The Laureate
The Laureate 23rd Edition
Editorial Board
Western Michigan University
Editor-in-Chief: Grace Cieslikowski & Brooklyn Hoover
Assistant Editors: Mia Perleberg & Raven Peoples
Lee Honors College
Faculty Editor: Becky Cooper
Faculty Advisor: Jennifer Townsend
Dean: Dr. Irma López
Assistant Dean: Anthony Helms
The Design Center, Gwen Frostic School of Art
Art Director: Nick Kuder
Production Management: Paul Sizer
Design: Bailey Musculus, Haleigh Weatherwax, Avery Mandigo, Kiana VanNest, Gregory Babe, Jack Duval, and Rory Choker
Acknowledgements And Mission Statements
The editors wish to thank Western Michigan University’s Carl and Winifred Lee Honors College.
The mission of the Carl and Winifred Lee Honors College is to provide an exceptional undergraduate experience for high achieving students, to inspire in our graduates a thirst for the lifelong pursuit of creative inquiry and discovery, to provide our students with the skill and passion to address critical challenges, and to foster personal responsibility informed by a global perspective.
The Laureate’s mission is to provide undergraduate students at Western Michigan University a medium through which to publish their fiction, poetry, nonfiction, and other creative works. The Laureate strives to be a professional and engaging journal that appeals to all.
Letter from the Editor: Grace Cieslikowski
Dear Readers of The Laureate,
It has been a joy to work on this year’s edition, bringing to light so many wonderful works of art, short stories, and poetry. Creativity as a means of self-expression has always been such a meaningful way to navigate life and all of its challenges. Despite the hardship, pain, and suffering expressed so eloquently in some of the pieces you are about to read, there is also an overwhelming surge of hope and resilience. Getting to read each submission was an honor and I applaud and celebrate each individual brave enough to share their work. Hopefully this edition is something you look at with pride. I would like to give an enormous thanks to my co-editor Brooklyn Hoover for her work, dedication, and for putting up with my insane schedule changes. Becky Cooper, Jennifer Townsend and everyone on the design team, your guidance throughout this process is something for which I will be forever grateful.
Letter from the Editor: Brooklyn Hoover
The 23rd edition of The Laureate is truly like no other. I am immensely grateful to all the authors and artists who had the courage to submit their work and shape The Laureate into the journal that it is today. The sheer talent that you possess and the hard work and dedication you have is incredible and I am proud to have the opportunity to experience that first-hand.
Additionally, I want to thank everyone who has helped guide and support me throughout the creation of The Laureate. First, thank you Becky Cooper for being a resounding pillar of support. Your encouragement and enthusiasm have made every meeting a delight. You are a wealth of knowledge and have taught me so much about the creative writing process, even when we get distracted talking about music.
Thank you, Jennifer Townsend, for your hard work and dedication throughout these last few months editing the manuscript and helping us plan the launch event. I am grateful to have had the opportunity to work with you. Your honesty and humor are something I truly value.
Thank you, Grace Cieslikowski you have been a fantastic co-editor and friend along this journey. I appreciate the hours you have dedicated to this journal and the countless times you have made me laugh.
Finally, I want to thank Dr. López, the Lee Honors College, the design team, and our assistant editors Mia Perleberg and Raven Peoples. We would not have The Laureate without your support.
Foreword
The Laureate is and always has been more than just an arts journal. Every page gives perspective and understanding to topics that may otherwise go unnoticed and un-felt. Its culmination of precise poetry, rich story-telling, and alluring art displays the hopes, dreams, passions, and despairs that we as human beings all experience. These artists prove that there is no right or wrong answer when it comes to self-expression and that despite hardship, one can still strive to create something beautiful. We hope you enjoy and feel as deeply about these works as we did, as it was truly a privilege.
62 Tomorrow Grace Helms
63 Untitled Mira Marino
64 Pavement for Loam Audrey Reagan
66 Wishing Bells on a Forest Pavillion Jona Nguyen
67 Tethered Ethan Jackson
68 The House at Summer’s Edge Jona Nguyen 69 Stargazing Jona Nguyen
70 A Letter from Camicus Audrey Reagan
72 Untitled Mira Marino
73 Teaching Monsters to Sit Lydia Cowan
76 Within the Outside of Jwesi 77 When You Train a Dog Audrey Reagan 79 Untitled Sam Hernandez 80 Style Jwesi
Mardi Gras Matchbook Nervous Giraffe 82 The Girl Who Voted, A Sequel Nora Clement
Hate v. Love Shawna Schmandt
City Pigeon Prayer
Ella Reynolds
How far you fell from grace, little avian Lucifer.
From the hands of your mortal maker you flew and soared like you were taught to, with scrolls of scrawled words strapped to your back.
Did you think of the hands that once cradled you tenderly before releasing you to the heavens when you tumbled down in a flurry of feathers and flames of spite?
Did you find your Eden in the puddles of filth and brimstone-cracked sidewalks you were banished to?
Waiting to finally be caught, doomed to coo unsanctified sacraments and make hymns of hollow bones.
Sweet creature, forgive us, for we have sinned, and for that you suffer.
Persephone’s
Lament Ashley Mannikko
What are we but skin and bones?
A black hole and a burning soul
Within my flesh I wear secrets
Should I let them out?
How does vulnerability speak
When I’m on the edge of my seat?
Holding space for another
The familiar feeling of defeat
When nothing is left
But the tomb of expectation
I’ll burn my temple down to build you,
Left in the ashes of another day
Hephaestus lives outside,
Feeding me coals to soothe my soul,
Boreas breathes ice through parted lips
Like a Phoenix to the flame
I wear etched intentions on my bone
Carve a little deeper to help kiss the wound— A heart of glass and one of stone
Stone to the heat, shed skin
Reveal your Hades plan
Pomegranate lips never tasted so sweet
As you pull me in
The Acropolis in Athens, Greece
Emma Perrin
Sleepover Madalyn Rockwell
We can lie back-to-back and try to braid our spines together. And make greasy popcorn to spare us from each other while we watch a movie. A shitty chick movie. With shitty stories and shitty jokes and slutty outfits. With perfectly pressed blonde hairdos. We can play games for three to four people with two. You can look at me while I look away from you. We can do our makeup. And I can touch your lips. With a sticky glossy wand that smears on expired glitz. We can make shitty ramen late at night. You can undercook it and I can spill it. Like it’s our playhouse. We can wake up with our hair and our breath mixed up in faded mermaid sheets.
Facepaint Izzy Frye
Bordeaux — Still Life
Jona Nguyen
Bugs crawl up my spine as I sip on red wine. Invading my dome of domesticity.
As the bride, it is my task to take care of the flies. Their guts smeared all over my dress. Every day, I am a mess.
Smelling of smoke and tequila at night. Miserable in my cookie cutter life.
Left in a void room.
Eyes blank, girl absent.
Dishes clash with broken glass.
Tangled in my wine-soaked hair, sitting with a frightening stare, haunted by dreams I forgot were there.
Wear a mask, smile and nod.
Take it off, cower and sob.
Part of me has died now, from a husband who didn’t care. Girl in pieces, on the floor. Doesn’t know what to live for anymore.
Cookie Cutter Pumpkin Bride Bridget Hesse
Oh cookie cutter life, Oh horrible fright. His ugly aura dirties my soul as I find myself under his control. I am a hollow pumpkin bride he vomited his soul inside after scooping out mine.
His love stabs like a knife. Manipulation and distraction, sucking away my purpose in life. Illusionary love.
A cockroach disguised as a dove. My mind rots and my blood clots. Regret haunts my days.
Cobwebs take my old self captive. Where did I go?
I wish I could say I know.
Hollow pumpkin on the porch not needed anymore. Rotting in November, dead by December.
A domestic wife in life. Oh horrible fright.
Magic Evolution
Emelia Shaw
When my nephew is 9 years old I’ll to take him to the last surviving piece of my imagination. We’ll rise from cots and look out from ripped screens— and I will become so mystical…
This is momentous
Pointing out towards the rising sun, We look onto the tallest volcano in Panama.
I just see land now. Jungle like impenetrable wilderness. But we will look out and I will tell him, You look onto a place of kinship. You look onto a place where two great worlds meet.
I won’t be lying. I’ll ask:
Did you know we always sit between the two grandest oceans? He will scrunch his eyebrows and respond, Even in Chicago?
Always. Pacific
I will widely gesture right. And Atlantic I will widely gesture left.
Forces of spright, glory, terror. Forces of change.
The sun will advent, and anybody paying attention knows the color is lost once she breaks through anyhow.
Prompt spellcasting, I’ll point.
It’s Volcán Barú.
You can walk—from Alaska to Chile, and only see both great oceans in one fell swoop. Once! As a little speck on that peak. Our eyes will twinkle with this secret.
We’ll scan for a speck of proof, but, as always, the horizon will break. Reds, oranges, pinks heading to blue, so I’ll return unmystical.
He wants to see for himself. Soon that speck is me, he says, but I assure, Sitting here together, morning minds break any space between blues.
Untitled Sam Hernandez
Punta Cana, the Dominican Republic Emma Perrin
Keep Forward
Tiann Johansen
Arctic Misery Bridget Hesse
A heavy, quiet wind blows me over. Not a single word spoken, Just the powerful air— gusts that weave through silence. I won’t get back up. I can’t.
Lying on the ground, thoughts tangled like rusted wires. Aching for a spark to ignite, paralyzed by fright. A blanket blows towards me & the world continues to move.
The walkers part ways, no one stays.
My patchy blue sweater soaked in my tears. Lost, adrift. Salt and snow freezing my soul, paralyzing me slowly. The young mind must flee as this arctic misery, it’s not for me.
I exist in a snowstorm, sinking and sinking and sinking. So little energy to give, so little life to live.
Plagued by anxiety— Hyperfixated on a dream. The feeling that no one in the world knows me. My mind flies into the abyss. Lost in my imagination. In an endless thread of “I wish.” Isolation teaches me stillness.
Meditation, recreation. In silence, I hear my voice. Not as a whisper, but a steady sound. Identity unraveling until I become unbound. Discovering peace beyond that ache that isolated me in the first place.
My security blanket is gone, but I feel no fear. I am who I am. Now I must live my truth. The weight of the world is no match for the flame within, a warmth that keeps my soul alight, opening doors that were once shut tight.
Curling up in my patchy blue sweater, still damp, but now warm. My brown eyes sparkling from tears of relief. As I get over my own grief. No longer focused on the time lost, called to embrace what’s left.
This isolation was for me as my arctic misery, made me authentic and free.
Barred Aritri Costa
Girl in the Attic
dark outline against the window’s pane glow of candles flickering papers strewn and inked hands
rewriting her soul again and again
The
Grace Mohney
Cake-Faced Nervous Giraffe
2am Identity Crises
The toss and turn, the mind
A thousand reflecting mirrors asking “darling, won’t you ever do better?”
A missed bubble a question a side-eyed look and tumble down the stairs.
The night as dark as carbon paper the sun a warming comfort vanished the stars, often peace of mind mocking.
A fault of person?
Opportunities experiences clouded by night if not right not a success like a babbling dam, the plug now open, spews forth the boundless thoughts— fireflies in a jar that cannot escape.
Global poverty environmental destruction turtles killed crossing the road
2,500 infants killed a day mental health destruction my role, my job, to fix this world although too big a task. Yet through mirror cracks the piano keys under my fingers the hug from my sister
Grace Mohney
and mother and father the stray dog returned to the owner a small fish in an ever-growing ocean, together we’ll do something but now Sleep.
Midnight Izakaya in Tokyo
Jona Nguyen
Untitled Sam Hernandez
Excerpt from: Bobbi, Not Roberta Lydia Cowan
meet the inmates
In the morning, a nurse woke me up and escorted me to a room that, as I’d later learn, was called the therapy room. Super creative, I know.
“It’s spring break, so things are pretty quiet. You’ll get to meet everyone soon,” she said, handing me a cup of yogurt as we walked. Apparently, I’d missed breakfast.
“Oh, right. Spring break,” I muttered, taking the yogurt and heading to the table in the middle of the room. “My friends are probably on a beach somewhere. When they ask me what I did, I can say, ‘Oh, just spent the week at a mental hospital. Nothing too crazy. But hey, at least I didn’t miss any school.’”
The nurse either didn’t hear me or decided I wasn’t worth the effort, because all she said was: “The others should be coming back from therapy soon.” With a faint squeak of her shoes, she left.
I sat there, poking at the foil lid of the yogurt, and let the silence stretch out. The walls were pale and scuffed, but the most depressing part was the clock—its ticking echoed loudly, amplifying the silence. I peeled back the foil, took one bite, and decided I hated it.
A few minutes later, a small group of people around my age shuffled into the room, led by a guy who looked like he’d just walked off the set of Hot Therapist #1: The Lifetime Original Movie.
“That was a great session, Nathaniel,” chirped a bubbly blonde girl who practically floated behind him.
“Thank you, Daisy,” Nathaniel replied, settling into the seat across from me.
Daisy? Seriously? My own name might suck, but at least it wasn’t that.
“It was just so thought-provoking,” Daisy continued, practically glowing. “Really makes me hopeful for the future.”
Wonder what that’s like.
Nathaniel offered her a polite smile before turning to me. “Hello. What’s your name?”
I paused, meeting his gaze. Since I was here against my will, I figured I might as well make things interesting.
“Morna F. Despair,” I said, looking down with a theatrical sigh before glancing back up, frowning for effect.
Nathaniel raised an eyebrow, unfazed. “Morna F. Despair. That’s…quite the name. If I’d known, I’d have prepared a more gothic welcome.”
“Next time, dim the lights and hand me a cursed locket,” I said with a shrug. “Maybe queue up a Crying in a Victorian Graveyard Spotify playlist. Gotta keep up appearances.”
“What does the ‘F’ stand for?” he asked, feigning curiosity.
“Forsaken,” I whispered, casting my eyes up shyly, like a tragic Victorian heroine.
He nodded, deadpan. “Interesting. I was actually told your name was Roberta.”
I sighed, deflated. “If you already knew, why’d you ask?”
“Sometimes I like to start a conversation with an easy question. And for the record, I’ve never had anyone lie about their name before.”
“Well, glad I could make a memorable impression,” I said, leaning back with a smirk.
“Hi, Roberta. My name is Daisy,” the blonde girl said, bouncing over to me with a cheerful grin.
“Cool. My name’s Bobbi, not Roberta. Only my mom calls me Roberta,” I replied.
“Right...Bobbi. Well, can I introduce you to everyone?” Daisy asked, still smiling like we were at summer camp.
“Sure,” I said, taking one last bite of the yogurt before tossing it into the trash. “Might as well get to know my fellow inmates.”
“That’s Chris,” Daisy said, nodding toward a tall guy by the window. He stood with his hands in his pockets, staring outside. His expression was blank, like he was somewhere else entirely. The sunlight hit the edge of his face, but he didn’t flinch—it was as if he saw something out there the rest of us couldn’t.
“He’s been here almost a year,” Daisy whispered.
“A year?” I blurted out.
“Yeah. He used to be in the foster care system, but it was really bad. He got admitted and decided he’d rather stay here than go back. He’s leaving when he turns 18, which is in a month or so.”
“That’s...bleak,” I said.
I thought about it. After my dad died, when I was eight, my mom got so depressed she basically stopped taking care of me. My aunt had to step in, threatening to call CPS if my mom didn’t pull herself together. Eventually, she did. But I wondered what would’ve happened if she hadn’t. Would I have ended up like Chris?
“That’s Adrien,” Daisy said, pointing to a younger kid sitting in the corner, hunched over a piece of paper. “He doesn’t talk.
He just barks. He thinks he’s a dog.”
“Awesome,” I said. “It’s giving furry.”
Daisy tilted her head, confused. “What’s ‘furry?’”
“Never mind.”
“So, yeah, that’s everyone. It’s nice to have another girl around.”
“Yeah, only having a guy and a dog must be exhausting,” I said dryly.
We wandered toward the window. Outside, the yard looked unsettlingly normal—neatly trimmed grass, a couple of bushes swaying in the breeze, everything bathed in the kind of perfect sunlight you’d see in a home improvement commercial. For a second, it felt like I was staring at any ordinary backyard. Then I saw the fence. It was tall, black, and topped with spikes, like the set designer thought, let’s really drive home the hopelessness.
I leaned closer to Daisy, lowering my voice. “So, what’s the deal with escaping? Ever been done before? What’s the success rate?”
“Escape!” Daisy yelped. Everyone in the room turned to look at us.
“Yeah!” I said loudly, waving a hand. “Chicken Run: Escape from Tweedy’s Farm. My favorite movie! ”
I cringed as the words left my mouth, instantly regretting them. Nathaniel shot me a bemused look, while Chris went back to his silent staring and Adrien resumed his barking—or drawing, or whatever he was doing.
“Does God know you’re like this?” Daisy asked, her face twisting with genuine concern. I sighed.
“No,” I said, deadpan. “I’m actually the spawn of Satan—he kicked me out of Hell because I wasn’t depressed enough. Thought a little time on Earth might fix that.”
Daisy gasped, leaning closer. “Oh my gosh! That’s…horrible. What do you even do about that? Do you…pray? Can you pray?”
Nathaniel hid a laugh behind his hand, while Chris gave me a curious side-eye. Adrien barked once, clearly in agreement.
I sighed. “No, Daisy, I can’t pray. Every time I try, a crow slams into a window, and ‘Mad World’ starts playing.”
Her face twisted in horror. “That’s awful!”
I raised an eyebrow. “Daisy, it’s a joke. I’m not actually Satan’s castoff.”
Her expression softened, but she still looked cautious. “Oh.
Right. A joke. Ha! For a second, I thought—”
“That I get struck by lightning if I walk past a church? Only if I run,” I said.
Her nervous laugh escaped, but her worry lingered just beneath the surface. “You’re so dark…but funny!” she said brightly. “We’re still gonna be great roommates!”
I blinked. “Wait… roommates?”
“Mm-hmm!” Daisy hummed, spinning on her heel and floating away like a cartoon princess, the weight of her words apparently nonexistent to her.
I sat there, staring after her. Maybe Satan didn’t kick me out. Maybe this was just Hell’s overflow seating.
it erupt Audrey Dorman
Watching
How to Blend Pinks
Nora Langdon
Place the needle on the track. Feel the grooves of Charm echo through your body. Clairo’s melodies blend to cover the noise of pounding feet outside your bedroom door. Listen to what the roommates call “devil’s music” and sit across from a girl who calls it otherwise. Seriously think about moving out to the city lights next year.
Sit on the worn-out carpet. Feel the itch of reality rush through your body. Grab onto something else: a thought, a rebellion, a kiss, closed blinds, a fake safety lit by the room’s glow. Really question if the glow is coming from the girl across from you. Know that it is and hold onto it.
When the track hits a bump, feel it ripple and distort all the things you’ve heard from your mother’s tongue. Red wobbles and turns itself into a blush. When the song crackles, get consumed by the way your heart mimics it.
Let your eyes out of their respectable cage and feel them go hazy; lost in her pink. Laugh. Allow spit to ease your cracked lips that are taking a break from holding back. Sense as your blush becomes a dusty rose.
Kiss. Mix the dark rose with her light cherry blossom. Lose the room, lose the musk of old furniture and the peach glow of the girl. Lose yourself. Slip into the bass and see all the colors: salmon, fuchsia, bubblegum, rouge. See sunrises behind your eyelids and feel the calm of a horizon you fear you’ll never know. Call it your own before the track goes cold and the sounds from outside come knocking. The itch of reality is waiting. It demands you dull your new color and open the door.
Today Grace Helms
Husband, A Ghazal
Audrey Reagan
I fear my house will be empty, but then I think What if I shared it with men? I think
I’d never let a man paint over my walls, Rearrange my last name or my garden, I think.
Maybe he’d name my pet, then cuss it out. I’d keep my cat even if she bit him, I think.
His friends would never eat at my table. My kitchen wouldn’t be a lion’s den, I think.
If he raised his voice when he got angry, I’d lock my door and down ibuprofen, I think.
I wouldn’t lie beside him, much less with him. The exchange would be uneven, I think.
I’d touch women between pages more than him. I wouldn’t let him read what I’ve written, I think.
I would rip out any piece he left in me, His hobbies, his mother, his children, I think.
Even if he gently slid the ring onto my finger, It would leave me guilt-ridden, I think.
“You’re a bitch, you’re cruel, you’re alone, you’re—” I’ve heard. If it was from a woman’s soft lips, I’d listen, I think,
But if my name, Audrey, ever dripped from a man’s mouth, I’d never want to hear it again, I think.
Lavendar Dreams
Jona Nguyen
Family Chore Night Haven
Daudert
Dad steps outside to discard the trash
While Mom complains no one helps around the house.
And she rants about our past
As he lingers outside with the neighbor’s spouse.
Mom complains no one helps around the house
While I open the door to sweep out the dust.
Dad lingers outside with the neighbor’s spouse
And he sees my face, sees my disgust.
I open the door to sweep out the dust.
My brother drops a plate, fractured into shards.
He saw my face, saw my disgust
And Mom can’t know what happens in the front yard.
My brother drops a plate, it fractures as shards,
And Mom rants about the past.
She’ll never know what happens in the front yard
When Dad steps outside to discard the trash.
For the Love of Deer Madalyn Rockwell
I wish I were a doe
So all intentions could be clear
And the men who want to kill me
Wouldn’t pretend at anything else
Other than earnest desire.
Maybe a love of sport, Or ecosystem, Or blood, Or must, Or game.
But never for the love of me.
Wouldn’t parade anything.
Wouldn’t pander
Anything more than a salt lick.
The honesty of a shotgun.
The truth of a neon safety vest.
A prize for my fur
A victim of my fatness.
If I didn’t want this
Nature shouldn’t have had it.
With eyes on the side of my head
People wouldn’t blame me
When I’m found dead.
Untitled Mira Marino
Joan Nora Langdon
screamed out the door into a void. She asked for us to take her home. My mom, my dad, my own two feet stood unsure. We looked around at the familiar rooms. The twenty-year-old wallpaper suddenly tinted a darker hue. I remember daisies traced with sticky fingers on a backdrop of sky blue. We looked around and my dad had to do the impossible, speak the truth: you are home.
They gently nudged her into a sunken chair that hugged her figure with a familiar embrace. They looked scared trying to coax a firebird back into its cage.
I wondered how it felt to be locked in such comfort, to be in the wrong place. They finally found one of her eight pairs of readers hidden throughout the house. They told her to drink her favorite tea and the television crackled on, but No— she insisted this wasn’t home.
We pulled out pictures to dampen her fury. Sticky fingers pointed to past lives in the blue house, the yellow, Frederick Street, the home where Uncle Mark used to push her on the swing? No— the bird turned its head.
We called her crazy. The words flew like water, steam rose from our wounds. Older, I see the mad bird born into something new.
Fury was fear, we didn’t recognize the name. Her home was out the door, we just didn’t have faith she remembered the way. No— she didn’t have anything to say. No descriptions, no directions, just squawking to go someplace We don’t know. We don’t know.
Tired of searching, she exhaled and went up in flames. What a brilliant blaze Joan gave. The truth: her ash became dirt. No— she migrated to where the fighters and firebirds go I think, but I don’t know. I don’t know.
Untitled Mira Marino
Pavement for Loam
Audrey Reagan
“Recite it,” said the blind bird.
The other bird ruffled her feathers, annoyed. Her cage clanged gently against the brick wall. “When he opens the door, fly out above his hand; not below. He can’t grab us that way.”
The pair of voices below them quieted, and the birds went silent, awaiting the smell of cigarettes and a broom handle against the metal bars. But the voices picked up again, one rough with phlegm, the other raspy and young.
“I’ll listen for his key,” the blind bird whistled softly.
“I have something to tell you—”
He clicked his beak as if to say, Wait. She quieted. The smoke took on the tang of a cigarette’s last dregs. His eyelids burned, even as he stilled his corneas. The urge to blink made him shudder. A thick crust glued his eyelids together, turning his vision to reddened darkness. When he moved too much, stinging fluid trickled down his neck.
The cigar smoke faded, and the voices drifted down the street. He said, “What have you to tell me?”
“A pigeon died in the road. She had a broken beak like mine. I want to bury her.”
“She’ll have to find peace in the pavement.”
“She can’t! Her loam will be sewage, her tomb a drain grate—”
“Better her than you.”
“How could you say that?”
“You still have to tell me about the sky.”
She cawed in fury and paced her cage. His talons were too long to move, cemented to his perch with long-dried feces. He tilted his head, listening. Amidst her scraping and twittering was the flick of a lighter, familiar footsteps, and jingling keys.
“Recite it,” he hissed.
She didn’t have time to. The cages jostled. A heavy cloud of smoke washed over them. The keeper muttered curses. Metal clanged and creaked. The key grated in a lock. There was a scatter of seeds, a squawk, and more curses. Wings flapped, shoes chased, and then there was only the rumble of passing cars.
The darkness beneath his eyelids grew complete. The cold dragged him into sleep, until a flutter of wings woke him. The cage swung as she seized it.
“Why didn’t you follow?”
“Did you bury the pigeon?”
She cawed violently.
“He didn’t open mine,” he said, blinking as best he could. Warm fluid oozed down his cheeks. “So he leaves you here? No food? Buried up to your neck in shit—”
“Please, my friend,” he said softly. “What of the sky?”
She was silent. The cage swayed. Cars crawled past, growling. Finally, she said, “It’s cold. The air rolls and swirls. The stars are like glowing millet. I pretended to eat them, imagining the taste of sunlight.”
He nodded. For a moment, they were quiet, as if a broom handle loomed over them. With a mournful warble in her throat, she said, “I couldn’t bury her. She was too heavy.”
“It’s alright,” he said gently. “I knew she would be.”
Wishing Bells on a Forest Pavillion Jona Nguyen
Tethered
Ethan Jackson
I awake to scratchy fibers filling my lungs with every breath I take, my vision blurred by some sort of cloth. Unaware of my surroundings, I crawl to my feet, wary of every move. A rope around my neck tightens with every careful step. “Hello?” I call out, hoping the echoes of my despair will reach the ears of anyone nearby. “Somebody help! Please! Anybody!” I extend my arms as I walk forward, but my hands are quickly blocked by a wall that is slowly creeping closer to me. An audible click is followed by a burning flash of light penetrating the cloth; stars and apparitions appear in the corners of my eyes. Did someone just take a picture? Or was it my own mind capturing the last moment before I fall deeper into the abyss? I look in the direction the light came from, frozen with fear, my senses attuned to the slightest change.
Labored but quiet breathing fills my ears. Is it mine or theirs?
I allow my fingers to graze the impending walls that enclose me, grasping for any weakness I can exploit, but to no avail. My fingertips are stripped raw from clawing for seams that never existed. A shuffling sound. When I swallow, razor blades travel down my throat from the stale air. The shuffling sound becomes regular, rhythmic even, like footsteps aligning with my heartbeat. Or is it just my pulse? I don’t know how long I’ve been here. Hours? Days? Maybe just minutes. The entire room closes in, forcing me to crawl. The trap is now the size of an air duct. Desperately grasping at nothing as I feel the room shrink further, my movements becoming more limited as the walls get closer. From nowhere, a firm hand grabs my arm, and the pressure jolts me backwards hitting my head. The cloth is yanked from my head, and suddenly, the room is gone, and my eyes refocus on what I think is reality. Distant chatter fills the space, my eyes adjusting to the bright lights. I feel my hands against the soft leather couch I seem to be sitting on. Another slight pressure on my forearm, and I look up, trying to piece together a face in front of me. “Hey, where’d you go?” she says. I try to respond, but the fibers are still scratching down my throat, my voice tethered to the entrapment.
The House at Summer’s Edge
Jona Nguyen
Stargazing Jona Nguyen
A
Letter from Camicus
Audrey Reagan
Inspired by “The Other Wish” by Ada Limón
How old was Icarus?
What did it look like?
Who caught him?
They say thirteen, twelve, eleven, Small enough for wax to hold him aloft. And they still call it the Hubris of Man, Not the death of a boy.
A comet with blistered skin, Wax melting around his small skull, Feathers welded to narrow shoulders, Fire in the coals of his baby hairs.
Only the sea’s arms were long enough, Rubbing his wounds with salt. It combed fish ribs through his locks And rocked him in the rising tide, I hope. Why did he do it?
Every child wants to be an astronaut. He sat at the window while his father Measured his wingspan, Naming his stuffed animals after the stars. What did Daedalus do?
He crash-landed on a beach in Sicily, Back sunburnt, nail beds full of sand. He dug trenches in the shape of wings And shoved his head underwater to scream.
How could he even save him?
Point his nose toward the moon, Tell him it only glows Because of the sun’s reflection.
Fashion wings out of NASA’s titanium.
But Daedalus warned him, didn’t he?
His job was the same as it’d always been; When the baby staggers after his first steps, Or wobbles on his two-wheeled bike, Catch him.
Then whose was the Hubris?
Untitled Mira Marino
Teaching Monsters to Sit Lydia Cowan
Grief— a monster in my closet. Scratching at the wood. I open the door, nothing.
But I know it’s there— in my sock drawer, behind my clothes. Invisible, but painfully present.
At night, it shifts under my bed. I tuck my limbs beneath the covers, its breath on my neck, its silence heavy. I squeeze my eyes shut. It watches.
By day, it follows— to class, to the library, where I pretend to read. I see its traces— claw marks in the dirt, splinters in the floorboards. It waits, always.
One night, I drop to my knees, screaming at it— the thing hiding beneath my bed. Its claws curl tight, its dim eyes flicker like dying embers.
“Why won’t you leave me alone?” I shout.
But it doesn’t move. It doesn’t speak. It only waits.
Others have monsters too.
Curled behind tired eyes, crouched on hunched shoulders.
Some have taught theirs to sit quietly, like a dog at the dinner table.
Others ignore it, pretending it isn’t there.
Some sit quietly, helpless as it watches, waiting for them to break.
As I write this, I see mine—
half-hidden behind my dresser, its shadow stretched across the floor.
But I won’t fight it. It’s my shadow now. I wish I were Peter Pan, able to sever it.
But even if I could, I wonder— would I, like him, spend the rest of my life chasing it?
Because my monster, in its ugliness, exists from love. A love lost, but a love had.
A love I’ve learned to sit beside.
Within the Outside of Jwesi
chaos creates movement within the frame. Deepening color too distant to see even if you were inside it.
Can you feel it?
The grand sense of despair lost in the bumps and curves, the noise of it is staggering. Can you feel it? Some small horror in misunderstanding.
Perhaps, it is not to be understood. Perhaps, it exists only as chaos. Perhaps, you are not allowed to understand.
When You Train a Dog
Audrey Reagan
Sometimes, you’ll feel like nothing.
Or rather, you’ll feel it in you, curled in your rib cage like an old dog. He’ll gnaw on your ribs and lift his matted head to remind you the stars don’t revolve around your parents’ house anymore.
It’ll be hard to keep the star in your heart turning.
For a while, it’ll twirl as fast as your plastic princess dress. It’ll revolve around a sun shaped like your paper star wand. Then your friends will move away, and the planet will drop like a squeaky ball. You’ll have to wrestle it from the old dog, waiting quietly in your gut.
It’ll be quiet when you walk at graduation.
All the parents will compete to be the loudest, whooping and clapping and crashing their feet on the bleachers. It’ll go silent when you walk, though. The dog will bark and warn you, but you’ll roll your eyes because you saw this coming the moment none of your teachers showed up to your open house. No one will show up to your 17 th birthday.
Or your 18th. Your relatives will actually forget about it, so when you pass out the presents on Christmas, there’ll only be one for you. That’s only funny because they shove your birthday in with Christmas, despite the 19-day difference. So, your cousins will either forget the birthday or the Christmas part. By then, you and the dog will agree more often than not.
Look at the sky more often than screens.
They’ll get too bright at the end, like car headlights on the other side of the highway. Your life will flash before your eyes, and it best not be emails and assignments and videos and images and videos and images.
People’s faces will be prettier than images.
Most of them you’ll only ever see once. Someone will trip on a curb, you’ll accidentally meet eyes and laugh, then you’ll never meet again. Make sure none of those faces are your little sister’s. Remember hers. Even after your parents leave each other, remember hers. Forget all the faces in the world if it means you’ll remember hers.
You’ll forget most things.
VHS tapes in the bottom of a cabinet. CD towers. Even the dog. Years later, you’ll see the spine of a CD and remember how your mom traced the lyrics of “Godspeed (Sweet Dreams)” into your back. You’ll believe in her, but not God, even after she’s not alive. You won’t make it out alive.
In the end, you’ll sit in a nice armchair with that dog at your feet. Tea at your side, because you finally got the taste for it. As wrinkly and ugly and tired as God intended, whoever He is. The dog will ask you about the stars one last time, and you ought to say I’m ready to revolve with them. After all, they’ve got plenty of nothing up there, all spread out between each light.
Untitled Sam Hernandez
Style Jwesi
When picking an outfit for the day remember it is about color and silhouette. Never practicality. Buy nail polish the same shade of blue as your favorite jeans. Red polish should be the same shade as the zipper on you day bag. Jewelry is never to be plated. Gold fill and vermeil are the only acceptable alternatives to solid gold. When you walk home at night always be aware of your surroundings. It should not be a surprise when The Group surrounds you, blocking your path home.
Never wear your sunglasses with sweatpants from Hollister unless you have Eytys boots on. Scent is crucial when completing an outfit. When a guy from The Group invites you over, wear your most
feminine perfume. He should be able to tell his friends he got laid by a sorority girl.
The key to any ensemble is confidence. Never let The Group beat the confidence out of you. Never let him enter your blind spot, spatial awareness is key. If he hits you too hard, make sure you wear your MalinGoetz lip balm. Your lips will shine when they discover your body in the brush during the morning commute. Even after the storm the night before.
Mardi Gras Matchbook Nervous Giraffe
The Girl Who Voted, A Sequel
The girl who voted holds her breath
She watches the results
The results that will mean
Either hope
Or the darkness they worked so hard to outrun
Nora Clement
Her breath catches in her throat when they are called
The darkness
They couldn’t escape it
They shouted And screamed
For anyone to help them
But in the end, there weren’t enough people willing to listen
To help them step forward
Instead of being pulled back
Not enough voices
To put them first
To save them
The woman bleeding out in the hospital who didn’t wake up
The child who cannot be who they are
The family in danger of being torn apart
Someone calls out
“We survived before”
But not all of them did
Not everyone made it out alive
So they marched forward
To remind them of that fact
Just to be forced backward
We are not going back
This slogan
Becomes a battle cry
We are not done fighting
But the girl who voted is sad
And angry
That this is the moment they woke up to
The moment when they showed them what truly matters
And what was it?
Well,
Not them.
Hate the ab compass
shows sense of ion
Love the pre pass
Hate v. Love Shawna Schmandt
