Different Drummer Literary Magazine 2020-2021

DIFFERENT DRUMMER

CHAPEL HILL HIGH SCHOOL, 2020-2021

“Why should we be in such desperate haste to succeed and in such desperate enterprises? If a man does not keep pace with his companions, perhaps it is because he hears a different drummer. Let him step to the music which he hears, however measured or far away.” ― Henry David Thoreau, "Walden"

Editors '21

Spring

Table of Contents

8

Self Portrait Lily Reeves

9

Margaret Stoffregen '21 '23 Cristina Payst

OF ARCHITECTURE AND RELIGION Isabel Sharp

10

Zuri Giscombe Lila Rademacher

Dreams Coming True Elena Lowinger

11

Life's a Rainbow Elena Abuin

12

Garden of Ladies Tanvi Krishnamurthy

13

A Cup of Juice at Dawn Isabel Sharp

14

Comfort Blanket Elena Lowinger

15

Yellow Bird Rafael Mantovani Rocha

17

Intimacy Rafael Mantovani Rocha

18

cheshire moon Eliana Smerek

Sania Khazi Trey Purves Karolina Orocz

'21 '21

'24 '24

Letter •

Different Drummer is • Hill High School’s Chapel literary club and magazine, • producing a yearly issue made up entirely of student work. Our editors have spent months curating, revising, and formatting what is now our 2020-2021 issue, which we are so proud to share with you.

This year, we’ve chosen to split up the magazine into four sections, each taking on a different season. This seasonal theme is meant to emulate growth and • perseverance, highlighting • the passage of time as • something to celebrated.

• A special thanks to our club advisor William Schrader, cover artist Tanvi Krishnamurthy, every • student who submitted their brilliant work, and you the reader for giving your attention to these talented • artists. Keep on Drumming Differently!

Summer 22

Kochany Karoline Orocz

23

Time Traveler Rafael Mantovani Rocha

25

Sun and Crow Sol Ramirez

26

Untitled Sophia Gerz

27

Violets for Syrup Isabel Sharp

29

Blue Haired Girl Eliza Miller

30

Sunrise Over the Sea Rafael Mantovani Rocha

31

Sand, Maternity Isabel Sharp

32

Night Sky Diana Evans

33

exultation Eliana Smerek

Henna Tanvi Krishnamurthy

Autumn 36

Frog Soup Isabel Sharp

37

The World Is At Our Fingertips Diana Evans

38

Anxiety-Inducing Adults Elena Lowinger

39

The Moths and the Fire Sol Ramirez

40

Dia De Los Muertos Sol Ramirez

41

October Funeral Rio Winslow Trevathan

42

Untitled Jane Rydin

44

Ninth of November of 2010 Rafael Mantovani Rocha

45

Winter

• • • •

•

I Rhyme So Rarely Isabel Sharp

52

Hands of Death Tanvi Krishnamurthy

53

Charming Sorrow Eliza Miller

54

Beasts of Burden Elena Abuin

55

Mariculture Isabel Sharp

56

Dayton Karolina Orocz

58

It's good for you Karolina Orocz

59

Darling Sorrow Lila Rademacher

60

Bubby's Ear Elena Lowinger

61

JOY Analise Ambrozic

62

Hallelujah Karolina Orocz

63

Editor Notes Being a part of Different Drummer has brought about an immense shift in my individuality, catapulting my growth as an artist, community member, and leader. Creating a magazine designed for students, by students, uplifting raw voices to be heard and praised, has never before generated such fulfillment. The warmest of thank yous to my wonderful team of friends, fantastic advisor Mr. Schrader, and darling Co-Editor in Chief Sania Khazi. I cannot begin to emphasize how grateful I am for this experience and how proud and excited I am to see you all thrive.

-Trey Purves When Trey brought me to our first Different Drummer meeting my junior year, I was really just there as a plus-one. Yet, as I followed Mr. Schrader’s lead, assembling our desks into one large circle and listening to that day’s "creative share," I knew that lunchtime meetings with our small group of vibrantly creative minds would become a weekly routine. This year as Co-Editor in Chief of Different Drummer, once again with Trey by my side, I was unsure where these times would take us. Thankfully, our passionate club members who I now call my friends worked their creative magic to present to you this year’s issue of the Different Drummer Literary Magazine. I could not be more proud of our work. Thank you Different Drummer for keeping my artistic spark lit this year. I’ve loved every • second of it.

- Sania Khazi • •

"Sing more yellow bird, I have the whole afternoon free."

Spring

Self Portrait - Lily Reeves

OF ARCHITECTURE AND RELIGION Isabel Sharp i am part of the body: i am jesus’s feet the sunlit mirror is bright we’ve visited these castles of europe and we’ve seen a million paintings of god’s arms your arms might be just as strong picture that! we’re one in the same, all bits of the body and sparks of the soul i can feel it in me and i wonder if it is in you too? do you feel such a strong sense at the work of gaudí? such a lusting for the grandeur and the splendor and the guilt? i wonder if your strong arms can open quite as wide please sit next to me when we take bits of bread and mix it with wine in our stomachs to feel god’s fires please hold my hand when we see the cathedrals so that i know you’re there to catch me when i faint

Dreams Coming True - Elena Lowinger

Life's a Rainbow Elena Abuin The Universe doesn't look twice when she births a star, Or makes meteors fall But when she does, our seemingly insignificant minds become a stage for a Beautifully complex ballet of emotions.

There are still colors you have yet to know the name of, Planets yearning to meet your eyes, And versions of yourself you have not met yet.

Don't close your eyes now, Open them Open them wide enough to see the full spectrum of color our eyes allow.

Because when it's all over, You would like to say "I saw the rainbow."

Garden of Ladies - Tanvi Krishnamurthy

A CUP OF JUICE AT DAWN Isabel Sharp

murky eyes: misty fingertips as it touches the strange air the air hangs so low to the ground. your odd fists are clenched to defy the air, your air floats around you and envelops, embraces the way your hands move is with drag. cherry juice, juice it between your fingers! palm leaf eyelids shut tight on your bony bony face your cheeks mountains to slide across your briny tears make good use of the slopes, of your angular state grapefruit juice, juice it between your palms!

Comfort Blanket - Elena Lowinger

“Yellow Bird” Rafael Mantovani Rocha A stroll to the park, away from home and all that’s known; Difficult times weigh a heavy toll and sometimes medicine can be found in being alone.

From a cold stone bench, I watch whole white clouds drift across the sky; Though not a rare sight, it’s rarely allowed to sink in.

How can these heavy clouds be moved by the non-tangible wind?

It feels nonsensical to me; and yet it happens.

Conflicted and confused, nothing that I’m used to seems right anymore.

My thoughts feel like a mess, the more I know the less I’m sure of.

I sit here lost, I’m again alone with my thoughts, can’t help but be agnostic.

But closer to the ground, and away from the clouds I spot a blue bird lolling around on its stick-made-though-comfy-looking nest.

Blue bird seems to be enjoying it at its best, nevermind the lack of zest, It seems to enjoy the peace and quiet as it keeps up its blue crest.

Life seems so simple, but there’s still too much in my head.

All that bird has to do is chill there, he should be glad.

Life isn’t fair and I don’t have much time left To get started. Of course. I’m still young I’ve been told that life is short but it still feels long.

Then from somewhere in the sky, a bright yellow bird comes along.

I got to go home, I have work to do.

The bright yellow bird lands ahead of me.

It’s still early, but soon it won’t be.

The bright yellow bird hops on top of a grey rock, I see.

I have time to waste, but I shouldn’t.

The bright yellow bird lets off a taste of its pitch.

I ought to stay and listen. I’m about to leave, but once again I sit.

And I ask: Please, yellow bird sing me a song, Cease this immense silence with your gay chirrup.

As if it was Grease, yellow bird sing me a song, Only your syrup-sweet chant can help me cheer up.

Bright yellow birds sounds lovely, lolling blue bird from the tree can’t help itself but sing with it.

Let me forget yellow bird, fill my ears with your melody; Swinging smoothly on five lines, such colorful harmony.

The wind softly plays the tree’s leaves, nature’s music plays in unity.

Sing more yellow bird, I have the whole afternoon free.

I’m sure I can stay, only after the sun sets I’ll leave.

Euphoria has taken over me, I’m not sure I want success.

Such an ordinary spell has been cast, and I have no more work to do.

Even the blue bird has given up its enjoyed peace for the singing of the yellow one, and the old times it will not miss.

The moon and the stars want to join the party, but yellow bird has been singing all day.

They came late to the event, and now it’s time to lay.

At home I find again all that was known, and the spell is unfortunately all gone.

In bed I remember the yellow bird’s singing, and wait for the time I’ll hear it once more.

Intimacy - Rafael Mantovani Rocha

Cheshire Moon - Eliana Smerek

"I was lost in the sky"

Summer

Kochany - Karolina Orocz

“Time Traveler” Rafael Mantovani Rocha We’re walking in conversation, dancing through our path. Seconds go by fast, minutes even faster.

Meaningless topics are fun to discuss, but it’s controversy we seek. Neither of us can shut up and neither of us can stop listening.

I rush through windy roads; racing is more fun than driving. She awaits me at her home with cute cat eyes already drawn. We drive somewhere but I can barely do the speed limit: talking to her is more fun than racing, and the radio is turned quiet so it doesn’t disturb our self-entertainment.

“Oh I love this girl! One day I’ll marry her.”

This thought won’t leave my head. “We can live in so many countries, have children we can call our own.” If not about the distant future, then: “Tomorrow we’ll go skating, then we’ll watch a movie, then we’ll grab some food, then we’ll...”

We go for a stroll, we pace through the sidewalk.

We look ahead, not always at each other. I ask her about her life and her friends; we plan more things we can do together. Silence visits us.

In the car music entertains us. We sing along and wait for the trip to end. My foot finds ease in sinking the gas pedal; I do all I can to speed up the clock.

Then I leave. At home, I remember how much I love her; I remember all the amazing moments we’ve shared and wonder where those days have gone. I start to lose faith on that bright future I fantasized about, until I realize what the root of our distance is: I’ve spent all this time living in the future, a time in which our relationship and our lives greatly differ from our present selves’.

I bring myself back from my fantastic trip to tomorrow and focus solely on my enjoyment of today.

Gas pedal sticks to the floor on my way to her house.

Conversation flows as we dance along the sidewalk.

Our tongues tangle in our mouths as our hearts beat pressed against each other. Music is silenced by the sound of our laughs in the car, At the end of the day our words ring truer than ever: “I love you.”

In honor of Bruce Ladder.

Sun and Crow - Sol Ramirez

Untitled - Sophia Gerz

VIOLETS FOR SYRUP Isabel Sharp i gathered violets from around the clover and henbit and other weeds which had grown to cover the ground that i stepped on with bare feet because it was too nice a day to bother going inside to put on sandals. i was lost in the sky. there were bursts of purple coming from the ground, more the more i thought of them, appearing almost because my mind had willed it so. i put the delicate blossoms in a bowl and washed them in a collader. the petals grew limp and dead, save for the vibrant color coming off of them that stained a pot of water blue at first, then a darker byzantium that looked too rich to be true. the petals stayed beneath a kitchen towel and off the heat on the counter until they lost their own brilliance to the circling waters, becoming nothing but little ghosts without form or purpose any longer, succumb to the sea. i ran the violets through a strainer, pressing them in with my knuckles as if begging for one more drop of life out of the frail beings.

they gave me all they had, and i tossed them into the bushes again, for use by some squirrel or bird or just to decompose with the rest. this beautiful life i had stolen from them, however, became more full of being than anything i’d ever seen. the purple tones looked of poison in a way but also of life, an elixir of spirit and malice and pull. the little bits i had pulled from the grass had given up to me their essence and fallen back to the world having sacrificed their bodies to mine. not to leave their spirits wasted, i quickly began adding sugar to bring out the taste and not let it stay bitter and like twigs and dirt to the mouth. the stuff began to simmer, and the top of the mixture began to shine like sun off the ocean in the morning. i poured it into a glass jar and sealed the purple inside.

Blue Haired Girl - Eliza Miller

Sunrise Over the Sea - Rafael Mantovani Rocha

SAND, MATERNITY Isabel Sharp I’ll always associate you with apricots because once you brought them to the beach and we ate them in the shade under trees that look bent by wind or sea spray.

I saw a baby in the sand with hair in three ponytails on the back of her head and I thought of how much I wanted a baby girl and you said you might want a boy so I said we’d compromise.

Girls have legs that are as long as shorelines and hips that stretch into beauty on both sides.

My body is a mirage.

It’s not all you think at all.

I wonder if a baby girl would be a mirage in the sand, like her mother, like every mother before because that’s what we’re built to be.

I don’t think you know that about me.

I don’t think you think of me as a creator, as the partner of God to build every other child in the world out of nothing but red clay and lye, I don’t think you want me to be the world. You only want me to be yours, to exist in your arms with only the good lord between us.

I’ll bring to life a child one day to feed apricots to on the sand under a little tent.

And we’ll exist all together you taking the patrimonial place, yet I’ll always know that we are all nothing but products of women and the world.

Night Sky - Diana Evans

Exultation - Eliana Smerek

"October might eventually serve me with cold relief. Drugging me with ancient nostalgia."

Autumn

Henna - Tanvi Krishnamurthy

FROG SOUP Isabel Sharp is this how it feels to sit around in your own soup all day and just drown? it’s never been clear to any of us what’s going on. it never will be because things are not discussed out in open air. trees fall. a pastoral scene and silence is bountiful in corners and other places and anywhere if you know how to look hard enough and feign deaf.

I think we’re all drowning. maybe it’s comforting to know?

I haven’t decided yet. all I know is that I can’t really breathe out of my nose anymore, I’m just sitting here suffocating but not gasping for air. we’re nothing but frogs. we’re all frogs trapped in jars and the heat is being turned up but we don’t know it yet and I don’t think we’ll know we were dying until we’re dead.

The World Is At Our Fingertips - Diana Evans

Anxiety-inducing Adults - Elena Lowinger

The Moths and the Fire - Sol Ramirez

Dia De Los Muertos - Sol Ramirez

October Funeral Rio Winslow Trevathan October doesn’t care about my anger.

It doesn’t hang its bare branches lower to spite me.

It doesn’t blow its brittle wind to make a mess of me.

And yet I still hate the thought of it gloating while I sleep.

I hate the thought of it living on while I cry.

Every year coming colder never with an apology.

October never did any concrete wrong.

Time is not a consequence of others.

Grief is not derived from anger.

In fact the opposite.

But grief makes your anger feel oh so beautifully justified.

A naive grudge to hold against a month.

October isn’t one to hold its blame.

I wish it were so I would have something to scream at.

Something to strangle.

I miss before when it was just a month.

An excuse to masquerade without asked questions.

A free way to hide as a tree in another barren forest.

October isn’t the one that needed to apologize That burden is mine for all the sorries that I never said.

For all the anger that never saw balance.

For what I may have done.

In vast unknown responsibility lands somewhere.

I’ll always wish at least that I had said goodbye.

October might eventually serve me cold relief.

Drugging me with ancient nostalgia.

But those days will not come soon come at all.

At least there is a twisted comfort to be found in unrightful anger.

Even when it never fulfills.

Untitled - Jane Rydin

Ninth of November of 2010

By Dave Newman Yet another sleepless night went by. I’ve had one every year for the past decade, always on the same night too: the ninth of November. It is, however, with reason. Said date is the anniversary of certainly the most tragic night of my life. The events from that night in particular haunt my being tirelessly, though it is at its strongest on this day. I cannot spend the day or the night of this horrid date without thinking about what passed years before. As I write these accounts, it is the evening of the tenth of November, and I write with the goal of informing you of the events from the discomforting night that passed a decade ago. *** Not having slept during the night, I found myself rather tired at dawn. I laid with my wife for the first few hours of the night, but when the thoughts of that tragedy roamed through my head, I felt forced to leave her side and spend some time in solitude in our living room. It was guilt that continuously stabbed me.

It was a Sunday when, ten years ago, I brought my family to my parent’s house. My forever loved wife Bethany sat next to me in the car and our only child, Thomas, sat on the backseat. We were going to have a family dinner as we usually have every few months. Momma cooks a great lamb with all sorts of legumes, and dad, well, dad knows which wine goes well with it. That man is a fanatic: in his basement is a wine cellar conditioned to the best weather possible with bottles from all over the world.

It amazed me every time I saw it.

What also amazed me was the sunrise today; it was absolutely beautiful, it made the air feel more pure and it made me want to breathe it in as deep as I could. The suburbian streets outside my house were quieter than they have ever been: no children running and screaming, no loud skateboards, no talking neighbors, no cars, nothing but silence and serenity. I walked down the sidewalks, towards a trail that cut through the woods around the neighborhood. The roads are windy and have several sharp bends; going through one of these bends, I spotted a boy wearing high blue shorts and a tucked white shirt with black shoes that matched his belt. He’s out every year on this day and at this time of morning.

Back to what I really want to talk about, the trip to my parent’s house is not too long, some two hours, maybe a bit more if we need gas or one of us needs to pee, but it was always an enjoyable ride. Betty and I played games with Thomas, we sang songs from the radio or from our favorite CD’s -- they were still popular back then -- and we told each other made up stories too. We always brought some snacks, never too much though because we didn’t want to be full before we could eat dinner. The trip that day went by just as it always did, nothing unusual. We made a stop for gas and other necessities which require no need of discussion, and in a little over two hours we arrived at my parent’s house.

Their house has always felt cozy. They live in a small brick house in a very quiet neighborhood in a very small town. The scenery there differs greatly from the fast growing suburbs of where I live. Trees surround their house and separate their walls from their neighbors’; deer, raccoons, squirrels, birds, and other common animals roam free in their yards; cars that pass by are rare and slow; and seasons feel their best there, where summers aren’t too hot due to the shade of the trees and winters aren’t too cold due to the small space indoors that receives plenty of heat from the fireplace. On the walk I took

this morning, I could very easily see the difference between the houses in which I and the other middle aged working people lived compared to where the tired and retired lived. The houses in my neighborhood are unnecessarily big, the cars in front are fancy, and the colors are modest, not to say boring. Of course, my house is not much different. Danielle and I live with her two children plus one of our own in a house that I believe could fit a family of 10 if we wanted. The cars parked in front are beautiful and modern and our cream with black trimmings house suits its location between a gray home and a pale-navy one. Perhaps the only thing that is common between these two locations is children. At my parent’s there were always other children around the neighborhood, be them grandchildren of other older folk, or children of younger folk who enjoy the scenery there. Either way, children are always present, special in my neighborhood where even today at daybreak, a boy roamed the streets just ahead of me. It was strange, it looked as if he followed me from in front of me; his trajectory was the exact same as mine. “He must be going to the same place as I.” I thought.

Anyways, when we arrived at my folks’ place a decade ago, it was already four o’clock in the afternoon, momma had just started cooking dinner and dad was just about to open the first bottle of wine of the night. Dinner was to be served at around five, and it was going to be pork with a side of mashed potatoes and, of course, divers veggies. None of us was hungry, but since momma had already put some snacks out for us, we couldn’t help ourselves but eat. And so we did. Dad also served my wife and I some wine. I cannot recall its name... something with an Art... Anti... Amonti? I don’t remember, but it was good. We drank a whole bottle of it before dinner even started, though, in my defense, he did say it was to be drinked with the cheese momma had put out, and it surely was delicious. Beyond the cheese there were olives, grapes, and salami that altogether, made for a great tasting experience. After we finished snacking and dinner had been served, I was almost too full to dine, but there’s always room for momma’s food.

Out on that walk this morning, I could taste mom’s food in my mouth, as well as the taste of that bittersweet wine that I miss yet make sure never to come close to again. I’ve been sober ever since that night; not because I want to be so sober, but because I fear what could happen if I’m not. Much sadness I had to deal with in my long sobriety, and in days like yesterday, when the thoughts of that tragic night come back to me, all I wish for is that I could rid myself of my good conscience and relax unaware of the memories that haunt me. Still, I restrain from any drugs capable of modifying my being, and instead, to deal with the distressing memories of the ninth of November, I simply go for long walks. During fall, the weather feels nothing short of perfect.

Talking about the walk from this morning, I found it odd that the young boy ahead of me turned around and gave me a quick look while posing with hands on his hips right before entering the trail.

He looked pleased to be outside, which to me was also a little strange given that a daybreak in fall offers a rather cold atmosphere and that boy wore shorts and a tee. I was always very confused by his existence, but I never gave him much thought -- my mind is already filled to the brim with unpleasantness on this day every year, his mystery never had any room there.

Anyhow, we all ate momma’s delicious dinner. My wife, my father, and I, we all drank more wine during the meal. He had brought a different one this time saying it would go perfectly with the pork. We didn’t eat much, we were already full from the snacks, but we sure drank more wine

and none of us could resist a slice of that juicy meat and a scoop of the creamy mash, so we all had a little something. We finished eating very quickly, but none of us left the table -- except, of course, Thomas who found our drunk talk rather boring; he laid on the couch in the living room and watched some videos on his phone. Us adults, blabbered on about politics and gossip about other family members and family friends. We laughed and drank more wine, except for momma. She did her best to keep us in check when we discussed any controversies, or spoke poorly of others. By far the only voice with any reason or sense behind it.

I miss being senseless. Now, I am forced to take everything in by its full amount. Any pain or confusion or uncomfort; it is all felt. This morning, watching that kid walk my path before I did caused me so much paranoia. If I had a drink in my hand I’m sure I would not have cared, but my hand was empty. He walked through the trees at my pace. When I slowed down to try and distance myself from him, he slowed down too; and when I sped up to maybe try and pass him so that I wouldn’t have the sight of him anymore, he would speed up with me. It was as if he wished to keep the exact same distance between us for the whole time. But again, I was just being paranoid, sober and keen to all my senses.

That night at my parent’s was in fact the last time I drank any alcohol, and oh did I drink.

There was, that night, an ongoing test between us all. Though it was not acknowledged by any of us, it was very much present. We tried our best to show each other how little effect alcohol took on us, how aware and conscious we could be with alcohol in our stomachs.

Unfortunately, the truth was that none of us could remain in any good sense with all that wine.

Getting up from the table to go to the bathroom felt like quite the task: standing up without losing balance was hard, walking was even harder, and then peeing and aiming right while not falling over was near impossible. I remember looking at myself in the mirror: red eyes, oily nose, messy hair, and red lips. I was tired and drunk, but I wouldn’t admit being either, not to myself nor to anyone else. On my way back to the table I remember seeing young Thomas, lying peacefully on the couch. It was late, the boy was tired. I took it as a sign that we shouldn’t stay for much longer, that we should get going so that the boy can get some good rest at his home.

I talked to my wife who, being just as drunk as I was, agreed that it was time to go. My dad offered us a last glass of wine which we happily took. Momma voiced her concern of having us drive back home and asked that we stayed for the night, but all three of us drunks told her not to worry, that we weren’t that drunk, that the ride was easy and calm. She didn’t give up, she raised her voice and locked the door so that we wouldn’t leave. We finished our glasses of wine so that we could get her out of our way. Still, she screamed at us, telling us not to go. Thomas woke up. I remember telling her “Look at what you’ve done! You woke poor Thomas up. We’re going.” And her answer...

“Fine.”

Poor momma. I should’ve listened to her. She did all she could to save us that night but we ignored her pleas. We walked outside and gave our farewells to her and my dad. My mom watched as we stumbled our way towards the car. She didn’t say a single word. Now, I know that that night she prayed and prayed that we would get home safe. She asked God for mercy and help protecting us; she offered him her utmost diligence and loyalty. I drove the car, my wife fell asleep on the passenger seat, my son slept on the middle one of the backseats. I do not recall a lot of what happened after that.

I do remember, though very faintly, watching my son fly off the backseat, launched through the windbreaker and out the car. We had forgotten to strap him in. My wife had removed her seatbelt so that she could sleep more comfortably. After Thomas flew past and out of my sight, all I could see of my wife was her body almost entirely under the seat, and her head pressing against the emptying airbag. Then there were lots of bright lights and sirens. It was, of course, the police and an ambulance, but at the time I could make sense of none of it. They took me, put me in the backseat of the viature. I fell asleep, though in my dreams I could still hear the siren wailing over me. Even in that walk from today, I could still hear it. Just as loud and just as clear. Oh that walk. The boy ahead of me kept me paranoid the whole time. Sometimes he would disappear through a turn and then reappear later. I couldn’t take my eyes off of him. His blue shorts and tucked white tee were so innocent, but I knew he was up to something with his poses and looks and flirts. Everytime he disappeared, I rushed forward to find him. I needed to know what he was up to, but I couldn’t get any closer. Being so focused on him I failed to notice my strange surroundings. I had walked that trail many times but I did not recognize a single branch now. From hindsight, I feel content in saying I was just paranoid, that my surroundings had not changed, I was just not as familiar with the trail as I thought I was.

Waking up at that hospital, I remember wondering about my family. I was alone in my room, or at least I thought I was. I heard the toilet flush, and out of the bathroom came a nurse.

Noticing I was awake and agitated, he calmed me down and told me not to move because my ribs were broken. They sure were; I remember very well the pain my body inflicted upon me at any movement I made. I relaxed and asked him about my wife and my son. He looked down and then back at me and delivered me the news. Neither of them had survived the accident of the night before.

My recovery was long and painful. The only visits I would get were rare and from my dad. He felt just as much guilt and remorse as I did. He told me about how my mom had become to him a reminder of our stupid decisions, though at the same time, she helped him deal with the guilt and learn from his mistakes. She never visited me. I haven’t seen her since that night. I don’t know if she simply despises me now, or if she can’t deal with seeing me and remembering the tragedies of that night. All I know is she won’t answer my messages or pick up my calls. After I

left the trail this morning, I tried calling her but she of course didn’t pick up the phone. I don’t blame her and I don’t hate her for it, but I do suffer from it as it serves as yet another loss for me. When trying to call her I noticed that the young boy was gone. He had disappeared a couple of turns earlier and hadn’t reappeared. He must have taken a different route than that of mine, I don’t know. He reminds me of Thomas though. A sweet looking boy, always up to something. In my paranoia I even considered the idea that he was the ghost of my son! That’s how paranoid I get when I’m sober. Either way, I haven’t given him too much thought until now. That kid really looked like Thomas, it’s quite incredible. Given, I was far from him, so I’m sure it was just some random kid, but my mind can’t help but wonder.

Well, I spent a little while in the hospital. In the final stages of my recovery, I was put under the care of a nurse named Danielle. She took good care of me, but what truly helped my recovery was her friendship. We bonded quite well, and when I was set free of my injuries, I took her phone number and we kept in touch. You know how these things happen, one thing leads to another, and before you know it, we’re getting married. But that’s beyond the point. I’m only here to free my mind of these haunting thoughts through writing, so I’ll stick to only doing that.

Hopefully next year and the years after I won’t be seeing my son wandering the streets with me or hearing any loud sirens in such a peaceful neighborhood anymore.

"Nothing can stop time's pendulum, but we carry the weight of knowing it still swings"

Winter

I RHYME SO RARELY Isabel Sharp my hands have held so many things and yet they yearn for you. i’ve been awake for so much time cup waiting for the brew i touch my temple, touch my brow but cannot clean my mind the drumbeat fast, the carpet clast the wordless clear of brine i am inside; you are abound your tendril twisting stern your backwards legs and mixed up words will echo endless: burn

Hands of Death - Tanvi Krishnamurthy

Charming Sorrow - Eliza Miller

Beasts of Burden Elena Abuin Who are we to call the Ox a beast of burden, When our thoughts fill our heads with true suffering?

Nothing can stop time's pendulum, but we carry the weight of knowing it still swings.

Maybe we are the beasts Burdened with the unsatisfiable hunger for a knowledge we may never possess.

The Ox doesn't question why it exists, but we do; Our reflection in it's indifferent eyes tells us, "That's the biggest burden of all."

MARICULTURE Isabel Sharp Oyster - pulled out of the slowly churning waters to reveal its brilliant nacre which reflects the sun’s bright streams of light and can encompass a thousand stars more.

We were walking on the dock when we looked down at our feet which became rough when we trod on the oyster shells (and other abundant) and our feet were cut until they bled dark red on grey sand because we wanted to get to the most brilliant pearl, the most abstract line of life.

Ocean roar! sea spit The wind whips us until we fall down on each other like dominoes interrupting the little procession.

You don’t know how to lead a group in such disarray.

You don’t know what to do about the toppling and you don’t know how to mend our bloody feet so you tell us to keep following until we reach the end and can reap our meats from the craggy shore.

I could lick the inside of an oyster shell.

Just so that my tongue could feel its grooves and just to know how salty it is so that I’m not tempted to suck it up again.

You are full of salt as well, you taste just like the oyster!

When we come to return our findings to you at the end of our long treks there’s the choice between fruitful and wasteful, make something of yourself and your product or become nothing now; sink back into the sea that you came from and will ever return.

And the oyster shells we picked from the beaches sting the mouths of their patrons, they burn the eyes of their victims and never know when to stop until they’ve killed their leaders and washed out his insides in the ocean, where the water is clear and the water is so cold.

Shells have blue marks in their centers which are just big enough for a thumbprint and just too small for a headstone and when we press our little fingers to cover all the blue so that only white appears, we smile so wide that the whites of our teeth match the whites of the shells.

The water is too cold for bodies this time of year.

And the ground is frozen too hard so we’re not sure if we’re to bring him down to the collection with us so that he too may feel the blood on his feet and the oyster in his mouth and the slimy creature could crawl down his throat, but we are civil and kind as the breeze, so we let him flow along with the tide in and out in a rocking chair; we will rock alongside and we will harvest the nacre and lick out the insides and stare at the reflection of the sun.

Dayton - Karolina Orocz

It's good for you - Karolina Orocz

Darling Angel - Lila Rademacher

Bubby's Ear - Elena Lowinger

Joy Analise Ambrozic JOY is like a wall blocking the hardships of life It takes over something depressing JOY is the depth of your heart reaching its highest limits It surrounds you when you are overly excited JOY is the smile on your mothers face when you are born It ties a ribbon into a bow on a special box JOY is when a baby opens its eyes for the first time It's a growing plant built in you

Hallelujah - Karolina Orocz Click the image to begin the performance, or go to tinyurl.com/hallelujah-karolinaorocz