front of feminine products.

He searched the store for a lifeline and found it in the form of a green-haired employee stocking makeup products a couple of aisles over. The fluorescent lighting and shimmering reflections off the metallic displays turned her hair nearly neon.

“Excuse me, ma’am.”

The employee raised her eyes unenthusiastically at Lowell’s approach, annoyed to be interrupted in the middle of her task. He couldn’t imagine she regularly received customers in need of assistance, especially not at that late hour. It was the point in the night for people who knew what they needed and were looking to get it as quickly as possible.

“Do you have any more of, erm…these in the back somewhere?”

The girl glanced down at his phone held hesitantly out to her.

It was not often that Lowell found himself so helplessly dependent on another. He was made all the more uncomfortable turning to the morose, strangely-dressed drug-store employee for assistance.

“What’s on the shelf is what we have in stock.”

Typically unhelpful. Young people didn’t understand customer service. They’d never needed it. They did everything from behind the shield of their phones.

“Well, could you tell me which…product…would be the best substitution?”

The girl sighed and stood reluctantly from her place crouching on the tiles, abandoning the unboxed packages of lipgloss.

Lowell followed her back to the feminine hygiene aisle where she spent only a moment scanning the options before crouching to retrieve a bright pink box.

“Here.”

He didn’t bother to examine the product. He trusted the expertise of the girl and wouldn’t have been able to identify any differences anyway. It was good enough, he hoped, for his customer and wouldn’t result in a lower rating than he was accustomed to.

His hope to have the whole job finished by the time the game reached its final moments. Instead, he was driving in an unfamiliar part of town, listening to the close game nearing its end.

The road was pitch black and reflected light like the smooth surface of a lake under the moonlight. His eyes were never good but he

could feel them getting worse with every passing year–the auras around streetlights were getting fuzzier, the lines on the road less distinct.

It took him a few tries to get to the right address. He made a wrong turn and ended up a few streets short of his destination. It was a relief to finally put the car into park in front of the apartment complex.

It was a modest spot, not the kind of place he imagined a person who dropped $40 on a bag of cat food and a bottle of wine to be living in. There were none of the frills that he encountered at the swanky student places. From his parking spot, all he could see was a rectangular brick building with four doors in total. None of them were #4–the unit he was looking for.

He waited until a commercial break to get out of the car. If he was fast, he could still catch the last moments of the game.

He left Hank, happily sleeping in his seat with the window down.

An uneven, cracked sidewalk wrapped around the main building and Lowell followed it, hoping it would lead him to apartment #4. A cloud of gnats buzzed around a pool of stagnant rainwater–the place had terrible drainage.

Behind the first building, there was a courtyard–an oasis of greenery in an otherwise unattractive place. A Ruelia lined the back wall of the first building, its dark spear-like leaves creating a thick jungle dotted with patches of Purple Jew and Japanese Boxwood. On the other end, a round table and two chairs sat under the shade of a Crepe Myrtle.

A second building, identical to the first, was on the other side of the courtyard. #4 was on the corner.

He could always tell when the customers were waiting behind the door for him. They answered too quickly. There was never any shuffling or calling out, just his knock and then an open door. This door stuck and it took several sharp pulls before it swung all the way open.

Warm light crept out from around the customer’s pajama-clad silhouette along with the sound of the television coming from deeper in the apartment.

Lowell blinked, his eyes adjusting to the intrusion of light on the darkness, and met the face of the anonymous customer. It was a red and

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blotchy face, evidence that the young woman had been crying only moments before his arrival.

Lowell’s stomach tightened, filled with the sense that he was intruding on her–interrupting a moment that he shouldn’t have been privy to. A silly reaction. She’d summoned him there, after all.

The customer looked at him cautiously, sizing him up.

He was used to being met this way. He knew what he looked like with his long, scraggly beard and towering build, coated in the scent of cigarettes. He didn’t take it personally.

She held an enormous cat under one arm, its lower half–heavier than his top half–sagged and swung limply. The animal trusted its owner, even if its dignity was being broken.

“Well, there’s the hungry guy.”

The young woman frowned.

“Excuse me?”

“Your cat–”

He nodded at the animal in her arms and the woman’s face relaxed.

“Oh, right.”

“Hank, looked at me kinda funny when I got in the car with cat food.”

Again, the young woman’s face twisted with confusion. He couldn’t seem to keep his foot out of his mouth–he was still flustered by his harrowing experience in the drug store.

“Hank’s my dog. He rides with me.”

“Oh,” She laughed a restrained laugh. “I guess he must’ve wondered where the cat was.”

She was humoring him and he felt sheepish for trying to make conversation in the first place.

Still holding her purchase hostage, he held out the plastic bag for her.

“I had a little trouble finding a replacement for…one of your items. I tried to message but didn’t get a response so I had to improvise a bit.”

The woman took the bag from him, shifting her cat from one hip to the other to free up her hands. A look inside sent a pink flush across her cheeks.

“Oh, sorry. This is fine.”

With the delivery complete, Lowell was free to move on with his evening, back to the game that wasn’t pausing to wait for him.

“Well, have a good night.”

He meant the words more earnestly than usual.

“Thanks, you too.”

Her attention was already elsewhere. She was wrestling with the cat who had gotten rowdy at the sight of his food.

The door closed with a heavy slam once his back was turned.

Hank lifted his head at the sound of the door opening and he released a snuffling sigh when Lowell hauled his weight into the driver’s seat.

Lowell didn’t start the truck right away.

After a few minutes, he wasn’t paying close attention to the time on the dashboard, his phone lit up with another notification. His night was going to start picking up.

The truck groaned to life with the turn of his key. He shifted the truck into drive. Hank stirred slightly, disturbed by the changing rhythm of the engine underneath him. The radio commentators were sharing their thoughts on the final moments of the game. The Stars lost it right at the end. A shame. It was hard to be too disappointed by the outcome he’d expected.

On to another order. Hopefully simpler than the last.

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Emilie David

Samantha Gonzalez

I look at myself in the mirror as I pull my arm through my jacket sleeve with overwhelming confidence filling my head. Today is the day I confess to my long-time crush Lillian; she’s just so smart and funny (And totally didn’t tell me the other day that she liked someone else.) Maybe she likes me too and, for obvious reasons, didn’t tell me.

Love is something that I have never been able to have. Every person I’ve ever liked made it obvious they didn’t like me back. But this could be different. I have a good feeling.

I adjust a strand of my hair as I walk to my third period, now's the time there is no going back. I glance inside the classroom and see her sitting in her seat, waiting for her friends. I walk over and lean on the edge of her desk as I look down at her. She looks up at me, and the light hits her eyes just right to show a caramel-brown color. I feel my face grow warm as I start to speak. “Hey, Lillian!” I suddenly tense up. Oh my god, what am I doing? She smiles, showing her cute little dimples. “Hey, Kyle! You need something?”

“Oh– haha! I just uhm– wanted to tell you something.” My voice becomes quieter as I speak. She slightly tilts her head and a hair falls onto her cheek. I lean closer to her, not wanting the other kids walking in to hear.

“IlikeyouandI’velikedyouforawhilenowandIwantedtoknowifyouli kemeback.”

What. Was. That.

That was not as cool as I thought it would be she’s going to think I’m dumb or maybe she thinks that's cute or–

“I’m sorry I don’t like you in that way…”

I stand up straight as I dig my nails into the palm of my hand. “Oh, that’s okay.” I give her a smile that hopefully looks reassuring. She opens

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her mouth to speak again, spinning her thumbs around each other. “I’ve actually known for a while.” A slight chuckle escapes her mouth.

I feel my muscles squeeze as if they were trying to hold a weight together. “Oh really? Was I that obvious?”

She gives me a not-so-slight nod.

I want to go crawl in a hole and die. “Well, that’s good to know! I’ll try to be less obvious next time.” I shake some finger guns at her as I spin on the ball of my foot to walk back to my desk. As I turn I notice Lillian’s friends standing right behind me. Oh my god, they know. I speed walk to my seat and plop down before glancing back at Lillian and her friends.

They’re laughing. Are they laughing about me?

Did she tell them?

Are they gonna tell the whole school?

I feel my heart accelerate as I run my fingers through my hair, slightly grabbing on. I try to keep my breathing under control, I can’t let the whole class know I’m upset, they’re going to ask questions, and I already get enough of them not taking my hobbies seriously. I really thought this would be it. Is there something wrong with me? I just can’t seem to understand–

“Kyle, you okay?”

I feel a hand on my shoulder, and I snap out of my thoughts. I turn my head to see my friend Riley. Her hair is styled into pigtails, and her blue dye poking out. Kind of cute I can feel my breathing start to soften a bit as I look at the worried expression on her face. “I’m fine–...” I wish I could say more but I can’t muster up any more words without breaking down. I watch as her eyes examine my face. “We can talk about it during lunch.” She says as her hand slides off my shoulder, and she sits down.

I couldn’t focus during class, I had so much running through my head. I just wanna go home and cry while listening to music or just sleep and forget about everything. I sit at my usual lunch table and set my lunchbox down. I look up and watch as Riley walks over and sits down next to me.

“So what happened?” She asks with a concerned look.

I explain everything to her, the confession, Lillian and her friend’s laughing, all of my past experiences similar to this, and how I feel as if there’s something wrong with me.

She pulls me into a tight hug.

“It’s going to be okay, maybe the time isn’t right yet.” She says softly. She smells nice. A smile appears on my face, I mean, maybe it isn’t the right time yet. Like sometimes people don’t find someone until later in life. I know my Dad didn’t have his first girlfriend until college.

Riley pulls away, and I feel an absence as she does almost like I wanted to hug her a little bit longer. “Thank you, Riley.” Her head slightly tilts as she matches the smile on my face. I don’t know why this made me feel so much better, maybe it’s Riley?

It’s been a few months since I confessed to Lillian I haven’t talked to her since that day, nor has she talked to me. I’m kind of glad for that because I don’t think I could fully recover from whatever that was.

I’m sitting on my desk staring at the loading sign on my phone as I notice Riley walk in. My heart flutters a bit, she looks really nice today. I smile and wave as she puts her stuff down and walks over to my desk with a cute smile on her face. “Sup Kyle.” She says, giving me a random fist bump. “Hey Riley, how are you?”

“I’m doing great!” She seems more excited today, I wonder what happened. Should I ask? Maybe I should. I open my mouth to speak when the teacher cuts me off and tells everybody to sit down. Something feels empty when I see Riley leave and sit down. I’ve been feeling differently about Riley for a while. I think I like her. But I don’t think she likes me. Unless her seeming extra excited today could indicate that she may like me, I’m not sure though I don’t know how she is around people she likes.

After class, I wait for Riley to get all of her stuff together so we could walk to our next class since we have the same path. Once she walks over, she lightly elbows my arm “Let’s go!” She says as she starts walking. Yeah, something good is definitely going on.

I run to catch up and meet her by her side. As we’re about to walk down the stairs, I feel someone pull my backpack, I grab onto the

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wall to keep my balance as I turn my head around, I see Riley still holding onto my backpack and looking at someone.

“You see what guy over there?” I look in the direction she’s looking in to see a tall guy is black hair and blue eyes. I think I’ve seen him in one of my classes. “What about him?” I turn back around to face her.

“Well, he’s someone who I’ve liked for a while, and recently he saw me drawing and complimented me on my work, and we started talking, and I think he might be interested in me!” She bounced on her heels a little bit.

She likes someone else? I mean, of course, she does. Actually, I’m okay with this. Well, I kind of have to, but with what I’ve seen of him he seems like a good person. Yeah, this is good.

“Okay, Riley, I see you.” I nudge her arm as I begin to walk down the stairs, Riley following behind.

Once we get to the last hall we could walk through together we wave goodbye and walk into our classes. I look up at the board to see the big words “UNIT 4 TEST” I totally forgot about that test. What was it over? I don’t know. I place my bag down and get my pencil out so I can totally fail this test.

Once everyone sits down the teacher passes out the test papers. About 45 minutes go by and I glance around to see some people are already done. As I look, I see a girl reading something, I squint to try to see the cover.

Oh my god, I love that book. I have to go talk to her about it.

After class I quickly walk up to her and tap her shoulder. “Hey, I noticed you reading Bookish and the Beast.” Her face lit up.

“Oh my gosh, I didn’t think anyone else read this!” As we walk through the hall, we talk about the book and then move on to other topics. She seems really cool. Maybe we could be good friends. Honestly, I would like that.

Rita Han

He scoops his hands through the water, and the smell is foul

It smells cold and like murky, slimy stone

Someone gently covers his eyes with their hands

And tells him, “there is no such thing as a heart”

While quietly muffling his.

Once in awhile he feels the warmth on his back and he automatically looks upwards

But the soft cold hands stay on his face, telling him how special he is

“It’s so beautiful to control how you are treated,” the hands say.

His face is slowly changing day after day from the touch.

Something is at his feet now.

He bends down slowly and his back is strained.

“It’s just an illusion, a reflection,” the hands tell him.

But he is really starting to doubt their words. It’s a fraction of the sun.

The hands stroke his cheeks and rinse off the tears.

His fingers are starting to burn from the weight of the sliver.

It’s so unrealistic and brighter than all of the words he’s ever heard.

The murky water slides right off the piece and they look like crystals.

“That’s the sun,” the hands say. “It’s cruel and it will burn you.”

That’s not important to him at all. It just proves that there is a sun

Even if it is just a slice of the white star above.

The pain in his fingers is almost unbearable now.

It’s kind of like the growing pains he had as a little boy.

Maybe the hands were lying to him, he thinks.

It might even be a little late to wrestle free from their grip.

But that’s okay. In the next life, I will be a phoenix

Because I’ve discovered the sun

And every lie will be burned away

Along with this skin that should have been changed. The fraction that I own now is already beautiful And the dewdrops reflecting the sky tell me that there is more Even if it is just at the bottom of a well in the beginning.

When I saw your picture, I was touched.

You looked so friendly in your green collar.

You were even sitting on a tile kitchen floor, in a low-quality picture. That smile was so innocent.

According to the description, you were ten months old, a baby to me. But in the world of preparations and perfection, that made you fullgrown.

That made you uncommon.

You weren’t the cream of the crop anymore. If I was born earlier, right now you’d be in my arms. I would have raised you up like the way you deserved to be.

You could have been my closest friend, even though we might not have gotten along.

It would have been something possible that I dared to do. But that’s not today. You’re not mine.

I haven’t paid, and I haven’t even messaged to ask. They turned you into a machine for profit, the same way someone used me once.

I admire your strength and how you put so much faith into the ones you know.

That means you will survive. No matter where you go, you’re now different. I’ve met you. I consider you my friend, even though you don’t know me. It’s all I can do, but I prayed for you.

I know you’re strong, I see it in you, and I have faith in the people who will find you.

Everything will be okay, little friend. You’re not over in the world. You’re not old.

In fact, you’re just a little baby compared to me, or anyone else.

There are two moons in our sky now, did you know that?

And you’ll be one and I’ll be the other, watching over you.

Hanging like a misty shadow before I disappear from your life.

Anton Mallonga

Susannah Hill

I pay too much mind to rhymes, My juvenile style

Revealed in these lines.

I have too much structure

Too much uniformity, My poems are lost in unoriginality.

The words I write are hollow, Their meanings lost long ago, They were left in shallow seas of similarity.

I am not a poet Not a great weaver of words, My inspiration is a curse.

These childlike rantings

Truly encapsulate nothing, They trap my creativity and play her like a puppet.

My mind is up in the air

Its ideas and vibrance almost too much to bear, But of course, I’m stuck behind, Paying far too much mind to rhymes.

Sierra McCarty

The whole village seemed to stare as two figures marched into town. One was a man of moderate stature, who walked with a confident swagger down the street. His blonde hair swayed with each step, hindered by an equally golden crown. He dressed in dazzling clothes, the only acceptable wear for a prince of his renown, accented by a vermillion sash across his shoulder. He smiled and waved cheerfully at children and ladies, calling out hellos to strangers as he passed. His companion did not give such a warm greeting. His stride was militaristic, each step was measured and rigid. The scraping of weathered and dented metal followed him. His helmeted head never strayed from the path in front of him, one gloved hand on the pristine blade with a single emerald on its hilt at his side. Children who had come to greet the charming prince shied away from the daunting suit of armor that followed him. Though, the sight of the knight still brought hope to some. It was not his appearance that brought joy, but rather what his arrival meant. The dragon would finally be exterminated. The prince gave a wave as the two entered the local sheriff’s building.

One week later, a crowd gathered for celebration. The horrible maroon dragon, who had plagued their humble town for so long, had finally been defeated! Drinks sloshed in the town square, as musicians played emphatically, and stories were shared. The prince wholeheartedly joined and promoted the festivities, dancing and laughing with vigor. He sang with the band, and spoke dramatically of his triumphs, a dangerously stunning smile on his face. Away from the cheerful chaos stood the knight. While he had been offered food, it had been firmly declined. To eat, he would have to take off his tarnished silver helm, an unnecessary and dishonorable act. So, the knight was left to a decrepit corner, watching his comrade make a fool of himself.

As the night dragged on, the band never lost its tempo. The prince stood in the center of the plaza, calling the citizens to attention.

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“My dear friends!” He exclaimed, “What good fortune has fallen upon you! The nasty beast, that dragon, has been destroyed! No more will your resources be taken. No more will your children crawl into bed hungry. And I will personally ensure this! I will be staying in this lovely little settlement until further notice and take on the role of your leader and provider! Yes, your most generous prince will continue to show you his mercy. To royalty! To me!”

The roaring mob followed the prince’s lead, raising their cups into the air and following with near incomprehensible chanting. The knight watched on in silence, for he could not leave until the prince decided to. His true superior, the great king of their nation, had sent him for two reasons. The first, to slay the dragon tormenting his people. The second, to watch over the king’s youngest and most reckless son, no matter where he should roam.

The months came and faded, until hot summer became devastating winter. The once merry city looked drab and depressed. The busy streets froze over, and barely a light could be found. A warm fire crackled behind the desk of what was once the sheriff’s office, glinting and shimmering off the armor of the knight, standing in his usual place by the wall. The prince sat behind the desk wearing his scarlet sash and a smile. While his face spoke of kindness and gentle youth, his eyes gleamed with a different emotion. Before the two stood a husband and wife, huddled together and pleading softly with whom was once their marvelous savior.

“Please kind prince, just give us more time. This winter is harsher than any we have seen before. I cannot work in this snow, and the money we have is barely enough for a meal and kindling for the next week. Our children have forgotten what it was like to eat two meals a day. I, too, have forgotten. We’ll make it up to you I swear, after winter has passed.”

“Make it up to me?” The prince’s smile tightened. “After everything I have done for you already? Did I not save you from death? Did I not laugh with you a few months ago? Now, you barge into my abode, demanding an extension on a reasonable fee. A fee that, might I remind you, is used to prevent the downfall of your infinitesimal settlement? No, I do not think I will. My generosity has stretched far for

your people, but every rope comes to an end. I expect to see every coin you owe by the end of tomorrow.”

The desperate couple attempted to beg, but the prince refused. The gold was collected and shoved into a room filled with identical coins that continuously grew in number. The knight shifted in his place.

Day after day, similar pleas came to the door of the prince’s selfimposed palace. These cries were turned down with a smile and harsh words. The knight watched and shifted. Until finally, he spoke.

“Remind me, prince, of the dragon I slayed for you this summer.”

The prince blinked in surprise and said, “Well, it was a grotesque scaled monster with a wine-colored hide. Though, some might call such a striking color captivating.”

He laughed, adjusting the crimson sash around his torso.

The knight’s gaze was undiscernible from underneath his helmet as he stalked towards the prince’s desk.

In a low voice he asked, “For what reason did I kill it, again?”

“Are you feeling alright? Surely, your memory is not failing you,” the prince responded. “The dastardly thing was stealing from the peasants,” he continued, “Taking whatever it pleased, hoarding the treasures to itself. How animalistic! Taking things without consideration, just because it glimmers in the sun. Such a barbaric being needed to be stopped.”

The knight tightened his grip on his sword, metallic gauntlets clinking as he unsheathed the blade. The prince, so caught up in his own story, took no notice.

As the knight left the room, he turned back to the aghast corpse covered in scarlet. For the first time in what felt like an eternity, the knight took off his worn helm.

“Thank you,” he murmured to unhearing ears, “for reminding me of my purpose.”

As he walked down the frosted road, he came across the couple that had first visited the dragon’s den. They gazed at his face, astonished by its sincere kindness. He told them of the room of gold, to go and tell everyone about it, and take back what was rightfully theirs. The husband rushed to the office, while the wife hurried to tell her friends. As word of

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the prince’s demise spread, so too did the rumor of the dragon-killing knight and his elusive face. When the knight finally returned to his king after his long journey, he was welcomed warmly. The king questioned what had happened to his son, and the knight responded truthfully. He had been overtaken by the dragon.

Casyn Risler

January 9th, 1998

Dahlia was walking home from school and listening to music at the same time but nothing bad was going to happen…yet.

When I got home all the lights were off and I couldn’t see anything except my light up Spidey shoes! But eventually when I found the light switch, I heard creaking all around me. And because I was so startled I DIDN’T go looking for whatever it was and just left it alone, but the thought of something in my house lingered in my head.

Whatever it is, is still in my house lurking, watching, and following me just waiting to strike. And little did I know I was gonna find it and not in a good way…

Moments later, while I was cleaning my dishes from dinner which was very good for a 15-year-old girl, if I do say so myself.

But, just as I was lighting my candles for my cake, I felt a very sharp pain in my back and not like a cramp but like a blade of some sort?

Whoever was in my house, just murdered me…

As I was slowly but painfully dying all I could think was who and why...

Like who would kill me?

And why on my 15th birthday?

{TIME SKIP}

I’ve been dead for 2 years and 7 months. What was once January 9th, 1998, is now Aug 9, 2000 and no one has come to my gravesite ever

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since The Incident. Although, they say my house is “Haunted and I'm still lurking around the property” they're not wrong.

All I’m saying is that I would’ve enjoyed it if at least 1 person came to my grave and put new flowers. I’m not back but I will be, and I'm coming back fast, cold, and deadly, just waiting for revenge on whoever murdered me on my 15th birthday, and the only thing I have to say is.

SURPRISE.

Because that's the last thing they're going to hear.

Besides that, as my spirit wandered the property. I heard the same creaking I did right before it happened, and then that's when I saw her, my mom?

She and my dad left me when I was 12 and never came back, so I was raised by my grandparents but they had been out of town that weekend on their anniversary when it happened.

And then it hit me, and not just because I had accidentally walked right through her,

My mom is my … murderer ?

I was just second guessing myself right? I mean I get the woman didn’t like me as much as she should’ve, because I’m her daughter and I had been nothing but nice to her and loved her up until she left, but why would she kill me?

I didn’t even know why I would think this but it kind of made sense, I mean her leaving and saying that she would come back “ready” and my dad following right behind her.

And guess what?

He was right outside the house acting like he was on “look-out” or something but I knew they were up to no good and when I find them again.

I WILL BE BACK FOR REVENGE.

{TIME SKIP}

Now it’s 2001 January 9th, 3 years after my death date.

I have it all planned out and soon you will understand why I want this so much, so let me tell instead of you waiting and yes I know it’s weird for a ghost to be telling you a story but this NEEDS to be shared and FAST!!

Picture this, it was March 1986. About 12 years before I died, keep in mind I was only 6. I heard my parents panicking and talking and mom was pacing back and forth a lot saying how she “accidently” hit an old lady. I didn’t want them to hear me cry so I ran into my room and locked the door, hoping she wouldn't come in at all.

But my dad is kind of the good guy in the situation but not really and what he said was even worse, all he said to her was “We’ll just cover it up like the other times.”

OTHER TIMES??

At that point I just let the words sink in for the rest of that night and possibly the rest of my life because now that’s all I can think about.

Like did my mom know that I knew?

Did she even love me?

Or did she do it to cover another one of their murders?

And what a surprise—they’re back. I have a little something in store for them:

I made myself so known it seemed like they didn't ever want to come back. Which is good but that's a story for another day.

Soon after there were reporters, cops, mobs, and so much circling my house but I was cackling in the attic and that's the one place they never ever looked because they didn't know it was even there.

Now my house is the infamous:

Dahlia Blackwood Manor.

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And if anyone dares to set foot in this house they won't be leaving.

And I want them to have a long, slow, painful death, just like me.

Rebecca Ou

Katherine Hale

…A pair of bright lights…swerving, screeching tires…a violent crash…lights and sirens… a steady heart rate monitor beeping… then nothing for a long, long while...Then an icy breeze across her face sends shivers down her body…As she gains consciousness, she feels the gentle flow of an AC unit to her right blow on her arm and face.

In her sleep, the cool air had significantly cooled them, compared to the warmth of the rest of her body which resided under soft, warm sheets. She wasn’t sure where she was or how she got there, but she could hear the city’s sounds from the streets below. The buzzing of plumbing and AC units from floors above and below. The minimal honks and hums from the cars of the early morning hour and the sirens of the ever-on-the-move first responders. She took a breath of cold air and opened her sleep-crusted, heavy-lidded eyes to a window with open blinds in which the last beams of moonlight and first rays of sunlight were peeking through. She moved to sit up and stretch when she felt a warm presence in the bed beside her. Again, where was she? How did she get here? And who was this mystery person she’d apparently slept with? Those were all questions for after she’d relieved the sudden heavy pressure on her bladder and boosted her morning with a warm cup of anything caffeinated.

Untangling herself from the cozy confines of the bed, she slugged her way down the long hall. As the sleep-induced fog slowly lifted from her mind, leaving a throbbing migraine in its wake, she became aware of the unfamiliar, yet comforting clothes she was wearing; clothes she couldn’t recall putting on. The wood floors of the seemingly infinite hallway were uncomfortably chilly to her bare feet as she was not wearing the usual pair of fuzzy socks she’d made a habit of sleeping in. As she padded through the last of the hallway she came upon a T-shaped fork that led, in order from left to right, to an eclectic kitchen, a closed door to a bathroom, and a spacious living room. As she opened

the closed bathroom door, her foot grazed a bowl on the floor. There sat two pairs of animal bowls, one on either side of the bathroom door. The four-legged creatures they presumably belonged to were not to be found. Like every other odd detail of this morning she had noticed, she did a double-take, thought for a moment about why she was in this place, shrugged her shoulders, and then moved on.

The bathroom was clean, but untidy. Each of the two inlaid, porcelain sinks had several products or clothing pieces littered around the bowl. The tall, dirty-clothes bin in the corner behind the furthest sink was so full, the lid couldn’t close all the way and several pieces of clothing had either fallen from it or had never made it in. The back half of the bathroom, which housed the toilet and shower, was a bit tidier but the mismatched bath towels and empty toilet paper roll disclosed its true nature.

After her essential morning pit stop, she walked out of the bathroom and into the open kitchen. It too was messy but less so. There were no dirty dishes in the stainless-steel sink and the round, wooden table was barren, sans a small bowl of fruit in the center. However, the trash needed to be emptied and there was a stack of bills and packages on one of the counters. Again, she registered the state of the kitchen and then swiftly moved on. She sleepily traversed the room like she’d been there for years, though of course, she knew that was impossible.

A metal coffee machine and a bag of pre-ground coffee sat to the right of the kitchen sink. She grabbed the coffee-stained pot, turned on the tap to fill it, then poured the water into the machine. Even the smell was enough to brighten her mind slightly. As the glorious liquid brewed, which should rescue her from this odd stupor, she leaned back against the cold, stone counter and looked through the archways of the kitchen and the living room and out of the large open windows onto the brightening city sky. The part of the living room she could see from this position was clean but just as personalized as the rest of the apartment. She couldn’t recall anything from the night prior, but she didn’t have the debilitating symptoms of a hangover so she knew she hadn’t gotten drunk enough to black out. As she examined her mind and body

more she didn’t feel a single symptom of intoxication, so maybe she hadn’t gotten drunk at all.

The coffee machine beeped, signaling the end of its brew, just as she began to really contemplate what led her here. She heard a soft pair of footsteps following the same path through the apartment that she had taken. She poured the coffee for herself and then, almost subconsciously, grabbed another mug from the upper left cabinet and filled it. Next to the ground coffee were two bowls, one contained tiny, plastic cups of creamer, and the other held sugar cubes. She put double cream and a lump of sugar in hers but only one cream in the other. As she familiarly barista-ed in the comfortable apartment she swore she had never before been in, a cozy set of arms wrapped around her waist. However, she didn’t know whose apartment she was in, whose coffee mugs she was holding, or whose arms, and now chin, were habitually trapping her. At this sudden wave of awareness, she quickly set the steaming mugs down, careful not to burn herself or the stranger, pushed her way out of the stranger’s arms, and put several feet of space between them.

The stranger, who presumably owned the apartment in which she’d awakened, was taller than she and sculpted around the arms and shoulders. Their dark, chin-length hair was tousled by sleep, their grey Tshirt was heavily wrinkled, and their green and white plaid sleep shorts had ridden up slightly. The stranger's warm caramel skin was paling in panic as their eyes widened in surprise. They tried to take a step closer with their hands out as one would do with a wounded animal. As if to comfort her. But she took another step back. Then the stranger spoke.

“My love,” they said in a raspy, sleep-addled voice, “I think you don’t remember me right now but that’s okay. Let’s take a seat and I can try to help you remember?” They gestured to the wooden table and chairs that filled the left half of the kitchen. She recognized this place, these clothes, and this person, but could not understand why.

“Tell me your name first and where I am!” She ordered sternly but quietly, not one to make a scene for no reason.

“I am your spouse Julien…” They extended their right hand closer, not close enough to touch but close enough that she could see the wedding band on their ring finger. “…and this is the apartment we rent

together in Portland, Oregon. The ring you’re wearing on your left hand is the one we designed together, four years ago before we were married.” She looked down at her left ring finger and found a matching one. Both rings had an ornate design. Inlaid in a golden figure-eight were two stones, one blue and the other green. She knew she had blue eyes and if she looked up at her spouse she knew they had green.

“If you look out this window,” they pointed to the window above the table, “you can see the coast.” She did as they said and found that they were right. She turned her head to the left to look through the window and in the morning sunlight, through the other buildings she could just make out a scattered reflection of the ocean. She looked back at the spouse she didn’t know and sat at the table. They followed.

“Why am I here? Why don’t I know you or this apartment?”

“About a year ago you were in a car crash in which you suffered a severe concussion. It caused a type of amnesia that made you forget some of your long-term memories. It also damaged the part of your brain that retains new memories. Your old memories came back eventually but the brain damage causes seizures that sometimes happen in your sleep. The seizures only happen in that part of your brain, so when you wake up after a seizure, you forget all over again.” Shallow tears began to well in Julien’s eyes and they grabbed her hand and enclosed it within both of theirs. “Your neurologist knows about the seizures and is trying to find a medication that will reduce them or stop them altogether but so far she hasn’t been successful.”

She didn’t know what to think. It was all a lot to take in while sitting down. She needed to move around a little. As she arose from the table a cold, wet nose bumped her leg. She looked down to find a blueeyed Australian shepherd with the cutest white ears.

“Hi, Willow.” She said out of habit. “Willow! Your name is Willow, isn’t it?” She was looking down at the dog but she was asking Julien. They nodded and the couple smiled at the small success. She made her way out of the kitchen and back into the forked halfway, at the other end was the bedroom she’d woken up in and the front door to the right. Along the hallway were pictures of her and Julien with their friends and family. More faces she recognized but couldn’t remember. In the frame closest

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to the living room arch was a certificate. In the center in heavy, golden, letters read “Jamie and Julien Moore, intertwined forever, 3/19/2019. Right next to the framed certificate was a picture of the newlyweds holding a baby Willow and a large black cat. She knew the cat’s name was Marcy like she knew Willow’s.

After a while of looking at countless frames, trying to remember, and then moving on to the next, hazy memories began to return. A lazy afternoon in college. A spring date in the park with Julien. The day Willow and Marcy were chaotically introduced. Picture after picture. Memory after memory. She realized tears had fallen and then dried on her cheeks. Julien came to stand beside her and interlocked their hands. Their wedding ring clinked against hers and she remembered that because of their Situs Inversus- a condition that flips the entire circulatory system to the right- Julien’s heart was on the right side so they wore their ring on their right hand as well. The sun had fully risen by the time she turned to Julien.

“Do you remember?” They asked, both hands now intertwined with hers.

“Yes,” she said as she nodded her head. “I am Jamie. You are Julien. This is our home. These are our friends and family. This is our story and I remember!”

What are words and why do we speak them so? When waves wash upon my brain’s sandy shore, I ask the rain of places I should go. Eyes locked on the stars, feet glued to the floor. The tickets have been in my name, yet The trains have come and gone from the station. Dreaming is merely a futile outlet, For small ideas and poor dictation. A reality beyond my pen’s reach, Not far from my eyes but still locked inside… Now I walk upon that gray-scaled beach, My forgotten words are what I have spied. My feet sink, in the soft prose and redounds, Of these little songs and little sounds.

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Deeksha Vissapragada

Siyona Mehta

“Can you go back?”

“Never.”

”But don’t you want another chance?”

—“Always.”

”you’re special”

“No. I’m not.”

”you’re kind”

“ I try.”

”you love—”

—“Don’t lie to me.”

I can’t love anymore.

”you’re lost?”

“Yes, I am.”

”you’re scared?

—“Ever since.”

“You cry?”

—“I know.”

”Are you okay?

“Of course!”

“I’m fine.”

I’m fine.

I’m angry, I’m hurt, I’m miserable, I’m scared, I’m quiet but the voices in my head won’t SHUT UP. I’m sorry.

I’m alive, I’m broken, I’m kind, I’m outspoken, I live with a smile hiding years of torture. I’m sorry.

I’m regretful, I’m nostalgic, I’m unfortunate, I’m desperate, I’m grasping at straws, reaching out to emptiness.

I’m so sorry.

I’m joyful, I’m lively, I’m loved, I’m heartless, I’m never going to retrieve what I’ve lost.

I’m so, so sorry.

But I won’t apologize for myself.

I scream, I thrash, I fight, I cry, I run and never look back.

I’m not sorry.

I smile, I laugh, I boast, I live, I win and I’m proud of every step.

I’m not sorry.

I lie, I envy, I crush, I hope, I will never give up trying.

I’m not sorry.

I love, I change, I feel, I stress, I try my best and it’s never enough.

I’m not sorry.

I’m not sorry I kept trying

I’m not sorry for surviving.

I’m not afraid to fall.

I won’t apologize for myself.

I will never apologize for myself.

Zoey Wilkinson

Ava Anthony

2:20 pm – 2:46 PM

November 21, 2024

Mutiny is as simple as a train

Deny passage then starts a reign

To hide away needs determination

Yet to hijack is their choice to remain

Black beady eyes of rats in finery

Claim rule over innovation, declare robbery

“Steal all ideals, leave them in mockery!”

Yet they perish by hands of occupancy

Shall beasts comprehend or remain blind

There is no understanding in a pigeons mind

To scowl in age is how they survived

But to continue the train all old have died

Will denial of all new stay?

Will new turn old and push innovation away?

How can love seek a place to grow and play

When rats ate the sheep for a penny

Eloise Wegenka

In the quaint village of Pastaville, nestled between the rolling hills of amber-vill, lived a colony of Pasta People. Half pasta, half-human, they were a vibrant blend of spaghetti limbs, penne arms, and ravioli faces.

At the heart of Pastaville was a plaza where the Pasta People gathered to celebrate their love for pasta. Every Sunday, the smell of yummy pasta filled the air as they prepared for their weekly feast. There was Penelope, a very nice lady with bowtie pasta ears, known for her delicious pesto. Then there was Giovani, a tall fellow with long, spaghetti legs, who could whip up a delicious red sauce quickly.

One day, a mysterious traveler named Basil arrived in Pastaville. With him, he brought a bag filled with spices and herbs. The Pasta People were curious, but they welcomed him warmly. Basil quickly fell in love with the colony.

As the weeks went by, Basil shared stories from far-off lands and taught the Pasta People how to add spices to their dishes. Inspired, the Pasta People began experimenting with their creations. Soon, they were hosting “flavoring” nights, blending their beloved pasta with the spices and techniques Basil introduced.

But not everyone in Pastaville was pleased. Grumpy old cannelloni named Mr. Cannoli, set in his ways, felt that the Pasta People were straying too far from their roots. He missed the days when they simply twirled spaghetti with marinara and nothing more. One evening, he confronted the community during a gathering.

“You’ve forgotten who you are!” he shouted, his cannelloni shell trembling. “Pasta is meant to be simple and traditional!”

The crowd fell silent, unsure how to respond. Basil stepped forward. “Tradition is important,” he said, “but so is growth. By embracing new flavors, we’re celebrating our love for pasta in a way that honors both our past and our future.”

After a moment of contemplation, the Pasta People began to murmur. They realized that change could coexist with tradition. Penelope proposed a compromise: a grand feast where each person could create a dish that combined their heritage with something new.

Excitement filled the air as preparations began. The day of the feast arrived, and the plaza was decorated with colorful banners made of dried pasta. Tables overflowed with dishes spaghetti with saffron, ravioli stuffed with spicy chorizo, and a towering lasagna layered with roasted vegetables.

As they sat down to enjoy their creations, even Mr. Cannoli couldn’t resist the enticing aromas. Hesitantly, he took a bite of a truffleinfused rigatoni made by Giovanni. A spark of joy lit up his face. “This is… amazing!” he exclaimed, much to the delight of everyone around.

The feast turned into a celebration of unity, creativity, and love for pasta. The Pasta People realized that their community was enriched by diversity and that blending traditions could lead to delicious new beginnings.

From that day forward, Pastaville thrived, embracing the spirit of innovation while honoring its roots. The Pasta People learned that, like their beloved dishes, life is a perfect mix of the old and the new, and together they created a recipe for happiness that would last for generations to come.

In a garden where the shadows play, A clockmaker tends to the dreams of day. Ticking flowers, petals unwind, Each bloom a secret, each stem a sign. The sun dips low, casting amber light, As whispers of time weave through the night. A winding path of silver and gold, Holds stories of hearts, both young and old.

Beneath the surface, a river flows, Where the clockmaker’s wisdom silently grows.

He carves the moments, both bitter and sweet, In the rhythm of time, where past and present meet.

Yet in this haven, where time seems to pause, The clockmaker knows there’s a hidden cause. For every tick is a choice to embrace, The fleeting hours that we cannot replace.

So wander this garden, take heed of the signs, In each fragile petal, a truth intertwines. For life is a clock, with hands that won't wait, And the moments we cherish determine our fate.

Neha Kalluvilayil

My family is a storm Faces blurred by rain

Sitting quietly in the kitchen

As if a tornado isn’t brewing inside

My family is a sunny day Walking, hand in hand

Like yesterday, and all those days before Did not happen

Rivaan Patel

Emma Saunders was a small girl of eight years old with messy brown hair and wide, blue eyes. She was rather tiny, often hidden behind second-hand clothes that hung a little too loosely on her thin frame. Life at home was… difficult, to say the least. Her father, a towering figure with an ever-present scowl, always reeked of stale alcohol, while her mother, once vibrant and full of laughter, had faded into a quiet, distant shell. Emma had learned to fend for herself early on, but what she truly longed for was a friend.

One rainy night, as the gentle sound of droplets pattered against her bedroom window, Emma sat on the floor with a crumpled piece of paper clutched tightly in her small hands. She’d found it in the dusty corner of the school library a strange, yellowed scrap of paper with smeared ink that described a ritual to summon some sort of… thing. According to the text, if she followed the instructions precisely, she could summon a companion, one who would always be by her side, so long as they struck a deal.

With a deep breath, Emma whispered the incantation, stumbling over a few of the unfamiliar words but pushing on, her voice a quiet murmur in the darkened room. Her small hands trembled as she finished the last line, feeling both silly and hopeful.

When she opened her eyes, the light in her room seemed to have dimmed unnaturally. Shadows pooled in the corners, thicker and darker than they should have been. In one of those shadows, something stirred a tall, shifting mass of darkness slowly took form. It was roughly human-shaped but faceless, its features indistinct and cloaked in shadow. Emma could feel its presence cold, unsettling, and yet strangely… comforting.

“Are… are you my friend?” she asked in a small voice, her heart hammering. The shadow tilted its head, as though considering her question, then gave a slow, deliberate nod.

A warm spark ignited in Emma’s chest, filling her with a flicker of hope. She straightened up, eyes bright. “Then we’ll be friends. I’ll call you… Shade.” A small smile crept onto her face, and the shadow seemed to shift in response, a soft, reassuring sensation filling her mind, like a gentle hum of approval.

Shade didn’t speak—not in words, at least. But it communicated through feelings and images that flickered in Emma’s mind like scenes from a silent movie. She could feel its intent, and she sensed a hunger within it a desire not for food, but for purpose, for a bond. She thought for a moment, then her face lit up with an idea.

“Let’s make a deal,” she whispered, her voice filled with determination. “You’ll be my shadow, my friend, and you’ll protect me. In return, you can… you can stay with me. Always.”

The shadow figure seemed to lean closer, as if weighing her offer. Emma bit her lip, uncertain, then spotted a cookie she had saved from lunch lying on her dresser. She grabbed it and offered it up, smiling nervously. “And, uh… here’s a cookie!”

Shade looked as incredulous as a shadow could and took the cookie in a manner that seemed impossible—its shadowy form enveloped the treat, and somehow, it vanished as though consumed. Shade shuddered, a subtle tremor of satisfaction, then melted into a dark pool on the floor. Slowly, it spread until it aligned itself with Emma’s own shadow, slipping into place beneath her feet. From that moment on, she knew, her shadow wasn’t just hers anymore. It was Shade.

The next morning, Emma woke to the unexpected smell of something warm and savory drifting through the air. She crept out of bed, tiptoeing to the kitchen, only to find a plate of scrambled eggs and toast waiting on the table. Her mother was nowhere in sight, and her father was snoring heavily on the couch, his arm draped over an empty bottle.

“Did you make this, Shade?” she whispered, glancing down at her shadow. For a brief moment, her shadow seemed to shiver with pride, then resumed its usual stillness.

Emma grinned, a small giggle escaping her as she sat down to eat. Shade didn’t speak, but she felt its quiet companionship, a steady presence that filled the hollow ache inside her. Over the following days,

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she realized Shade had a protective streak it would stir angrily whenever her father yelled or stumbled around the house with clumsy, heavy footsteps. Sometimes, she’d feel Shade’s urge to lash out, a dark, simmering fury radiating from her shadow. But she would shake her head and murmur, “It’s okay, Shade. I’m used to it. Don’t do anything.”

Shade would calm down, but the tension in the air would linger, a silent promise waiting in the dark.

At school, Emma decided to introduce Shade to her only friend, Sarah Miller. Sarah was a cheerful girl with red hair and freckles who didn’t seem to care that Emma’s clothes were hand-me-downs or that she was quiet and strange.

“Do you want to meet my friend?” Emma whispered one day as they sat under the jungle gym during recess, away from the prying eyes of the other kids. Sarah tilted her head, curious.

“You have a friend?” she asked with a giggle.

Emma smiled and nodded. “It’s name is Shade. They’re… special.”

She glanced down at her shadow, and, almost as if on cue, it shifted slightly, rippling in an unnatural way. Sarah gasped, her eyes widening, but then she laughed, a bit nervously. “You’re so weird, Emma,” she said, shaking her head. “But I like it.”

Emma felt Shade’s silent approval, and her heart swelled. She had a friend, two friends, even Sarah and Shade.

That afternoon, Emma walked home with a spring in her step. But as she pushed open the door to her house, her smile faded. The living room was eerily quiet. She saw her mother lying on the floor, her face pale, and a thin trickle of blood staining her hairline.

Her father was standing over her mother, his expression twisted, his eyes glassy with rage and something else something dangerous. He looked up, his gaze landing on Emma, and his mouth twisted into a scowl.

“Get over here,” he snarled, his voice slurring.

Emma froze, fear gripping her like icy chains. She backed away, her fingers clutching the door frame, her heart racing.

In a desperate whisper, she murmured, “Shade… help me… make it go away.”

She didn’t mean her father, not specifically. But Shade interpreted her plea differently, or perhaps it had been waiting for this moment all along. Her shadow shivered, then peeled away from her feet, rising up like a dark, silent wave. Emma watched, wide-eyed, as Shade advanced on her father, cloaking him in thick, impenetrable darkness.

The last thing she heard was a muffled thud, followed by silence. When Shade returned to her side, it slipped back into her shadow without a sound. Emma’s gaze fell on her parents, both lying still on the floor. Her mind buzzed with confusion, a child’s limited understanding of life and death struggling to make sense of the scene before her. Shade gently nudged her, sending images into her mind—images of her wiping her hands, tidying up, making everything look normal.

In a daze, Emma obeyed. She moved through the motions, wiping away the blood, arranging things carefully, her hands steady but her mind numb. Shade guided her, a quiet presence that steadied her as she worked. Hours later, she climbed into bed, exhausted but feeling strangely… safe.

The next morning, Emma found a newspaper lying on the kitchen counter. She couldn’t read all the words, but the headline was clear enough:

“Local Couple Dies in Tragic Car Accident: Animal Attack Suspected.”

Emma’s young mind struggled to process the story. Car accident? Animal attack? They were at home… weren’t they?

She looked down at her shadow, confusion and a hint of sadness stirring within her. Shade didn’t respond, but she felt its quiet satisfaction, wrapping around her like a dark, protective blanket. Unbeknownst to her, Shade had taken care of everything, crafting a story to cover up the truth, ensuring that Emma would be safe from any consequences. It knew better than anyone what would befall even a child should anyone suspect her to somehow have a hand in her parents’ deaths. It couldn’t help them when it was alive, but it could at least try to help this child.

As the days passed, Emma resumed her life with a quiet resilience. She missed her parents in a distant, muted way, but she knew

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Shade was there for her, more protective than ever. Her shadow was more than just a silhouette on the ground it was her friend, her guardian, her silent companion.

And as Emma grew older, she held onto that one truth: a friend always keeps their promises.

Skyler Payne

A grave mistake for it has made a coltish sheep, a bed it has laid tromping around too primrose to notice frilly flowers, stamped-down vines and the leaves, scattered by design

Down the lamb drops

A noble creature a-far-away stops His ears perked, intelligence keen Oh, dear, what a sight to be seen! His coat lined with the finest of wool, a boot and hat to play the fool

“Oh Mr.,” she pleads, her voice naive, “I’ve gotten myself stuck; won’t you relieve?”

The wolf, unavowed, trying to decieve with her, blinded by a familiar sleeve

“Well, I’d be delighted to help, can’t you see?

Someone like you seems to need someone like me.” and with his fangs, drawing ever near she speaks the words she’ll forever hear “Dearly”

Koti Wood

Bobby Ritchey

This is not the story I intended. That story was to take place in an apartment we rented in the 5th Arrondissement. It has all gone wrong, once again.

I am single.

I am in Paris.

And now it is raining.

Only one of those was planned and one was because of me. Possibly the rain as well.

Now I am staying in a tiny, cheap hotel room. Past the adult theater (which was not listed in the description on the website). Alone, in case I have not mentioned that.

He is in the apartment we rented. He has probably already found someone new. I don’t care.

That is a lie, I do care.

I lie to myself a lot.

I am not prepared for any of this. I don’t even have an umbrella. I walk into the first café I come across. Luckily, it seems that you are never far from one. It is still early. Lunch is not upon us yet. The room is darker than I expected. A small bar is along the back wall with wine glasses that hang from a rack above the counter. Two waiters, in their typical white, long-sleeved shirts and black aprons, stand watch beside the bar, talking. An older gentleman in a tweed sports coat, sits at a table by himself along the back wall. The pictures on the dark red walls are of old things: buildings, people, random objects, all to try and make time slow down inside the café. Nothing is rushed here. The further back in the café you go, the more time becomes less important.

I go all the way back, to a table adjacent to the old man.

The waiter brings me the menu, a single laminated page. Keep things simple. No book of choices. All I want is a glass of wine. House. I have to use my budget wisely.

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The old man, sitting at the table beside me, smiles and says something rapidly in French. There is not a single word I can latch onto. A melody of sounds that is more a song than a sentence.

“Pardon, no…” I cannot think of how to say ‘I cannot speak French.’ The first thing that pops into my head is ‘No habla…” but that is the wrong language. “…um, no francaise?” My face has an anguished look of frustration. Damn languages.

“Ah, tu ne parles pas francais. American, yes?”

“Yes.”

“They will treat you well here, don’t worry,” he replies sweetly. A cane leans against the wall behind him. He is probably in his 80s but I am horrible at guessing ages. His hair is grey and messy. His skin hangs down as if it were tired and beginning to slowly fall off. There is more skin than he currently needs. He has a slight tremble as he takes a drink of his wine. He sets the glass down and then pushes the base of the glass back slightly. “Is this your first time here?” he asks.

I am not sure if he means the café or Paris, but the answer is the same. “Yes.”

“And you are here, by yourself?”

“Yes, I am now,” I say. I know, I know! Never, ever say yes you are alone. But I did. I feel alone and do not feel like lying about it. Not anymore. Not about anything.

“As am I,” he says quietly. “But now we are not.”

‘No, I am still alone,’ I think to myself. Now more than ever. We are apparently going to be having a conversation. I just wanted to get out of the rain. The waiter comes with the wine which is needed.

I broke up with Benton yesterday morning. You find out more about a person and your relationship on an eight-hour flight where you are stuck together without any distractions than you do in nine months of dating. Small things you ignore before begin to stack up, one on top of another, and by the time we landed, after eight hours of no sleep while he dozed away, and with nothing else to think about, our relationship was doomed. There was nothing left. And so I ended it the next morning. I had made a hotel reservation at a place I could afford while he was sleeping. I packed my things quietly and I waited until he woke up. And then…yeah.

There is more to all of that, but I don’t want to get into it right now. I am not ready. Everything is falling apart. My friends are leaving. Graduation is a couple of months away. Not for me, I have another semester in the fall. I am the last one and that is the worst. It has all been hitting me lately. Maybe I was just avoiding the realization of this, but they are going to be gone. Ashley, my roommate, is getting married. People are moving. New jobs. Careers that they are focused on. Now what? Everyone always says that nothing will change but what else are they going to say? No, everything changes. It is a new life. A new life for them but an old life for me. Why? What was wrong with where we were at? It is all gone. Just like that. I am just there, and I don’t know what I am going to do.

They left me.

That is what it felt like to me.

I am not ready for this. I don’t know what to do. And no real options. Soon in a degree in something that I just randomly picked because I had to pick something.

I am being too honest, and I don’t like it.

He begins. “This is a good place to sit and watch the day pass by. There is no need to rush. The day is going to happen so why try to rush, ehh? I get up at 6:00. I get up at 8:00. The same day is still happening. I don’t rush the day anymore. I let the day go about its business. I don’t get in its way. It has plenty to do already. I am old so I try not to be noticed by the day. I want it to slip quietly by so I can make it to another one.” He turns to smile at me. His eyes hang down. They are old. Worn. Even the smile is worn, no longer full of what it once was, of the attention that it gave him with others. He goes back to staring out towards the windows.

A couple comes in. Young, not much older than I. They share an umbrella that they fold up as they come through the door. This is a place for us, those without umbrellas, without others. They should go back to the sidewalk. Dine at the tables along the street while holding their precious umbrella.

The old man does not seem to care. They stayed up front, by the windows, to be seen by the day. I look back down at my wine, twisting the glass by the stem. That couple was supposed to be me. A completely

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different type of trip. A normal trip. Not here, in the back of a café but in the front. Involved in the day, in the world. Happy. A world that I can never seem to be part of for long. I take a deep breath. Sigh.

He looks back at me for a second and then says, “It is a terrible feeling. It hits you when you come home for the first time and there is no one there. When you go to sleep at night and it is quiet. It is a different type of quiet. After my wife passed, Annette…,” he paused. “I never noticed all the little sounds, the noises, that she made. Now they are all gone. The sounds of her breathing. The sound of her slippers as she slightly dragged her feet across the floor when she walked. A sigh when she could not fall asleep. I would open the windows, hoping the sounds of the city would drown out the silence but it was still quiet.”

I just want something to drink. I didn’t need any help feeling depressed. I already have that covered. If this keeps up, we will both be drunk, crying of past lost friends and lovers, in the back of this café.

“My friends have left,” I begin without even thinking about it. “They are gone on to new lives. Getting married. Getting new jobs in new places. And I broke up with my boyfriend, here, in Paris, because I realized that there was nothing there. He was just a someone. They are not dead, but they are not there. Not anymore,” I said to old man. I felt awful for saying it. This was nothing like what he was going through. I know. I know. But it is the truth. And it hurts like hell.

He is quiet. And the longer he is quiet, the worse I feel.

“I’m sorry,” he mumbles.

The waiter comes up. The old man speaks quickly in French, and the waiter nods and leaves. I figure the old man has had enough of my whining and is getting his cheque. I would not blame him. I will wait for him to leave and then I will go as well. Damn the rain.

The waiter returns with two glasses of wine, placing one on my table and the second on his. The old man looks at me and says, “May the hurt always let us remember the better times, my friend,” as he raises his glass towards me.

‘Damn it!” I thought.

I am not going to cry.

I had barely been holding everything together and he pulls this on me! Now?

I take a deep breath to try and suck it all back in. ‘Ok, I got this,’ I say to myself as I reach for the glass.

And I would be if I had not noticed the tears forming in the corner of his eyes as I turn towards him. Tears not of pain but of good memories he was having of her, of his friends. Now my own tears begin to run down my cheeks. I drink.

The wine is good in a noticeable way. This is not the house wine of before. I drink it slowly, letting the day pass by. Letting everything pass by.

We do not talk for a while and that is right. It would ruin the wine. Talking usually does that. Instead, we enjoy the comfort that has settled between us. I want to stay here, in the back of this tiny cafe, in this moment. The pain is not gone but it is okay. I don’t know how to explain it, but I am okay. And I will gladly take okay. It is not until he is nearly finished with his glass does he begin to talk again.

“I miss her cassoulet. That first day, when the temperature drops, and you know that fall has finally come. That was when she would always make a cassoulet. I would love to have that again. You do not realize the effect that people have on food until they are gone. The meals that people make when they care about you, that is the dish that will live with you forever. Nothing will ever taste as good. No restaurant can ever recreate it. I can follow her recipe, step by step,” he says slowly, “but something is always off. It never tastes the same.”

I have never thought about that. I remember my grandmother’s rolls. Those large dinner rolls that she would always make, far larger than they needed to be. The tops ballooned out over the baking pan. They were the size of softballs, glistening with butter on their golden-brown tops. When you walked in, that was the first thing you smelled. One would have been plenty, but my sister and I were always good for at least two. Vegetables would have to be sacrificed to save room for the rolls. Three was too much but we would try anyway. And so began my love of carbs.

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“I am just some old fool now,” he chuckles at himself. “It is not my world anymore. That is hard,” he says as his head moves slightly up and down as if he is agreeing with himself. “It is hard when you are left behind and you don’t know how things work anymore. Things you don’t understand or see a need. The world moves faster than I do. There are those that want to go back, back to when they were somebody. But that is no more.” He finishes off his wine.

“There comes a time,” he says as he turns to me, “when you realize that it is no longer about you. That it is now your turn to give. A time when your body begins to fade from what it once was and you realize it will not last, but you have something that will. Some, they never see it. But that is where immortality lies. Immortality is not about your body. I saw that when Annette died. I bent down to kiss her, and her body was cold. A coldness I was not expecting. It shocked me. And then I knew that this was not her, it was just her body. Everything that was her was gone from it. What I had loved about her had nothing to do with what was lying before me. Everything that made her her was still with me. She died, yes, but she is still alive in me. In others that knew her. That is immortality. So now I try to give back to others, however I can. Little bits of myself. Pieces here and there. Now there are parts of me that will carry on. To places I have never seen. The first part of your life is to take in as much as you can. Then, the next is to give all of that back and let others carry it on. What is the point of keeping it to yourself when you are no longer here, eh? I have no need for it, but others might.” He pauses. “It will never be easy,” he says as he begins to slowly get up. “It will hurt because we are still alive. It will hurt because we care. And that is beautiful, yes. I hope you enjoyed the wine as much as I did.”

“Yes, thank you. Merci,” I say, wiping another tear.

“Au revoir.” The waiter quietly comes over and hands him his cane as he stands up. He straightens his coat, nods to the waiter, and slowly heads to the door.

Except for a tiny part of himself that he leaves with me to carry on.

Avery Fullbright

This paper details the relative horrors that persist through our prison systems. It honestly wasn't exactly light reading. It's a ton of government paperwork to go through, horror stories, and for lack of a better term, sobering source material. However, researching this was like watching a train wreck; you just can't look away. It's a problem that has persisted in Texas for a particularly long time, and something that has gone relatively unaddressed. Finding sources for prison reform is so easy. There are so many academic sources, as well as organizations based around advocating for reform. However, there's not a lot for a rebuttal. There's pretty much an overarching agreement that the conditions are awful. That's the feedback I'd like to get about how I presented my argument. I had difficulty finding that true concession to refute other than ‘well jails are supposed to be a punishment.’ I would like more academic good sources to be able to refute. For this I honestly had to DIY myself, and cobble together different things. However, the amount of points I had to use for my point were plentiful, and definitely made up for it. This was a super interesting topic, and is definitely one I can spin a yarn on for pages and pages up upon my soapbox. It definitely better educated me and gave me a better insight to a community I would have never otherwise known and that's very cool. I also use AI to generate my title and proofread my paper/give suggestions. I have learned that it's mostly awful but gives good generic advice, but it gives good clever titles.

Davy Crockett, after losing his final bid for Congress in 1835, famously told the crowd gathered, “you may all go to hell and I will go to Texas.” but for some odd 146,000 inmates Texas may be their own personal hell. The US Office of Justice Programs declares all prison-like institutions to maintain the goals to promote “retribution, rehabilitation,

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deterrence, and incapacitation” despite these rather lofty goals so often Texas prison systems disappoint. Prison conditions remain deeply unsafe for those incarcerated due to excessive heat and lack of AC that poses significant risks to the well-being and lives of inmates housed within our prison system.

The Texas A&M Office of the Texas State Climatologist states in their ASSESSMENT of HISTORIC and FUTURE TRENDS of EXTREME WEATHER IN TEXAS, 1900-2036, “If summertime temperatures rise at a similar rate as the projected annual Texas average, the typical number of 100-degree days [will] nearly double, to about 21 per year, by 2036.” Now considering this August the new 100 degrees became 105 degrees we've got quite literally a hot problem that's not going away anytime soon. Texas is one of 13 states in the US where prisons do not and have never required universal air conditioning in its state sponsored prisons. However, the Texas Minimum jail standards does have heat mitigating routines for the hot texas summers. “temperature levels shall be reasonably maintained between 65 degrees Fahrenheit and 85 degrees Fahrenheit in occupied areas, Warm and cold water shall be provided at all lavatories. Cells shall be provided with lavatories capable of providing drinking water." The TDCJ also aims to mitigate the heat with “limited access to “cooled beds” or air-conditioned housing areas, the policies include providing drinking water, ice used to cool water temperature, additional cooled showers, fans, and cooled “respite” areas. According to TDCJ, the agency’s policies are meant to provide “sufficient heat mitigation efforts…However, TDCJ noted in 2019 that in practice, implementing this strategy is difficult and that mitigating the risk of heat impacts across the state’s 101 units with approximately 146,000 incarcerated persons with varying medical vulnerabilities and security characteristics “presents a unique challenge and requires a comprehensive system-wide approach." (TAMU)

The TDCJ is correct in their statement that gross lack of air conditioning in prisons poses an extreme health risk to the 146,000 incarcerated individuals in Texas during our hot summer months. Units regularly reach 110 with some units measuring internal temps of 149 degrees (TAMU). In August of this year in federal courts former and

current inmates testified about the conditions inside Texas prisons due to the heat. Texas inmates stated “they would inflict harm on themselves or set fires to be moved out of their hot cells. Sometimes, they’d lay, nearly naked, in puddles on the floor to cool off.” Marci Marie Simmons, who was incarcerated in Texas for 10 years for theft, states how she would splash toilet water on her face to stay cool. Simmons would spend her days tending crops on a 1,200-acre farm surrounding the Lane Murray Unit, a women’s prison in central Texas. She claims the inside of the prison was often hotter than the outside fields. “What that feels like is the inside of a hot car in summer.” (KUT NEWS) However, often water isn't available. Water shortages and lack of adequate drinking water is all too common inside prisons. This isn't just a matter of people being a little hot, this is killing people. A group of researchers, led by epidemiologist Julianne Skarha Prisoner, discovered “As expected, unusual heat was associated with higher overall mortality. The researchers found for every 10 degree increase above the prison location’s mean summer temperature, nearly 5% of deaths (from all causes) occurring there could be attributed to the heat… further, an extreme heat day was associated with a 3.5% increase in deaths. These extremely hot days had a effect on suicides, which increased by 23% over the three days that followed.” (PPI) Elizabeth Hagerty was found deceased in her cell covered in untreated heat rash, Prisoner John Castillo was found dead in his cell in august 2023 with a core body temp of 107 degrees. The high temps of the prison were deemed a contributing factor to his already extant seizure disorder. Finally, Patrick Womak, another prisoner was found deceased in his cell also in august 2023, on a day with a heat index of 113 degrees in a non air-conditioned cell. His core body temp was 106 degrees. According to an unredacted copy of his autopsy presented in court he was denied a cold shower hours before his death (respective autopsy reports & KUT NEWS). The overall lack of air conditioning in prison has been discussed to be a violation of the US 8th amendment of cruel and unusual punishment. While prisons are meant to be a punishment the extreme heat can pose serious health risks to inmates. As if prison environments weren’t already damaging enough to mental health, the oppressive heat and a prison’s failure to provide relief from it can drive someone into

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unbearable distress. There is a general consensus that there is an issue at hand. There have been too many deaths, too many affected by the dangerous conditions inside our prison system, but why?

Carlee Purdum, a research assistant professor in the Department of Landscape Architecture and Urban Planning and the Hazard Reduction and Recovery Center, says “The argument is that it’s too expensive,” Purdum said. “There is this idea that incarcerated people are undeserving.” Our neighbors in Louisiana have spent over 1 billion dollars in taxpayer dollars in fighting legal fees from families who have had a loved one suffering from heat related conditions. Putting AC alone would cost our state billions of dollars. Law and order. Texas has been known as a law and order state since the birth of the nation. "Law and order" is an ideological approach focusing on harsher enforcement and penalties as ways to reduce crime. Our governor, Greg Abbott, says himself “Texas has always been a law-and-order state, and we must keep it that way.” focusing on harsher prison systems is what we do; it's ingrained into our state history. Danalynn Recer, a Texas lawyer, has developed a theory on this. Texas has “an identity forged in fear, a culture that blended frontier vigilante justice with the ritualized codes of southern honor into a uniquely Texan…tradition.” (let the lord sort them) This has led to a tough stance on punishment where “doing the time” is the natural consequence of “doing the crime.” That sentiment is fine on its own, however it raises questions about the line between appropriate punishment and inhumane treatment. because they're prisoners, they should be punished, and harshly so. Texas lawmakers have been recommending change since 2018, however conservative lawmakers object to this. “Jail should always be safe, but it should not be comfortable,” state Rep. Tony Tinderholt (R) said in a letter responding to the committee report in 2018. “I cannot in good conscience support a plan to spend millions of taxpayer dollars to air condition all state jails for a matter of comfort.” state Rep. Tony Tinderholt is correct in that prison should not be comfortable, but when does it become torture? When does the lack of “comfortability” become inhumane? These prisoners aren't all Mansons and Bundys. While very many prisoners have indeed committed serious crimes that do justify punishment, a significant portion are in

prison for non-violent offenses, drug-related issues, or mistakes stemming from lack of guidance and opportunity. For these inmates, harsher conditions do little to prepare them for reintegration into society upon release. Many of those with conservative views see having comforts in prison as completely contradictory to the very purpose of incarceration. There are worries that making conditions more comfortable/humane could undermine the societal perception of prison as true punishment. However, rehabilitation, education, and proper integration into society can attack crime at its roots, and contribute to overall safer communities, creating a continuous ripple effect that supports a more effective and sustainable approach to law and order.

This being said, what can Texans do to help? Get involved, contact a group and join their efforts! Offer support and take advantage of opportunities for volunteers and donors. The group Texas Prisons Community Advocates “Mission is to serve incarcerated individuals, their impacted families, and to empower all through increased awareness and education and collaboration, thereby creating effective advocates who can advance humane conditions within the Texas prison system.” The group Texas Center for Justice & Equity “advocates at the State Capitol and in counties throughout Texas to end mass incarceration, shift funding towards community support, and reduce racial inequities in the criminal punishment system.” and Texas Incarcerated Families Association is devoted to “Breaking the cycle of crime by strengthening families through education, advocacy, and organizing.” Any one of these groups is a fantastic way to make a difference. Donate, volunteer, and become a part of prison reform in our state.

Contact representatives Contacting your elected representatives is an extremely powerful way to advocate for prison reform in Texas. By sharing your concerns about lack of A/C, inadequate mental healthcare, and sexual violence within the institution you can raise awareness and possibly influence policy. Your voice can help hold officials accountable to public opinion, and ultimately can help lead to a more ethical prison system as a whole. The government defines the role as “representatives introduce bills and resolutions, offer amendments and serve on committees.” It is their job to listen to public opinion and make change.

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Protest! Protests can bring attention to important issues that might otherwise be overlooked or ignored, the media coverage of protests can amplify the message and reach a wider audience. Organize something with your friends. The college of Wisconsin-Madison Led by Mou Banerjee, an assistant professor in the Department of History, and a team of approximately 10 paid student-researchers they have come to the conclusion that ”53% of major nonviolent campaigns [are] successful” Historically, protests have been instrumental in bringing about significant social and political change, from MLK to Gandi we know protest works. Speak out for prison reform. In conclusion, the US Office of Justice Programs declares these institutions are to maintain the goal to promote “retribution, rehabilitation, deterrence, and incapacitation” despite these lofty goals so often Texas prison systems are dangerous, unsafe, and downright unethical. Texas prison conditions are deeply unsafe due to excessive heat/lack of AC, that poses significant risks to the well-being and lives of inmates.

Citations

Advocacy. Texas Incarcerated Families Association. (n.d.). https://tifa.org/advocacy/

Chammah, M. (2022). Let the lord sort them: The rise and fall of the death penalty. Crown.

Drusch, A. (2020, October 29). Report: Prison reforms estimated to cost $346m over 10 years. Corrections1. https://www.corrections1.com/federal-prison/articles/report-prisonreforms-estimated-to-cost-346m-over-10-years-SqUCZ9WLLHtU9SHb/

Law, V. (2023, July 3). In Brutal Summer Heat, Prisoners Say Their Cells Are Like “Stifling Hot Coffins.” RAPP Campaign. https://rappcampaign.com/in-brutal-summer-heat-prisoners-say-theircells-are-like-stifling-hot-coffins/

Lee, M. (2024, August 20). Without AC, Texan prisons sentence people to unsafe heat. Scientific American. https://www.scientificamerican.com/article/without-ac-texan-prisonssentence-people-to-unsafeheat/#:~:text=The%20state%20says%20it%20provides,history%20and% 20other%20risk%20factors

McGaughy, L. (2024a, August 5). An inmate’s body temp was 107.5 when he died. the state of Texas says heat did not kill him. KUT Radio, Austin’s NPR Station. https://www.kut.org/crime-justice/2024-0729/investigation-texas-prison-heat-inmate-deaths-ac-autopsy-lawsuit

McGaughy, L. (2024b, August 5). Too much heat, not enough funding: State of Texas defends lack of prison a/C in Federal Court. KUT Radio, Austin’s NPR Station. https://www.kut.org/crime-justice/2024-0803/texas-prison-heat-ac-federal-court-hearing

Nielsen-Gammon, J., Escobedo, J., Ott, C., Dedrick, J., & Van Fleet, A. (n.d.). Extreme weather in Texas, 1900-2036. ASSESSMENT of HISTORIC and FUTURE TRENDS of EXTREME WEATHER IN TEXAS, 1900-2036. https://climatexas.tamu.edu/products/texas-extreme-weatherreport/ClimateReport-NOV2036-2.pdf

Non-compliant jail reports. Texas Jail Project. (2024, April 10). https://www.texasjailproject.org/resources/texas-commission-on-jailstandards/non-compliant-jail-reports/

Non-compliant jails. Texas Commission on Jail Standards. (2024, November 1). https://www.tcjs.state.tx.us/non-compliant-jails/

Purdum, C. (2022). EXTREME TEMPATURES AND COVID 19 IN TEXAS PRISONS. https://tamucoa.b-cdn.net/app/uploads/2022/07/22-01R.pdf Representatives, T. H. of. (n.d.). Official home page of the Texas House of Representatives website for rep. Bumgarner, Benjamin. Official Home Page of the Texas House of Representatives Website for Rep.

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Bumgarner, Benjamin. Texas House of Representatives. https://www.house.texas.gov/members/63

Solutions for safe, healthy, just communities. Solutions for safe, healthy, just communities | Texas CJE. (n.d.). https://www.texascjc.org/ Texas Prisons Community advocates. TPCA. (n.d.). https://www.tpcadvocates.org/

US Department of Commerce, N. (2024, September 5). August 2024 brings the heat to west texas, and not much else. National Weather Service. https://www.weather.gov/lub/events-2024-202408-heat

Wang, L. (2023). Heat, floods, pests, disease, and death: What climate change means for people in prison. Prison Policy Initiative. https://www.prisonpolicy.org/blog/2023/07/19/climate_change/

Wilson, S. (2023a, April 13). Life-threatening conditions in Texas prisons. Texas A&M University College of Architecture. https://www.arch.tamu.edu/news/2022/11/16/life-threateningconditions-in-texas-prisons/

Wilson, S. (2023b, April 13). Life-threatening conditions in Texas prisons. Texas A&M University College of Architecture. https://www.arch.tamu.edu/news/2022/11/16/life-threateningconditions-in-texas-prisons/

Wood, B. S. (2024). Minimum jail standards. https://www.tcjs.state.tx.us/wpcontent/uploads/2024/09/Minimum_Jail_Standards20240701.pdf

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