Lions-on-Line Spring Issue 2014

Lions-on-Line

Spring Issue 2014 Home, Cover Art by Molly Ehrnschwender

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Table of Contents Home, Artwork by Molly Ehrnschwender Cover A Note From the Faculty Advisor 5 “Freedom,” Poem by Maggie Jones 7 “Rosfeld Road,” Essay by Hunter Little 8 Artwork by Jacqueline Tackett 13 “Smoke,” Fiction by Chase Stevens 14 “Heat,” Poem by Lesley Bishop 16 “Under Attack,” Fiction by Lauren DiMenna 17 “The Hunt,” Fiction by David Rice, Winner, High School Writing Contest 19 “The Bed,” Poem by Jacqueline Tackett 29 Despair, Artwork by Molly Ehrnschwender 31 “Broken Glass,” Essay by Elisa Stanis, Winner, High School Writing Contest 32 “Strings,” Poem by Alyssa Antoine, Winner High School Writing Contest 34 “Black, White, and Blue,” Essay by Lydia Guo, Winner, High School Writing Contest 36 “Really Bad Poetry,” Poem by David Fischer 38 “The Immortals’ Curse,” Fiction by Kathryn Vanden Oever 39 “When a Storm Walks,” Poem by Cara Kirkpatrick 48 Sumi e Ink Painting by Kim Williams 49 “Flight,” Poem by Katie Donovan 50 “Nothing,” Poem by Andrea Elchynski 52 “The Girl That Could and Did,” Essay by Nausheen Siddiqui, Winner, High School Writing Contest 53 “Galaxy Breath,” Poem by Jacqueline Tackett 55 “Blink,” Fiction by Cara Kirkpatrick, Winner, High School Writing Contest 56 Artwork by Emily Berning 62 “Earth Only Knows to Forgive,” Poem by Megan Moore, Winner, Sr. Helen Prejean Writing Contest 63 “Just for You,” Song by Noelle Rotte, Winner, Sr. Helen Prejean Writing Contest 65 “The Best Part of Life,” Poem by Catherine Evers Smith, Winner, High School Writing Contest 66 “Fig Tree Dreams,” Poem by Jacqueline Tackett 69 “Trailblazer,” Poem by Chase Stevens 70 Handkerchief Quilt by Julia Inskeep 71 3

“Clouds in the Mind Don’t Spread to the Soul,” Fiction by Carolyn Rosella Kesterman, Winner, Sr. Helen Prejean Writing Contest “I am,” Poem by Sidney Trasser “Lower East Coast History Textbook, Copyright 2087,” Fiction by Grace Burkhart, Winner, High School Writing Contest “The End of the World,” Poem by Megan Hatton “My First Existential Crisis,” Poem by Megan Moore “The Steps of Dignity,” Poem by Abigail Ball, Winner, Sr. Helen Prejean Writing Contest

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72 75 76 82 83

A Note from the Faculty Advisor This is a very special issue of Lions-on-Line, because in this issue we’ve chosen to feature the prize-winning poetry, fiction, and personal essays from the Mount’s very own 10th Grade High School Writing Contest, sponsored by the Department of English, a contest that has just celebrated its 18th anniversary. Nine sophomores in high school were honored at an Awards Ceremony in the middle of March 2014 for their award-winning work. The Mount received in excess of 100 submissions in the genres of poetry, fiction, and personal essay. In each category, a first prize was awarded as well as two honorable mentions.

The College of Mount St. Joseph received submissions from area high school students attending Cincinnati Christian School, Covington Catholic High School, Deer Park High School, Kings High School, Mariemont High School, Mother of Mercy High School, Mount Notre Dame High School, Notre Dame Academy, Oldenburg Academy, Princeton High School, Ross High School, St. Xavier High School, Seton High School, St. Ursula Academy, St. Xavier High School, The Summit Country Day School, Walnut Hills High School, and Westerville North High School.

This issue also features the prize-winning work resulting from the first ever Sister Helen Prejean Writing Contest, which grew organically out of the collaboration between McAuley High School, Mother of Mercy High School and the College of Mount St. Joseph to stage a production of the play Dead Man Walking. Students from the three schools were invited to submit poetry, fiction, essays, or original songs on the broad topic of compassion, dignity and forgiveness. We are proud to help their beautiful words reach a wider audience.

We are particularly delighted to introduce our youngest contributor ever, Maggie Jones. At age of ten, Maggie has been connected to the Mount community for her entire life. She is the beloved granddaughter of our beloved Kathleen Owens, Division Assistant for Arts and Humanities.

Lions-on-Line says a heartfelt goodbye to three editors this spring, Emily Berning, Lauren DiMenna and Corey Burdine, who are all graduating in May 2014. We are grateful for their years of service to our little magazine and their commitment to creativity on our campus. They will be missed.

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Freedom Poem by Maggie Jones Freedom is like a butterfly soaring by purple violets in a forest on a sunny day.

Or like crystal clear water flowing away from its waterfall home.

Freedom is like a red robin flying happily free over the rolling plains.

It is like bright stars finally able to come up to the sky after a long, snowy day.

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Rosfeld Road Essay by Hunter Little Screeching tires, busting glass, the scorching heat of mid-June 2012 – it all comes back to me faster than the lightning speed headlights of the white Chevrolet minivan. The red barn sitting to the left of the road is like an omen as I approach the spot, the split second where my entire life stopped in its tracks. Sounds of two vehicles, the metal monsters crashing, smashing, molding into one still resonate through my ears – interrupting my sleep. Invading my dreams and every ounce of peace, the blood-stained, broken glass images fill my head. The memories are glued to the backs of my eyelids – floating in and out, they remind me how much has changed and how much will never be the same.

The summer was hot on our necks and every breeze that blew through was our savior. I miss those days when I was a child and under any circumstances I was willing to endure the heat – no matter how long my skin roasted or my feet burned on the dry, browning grass. Laying in the heat that day, a normal seventeen year old girl trying to relax in the glow of the blazing sun, I was happy. My Jack Russell/rat terrier, Peanut, sat lazily by my side, panting, not able to release her typical level of hyperactivity. Eventually, the heat was too much to endure and I was no longer that child who ran all day in the sun without any worries, without any knowledge of our dangerous, disappointing, loathsome world. I was no longer oblivious to how much it hurts to live…or maybe I was.

I ventured indoors, Peanut right behind me and I just relaxed all day. Dinner time rolled around and you could still catch a glimpse of the sun over the trees in front of our home. As everyone sat down at the table I was filled with excitement, finding out that my half-sister had given birth to her second child the night before – a girl, Evelyn. Eager to visit Margaret Mary Hospital, I finished my food as quickly as possible; probably at an unhealthily fast pace.

The green 1998 Mercury Mystique sat idly in the driveway, practically begging me to take her out on the road. You never really forget your first car – the way that it wants you to take it everywhere, to find the most useless reason to weave carelessly through the country roads. No other vehicle could ever take the place of that first car, no matter how rusty, how squeaky, how dirty, or how shabby it is that car can never be replaced. There are two different routes I could have taken to get to the hospital. One of which is entirely straight, apart from a turn off of St. Peter’s Road and onto SR 46. The other is a back road leading to SR 46 and 8

the interstate – it’s full of curves and hills and stop signs that always get ran. What more could you expect from a small, rural, Indiana town?

I chose what was most familiar to me, as well as more interesting – no, I didn’t run any stop signs, but I do enjoy taking the scenic route. Making it safely to the hospital, I met and visited with my new niece who was one of the smallest babies I can remember holding. As I cradled her small, infantine frame in my arms I found that I was both terrified and amazed at her fragility. Tiny fingers wiggling around my thumb, her high pitched coos sang through the room. Her slight crooked smile and bright, innocent blue eyes held the loving attention of us all – capturing the beauty of her new world.

In retrospect, I should have headed straight home after visiting hours were over, but I wanted to take advantage of being in town and decided I’d stop by my biological father’s house. Chatting and catching up didn’t take long and I still wanted to get home to run the trails with my sister, so I left a little after nine.

I remember smiling. I remember rejoicing at witnessing and holding new life.

I remember loving the side of my family that had long been lost and only recently placed into my life. I remember enjoying being alive and thinking to myself, “This is what life really feels like.” Smiling and reflecting on my day, I stopped for gas at the Exxon where SR 46 meets Rosfeld – a decision I now regret. What a waste of money!

Pulling out of Exxon, turning left, blaring Blue October’s “Into the Ocean,” I drove with my left foot in the seat curled under my right leg (an act I am very thankful for today). It’s comfortable and I’m relaxed. Two hands on the wheel, my last thought before crossing the hill is of my family and how they’re what I’ve been missing my entire life. “Where is the coastguard, I keep looking each direction, for a spotlight, give me something –” the last words blasting from the stereo.

I gasp – my last breath of normal life.

It’s not true; what you read or watch about traumatic events. They don’t happen in slow motion. Thank God they don’t happen in slow motion! The time it took to see the bright lights of the white Chevrolet minivan charging at me, breathe, tightly grip the wheel, slam my foot into the brake, close my eyes, and fire every curse word I knew through my brain amounted to hardly a second. The aftermath though, that’s the real ticking clock.

Opening my eyes, clouded, dry throat, I coughed to blow air back into my deflated lungs. I can’t explain it other than a dream; the way they fade into white around the edges, how you sort of feel like you’re floating. Except this time I knew I had to be dreaming – I sometimes still hope that I am.

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As my senses came back, the burnt rubber and spilled gasoline smell crawled into my nostrils. Folded around me, almost in a caress, a cradle, my vehicle was crumbled like a piece of paper no longer needed for use. I took in the scene. I realized what had happened. I couldn’t breathe. I was trapped. I needed to breathe. Pushing up with my right foot off the floor of the car, a sharp, piercing pain shot up my leg all the way to my knee. I winced, but my left leg would suffice in freeing me – I needed out.

Drenched in sweat, sticky red covering my arms, legs, and face, I crawled out of the shattered window, cutting my legs even more in the effort to free myself. I fell from the window onto the crisp grass. Taking that first glance at my distorted ankle – I cried, I screamed, I knew something was over. I’ve never felt more alone than I did that night; with no phone, no family, and no help, apart from one woman – a broad-shouldered, brown-skinned, short haired lady – from the other vehicle who barely spoke a lick of English. She kindly carried me to the opposite side of the road and offered me her cellphone. I couldn’t reach my dad – the Spanish words blurred across the screen.

The sound of the EMTs approaching and helicopters hovering in the distance still haunt my memories louder than a shout in the night. Alone and afraid, I answered questions, had my shoelaces cut and leg splinted from my foot to thigh.

The relief I felt when my sister and dad pulled up and ran to me was like that first drop of water after a trek through the desert. Fearing what the man who raised me would do, terrified it was my fault; I clung to my sister and hoped she’d protect me from his wrath.

Air carry is rough. It’s even worse when your ankle is internally torn to pieces. Arriving at the hospital, I was rushed to trauma and filled urgently and repeatedly with morphine. I kept asking if I were dreaming, praying and hoping that I’d wake up any second. But the pain was real. The injury was real. This obstacle in my life was very big, very terrifying, and very real. The realness, though, did not stifle my hoping. *** Regaining consciousness after my first surgery gave me one more reason to hope I was waking from the nightmare that had become my life. My hope was replaced by the horrifying reality when the harsh, florescent lights blinded me.

Frantically ripping the tube from my nose, disconnecting myself from the monitor, I tried to scream for help – I felt my world collapsing around me once again. I was told that my right ankle had shattered into seven pieces directly on the malleolus (that little knob where your ankle connects to your foot.) “One of the worst breaks 10

I’ve seen…” my surgeon informed me. Great – I had become irreparable. Plates, pins, and screws would be my ankle’s full support after my stay.

One more surgery; they put in the hardware, the support. I wasn’t told beforehand that the plates are shoved into your body hot. Waking up the second time was even worse than the first – I imagine the feeling was relatively close to burning from the inside out like a match tossed inside a gasoline covered body.

Heat radiating through my body, I made an unintentional scene throughout the wing.

Two more blurry days in the hospital gave me a little time to evaluate my situation. I could’ve lost my left leg had it not been curled up in the seat. I could have died. At least I was alive.

So, I hoped for the best. I could look forward to recovery and physical therapy in two months; after I ditched the crutches. I slept in the living room all summer, unable to sleep by myself, waking up every hour from the aching that radiated through my lower leg. No medication helped, but I never stopped praying for my next visit to UC to be my savior.

Two more weeks until you switch to a boot. Down to one crutch. Stuck with the boot, but no crutches. Switching to an air cast, but no physical activities.

Early December rolled around and I yearned for the news that would return me to softball, volleyball, and track.

It never came.

Curiosity overwhelmed me and I ventured to start asking my own questions. I ended up betrayed – Pandora opening the box. The news never came because the news didn’t exist. I’d never return to the softball diamond, volleyball court, or track field. All of my hope, a fragile vase on a shelf, had been knocked off, shattering the way my ankle had – permanently, irreparably.

I’ve since restored majority of my hope – slowly picking up the pieces here and there. It will never again be as strong as it once was, but neither will my ankle.

I’ve found other activities to fill my time. Painting, drawing, reading, and archery have become my healthy alternatives – most of them paling in comparison to the things I used to be capable of. *** Although over a year and a half has passed, that red barn upon that hill, that curvy back road and often ran stop signs never fail to envelope me with the same fear, weakness, loneliness, and hopelessness I felt in 2012. These recurring memories and feelings have created numerous other obstacles for me mentally – PTSD, depression, anxiety, and negative self-image are ranked the highest on the 11

list. Continuing to fight my negativity is a daily struggle from the moment I open my eyes in the morning and realize that it all wasn’t a dream, that my ankle still awkwardly protrudes on the sides, that the pain can’t be slept away, only endured.

I try to be infinitely more thankful for my life each day, although some days are harder than others I want to make the most of them. I wake up, suffer a moment, and tell myself that if I can’t make myself smile today I better spend it trying to make others smile. I aim to show excessive kindness to people, even those who do me wrong – they probably need it more than I’ll ever know. Failing in these goals only gives me one more reason to wake up the next morning and try even harder.

I’ll never cease to feel brave each time I travel that road where glass cut my skin, blood covered my body, and my life changed in an instant. But only for the better has it changed. Had I chosen to take the straight route, I wouldn’t be where I am today. I’d have never crossed paths with the people I now know and love, I’d have never came to the Mount, and I definitely wouldn’t have developed as strong of a character as I have.

Though the actions of the other driver will never be forgotten and the effects still intrude on the life of a young adult who longs for normalcy, I do forgive them, I do thank them. Because of them I am strong. I am brave. I am dauntless.

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Artwork by Jacqueline Tackett 13

Smoke Fiction by Chase Stevens Hell, he knew the words to the song. He was the only one. Everyone had known “Rain”, having been on Indie Rock Stations in the Midwest twelve years ago, but no one knew the painful lyrics I’d penned in “Candidly Somber”. And no one had really cared. Not that I expected them to. But this kid, a 17 year old kid, knew my song. The piece was released on YouTube, Spotify, and Facebook only. No iTunes or Amazon. Sorry, Billboard. No one knew the new stuff. No one but Kevin.

Kevin was a bright kid. Eyeing him during the show was not a difficult task; he had been front center, his face radiating crimson due to the lighting in The Mix (Rollo, Missouri’s best underground music bar). Wide eyes followed me during my “sit-ona-stool” set and since I’d needed not to look down at the frets of my Taylor as I had played, I looked at Kevin. He knew all the songs. Every word. He air-drummed the fills of old songs that had had full band recordings. Sang loud enough along with me that I heard his voice and he even rocked harmonies. Who was this kid?

I slept in the van that night—actually I tossed in thought. Why am I in a Taco Bell parking lot in Missouri? Was Mom right about a “real” job? Had I actually been the one at fault in the split of The Danbury Shakes? Just another arrogant frontman. Write some rhymes, pour the heart out and— “Smoke?”

Then tapping on the glass window behind and above me.

“Is that Smoke Evans in there?”

It was Kevin, though I didn’t know his name at the time. I knew him as the watchful fan. The ever elusive loyal fan, gripped by the music and not so much by the bullshit.

That was when he offered his bed for me to sleep in. He said he would sleep in his mom’s bed while she was out. The shrug of his shoulders that followed my question of where she was made me cringe. When we got to the trailer he opened a rusty door with no key and pointed to the couch.

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“My bed,” he said, an expression of humble selflessness.

I pinched the top of my nose between my eyes. We used the primary function of his makeshift sleeping quarters to sit and talk music. I asked Kevin how he’d gotten into the bar after he told me his age. He said he sold weed to the owner. I then declined his offer to smoke. He mocked my name.

In the morning I realized my mistake. I should not have stayed there. I had seen myself in the teenager that Kevin was. Idealistic. Aspiring. Alone. But saved by a grace: the comfort of music. I’d had a grain of sugar that is success and fallen in failure. Had I given this kid false hope? A notion that all that matters in life is putting one’s heart in his/her art despite drawbacks like countless unpaid bills, sleepless nights, and the chorus of “I don’t know you anymore” and “told you so”.

If I had given Kevin this conventional thought, I wished to go back to the point of the evening in which I was on stage and stare at nothing but my left hand as it slid on the frets, making the strings whine their own song in the subconscious of my own.

As I drove back to Tennessee I realized I’d learned the most valuable lesson in the art of performing that night in Kevin’s broken lonely trailer. This was the lesson of influence and what it really is. An artist wants to make an impact. That’s all. To have a voice. To achieve the inner child’s need to make his mother say, “Good job, honey. I’m proud of you.” Kevin was the epitome of an artist’s impact. A kid so much like my younger self that we connected in the gorgeous telepathy that is music. Except the accomplishment was missing. All I’d done was prolong a cycle of pain that is creativity. To relate to someone’s plight and comfort oneself by knowing that you are not alone. This is an overrated phenomenon. I crossed the Tennessee border and marked the end of a journey. The end of an artist’s process that is realization of worth—in himself and his work.

I remembered my lasting impact on the impact that was Kevin. I’d signed the back of the eviction notice on the coffee table.

Stay in school, Smoke Evans.

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Heat Poem by Lesley Bishop As the night sky drapes upon us, fervor overtakes me and once more my lips hunger for the luscious taste of the divine that swells from within your silhouette.

Music trickles through the cracks of the tilted house and into the alleyway. Match in hand, a fire of truth illuminates the ghosts of your past.

Those sunken eyes see no beauty the wisps of smoke in the waning light caress your face.

You set fire to the things that you cannot explain, but you can never escape them only to breathe the embodied ashes of the pain back in.

Like a nightingale I lull the worries of your mind.

When I look into your eyes I’m entranced by the cosmos as my hands release the hidden secrets of your body.

Pursed lips warm my body.

I melt into you.

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Under Attack Fiction by Lauren DiMenna The first snowball shocks you. That is, if it hits your face. The coldness knocks the breath out of you for a second or two, and when you wipe the remains of the snow off your face and turn around to the neighbor’s front yard, you see him.

The opponent. He stands there with his black heavy coat and bright red hat that almost covers his devious eyes, a challenging grin on his pale face, a new snowball already perfectly sculpted in his hand.

You didn’t come outside for this. You planned on doing something simple like making a snowman, and even brought everything you would need. Colorful buttons, sticks, and a half eaten carrot lay in front of you. You dropped them when you were attacked. Leave them on the ground.

“Like your surprise, Metal Mouth?” he calls out, using an annoying nickname just to get you riled up. You and he both know it is war. He throws his second snowball straight at your face, but you’re ready for it this time so you block it with your hands. Then he runs toward his backyard and you waste no time going after him.

He is standing behind his swing set thinking he’s unseen, but you see him alright. Quickly, you pick up snow and roll it into a somewhat deformed snowball.

You stop and wonder how he can get his snowball so perfectly shaped while you can’t. Bad Move.

He senses you’re guard is down and climbs up the wooden ladder of his swing set so that he’s standing in the spot at the top of the purple slide. He throws a new snowball and it hits your arm. You throw one right back, but you miss.

“Is that the best you can do?” he shouts at you. This is the time for you to get angry. You run up and try to grab him when he slides down his slide, but he’s always been too fast and now is no exception. He runs away into your own yard only turning around to stick his tongue out at you.

You decide not to follow him but to make a fort instead. If you’re going to win, you have to be smart. You start to build snow walls around you, fearful that your opponent might strike again. When you look, you don’t see him. You try to build faster.

All of a sudden, the back of your neck is freezing and you shake snow out of your brown hair. Expecting to see the familiar red hat from the boy before, it’s

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surprising to find the culprit is a smaller boy with a gray and navy blue hat. His brother.

This is not fair at all. You don’t have any siblings to team up with. That’s not going to stop you from winning, though, and you throw a forceful snowball at him to say just that. The snowball hits his stomach and he stumbles back. You hurry up to him and push him down to the snowy ground. Once you pin him down, you throw as much snow on him as you can.

“Okay! Okay! Stop! You win!” he cries out. You help him up and he runs back inside his house. Your focus is back on the older brother, whom you still don’t see.

You walk around to the front of the house and there he is. His back is to you and you notice he’s making his own fort. This is your opportunity to surprise him and you slowly walk toward him. It crosses your mind that he might be able to hear your steps and you try to be as quiet as you can. It seems to work. He doesn’t turn around.

When you get close enough to him, you knock him down and his body smashes his own half-finished fort. He’s twice your size and willing to fight back.

It takes all your strength to hold him down and you’re lucky you’re able to pick up some snow. You’re about to throw it at him when he stops struggling completely.

You give a victory grin because you think he gave up when instead, he leans in and kisses you.

The first kiss shocks you. It leaves you breathless for a second or two and then you realize his kiss tastes like hot chocolate. The thought leaves you feeling silly and you let go of him. The snow in your hand melts through your fingers.

“Later, Metal Mouth,” he says as he gets up, leaving you to ponder over this whole attack, and who actually won.

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The Hunt Fiction by David Rice Winner, 1st Place, 10th Grade High School Writing Contest Covington Catholic High School David Hunt walked along the window of his office on the seventy-fifth floor of the Metropolitan Tower in New York City. He loosened his tie a tad bit, as he tried to lose the stress that came with the day. It was always the same deal: more angry clients, more angry emails, and in the end, more money from his paycheck. It was hitting close to midnight on his clock as he threw on his overcoat and prepared to walk out of the office. But suddenly, there was a creaking sound at his office door.

Hunt looked around, nervous, as he was the only one left in the office at this hour. He slowly opened the door, and the dim light of the hallway came slowly behind it. As he took a step out and prepared to lock the door, he heard the creaking sound again. It was a slow, cracking sound, with a sort of menacing growl in the background. The window shades began to shake violently.

“Who goes there?” announced Hunt. “Show yourself!”

The shades shook even more violently. A table flipped over the side of the room, and an evil roar came out of the darkness.

Hunt screamed, and rushed back into his room. He grabbed the telephone on his desk and rang for security.

“This is Metro Security. Who is this?”

“This is David Hunt. I need you to-” His call was interrupted as he was picked up and thrown across the room. He was lifted into the air again, only to be thrown back across the room. Every time he looked, there was nothing there to hurt him. He stood up, bracing the window behind him for support. Hunt turned left and right in an attempt to find his attacker, but nothing.

He reached for the phone and picked it up again. The connection was cut.

Hunt threw the phone down, and crept forward to lock his door. He twisted the lock, and breathed a sigh of relief at the thought that maybe it was over.

The door came back and nailed him in the head. He fell backwards onto his desk and rolled on to the floor. Holding on to the window again, he slowly stood.

He surged forward, searching for the Beretta 92 that he kept in his drawer for safekeeping. Finding it, he raised his shooting arm, scanning for this unseen assailant.

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Grasping the desk chair in front of him for balance, he continued to scan the room for his target.

A gush of wind pinned him against the window as he pulled the trigger and fire a shot into the open air.

“Help me!”

-8 Hours LaterJason Daniels woke up with a terrible headache. The scene was blurry in his bedroom, as the luminescence coming from the window left huge glares in his eyesight. His room was musky and hand a funky smell about the place He groaned in silence, changing out his dirty underwear and hopping into the shower. The water cleared his vision as his headache started to clear. When he stepped out of his shower, the cool air of his room woke him up to find a half-naked girl lying in his bed.

“Wait a minute,” he said. “Who the hell are you?”

The girl looked up at him, still drowsy from her sleep. “Uh… Where am I?” “In my bed,” he responded. A message on his phone went off, ringing a loud bell followed by an angry rooster letting off a loud croak. The girl laughed, smiling underneath the covers.

“And it starts…,” Jason groaned. The message was a notice about a murder at the Metropolitan Tower. He quickly threw on a pair of jeans and a long-sleeve paid shirt and grabbed his handgun lying on the counter.

“Look, it’s probably not good that you’re here, but be sure to leave your number,” he said, winking at the girl. She just smiled and threw a short wave to him. Jason was out the door and in his old beat up Camry within five minutes.

-----------------------------------------“I’m telling you, I have no idea who the hell this girl was or where she came from, but she was hot. Just saying,” Jason said to Natalie and Drake, his two life-long best friends and teammates. They walked out of the elevator of the seventy-fifth floor of the Metropolitan Tower.

Drake Stanton scratched his chin, confused. “You’re telling me you woke up this morning to some girl in your bed, and you have no idea who she is?” Natalie pushed past the two, rolling her eyes and murmuring a little remark under her breath.

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“Yeah dude, it was weird. But I’m not gonna lie, it’s an ego boost. A weird one, but definitely an ego boost,” Jason said, pounding Drake’s fist with his as they walked into their victim’s office. “What do we got here?”

An officer in uniform came up to them with a notepad in his hand. “This is David Hunt, Chief of Operations for the Telemark Trade Company. He was killed in his office around midnight last night by having his throat slit. His--” Natalie raised her hand, hushing the officer.

“Why was the blood not interrupted?” she asked, pointing at the perfect circle of blood around Hunt. “If there was a person here, wouldn’t the blood have hit him, instead of forming this perfectly shaped circle?”

The two men gave a confused glance at first, not comprehending what their partner just said. They finally caught on, giving approving nods to Natalie. Hunt laid dead on the entirety of his desk, hands stretched out in a perfect cross form, as if he were lying on a crucifix. There was a slit in his neck making a tight circumference under his Adam’s apple and around the neck. He had bruises to the head, and a broken finger on his right hand.

“What’s with the finger?” Drake asked, pointing to the hand.

The officer took another step forward. “That was his shooting hand, used to fire his Beretta 92 pistol once at that wall.” He pointed to the wall opposite of the office, where a small bullet hole stood prominent in the white plaster.

“The killer must have broken the man’s hand either during or after the first shot, explaining the breakage and the tossed gun. Any prints or evidence?” Jason said, trying out a comfortable chair in the corner near the pistol. The officer shook his head.

Natalie pulled a mighty tug on Jason’s shirt and pulled him out of the chair.

“Get CSU in here to take the body for inspection. Drake, check his tech and see if he was doing anything under the table that he shouldn’t have. Phones, laptops, email, you get the picture.” She looked at Jason, “Jay, you’re sticking with me.

Let’s find family, friends, or a lover.”

-----------------------------------------Jason drove his Camry along 5th Avenue towards the precinct. Natalie sat next to him, holding a Frappe that she picked up from a nearby Starbucks. The traffic backed up the cars to a halt.

“So a girl was in your bed, huh?” she asked, giving him an accusing glance.

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“Are you saying that I invited her in?” Jason responded, catching on immediately and defending his position. “I told you, I have no idea who she was. I came home after working late with Drake on that stupid PCP case where the kid killed off his entire family.”

“Uh huh, at the bar on 25th and West?” she glared at him, daring an answer.

“I don’t have time for this,” Jason glared back, turning into the headquarters at the corner. The pair walked in without a word. A receptionist waited for them in the hallway.

“We have only two candidates for interviews as of now. We haven’t been able to find any other people that were close to David. Their paperwork is in these folders here.” The lady handed each one a separate folder.

“So our mystery man didn’t have any family, huh? Great,” Natalie blurted out, still angry about the conversation in the car. She grabbed the folder and hurried off to the interrogation room down the hallway. Jason took the other folder as he watched her storm off pretty oblivious to the way the day has gone so far.

“I’m sorry about her. She’s angry that I had a visitor last night,” Jason remarked, smiling as he threw a small wave towards the receptionist and walked down the hall. He opened the folder and read all of the details on his lucky conversationalist. The person he would be interrogating was a Rebecca Rose, a coworker of David’s at the age of forty-five. A picture attached to the folder showed a tanned brunette, with a nose-piercing to the right and big, brown eyes.

He reached for the door of the interrogation room, pretty anxious for whatever was behind it. Taking a breath of air, James pulled it open and strolled inside to face Rebecca. She was much younger looking than she really was, and wore a blue tank top with black capris. She had an empty iPod case on her left arm and had big red glasses resting on her head.

“Your people took my tunes and my phone. Is this a fricking joke? What the hell is going on here?” she stammered off as he opened the door. Jason was taken aback, shocked at the behavior.

“I guarantee they’re just taking precautionary measures is all,” he responded.

Jason smiled, and reached out his hand for a good shake. “My name is Sergeant Jason Daniels, NYPD. Are you comfortable? Can I get you something to eat or drink?”

“You can get me the hell out of here,” Rebecca darted back. “What is going on?”

22

Jason, still taken aback, charged forward with the conversation. “Do you know a David Hunt? He works at the Metropolitan Tower a couple of streets back.”

“I do. I used to work with him in the mail department on the 32nd floor. Then he got the promotion and left me to work with a bunch of losers. So I left Telemark and went into the pizza delivery business. It still sucks, but at least I’m not pent up in an office,” she replied, playing with a piece of her hair.

“I see,” Jason responded. “When was the last time you talked to David?”

“Dave sent me a text, about three or four days ago, actually. He was pretty distraught about some accident happening to his brother a couple months ago. I don’t know why he hadn’t gotten over it yet. He shoulda just manned up.”

Jason leaned forward, intrigued. “Accident? What happened?”

“He said something about how his brother took a saw blad to the neck while working in some metal-working factory in Detroit. No one said anything, and there weren’t any suspects. His brother was a good dude; gave lots to the poor,” she shifted her head a little nervously. “What does this have to do with anything? Why am I here?”

Jason leaned back, not knowing what to say next. He produced a picture of Hunt’s dead body and laid it on the table for her to see.

“Oh, my god,” she gasped. “What happened?”

“David Hunt was killed last night in his office. His throat was slit and he took multiple blows to the head. We were hoping you had more knowledge on it.”

Rebecca shuddered, leaning back into her seat. A tear dripped from her eye.

“I’m sorry, but I don’t know who could have done it.”

“Where were you last night at about midnight?” Jason asked.

“At my friend Tammy Green’s place. I stayed the night.”

“Okay, one more question Has Hunt been seeing anyone recently? A friend or a lover of some sort?”

Rebecca stared at the ceiling, regaining her composure and thinking to herself.

She suddenly remembered, “Yeah, I do remember. She was some blond girl.

Looked a little skanky, if you may, but she was definitely there. I remember seeing her at a work party over the weekend.”

“If I had a sketch artist come here, could you work with him?” Jason asked.

“This is extremely important.”

“Yes,” replied Rebecca.

-----------------------------------------23

Drake stood in Natalie’s office next to the chair Jason was sitting in as he cleaned his gun. He watched him as he took it apart and cleaned each piece proficiently and putting it all together in the end. For the encore, Jason spun the gun on his finger and slammed it into his holster.

“Very nice,” remarked Drake, as Jason took a mocking bow towards a fake audience. Natalie walked in, exhausted and out of sorts.

“We have no killer and no motive. It’s like we can’t even get past square one,” she remarked, slumping into her seat.

“Give the tech crew time to finish going through David’s stuff. There has got to be something in there that has what we need,” Drake reassured, getting comfy in the other chair by Natalie’s desk.

“We also have the sketch artist working with Rebecca right now. They should be finished soon,” Jason chimed in, now cleaning his boot knife. “We just got the case this morning. No one should be assuming that we’d have this solved already.”

“Exactly,” Drake followed up, pulling out his phone and checking his messages.

Jason put the knife in its sheath and stood up. He walked towards the window at the sunset coming over the skyscrapers along the horizon. It was supposed to storm during the night, and clouds were already rolling in from the west.

He took a step back, “So our guy was killed by some sort of blade slitting his throat by a guy that avoided the onslaught of blood all over his clothes. His brother was killed in the same sort of accident in Detroit several weeks ago. They were both wealthy businessmen who worked in high-level corporations across the north.

They each had money, and, I am guessing, they both had power,” he stated, thinking.

“There was also damage within the immediate area they were in when they were killed,” Natalie added. “In the Telemark office, a desk was launched from one end of the room to the complete opposite side of the hallway. Likewise, in Detroit, an enormous metal pipe was slammed through the floor.”

Drake finally caught on to the train of thought. “Both men were recorded being with some blond girl with similar features. They’re running the pictures of both men with the girls through the computers now.”

Suddenly, a young man with crazy red hair and large glasses stormed into the room carrying a folder filled to the brim with paper. “Guys! Guys! I think we found something! You’re gonna want to see this!”

He slipped and fell head first into the back of Jason’s chair. “Whoa dude, chill out. We have time. What’s up?”

24

The man grabbed the folder on the ground and laid it on the table in the back of the room. The trio gathered around him as he fixed his spectacles and turned around.

“My name is Mike…Mike Andrews. I have that material you ordered!” He pulled out a packet of paper and handed it to Drake.

“I also have the photo-imaging of the areas where each man was killed,” he said, giving another packet of paper to Natalie.

“Finally, I have the sketch drawings that you wanted, Mr. Daniels!” he shouted, handing Jason the final packet of paper. He turned around and left, leaving the three behind him utterly shocked.

Drake read his packet first. “We got a lot of calls to paranormal investigators, emails to government officials, and web searches on ghosts…What the hell does that have anything to do with this?!” he shouted, going through the packet. Natalie gasped.

“What?” both men asked.

“These are normal pictures of the areas where our guys were working at,” she laid them on the table, each showing a very simple, yet modern workspace. One picture showed David in his office looking out the window, while the other showed his brother looking at newly-poured steel.

“Okay,” Jason said. “What does this have anything to do with our killer?”

“The pictures I just laid out are normal CCTV camera pictures from inside their office spaces. But these, right here, are taken with a second infrared lens that comes with the cameras.”

She laid the pictures out on the table, each one next to the original for comparison.

The guys gasped, their mouths wide open.

While the original picture showed nothing out of the ordinary, the infrared were quite different. They came in black and white, with each of the men in a bright white light. However, behind each of the men was a less bright light. It seemed to hover above the ground, and each one carried a knife.

“What are those things?” Drake asked, scared.

Jason flipped open his packet and laid out the pictures of the couples with the four already laid out.

“Oh god,” Natalie cried. She gripped the bottom of the table until her knuckles turned white. The girl was the exact same in both of the pictures.

Jason dropped the final picture to the floor. It was the drawing that came from the sketch artist.

25

“Jason, what is it?” Drake asked. The storm outside finally began, and rain and thunder ruled the area. “What’s wrong?”

“That’s the girl that was in my bed this morning.”

-----------------------------------------The SWAT truck drove to Jason’s apartment. The storm was picking up outside, and it was already pitch black. Jason sat in the passenger side up front, while Natalie, Drake, and six-man SWAT detachment sat in the back. The trio was given black bulletproof vests and assault rifles, but Jason left his behind to use his handgun.

By the time the truck pulled into the complex, police cruisers had already evacuated the area and surrounded the building. A HAZMAT crew was on station, a police helicopter was in the air. Jason got out of the truck and was immediately drenched by the rain. Visibility was near zero at this point, and he rushed to the back of the truck to be with Natalie. Drake tested his radio, and placed it into a pouch on the front when he was pleased with its work.

“Are you sure she is still in there?” Natalie screamed over the storm. A lightning strike thundered behind them.

“I think so!” Jason shouted. The SWAT commander grabbed his arm and threw him thumbs up. Jason nodded, and led the team outside of his door. The soldiers turned their helmet lights on, and on Jason’s go kicked open the door and flew in.

Jason rushed in closely behind. He checked his room first, his Colt 1911 raised and ready to fire. His bed was empty, and the girl was gone.

“Search everywhere. I know she was in here,” Jason shouted walking back to Drake and Natalie. Drake held his rifle to arms, ready to unload if he ever saw anything. Natalie’s stayed on her lanyard; her hands occupied using her notepad as she went through her notes.

Suddenly, one of the officers screamed. The trio jumped, and Jason led the way to his living room. The man crashed into a desk, not knowing what hit him.

As he stood up, his head slammed back, folding the man like a chair on to the floor.

“Oh my god!” Natalie screamed. She raised her rifle and scanned the room.

A brick came out of the wall and nailed another soldier in the back of the helmet, sending him down to the ground. The front door slammed shut and locked itself.

No one was getting out.

26

Another flash of lightning lit up the room. A medic came out of another room with one of the soldiers and began to treat the wounded.

“Jamie’s dead, man. Oh god…” he cried, holding the man who was hit in the head in his arms. Drake walked into the kitchen, scanning with his rifle. Jason followed slowly behind him, double-checking everything to make sure it was in place.

“She’s in here,” said Drake.

“Who’s she?” A girl came out of nowhere from the front door. She was blond, and carried a small knife in her hands. Everyone trained their weapons on her.

“Who are you?” Jason said, taking a step closer to her.

The girl grinned. “Anastasia.”

“Okay, Anastasia…What are you?”

The girl grinned again. This time, a more devilish, terrorizing grin, “A nightmare.”

She flashed a pair of fangs and jumped on top of Jason. The rest of the crew opened fire, but the bullets went through her body. Anastasia ripped off of Jason and sunk her knife deep into the stomach of the medic, who screamed in pain as the blade pulled out and hit him again. More bullets flew past the ghostly figure as she took down two more soldiers.

Anastasia jumped up against Drake and slammed him against the kitchen cabinet. The flour on top of the cabinet fell over and blew up all over the place. As the dust settled, Jason saw the outline of a small costume behind the ghost. As she went to attack Natalie, Jason slammed into her, pushing her down on to the ground.

She hissed at him, biting on his left arm. He screamed in pain, grasping his arm.

She threw him against the wall again, and went back to attack Natalie.

“No!” Jason screamed. He fired three shots at the costumed figure: two to the head, one to the chest. The ghost stopped, slumped over, and collapsed on the floor. Natalie rushed to Jason and held him in her arms.

“Oh my good…Drake, he’s losing so much blood! Get help!” she said.

Drake pried open the front door and it opened to a dark world. The rain had stopped, but the darkness was still there. He ran out the door as the police and SWAT team moved in.

“Jason…No…” Natalie pulled him close and kissed his forehead. She pulled away looking for signs of life, but he had already blacked out.

-----------------------------------------27

Jason woke up to light shining through the window of his hospital room. He went to sit up, but the pain in his arm and back stopped him. The doctor walked in right in time, followed closely behind by Natalie and Drake, who was in an arm brace.

“How ya feelin’?” Natalie asked, smiling.

“Eh, I have definitely felt worse. What about you?” he looked at her.

“Same,” her smile loosened a little.

“So can someone explain what happened? I’m a little confused…” Drake said, dropping down to one of the chairs in the room.

“Here, I got this,” Natalie said, taking a sip of coffee. “We’ll start off with the simple fact that Anastasia was a fake. The real killings were committed by the blond, whose name was Jennifer Benton, an old Telemark intern. When she worked there, she started taking money out of the bank and depositing it into private accounts overseas. We’re talking millions of dollars.” Drake whistled.

“When David’s brother found out that she was taking the money out,” she continued, “he prepared to have her brought in and put on trial. She found out and staged a killing that would appear as if he was murdered by a ghost. When our boy Hunt found out about his brother’s death, he searched and discovered the track to Jennifer. Jennifer got world and killed him too.”

Jason scratched his head, “So how did she manage to do all the heavy lifting or survive the 300 rounds we put through her before she died?”

Natalie nodded. “First off, she isn’t dead. Secondly, a lot of her handy work involved a lot of preparation, including strength training. During the fight in your apartment, she used a projector to scare the troops.”

“How was she in my room, then?”

“She got close to her victims before they caught whiff and killed them. I guess you were her next target.”

“That explains the pictures with the Hunts,” Drake responded.

“And now she’s gone and locked up for a very long time!” Natalie winked at Jason. He blushed, causing the other two to laugh off their stress from the hell before.

28

The Bed Poem by Jacqueline Tackett It tucks us in And protects us from Monsters in the dark.

Mother reads us a story Until our eyes drift away.

We’re young again and Feeling love for the first Time ever. The night he Said he loved me.

But did we need to Go all the way? If It just ended after all Then what was the point?

We first feel warm and Safe under these embraces But then it changes The bed gets bigger The covers get duller The people who come in it Start to have distorted Faces. So I’ll glue myself Here until I no longer Feel its warmth. I know It’s bound to happen.

Springboard by springboard.

Covers will get ripped right From underneath me.

I’ll no longer be stuck To this bed.

I’ll no longer Need it for comfort or the Sweet soothe. “Mother, Read the story once more, 29

Don’t leave me here alone in This.

Bed. There are monsters overhead.�

30

Despair, Artwork by Molly Ehrnschwender 31

Broken Glass Essay by Elisa Stanis Winner, 1st Place, 10th Grade High School Writing Contest Summit Country Day Broken glass isn’t beautiful. It’s terrifying. Heartbreaking. Foreboding.

It isn’t the jagged, teeth-like edges of the clear refraction that unsettle me. Just like it isn’t the scars cut deep into skin or tears on someone’s face that fill me with a guilty type of panic. Why seeing an old man through the window of a building staring into space causes me to bite my lip in grief. It’s not seeing those sorts of things that twists my heart. It’s the stories behind them.

When I see broken glass patched with duct tape in the midst of a run-down neighborhood on my drive to school, a boy comes into my mind. A young man filled with so much anger and alcohol that he destroys the panes of clear at a local business. Maybe his friends are with him. Maybe they do this kind of thing all the time and there’s no remorse whatsoever. Who knows; maybe the company deserved the retribution. Maybe he’s been shown that taking anger out on objects is better than human beings. But is any policeman going to acknowledge that sort of initiative..? I avert my eyes. Don’t want to think about how I could never relate to that situation.

Sometimes I look at my arms on the days I wear short sleeved shirts, and see reminiscent scars. But I don’t think of me. I imagine someone else. Perhaps a girl I don’t know. Maybe from school, even. A teenage girl that, despite growing up with everything needed to be successful and adored, feels worthless. Who grows evertired from switching back and forth between two households that don’t seem to have time for her anymore. A brunette who feels tired of dealing with her father’s prissy new wife and her mother’s irresponsible boyfriend. An envied girl who goes to school with the cutest shoes and well-straightened hair but hides the fact that she’s sickened at lugging a bookbag heavy with two night’s worth of books; because she can’t leave them at either house. Maybe though we share similar marks, the scars on our hearts are so different, that I could never say I understand her pain.

And everyone cries at some point or another. To be honest when I feel hot water streaming down my cheeks, stemming from emotion that is specific to only me, I’m not thinking of other people. But after, when I’m numb and wondering how many other people in the world have better reason to cry than I, I’ve often imagined a heavy-set woman sitting in an office cubicle. She no longer wears the ring given to 32

her in years past, before her husband proved to be unfaithful. And despite the consuming pain of loneliness and unanswered questions, bills need to be paid and every day she finds herself in an ever-shrinking office room, numbly typing and avoiding mirrors so the question of if her looks drove him away doesn’t infest her thoughts again. When I look in the mirror, or any reflective surface, I understand that feeling. But I don’t have the same causes for it. I am filled with a sense of gratefulness, and also of caution.

Finally; on the occasion I happen to pass a nursing home building on my ride home; in my mom’s minivan filled with her and my two brothers, who will always be with me, won’t they? I am overwhelmed with the fear of being left alone.

Loneliness is my biggest worry in life, but I have hardly a reason to fear it, as I’ve always and always had at least one friend or family member to support my sinking structure. The notion of how many people, some of whom I have met, spend their final days in an emotionless solitude, is heartbreaking to me. It feels me with regret.

How many evenings have I used in mindless self-indulgence and entertainment when there seem to be so many presentable options available to me?

These feelings of guilt can easily turn into self-pity and that is absolutely not what will be useful to anyone. I believe the point of living, encompasses embracing emotion and empathy for others, but is absolutely useless without proper action.

Though I may not have the experiences of… Growing up feeling unsafe. Feeling divided between households. Being abandoned by someone sworn to spend eternity with you. Or wasting the last days of my life alone… I believe that every person’s struggle it his own. We aren’t meant to truly be them. Though every person on this planet bears a cross, it is the duty of those around them to help bear it. Not to lift it entirely forever, for they themselves have albatrosses and crosses to carry throughout life, but to support.

The broken glass and scars and tears are not meant to be romanticized.

They are not meant to be removed.

The striking enticement of life can be indeed found through pain, but an even greater beauty is manifested in the image of God seen on the faces of those who respect and upkeep those in need of care. In those people whose fragile, glossy, minds and bodies are so close to becoming broken glass.

33

Strings Poem by Alyssa Antoine Winner, 1st Place, 10th Grade High School Writing Contest Ross High School the puppeteer’s hands fumble madly for my breath, coercing my lungs wildly into birdsong: (inhale) i am so tired of breathing the air of familiar places, parking lots and awkward family gatherings, city nights and men hiding behind cigars, praying to smokestacks and singing glory to anyone who is willing to listen to their shrilling philosophies (exhale) here i feel a nameless exhaustion of things i know too well. white. satin. the smell of cedar. this house, it is wrought with familiar wood and the musk scent of routine. i know the fault lines in the floorboards and the moonscape of white walls. it is nothing new.

34

these days i must remind myself that there is air to breathe (inhale) on rock-ribbed mountains in countries i can’t pronounce, and in the gaps between novels on tiny bookshelves in london where people fall in love, just as madly as the puppeteer pulls the strings around my wrists, slipping cataclysm through my veins, and maybe someday this interweaver of strings will choreograph me closer to a place i’d be happy to breathe in (exhale)

35

Black, White, and Blue Essay by Lydia Guo Winner, Honorable Mention, 10th Grade High School Writing Contest

Walnut Hills High School I cannot remember life without the presence of the piano. Its redoubtable, sleek body was an omnipresent force in my life. It began as something to please myself, and in turn, please my parents, and in turn, please myself—a vicious cycle.

I neither loved nor hated it; I was neither extremely outstanding nor dreadfully terrible at it. Then I threw it away. But this is not a story of how a girl recklessly discarded a talent. This is a story of how a girl matured and learned to face her fears. This is my story.

It began like this: Once upon a time, there lived a little girl. She was just five years old. She had an older sister who was ten and wonderful at the piano. The little girl wanted to play, for she too, wanted people to clap and praise her after she performed a particularly difficult piece. So she began her first piano lesson.

The little girl soon learned that playing the piano was much more than arbitrarily pressing black and white keys. She persevered, though, because she quite like the little tunes that emanated from the instrument. Soon enough, it was her first competition, and she placed third. She was extremely proud of herself.

After her first competition came many more, and she did well in them—she placed second, third, and honorable mentions at regional and state level competitions.

With each victory came a rush of joy and new motivation to practice and to place first. Her parents were proud of their little daughter, who they believed was so talented at the piano.

However, as the years progressed, she began to lose incentive. Why did she devote hours each day to practicing the piano? She could not do it just to win—she had to love it. Piano is an art, and Yundi Li and Mozart played because they loved it, not because they like winning. She had to find that love or lose it all.

But, she could not find any love. She faltered. She still practiced her daily two hours, but her competitors were practicing three to four hours, and she did not have the motivation to devote such time and energy into the art. Practicing became a chore. However, she did not wish to quit, because where would those nine years of work go? All done for naught. She did not want to dissatisfy her parents, who had supported her from the start. She did not want to quit when she had come so 36

far. She was almost there—if she pushed herself just a little harder, she could go national. She did not want to regret, for what if when she was old and gray, she would look back with disappointment?

So she continued, but it took so much to trudge through practice. Each passing minute was filled with longing for the next to pass. She knew that she could not continue playing unless she found that passion. But she could not, because she had begun piano to win, not for love. At her next competition, she did not even place, but she did not care much. She knew it was time. She had to push away her fears of future regrets, of parental disappointments, and of quitting. She had to embrace the person she had become. She had to be brave.

So she quit.

I do not regret my decision made two years ago. Stepping away from my Yamaha has allowed me to explore other avenues of life, and to find passion in learning, tennis, and reading. It has enabled within me the courage and confidence to conquer new fears. When I see the piano sitting in my living room today, I do not see the uncertainties of the past, but the unexplored endeavors of the future.

Lately, I have begun to play the piano once again. It started as a curiosity but soon grew into a yearning to express myself through the simple black and white keys. This time, it is not for the blue ribbon—this time, it is for me.

37

Really Bad Poetry.

Poem by David Fischer She Soared through the air like a broken kite He reached out his arms, the way a Trex couldn’t In that time, he caught her.

They embraced as lovers like magnets on a refrigerator and her hair waved in the breeze like a stoplight on a windy day.

It was not the first time they had met, because they had met before, and it was not going to be the last time because they were already married It was clear what had happened.

He had fallen in love with a girl girl whose eyes shined like oil slicks.

And she loved him like a dog loves a stick.

Over the years they grew closer, like two sides of a scab and they even had as many kids as you might see get out of a van they were always in love As they grew old, they started to get slow like a car with a bad engine.

And they lived happily ever after, until one of them died.

The end.

38

The Immortals’ Curse Fiction by London, England May 8th, 1888 The crescent moon was hidden beneath a curtain of storm clouds heavy with rain, and appeared monstrous and threatening under the sudden flashes of lightning, as a sinister figure lurked among the shadows cascading across the city. He wore the traditional guise of a Victorian Englishman; a gray suit and pocket vest, a gold chain dangling from its outer pocket, the chain connected to an expensive silver watch, a black overcoat, and a black top hat, it’s brim hanging low over his eyes. In his hand, the man tightly gripped a sharpened butcher’s knife, cleverly concealed under the baggy sleeves of his stolen overcoat. He stood in an empty alley, pressing his body against a brick wall as to not be seen by any curious policemen wandering about.

He saw his prey appear, a young woman with dark hair pulled back beneath a dark blue, woolen shawl. She was walking carefully and cautiously, her head swinging back and forth as if she was suspicious of what was behind or in front of her. The predator grinned devilishly as the woman moved even closer to his position. He tightened his grip on the knife and waited for the right moment… He lunged forward as the woman walked past, his hand outstretched to wrap around her neck, the knife prepared to deliver its horrible deeds. Instead, the infamous serial killer known as Jack the Ripper found himself staring at the barrel of a polished Colt .45 pistol.

The woman was smiling knowingly at him as she whispered, “Hello, Lucius.

It’s been too long…”

He hissed savagely at her as he fell back, his top hat falling from the top of his head as he did so, revealing thick, black hair nearly purple in the night. His eyes glared at her like the devil’s; they were both a bloody red and a chaotic violet, swirling about like a whirlpool, shining with an inner malevolence that couldn’t be tamed, and were as hypnotizing as a siren’s song.

“Aurelia—“He started to say, but was stopped by the pistol now shoved in his face.

“Shut up so I can shoot you.” The young woman aimed, and pulled the trigger.

39

Britannia, Summer, 13 A.D She ignored the thorns biting into her skin as she pushed the flimsy bushes standing in her way aside. A torrent of rain plummeted down from the darkened skies, soaking her down to her skin. I have to get there, she thought. I have to beat him to the pool…

“Aurelia!” She heard him call from far behind her, somewhere hidden among the darkened trees. “Come back here, Aurelia!” She kept on running, knowing what would happen to her if she stopped. Suddenly, another voice called out from behind her, this one just as familiar as the one from before, but was kinder and strong; “Aurelia!!!” A sense of both defeat and misery overcame her in a wave that nearly sent her to her knees; however, she continued to move, only stumbling now to her destination.

“Phoebus…!” She gasped. “No…” “Return to me now, Aurelia, or your ‘beloved’ will die.” At that point, from what Aurelia could hear, a brawl had erupted, and the clangs of sword against sword echoed through her ears. Then, as suddenly as they had began, they stopped.

“Phoebus!!!” Aurelia screamed. She was nearly tempted to go back, to see if he was alive, but found herself running away, as if she had been possessed by some sort of demon. Then, from out of nowhere, the cold voice came back again, now laughing with sadistic delight; “He’s dead, Aurelia! I killed him!” His words were biting; Aurelia began sobbing hysterically, distraught with grief, as she continued her current speed, no longer caring whether or not her legs felt like stone. He’s dead, she thought numbly.

He’s dead…

Finally, Aurelia came upon a small clearing, in front of the cliff that stood as a landmark for both Saxons and Romans in their travels. A small waterfall cascaded from far above; the cliff was so high, that Aurelia could not see where the water came from. A small pool marked where the waterfall collided with the earth, the liquid restless from the bombardment of the raging tempest. She felt her knees buckle out from beneath her, both from grief and exhaustion, and collapsed to the ground, next to the pool. She knelt and gazed down at her reflection on the surface of the pool; she saw a young woman around twenty years old, with long dark hair, wet and matted against her face, luminescent caramel colored eyes that were red and swollen from crying, and a scratched slightly beaten face. Her clothing was torn, wet and muddy, and she had lost her sandals long ago.

40

“I beat him here,” she mumbled. ‘I won’t let him drink from it…” Her tone was rigid with a mix of emotions; anger, sadness, determination.

“Now why would you do that?” It was him; Lucius Marcellus, senator of Rome, and her husband. She shuddered at that, now befuddled by her reasons for marrying such a foul creature, and turned to face him, standing up weakly as she did so. Marcellus was dressed in his usual toga virilis, with the thick purple border, and, like Aurelia, was covered in mud and was soaked to the bone. His purple black hair was slicked back, one lock falling in front of his forehead, and his demonic eyes glimmered with pure evil. “Doesn’t the pool, after all, also belong to me since I am your husband?” He asked gleefully.

“No! This water does not belong to anyone, and I, like my mother and grandmother before me, guard it from people like you!” Aurelia hissed in fury.

“Like me, hmm?” Marcellus smiled evilly. “Yes, like me…”Aurelia did not see the small blade hidden underneath the folds of his toga; she did not even see him make his move. Before she knew it, Marcellus’s face was mere inches from her own as he plunged the blade deep into her side. Aurelia gasped sharply, but did not scream or reveal any other signs of pain. All she could do was give her husband a scathing look of pure hatred as she dropped to the ground like a stone, blood pouring from her mortal wound.

“I’ll kill you, Lucius,” she swore in gasping breaths, “I’ll make you pay for all of your crimes.” Marcellus stared down at her, his lips dripping with disdain as he snarled, “You are too late, my dear Aurelia, since the light is already starting to fade from your eyes.” The last thing that Aurelia saw before oblivion claimed her was of Lucius Marcellus bending down to the pool, a golden goblet somehow in his hand, from out of nowhere.

“M-May Jupiter c-curse you f-forever…” She managed to gasp out before she felt her mind begin to fade into eternal darkness.

Moscow, Russia January 10, 2013 Detective Mikhail Hapaev turned his eyes away from the ghastly crime scene, a disgusted look on his face. He quickly ducked underneath the yellow tape separating the press milling about the area from the horrendous murder, and walked towards his car. He gazed at his reflection in the mirror and sighed; he was fortyeight years old, and was still single. His graying brown hair was cut in a crew-cut style, a remnant of his days in the army, and had solemn hazel eyes that made him 41

seem older; he was six-foot-three, and had a firm build, though he was starting to show signs of age. He was wearing his usual plain business suit and loosely tied blue tie, and a pair of darkened sunglasses, which hide his eyes perfectly. As he started to open his car door, he suddenly heard an all-too familiar voice call out in a playful American accent, “Hey, Mike!” He turned his head and saw a recently familiar sight; a woman in her late thirties to early forties was walking towards him, an eager and expectant smile on her face. Her hair was a deep chocolate brown that showed no signs of graying, and was wavy and long down to her waist. She wore a plain black leather jacket, a dark purple blouse, a pair of dark gray slacks, and plain boots. “You got a moment?” She asked in a sort of demanding tone. Hapaev smirked, for he had expected her to show up at this crime scene; in fact, this woman was starting to become a regular part on his daily routine.

“Of course, Diana,” he said semi-reluctantly. “What do you want?”

“A full interview with the lead detective on the ‘Ragnarok Killer’ case; what else did you expect?” Diana Archer’s smile grew even wider as she came to a stop right in front of him; she was a journalist from the United States, as far as he could tell, working for CNN or Fox News, Hapaev couldn’t remember.

“Oh, really? I was thinking that you wanted to steal some evidence,” Hapaev remarked sarcastically.

“Oh, look who’s the funny man now…?” Diana’s smile disappeared, replaced with a serious expression, her gleaming caramel colored eyes full of concern.

“Listen, I’ve got something for you, but I don’t think that you’ll believe me.”

“What makes you say that?” Hapaev asked.

“Well, for one thing, all you and the police have is a busload of false leads which has probably contaminated your normal thinking.” Diana pointed out sternly.

Hapaev groaned and said reluctantly, “Fine, go right ahead.”

“Okay,” Diana bit her lip nervously, “I’ve heard word that a guy named Nikolai Solotov is behind the murders—“ “Wait, wait, wait,” interrupted Hapaev with no warning, “did you say Solotov? As in Nikolai Tovorich Solotov?” Diana nodded as if she had expected this reaction from him.

“Yeah, so?”

“Yes, so, he’s a billionaire,” exclaimed Hapaev as he slapped a head to his forehead in exasperation. “He has no reason to commit these murders that could send him to jail—“ 42

“Or the death penalty.”

“—or the death penalty, yes. “ Hapaev took a deep breath and said, “What kind of reason would he have?”

“From what I know, he’s supposed to be one sadistic son of a—“ “Yes, I’ve heard that. There’s word that he’s taking over the role of pakhan for a Russian mafia family, from what I hear.” Hapaev sighed. “But I need real, tangible evidence, Diana…” Then he saw Diana’s eyes and instantly felt some sort of regret for his words. Her eyes were shining with inner turmoil and a sadness that he had not seen before, as she placed her hands on her hips and stared at the ground, avoiding his eyesight, still biting her lip.

“What‘s the matter?” Hapaev asked in concern as he laid a comforting hand on her shoulder.

“Uh…” Diana mumbled; then she looked up at him, her face full of determination. “I have proof, but you’re going to think me crazy again, and I mean, really crazy. Meet me tonight at Solotov’s place outside the city, okay?” She then turned and walked away, heading towards her own silver Prius.

“All-right,” Hapaev called, confused beyond limit. As he turned the key in the lock, Hapaev couldn’t help but feel pure worry for Diana, as well as the feeling that he had met her somewhere before, but he couldn’t place the memory. ………………………………………………………………………………………. at night, Hapaev found himself sitting in the driver’s seat of his car, his hazel eyes buried in a copy of Time Magazine. Ironically, the man on the cover was the same man who owned the house in which he was parked outside of; Nikolai Tovorich Solotov, the founder and CEO of Sangreal Industries, a weapons and telecommunications developer formulated out of Moscow. Hapaev glanced to the glossy cover and grunted in astonishment; Solotov was in his early fifties or late forties, much like himself, and had purple black hair and was tanned a deep bronze that made him seem like he had a malignant type of skin cancer. Solotov was crossing his arms over his chest, a smug grin on his face, almost saying, “I’m better than you.”

Suddenly, Hapaev heard a light knocking on his car window; he looked to his left, and saw Diana Archer standing outside, in the freezing cold, wearing the same leather jacket from before. “Let me in! It’s sub-zero out here!” She called. Hapaev relented and unlocked the car doors; Diana instantly rushed to the other side and pulled open the car door and jumped in.

“Don’t you own a regular winter coat like everyone else?” Hapaev asked with a slight smile.

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“No; I’m just not used to this kind of weather where I’m from,” stammered Diana in reply. “So…should we go in?” Hapaev stared at her like she was crazy. He started to say; “You just got in here—“ “It only takes me a few seconds to get warmed up. And we’ll be inside…”

Diana tranquilly clarified.

“But what if he doesn’t let us in?”

“Oh, trust me. He’ll let us in.” Diana said cryptically. “He’ll have to.” Hapaev stared at her for a few seconds more, and then said, “Okay, let’s go. But if you’re wrong, you have to stay away from all the crime scenes afterwards.” Hapaev suddenly felt a pang of regret saying that, as if he would miss her if she left.

“Okay,” answered Diana, “it’s a deal.” She then opened her door, and slid out of the seat easily. “You’re coming, right?” She asked as Hapaev made no move to get out of the car. Hapaev grumbled something incoherently under his breath, and opened his car door.

Hapaev and Diana walked up the short and winding driveway, shaking against the bitter cold stinging their bodies. They stared obliquely at the mansion in which Solotov lived, which had once belonged to a late Russian mobster who had died under mysterious circumstances. As they reached the front door, a large door mostly made out of glass, it was Hapaev who rung the doorbell.

“Why did you do that?” Diana asked.

“So we can get inside,” grumbled Hapaev. The crystal clear door opened, and a heavy-set woman dressed in a maid’s uniform appeared, a serious and tired look on her face.

“What do you want?” She asked in Russian.

“We’re here to see your boss, Mr. Solotov,” responded Diana in a crisp and clear Russian accent. Hapaev stared at her for a few minutes, stunned by her apparent intimate knowledge of Russian, and shook his head in wonder.

“Do you have an appointment?” The maid retorted, with a strained face as if she knew something that they didn’t.

“Tell Nikolai that it’s an old friend from London.” Diana said as she pushed the maid aside and strode into the house with no warning. “He’ll want to see me…”

“Diana!” Hapaev yelled as he followed her inside. At the back of his mind, Hapaev noticed the lavish decoration on the walls featuring oil-based paintings that seemed almost familiar, several swords from all eras of history hanging from racks, and on one wall, a marble bust of Solotov himself. “Diana!”

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“Mikhail!” He heard her call from the next room, sounding horrified. Hapaev rushed to the nearest room, and was met by a gruesome sight; lying on the ground was a beautiful woman with honey blonde hair and lifeless gray eyes. Her throat had been violently slashed, and her chest was covered in her own blood. He knew instantly who she was; Tatiana Ivanova, Solotov’s new bride of six months. Diana stood in front of the body, her back to him, and she was staring vehemently at the murderer in question. Solotov stood on the other side of the body, his expensive, white Armani suit soaked in blood, his face twisted with unimaginable rage.

“YOU!!!” Solotov snarled violently at Diana. “How did you find me again?

How do you always find me?!” He cried in a shrill voice.

“I have the help of the gods, Lucius,” said Diana with a fiery gaze of anger, “unlike you, who only has their curse.” She stepped carefully around the body, avoiding the splashes and puddles of the dead woman’s blood.

“What the hell?” Hapaev, momentarily stunned by the violent scene, muttered loudly to the two living occupants of the room. “What are you talking about?” He asked Diana, confused and shocked that she knew Solotov.

“Remember what I said earlier?” She said in a soft voice. “About my proof being beyond crazy, hmm?”

“Uh-huh.” Hapaev nodded, still confused by both of their behaviors.

“Okay, here goes,” Diana took a deep breath and began; “My real name is Aurelia, and I was born over two thousand years ago, as was ‘Solotov’ over there. I am descended from a long line of guardians who protected the Fountain of Youth, in England; Solotov was once Lucius Marcellus, an ambitious Roman senator who only married me for my secret—“ “Excuse me—“Hapaev began.

“Wait until I’m finished.” Diana held up a hand for him to be quiet. “Anyway, I married him because I was young and naïve. I was also really fickle, and fell in love with a solider—“Her voice almost choked as she said “—named Phoebus. But, Lucius found out about him and had him killed because I wouldn’t tell him where the Fountain was… He also tried to kill me, at which he nearly succeeded, if not for…” She paused, certain that Hapaev had deemed her insane.

“Go on,” said Hapaev surprisingly, a bizarre look on his face, which seemed both peaceful and ecstatic.

“Anyway,” continued Diana with tears forming in her eyes, “I almost died if it wasn’t for the Moon Goddess, Artemis—“ “Ha-ha-ha!” Hapaev chuckled lightly. “That’s too funny…”

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“Yes, I know, Diana Archer; Diana, the Roman name for Artemis, and an archer, which was one of her skills…” Diana sighed in frustration. “Either way, Artemis was the patron goddess of the Fountain of Youth, and she granted me two thousand years with which I was to punish Lucius Marcellus for his crimes against humanity.” “’Crimes against humanity’?” Hapaev echoed.

“Yeah; he ended up as Jack the Ripper back in 1888,” Diana explained with absolute disdain in her voice as she glanced venomously to the still Solotov, who could only stare at her the same way. “I was so close back then. And he is the ‘Ragnarok Killer’ as well. The gods had already cursed him for his crimes when Artemis and I got involved; they cursed him for all infinity with demonic madness…” Her voice was cold and emotionless now. She turned back to Hapaev, a pleading look in her eye as he asked, slightly stunned, “What do you want me to do?”

“Let me kill him…” Her voice was full of emotion as she continued to plead, as Solotov stared around the room for an escape out of his current situation, aimlessly calling for the now missing maid. “I need to kill him…not just for me, but so all this death can stop… so Phoebus’s soul can finally be at peace…” Suddenly, both Hapaev and Diana heard a slight chuckle escape Solotov’s throat; they turned and found him laughing hysterically, maniacally, on his knees. His red-violet eyes were shining with his lunacy as he started to ramble, “You are a true fool, Aurelia; you always have been.” He stood up and said, “Tell me, did Artemis ever tell you that Phoebus had been sent to the Underworld?”

“No, I just assumed—“ “My dear, you assumed wrong; Phoebus was reincarnated. Time and time again, death and birth, his soul lived on, though with no memory of his past…”

Solotov grinned wickedly as he reached behind him, and pulled out a razor-sharp rapier once used by the Musketeers of 1700s France, pointing it at Hapaev and Diana. “I know where he is now, in his present state, if you want to see him…”

Diana’s eyes were wide with shock, though were now shining with hope. “WWhere? Tell me!” Solotov smiled again, this time with as much of his evil as he could muster…and pointed his rapier’s blade at Hapaev’s head.

A blade swinging towards his face…a evil laugh rumbling from behind him, or in front of him… Aurelia’s smile… Hapaev’s eyes widened as the full truth dawned on him; why Diana always seemed so familiar to him, why he always felt such hatred for Solotov himself in his youth… It all makes sense… he thought.

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“I’m…Phoebus...? Or he’s…me?” Hapaev wheezed from the pure shock of it all. “Well, now doesn’t that make such sense…heh-heh…?” He tried to make a joke to make him and Diana feel less awkward, but failed. Diana kept staring at him like he was some sort of mutant, or a ghost in this case.

“It can’t be…” Diana murmured in amazement.

“Actually, it does; the last time you saw me, I think I was like…twentysomething,” Hapaev said sheepishly, “and now I’m in my forties…”

“Excuse me,” interrupted Solotov as he waved the rapier in the air aimlessly.

“I’m sorry to be rude, but I would like to kill the both of you now.” Hapaev glanced to his gun, still in the holster on his belt and then back to Solotov.

“Personally,” Solotov was saying, “I think I’m going to kill Aurelia first, so I can finally get rid of this pest, and then I’m going to kill you, Detective Hapaev, or Phoebus, or whatever…” Diana lunged forward with such intensity and speed, that neither Hapaev, nor Solotov especially, saw it coming. In her hand, from out of nowhere, appeared the severely rusted blade that he had used to nearly kill her all those years ago, and it was aimed right at Solotov’s chest. The blade sunk into the mass murderer’s chest quickly, Diana still gripping its handle and a yell of triumph stuck in her throat, and the blood flowed out like a waterfall. Solotov, or Lucius Marcellus, said nothing as he finally died, his eyes glazing over in death quickly, as the knife had punctured his own heart. He dropped to the ground already dead, and there was silence.

Hapaev was the first to speak; “It’s over now…isn’t it?” Diana looked at him, and nodded, tears streaming down her face. Hapaev sighed and watchfully walked around the cold body of Tatiana Ivanova, and hugged Diana tight.

“So, what am I going to call you now?” He mumbled in her ear. “Aurelia or Diana?”

“Whatever you want…” Diana, or Aurelia, smiled softly.

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When a Storm Walks Poem by Cara Kirkpatrick Winner, Honorable Mention, 10th Grade High School Writing Contest

Summit Country Day She walks the way the sun rises and the night falls, Like what is going to happen was foretold to be, Because never could whole-hearted whispers or weather warnings, Still the gusts of winds beating at peasants’ huts and kings’ halls, She runs the way time slips through your fingertips, Calamitous, cunning, confined never to a single castle nor a single sky, Her rain slips through your defenses like sound through silence, Leaving you with a sodden soul and trembling lips, She leaves the way a dying wish does a fail-safe heartbeat, Lingering in the smeared mess of paint you call the sky, Sauntering among the wreckage of her playthings, of trees and homes, A survivor, they call you; you wait for the eye of the storm you long to meet

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Sumi e Ink Painting by Kim Williams 49

Flight Poem by Katie Donovan Your life begins much like a butterfly’s.

Young, green, and vulnerable.

Sitting quietly on your branch, Gazing out over open land and sky.

A place you wish to see.

All you’ve ever known was your tree.

Bark brown and rough.

It’s leaves shading you from any light.

All danger far away.

A life of curiosity often leads to exhaustion.

A need to simply curl up and fall to sleep.

Dream….

Dream of that ache to explore.

And your need to see.

You curl up silently in a chrysalis of hope and desire, Warm with the idea that you might one day visit, That world beyond your tree.

Time and thought.

Two weeks sleep.

It is then you break through your shell, Emerged as a new you.

There you sit on your branch.

Gazing out over open land and sky.

A cool October breeze, Dries, Your newly stretched wings.

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The tree you’ve always known, Shrinks slowly behind you.

The sunshine warms your black and amber wings.

Before you is the world.

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Nothing Poem by Andrea Elchynski Take the sun away from the moon and what do you have left?

The child without its mother is just a hopeless piece of life struggling to get by The artist without their paintbrush is merely a common man holding a feathered stick Without something we have nothing and with nothing what do we have?

Fearful rays advancing over the horizon the moon wishing the sun was there to chase it home Fall without winter would be like spring without summer and if there was no summer to follow spring then there would be no warmth to follow cold If we were never cold then the warm chills couldn’t spring down our spines easing away the pain that nothing has created

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The Girl That Could, and Did Essay by Nausheen Siddiqui Winner, Honorable Mention, 10th Grade High School Writing Contest

Walnut Hills High School On the stove, the pot of water has come to a boil, the steam rising as if relieving the water of stress. I add the bag of Penne Rigate to the pot and give a stir.

There, I think, that’s the main course. And now for dessert. I pick up my mother’s recipe book, the one she brought with her from India, the cover worn down so thin it must have been taped together at least five times. I refuse to replace it though. It is filled with too many memories. The mere thought of parting with it fills me with fear and dread, and I clutch the book tighter. I turn to the dessert section, excitement creeping into me with every page I turn. So many possibilities. How could I make just one decision? Then my eyes fall on a page and I immediately know what dessert will be. Gulab jamuns, sweet Indian “rose dumplings”. I savor every step of making these treasured dumplings, all the way to the finish, when I can behold the delicious sight: the jamuns fried to a beautiful, deep brown, and soaked in hot sugar syrup.

I love cooking. It is my passion, my hobby, my life. I cook because it frees me from the stress of school and life. It prompts me to take risks and challenge myself, both with the ingredients of my kitchen and everyday life. I love that it allows me to be an artist and express myself without having to be a seasoned painter.

For me cooking is an expression of love and it connects me with the past and the future. Before starting a dish, I run my fingers over the pages crusted with hundreds of fingerprints, remembering all the generations of culinarians before me, making the sweet dumplings using the same recipe. A successful meal gives me the joy of watching my friends and family at the dinner table enjoying my creations, with their mouths too full to say anything except “Mmmm…” And most importantly, it expresses me, the girl born in America, wanting to “blend in”, yet unwilling to relinquish her rich Indian background and culture.

When I moved from India to America around six years ago, I was confused and worried. Everything was different: the food, the clothes, and the people. I thought incessantly about school with horrible feelings in my guts. Would I make friends? Would the kids like me? Would they accept me for myself, with my differences and my especially thick accent? I became almost ashamed of my Indian heritage, and would use every opportunity to separate myself from that seemingly 53

hateful shadow. The gulab jamuns and the spaghetti had been thrown into the midst of my inner conflict, unable to come together for even a split second.

Then I stumbled upon the culinary arts. The moment I picked up my mother’s recipe book, my anxiety of being different peeled off like the layers of a delicate pastry.

That fear, from that time on, had been replaced by pride, the pride that comes with an understanding, a realization. That realization led me to create, to please others, and to enjoy myself.

I had been transformed from a naĂŻve child to a complex teenager, backed by the two dominant cultures in my life: Indian and American. The recipe book helped teach me to cook, to dream, to create, to give, to receive. I cook because it is my passion. I cook because I am alive, and I know that by being alive, I have accepted my birthrights and united the Penne Rigate and the gulab jamuns once and for all.

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Galaxy Breath Poem by Jacqueline Tackett My professor said that sometimes The most intimate moment you can Have with a lover is to lay and listen To each other breathe.

And I think she was right‌ Tonight we will lay in the nebulous bed With the television orbiting around Our minds The soft banter in the starry show But then there will be a slight pause A black hole.

A meteor that will erase everything around us.

Except the very oxygen you expel From your lung (breath) You still have your Saturn arm Wrapped around me But as you doze off into the sky I lay.

Completely bathing in the shower of Heart beat palpitation and heavy Breaths.

Each one sends a hole, a crevice in My being But never ceases to go near my soul, My World.

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Blink Fiction by Cara Kirkpatrick Winner, Honorable Mention, 10th Grade High School Writing Contest

Summit Country Day He was wearing a red tie, the color of spilled blood.

Perhaps it was the color that first drew my eye; it was loud--no. It was obnoxious, bright, intoxicating; something straight from the looking glass, clear in the words of Peter Pan, a twisted miracle of some childhood fairytale I’d forgotten.

The crimson of a flag, of a stop sign, the most irritatingly there color in the entire rainbow, screaming LOOK AT ME; I looked and now I wish I hadn’t. It was the red of all those failing marks I’d received on my papers all through middle school, when I had to explain to my family in a tone as light as fallen snow why I wasn’t doing as well as I "should be". Anger and Coke and fondly remembered book covers combined in a sparkling display of everything relevant and irrelevant simultaneously.

If it was the red that first captured me, it was everything else that made me unable to leave.

I watch him with wearied oceans of eyes that speak of the disorientation in my soul. He looks normal enough, I suppose. His strands of sun-streaked sandy blonde reminiscent of a beach painting that has been messily torn up into a million spiked pieces is eerily nostalgic, as if I want to run that same hair through my fingers with a gentleness unknown to all but a book’s page. The eyes of a startling black are as unreadable to the depths—that's something I expected too, for some undecipherable reason. I study every curve, every plane of his face. The notch in his nose, from where it’s obviously been broken, is as familiar to me as his skin color, the crinkle in his brow when he's thinking, even the way he smiles. That smile, the one that never seems to make it fully to his mouth but stays hidden in his black holes of eyes, keeping me trapped in his gaze. I'd do anything to see that smile again, but I’ve never seen it in the first place.

I incessantly remind myself that I’ve never see this man before as I stalk him over my cup of coffee and well-thumbed book; but it doesn’t stick, an alibi that doesn’t quite match the circumstances. Which brings me back to my unwanted realization: there is something not exactly real about him anymore. No, not just him. About everything; which makes no sense.

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The walls of the coffee shop are as mundane as I’m used to, every open space splashed with the iridescent murals of hopeful artists looking for work, the desperation unseen in the curving lines of dancing figures; nearly-starving bodies with hands that paint such beautiful lies. Lies of open grass fields that bloom under a starry sky of sunsets and dusk-fall; lies that lurk in the unassuming water of a pond, trailing up to the fisherman just waiting for a catch. I barely shift in my comfortable window seat as my eyes drift from the walls to the wrought-iron chairs and tables; the air filled with the rising convection current of chatter and wisps of steam, all illumined into life by the people sitting around those same tables. They can’t all be defined as just ‘people’; they’re all different as midmorning and noonwhen-the- clock-strikes-twelve and midafternoon and evening and midnight-whenthe-clock-rings-again. Blonde, brunette, red-head, even violently-dyed spikes; their faces all blurred into a featureless circumference with a smile as wide as the Cheshire Cat’s. Something is off, like a piece of bread gone just too stale, a drink of water that's been sitting in a plastic bottle for just too long in the sun. Something is wrong and I don't know what it is.

All of a sudden, I’m standing in the rain, in air that breathes of storm, inhales thunder, exhales lightning; little flickers of not-far-off-light that don’t seem to make it to my retinas in time to leave an afterimage. There’s no transition. One second, I was sitting at my favorite coffee shop, watching a man I was sure I’d seen before and sipping a cappuccino made exactly the way I like it. A blink—simple as that and I’m not there anymore. As the noiseless intruders—tears falling from God’s face, from the eyes of Alpha Centari, from the Big Dipper and his consorts—sneak into the damp of my clothes, I wonder what precisely I was doing in that coffee shop in the first place.

It’s my favorite, is the forthcoming excuse, formulating before the jagged lightning that forks the sky can flash—I don’t believe it, even if it was my own mind that came up with the answer. A girl is allowed a little R&R time, right? I hesitantly agree with myself, as if afraid of the consequences of remaining recalcitrant. Therefore, why not spend that time at your favorite café? Reading your favorite book? I can’t find any way to dispute that, because some logical part of me says that’s what a normal person would do if they had any time off... I decide to just drop the topic; not only is the fact that I’m arguing (and losing) with myself causing shivers to dance on my spine, but it’s also starting to make my head hurt, clear foreshadowing of a migraine to come.

Then, it comes to me, as things do—standing in the rain, mine the stance of a warrior queen; legs shoulder width apart as I study the skies that look so much like 57

my own eyes, albeit for the silvery shimmers of stars as lost in the universe as I am in my own mind. When I move (I don’t), the soft rustling of clothes breaks the silence in a way that seems unholy, a forbidden step into the sacred ruins of sound.

As fashionable and desirable as I know my clothes are, drenched flat to the slight curves of my body by this downpour unannounced, there’s scratchiness to their texture that irritates me, rubs my skin the wrong way, and I know there’s something off-putting about that, something odd as the coffee shop had been. I idly speculate what coffee shop I’m thinking about; I haven’t been to a decent coffee shop in ages—right? (My mind quickly echoes right but I don’t believe it). My slick chestnut hair drapes the back of my neck like a scarf and bangs brush across my vision as I consult the stormy sky for answers. It doesn’t give any but the resounding flash and tumble of lightning frolicking with thunder; a dance of the other gods, perhaps the ones from Greek and Roman mythology, or maybe the spiteful Norse. However, there’s no secret messages written in the constellations, no deep rumbling baritone to give the important information like candy on Halloween, and this disappoints me beyond belief, beyond logical reasoning. What even was I expecting? Some sort of miracle? No such luck for me.

I stand there until the deep gray of the sky has chilled into Cool-Whip, little spurts of clouds that hide the overbearing eye of the sun as if its fiery iris could tell me something I don’t already know and they are merely hiding it—devious, fluffy spies. The rain has long since dissolved into a creeping wetness on the slick of my skin, as if trying to match the tears that have long since stopped. Nothing has been decided, nothing has been discovered. My mind keeps running in circles, wide dizzy loops, swirling like water gradually draining down the sharp spiral of the whirlpool of sanity—I’m beyond sure that I’m losing it, though I don’t know what exactly I had in the first place.

I never finish that thought. I never fully realize what I was sure would be the pinnacle of my disillusioned existence. I shall never understand a something so important it stole my breath away with the indecency of a thief. As a last wish, my desire to figure out exact why it was so important before it all faded away was pretty pathetic; not quite a B+, but at least better than failure. I was but a flash in the pan, a spark to be lit and blew out, only seconds in the living; but yet, despite my smallness, despite my irrelevance, I was. I was and then I was gone; there was no accompanying rattle of thunder or secret-gathering rainfall, just a shock of zipping azure sparks and then a flash.

I didn't think it would be so hard and easy at the same time, like a shiver of white-hot cold fire and the silent sound of my screaming nerves grating in my brain.

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I didn't think it would be hard to keep my breath, air knocked out in a gasping huff.

I didn't think that I would be alone.

I’m dead and I find that it’s easier than breathing. Watching a slumped figure on the ground that I know is myself, no emotions cross the features that no longer move. I see the tears shining on the pale cheeks of a blond-haired man, eerily familiar like the back of my now-graying hand; hear the apologies murmured from shell-shocked lips. I observe from above, exactly twelve feet like the depth of a grave, as he with his hair like a lightning bolt of static electricity lays a single rose next to my body and walks away. Dark clouds of grievous regret swirl around him like obsidian of his eyes, and I can feel the lightning strikes like the bystanders can feel the prick of goose bumps on their arms. I know his apology; know his fear of lost control; know the isolation of one afraid to connect with another because of the probability of harm. But I’m too dead to say that I understand, to say that I’m sorry for an undefinable something that I did.

Blink.

I’m so sorry, I didn’t mean to; I stammer with my heart pounding on the sandpaper of my tongue.

It’s fine, it’s fine; his assurances are as empty as the condolences he offers, served on a plastic smile as if it were a celestial silver tray. I was practically begging to be run into, wasn’t I? Any witty response I could have supplied is stuck in my throat. I’m choking, I’m choking and nobody notices even though I’m surrounded by people. This bleak crowded street is thronged with them, a tangled mess of multifarious limbs but they seem to surge around me, form a clear space where I’d ran—I don’t remember what I was running from aside from hearing thunder—straight into a dangerously beautiful man. His beauty is his danger, as the sick fires of his eyes are twisted as shadows and the floppy cut of his sandy hair outlines them in ways that takes away my will to breathe. Where have I seen him before? I’m sure I have.

A little curved smile flips my heart at the same time as it warms his features.

Hey do I know you from somewhere? When I find the courage to shake my head a little, struck dumb despite the voice I know I can use, he just chuckles. That’s a shame. Want to get a drink sometime?

Blink.

I’m thirsty; that’s the first thing to come to my mind and the first to leave. It’s overshadowed by an overriding claustrophobia, soon followed by paranoia. Whyam-I-here-where-is-here-what-is-going-on-why-is-everything-so-deathly-silent?

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None of those questions are followed by answers, so I lift my heavy head—it’s getting more difficult to do so, like the way my eyes won’t focus completely and the utter blank of the walls begins to blur together. Not his face though. It remains clear, as if the camera I’m gazing through is dirty except for when it’s on him. His head is bowed like he’s asking for forgiveness, and strands of grey-streaked blond hide his eyes and his features, although I don’t need to see them to have them memorized. To my surprise, one of his hands is entwined with mine, pale and tan skin contrasting nostalgically as his veins bulge in that way only old people’s hands do. I’m even more surprised when he looks up, obsidian meeting the robin’s-eggblue of my own, and notice that the crinkles around his cheekbones are pronounced, the dark streaks under his eyes like bruises refusing to heal. I don’t have time to wonder why before he lifts my hand—it’s nowhere near as frail and weakened by the years as his own; as if I never aged past twenty—and plants a soft, chaste goodbye kiss on my skin.

Blink.

I see him die too many times to count; age, suicide, lightning strike, drowning, gunshot, all the reasons fading into a stark isolation I don’t want to penetrate. I don't know exactly how it's going to end, but it always does. Sometimes before I vanish; sometimes after while I’m forced to watch.

Every time that kills me a little inside in the place where I thought a heart once beat—I’m too numb to care; apathy is my empathy, my only way of survival and I don't know when that started to be the only attainable endpoint. Surely there's something out there, a great glorious something, undefined like the dotted lines of a traced drawing. It's just a something, and it overshadows just surviving in a way I’m not sure still exists. It has a name, but I've forgotten.

Ah, the glories of amnesia, of memory loss so severe it hasn't become a mental illness, but rather a mental equilibrium, a scale of justice torn to pieces and the jury in flames on the side. I've forgotten how to forget, and how to remember.

How to pretend, and how to be genuine, bitterly, honestly truthful--like somebody had seared my throat with the soap composed from the thousands of lies I've told before. How to care, and how to not care; it all blurs together, countless tears to form an ocean.

I lie; that in itself is true. I do care even as much as I pretend I don't. It's become a game to me, even if was a game beforehand. It's a trick, sleight-of-hand but I’m no magician and I would wonder why nobody has noticed but there’s nobody around to notice; he’s gone, he’s always gone. It's hidden, layered, locked 60

behind an impassible glass gate and there's no key because I ate it. A little kid once more, pantomiming silence and swallowing--whole¬--the key to my vocal cords.

The see-through cage cannot be opened, and my heart lurks in the mime's invisible box.

That's okay. It is, honestly, though I've never lied about this and there's nobody around to doubt. It is a sunny day for a picnic with no rain--okay because it has to be okay. And it is 'okay', because there's nothing I could say that would alleviate the pain at all.

Every time I try my hardest. It's never enough. What is this, that the skin on my back be flayed over and over, the tips of my fingers rubbed raw, the lights in my eyes gleaming with a maniacal desperation--but it never quite meets the mark?

There is no complaint department, but I'd like to tell anyway--somebody, anybody, I don't care. Just so long as somebody knows that I’m doing all I can; grasping the edge with cramping muscles but refusing to let go.

Something is twisted in the way that it all seems focused on me—I’m not narcissistic, but paranoia insists that the target is me nevertheless. Bull's-eye after bull's-eye after bull's eye like time is a master archer with anger management to boot. Yes, something is wrong here but I don’t know what, aside from that I wish it would all just stop. I’m sick of it, but it isn’t a disease. I don’t consider these unruly time shenanigans a gift but rather a curse. When can I stop seeing the only person I love die and start living the lives of which I only see fragments? There’s nobody around to answer that either, and I doubt there ever will be.

Being a god is so lonely when you’re the only one; I blink away the tears.

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Artwork by Emily Berning 62

Earth Only Knows to Forgive Poem by Megan Moore Winner, Sister Helen Prejean Writing Contest College of Mount St. Joseph I have heard, in thick black words, Your generation has only generated: Hopelessness.

I took it to heart.

And that word has set in my stomach for six years. it is a heavy word to carry and a hard one to lose.

It was a sunny day when I laid the word down. in the woods behind my grandmother’s house with a small cousin who started to cry when a deer, thick and strong, fast and light, breezed by, he whispered to me with watery eyes When we were hunting Dad shot the momma He went over to get her And I saw the baby running And I, and I, I didn’t say nothing.

You didn’t want the baby die.

I want them all to live and it’s silly Cause I know it won’t come true I really, really hope they get to.

We walked from the woods, hand in hand, leaving hopelessness behind.

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I can imagine it after days have covered it in leaves, months submerged the tail end in mud, made beautiful by time and her second chances, new beginnings, forgiveness, the way seeds bury and the way rain dances, I can imagine hope now blossomed in pinks and greens, italic and cursive, no longer bold, no longer black.

I have to imagine, because I’ve never looked back.

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Just for You Song by Noelle Rotte Winner, Sister Helen Prejean Writing Contest, McAuley High School As I sit down to drink coffee this morning I start to think back to all the things I have seen Contemplating all my lifetime decisions Is this the right time to say deep things?

My compassion is strong My forgiveness is weak I am sorry for hurting You mean a lot to me As I lay down with the darkness surrounding me I star to cry from all the terrors I’ve seen My worst nightmares come alive in my sleep Is this the right time to say deep things?

This is the right time to say deep things.

My compassion is strong My forgiveness is weak I am sorry for hurting You mean a lot to me My compassion is strong My forgiveness is weak I am sorry for hurting You mean a lot to me

See Noelle perform her song on YouTube by following the link below: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=abG_x9wCm9U&feature=youtu.be 65

The Best Part of Life Poem by Catherine Evers Smith Winner, Honorable Mention, 10th Grade High School Writing Contest

Mount Notre Dame The best part of life is laying in the sun filled room with my brother, laughing The best part of life is singing with my brother so dreadfully that they moved us to the farthest room, away from all the other people The worst part of life is being told the best parts are going to end The worst part of life is having to be strong for the person you love most It’s smiling and laughing when you want so badly to cry, but you can't It’s the doctors coming into the hospital room in the middle of our optimism Smashing our thin layer of hope with six small words Six small words that made my 19 year old brother cry Six small words that shattered my whole world Six small words that changed everything Those six small words were He only has 6 more months Suddenly the sunshine in the room wasn’t comforting It didn’t make me want to burst out singing Instead it blinded me The music didn’t give me hope that everything would get better Instead it made my head pound I felt as if I were in a tornado Being thrown Side to side Up and down But suddenly everything stopped I felt his arm around my shoulders Pulling me towards him Whispering that it’s going to be okay I knew it was a lie but it was a lie I wanted so badly to believe So I let him fill my heart with lies

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Knowing sometimes the lies are easier to believe than the truth But also knowing that at some point we all have to face the truth It doesn’t matter if we deny the truth for an hour or a hundred years At some point the truth hits us And when it hits us it doesn’t just bump us It hits us hard It comes in like a sucker punch thrown by the biggest kid on the playground It knocks the wind straight out of us It gets past our body guards It finds us, seeing through our camouflage Because our lies can only hide us for so long For me the truth came sixth moths after the day the lies began The day when I became an orphan When my best friend, my superhero The only person I had left was taken from me When my older brother died When my legal guardian became my guardian angel When all I had left of the best days of my life were memories When all I had left of my life’s anchor was a single letter A letter I didn’t open for 2 long years Because opening the letter would’ve made it final Somehow it would’ve made it more real than moving in with the foster family More real than seeing the casket That letter was the only thing I had left to try and deny that everything was different That I wasn’t just going to wake up and realize it was all just a nightmare So I denied it I denied it with all my heart While the rest of the world moved on Until one day, two years later I finally read it I read the words slowly at first, savoring each one Then speeding through them Making sure not to let a single tear fall on the precious sheet of lined white paper The paper that held my brother’s memories in dark blue ink

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My entire life, I’ve treasured that letter Hanging on to it, vowing never to let it go All of it is memorable but the one line that sticks with me at all times Written into my heart like words carved onto stone “Sis, remember the best part of life is living enough to have memories�

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Fig Tree Dreams Poem by Jacqueline Tackett As each year comes to an end, Sylvia’s fig tree become more true And true.

More obscure and less than those Seen.

There are dreams of mine that have Not yet even begun to bloom or grow And then there are ones that are Constantly stepped on by the Bustling working and non-stop Society.

Some are still falling.

Sometimes I just sit there staring at It. Hoping I will catch one.

Hoping I wont be too late before I Hear that final Crack Hit the hard, surfacing dead dry Grass.

Maybe I’ll catch it and this lifeless Façade will come to a perfect hue Again.

A perfect fade.

For an imperfect gray.

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Trailblazer Poem by Chase Stevens We were born in the tall grass just beyond the line of trees: behind the boundary of the forest A man met us there.

The man, ever singular, ordered us gently to follow, to show his children the life in the trees.

He showed us the hues of the wild, greens as well as browns.

Beauties became increasingly ugly, and soon graduated to unbearable sights while we continued on our tour.

I took my eyes off of the fruits of this trail and focused on him, realizing it was the first time I’d ever done so.

His skin was burned beige and cracked with a pepper seasoning of sores and scratches

from head to toe. I told myself he’d had no tour himself.

A trailblazer. None were left. The tours, monotony, and structure as affirmation.

The others soon became blind, blisters on their pupils How could this teacher blister his pupils?

As the last seer, I took the first step off the path, feeling the sticky sap of blood lick my calf as I realized I’d been cut.

As I ran, propelled by the shouts from behind me I cherished every form of battery as I blazed the new trail.

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Handkerchief Quilt by Julia Inskeep

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Clouds in the Mind Don’t Spread to the Soul Fiction by Carolyn Rosella Kesterman Winner, Sister Helen Prejean Writing Contest Mother of Mercy High School Eleanor woke to the sound of birds outside her window, and the sound made her happy. She rose to begin her day, her subconscious simply knowing that she was supposed to. She opened her closet doors with the intention of putting on something blue, but she left her room without a memory of such a decision, wearing pink instead.

Outside of her room, her friends went back and forth in the hall. Some of them moved with the aid of wheelchairs, walkers, or nurses, but Eleanor walked without aid. She had taken it upon herself, as one of the few who walked, to take care of her friends; so she smiled brightly to each and asked them how their days were faring.

What she received in return were smiles, the occasional shy silence, or long tales which sometimes made little sense but were wonderful to her. Helping people gave her happiness. She had been doing it all her life, and she wasn’t about to stop now.

Eleanor made her way to a sunny sitting room where an odd-looking children’s cartoon was playing on a large television. Eleanor paid little attention to it, preferring the reality taking place outside for entertainment. She looked out the window, trying to see what was beyond the visible hills. After two minutes, though, she had forgotten her curiosity and was instead paying attention to some new faces coming in the room.

The owners of the two new faces came in and sat with one of Eleanor’s friends. Eleanor watched them, studying the new faces as a painter does – old habits never go away. The strangers seemed to be a mother and a daughter, thought Eleanor.

The mother waved to Eleanor’s friend. “Hi, Aunt Ruthie,” she said in a way that made Eleanor wonder why a person would use such a tone with their elder.

Ruthie laughed softly and rearranged the doll on her lap. “Hello,” she giggled softly.

“It’s Sarah. Do you remember? Sarah?” the woman asked loudly and impatiently.

Ruthie did not speak. She did not show any recognition in her eyes. She did not take her niece’s hand.

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Sarah heaved a loud and juvenile sigh, looking away. She looked to her daughter and whispered something. All that Eleanor could hear were the words “pointless,” “leave soon,” and “Alzheimer’s.”

After five more minutes, Sarah loudly announced her exit and took her leave with her daughter.

With confusion in her eyes, Eleanor watched the strangers leave. She was baffled as to what Ruthie had done to displease them. Eleanor had always found Ruthie to be a most pleasant individual, with a kindness that didn’t need to be spoken to be heard. Hadn’t they seen the love in her eyes?

Though Eleanor quickly forgot the precise details that had occurred, she carried that feeling of hurt with her for the next hour. The nurses that came and went from the room noticed Eleanor’s distraught look as she looked out at the sunny green hillsides, and they became worried. Eleanor could always be counted on to brighten their days. They brought her colored pencils and paper, trying to coax her to draw and be happy again. She quietly and politely refused all the offers.

Three of the nurses had huddled together just outside of the room to devise a new plan to make her happy, when their prayers were answered. A familiar face stepped out of the elevator and, with the same selfless brightness that her grandmother usually had, smiled to the nurses and walked into the room where she expected Eleanor to be.

“Hi, grandma! You’re looking beautiful today!” the young woman said gently but enthusiastically as she sat down next to Eleanor.

“Oh, hi!” Eleanor said, looking at the woman with a faraway recognition.

“I bet you didn’t expect to get a visit from your granddaughter Rose today, huh?” she teased, subtly letting her grandmother know who she was.

“No, no I didn’t!” Eleanor laughed, and she patted Rose’s arm. “How’ve you been?”

“I’m good. How about you?”

“Oh, you know. SOS; same old stuff!” Eleanor said, laughing. “What have you been up to?”

Rose told her grandmother short stories about things going on in her life. To Eleanor, they were better than any book she had ever read.

Several minutes later, Eleanor patted Rose’s arm again.

“It’s good to see you!” she said. “How’ve you been?”

As though the question had never been asked, Rose happily told her stories of her life, and their morning continued nicely.

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After about an hour of talking, it was time for lunch, and Rose helped Eleanor up and into the dining room. As they passed Ruthie, Eleanor’s jumbled mind remembered a shred of the memory of the impatient visitors. She looked at her own visitor and smiled.

“This has just… This has really made my day, seeing you,” she said, “Thank you.”

With a smile that betrayed a heart full of immense joy, Rose put her arms around her grandmother, hugging her. ..............................................

Sometimes, Rose thought, the human heart does not need much to go on.

Sometimes a little compassion is all that is needed to make one remember that they are a beautiful miracle from God. What really touched her, though, was the fact that the one person who really needed these things reminded to her was also the one compassionate enough to make the rest of the world remember it. She smiled. If only more people could see, she thought, that clouds in the mind don’t spread to the soul.

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I am Poem by Sidney Trasser I am from the dirt under my nails The places I’ve been And those I have yet to travel I am from my hands The things they’ve created My life canvas And the roads of wisdom that crease them An old soul Oki Niksokowa I am from my ancestors Their howling voices carried by the wind The stories that have out lived them I am from the people I have lost Here then gone Remembered and forgotten Sifting through my fingers like sand in the wind I am from my sister Lost and then found Rare like a four leaf clover I am from my friends A family Warm and embracing like the summer sun

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Lower East Coast History Textbook, Copyright 2087 Fiction by Grace Burkhart Winner, Honorable Mention, 10th Grade High School Writing Contest

Oldenburg Academy Unit 8, Chapter 21: The Technological Era, Section 2: End of the Technological Era (2015-2035) In the previous section, the beginning of the Technological Era was discussed. This section will cover the middle and end of the era.

Beginning in the 2000s, the Technological Era was a time of growth for the United States. People now had the technology needed to make great advances in medicine and science. News spread like wildfire thanks to smartphones, which are telephones that allowed people to call, instant message, listen to music, or access the internet. Almost all of America used social networking sites. These sites enabled people share their lives with other people around the country.

In February of 2017, a group called G3N3RAT10N T3CH hacked into numerous social networking sites. G3N3RAT10N T3CH was able to access personal information from millions of Americans. They used this information to deplete bank accounts, steal security codes, and instill fear into the American population. As a result of this, social networking plummeted. The G3N3RAT10N T3CH social networking breach was a significant event because it was the first time technological warfare had been used against the American public. After G3N3RAT10N T3CH, many other small hacking groups began to appear in the United States. These small groups were disbanded before they could do any real damage; however, technological warfare was now beginning to replace nuclear warfare around the world.

Besides the technological warfare, the United States had other problems. The national debt was so high that it could not be counted. Conflicts had begun to arise between two government parties. New medical advances raised the average lifespan of an American citizen from 75 years to 85 years; therefore, the cities were becoming overcrowded. Because of the economic downturns of many countries, the immigration rate was at an all time high. Teen pregnancy was also a growing issue.

Over one third of all teenage girls (13-19 years of age) in the US had had a child.

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These problems would continue to wreak havoc on the nation for several years to come.

Elected January third, 2021, Democrat Eliza Gregory became the first female president of the United States. President Gregory made many reforms concerning the population of the United States. She led Congress to enact the Population Acts, a series of laws that helped to reduce the rate of growth of the United States. The Population Acts prohibited immigration into the United States. Also, it required every girl between the ages of thirteen and nineteen to take birth control pills. This act drastically decreased teenage pregnancies. Another act in the Population Acts was the nation-wide legalization of same-sex marriages. The Population Acts caused much uproar. Many people were appalled that President Gregory would take such extreme measures to reduce the population size. Protests were held in Washington D.C., the capital of the United States. Many Democrats (see section 1 for definition) sided with President Gregory. They believed these were the right measures to take. Republicans, however, believed that it was wrong to force a child to take birth control pills. These two parties fought against each other on the issue for several months. Eventually, the dispute was settled. The Population Acts would remain in place, but teenage girls could decide whether or not they wanted to take the birth control pills.

A period of relative peace followed President Gregory's term. During this period of peace, many objects and technologies were invented that are still used today. Numerous advancements were made in the field of medicine. In 2026, Adam Jones made an artificial heart that could be manufactured and mass produced. This allowed heart transplants to be available to everyone, and the risk of dying from heart failure decreased dramatically. Claire Clemons revolutionized the way doctors operated in surgery. She created robots that could perform certain types of surgeries without the help of humans. These robots eliminated the margin of human error when undergoing surgery.

With all the political arguments, the end of this period of peace was imminent.

In 2031, a second American civil war broke out. This civil war, however, was much different from the first civil war. The first civil was fought with guns, blood, and sweat; the second civil war was fought with brain power, computers, and holograms. This war was called The Tetrad Civil War. Tetrad means a group of four, and the second civil war split the once United States of America into four territories. Two of the groups fighting in the war were the Democrats and the Republicans. These two political parties had been quarreling with each other since they were established. The Republicans and Democrats were the two largest groups.

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The last two groups were the Outcasts and the Constitutionalists. Outcasts were people who did not belong to either of the political parties. This group consisted mostly of young adults who wanted to insert chaos into the organized Republicans and Democrats. The Outcasts became notorious for their skill in hacking and violent nature. Constitutionalists fought for the United States' constitution to remain in place. They did not want the country to split into four different territories.

The Tetrad Civil War began on December 21, 2031 when a group of Democrats wrecked a Republican broadcast. The Democrats employed a group of young highly skilled hackers to disrupt the broadcast. By hacking into the computer that controlled the digital presentation, the Democrats were able to change the presentation. The Democrats made it seem like the Republicans were in favor of the original Population Acts. The Republicans were outraged because their amount of followers greatly declined after the broadcast. The American public did not know the Democrats sabotaged the broadcast. Several months later, the Democrats hosted a banquet in honor of the legalization of methamphetamine as a medicinal drug.

The Republicans, however, decided to take revenge. They formed their own talented hacking group that meddled with the guest list of the banquet. The end result was a Democratic banquet filled with Republicans.

From those events, conflicts between the two groups blossomed. Unlike past wars, the Tetrad Civil War was fought with holograms; therefore, there were no actual human casualties. There were, however, over 1.5 million hologram casualties. Americans were the first to introduce the concept of hologram fighting.

The Outcasts perfected the holograms that could be controlled and projected from a common laptop. They were able to make holograms so lifelike that they were confused with humans. Also, the holograms had the capability to move and talk.

Eventually, the other parties discovered the technology the Outcasts developed, and they acquired it for themselves. The first battle in the Tetrad Civil War and the first battle to ever use holograms in the place of humans was the Battle of Zone X. The Democrats had set up a headquarters in San Francisco, West Coast, while the Republicans gathered in the city of Dallas, Middle States. Several Democrats with holographic technology were traveling to Dallas on a high speed jet. Their mission was to spy on one of the Republican's offices to gain insight into their battle plans.

The Democrats would use the holographic technology to project holograms of well known Republican officials into the office. That way they could steal information without the fear of being caught. However, things did not go according to plan. One of the holograms happened to glitch while it was in a room full of Republican computer hackers. The hackers immediately tried to disable the hologram by hitting 78

it across the head with a laptop. This did nothing; the laptop passed right through the hologram. Then one hacker decided to fight the alien hologram with a hologram of his own. The two holograms dueled with holographic swords. Eventually, the Republican hologram was victorious. By that time, the whole Republican office building had turned into a holographic war zone.

After the Battle of Zone X, many small battles broke out across the country.

The only group not participating in the holographic warfare was the Constitutionalists. They believed in non-violence and human-filled protests. The next major battle in the civil war occurred at one of those protests. The Constitutionalists were marching in Washington D.C., East Coast. They were protesting the abolishment of a nationwide president. While the Constitutionalists were marching the streets, the Outcasts hacked into the Constitutionalists' computers. With the computers, the Outcasts were able to send holograms into Dallas and San Francisco. Because the holograms originated from Constitutionalist computers, the Republicans and Democrats thought the holograms were being controlled by Constitutionalists, not Outcasts. The Outcasts used the Constitutionalist holograms to start violent riots in the two cities. For days, the Republicans and Democrats fought against the Outcast-controlled Constitutionalist holograms. Although no group won this battle, the Outcasts were able to accomplish their goal: showcase their power to the other three groups.

Between 2032 and 2034, several battles occurred that determined the outcome of the war. The Battle of the Grand Canyon in May of 2032 resulted in more civil holographic fighting. Skilled computer specialists sat on either side of a canyon.

Democrats sat on one side; Republicans sat on the other. In the middle of the canyon, a barren plain provided the perfect ground for a battle. The holograms fought each other much like humans fought each other in previous wars. In 2033, the Grassland Battle established the Democrat area and the Republican area. No longer was there states to divide up America; now, the Democrats ruled the West Coast and the Republicans ruled the old middle states' territory. Outcasts and Constitutionalists wandered all of America. Three consecutive battles, called the Terror Trio, helped to reestablish the Outcasts' power. The battles in the Terror Trio were fought between three groups: the Outcasts, the Republicans, and the Democrats. The three groups would meet up in a large field and fight against each other. One spectator recalls what he saw during one of the battles: "It was horrible. People and computers vied for space around the fighting holograms. Holograms of famous people from each of the groups died right before my eyes. I tried to run away but I was trapped. Dust wafted into my 79

eyes. The sun beat down, roasting my body. Some of the people around me suddenly dropped to the ground from heat stroke. Sounds of battle assaulted my ears. My vision wavered as I was jostled to the front of the crowd.

Humans and holograms tangled together in a bloody mass of battle cries."

From The Journal of Jeffery Lee, 2033. Borrowed with permission from the D.C. Archives.

After countless battles, the groups were no closer to an agreement than they were at the beginning of the war. In 2034 Dwight Henderson of the Democrats came up with a solution to stop the war. He presented the idea of a treaty that split up the nation into four sectors. Under a white flag, Anderson met with the other leaders to discuss this idea. Annie Carter from the Constitutionalists vocalized her complaints against this idea. This treaty encompassed everything the Constitutionalists fought against. However, Carter was outnumbered in her opinions. Gwen Collins from the Republicans and Zeke Anderson from the Outcasts were both in favor of the treaty. All of the leaders agreed they were exhausted from the fighting, but Carter did not believe this was the right solution.

A couple days and arguments later, the four leaders came to a decision. The Treaty of Division stated that the United States would be divided up into four territories. The Democrats would keep their capital at San Francisco and rule all of the West Coast. The Republicans kept control of the Middle States and remained at their capital in Dallas. They obtained the land from the end of the Democrats' domain to the beginning of the East Coast. Although unhappy with the treaty, the Constitutionalists eventually relented and requested that their capital be at Washington D.C., East Coast. That way they could monitor and safely keep important documents from the old United States of America. Anderson could not center the Outcasts because the Outcasts were spread all throughout the nation. The Outcasts were a nomadic people, and Anderson voted to have the Outcasts continue to roam the land. The three other groups consented to this and the treaty was signed.

Word of the treaty soon spread throughout the nation. Boundaries were set up, people were moved, and the once United States of America was split into the countries of West Coast, Middle States, Upper East Coast, and Lower East Coast. A larger group of Outcasts banded together and moved to New York, Upper East Coast. This became the hub of the Outcasts. The New York hub received information and monitored all of the tribes of Outcasts spread across the nation.

New York became the capital of the Outcasts. Finally, after a period of great scientific development and turmoil, the Technological Era drew to a close.

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This section covered the end of the Technological Era, and it explored the Tetrad Civil War and its effects. The next section will discuss the problems each new country faced and how they dealt with them.

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The End of the World Poem by Megan Hatton Attention customers.

It’s the end of the world, And there’s a spill on aisle 2.

Now, now.

Don’t push and shove, Because we shouldn’t fight When it’s the end of the world.

Calmly gather your items, The items that you put so much inflated value into, And wait by the register.

Your happiness is important to us, So any feedback will be (dis)regarded, As will the fake smiles, The debutante scene, And all that lies in between.

We’ll take your money now.

Paper or plastic?

Would you like the receipt in the bag?

Let’s sit around and mull about Jesus And the afterlife While we listen to the register beep, Echoing through and through, As we wait for the end of the world.

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My First Existential Crisis Poem by Megan Moore I wanted to be a writer before I could read.

I carried a small notebook and oversized souvenir pencil with me around our apartment,

writing down all of the things that I felt were important.

I had watched my mother write all the time, so I knew how to do it.

You just had to take your pencil and put it to the paper and there were your thoughts, right there for everyone to see. That seemed so magical to me.

I put my pencil to the paper, sloppily and recorded thoughts, feelings, and the fun things that happened. Then I’d write stories, like the ones my mother read to me.

One day, with courage in my tiny fists and hope in my bright eyes, I asked my father to read what I had written.

The look on his face was sad. What I saw then as a disdainful disappointment, I would recognize now as guilt that only a father could feel.

He explained to me that I hadn’t written words. Not real words. Just pages and pages of scribbles. Incoherent lines of squiggles and dots, cursive gibberish, nothing real.

I didn’t realize that there had to be words on the page, I just thought you put your pencil to the paper and viola…

Like magic… a story.

That meant that everything I had to say, no one could read it; no one could understand it at all.

I remember crying like I had never cried before. The tears were big and fat and stained my shirt.

I lay on the living room floor, a pathetic heap of a four-year-old falling into my first existential crisis. Why was I here if no one could hear me.

There was a power to words that I thought I understood. I thought I understood how to wield it.

But I didn’t.

I couldn’t even use them right.

Just because I was only four years old didn’t mean I didn’t have anything to say.

What I had to say was just as important as anyone else who had ever written a book.

I still had something to say and I would keep writing until my scribbles were words, Until someone could read it, 83

Until somebody heard it.

I’m not going to let myself down.

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The Steps of Dignity Poem by Abigail Ball Winner, Sister Helen Prejean Writing Contest, McAuley High School Dignity is a funny thing.

Someone could feel like they have dignityBut in the eyes of society they have none.

And vice versa.

One little action, One little slip up And dignity could be Gone.

It’s like riding the subway.

You accidentally jump on the wrong train.

You used your token and you can’t get it back.

You want to be on the >right> train- the good trainBut you’re speeding down the track in the <opposite< direction, Further and further away from where you want to be.

Maybe you do something because it was fun.

It made you feel good, it made you feel happy, but people judge you.

There’s this thing called “the Dignity Tower” And those perched on top look Down Their Noses At you in shame because you toppled off.

It might not even have been your fault; Maybe you were pushed. upBut there’s no ladder to get back You’re stuck there. down Dignity is not a privilege [kept] by those self-determined leaders of society.

It should not be defined.

It has a definition when you look it up in the dictionary But society should not write that definition.

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Dignity should be weighed by the sum of your partsNot the individual B.i.t.s and p.i.e.c.e.s Of mistakes and slip ups you make.

Measure the angle of how straight you stand up, Add the height you are when your head is held high, And multiply that by the number of times you stand up for what you believe in.

This is how dignity should be measured.

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Submission Details Initiated in January 2005, Lions-on-Line is a literary collection of works by the College of Mount St. Joseph students and alumni published online with the cooperation of the English Department.

Lions-on-Line is published online twice yearly, during the fall and spring semesters.

When our budget allows, Lions-on-Line goes “in print”. We take submissions during all twelve months of the year.

If you are currently a student or a graduate of the College of Mount St. Joseph and you would like to see your work published, you may submit your work to LOL simply by emailing poetry, fiction, creative nonfiction or digital artwork to LOL@mail.msj.edu. For full submission guidelines, consult our website.

Lions-on-Line is always looking for new staff members! If you’re interested in joining Lions-on-Line, please contact the faculty advisor, Elizabeth Taryn Mason, Ph.D. at the following email address: elizabeth_mason@mail.msj.edu.

Editors and Staff Poetry Editor/Treasurer:

Margaret Kaehler

Fiction Editor:

Zachary A. McCoy

Creative Nonfiction Editor:

Corey Burdine

Art Editor:

Molly Ehrnschwender

Assistant Editors:

Emily Berning Lauren DiMenna Anna Steiner Chase Stevens Jacqueline Tackett

Faculty Advisor:

Elizabeth Taryn Mason, Ph.D. 87

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