The Courtyard 2012

Volume 1 - 2012

Literary Journal Carnegie Vanguard High School 2011 - 2012

The Courtyard - 2012 Editor in Chief: Laura Mills Fiction Editors: Kathleen Brown and Mary Jo Gray Poetry Editors: Jessica Marino and Emma Basen-Engquist Non-Fiction Editors: Maya Fletcher-Bai and Kiera Brown Photography/Art Editors: Savannah Chorley and Rachel Jones Faculty Advisors: Ms. Erica Harris and Dr. Paula Brown

The Courtyard Journal Copyright Š 2012 Carnegie Vanguard High School 10401 Scott Street Houston, Texas 77051-3735 713.732.3690 All works are published by permission of the original creators. The Copyright Š for individual stories, poems, photographs and illustrations is retained by the original creators. To contact an author, artist or editor, please e-mail thecourtyard@gmail.com or search for The Courtyard on Facebook.com 4

Contents Editor’s letter 9 The Iron Grip 11 The Grimm 17 Black 18 Fade to Black 19 Inevitable 23 The friend request 24 A Love Poem You will Never Read 26 The Best of Times 31 An Ocean of Troubles 33 Tree 35 Come Unraveled 36 Untitled 39 Scene 4: The Interview 45 Time in a Different Manner 50 Aviary Aesthetics 51 Fairytale 52 Editor’s Showcase 55 The Day of Dawn 58 Close Your Eyes 61 Fallingwater 63 Believe me— 64 Anxiety on Aisle Seven 65 In Character 69 Invisible Destination 77

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Photo/Illustration Credits Courtyard in Fall Laura Mills . . . . .

Commerce Street Claire Hardwick . . . .

Photo Tomasa Garcia . . . . .

Up and Up Claire Hardwick . . . .

Photo Tomasa Garcia . . . . .

Photo Silvia Pera . . . . . .

Yellow Sonia Margolin . . . . .

Northward Sarah Waites . . . . .

Photo Silvia Pera . . . . . .

Photo Tomasa Garcia . . . . .

Disappearing Figure Barbara Mills . . . . .

Photo Mattie Mills . . . . .

Photo Silvia Pera . . . . . .

Photo Silvia Pera . . . . . .

Photo Mattie Mills . . . . .

Photo Silvia Pera . . . . . .

Forest Path* Earl . . . . . . .

Shapes* Squaio . . . . . . .

The Reaper Sarah Waites . . . . .

Smile Savannah Chorley . . . .

Spring Bloom* K.C. Connors . . . . .

Mask* Clarita . . . . . . .

Waterfall Mist Barbara Mills . . . . .

View from a Shopping Cart Laura Mills . . . . .

New York City Library* Ivan Melenchon Serrano . .

Coffee* M. Connors . . . . .

Night Abstract* Michelle Kwajafa . . . .

Unlocked Claire Hardwick . . . .

2 6 8 10 12 21 25 30 32 34 38 40 42 43 44 48 53 54 55 56 59 60 62 67 68 75 76 79

*Courtesy of Morguefile.com 7

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A Note from the Editor As a writer, I know what it means to see your work on a printed page. I know the excitement that bubbles up inside you when you know you will finally have an audience. If your writing or artwork is featured in this book, congratulations.

You have crossed the line that divides the published vs. the unpublished. A line, I might add, that many others in the profession take years to cross. However, this is only the first step. Don’t wipe your hands and think that your work here is done. Artistic endeavors are never finished, and there will always be room to grow, to try new things, to experiment.

As a writer, I also know what it means to be rejected. I know the disappointment that hovers above you like a cloud, and the nagging doubt that makes you wonder if you will ever be good enough. If you submitted to The Courtyard, but were not included, don’t give up. It takes courage to send your work to an editor, knowing they will scrutinize it, wondering if they will like what they see. But it takes more courage to continue doing what you love even in the face of obstacles like these.

Before I was a writer, I was a reader. That is why I wanted to create The Courtyard.

I wanted to create a place where readers, writers, and artists alike could come together to create something lasting. This journal showcases the very best writing, art, and photography from creative students right here at Carnegie. Once published, their words and pictures are passed on to you, the reader. I hope you will take the time to read and enjoy the work your peers have done. It has been a joy for me to work on this journal, and I can only hope that you will take as much away from reading it as I have from bringing it to life.

Thank you.

Laura Mills Editor in Chief The Courtyard

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The Iron Grip

by Claire Hardwick

As I walk through the smoldering gates of despair leading into my former life, I wonder. What happened here? Who could’ve done this? Sparks fall from the sky like tiny meteorites, and the sky is a deep, blood red.

Buildings are destroyed, flames slowly licking away the last remnants of sanity. I hear a crunch below my feet, I don’t look down, afraid I might see a familiar face, or someone clutching their last image of hope. I am walking through a burning wasteland, a desert in the middle of a dried up ocean. A land of no return. My palms are sweating profusely, and the hair on my arms is slowly being singed off. My heart quickens, they could still be alive, if I can get to them on time. I’m off. …

“You’re promoting me?” I asked in amazement. When had my boss ever acknowledged one thing I did?

“Yes Sue, we are.” He said begrudgingly.

“We’ve decided that you’re hard work has done a lot for this company, and we wanted to reward you,” he said with a smirk on his face. ‘Reward’ was never a safe word. In our city, being ‘rewarded’ with a new job meant a long, tedious period of training, where the pay was low, the food tasted like cardboard, and half the time you wished you had your old job back.

“Rewarded?” I squeaked out, my eyes squinting, hoping for a break.

“Yes, tomorrow you will be leaving on the train to the next city over. They are having a convention about architecture and running your own firm, which will help because we are promoting you to executive designer.”

“Wow, sir, thank you!” I said not believing what I had just heard. “You won’t regret it!” But before, he could object or change his mind I was gone like a wisp of smoke on a cloudy day. I ran through the transparent office building with a look of ecstasy on my face. I had done it. My dream had come true. I waved to the doorman, high fived a stranger on the way home, and complimented our demented neighbor on her wilting flowers. My family would be so thrilled to hear the news. I burst through the dirt laden, wooden door to our rickety two bedroom house. We were lucky to have that. My husband, an artist barely made any money for what I thought were wonderful paintings, but what the city society thought were an outrage and offensive.

I worked as an assistant at an architecture firm, dreaming that someday I could have something to point to, something I could tell my children that I thought of and that I built. But those days were soon to come, now to just find my family.

The house was eerily quiet, like it usually was. My husband, John was probably out in his studio, meditating or thinking of his next great art concept, and my two children Lilly and Mark were most likely The Iron Grip - Claire Hardwick

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already asleep in their bedrooms, for their scheduled afternoon nap. You see, in my city, until you’re eighteen everything is mapped out for you. Where you go to school, when you eat dinner, how your car survived that accident. The city society thinks this provides a safety net for the ‘irresponsible’ children. A web of protection, which will ultimately show you your dependence to the society. The society thinks that through this idea, people would learn to love the city and its leaders, and always obey them, but that’s not always how it ends. On your eighteenth birthday, nothing spectacular happens, no fireworks or cannonballs go off, you simply receive a plain white envelope in the mail with the city logo embossed in silvery ink that reflects the light like a cobalt lake lit by the moon. Inside is a sheet of paper explaining that you are free, free to do what you choose, free to stay up all night or sleep all day. But it also states that, “The society hopes that through these eighteen years of loving and nurturing to protect you from the dangers of the world around you, that you have learned responsibility and can now act on your own.” In public, you act like the lifting of these rules are a burden, like you wished you had that protective force field surrounding you still, but in private whispers of excitement and thrilled remarks are exchanged like meaningful secrets. You are truly free on your eighteenth birthday, but it can come with a price.

Over the years, after my eighteenth birthday, a few people I barely knew just disappeared. The next day in class, 12

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they wouldn’t show up. The teachers wouldn’t ask where they were or why they were late. It was like they had been erased from our memory, but were still present at the same time. You see, the society is tricky with words.

Even if they say you’re free, you’re never quite out of their sight. …

I found John in his backyard studio, dancing with paint. His eyes were closed and he was methodically moving to the beat of the Caribbean music, swaying and sashaying while he mixed bright oranges with dull marigold yellows and applied them to an aging canvas. I loved watching him paint. The joyful look on his face which appeared when he was doing something he was truly passionate about interested me. I dropped my bags and leaned against the smooth white doorframe with a slight smile on my face. He was like the Mona Lisa, in the fact that I never quite knew what he was thinking. As the minutes went by, I decided to leave him to his work.

Knowing that if I interrupted him, the wisp of imagination that was fueling his ingenuity would float away, and he would never be able to catch it again. I picked up my bags silently and padded away from his studio, the chill of winter nipping at my legs. I opened up the backdoor, and heard the slight sound of snoring drifting down from upstairs. I hung up my coat and slowly made my way up the creaky, cracked stairs. I pushed open the worn door to Lily and Mark’s bedroom. I sat in the rocking chair in the corner, and took in the look of bliss on their faces as slight snores escaped their breath. They looked so innocent, not even caring that everything they did was planned out for them. They hadn’t learned to hate it yet; it was the only way of life they knew. In a couple years they would learn about their eighteenth birthday, and from then on, that was all that they would yearn for. The only thing they would think about would be growing up and independence, and it would be all over. I wanted them to enjoy these fleeting moments of childhood before the only thing they cared about was growing up. So I went downstairs to write my family a note telling them the good news about my promotion and how I would be gone for just a few days at this conference. I told them I would have to be awake early and wouldn’t get to see them the next morning, and last of all I told them I loved them. I fell asleep on the scratchy, ten-year old couch, thinking of only my new job, not the things that really mattered.

Next think I knew, I was on a train going two hundred and five miles an hour through a deserted grass field. I had woken up at four this morning to catch the five o’clock train in time to get to the next city over. I was jittering in my seat, so excited to learn about my new position, and how to run my own sector of a company.

The next three days that’s all I did think about, my job. I ignored calls from my family and home. I told myself I needed to focus on my job, and they were just distractions. I was thinking only of myself, as I allowed voicemail after voicemail to pile up on my phone like recyclable newspapers. Those three days went by in a joyful blur, until I got to the point where I actually dreaded going home. I couldn’t believe what I was feeling.

Normally, I would do anything I could possibly manage to skip work and spend time with my family. I found work boring when I was just an assistant, but now I was excited to go back, excited for a real pay check, and excited to have ideas and have people act upon them. As the train drove me back to my hometown, I decided I probably should check my voicemails and call my family back to talk to them. The first one was from my husband, I waited for his calm voice to soothe me and make me yearn to come home.

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“Hey Sue, it’s me. I know you had to leave early to go to that convention, but I just wanted to call and say goodbye! I also wanted to tell you about this new art idea I’ve been working on. It’s really ‘outside of the box’ if you know what I mean. Anyways it’s dinnertime for the kids so I have to go. I think this painting is going to be the big one! I think it’s my big break!” After hearing that, I felt so guilty. I really did long to be home, and this feeling was worsened by the fact that I could hear Lily and Mark’s chatter in the background, and by the fact that I wanted to be by my husband’s side when he conceived that big idea for his next painting. I saw that there was another voicemail from him, which I assumed was about his phenomenal idea, I clicked to listen. This time his voice wasn’t calm and soothing, it was choppy and hoarse “Sue, you need to get home. They found out, and they didn’t like it. I’m taking the kids and getting out of here. Text me as soon as you get this message. B-“ His voice had been cut off, followed by whispered murmurs. My heart began to pound like an offbeat bongo drum. My blood turned ice cold and seemed to stop pumping. I knew exactly what was going on, exactly what my husbands ‘big idea’ had been about. He had spoken of it many years before, but I didn’t think he would ever act on it. My brain switched into overdrive, and I forgot about my new promising job or the wonderful trip I had just taken. The only thing I thought of was my family and getting home right this second.

Ten minutes later I was in the front of the train car, lying to the conductor.

“Sir, I need to get home this instant, I’ve just been told my grandmother is on her deathbed, and will go any minute.”

“I’m sorry ma’am, but there’s nothing I can do, this is as fast as the train will go.”

I glanced over to the rusty speed indicator, and had a thought.

“Then why does your speedometer say you can still go twenty miles per hour faster?”

“The government has set a speed limit, that I can’t break, I’m sorry ma’am, there’s nothing I can do.

“OK I understand.”

I pretended to walk away, and then when I saw he wasn’t looking, I turned up the speed dial, locked it so he couldn’t change it back, and closed the compartment door in the blink of an eye. I ran through the train, with a crazed look in my eyes. With this new speed, I could be home in ten minutes. I was afraid, petrified, and unsure of my future. I sat down, intent of keeping my energy up for the long journey ahead.

I jerk awake. I am in a dark empty space. It is eerily silent. I have no idea where I am, or what I was doing.

Dusty lights flicker on and it all comes back to me. I see images of myself listening to the voicemail, running through the train, arguing with the conductor, and finally trying to stay awake to get home. I am still in the train, I don’t know how many hours or minutes have passed. I have lost time, and I may never be able to make it up. I grab my items and I clutch them to my body as I run like a mad man throughout the train and toward the exit. I whisk away the door as if it was as light as a feather and run. I run towards the road, and I run to catch a car, I tap my foot throughout the ride, until I reach a dusty, and windy road. I am bewildered and confused, just three days ago I left on a paved road filled with traffic. I have a horrible feeling in the pit of my stomach, like I’m going to throw up. The road ahead of me is clouded in a mix of fog and dust, and the sky is pink above. I am no longer thinking, I drop my bags and run like I’ve never run before, my eyes are locked on my target, every step I take brings me closer to my family and the truth. The dust clears and I am astounded, but not in a positive way.

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As I walk through the smoldering gates of despair leading into my former life, I wonder. What happened here? Who could’ve done this? But instantly l know who did this, the city society. They did it because of him and his wonderful ideas, they did it because he had the audacity to speak up for what he believed in. They did it because if they don’t rule the city with an iron grip and have complete obedience, something must be done.

Sparks fall from up above like tiny meteorites, and the sky is a deep, blood red. Buildings are destroyed, flames slowly licking away the last remnants of sanity. A million thoughts rush through my head like a crowded racetrack. I pinch myself, kick myself, do anything I can to wake myself from this horrid dream, but nothing works. Nothing works, because this is not a dream, this is not something I can forget or discard in my brain’s trash bin. This is reality.

I hear a crunch below my feet, I don’t look down, afraid I might see a familiar face, or someone clutching their last image of hope. I imagine my boss, coworkers, and neighbors burnt to a crisp in this microwave of a city. I am breaking down into tears, but I stop myself, I have to stay strong, it is the only way I can survive.

I am walking through a burning wasteland, a desert in the middle of a dried up ocean. A land of no return. I look around, noticing the burning landmarks, I might need these later, when I am trying to escape. I try to focus on the task at hand, but my mind keeps straying off target like a bad darts player. I slap myself, hard. The touch of my calloused, warm hand awakens me as a bucket of water does to an unconscious child. I am alive and awake.

My palms are sweating profusely, and the hair on my arms is slowly being singed off. I am in pain, but instead of using this as a reason to lag behind, I use it as fuel and energy. I use it to remind me of the greater pain that everyone else has suffered already, and then I double take and remember.

My heart quickens, they could still be alive, if I can get to them on time. How could I forget? The whole reason I rushed back here in the first place. My family. I need to get to them; I need to find them, to save them.

I’m off.

As I run through the burning landscape, I am trying to recall, recall my route home, and recall the roads and where they lead in this boiling inferno. I find the main paved road, the normally burgundy bricks, have turned carbon black. My feet hit the pavement with such force, it feels as if they might fall off. My clothes have turned to rags; the heat has slowly burnt blackened holes into my formal clothes. My shoes are melting apart, the fauxleather can’t take this warmth. I reach the end of the road and take a left, and there it is. Just standing there, as if it were waiting for me to come upon it. The second story is gone, flames and sparks still eating up the left over wood. I can’t take it anymore, I need to find them, it’s the only thing that can stop this crazed mission I’m on.

I am at the front door, which would normally ooze a sense of family and unity now it barely squeaks out the feeling of death. I push it open with one finger, and it squeaks to a stop. I take a shaky step in, and find it exactly as I left it. I see visions of Lilly and Mark playing in the living room, of John painting to music, of myself leaving The Iron Grip - Claire Hardwick

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the house without a thought of my family. Near the fridge I see my note, smoldering with the cruelness of my goodbye. I have to move on. I move to the backyard, maybe John left a clue, something, to where he might be.

Instead I am faced with the worst sight I could ever imagine. On the ground, he lays. Dead. His chest is still, his limbs placed in an uncomfortable position. I am feeling a million emotions at once. I can’t breathe, I feel nauseous, I reach for anything to hold onto, to keep me alive. Instead I fall onto the cold, dark-grain wood. My head bounces and pounds, my eyelids glue shut, and I remember.

On our eighteenth birthday’s John was angry. He was furious, when everyone else was thrilled.

“Why should we have to wait this long Sue? Why do we have to wait this long to be free?”

What are you talking about? Just be thankful for what you have John,” I said as he huffed away to his art studio consumed with an idea, and when I came in later that night I saw what his big idea was, rebellion. He wanted to prove to the society that what they were doing was wrong. So while he was asleep, I destroyed them.

I destroyed his precious work, but I did it for his safety, and for our safety. He never quite got over that, and soon I learned, he would do it again, but this time it would have severe consequences.

I don’t remember waking up. I have one last memory before I blacked out for good. I had awoken, determined to find my children. I crawled up the stairs, like a toddler. Waiting for me was a letter, written on simple paper. It told me of my husband’s wrongs. It told me of their punishment. And it told me that I should live like this, in excruciating pain, for the rest of my life.

The last thing I remember were their small innocent, limp bodies. They had been filled with so much hope, but now just like my future, they were destroyed. Lilly and Mark were the last straw. I cried, I sobbed, I did not think. I cried until the sorrow filled me up, I cried until I felt numb. I cried until the pain went away and I could float away in peace.

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The Iron Grip - Claire Hardwick

The Grimm

by Lauren Robinson

Tell me a story.

Tell me why the apple is poisoned.

Tell me why the prince must come.

Tell me the day her father died.

Tell me why she must live.

Tell me why she must wait.

Tell me something different.

Tell me the reason behind it all.

Tell me why the step sisters must get what they deserve.

Tell me why the horse lay dead.

Tell me why she is cast away.

Tell me why her hair is magic.

Tell me why she must be kissed.

Tell me a story.

Tell me one that has never been told.

The Grimm - Lauren Robinson

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Black

by Sam Martinez

Nothing is Black naturally.

Black is derived.

Black is obtained.

Black is mutated.

No one fawns over a Black tree, a Black flower, even Blackberries are the forbidden fruit.

Naturally, no heart is Black.

Black is derived.

Black is obtained.

Black is mutated.

The heart darkens with hate and lies.

Black tar, Black smog, even black darkness is derived,

Forgotten.

Because for darkness to exist

Nothing in nature is Black.

Black is derived.

Black is obtained.

Black is mutated.

This color nonexsistent.

Black rainbow?

Black sun? Only Black darkness is true.

Someone has to turn off the lights.

Empty Abyss.

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Black - Sam Martinez

Fade to Black

by Bayang Flores

When my father left us when I was about nine years old, my sister Riven, was only five. Our mother, weakened with age, was left to care for us despite our poor financial situation.

To relieve herself, Mother often drank alcohol. She drank and drank and drank. Often, Mother would get violent, hit Riven and I a couple of times, then break down sobbing and apologizing. We knew she was under pressure, trying to raise us both by herself. But we also knew she could only last so long.

We begged her not to keep drinking, begged her to stop. She never listened. The beatings continued.

By the time I was seventeen, Mother had been diagnosed with liver cancer. Mother was confined to the hospital, never to set foot outside again. Riven and I were left, two siblings still naive to the cruel realities of the world, to fend for ourselves. I don’t think there was ever a time that Riven cried more than that night. To ease my sister’s mind, I made a promise to her. I promised her that I would protect her, and that I would never ever end up like Mom. Never, ever would I hurt her, like Mom did.

Three years had passed since my mother was hospitalized for liver cancer.

I never even bothered to think about college. I lived in a small town in the middle of nowhere. Of course it was everyone’s dream to be recognized. But I didn’t waste my time dreaming. In my town, I knew everyone. I could pull strings. I worked two jobs: a morning shift at a mechanics shop and a night shift at a twenty-four hour diner. I’d have been lucky to get five hours of sleep. I would’ve been lying if I said it wasn’t hard. But sometimes, when I got home early, when Riven would be asleep on the bed, and all was silent in our one bedroom apartment, I would have time to myself.

Music was my single escape from the mad world. My passion was the guitar. The smooth feeling of the strings beneath my fingers filled me--thrilled me--with each chord I played. Every note made a color.

Color that, in this world fading to black, was desperately needed.

It was on one of my days off that Riven convinced me to play at Café Bublé on Open Mic Night.

Reluctant as I was, she promised me something special if I performed. I felt that my appearance was one of the few things I could do to compensate for my lack of presence in her life. Never had I ever even been on a stage. I never knew it could be so terrifying. That day in particular, the cafe was even more filled than it usually was. When it was my turn to sing, I sat down on the tall chair in the center, feeling the spotlight on me. “Hi, my name is Aiden Michaels, and I’m going to sing a cover of the song ‘Code’ by Fade to Black.” I spoke into the microphone. I felt my palms grow sweaty and took proper hold of my guitar. A few chords. A dissonance. I began to sing. “Her voice cracks, like a piano, you keep moving,

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but where are you going? Baby, we’re long gone. We’re long gone. Wake up, you’ve got a lot of things to do. Wake up, the sun is rising without you.” I went on, strumming every string, emphasizing every lyric.

Before I knew it the song was done. The crowd applauded. I stood, standing there for a while. And the longer I stood, the harder they cheered. The feeling of being recognized by those around was such a thrill, it made me want to cry. Leaving the stage, I saw my sister smiling like the Cheshire Cat at the bottom of the steps. “What?” I asked, “Was I that bad?” I grimaced, suddenly feeling bashful. “Are you crazy? Did you see how loudly they cheered?” She replied, “You were amazing!” She grabbed on to my hand and motioned for me to sit down in a chair in the corner of the cafe. In front of the chair was a table, on which a small rectangular object sat. Puzzled, I took the seat as Riven sat opposite. “What’s this all about?” she smiled. “Happy first-performance-ever!” She handed me the box and I opened it. Inside was Fade to Black’s newest upcoming album. Memories of Nobody. I was shocked.

“How did you get this? This isn’t even supposed to be released yet!” I was thrilled, hugging my sister like I hugged my first puppy. “Pulled a few strings. You know how I do.” She said with a cheeky wink.

It was such a happy day. Until we got the call. That night, after my performance at the Cafe, I didn’t go to work. (Hey, it was my birthday, don’t judge!) Riven and I received a call on our telephone from the hospital. “Hello?” Riven answered. “Yes, this is she.” For a while she was silent. Riven didn’t say a word. She didn’t move a muscle. She just stood there, still as death. “Hey, sis, you alright?” I prompted after she hung up the phone. I stood up and kneeled beside her. “Hey, what’s wrong? Who was that?” I looked at the caller I.D. And then I looked at her. Riven was crying without a sound, and I knew. “Mom’s dead.” she whispered, her voice cracking... just like a piano. “She was just sleeping there and before they knew it she was dead. They’re sending over the bill collector, right now.” A river began to flow through my little Riven’s eyes. I held her, holding back my tears as well. How was I to support her now? We only had each other. The debts for Mother’s hospital bills were sure to kill us. Mother and I had planned on working together to pay them off once she was healed. What was I to do? “It’ll be okay, Riv. It’ll be okay. I’m still here for you. I won’t leave you alone.” I sobbed as I hugged my sister even tighter. “We can make it, okay? I’ll work even harder... and you’ll go on to college... you’re gonna have a bright future, sis, okay?” That night neither of us slept. We only simply weeped in each other’s arms. Hoping for a new slate. Hoping for a brighter tomorrow. When my mother died I broke the most important promise I’d ever made. I don’t know what was wrong with me. Actually, I did. I worked three jobs around the town, full shifts, day and night. I got three hours of sleep, maximum. I was making just enough money to keep the loan sharks off our asses. Riven was working harder than ever on her studies. I knew they would be what would help us both in the future. It would be our means of breaking free from this cursed hell hole of poverty. I would have gone to music as an escape, but it didn’t work. Music wasn’t enough anymore.

But drinking made it all go away. When I drank, my mind was free of burdens. I didn’t have any worries.

I understood why Mother had been so addicted to this feeling. The thrill I got from the alcohol, that thrill-it made all of the pain and aches go away. All of it went away. But it made Riven go away, too. When I started drinking, Riven was enraged. She reminded me of my promise to her. She said I promised I’d never turn out like Mom. I told her I wouldn’t get addicted. She wouldn’t believe me. “That’s how Mom started,” she said, her eyes watering, “That’s exactly what she said.” Every time, when she told me I had to stop drinking, I always remember the look on her face. She was always so worried about me. Rather than 20

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being angry at me for breaking my promise, her eyes were the eyes of someone who was truly concerned.

But with every fight that we had, her face grew more and more blurred. Before long, I couldn’t even make out her features any more. I could no longer see her green eyes, or pale skin... Nor her eyebrows, or her lips, or her nose, all identical to my own. This drinking that made my pain from working go away, gave me another pain. It gave me the pain of not being able to see my sister. My beautiful, beautiful, one and only sister. Before I knew it I wasn’t using the money I worked for on the house anymore. I was using it to buy alcohol and booze. I couldn’t let Riven know. I couldn’t let her see me like this. I love her too much for me to bear the shame of knowing she’s seen me like this.

You promised. I’d hear in my head. Riven’s voice was in my head. You promised. You said you’d never turn out like Mom. Never ever. “Shut up,” I said. “Shut up, shut up. Shut up, shut up.” I’d chant, holding the bottle to my head and grasping my hair. With every bottle the voice grew louder. Louder.

LOUDER “What am I supposed to do?” I’d think. I only could do one thing. I hid it. I hid all of it from her. I hid it. I hid it. Far, far a w a y . . . One day, Riven was sick. She couldn’t go to school. I had to work, so I left her with the house phone and her medication and went to work. “Love you, sis.” I said to her before I left. “You too,” she replied. By the time I got home that day, I was tired. I wanted to drink.

I needed to drink all of my worries away. A w a y . . . a w a y . . . I sat down in on our small porch in the front. I took out my stash from beneath the floor boards and I stared at the stairs, stared at the stars. I could only stare at the stars. Can’t I be one of those stars? Can’t I take Riven away from this place? Can’t I live a comfortable life, find a nice girl, start a family? Can’t I pay for Riven’s tuition, support her until she can find someone better to protect her than stupid alcoholic me? I took another drink, straight out of the bottle. I heard the mesh door creak. Riven stepped out, her black hair shining, her body wrapped in a blanket, her nose faintly red in the pale moonlight. “You’ve got to stop drinking, Aiden.” she said, her voice moaning and groaning and croaking. “Stop it.” I told her. I didn’t want to fight right now. I saw her, and I didn’t want to lose sight of her the way I always did when we fought over my drinking.

“You’ve got to stop, Aiden. Please.” She looked at me, her eyes watery, her smile nonexistent. Her expression was pleading as she slowly reached for the bottle in my hand. But then it all went blurry. I was losing sight again. I threw out my arms. I heard a shriek, I heard a thud. Silence. When I opened my eyes, I saw Riven, lying on the floor, blood from her head upon the concrete floor. She had fallen down the porch steps and hit her head. No, she didn’t fall. I pushed her. I dropped the bottle, my arms shaking, my eyes unable to process what was right in front of me. I held her body, crying my eyes out as I stared at her blood on the floor. I was the reason Riven was dead. It was me. “You promised.” She told me to stop. She told me to stop drinking. She told me! Why didn’t I LISTEN!? “You promised.” It was I that killed my own sister. It was I that had caused all of this. Now, it was I that was all alone. “You said you’d never turn out like Mom. Never ever.” Riven was gone. It was all my fault.

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Fade to Black - Bayang Flores

Inevitable

by Alexandra Bessell

Inevitable this curse on me Inevitable this doom should be what seems a glimmer in the night a deadly prick, this needle’s bite Irresistible those eyes that gleam Inevitable my heart should teem at just the sight of you the glimmer taunts a deadly beat my eyes they yearn for summer’s heat a finger reaches forth Impossible to resist Inevitable the spindle’s kiss

Inevitable - Alexandra Bessell

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The friend request

by Lauren Robinson

Tell me your name so I can tell you mine.

Tell me your address.

Tell me everything you do when no one is watching.

Tell me why you sit alone.

Tell me the number of specks you see on your wall, be accurate.

Tell me the square root of pi.

Tell me the number of stop signs located on your street.

Tell me the number you call when you need someone.

Tell me why this number does not exist. Why they do not exist.

Tell me the reason why the bullet never stops to think. We never ask to think.

To do.

Tell me what you do everyday at seven o’clock.

Tell me what to do when I see the man sitting alone at dinner.

Tell me why you do nothing at all.

Tell me the day you were born.

Tell me the day you will die.

Tell me why you wish to tell me nothing at all.

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The Friend Request - Lauren Robinson

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A Love Poem You will Never Read

by Anonymous

My love, To be quite honest, I do not know how or when or where to approach you, to tell you.

I do not know how you consider me, and to be rejected, my heart torn up and stomped on like a doomed poem, I do not think I could handle that.

I do not wish to seem creepy, but, I feel that I must outlet my feelings somehow.

To my desert, you are a storm, bringing life.

To my boat, you are a river, sweeping me away.

To my island, you are an ocean. Beyond you, the edge of the world.

To be near is to be uplifted. Any closer and my words are stolen, hiding themselves from the light you exude.

You shine like the sun in my eyes, for I cannot look directly at you.

You burn like a star, for I do not dare to touch.

You move at the speed of light, for I have to sprint just to keep your back in view.

You are always ahead of me, above me, beyond my reach, even if I were to fly.

I put you on such a high pedestal only because you are a work of art.

Your beauty is not conventional, but that only adds to the appeal.

Like a diamond left on the sidewalk, The work of a great sculptor overlooked, An intricate mural done upon the wall of a parking garage.

You outshine them all.

I don’t think you know that, and I probably won’t be the one to tell you, but you, once you take a look at what you are, A thousand golden threads intertwining to form an outline of a person, A jumble of hopes and dreams that I will never get to know, 26

A Love Poem You will Never Read - Anonymous

A breath of life, a consciousness that thinks and feels, and does not know, just like everyone else.

But not like everyone else.

For you, what would be an imperfection is a facet, that allows even more of you to be seen.

I will not compare you to a rose with thorns, because you could strip a rose of thorns, but no one could ever strip you of those things.

No one with a heart.

It’s amazing that an organ that is little more than a pump is given credit for such a thing as love, but now that I have experienced it, as I now think I have, I believe there is some truth in it.

For my joy seems to well up in my chest when you turn to me, and it feels as if my heart is bleeding out when you ignore me.

But I suppose you would.

I haven’t said anything. I don’t look at you.

When you try and talk to me, stupid, inconsequential things come out of my mouth.

After, I want to hide in a deep, dark cave until you leave.

I likely do not deserve you, as it were.

Or perhaps that is only an excuse for my own skittishness around you.

I am not brave enough to face a no. or a yes.

I honestly do not know what would happen if you said yes.

The thought of it makes my heart leap, but my brain cannot picture what would happen.

Would I end up following you like a puppy?

Staring in awe everytime you said hello?

Stammering everytime you stood next to me?

What would happen?

I really don’t know.

Perhaps we are like matter and anti-matter.

We are from the same source, and we are attracted, but if we would to ever touch we would combine back into chaos.

A Love Poem You will Never Read - Anonymous

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And one out of one trillion times, an extra matter particle is created.

That’s a very poetic but inaccurate way of putting things.

In all likelihood, I am the one extra matter molecule.

But those extras make up the universe.

Me and You. Huh. Metaphors are a nice way of putting things, but they do little more than express things. If I say that we are like magnetic charges, attracted and repelled, that does not mean we bear similarities. Just because you are the Earth to my moon does not mean you are attracted to me in return, Your tides do not bend my way, Your inhabitants don’t look up at my face at night, Your satellites are not pulled by me.

I wish.

I would wish upon a star, but they are balls of burning gas, and I might as well wish upon a burning weather balloon plummeting towards earth.

Burning up to shreds the closer it gets.

Poetic and more accurate.

I am my own worst enemy when it comes to matters of the heart.

My mouth spouts stupidity when trying to be clever, My face freezes up, mouth stuck in an impassive frown.

My eyes look anywhere but at your face, letting me see your outline, but not you.

You must think I hate you.

Or do you?

Maybe you know better, and you find me obviously love-sick over you.

If that’s so, I don’t know how you feel about it. Or how I feel about it.

I don’t understand you.

Well, I know your archetype, but you, your character, that is a mystery.

Where others are shallow and dry, you have hidden depths, it seems, you have inconsistencies, paradoxes, irregularities in your personality.

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A Love Poem You will Never Read - Anonymous

And they are wonderful.

If you were a book, I would never put you down, If you were a poem, I’d keep you with me always, If you were a movie, I’d own the extended version and all of the bonus discs.

You are fascinating.

I mean, I’m not a stalker.

I go out of my way not to be a stalker.

But you weigh upon my reality like a black hole, bending space and time around you.

The room you are in is simultaneously too large and too small, The time we spend seeming to be hours, while also being the briefest seconds.

You are a paradox to me. but you make as much sense as anything else in the world.

Sometimes, I wish I could ignore you. Ignore your presence, not be endlessly distracted by feelings that may never come to light.

But then you talk to me, give me hope, and there is light in the world, there is truth, and beauty, and all of those poetic things.

And it’s worth it, I suppose. Even if you go on and leave without ever knowing.

Because, I think I know now.

I think I know unrequited love, I think I know heartbreak, I think I know warm fuzzies, And those are wonderful things to write about.

Thank you.

A Love Poem You will Never Read - Anonymous

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The Best of Times

by Lisa Oyolu

Bare feet caked in mud Chipped light blue nail polish Time spent Building sand castles and mud cakes freedom in the air These are the days of our lives

Lisa Oyolu - The Best of Times

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An Ocean of Troubles

by SaraJane Koehler

It was no longer a question of what, but how. Everyone knew what was tormenting John. What was drowning him in misery, what he thought about before he went to sleep each night, or what he forgot in the first moment that he opened his eyes in the morning, but quickly returned to his mind like iron chains weighing down his every thought. Everyone knew what it was. The question was how. Everyone continued to wonder, “How will he survive it?”

John used to love the ocean. John’s father showed him that having waves rise up and crash down onto the shore was the ocean’s way of letting go of its troubles. John understood that each salty wave was a new trouble. Each rose slowly along the surface, first unnoticeable, then swelled greater and greater until it burst and crashed down onto the beach again and again. Watching these waves had made John’s troubles feel small compared to those of the ocean.

On sunny days, with clear blue skies and a light breeze, John and his father would sail out into the ocean together. They would watch the dolphins swim along side their boat, and toss them fish that they had caught. John would admire the sun reflecting off the constantly changing ocean surface. Together, father and son would leap off the edge of the boat and dive down deep under the surf with only goggles as protective equipment.

John would never forget his father’s words that day. “All life came from the ocean, son. It is everyone’s beginning and though we don’t live in it now, the ocean will always be our home that gave us life and will take it away one day to pass on to another. One day, we all have to let things return to the sea.”

John used to love the ocean, just like his father, but now could not even think to visit it with the memory of what it took from him. Instead, John would sit under a single swaying palm tree, with blades of grass peeking through the sand, holding the shifty ground just enough to make John’s hide out feel like a sturdy cloud. He would feel safe, resting there, while observing the troubles crashing down on the world below. His hide out was untouchable. It was out of reach of the touch of the waves or the spray of the ocean’s tears that flew onto people’s faces standing near by.

“Let it all go back into the sea. You can’t hold onto anything forever, son.”

“I don’t know how to any more dad. Why did you have to leave me?”

SaraJane Koehler - An Ocean of Troubles

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Tree At the right time of year, When gentle gusts are blowing, And the warm blue sky is nearly clear, So no clouds hide the golden sun’s great glowing, One can look upwards to watch the trees all dance; Let one’s mind leaf behind all tires, troubles, and woes, As the turning twisting branches create a tranquil trance, As gracefully and elegantly as an expert ballerina on her toes.

But not only does the waltz of twigs and leafs allow one rest: The same winds that gives rocks their whistle and crags a cry, Let trees chant a song sweeter than any bird they give nest: A restfully rustling, calmly creaking, arboreal lullaby So whenever I feel unwhole in my soul or heart, Or need something to keep my mind at ease, I lay in the grass and am awed by the art: The singing and dancing of the trees The beauty thusly told Branches hold aloft Strong and old hardly soft Rigidly, Rough.

Totally, Tough.

Grandly, Great.

Stoutly, Straight.

All the length, Down to the soil.

Where the elegant strength,

by Aaron Schaer Is solidly cemented by rigorous roots’ toil.

Tree - Aaron Schaer

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Come Unraveled

by Rachel Alvarez

In the aftermath, I drag my dust-speck consciousness back together; a ponderous task, but I have all the time I need, or maybe none at all.

The two appear no different to a puff of smoke.

The memories slink back to me, my recollection extending like a shimmering thread, stretched by straining fingers, moment by moment, from the end all the way back to the beginning, so that the first thing I hear is her voice, suffocating with smugness, and the prick of betrayal – sold out by a single word, the only thing that was ever really mine.

In the pause before the question (How slowly I remember)

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Come Unraveled - Rachel Alvarez

I feel the heat of baby’s breath moistly pulsing on my fingertips. How strange a glove for digits so accustomed to the friendless grip of metal and musty, lifeless straw.

The thread lengthens, dragging me back through three prisons, each smaller than the last, each filled to the rafters with royal nonsense, and three sleepless nights for three pleas for help. And the thread dims. Where was I when I heard those desperate sobs? In what abandoned barn or harvested field did I first reveal my curse?

In what arms was I first cradled, what fingers stroked my newborn cheek? There is nothing in this thread for me. And yet, I must keep spinning.

Come Unraveled - Rachel Alvarez

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Untitled

by Emma Basen-Engquist

And what a crash my illusions make, tumbling to the ground, shot straight to hell.

You, and that thing you used to shave your legs with, and a cliché bottle of wine, in a lukewarm bathtub.

What did you think? Your note said. That we could educate the world? With happiness and rainbows?

We tried that already. Look what happened.

My stomach wants to retch, thumping itself against my ribcage, but my mouth is shut tight, because the last thing I want to do is desecrate the last thing you ever did. I can’t focus on your wrists for memories of you, breathing, smelling your hair and feeling your warmth beside me. My heart refuses to thump, to pump liquid catharsis under my skin, out of my tear ducts, and it tortures me in my numbness.

I’d do anything to break this thin sheet of lead. Anything to be in your arms again.

I’d do anything to castrate those people who were really just zitty assholes in letter jackets, buddies having a good laugh, buddies who have your blood on their hands as much as that razor does. I bet they’re sleeping soundly now. I bet their little sisters are giggling under the covers, I bet the family dog is whining to go out. Bloody class rings.

When it was all over I told a sobbing you that they couldn’t touch us – I didn’t realize you were already feeling those cold, probing fingers. If I did, I wouldn’t be kneeling on cat litter like rice in your bathroom, examining the sheen of the water and knowing you were imagining Ophelia.

I want to tie your flat-iron cord around your shower head, let my feet swing, maybe my toes will brush that knee you’ve left thrown up against the slowly staining porcelain. I’ll point them low. I want to rip a hole in the ceiling, climb into your upstairs neighbor’s apartment, and dive in with you, with an explosive splash.

I stand up. You never did decide where you wanted that dove tattoo. You never got to shop for a senior prom dress. You haven’t seen the ring I’ve kept hidden in my sock drawer.

I want to press my ear to your chest and find your heartbeat, as I’m so accustomed to. But I’m afraid Untitled - Emma Basen-Engquist

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40

my hair would fall in the water and I’d never wash it again – this blood-tinged, soap-scum bilge would dry itself in and I would always carry you with me.

You with me. Us. The town dykes. Freaks sickos sinners whores. And yet, young and in love. As hard as they tried to keep us apart made staying together easy. We had a common enemy.

They found us not in a dark alley, not coming out of a bar at one in the morning – they found us in a brightly lit general store in the daytime, the grandma cashier staring blankly the other way, coldness like cataracts in her eyes. You looked at her as if expecting her to offer you something for the nosebleed – instead she went in the back and shut the door. That might have been what got to you the most. All the little old ladies in the world became hags that day.

All we could do was fume. That’s all we ever could do. Rage, silently, let the hot gas of it build up in our chests, let a little puff escape and face the consequences. Face the crowd of your lynch mob. We even tried to fit in a little, called them bigots and f***ers only behind closed doors. We brushed skin so softly so they wouldn’t hear it, but they say the sound is like sandpaper scraping their eardrums, unnatural, despicable, disgusting. I said f*** them and for a while you did too. I never could resist kissing you when you got angry.

But getting angry wasn’t usually what you did. It was me – you mocked my f***ing social action in your suicide note, you must have really been feeling bitter – you were the only one who knew how angry it made me, being hated. But when you were there, I couldn’t stay that way. Like now. F*** you, but everything in my mind is your eyes and your voice…

You make me smile just existing is a bad line in a worse poem, but true all the same.

I saved some money for when we graduate, for a romantic vacation in Chicago, you never got to see that stupid metal bean and you never became a fashion designer, your sketches will be buried with you.

We were going to go on the pier and stare at the lake and the seagulls and be goofy tourists, happy and eating gelato from those ridiculously tiny spoons.

I don’t understand. I must be dreaming – is that why I can’t move my arms, can’t talk, can’t scream like I’ve just got to? I love you.

You’ve been my everything. I’ve laughed with you and talked with you and blown off friends for you; we went to concerts and kissed and laughed some more, under the stars, with cicadas in the background.

We tried on skirts and we danced; I never forgave you for spilling coffee on my best white mini, but now that’s all in the past and I can’t stand it.

Your parents come in. My ten minutes are up. The service will be closed-casket, and I will not be invited.

Untitled - Emma Basen-Engquist

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Scene 4: The Interview

by Daniel Dreyfus

Characters Voice Frank Waterboard Speaker James Palantine The screen is black as the Voice speaks.

Voice: Welcome back to The Interrogation Chamber with Frank Waterboard.

Fades to a torso shot of Waterboard accompanied by applause. As opposed to a studio from, he is in a dark room lit by a single incandescent light and looks like an interrogation chamber. Applause is heard before he speaks.

WATERBOARD: My guest tonight is Speaker James Palantine!

As Waterboard says Palantine’s name, we cut to Palantine sitting across from Waterboard. Palantine exudes a distinctive aura: confident and approachable, yet subtly, almost imperceptibly manipulative, just barely giving hints to his “true” nature. Palantine waves at the applause that greets him.

PALANTINE: It’s a pleasure to be here, Frank.

WATERBOARD: So, Mr. Speaker, you have a new book out, The Road to America.

Palantine’s response sounds blatantly like a sales pitch.

PALANTINE: Oh, I didn’t know you were going to talk about my new book, The Road to America.

Waterboard is slightly annoyed and responds in his usual terse manner, not eager to make the interview a publicity stunt.

WATERBOARD: Now, this book is incredibly outdated and has no relevance in current politics, right?

Scene 4: The Interview - Daniel Dreyfus

45

PALANTINE: I’m not as sure of that, but it was written before I singlehandedly created the Great Compromise, which was a rather well done agreement we passed in Congress just today in fact.

Suspicious of Palantine’s motives, Waterboard gives his guest a quick skeptical look.

WATERBOARD: So, are you going to tell us what this Great Compromise consists of tonight?

PALANTINE: Yes I am. Today at noon, right before our lunch break, the Senate passed a law known in Congress as the Bell Tax Act. Waterboard shudders at the mention of taxes.

WATERBOARD: So, what does the Bell Tax Act do? Does it raise my taxes?

As Palantine offers his long explanation, there are periodic cuts to Waterboard nodding with a pensive look on his face, partly to remind us that he’s there and partly to split this up into multiple cuts.

PALANTINE: Bear with me, Frank. Now, traditionally…

Palantine brings out a chart from nowhere depicting a bell curve.

PALANTINE: … a bell curve is used to demonstrate and express the prevalence of a phenomenon in which the median is roughly the same as the average and the extremes in both directions become increasingly uncommon until they approach zero. Now, in our current political climate, we have one side arguing that the poor, the hobos, the people who have less income, can’t buy enough goods to live the American way. I believe… no, I know this is a valid argument. The other side argues that the rich, the blue bloods, the people with higher income, create the jobs in this country. I know that this is also a valid argument. My struggle in Congress was to find a way to reconcile these two seemingly incompatible positions. It was quite a difficult ordeal because of all the disagreement. There was so much disagreement in fact that this is the first major law we’ve passed in eighteen months. After months of intense negotiations, I created the ultimate compromise, the incredible compact, the amazing agreement Congress promised and that the American people deserve. Our taxation system will now follow a bell curve, with both extremes being taxed minimally while the median income is taxed 100%.

Under the Bell Tax, as we call it, the poor…

Palantine removes paper from the chart that hides the word “POOR” on the left side of the chart.

PALANTINE: …will have enough money and the rich…

Palantine does the same thing to reveal “RICH”.

PALANTINE: …will be able to create high-paying jobs for the expanding middle class, the revenue from whom we will use to eliminate and get rid of the national debt.

WATERBOARD: Wait a minute… that means I get a gigantic tax cut, right?

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Scene 4: The Interview - Daniel Dreyfus

PALANTINE: Why of course. We need wealthy and productive Americans like you to make jobs for the middle class. After all, when there are hands that build, there must be a mind as well to tell the hands what to do.

WATERBOARD: Well, I think I speak for all of us here in the Interrogation Chamber in formally endorsing this legislation. One question though, when does the Bell Tax go into effect?

PALANTINE: The tax itself will go into effect in April. One characteristic I forgot to mention is that under the Bell Tax, income tax returns will be a monthly, not annual occurrence.

WATERBOARD: Why monthly?

PALANTINE: It will make income tax fraud easier to detect and help the public adjust to the new system.

WATERBOARD: How long is the actual law?

PALANTINE: It is approximately one page.

Waterboard’s response is not a question. He is just so surprised that everything has worked out so well for him.

WATERBOARD: The first major law to be passed in eighteen months, a law that took months of intense negotiations to create, is one page long.

PALANTINE: Why yes.

WATERBOARD: And on top of that, it’s a law that supports everything I believe in.

PALANTINE: I suppose it does.

WATERBOARD: I think I like Congress for once.

PALANTINE: More information on the Bell Tax will be distributed in these free booklets…

Palantine picks up a fairly thick tome from the floor.

PALANTINE: … to everyone in America.

WATERBOARD: How much did they cost?

PALANTINE: The cost is negligible in that they will be more than covered by the new revenues gained because of the Bell Tax. WATERBOARD: Well, Mr. Speaker, I think this is one of the best interviews I’ve ever had.

Thank you so much for coming and saving this country.

PALANTINE: Thank you for having me again, Frank.

WATERBOARD: Speaker James Palantine everybody!

Applause as the scene fades to black.

Scene 4: The Interview - Daniel Dreyfus

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Time in a Different Manner

by Sarah Waites

Gnarled and hunched with age, I am Yet I remember still, The stories of my life

Snow would rush to cover the ground, Only to be pushed aside by spring’s clean brow Summer would establish a short rule, But be defeated by autumn cool

Once I was a single seed, Carried by a squirrel among the leaves Dark ground became my home, In an era long ago

I alone withstood it all, Seeing not a single day Night blurred into day, And day into night

As a slender sprout, I pushed the ground The sun beckoned me, To unfurl my leaves

Time is meaningless, To one such as me Oh what joy it is, To be a tree

Thus was my beginning, The start of my old life With the passing of swift years, I grew towards the sunny sky

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Time in a Different Manner - Sarah Waites

Aviary Aesthetics

by Asena Alay

Feathers enclosed.

Restricted but aching to be Free Flushed hues of peachy pinks and dewy greens Contained A mere display of an unusual array of Colors each brighter than the others All create a chorous a compilation of strange sounds Some hop around with Broken wings A flightless extravigance of vivid coloration restrained in a rusty cage.

Aviary Aesthetics - Asena Alay

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Fairytale

by Lara Lewis

Leave a trail One, two, three stones I leave a trail, one two three So I can get back home.

Trapped in here Nineteen, twenty, twenty-one days I leave a trail, nineteen twenty twenty-one So we can get back home.

Near the forest Four, five, six trees I leave a trail, four five six So I can get back home.

Made a plan Twenty-two, twenty-three, twenty-four flames I leave a trail, twenty-two twenty-three twenty-four So we can get back home.

Now night comes Seven, eight, nine stars I leave a trail, seven eight nine So I can get back home.

My brother’s here Ten, eleven, twelve steps I leave a trail, ten eleven twelve So we can get back home.

Free at last Three, two, one stone Remove the trail, three two one So they can’t follow me home.

I hear noise Thirteen, fourteen, fifteen steps I leave a trail, thirteen fourteen fifteen So we can get back home.

Something’s near Sixteen, seventeen, eighteen heartbeats I leave a trail, sixteen seventeen eighteen So we can get back home.

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Fairytale - Lara Lewis

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Editor’s Showcase In most publications, editors work behind the scenes. They read, they deliberate, they have the nearly impossible job of choosing the best pieces of art and writing for publication. Because our editors are writers and artists in their own right, we want to dedicate this section of The Courtyard to showcasing their artistic and written work.

Editor in Chief: Laura Mills Fiction Editors: Kathleen Brown and Mary Jo Gray Poetry Editors: Jessica Marino and Emma Basen-Engquist Non-Fiction Editors: Maya Fletcher-Bai and Kiera Brown Photography/Art Editors: Savannah Chorley and Rachel Jones

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The Day of Dawn

by Kiera Brown

The day was young, and cold with frost.

The world was barren, and life all but lost.

Bright colors were gone, replaced with bleak grey, And my eyes beheld an awesome display.

“Come forth, all creatures!” my voice rang out.

And I watched as green began to sprout From every niche and every pore Drawn up and out from Earth’s own core.

The entire world was covered with white, Blinding to all in the morning light.

The day had only just begun; I knew it was time. I began to run.

Daisies, daffodils, daphne, and dill; Painting the canvas a colorful fill Replacing the white of the snow of before Which now had sunken into Earth’s great floor.

This was my wish, to walk, to run, As if I were the only one, To tread along that lonely path And observe the winter’s aftermath.

Gone was now the cold that had been, The frigid clutches that had been here when Old Man Winter overtook the land, And iced it over with his mighty hand.

And yet, I knew.

Deep down, I knew.

Gone was the slippery sleet and slush, Replaced with the river’s rumble and rush.

Green overcame the once-chilled land, Stalks shot up that were tall and grand.

I knew with passion, that as I grew, That as from place to place I flew, The day would dawn, and begin anew.

Under the touch of my rosy skin, Morning Glory sprung from within The deep cold soil that winter brings, And made me laugh, made me want to sing.

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The path lit up with a brilliant glow, Life was teeming from above and below.

From high in the clouds, to deep in the ground, Life was stirring, and making much sound.

The Day of the Dawn - Kiera Brown

The mist had cleared, and the grime had gone.

The cubs, honey bees, rabbits, and fawns Were awakening from their winter’s nap To go to the river and gently lap.

They clambered out of their burrows and dens, To clean themselves, surely a thorough cleanse.

They might stretch their limbs, or spread their wings, These among a great number of things.

Hard-pressed was I, to find something still sleeping; Everywhere, life was abounding, and leaping.

My job here was done; winter’s hold, I had lifted.

In this way, I’ve been graciously gifted.

Each place that I journey, I do bestow This gift of mine, which all shall know.

The winds have changed; Time has spoken.

It’s time for me to give my token.

Winter has left, and I have arrived, I wish to make this world alive.

I am here; I roam the dawning sky, But ask yourself, who am I?

The Day of the Dawn - Kiera Brown

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Close Your Eyes

by Emma Basen-Engquist

You are the beauty, delicacy, grace to my fallen angel.

I’d let you see my face, as you beg so prettily, but there are so many things you do not understand about the world, like sin, and that is an innocence I will not easily strip away. I will do right by you.

I’d rather you learn of passion, of the vibrato of the organ, of red flushing what has been for so long white.

You see, darling, there are feelings you are too pure to know, the music that has you trembling is only the beginning of the stain, wine-colored, that will spread between your soul and mine.

There is passion, and there are crimes of passion; I am guilty of both.

You do not know the feeling of a man’s pulse under your hand, You do not yet know how it is to be truly as powerful as one sent by god – or Lucifer.

You will fall from grace if you love me, I tell you as your infatuation continues, as I pull you ever-closer.

A golden-haired champion fights for you in his pure fashion; I corrupt you. I have infected you with the music, and that makes you forever-mine.

Come rule with me, be my queen, passion and virgin all at once, Blood on a bridal field of lace and tulle.

We will make art between us, between flame and silken skin, and my face will be covered until you learn what it is like, to hold a heart in your hands.

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Fallingwater

by Maya Fletcher-Bai

It makes the sky seem just a shade lighter than it should be.

It makes the trees surrounding it look gawky, out of place.

It makes you rethink rectangles, because you know they ought to be all hard edges, but they look as soft as silt.

The house seems to settle to the forest floor, drifting down in fluid horizontality, landing like a shuffled sheaf of papers, a quick game of fifty-two pickup.

It sends out cantilevered fingers to brush against the dappled leaf-light filtering through the trees above, its flat planes curling enough to cup the rays in their descent.

It almost seems it must have floated down the river like a squat little raft, sticking fast on a tree root meters from the lip of the waterfall.

Though maybe the house is the one whose oaky roots hold the other river-sailors back, letting the water leap forth unfettered in not-quite-parabolic arcs.

Fallingwater - Maya Fletcher-Bai

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Believe me—

by Jessica Marino

Light is not so different from darkness.

The windows Aren’t quite transparent, So you have nothing to fear from this roon.

Your silent footsteps are tugged By invisible string.

Purpose Grasps your hand But still you wish for shadows To swell And swallow and— The corner is your palace.

Guards put expectations in prisons You haven’t lost contact from the world Where conversation requires two mouths.

You’d rather talk in solitude With your own knowledge.

No surprises will jolt you out of your own thoughts.

Shadows have a glimmer of their own.

Within them all lights are covered, And you are free to admit That you don’t have one.

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Believe me – Jessica Marino

Anxiety on Aisle Seven

by Kathleen Brown

“Shoot.” The woman frantically checked over her list and looked into her basket and scanned its contents. “I forgot the marshmallows, sweetie, could you?” Her long-suffering daughter nodded wearily.

Ella had no idea why they needed marshmallows, but she turned back to find them.

“Hurry! And remember to get the extra large kind!” Her mother yelled after her as she began to load the contents of the overfilled shopping cart onto the moving rubber belt, where they slowly advanced towards the bored checker who was playing with her rhinestone-studded lip ring.

Ella was walking swiftly past the magazines while this was happening and was halfway down the feminine products aisle before she realized that she had no idea where she was going. She peered up at the sign which read: Aisle 7, personal products, diapers, shampoo, sun screen. Definitely not marshmallows.

She stood there for a moment longer before turning to try another aisle and promptly ran into a grocery store employee who seemed just as confused as she was.

“Excuse me, ma’am.” He was tall, blonde and had eyes just the shade of 72% cacao chocolate. He was also holding a box of tampons. He noticed her looking at them and quickly said, “They’re not for me; they’re for, well, a customer asked me to, uh…” He turned very red and she had the vague idea that he looked like someone who had skimped a little on the sun screen.

He tried a little harder to convince her that the tampons did not, in fact, belong to him, “The customer said they weren’t the right, um, absorbency.” He looked down at her and she decided that he was either trying to say ‘please help me’ or ‘please leave me alone.’ Ella shifted her feet. ‘Should I help,’ she thought quickly, ‘or should I run?’ He seemed pretty desperate.

“Ummm, did she want lighter or heavier?”

“Lighter?” He also added, “I have no idea what that means and I kind of don’t want to know.”

“You don’t need to know.” She skimmed the shelves in front of her and found exactly what he needed. “I prefer these.” She had spoken without thinking. “I mean, you Anxiety on Aisle Seven - Kathleen Brown

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didn’t have to know that.” ‘Great,’ she thought, ‘just great, I finally get to talk to a male who is semi good looking and I mess it up by talking about tampons. Wonderful.’

Luckily, he did not notice her comment. “Thank you so much.”

“Yeah, no problem.” She smiled at him, he smiled back.

“I guess I couldn’t help you if you needed something from this aisle.” He laughed nervously.

“Well, I kind of ended up here on accident.” She replied, hoping that at some point her conversation skills would kick in.

“You’re on vacation?”

“How did you know?”

“You’re like, the fifth person this week who I’ve had to give directions to.” He blushed and added, “Not that you need directions but if you did need them I could you know,” She laughed. “It’s fine. Actually I could-“ “Tyler! You’re customer is waiting!” An older employee yelled down the aisle.

“I should get to that.” He walked towards the checkout lines but turned his head as if he intended for her to follow him. “How long are you in town?”

“Just the rest of the week.”

“Where are you staying?” He stopped himself, “I mean, you don’t have to tell me if you think that question is too creepy, I just live by some places and, OK never mind that is still creepy and I’m probably assuming too much anyways and I’m going to shut my mouth now.” He looked down at his feet. She was just about to assure him that he was not being creepy or assuming when, “Ella! There you are! What took you so long?” There was her mother and the pierced checkout girl, scanning the last item.

“Oh, um, this is, well, here you go.” And there was Tyler, handing her mother the package of tampons. ‘Leave it to her to ask a teenage boy to find that.’ Ella thought.

Tyler smiled one more embarrassed smile and gave her a little wave before escaping to the back of the store.

“Is that why you took so long?” Her mom raised her eyebrows, “He’s cute, you should have gotten his number.”

“Mom!” Ella moaned. The bagger finished bagging and they started to roll the cart into the parking lot.

“Oh no!” Her mother stopped and searched through the thin plastic bags.

“What is it?” Ella said as she picked up a box of strawberries that had fallen from the cart.

“You never got the marshmallows!”

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Anxiety on Aisle Seven - Kathleen Brown

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68

In Character

by Mary Jo Gray

(Lights up on library. Most of the illumination comes from floor lamps. Alex and M are sitting by a table with a stack of books on it. Light rain outside) (Shawn enters, bickering with Stacey) SHAWN: I told you. Stacey. I told you this would happen.

STACEY: (rolls eyes) I know, Shawn.

SHAWN: But did you listen to me? Noooo. (imitating) Oh, don’t worry, they’re open all night.

It’s just a dare! (growing more frantic) They always turn off the over-head lights around this time.

Don’t be a wuss! That click wasn’t the doors locking!

STACEY: You didn’t have to accept the dare!

ALEX: (Re: Shawn) We’re locked in?

SHAWN: Oh yes. Locked inside the creepy haunted library. With doors that don’t unlock from the inside.

M: Um, if you’re scared...

SHAWN: I’m not scared!

M: Okay then.

ALEX: (takes out phone) Well, I’m sure we can call someone... (beat) no signal.

STACEY: Here. Try my phone. (Alex tries it) SHAWN: Seriously, though, a bunch of teens getting locked in a library in the middle of a night because of a dare. That doesn’t scream “Slasher movie” to you?

M: Less “Slasher Movie” and more “Psychological Horror.”

SHAWN: Either way, it does not end well for the teens!

M: True.

ALEX: No signal. M, can I-? (M hands phone) SHAWN: What’s this library made of? Lead?

M: Stone.

ALEX: No battery. Does anyone have a charger? (silence) Okay then. I guess we’re stuck. What time does the library open in the morning?

STACEY: I thought it was open all night.

M: (shrugs) Guess we have a while to get comfortable.

ALEX: (Looking at bookshelves) Well, at least we won’t be bored. (takes out book. Opens. Twitches, possessed. lights flash) In Character - Mary Jo Gray

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M: Power surge?

STACEY: I hope not.

SHAWN: What if all the lights go out? Then we’d be locked in an empty library in a storm in the DARK. STACEY: With you. Trust me, I’m terrified.

ALEX: (setting down book, still open. muttering) I am the darkness and I am the light. I am the beginning, I am the night. I live in fear I drown in sorrow, waiting for another tomorrow.

SHAWN: (noticing) Dude, are you okay?

ALEX: (louder) I am your nightmare’s dream, the thing they fear, and now, as ever, I draw near.

(Even louder) I am a dream never dreamed and I shall not rest till I hear you scream.

SHAWN: Dude, that’s not funny. It really isn’t. Stop it. Please.

(M is reading the book that Alex put down, occasionally glancing at Alex) ALEX: (begins to advance upon Shawn and Stacey) Forget your cares, forget your names, Nothing shall be written upon your graves.

SHAWN: Seriously, if you are joking, I will kill you. Not cool. Not cool at all.

M and ALEX: (together) Reap and rend and begin and end. The Circle never broken, pray keep the token.

M: Huh. Thought so. (to Shawn and Stacey) He’s possessed.

SHAWN: What?

M: By- (turns the book over to see title) - “The Daemon of the Dark.”

STACEY: M, explain!

ALEX: Death comes to those who speak the name of-M: “The Daemon of the Dark.” (Holds up book.) A rather badly written horror novel. Speaks only in terrible rhymes. Spells “magic” with a “Y.” (closes book in disgust) (lights flash again, and Alex flinches and collapses.)

STACEY: Whoa.

M: Wasn’t expecting that.

SHAWN: I told you! Horror!

ALEX: (blearily) What?

SHAWN: This place is haunted!

M: (helps Alex up) Not really. I think it’s gone.

ALEX: What.

STACEY: You got possessed, sweetie. (this explains everything) M: I think it has to do with the books. (nods at closed book) started with it.

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STACEY: But is it only that one?

SHAWN: Doesn’t matter. It’s haunted. We should get out of here.

STACEY: We’re locked in. (Hands Shawn a novel) hold this?

SHAWN: No! We should break a window! Use a fire exit, something!

STACEY: If you’re scared, we could always just not open any more books.

SHAWN: I’m not scared. (grabs book by cover, and accidentally opens it to random page) (lights flash and Shawn twitches,) STACEY: Crap.

M: What book is it?

SHAWN: Oh, where am I now? Pierre, where are you Pierre?

M: (sees the cover) A romance novel...?

SHAWN: (clutches book to chest) Oh, Pierre, I waste away while you are not in my sight, I long for your touch, your caress... (Sees Alex) Oh, Pierre! (book still open in hands, rushes to Alex) I have missed you so! (hugs) May we never be parted!

ALEX: (gently attempting to push away) Look, buddy, you don’t want-SHAWN: Do not deny our love Pierre! It was written in the stars! Pierre and Mary-Anne, star crossed lovers.

M: Well.

STACEY: (recognition) Mary-Anne...? (to M) I think I know how to get the book away from him.

M: Go ahead.

STACEY: Mary-Anne! (Mary-Anne/Shawn stops molesting Alex, but holds him close) Do not be fooled! That is not Pierre! (Mary-Anne/Shawn gasps) That is Antionne, in disguise! Here is Pierre! (Points to M) SHAWN: (pushing Alex away) You fiend! (Goes to M) Oh Pierre! I was fooled! But now- (puts down book to fully hug/molest M. Book is snatched up by Alex. Shawn hugs M just as Alex slams the book shut. Lights flash, Shawn un-possessed.)

SHAWN: (waking up with arms around M) What...?

M: (To Stacey, offended) Am I really that androgynous?

STACEY: Blame it on the writing. It’s amazingly bad.

ALEX: Speaking of which, it sounded as if you knew the novel rather well...

STACEY: There was a time in my life when I was very, very lonely. (Beat) I’m over it.

SHAWN: … What did I do?

STACEY: We’ll talk later.

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SHAWN: (to Alex) … Alex? (beat) why does my mouth taste like I licked a scarf? (awkward silence) M: (changing subject) Okay, so it’s been established that books are doing this, yes? (nods are given) That when a book is opened a character from the novel possess the person who opened it, until the book is shut. (hesitant nods) So... Now we know whats going on, why don’t we try and... control it?

STACEY: Control it?

M: Well, I mean, I can be possessed by almost any character I want at very little risk. It’s a once in a life time opportunity. I want to try.

ALEX: M, I don’t think that’s a-M: (holds up hand) M stands for Moriarty. Like the Sherlock Holmes villain. I’ve been teased half my life about my name. Give me this. (silence) Okay. (Starts scanning bookshelves.) Drivel, terrible, Twilight copy-cat, waste of paper, lies, sexist. (pause, frowns) what are we in, the Teen Crap section? (sees book) Aha. (smiles) Nothing like good old science fiction. (opens book) ALEX: Don’t--! (lights flash, M is posessed.)

M: (shakes out body) Phoo. Well. That’s new. (looks around) How odd. This does not appear to be deck 11. Was there a transporter malfunction? (seems to see others) … You are not part of the crew. (reaches to belt) My blaster...? No matter. (to group) Who are you?

ALEX: Well, my name is AlexM: What are you? (Group confused) Belyrian? Plutonian? Human?

STACEY: Human.

M: Where are your uniforms?!

STACEY: What?

M: The United Countries of Earth demands that all citizens between the ages of fourteen and twenty be enrolled in one of the six schools. They all have strict uniform policies. Where. Are. Your. Uniforms?

SHAWN: What.

M: Unless... You are deserters! Face my- (rediscovers lack of weapon) (momentary awkward silence) …

I seem to have no choice. I surrender myself to your dastardly deserter hands. (kneels, places book spine-up and puts hands behind head.) Do your worst.

ALEX: (taken a bit aback, approaching) Now look, we’re not going toM: (leaps, grabs Alex’s arm, twists it behind him and puts her arm around his neck, effectively holding him hostage) I have one of your own, deserter scum! Send me back or I snap his neck!

SHAWN: (Approaches book) Whoa, whoa, calm down72

In Character - Mary Jo Gray

M: Do not come any closer! What was your plot in kidnapping me? Ransom? The Earth will not pay. Experiments? Revenge?

ALEX: Air...?

STACEY: Put him down.

M: Why? STACEY: Look, we’re sorry, this was an accident, and, um, you’re probably...

M: An accident?

STACEY: Look, (takes out mirror) you’ve possessed our friend at the moment and we’d like youM: What. (maneuvers closer) (To Alex) Take it for me. (Alex manages to take mirror, M yanks him back. M examines her reflection in mirror) I am... a female. A deserter female. (realization?)

Possession! A plot to impersonate me and steal my ship.

SHAWN: Now that’s just ridiculous.

STACEY: Actually, it’s a good question. If the captains consciousness is here, then where is M’s?

ALEX: (Still captive) Not important right now.

STACEY: True. (To M) Um. Look. If you could just close that book.

M: This? (Closes book. Nothing happens) (pause) And? SHAWN: (panic) Nothing happened.

ALEX: (panic) I know!

STACEY: (to M) Um, could you kick the book over here?

(M is suspicious, but kicks it over.)

SHAWN: (whispering) What if it’s worn off? What if she’s stuck like that.

STACEY: I think, what’s wrong is... (makes to open the book) SHAWN: (grabs book) Don’t!

STACEY: What?

SHAWN: You’ll get possessed!

STACEY: Not if it’s worn off.

SHAWN: But still!

STACEY: Shawn, it might be that the person who opened the book can’t stop it working.

SHAWN: But you’ll still get possessed!

STACEY: Let me deal with that.

SHAWN: Goddammit Stacey, I don’t want to risk losing you!

STACEY: What?

SHAWN: Look, um, I really like you and...

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STACEY: You aren’t still possessed, are you.

SHAWN: What? No! I’m not! I just don’t want to lose the girl who I’ve been crushing on!

STACEY: What?

ALEX: Look, touching confession of love, great and all, but can we focus?!?

SHAWN: Give me the book.

STACEY: (grabs him, kiss) No. (whisper) close the book for me. (opens book, flash, possession, Shawn leaps forward, closes book, and un-possesses both of them, both snap forward.) It worked. (Shawn and Stacey embrace) M: What happened? (realises awkward position with Alex, blushes and backs off) Anybody?

ALEX: Who’s the captain in that book?

M: An overbearing violent jerk who jumps to conclusions and has this thing for his first-(realises) oh, really?

ALEX: What were you hoping for?

M: The first officer. That would have been pretty awesome.

ALEX: Enough to risk yourself for?

M: Well, yeah. Spaceships and all. It’s not like I have a lot to lose.

ALEX: Please don’t do that again.

M: Sure, because I make a habit of wandering into haunted libraries and activating curses on purpose.

ALEX: Just... You didn’t have to risk- I mean, You have stuff to live for.

M: ‘Course I do. But it was a once in a life time experience. (beat) I really can’t remember anything. (Re: Shawn and Stacey hugging) So, What happened?

ALEX: Shawn confessed love, Stacey reciprocated, they’re probably going to spend the rest of the night being mushy and cuddly. You know, adrenaline, relief and hormones. Potent combination. Makes you want to kiss someone. (awkward eye contact) Not that that’s happened.

To us. Of course.

M: Completely unaffected.

ALEX: Absolutely. (beat) M: Actually, I think I saw a coffee pot over by the non-fiction section. Do you want to... go get coffee?

ALEX: Definitely. I mean, sure. Okay. (M exits) I hope they have decaf. (Cell phone beep, Alex digs in pocket) Oh hey, reception! (pause. Looks at phone, looks in M’s direction) (Turns off phone) Wait!

Save a cup for me!

(Black out) 74

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Invisible Destination

by Laura Mills

The call of a train whistle echoes through the night. The sound is mournful, alone. It seeps into the hollow place in my heart and stays there for a long time, vibrating. This is when it’s the hardest. I’m surrounded by darkness in the room with the blue walls and the glow-in-the-dark stars on the ceiling.

John put them there for me, saying they would help me stay calm if I woke up in the middle of the night.

But he forgot that stars fade, and right now they’re so dim I can barely make them out. I close my eyes, listening to his gentle breathing next to me. How can he sleep so peacefully? I wake at the slightest rustle of the curtains, the pat of the neighbor’s cat as he walks along the edge of the roof, the sound of a train in the night.

It’s not like I’m afraid of the dark. In fact it’s the opposite. At night is when I feel most alive, and I get restless. Once I got out of bed when I heard the train and went outside. My plan was to sit on the front porch and listen to the night sounds, but I got carried away. The next morning I found myself in my pajamas by the railroad tracks with a poorly packed suitcase at my side, as if I was going somewhere. As if I intended to abandon my wonderful life, my husband, my home. When I finally got back to the house, John was close to tears. He wrapped me in one of his bear hugs for so long that I thought he would never let go, and I breathed in the smell of his pajamas, coffee and cinnamon.

Since then, I try not to let the darkness take me away, but on nights like this, when the song of the passing train fills my heart with it’s bitter music, I have to be extra careful. I roll over so that I face the wall. We arranged the room this way so that if I tried to leave I would wake John up and he could stop me before it was too late. He treats you like a caged bird. The thought springs out of nowhere. I try to push it away but I know it’s made its mark. Why are you still here? Why do you put up with all of this?

You could be on one of those trains right now, traveling through the night to someplace better than here, a better life. I squeeze my eyes shut. Stop thinking like that. Go to sleep. This is where I belong. The hollow place in my heart expands and I can feel panic rising in my throat. I have to move. I have to do something.

Anything. I sit up. I’ll go get a glass of water. I pull my feet out from under the covers and push myself off the end of the bed. John is still asleep. Part of me is wishing he would wake up, but I know he won’t; he sleeps too soundly for the night to disturb him.

I step into the hallway and start down the stairs toward the kitchen. Halfway to the bottom, something stops me. Outside, the wind changes. It whistles around the corners of the house, making the trees above me creak. My suitcase is in the downstairs closet. I can almost see it in my mind’s eye, brown Invisible Destination - Laura Mills

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leather, shoved into the back corner behind the vacuum cleaner. The wind calls to me. It speaks of far away places where nobody knows my name. My hand grips the banister, but I can’t turn back now.

After that, I’m only partly aware of what I’m doing. I feel worn leather beneath my fingers. There’s a pile of dirty laundry next to the washing machine and I stuff all of it into my bag. Then there’s the sweet night air, cool against my skin. I run barefoot through the grass. The moon pulls me towards an invisible destination, past silent houses and humming streetlights. Someone is laughing and it takes a minute or two before I realize that it’s me. I stand on the railroad tracks, and the sound of a train whistle answers my laughter. The ground vibrates roughly beneath my feet and suddenly there’s a bright light in front of me, burning my eyes. The train gets louder. Now I can hear the steady movement of its engines, metal squealing underneath its wheels. Its whistle blows one last time in an ear-splitting blast that almost knocks me off my feet. The light paralyzes me with its gaze. Everything has become sharper and the night has turned cold. I can’t move. Panic clutches at my throat and the space in my heart opens wide. Wait. This is not how it’s supposed to be. But the noise just gets louder.

Suddenly a hand comes out of nowhere and I’m plunged into darkness. The roar of the train passes.

We roll down the grassy slope and land at the bottom of a small hill. Someone has his arms wrapped around me. I sob uncontrollably into their shoulder. But it’s a familiar shoulder. I close my eyes and breathe in the smell of coffee and cinnamon until the sun breaks over the horizon and the night folds itself into the hollow chamber of my heart, where it too, can sleep.

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Invisible Destination - Laura Mills

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A special thanks to The Courtyard’s advisors, without whose support this publication would not have been possible: Ms. Erica Harris Dr. Paula Brown

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The Courtyard Literary Journal for Carnegie Vanguard High School 82