Between the Stacks Issue 8 - Spring 2024

Between the Stacks

What's a Zine?

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 nature and the environment.

Bacterial Nature

Grace, 17

Backyard Flowers

Grace, 17

Vaquero Blake, 17

Green Gables

Rocio, 18

Hechos Rocio, 18

Lemon Lisa Rocio, 18

Untitled Nafiz, 16

T, 18

A New Season

By Alessia, 16

I watched as the wind blew the crackling leaves across the road, swirling them around in spirals before leaving them scattered on the ground. A car drove by, stirring them into the air again, but the moment was fleeting. The day so far had been most enjoyable, though the warring temperatures of the season always left me shifting with some discomfort. I walked along the sidewalk of my street, aware of my daydreaming as I moved farther and farther away from my house. More vehicles zoomed past me, though I paid them no mind. The sun washed my face in a gentle warmth, a subtle contrast to the chilling breezes that left my skin rippling with goosebumps. I shivered as such a breeze rushed past me, drawing myself further into my jacket.

It was funny to think about how quickly autumn had arrived this year. Mere days prior, the sun scalded our flesh and sweat beaded our foreheads. The abrupt drop in temperature had left many people shuddering in their bathing suits, cursing their lack of a coat. I chuckled at the image. I listened to my surroundings, the silence being broken only by the cars still flying past me. The lack of Cicadas had left the world sounding far too quiet, their constant buzzing leaving along with the warmth. I turned my gaze upwards, taking in the clear, cloudless sky, punctuated with the V shapes of migrating birds. They too were escaping the rapidly dropping temperatures.

I continued onward. The periodic crunch of pinecones under my shoes sparked a childlike sense of joy inside of me. It was the little things. How long had it been since I had last paid heed to my inner child? How long had it been since I had splashed about in the puddles of summer rain or rolled virgin snow into a snowman? I truly couldn’t remember. Everything seemed so black and white when I was younger; good and bad, right and wrong. How I wish I could go back to that. I could almost feel my childish innocence grow brittle and crack as the seasons passed. I wonder how long I

had left before the last of it slipped away.

The trees along the side of the road, each of their leaves painted delicately by Mother Nature herself, became more numerous as I followed my feet into the woods. It was quiet here. Only the occasional rustle of an animal rushing through the leaves lining the forest floor disturbed the noiselessness. I watched dust float through the sun beams that punctured the blanket of woven tree branches above me, dotting the ground in patches of light.

As I continued farther into the trees, the light rays thinned and the chill in the air became more prominent. It pushed itself under my skin, easily soaking through the fabric of my jacket. My pace did not falter. Deeper into the woods I ventured, the air taking on a stale quality. No wind could penetrate this far into the heart of the forest.

The leaves underfoot had lost their crunch. There was no sun to dry them up, so instead they remained soft and flimsy. I lengthened my strides as my path winded uphill. I kept on until I reached a boulder. Its surface was coated in a fuzzy layer of moss, patches of rock visible where the growth had yet to reach. I padded around its perimeter, looking for a foothold to hoist myself up on. There was a rotting branch leaning limply against the boulder. Damp splinters of wood jutted out at odd angles, revealing the pale layer of wood underneath. There were lines zigzagging across its face, evidence of the beetles that had burrowed in its flesh. Rubbery mushrooms sprouted out from its base. Miniscule pools of water had collected in their bowl-like structure, and tiny specks of dirt floated around in the liquid.

I paced a few steps backwards, and took a running jump. I propelled myself forward using the log, and landed just barely on the top of the rock. My knees were scraped, scarlet droplets of blood dripped sluggishly down my calf. I wiped my hand across them, trying to clean myself. It was a rather pointless goal. It only

served to smear the blood around, staining my fingers and lower leg. It dried sticky and thick. I sighed, and scooted farther away from the edge. The blanket of moss and lichen was soft against my legs, and the patches of rock were starkly cold in comparison. I sat near the front face of the boulder, my legs dangling over the edge, and inhaled deeply. The air sat heavily in my throat, sprawling across my tongue. My face drew itself into a scowl, and I ran the tip of my tongue along the backs of my teeth. It tasted like clumps of dust.

I cleared my throat, attempting to banish the underlying taste of rot from my mouth. I spit to the side, and cleared my throat again. Ugh.

I looked around, the low light not allowing much to be seen. I ran a hand down my face, groaning as I did so. Why was I even here? I guess I just don’t wanted to relax, to get away from my responsibilities for as long as I could allow myself. I needed a break. I wondered if seclusion was really the best course of action, but quickly discarded the worry in favor of carding my fingers through the fuzzy moss underhand. I picked at it absentmindedly.

I never used to wish for solitude. Memories of years past floated to the forefront of my mind; of weekends spent at small coffee shops discussing hopes and dreams amongst friends, and late nights watching movies followed by waking up with popcorn stuck to our faces.

I laid down, my hair splashing out around my head and framing my face. I let the breath drain out of my lungs and stared at the murky coverage of leaves far above me. My thoughts wandered as I stayed there, unmoving, and after a while shapes and colors danced across my vision. They formed easily against the dark backdrop, and lingered in the corners of my vision. I smiled heavily, uncaring as the tendrils of sleep lazily tightening their hold on me. My breath slowed and my blinks grew longer, the stillness of my surroundings nudging me to join its unmoving serenity. I relinquished, and let my consciousness drift away.

I dreamed of simpler times. Back when I could spend an entire day curled up with a book, and the characters would call to me, stretching their hands out in an invitation to join them on their journey to far-away lands. When I could dream up the wildest creatures, and bring them to life with paper and pencils and my imagination. The days when the future seemed bright and far away, like the stars that my father would point out to me on clear, spring nights. Back when the world was mine to discover.

Patio Chairs

T, 18

Point of View

Selah, 16

This artwork shows the damage we have done to the use to be beautiful, clean environment. The rear view mirror shows what it used to look like and the front of the car shows what it looks like now.

Night Tulips

Yulma, 17

Butterflies and caterpillars

Laura, 16

Down by the river Yunior, 17

The flor among the flowers Nia, 15

Suns in the Night Nia, 15

(below) Wild Bird Mariana, 18

Fading

By Alessia, 16

I grew up around trees. Memories of cool days in the park, sunlight slipping through each gap in the woven layer of branches above me and casting irregularly shaped sunbeams on the ground.

During summer, the leaves would be vivid, each species boasting varying shades of green. The forest was full, and the leaves would sway in the breeze with a hush.

Fall would follow, leaves dropping alongside the temperature. Their colors were stark against the brown of the bark, a Pollock of reds, oranges, and yellows. Crunching footsteps, the kicking of a pinecone in front of you as you walked. Collecting bunches of acorns from the ground, rattling in my pockets with each step taken.

When winter rolled around, branches were bare and clacking against each other with every harsh gust of wind. Frost would curl at the base of the trees, sparkling every time the sun peeked its face out from behind the smoky clouds.

Spring would come again, and the buds of new life would emerge from the branch tips. The air would be filled with the sweet scent of blooming flowers, and soft pastel petals would flutter through the air.

The magnolia would keep its glossy leaves year-round, a perfect shield from the seasons. Its winding branches served as nature’s jungle gym, hours of swinging and climbing rough barked-clad limbs.

As I get older, the woods become thinner. The gaps in the overhead coverage of branches grow wider, and the crunch and vibrance of leaves diminish. All around the city, I watch as pockets of trees are cut down and developed into condos. My world is is losing it’s color.

Pricked by an Arrow

By Finch, 16

I would plant a garden for you

One filled with bright red roses, I know they've always been your favorite I’d grow each rose from a seed I’d plant them safely in the ground, I'd water them so they’d never thirst, fertilize them so they’d never hunger, care for them so deeply that they’d never long for anything more I'd watch the roses grow, blossom as they'd reach their heads toward the warming sun

I'd love them so beautifully that even cupid would a feel twinge of jealousy.

I'd ensure that they'd never droop, I wouldn't let a single petal fall into the dark dirt

I'd grow a garden of beautiful roses

Just for you I'd pick the flowers

One at a time

Even as the thorns would prick my thumbs

Even as they'd draw bright, red, blood

I'd continue on

I'd arrange the roses to form a perfect bouquet

Then tie the stems with pearly white ribbon

As I'd gift it to you

My grand gesture of admiration

I'd ask myself

Do you know my favorite flower?

Would you wait patiently as it sprouted?

Would you water it?

Treat it tenderly?

Pick it, despite its thorns?

I'd ask myself

Would you plant a garden for me?

These questions never leave my head

They will never meet your ears

Because I'm afraid

So afraid

Of your answer

May Cora, 16

Flower Anonymous, 17

The Moth Carol, 17

Bloom Taevin, 17

Prairie’s Gleam Nia E., 16

By Genesis, 15

Destroyed by the touch of his acquisitive hands

Burned to the ground by the work of “The Man”

Green leaves turned to ash by the fires overpowering voice

But “The Man” got to walk away with money from his choice

We Kill, We Destroy, We burn our amazing world

So our pockets fill coins, diamonds and pearls

When will we learn how to give instead of take

Before our home turns into a maze we can't escape

Nature’s Song

By Genesis, 15

Nature’s Song, the sweetest melody

In the forests deep, and fields with the most powerful entity Rivers flow, Mountains rise

Under the beauty of the mesmerizing skies

Birds soar high, with the grace one wishes to possess

In the debts of the woods, they land in their nest

Nature's Eye protects the balance of peace

So let’s try our best to not abuse our piece

Nature Calls

By Anonymous, 14

Nature calls each and every day

The sun gets brighter and brighter every year around May.

We go through all of these different seasons and expect a change.

We want something more or something new, but maybe if we keep hoping our wishes will come true. As it starts to get hotter and the temperatures rise, We hope for more sunny days.

Untitled

By Wren, 12

I am a monarch. Specifically a SUPER generation monarch. Being a super generation monarch means being the only monarch generation that will fly all the way to Mexico. For other monarchs it takes 3-4 generations! Super generations are especially important now that the monarch species is endangered. I completed my journey last week, so my life is almost over. Monarchs are now affected more than ever by human activity. I was lucky and was saved by humans, but most are not. I am relying on you to share my story and save the monarchs. Here we go!

Two days after emerging from my chrysalis, I imagined everything I would see. I drifted on the breeze, expecting to see a long field of grass swaying in the wind. I thought I would see a young fawn running with its mother or birds squawking and building their nests. Instead I saw no wildlife, no creatures, only factories and smoke. An uneasy feeling started to build in my stomach, and self doubt crept over me. Was this the right way?

Hours later I floated into a small grassy space by a road. The sun was setting, yet the humidity still felt like a brick on my tired wings. I had flown 70 miles that day, the next would surely be equally tiring. I saw flowers, but only very small wildflowers that were far too small to land on. Panicking, I flew towards a park, yet someone had just mowed. It was almost dark as I settled down on a branch in a shrub for the night .... without food!

The next night was the same, and the next, and the next. I had not eaten for almost a month. I was sure I would not make it. Each day I flew slower and less far. My wings got scraped, torn, dented, birds squawked, and they swooped at me. I was a mess.

The following day I could barely fly, my antenna drooped, and my legs twitched. I was sure today would surely be my last. The realization seemed to cling to me like a shadow as I landed on a twig. I collapsed. Then the twig started moving. Except it wasn’t a stick, it was a finger. Surprised, I tried to fly away but couldn't muster enough energy. Her eyes sparkled and her face lit up with surprise. The last thing I remembered was everything speeding by as she ran and yelled, ‘’Look! I think this monarch needs help, Grandpa!’’

When my eyes opened I was in a small enclosure. My wings were still tattered and torn at the edges but I was safe, I sighed. Just then I heard talking, and an old face peered down at me. ‘’You should look up what they eat. This one appears to be dying.’’ an elderly man's voice echoed through the room… I drifted back to sleep. When I awoke there was a single stalk of coneflower. I relaxed as I drank the nectar and my energy returned. They let me out a few days later, I felt so much better! A finger reached into the enclosure, as I carefully climbed on, my feet gently tickled the finger making Amelia giggle.

Carefully she carried me outside, and into a clear tent. Once inside I was astonished, there were many pots full with native plants! Best of all I had ever seen so much milkweed (my favorite) in the same place! Happily I took off and flew wildly around the tent, my stomach flipping with every loopty-loop. I spent a few days there, and almost everyday a new monarch came in. Each perched on the finger of Amelia, and almost all of them like me, had struggled to find food or suffered from the heat. Every day Amelia would sit with her grandpa in the tent for hours on end watching us fly around drinking nectar.

Days went by until I had almost completely forgotten about migration and super generation monarchs. Amelia came and visited me every day, checking on me. She even whispered to me

(when the others weren't listening) that I was her favorite monarch…. She's my favorite too, even if she's not a monarch. Sometimes she would tell me stories of how she had found us all, or she brought me fresh milkweed. We had a special bond, until one day when everything changed. They opened up the tent. Even though the tent was clear, a vast amount of sunlight streamed in. At first no one seemed to quite know what to do, until one brave monarch took off. We watched until they disappeared into the horizon. Silently and gracefully others followed until I was the only one left.

I was the last to go, the sadness on Amelia's face made me pause. She had helped me when I needed it most, yet silently I spread my wings and took off. I knew I would reach my destination. When I looked back I saw them both waving and smiling.

I knew I would never forget the way they had helped me, and I felt something like a tear in my eye. Hopefully Amelia and her grandfather shared their knowledge with their community. You know, there will always be monarchs as long as there are people who care.

The End.

The Age of a Tree

Succulent Lindsey, 12

Lavendar Lindsey, 12

Lindsey, 12

(left to right)

(left to right)

The Sky Julie, 16 Pink Clouds Kaeley, 14

Colorful Clouds Yare, 18

The Duality of Winter

By Alessia, 16

The classroom lights were an eye strain, and unfortunately the brightest source of light in the area. I blinked rapidly to rid myself of the white spots dancing across my vision. A faint buzzing noise filled the room, but its omnipresence made its source undetectable. I sat up with a wince and rolled my shoulder within its socket, grumbling at the soreness. The cheap plastic chair beneath me groaned at the motion. I pressed my palms to my back and cracked it, the sound amplified by the lack of conversation around me. I lifted my hand to rub at the red imprint on my forehead, a result of dozing off against the desk surface.

Despite the rapidly dropping temperatures of the season, the classroom remained warm and clammy. I pitied the heater. I turned to face the window on my right and traced the intricate patterns of frost lining its edges with my eyes. Whenever the sun peeked its face out from behind the blanket of murky gray clouds, the ice crystals cast glittering shadows onto my desk, misshapen as they curved over the items resting on the wooden surface. In the distance, a patch of trees stood in solidarity, their lack of leaves giving them an almost skeletal look. They stretched their bare arms towards the sky, tangling their fingers in the fog that hung low in the air. Leaning my face against my hand, I sighed and watched how my breath fogged the window, blurring my view of the world outside.

I lifted my head and moved my hand towards the icy glass. The cold seeped through my fingertips as I drew shapes and words in the rapidly shrinking mist patch, leaving them numb when I drew my hand away. As my jottings faded away, I lazily turned my gaze back to the teacher, tracking his movement as he paced back and forth to each side of the board, book in hand. His lecture fell on deaf ears. I lifted up my pencil from where it had been lying forgotten on the edge of my desk, picking at the stray shards of wood splintering near the tip. I fidgeted with it a while longer,

soon turning to idly doodle in the margins of my paper. As of late, classes stretched far past their natural conclusion. Perhaps it was a trick of the light, the shorter days making every hour spent inside feel like a waste. I drew little dancing figures on the paper, each contorted into a delicately exaggerated stance, each different from the last. Their linework waxed and waned with the pressure I applied, curving sides and jagged edges, smudging when my hand brushed up against them. They seemed to move the longer I stared, taking each other in hand and waltzing up and down, side to side, avoiding the words already donning the page. I could almost hear the music.

The minutes continued to crawl by. The only clock in the room hung lopsided over the teacher's desk, it’s hour and minute hands off by hours and then some. It had been proudly displaying the wrong time since the beginning of the year, perhaps it needed new batteries. I shifted in my seat and the rustle of my thick winter coat, which had been draped haphazardly on the back of my chair, caused a few pairs of eyes to briefly glance in my direction.

This morning had not been fun. Even through my three layers of clothes, the cold still stung my skin and sank into my bones. My earmuffs and scarf had done nothing to prevent the sub-zero winds from nipping at my ears and cheeks - I’d had to squint against snow bits flying towards my eyes. The walk to school was through a thick layer of slushied ice, now gray from the churning of people’s dirt-crusted shoes. It clung to my boots in slippery clumps and dampened the hem of my pants, somehow managing to soak my socks in the process. It seemed that with every step I took another pebble lodged itself into the grooves of my footwear, and sliding my feet across the rough cement hadn’t aided in their removal.

I looked back up. The teacher had either finished or given up on his lesson and sat clicking loudly on his computer. His face held a

decidedly exhausted expression. My mood had soured, thinking about the inevitably damp journey back home.

As I stretched my arms, I shifted back in my chair to fix my posture. I swiveled my head back to face the window, noting the darker clouds and the faraway tree branches swaying gently in the wind. The air looked blurrier than earlier, like it was moving. I strained my neck, almost lifting out of my chair, to peek at the ground outside. There was a soft dusting of snow on the sidewalk bordering the school building, lines of more solid white standing out where the snow had collected in the cracks separating each panel. I felt a smile creep onto my face, nature had perfect timing.

People around me began to notice the weather, whispering excitedly amongst themselves and stealing glimpses at the increasingly heavy snowfall outside. Snippets of plans for snowball fights and sledding were occasionally distinguishable amidst the low hush filling the room. Giggles and shushes could be heard every so often. The rustle of students gathering their belongings prompted the teacher to glance up from his keyboard. With a raised eyebrow, he followed his students' glances towards the window and the snow outside. A small smile graced his face, remaining even as he turned back to resume his work.

A few minutes passed and the dismissal bell chimed overhead, the sound a cue for the now enthusiastic students to rush towards the door and force their way through the ocean of bodies now flooding the hallways. After dragging on my coat, I slang my bag around my shoulder and followed in suit. My journey towards the exit was slow-moving, full of elbow jabs and jostled steps. An acetous smell hung in the air, the regrettable result of classes of kids sitting in overheated rooms all day. The first step out of the main entrance was a breath of fresh air. The air was still cold, but it had warmed as the sun rose higher in the sky. It was crisp, no longer stinging my lungs with each inhale I took. Flurries of snow fell gracefully from above, sticking in my hair and eyelashes and dotting my gloves with snowflakes. Each impossibly complex

crystalline structure glimmered in the sunlight, making my hand twinkle as I waved it back and forth.

With a grin I made my trek back to my house, taking pleasure in every crunchy footprint I left behind me in the snow. By the time I made it to my yard, a few centimeters of snow rested on my head and shoulders. I brushed it off, watching the pieces scatter on the almost-buried blades of grass on the ground. I smiled and jogged the last few feet into my house. I dropped my backpack on the ground with a thud, some of the snow that had been atop of it falling off around it. From the other room my mother called out to me, offering a steaming cup of hot chocolate topped with a layer of whipped cream. I collected it with gratitude, taking my place on the couch near the window. The heat of the mug warmed my hands, and with a few repeated blows at the steam I took a tentative sip. It was warm, but not scalding.

I made slow progress on my drink as I stared out the window. I planned to venture back out into the chill when I finished it, the fun to be had building snowmen and making snow angels was not something I wished to stall. Outside, I watched as neighbors exchanged pelted snowballs, their shrieks of joy could be heard through the frosted glass. Barricades of snow were hastily built, only to be toppled by repeated impact and built up again - the walls grew smaller with each rebuild.

I turned from the window to stare into my mug, watching the chunks of whipped cream float and bob beneath the surface. I recalled how dreary the morning had begun and marveled at just how whimsical it had become. It was amazing how spirits brightened with the darkening of the clouds and a fresh coat of snow. It was as if the whole block was alight with the spirit of winter.

A snowball crumbled with a thump against my window, pieces of snow sliding down the glass from where it had collided. I startled

and turned my gaze towards the kids on the street. They were laughing, beckoning me to join them with waving arms and muffled shouts.

I licked the whipped cream off my upper lip, grinning brightly.

The Forest and Me Maren, 12

Sunset

Chloe, 15

Nighttime

Chloe, 15

Eye Fernanda, 17

Bob Ross Replica MD, 16

The Lady in the Field Rowan, 16

Savannah ‘22

Hilina, 16

Mother’s Eye

Genesis, 15

Split Paradise Andrew, 17

(above)

A Little Birdy Told Me Bezalel, 17 Alone Wren, 12

Stop the Smoke

Spencer, 13

Size in Contrast

Andrew, 17

Nature in Dunwoody

Elizabeth, 16

Untitled Xavier Nature Calls Anonymous, 14 A Bouquet of Flowers Lindsey, 12 (left to right)

Thank you!

To all of our wonderful artists for sharing their work and to the DeKalb Library Foundation for funding this project.

Featured Artists:

Nia

Rocio

Grace

Elizabeth

Carol

Taevin

Yare

Blake

Kaeley

Jordan

Nia E.

Alessia

Fernanda

Finch

Andrew

Hilina

Mariana

Selah

Nafiz

Chloe

Bezalel

Lindsey

Maren

MD

Xavier

Julie

Laura

Rowan

T.

Yunior

Yulma

Spencer

Genesis

Cora

Wren and all of our anonymous artists!