A zine is a small-scale, self-published publication, similar to a magazine, which can focus on a wide variety of topics. Zines are often used to share artwork and creative writing.
Between the Stacks is DeKalb County Public Library's Teen Zine. Each quarter, we open submissions for young artists and writers in our community to share their work.
The theme for this issue is Mental Health.
This issue of our teen zine was created as part of our Raising Resilience initiative with Children's Healthcare of Atlanta Strong4Life.
We can prepare ourselves to manage the ups and downs of life by building resilience. We all have the capacity to become resilient, but we might need some help along the way. Here are some tips and strategies to help you weather life's ups and downs. If you are having trouble managing school pressure and anxiety, be sure you are getting enough sleep. Getting 8-10 hours of sleep can have a positive impact on mood, focus and behavior. Know it is normal to feel nervous and anxious at times, and there are ways to help lessen the effects of these feelings. Taking care of your body and mind is one of the best ways to manage stress. Get some exercise such as walking, running, riding a bike or even dancing! Journaling, listening to music and deep breathing helps develop coping skills. Explore a variety of interests so you have a good balance of activity in your life. And you can always find a book to read to learn about others and how they manage stress or challenging situations.
Go to https://dekalblibrary.org/kids/raising-resiliencewith-choa to find a book that interests you.
Please be advised that this issue of Between the Stacks contains written descriptions of self harm and suicidal ideation.
Mental Health Resources
National Suicide Prevention Hotline
800-273-TALK (8255)
HTTP://WWW.SUICIDEPREVENTIONLIFELINE.ORG/
24-hour National Suicide Crisis Hotline:
Automatically directs call to nearest crisis center
800-SUICIDE
Hopeline: Speak to a trained volunteer
800-442-HOPE (4673)
Hopeline: Teen to teen peer counseling
877-YOUTHLINE (968-8454)
The Trevor Project: LGBTQIA+ Youth
thetrevorproject.org
Call: 1-866-4887386
Text 'START' to 678-678
By Amiya, 17I don’t think I’ll ever be able to stop crying.
See, the tears help my eyelashes grow and my beauty happens to be the priority in my life. My smile is how I shadow the pain, Pain does not exist behind a smile,
So, I don’t think I’ll ever stop smiling. It gives me my mystery.
I feel like sherlock, Knowing more about myself than others do.
Making them think there is a personality here when there’s a shell. Making them believe there's a soul when, the cavity in my spirit is filled with Clouds
Knitted lambs
Punctuation
I don’t think I’ll ever stop resting. My simple companion encourages me.
silence.
And she lays me down to bed in the early hours with sharp knives in my chest mutilating my sanity. And she tells me that IG is the best remedy.
She tells me it is not like those girls will be me. See those girls have the sun on their back, they have the moon as a spotlight and I have the ocean.
So, there is a need for me to cry,
My rest is essential for her prosperity.
I don’t think I'll ever stop thinking.
I’m guilty.
If I am not my tears, I am nothing.
If I am not my words, I am mute.
If I am not this Earth, I am foreign.
If I am not my passion, I am dead. So the swords come out, And the motivation waves And the sea parts. And the demons see God. And hope grins, She is plagued by the ideas of better days.
Because, in truth, I don’t think I’ll ever stop hoping. It is what makes up my soul, See I convinced myself that I am a shell. That I am naked and bound to the chemical imbalance. But I am free. These ideas will not stop flying, their winds spread, The altitudes are endless,
And these words will not be the last I leave behind.
A charcoal drawing about the feeling of not doing enough when taking breaks. Breaks are necessary and apart of most processes but that’s something often forgotten.
“Oy! Ya awrite there ?” Against the backing of mist, a trawler burgeoned through the water, led by the booming voice. “Whit are ye doing hare? Aloon in a canoe?”
“Fishing.”
“Whaut!” The trawler had slowed to a crawl, its wake bouncing the canoe.
“I said I’m fishing!”
The man shouting from the rail looked back for a moment to some unseen companion, their whispers lost in the fog.
“Can Ah gie ya a hand?” Without waiting for a response, a rope dropped and splashed in the water next to the canoe.
“I’m good bro, I’m just trynna fish!” After a few more offers, the boat faded back into the mist, the curses against tourists staying in the air.
Once the boat was far off, the paddler reached into a small drawstring bag, pulling out a giant bag of Sour Patch Kids and black paracord. In a poor display of knotmanship, he eventually wrapped the bag with the rope, and dropped it over the edge.
Tiny ripples raced across the glossy water, and he watched the bag descend further and further, endless.
Then the first stirring came, sending vibrations up the rope and into his fingers. Ever so gently, a slight but unyielding tug started to unwind the roll of rope from the spool. At the front of the boat, he wrapped and tied it to a small loop, and gave three sharp pulls on the rope. In an instant, the rest of the rope jolted into a taut line, and he was racing through the mist. The man leaned back and rested, letting himself be careened through the water.
The mist grew thinner, and from it emerged a craggly black rock, jutting out of the lake. Water flowed into the rock, forming an enclosed cave, in which the canoe slid into slowly. Inside, the sounds of water bounced in the darkness. In a tremendous noise, water roared and waves rocked the canoe, thundering steps shaking the rock.
“Soory, James, A’ll git the light.” The voice was thunderous but controlled, the words delicately adjusted for the space. A cartoonishly large lantern revealed itself, the central flame projecting enough heat to warm James.
Despite the jagged rock and boggish smell, the cave was homely. The cave had a small bank, supporting a collection of immense furnishings surrounding a mahogany desk, which sat directly in front of a small fireplace.
The homeliest aspect, however, was the resident. Dressed in a welltailored pencil skirt and button-up white shirt, a gargantuan reptile rifled through the desk drawers while holding up the lantern in one flipper.
“Thir ya are, ya wee scunner.” The dapper monster set down the lantern and slipped a pair of glasses over the bridge of its snout. “So, whit brings ya hee, James?” It reclined in the chair, delicately opening the bag of candy before pouring all the contents into its mouth.
“Well, Mrs. Nessie-”
“Wait!” She flipped a nameplate around that read Dr. Loch Ness Monster. “Ah got me Ph.D!”
“Oh, that's amazing! When did that happen?”
“Aboot a year ago, now. Ma case study was fo’ Big Foot’s alcoholism. Sorry, whit were we talkin aboot?” James got into a more comfortable position in the boat.
“Well, I’ve been trying to connect with my dad, but it just won’t happen, and I’m worried we don’t have as much time together as I want to believe. There’s just so much going on, and it feels like I don’t have time for anyone, but he’s my dad, ya know?” Nessie scribbled into a notepad as James voiced his thoughts. “ I guess when I got control of my own thoughts, I thought I could leave therapy, but now I don’t know. That’s why I scheduled this.”
“Aye, James, that is troublin’. But, Ah want you to know, healing is long. Remember-”
“Ups and downs. It’s all ups and downs.”
“Aye. Three years agoo, whin ye were still wee, ye were miserable. Mam just deid, just moved back to Scotland, then ya got a monster as a therapist! Ye’ve come a long way. Even whin it’s hard to see” James shifted around the boat, mind and body both restless.
“I just… This doesn’t feel like healing? I’m done grieving, I just want to love my dad while I still can, ya know? Like, it doesn’t feel like I can use coping skills here”
Nessie put down the notepad and tapped a flipper lightly, staring blankly. After a few seconds, she lifted herself from the chair and made her way into the water.
“C’mere, weel go on a wee swim. Ah got somt’n to show ye.” She grasped the rope between her teeth and pulled the canoe out of the cave and into the mist. In silence they rode for almost an hour, following some unseen path. Eventually, the boat started to slow, and Nessie looked around nervously.
“Is something wrong”
“Nae, Nae…” She took a few more glances all around them.
A figure from the mist emerged, a rocky formation similar to Nessie’s home. As the circled it, James could see a dark entrance with two differently sized cairns guarding the passage. Nessie dropped the rope and let out a sigh, staring longingly at the darkness.
“Ye see those stones?”
“Yeah?”
“Theer graves. Ah made ‘em fir me Mam and Paw.” James stared, the darkness of the cave sending a chill down his neck.
“I’m sorry for your loss,” James whispered. Nessie let out a small laugh
“Ah thought ye hated whin people said that?”
“Yeah… I see why they do, now. I don’t know what else to say.”
“Thank ye, James. Ye know whit ye said before we left? ‘Ah finished grieving, but I want to love em while Ah can’” Nessie had swam up to the entrance and hovered, neither entering nor leaving.
“Yeah?”
“Whit ye need to understand is that ye aren’t done. Ye never really are,” Her voice bounced around the interior of the cave. “Truth is, seven stages o’ grief are bullocks. Ye, me, yer Paw, all still grieving.” She clambered onto the shore of the cave and sat next to the smaller cairn.
“Whin ye say yer trying to love yer Paw before he goes… Yer doin’ it wrong. James. whin ma Paw passed, Ah protected me Mam whin I was ever wi’ her. Whin she passed, Ah realized Ah wasted that time thinking aboot whin she’d pass, not whit to do while she was here.”
James sank into the boat and stared up from the confines of the wood. With a small splash, they were once again navigating the mist towards shore.
Beams of sunlight streamed through dew drops on the window, splattering James’ room with shadows and stars. A light smell of coffee and overcooked toast was making its way through his door. With a start, James was jumping into jeans and flailing a shirt over his head, running down the stairs. A man with a graying beard clad in rubber overalls stared at him, partially charred toast halfway in his mouth and a newspaper held limp in his other hand.
“Ye look like wan o’clock half struck.”
“Yeah, just wanted to catch you before you left. Are you going fishing today?”
“Aye?” James pulled out a chair for himself and sat down sheepishly.
“Well, uh, do you want some company.” The man put down the toast and peered at James before his face lit up.
“Clerty clerty, Ah though ye’d never ask! Today’s special… We’re gonna catch a ride frim ol’ Nessie!” He threw the newspaper onto the table, revealing the front page cover of the newspaper: a picture of Nessie pulling along a boat by a rope, a silhouette of a man inside.
A drawing that represents those who suppress their emotions in fear of being judged and/or criticized.
today, i thought of death. a cliche… but an intricate death clouded my thoughts. soothed my emotions.
today, i thought of death. so quiet. so loud.
so bright and flamboyant. a death drowned in neon catalog.
oh, this death lured me in so much i began floating in its charcoal core.
today, i thought of the consequences. poems written in all lowercase letters. cause everyone says, ‘death is never wanted.’ so, i guess today, i didn’t think.
clouded judgment.
clouded so thick, mist sprayed on my face, fog filled the brink of my soul.
streetlights fluttered like butterflies.
oh, the mighty morality- filled me with such bliss. so today… i thought about life.
the consequences this fever dream could revoke. the moon.
sun. sand. animals. the ocean. the power of paramount beauty. how far she twists and turns and how deep she goes. pushing. pulling. rising. falling. today death and i held each other until i let go.
My poetry is one of my only pride and joys. It is how my timid expression flows through rough soils. It is how my soul connects to the light. My goal for 2023 was to be more open with my poetry and I intend to do that with this art I have submitted. Lastly, if there is anyone struggling with some of the themes discussed in my poems, this is for you. Remember that we are born to fall, but quietly, we’ll rise.
-AmiyaMental health should be taken more seriously in school environments. Schools around the world have stressed out, tired, and depressed students, and schools seem to care little about them. Things like excess homework, sports practice, and testing can take a toll on students. They tend to stay up till 1 am trying to finish assignments just for a grade, wondering if they're even learning anything in the process. Assignment after assignment, day after day, for 180 days.
According to nami.org. 1 in 6 children aged 6-17 experience a mental disorder each year, however only half of them have gotten treatment in the past year. These mental disorders include ADHD, anxiety, and depression. How do we expect students to do well on exams and assignments when only half of them are getting the treatment they need?
I won’t put all the blame on schools, however. Parents at home should check in on their children as well. They might not want to talk about it, but it is a parent’s job to be there for their child if they need help. However, some students don't come from good homes where they can get the help they need from their parents. According to census.gov, 21% of children in 2020 only lived in single mother homes, and that number is progressively getting worse. 4.5% of children lived in single father homes. 4% of children have no parents and are living with their grandparents. This really puts into perspective how many kids don't have the necessary role models in their households.
There are solutions to this, however. One of them is introducing counselors in a friendly and helpful manner. Most schools have counselors in place already, however, students may be apprehensive of going to them for help. Many don't trust them, and some are scared of them. I think if they do some sort of introduction at the beginning of the school year, students would feel more comfortable around them. Another solution would be to have students volunteer as peer counselors. They could be students well known around the school, or in the same grade. This would make students feel more comfortable about getting help.
Mental Health in Schools | NAMI: National Alliance on Mental Illness. (n.d.).
https://www.nami.org/Advocacy/Policy-Priorities/ImprovingHealth/Mental-Health-in-Schools
U.S. Census Bureau. (2022, March 25). Percentage and Number of Children Living With Two Parents Has Dropped Since 1968. Census.gov. https://www.census.gov/library/stories/2021/04/number-of-childrenliving-only-with-their-mothers-has-d oubled-in-past-50-years.html
Spirit By Maya, 16
I walk along the train tracks, balancing on the metal rails. The summer rays kiss me gently from the sun above as a light breeze blows by, making the strings of my black hoodie sway gently. The bookbag on my back is heavy, carrying a full load of stress. I look down at my black shoes as I steadily continue down the track, trying not to fall off. I decided to take a different route home today in order to clear my head. It’s a beautiful day outside, the air is fresh, the sun is hot, and the sky is clear. The outside atmosphere contrasts with the dark energy that radiates around me. I begin to walk faster, trying to escape it.
As I pass by houses and shops, I see people outside, walking around and talking amongst themselves. Every now and then, someone glances at me, the expression on their face is puzzling as they wonder what I could be up to. The music blasts in my ears and I get lost in my surroundings as I carry on walking forward. Before long, I realize that I’m lost. I hop off the train tracks and walk down the hill towards the road, hoping to find a street that I recognize. I look down the road, surprised to see that it is absent of cars. Looking the other way, I see a figure standing on the other side of the street not too far from where I am.
A black ski mask and hood covers their entire head, concealing their face and identity. They’re wearing a black coat adorned with many pockets and a pair of black cargo pants. Their entire outfit is black just like mine, making them stand out amongst the bright afternoon.
We stand there, on opposite sides of the road staring at each other for a while. My heart pounds in my chest, their presence alarming me. I don’t know what to do. Should I run and risk them chasing me, or should I stay and risk them trying to take me? They don’t seem to have a weapon on them, but for all I know, it could be hidden in their many pockets. Their fists are balled as if they're prepared to fight.
The person begins to slowly walk forward, their first time moving since I spotted them. My feet seem to be glued to the concrete; my eyes wide with shock and my heart palpitating faster than it ever has before. They begin to laugh, a friendly laugh that contradicts their whole demeanor.
“You shouldn’t hurt yourself,” he says in a soothing tone.
“Wha- what?” I stammer. He gestured towards my arm where my sleeve is rolled up. I pull my shirt down to conceal the scars on my arm. “I-I didn’t hurt myself.”
He chuckles, “You don’t have to lie to me. I won’t judge you. Everyone goes through tough times.”
“I really don't know what you’re talking about,” I say, beginning to take small steps back. He steps up on the sidewalk.
“Kid, you really shouldn’t be walkin’ on your own. There aren’t a lot of people out. If something bad were to happen to you, no one would know.” I look around and sure enough, all the people that were once outside have now vanished. The only two people around me are him and me.
He smiles, laughs and pats my back, “How far are you from home?”
“Maybe thirty minutes,” I say. His energy suddenly changes as his amiable smile turns into a malevolent grin. I take another step back, ready to sprint away, but as soon as my foot is about to push off the ground, I see his hand spring forward before coming in contact with my face and turning the world around me black.
When I come to, there’s a steady ringing in my ear. My vision is blurry. The bright sky makes me squint my eyes. I try to move my body but quickly realize that I can’t. Once I fully regain my senses and my sight clears, I look around. I’m lying on my back on the train tracks that stretch for miles on either side of me. My arms are pinned to my side by a black rope tied tightly around my body and the tracks. All of my clothing except my underwear sit in a pile at the feet of the man with the mask. He stares at me, his body motionless and his eyes black and unreadable.
“Help me!” I yell. “What are you doing just standing there?” He doesn’t say anything. I notice the black rope that he’s holding in his hand. "What did I do? Please, don’t do this?” The train horn sounds in the distance. “Please,” I beg, growing desperate. “Please, help me.” He ignores my cries for help as I struggle to get free. I look around, hoping someone will come out of their house and rescue me, but like before, we’re the only ones around. The train’s horn grows louder. I can feel the rumble of it on the tracks.
I squeeze my eyes shut, tears rolling down my cheeks as I pray to God that someone will help me, that maybe this man will show me some mercy. But my prayers go unanswered. I open my eyes when I hear him laughing. His laugh makes me sick. The train is getting closer. I continue screaming, my throat sore. His laughing gets louder.
“I'm gonna die,” I mumble. My mother’s face flashes through my mind. I think of how she’ll feel when the police tell her how I died. Memories of me alone in my dark room race through my head. All of those times I thought about death and now that it’s finally here, I’m having second thoughts. There’s no future for me. I’ll never be able to pursue my dreams. I wonder which way I’ll go when I die, down or up? I look up at the man.
“This is what you wanted, right?” he shouts over the train which is now in sight. “I’m just doing what you told me to do. See you later,” he smiles, cocking his head slightly to the side as the train passes in front of him. Now it’s here, death has now arrived, time’s finally up.
I remember during the hot blazing summer
I played a rather popular game with my friends. We had to find out who was the odd one out, And whoever everyone assumed was the fraud
They’d get ejected out of the airship the game takes place in. I always felt like an imposter despite my bystander label
I’m sure you’ve heard of the game Among Us.
Y’know, the game where you’re a silly little crewmate on a ship Completing basic tasks while finding the imposter.
The imposter
Also known as the one who betrays the crew.
Also known as the one who is the outlier of the group.
Also known as the one who doesn’t deserve to be on the ship.
Because the imposter isn’t doing their tasks.
Because the imposter is hurting everyone.
Because the imposter feels like someone I am.
I don’t wield the knife used to disappoint others. However, that’s not enough to prove myself
That I’m as innocent as everyone else.
So I’ll do every task I’m assigned
Actually– I’ll do more assignments than requested.
I’ll even patrol the perimeter and
Scan the CCTV camera to protect others.
As long as I’m not known as the imposter.
And I can tell myself time and time again, I was given the bystander label.
I’m doing my tasks.
They’re watching me do so.
Then why does it feel like I’m not doing enough?
Sure, I finished all my tasks,
But are there more?
Maybe I need to do more to prove I’m not the imposter.
I could swipe my card perfectly on the first try. I could run through the darkness to the most dangerous part of the ship–
Just to flicker on the switches so that the vessel is lightened up. I know I didn’t sabotage the ship.
I know I didn’t cause oxygen in the ship to go out. But still, I take responsibility because I still feel like I’m not doing enough.
It feels like I’m not doing enough
Filling up the fuel engines. It feels like I’m not doing enough
Acting swiftly on my fingers while navigating my game character.
My fingers currently rest on the same keyboard I used to defend my position as innocent.
The game isn’t running on the screen before me, But one thing’s for sure,
Every task I take on– rather
Every poem, short story, and novel I write, I am nothing
But an imposter.
A visual representation of flow state. Meant to convey the “in the zone” feeling experienced when creating.
I see black, Depths upon depths
Numbness
Peace Sympathy
My iphone screen
I see love or lost
Because I am brand new to not loving.
Brand new to not being able to write without the guilt.
The guilt that I cannot make art without pain.
So I go to the edge of the world and let wind write my tragedies so maybe someone can relate. I isolate myself in the black of the screen
The black of the sodium that stains my life.
Cause my peace turns out to be another word for torture. But this cliff reminds me of the fabric that is unraveling.
The cold air is nothing but a symphony detailing my demise. And I am still drowned in black skies.
Dreams filled with voids.
Black noise.
And a scream muffled by pigment.
A life that became black. A child that became blind.
I love it when my friends joke
About being “delulu”
It’s a popular internet term derived from Tiktok. It was a lighthearted way of saying:
“You’re fantasizing a bit too much.
You’re delusional!”
I think it’s funny when I listen
To my friends playfully banter.
One calls the other delulu because
She’s falling hard for a man, While the other argues that she’s delulu
Because she thinks she’s finally Going to get a text back.
I wish it was all that lighthearted for me.
I wish when I mention that
I don’t remember anything that happened last winter
Besides curling up into my bed
Sobbing until my jaws ached
To the very person that witnessed it all
He’ll just say:
“Haha! You’re being delulu!”
Instead of “That never happened?
We’ve been nothing but happy.”
I want to laugh along, Not question what’s real and what’s not.
I want to laugh along, Not feel like a psychopath when I argue with tears pricking at my eyes
That I was hurt and I was in pain And that he was the cause.
But… Is he really the cause?
It’s also my fault.
I argued day and night.
I never communicated.
I didn’t stop and listen.
I’m the one that called quits. And now because of me,
I’m the righteous cause of all his pain and suffering. He’s not the cause.
It’s my fault.
I can be shunned by my friends and counselors, Repeatedly questioning why I’m doing this to myself–Why can’t I just break away and completely forget about it all? The problem is that it’s hard convincing yourself out of your own head.
But sometimes to stay alive
You have to kill your mind.
I’m not delulu.
I’m delusional.
"A lot of my writing is based on personal experience, and I guess the purpose of sharing my writing is to bring awareness to psychological occurrences such as imposter syndrome or just not feeling good enough for others. Also being a victim of abuse, and how it's not as simple as being hurt then getting over it :)"
Nothing makes a woman more miserable than a life that feels like nails digging into her skin before agonizingly dragging them, but not so savagely so that it only leaves a pink trail overlaid in white. I was exhausted, but the charming comfort of a dim-lit library never failed to caress my cheek. Every moment I spent in this abode felt like a fox wandering the whimsical woods, searching for vibrant insects to feast upon the grand oak trees to refresh its evening. When I walked through these bookcases, it was like the spines of literature turned around to face me. Each book called out to me, and I felt loved and noticed as they soothed me with their presence. I dragged my fingers across each erect spine until one stood out to me the most— the most interesting and the one that caught my eye like no other.
I held the book tenderly to my chest as I found a place for us to enjoy our time together. When I saw a furnished table unoccupied to satisfy our lonesome, I sat down and gingerly opened the cover as my eyes absorbed each printed-out word. Every carefully selected letter spoke to me like I was the perfect suitor to be its reader. The hardcovers engulfed me into a warm hug as I listened to the steady heartbeat of a text-based world.
Words to describe the main character felt like it was directed toward me instead: A miserable woman who feels alone, however, the author knows she deserves more. She deserves the love and affection of a person worthy. She was admired for the way she wrote her letters’ tails and how she had her coffee every morning. My face flushed from such attention to small details. Especially how elegantly each adjective made her movements sound like a graceful swan paddling through a pale blue pond.
It made it sound like she was the only woman in the world to deserve such love. However, with the way she would lick her thumb before turning to the next page, surely, this book was speaking to me as if the author was staring at me, sitting next to me, and typing down every little detail about me. I felt loved. I sunk into my seat, listening to sweet words continually, not even exhausted from such repetition. I felt the love coursing through my veins. It was a feeling similar to warm hot chocolate running down your throat after a frigid winter evening. What once were clawing nails scratching at my skin turned into gentle fingertips trailing my forearms, sending a tingling sensation down my body. My eyes flickered from left to right, reading the words with a flattered smile. Suddenly, harrowing screams echoed in my ears, completely drowning out the loving melody of those sweet compliments that whispered to me. I turned around to face the painful screeches only to be met by the rack of bookshelves I wondered between previously. What once were the loving novels that brought a smile to my face by being around them turned into cries of disparity and a sense of urgency. I could not decipher what words they wanted me to read in their pages; nonetheless, I was terrified. Anxious feelings built up in my system again as I desperately looked around for the book that is my love, my comfort, and my hope. I retrieved my love and held it tight to my chest, listening for its words again, but it remained silent. With wide, panicked eyes, I thumbed through all the pages, but they did not whisper back to me. My knee uncontrollably shook under the table as I nervously bit my lip; beads of sweat formed on my forehead. “Why won’t you talk to me?!” I cried, clutching at the edges of the book. “You promised you would always be here for me!” The book stared back at me with blank, worn-down pages. “I promise I’ll love you forever and always! Please, don’t leave me here!"
The nails were pricking at my skin again, but this time I was bleeding. The burning sensation made my arms feel like they did not belong to me anymore, and I felt warm thick liquid landing on my thighs. The book’s words were irreplaceable. I couldn’t just let go and pretend that I could retrieve the same love from another. Every feature of this book mattered to me, and nothing would ever be the same without them. From its sleek brown cover to its uniform printed pages– or how perfectly the text stood structured in parallel lines with its distinctive indents.
Beads of tears formed in my eyes as I searched for some kind of reciprocation when suddenly, I found a page with words; however, they were words I was not looking for. A lump formed in my throat, and it felt like hammers were shattering my empty skull. A sickening gag convulsed my tight neck. My head rapidly spun, causing me to collapse from my seat while still holding on tight to the book. My knees burned as I dragged my limbs against the carpeted, dirty floor, feeling every microfabric dig into my kneecaps. They were not words that showered me with the affection and dire love I needed to move through my pathetic life. No, they were words that felt like bullets piercing through my chest, and no matter how many disgusting expressions the author used to describe me, my heart was still beating and longing for those sweet observations I held so dear to me. The memory of how it made me feel was branded onto my skin; It was a tattoo that could never be laser-removed from my body.
I looked up again to listen to the bookcases calling out to me: incoherent screaming, desperate pleas, and confused noises. Such hysterics pierced my ears, causing a ringing inside of my brain. I brought my knees to my chest, letting the hardcover compress my torso. The pain between the two forces was indescribable, for my head could not wrap around either.
I closed my eyes and squeezed them tight– so hard that I saw darts of multicolor splots in the black void behind my eyelids. What once was an aromatized sweet vanilla library soon smelled like oxygen inhaled by lungs. I couldn’t feel my body anymore, even if there were burns and pains physically visible all over. The bookcase’s leather no longer had its signature texture beneath my fingertips. The sounds of the world soon slowly turned into muffles; it was as if the noise shifted into a blurry, shaken-up polaroid. I was ready to accept my fate with my loving book still in my arms until I heard a hum.
A sweet, elegant melody gently hushed by two closed lips came from the direction of the bookcases. I fluttered my eyes open as they strained from the light, but I was not met by another. The library was silent, causing a reluctant wave of relief to hug my soul. I deeply inhaled through my nose before a tired sigh parted my lips. My palms buried into the carpet as I used my arms to support myself. The book I once held dearly collapsed and lay pathetically on the floor now that I no longer comforted it. Without glancing another time, I walked toward the door. The sunset’s rays grazed through the window, soon creeping up my figure. It was quiet.
I wrapped my hand around the cold handle before stepping onto the concrete-gray pavement. The door closed behind me with a bell chiming goodbye. I looked around, noticing the occasional passerby walking down the street living their lives, but not with the dependency of another to be by their side. I saw couples sauntering as well, noticing how their eyes would trail away from each other, but remained connected as their hands intertwined lovingly. A cold breeze cooled my heated face as I stood motionless.
I was alone again, but that did not stop the smile from tugging at my lips.
“Oh say can you see by the dawn's early light”
Even if there have been more school shootings than days in the year
People tend to speak a lot for the students of America but as one no I am not scared of drag queens but yes I am scared of people with AK47s up and down elementary schools
Why are there ads for whiteboards that turn into bulletproof bunkers when all children want to do is play with markers
A little lady in a dress with lavender lilies plays on the playground laughter in the air and
Braids in her hair then with a pow she went down with no breath to spare
A girl mimics the slump of her friend so her life too did not have to come to an end
A teacher wears a dress with a belt to stop the blood pouring from a little lady with a lavender Lily dress
Moms and dads waiting and waiting for children as their wailing and weeping spreads through the air
But you do not care you're asking what's for dinner while our patients are getting thinner and thinner
We're like a wall that has been shot so many times it began to fall
Are 12 children dying a day not enough for you to rethink what the Second Amendment was trying to say or is your pride going to get in the way and let them all slip away
Are you not scared for your own children or are you gonna home school then and say there is no problem
Are all the Angels wearing school uniforms or are they all just ghosts that your mind forgets as myths because ghosts aren't real
There's a huge teacher shortage and you ask why
You ask why people don't want to enlist in the army, we say why get shot overseas when we can be shot in our own Middle School
You say it's politics but it's Bailey Holt, Preston Cope, Ralph Kennedy, Jamie Gutenberg and so many more that we've lost
Have you ever heard the saying an eye for an eye makes the whole world blind or do you not need sight to pull the trigger and hear a mother's cry
To all of our wonderful artists for sharing their work and to the DeKalb Library Foundation for funding this project.
Featured Artists:
Treasure, 18
Ariana, 14
Amiya, 17
Celie, 13
Henry, 18
Maya, 16
Nico, 19
Victoria, 16
Willah, 16
