The Golden Typewriter, Volume 1

Volume 1

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Letter from the Editors

Dear Reader, We are proud to present the first volume of The Golden Typewriter. We would like to thank everyone who submitted a piece to the magazine. The next sixty-six pages are a culmination of some of the best literary writing from our school’s young writers.

We have poetry that exposes the scariest parts of being human, personal essays that will bring a tear to your eye, and short fiction that will alternately make you laugh and quiver with fear. As Ernest Hemingway said, “There is nothing to writing. All you do is sit at a typewriter and bleed.”

Enjoy, Sydney Stepp and the editorial team at The Golden Typewriter

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CONTENTS Cassidy Dickson’s “songbird.”............................................................................................................6 Edee Johnson’s “Chocolate Cobbler”..............................................................................................8 Beth Watkins’ “Ruined”, “Eighteen”, & (Un)happy Birthdays”..........................................12 Logan McMasters’ “The Ember in the Stars”............................................................................16 Ella Reed’s “Our Youth”......................................................................................................................22 Melody Young’s “Introvert”..............................................................................................................26 Emily Price’s “Aliens in Run-of-the-Mill-Ville”.........................................................................30 Jacob Novem’s “Passing By”.............................................................................................................32 Sydney Stepp’s “The Things That Lived Upstairs”..................................................................34 Reed Logue’s “Fear (a-phobia poem)” & “He is Pride”.........................................................40 Elizabeth Turner’s “Hot Chocolate”..............................................................................................42 Anthony Childers’ “A New Realm”.................................................................................................46 Macy Short’s “A Phase” & “She”......................................................................................................50 Kenslee Pennington’s “This Place is Not Home”.....................................................................52 Khloe Schultz’s “Childhood Autobiography”............................................................................54 Lindsay White’s “Eternity” & “Through the Decades”..........................................................60

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Masthead Logan McMasters (Fiction Editor) Khloe Schultz (Non-fiction Editor) Lindsay White (Poetry Editor) Melody Young (Art Editor) Macy Short (Design Editor) Sydney Stepp (Editor in Chief) ✦✦✦ Bradley Sides (Faculty Advisor)

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songbird. songbird. that’s what my grammy calls me her little songbird raising my voice, above the tall treesabove the cloudsabove the songbirds in the sky

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9 I was eleven years old when my granny died. Her death felt very sudden. I remember the last conversation with her. Granny had recently turned ninety eight. My mom and one of my aunts sat at the table with her, and although I had been excused so I could romp around in the den, my head was turned to the table. “I’m surprised I haven’t kicked the bucket yet,” she’d said. “I’m getting on in my years.” We all flinched. Except for Granny. She just held up her chin oh-so-high as always, daring anyone to challenge her. My aunt tried to deny it, to tell her that surely, surely Granny knew better than to say things like that. I turned away, bored with the conversation.

I’m still shocked that she seemed to know what was coming--that she accepted it.

Time came for the guests to leave, and I happily gave Granny and Aunt Tina their hugs, and then they were gone. Off to their homes, and as much as I loved Friday Supper Nights, I was happy to have the house to myself.

An hour or so later, the phone rang. Mom listened to whatever the caller was talking about, and she went pale. What felt like moments later, we were in the car.

The normally fifteen-minute drive to Granny’s house took only five minutes.

When we arrived, three cop cars sat in the yard. Mom pulled into the neighbor's driveway. “Stay in here,” she said, turning back to look at me in the backseat. “You can do that, right?” I nodded, open-mouthed.

Nothing was real. Not the police officers. Not the flashing lights. Not the deafening silence of sitting in the car alone.

My mom was gone long enough that I decided to open the door and stand outside, but I don't dare walk toward Granny’s house. Mom appears again, taking my hands, telling me I was brave.

I didn’t feel brave. All I did was sit in a car.

At some point an ambulance arrived. When I got to the hospital, the nurses had cut Granny’s clothes. I wanted to be mad at them; those had been Granny’s favorite pajamas.

But I just couldn’t bring myself to be angry. Granny was alive, or breathing, at least. But her eyes were closed. She had to stay at the hospital, so we--me, Mom, and my aunt--stayed with her. My aunt went to my house and packed a hospital bag. For two nights, I slept on a pallet of blankets on the floor.

10 Granny didn’t get any better. On the third night, Mom decided I shouldn't stay at the hospital, so I was sent to sleep over at my friend’s house.

For the first time in days, I was distracted. My friend treated it like a normal sleepover, and although we had school tomorrow, neither of us seemed to care. We stayed up ‘till midnight, one of the greatest joys for an 11-year-old. As we finally allowed ourselves to drift asleep, I remember telling her that I thought it was going to be okay. I was not worried anymore because the idea of Granny dying had seemed too unreal to me. It was an impossibility.

Two and a half hours later, I am woken up by Mom, who tells me that Granny has just died.

I didn’t cry at first, not until Mom pulled into who-knows-where and once again whispered for me to stay in the car. I was sitting there, alone, and it hit me: I would never see Granny again.

So I cried. I couldn’t stop. I didn’t even bother trying. There was no reason to. The following week is nothing but an empty blur in my memory. As far as I know, all I did was sit on the ugly green couch and eat whatever food was put in front of me. Maybe I didn’t eat. I don't know, and have no desire to ask.

After that, however, something strange happened. Something inexplicably human.

No, not even human. Something natural, something shown by every living creature on this Earth.

I kept going.

Mom’s voice came back to me, words I hadn’t comprehended for days began making sense in my mind again. When my dogs came bounding inside, straight to the couch to see me, I reached out and petted them. My will to exist, to do more than just grieve, came back to me. That Monday, I felt ready to go back to school.

I wasn’t better all at once, of course. The cold way I answered my classmates’ queries of why I was gone, saying only, “She’s dead,” proves that. The way I almost strangled the girl who complained that she hadn’t had to be out when her grandmother died proves that. The way I started crying when I read the words china cabinet on my English paper proves that. But that’s okay. Because healing is a process. Healing is a process that takes weeks, months, years, decades. We never stop healing.

11 I was healed with time, with love, with patience. I was healed when my mom and I moved into Granny’s little house with a big backyard. I was healed months later, the first Christmas spent without Granny, when Mom taught me how to make chicken and dumplings, a tradition that I had watched her and Granny do every year for Bosheer Christmas. I am healed now, eating chocolate cobbler Mom made to taste just like Granny’s chocolate cobbler, despite the fact that she has no recipe to go by.

I never got to taste Granny’s chocolate cobbler. But, I am sure, sitting here looking at this essay through eyes that are just as bad as my Granny’s were, eating sweets with the same sweet tooth she had, that this cobbler tastes just like Granny’s did.

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Ruined Like winter, you are cold Like envy, you are bitter You take innocence and destroy it So beautiful, so pure Ruined You claim you love But you weren’t taught love What a shame So young, so kind Ruined Like hurricanes, you demolish Like lucifer, you deceive Please keep your distance I need peace.

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Eighteen Eighteen The ending is near But please do not fear The beginning of a new chapter awaits You choose your fate Eighteen There's plenty of places you could go So much to do Think of all you could see It is your journey and only yours Eighteen No more childhood Time to mature, are you ready?

Don’t worry, you will be You make your own choices now Eighteen Adults can only try and guide you now Your mind forms its own opinions Only you know the limit of how far you can go Where will you take you?

Eighteen

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(Un)happy Birthdays 5th birthday I waited for your call I waited for a visit Instead, a letter with money Mom didn’t understand why I cried 10th birthday A surprise birthday party!

All my friends, all my family Searching the faces, “Where is Daddy?”

16th birthday Time to drive!

Happy tears from Mom as I passed Warnings from my brother No tips from Dad 17th birthday I no longer wait.

The person who gave me life Made me hate it.

But it's my fault

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17 Fio Today was everybody’s favorite day. Gleaming lights hung along the streets, emitting rays of white and gold. Arriving by the dozen, men and women donned their tailored suits and colorful dresses. The sun gleamed a brilliant orange, signaling the approaching sunset.

Town officials offered greetings out along the square, a bottle of bourbon passed among the adults. Younglings scrambled around, hyper on the copious amounts of sugar, all oblivious to the horror that was to take place in the coming hours.

Each year, teens participate in the festivities. They select the least popular among

their peers for the cleansing ceremony. The chosen kid is taken from his or her family and is put into a deep sleep in the rocket’s chamber. The rocket, set to combust within the coming days, will then be sent off to space at the end of the ceremony. All the teens are aware of how pretty the fireworks are.

My best friend is this year's victim. Nilah hasn't had it easy.

Her mother died in labor; her father blamed her everyday after that, eventually disowning her at the age of five.

That day I noticed her, soaking wet on a bench in the rain, tears running down her face. I tugged on my mother’s sleeve, insisting we go see what was wrong. We adopted her a month later.

She and I became best friends that day. No matter what, she still blames herself for everything that happened with her parents. Carrying that burden, she had trouble making friends. Today was the day of the ceremony, and I had until sunset to get her out of the rocket.

✦✦✦ I strolled as nonchalauntly as I could into the square, trying not to give away the slightest of my intentions. My eyes darted, looking for anyone that would try and stop me. In the far distance stood two guardsmen right outside the entrance of the town hall, where Nilah was held. They weren’t my main issue at the moment. Spread sparsely around the square were

18 several undercover guards, a concealed weapon holstered on their sides. Every once in a while they reached for their ear and spoke to themselves, you could tell they weren’t great at their job by the amount of liquor they were consuming.

I took a brisk pace toward the punch table. One of the guardsmen was clearly under the influence. As I filled my cup, I overheard a few broken sentences he was muttering to one of the senior girls who just turned eighteen.

“Come over to my place…have some fun…” The girl turned to me with an annoyed look on her face. In the few milliseconds that she glanced at me, the drunken cop slipped something in her drink. I kept my anger at bay, acting like I didn’t notice anything. Walking toward them, I forced myself to trip and knock the girls drink out of her hand. It splattered all over the guards shiny white suit, staining red like he just took a shower in blood.

“I am deeply sorry, sir. I am quite the clumsy fellow,” I stated in the most innocent voice I could muster, trying not to give off even a hint of sarcasm. The guard's face turned a deep purple. He would’ve exploded at me if it weren’t for a voice yelling in his earpiece. He stormed off, all eyes fixated on his newly decorated suit.

“That was quite the masterpiece you just created,” the girl remarked. I smirked. Her eyes had a familiar glint in them, they reminded me of the girl I was trying to save, Nilah. I shook myself out of the trance and snuck into the alleyway next to the town hall.

The darkness engulfed me, the hairs stood on the back of my neck. The energy in the alleyway was the polar opposite from the square. I grasp for the handle, locked. Slipping my knife out of my pocket, I attempted picking the lock. My hands were frightfully slick, I nearly cut myself. I glanced back at the square, everyone was still discussing the incident I caused earlier. Lifting my arm, I set my elbow above the doorknob. I rushed down with all the force I could muster. The knob came off and slammed on the ground. The sound reverberated through the square, but no one seemed to notice.

I sild open the door, hastily attempting to get in before someone saw me. Before I set my foot down, the glare from the setting sun hit just perfectly on a tripwire that, at any other time of day, I would have stepped on. I caught myself on the door, nearly ripping it off of its hinges. Setting my foot on the other side of the tripwire, I reached for the flashlight in my pocket. I shined its light in every nook and cranny, searching for any other traps that could have been placed.

19 Inside the door was an expansive room, lining the walls were voting booths, in the back sat waiting desks, and along the walls abstract art pieces hung. In the center, standing tall on top of a platform, was the rocket ship that held my best friend. I started to run toward it, but I caught myself. There was no way that it was this easy. I scanned the entire room, but nothing seemed out of the ordinary. There were no cameras or guards or traps, it was a blank path whichever way I took.

I decided to brave it and took off to the ship. No alarms. No traps. It really was an open path. Once I reached the platform, I took a long hard look in the window. There she was, fast asleep with whatever they had drugged her with. She seemed almost peaceful, completely unaware of the fact that she was a few minutes away from her funeral. I glided my hand along the stainless steel casing.

“What an awful casket choice,” I whispered, “Couldn’t they have chosen something other than this metal clunker?” I turned the hatch, and a soft hiss filled the room. I rushed to grab Nilah because I could tell the aroma from the sedative started to have an affect on me. Throwing her over my shoulder, I slammed the hatch back. Bad choice. I jumped off the platform, another bad choice, and sprinted toward the back exit. The second I crashed through the back doors, sirens blared. I had approximately twenty seconds to get to the woods where we would have cover. I adjusted my grip and dashed for the nearest tree.

Guards saw me as I ran by. I pushed through some brush and set Nilah on the ground behind a bush, putting my hand over her mouth because she was starting to stir.

Nilah I was going to escape death. Dirt and leaves tangled in my hair as he pushed me to the ground. He pressed his hand over my mouth and whispered, “Hush or they’ll hear you.”

Rays of mellow sunlight filtered through the canopy, penetrating through the leaves and casting an unearthly green–gold luminescence over the ground. The trees were ancient, timeless as they disappeared into the sky, rough with age, yet their roughness had been worn down by the soft greenness of moss that had slowly made them home. The raw,

20 earthy scent of wet mud, crisp smell of dewy foliage, it was a sensory overload. My wonder and amazement stopped when I heard the rustle of leaves behind us.

“They couldn’t have gotten far,” shouted one of the men searching for us. “They’re barely sixteen.”

I stiffened and turned toward Fio. He gave me a worried look. The voices increased as the men seemed to get closer. We were approaching the boundary's edge, it was only a mile from the start of the tree line. My heartbeat raced as footsteps slowly approached us.

As sweat poured over my face, Fio grabbed my hand and signaled toward a bush a few yards away.

Slowly, as the men were conversing, we headed for cover behind another bush. On our way, my glove got caught in a tree limb, and it broke. Instantly, we heard heads turn from every direction. Fio and I dove for the bush.

My mind raced. We were going to make it out of this wretched town. I was not going to be put in that spaceship like the kids before me. Men rustled around us, searching for kids they would never find. The boundary was close now, I could almost taste it.

One of the men said, “Even if you do escape, you filthy teenagers, what are you going to do? Raise awareness for outcasts like you? Save others? Please. There are millions of cities with higher security than ours. You’ll never make it out there. Just come on out so we can continue the celebration.”

Furious, I grabbed Fio’s knife and started to throw it at him. With a swift stroke, Fio grabbed the knife and slid it back in its scabbard, all without making a sound. He gave me a, what in the gods names are you thinking, look. My blood boiled with rage. These men knew nothing. They thought it was some kind of blessing to be sent into space.

“Fine,” I mouthed, “but I’m killing at least one of them.” I scanned the surrounding area. With the surplus of people that would come to search the woods every hour, we didn’t have much time before hiding wouldn’t be possible.

We made a mad dash for the last line of trees before the boundary. One of the men saw us but didn’t alert anyone else. Slowly, he made his way behind us. The sound of his footsteps beat against my eardrums. Fio and I needed to form a plan, and fast. Little did I know Fio already had one.

21 It all happened so fast. He grabbed my hand and whispered, “No matter what happens, promise me you will get across that border.”

I looked at him, not sure what he meant. “Fio, what are you…”

I didn’t get to finish before he jumped out of the bush, tackled the man, and snapped his neck. The guardsman wasn’t moving but neither was Fio. I rushed to him, not caring if anyone saw me. I turned Fio over. A knife laid directly above his heart. I slid him back into cover. “Fio!” I whimpered.

He just looked at me and smiled. “I’m going to get you out of here, we’re so close. I-” he stopped me. “Nilah, stop. You have to go before they realize he’s dead.”

“But…” he was right, I didn’t have time to save him and myself. He was losing blood fast. “Nilah.”

“Yes..”

“I …” and he was gone. Tears welled up in my eyes; I could barely see. My hands trembled, shaky lines of blood ran down his eyelids as I closed them. My tears rolled off his cheeks and joined the puddle on the ground. My eyes cleared up and I could see that a lotus flower stood untouched beside his head. I squeezed his hand and made a run for the border.

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Our Youth The truth of our age is not measured in years, But what we do with the life we live.

Youth is not always young, Just as an ocean is old but restless.

It claws at the beach for new life, And I’m reminded of your eyes.

The blurriness there That shines like wretched rhinestones.

Sure as the blood in your veins Is that cursed crimson.

An unerring sense of direction, Drawn always to the life we want to live.

A roadtrip in traffic, Halting the life not yet lived.

A red light that reflects in the mirror, Reminding us we never stopped despite the warning.

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A stampeding bull in a china shop, Spilling tears all over the broken clay.

More fragile than the shattered pieces, But reckless nonetheless.

The world is your casket As sure as a wooden box is the universe.

Pour your dignity down the kitchen sink, Replace it with that robust pride.

Your insecurities are secondhand To unapologetic youth and unsure lies.

Strum the guitar strings in your throat, And raise your voice to the present.

Every second you never get back Is another melody in the space between planets.

It’s wrong, it’s right, Nobody could ever tell the difference.

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The shoplifters of fate that rest easy, At the plaza of hidden histories.

The uneven barcode on a stolen wish, Mimicking a novel in the lines of our parents’ faces.

Learn how to speak with your mother’s tongue, Sharpen it until it becomes the head of a spear.

Laugh with your father’s chest, Bellow until it echoes in everyone else’s throats.

You’ll be ruined in the most wonderful way, Stepping through that dim door frame.

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31 If you look around, everyone seems to know where their home is, or at least know the feeling of home. They have such sentimental attachments to the place of their birth, the place of their raising. What blissful lives they must live. Standing proudly behind their white picket fences, they know exactly who they are and exactly where they belong. They live freely with their husbands and wives, unbothered and unaware of the pain happening beyond their perfectly maintained lawn. Feeling comfortable in their ignorance and cozy in their privilege, they are unashamed.

Then there are the ones who do not belong, confused and unsure. They were born to be bruised, predisposed to pain. These are the aliens, anxious in the face of ignorance spewing from the mouths of the prosperous. The aliens are deemed strangers from the moment they are created, the moment they realize who they are. They are stationed in these low places the others call “home”. Home is rows upon rows of perfectly placed houses whose inhabitants speak of God yet practice bigotry. They come fully equipped with hatred spouted from sharp tongues, damning the aliens to dark places. Smiling proudly, they look perfect. And they truly believe they are.

The aliens persist but the vile words, like knives, slit their throats. The aliens hold their breath, but they suffocate in their living rooms and on their front porches, choking on the second hand smoke of their neighbors. Of course, many of the non-alien residents recognize their entitlement and despise the unfairness of their birthright. They beg the neighbors to end their smoking habits, for the cancer will only grow, but the neighbors pretend they cannot hear them. Though, it is likely that the neighbors cannot hear over the clamor of their own voices. The sound of bitterness is rather deafening.

It’s quite funny how the neighbors shout and moan, because the aliens never asked to be brought here; in fact, they would rather be anywhere else. It’s ironic, too, because the neighbors, clearly ignorant, ask the aliens how they could bear to part with their “home” as if the poor creatures aren’t constantly reminded of their misplacement. How are they aliens expected to feel at home in a place that only wishes to banish them? They envy the others, yearning for the sense of belonging the neighbors feel. For the aliens, this place has only provided fear and fury, ill treatment and injustice.

And yet, they are drawn back. They are drawn home. Though they flee from this place, they somehow gravitate back towards it. Perhaps there is some cosmic balance in need of restoration, or some invisible, bodiless force that attracts the aliens back home. Maybe the aliens are needed, no essential, for the next generation of misfits’ survival. Whatever the reason, they find their way back, and they endure. The aliens bask in the judgement, warm themselves with the hatred of others, and stand quietly though surrounded by shouting.

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Passing By Autumn turns to Winter Spring turns to Summer.

But even Summer feels cold.

We're given the illusion of this perfect climate, But I must remind you my dear friend that nothing is permanent.

The end may not be very near, But that’s neither here nor there.

The day turns to night.

The night back into day.

The darkness encroaches on the day's sunny rays.

It seems as though I can see, but I have never been so blind.

Maybe one day I'll uncover the truth that I so desperately wish to find.

I don't ask much.

Just a little something.

And if you do as such You'll end up with nothing.

Winter... grab your coat.

What is it you desire?

"We're in the same boat."

No, we are merely in two ships passing by, but both are on fire.

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35 Leaves crunched under my feet. Every pebble and acorn top poked my feet through the soft soles of my leather boots. Dark trees rose up all around me, giants, unswayed in the breeze that chilled my bones.

A red sky beamed from the top of the leaves, telling me I needed to be back soon.

One foot, one step, then another, and another. Rocks crumbled, twigs snapped. Things, creatures, scurried in the undergrowth around me, like they were also late to dinner. I walked a little faster.

I stepped onto the asphalt that would lead me home. I was on the road to safety, at

least. Being caught out in the dark wouldn’t be entirely detrimental now. Everyone knew it wasn’t safe, no matter who you were or what time of year it was, to be in the woods at night.

My knapsack methodically slapped against my leg as I walked, the constant thwap,

thwap keeping me company. The sun was nearly gone by the time the faint yellow squares of the house windows appeared in the distance. I sucked in the evening air, but it didn't clear my stuffy nose. I picked up my pace; I padded along the road home like a dog.

The driveway sat empty when I stepped into it, and my fingernails dug crescent

moons into my palm. He said he was going to talk to me tonight. He promised. No matter, I had more important things to take care of.

I stripped my mud-soaked socks off and quickly pushed into the door to the kitchen.

I was blinded for a moment, though there wasn’t much light in the room. Several candles sat along the counters and a gas lamp on the table. The warmth of the room made my nose and ears tingle.

“Laura?”

That’s not my name. I only looked at Mother.

“You’re late.”

I closed the door behind me and turned the latch without taking my eyes from the

room. “I got caught up. It’s only now dark.”

She rubbed her eyes. “Just… just please don’t let it happen again.”

I didn’t understand why we called her Mother. She could only be nineteen, at most.

A year or two older than me. “Have you fed them?” I asked.

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She avoided my eyes. “I couldn’t get them to come downstairs, I’m sorry, I can try

again-”

“Forget about it, Mother.” I set my bag on the counter, moving a candle to avoid

being a fire hazard. I removed the straps from the metal buckles, and started sorting herbs.

“Go get some water to put on the stove, I only have carrots to give them. Maybe I can make a soup.”

The woman-- no--the girl rang her hands in her skirt. “It’s… it’s dark outside.”

I sighed. “Would you rather go four feet out the door to the pump, or bring them

down for dinner?”

I honestly thought Mother was going to cry. “Fine,” I conceded. “Can you chop

carrots for me?”

She gave me a watery nod. Shaking my head, I pulled my boots back on my bare feet.

I would have to wash my socks if there was any water left.

Wrapping one arm around a soup pot, and using the other arm to push out of the kitchen door, I stepped into the bone-chilling night air. I set the pot aside and twisted the rusty iron faucet knob. In the dim light coming from the house, I watched blood colored water come from the spout. My eyes scanned the treeline as I waited for the water to clear.

Shapes shifted in the woods, maybe just my mind and eyes collaborating to play tricks on me. Or maybe there really was something lurking just beyond, just where I couldn’t quite make it out. This happened often; a few times before, I had called out. Never had there been an answer. Sometimes it appeared like a dark beast, muscles and sweat and fur. Other times, whatever it was seemed almost to be a lady, simply taking an evening stroll. I believed that I was safer staying in the house and in the surrounding clearing.

Besides, nothing could be quite as terrifying as what laid inside the house.

“Laura?” Mother called out the door.

I started. That’s not my name. “What, Mother?”

“I was just--just wondering if you had gotten the water yet?”

I grunted and moved the pot under the spout, where clear water was finally coming out. “I’m working on it.”

“Okay, okay well I think they’re… I think they’re getting restless,” she whispered from the house. “Please hurry.”

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I normally tried to write off Mother’s worries as nothing more than paranoia, a crazy

lady kept away for too long, but I could never be too sure when they were involved. I filled the pot with water and used my elbow to turn off the spout. Waddling with the pot between my arms, Mother opened the kitchen door and ushered me inside.

I hadn’t realized how long I had been outside until I saw the amount of chopped

carrots and onions sitting on the cutting board. I wiped my hands on my pants. “Thanks, Mother.”

She simply nodded and pulled a chair out from the table. The pot of water clunked

on the stove-top. Click, click, click-- tss. A small flame came to life under the soup pot. I poured in the carrots and onions, and found crumbs on the counter to wipe away.

Anything to do so I wouldn’t have to go upstairs and call them down.

“Laura--” That’s not my name “--they’re going to be mad…” Mother stood up and took

the wooden spoon from my hands. “I’ll… I’ll stir, if you go get them. They’ve waited long enough, you know they get hungry.”

I pull my hair to the nape of my neck, several curls escaping my hands. I planted one

foot on the first stair, then the other on the next, and so forth. With shaking hands, I knocked on the third door to the right in the hallway. A scraping came from inside the room, like a chair being dragged across the hardwood. Heavy footsteps came closer to the door. Thud. Thud. Thu“Hello, Cadence.” That’s not my name. “Is dinner finally ready?”

“Nearly,” I said, “we’re having onion and carrot soup.”

The creature, who looked like a six-year-old-boy, seemed to look down at me, despite its head barely coming up to my navel. “Only soup? We have a night of revelries, you know.”

I straightened my shoulders, trying to appear as stable as I could. “I know, I do, but we don’t have anything else for dinner. I suppose he’ll be by tomorrow to drop off groceries, or I could--” “No!” Another voice came from behind me. “Catherine is not allowed to go to the store. She’d have to take a right on the road, and that is not allowed.”

Catherine won’t do anything; my name isn’t Catherine.

38 The voice continued. “When was Catherine going to come get me for dinner? I’m also starving.”

I turned to face the other being, this one appearing in the form of an old woman.

“Just now, I was. We’re having soup.”

“Lovely,” said the thing that looked like a child. The two creatures made their way down the stairs, and I followed after.

In the kitchen, I found Mother trembling at the stove, refusing to look at the beings.

“Laura?”

That’s not my-- “What, Mother?”

“What else do you want in this soup?” She seemed close to tears, and I took the wooden spoon from her hands.

“I’ll get it, just get some bowls down?” I smelled the sad concoction before me; the contents of my knapsack sat on the counter, and I rummaged through them. A green plant that smelled of maple syrup. This would work, I suppose. I tore off a few leaves and sprinkled them on top of the soup. Round and round and round, I brought the spoon through the soup.

Mother set four wooden bowls beside the stovetop, and I carefully filled them. I carried two to the table, and set them in front of where they sat. The one that appeared as an old woman lapped soup into its mouth with a spoon, and the facade of a little boy carefully folded a napkin in its lap.

After their soup was gone, and several other helpings-- including mine-- suffered the same fate, they both wordlessly got up from the table. When one was at the stairs, it turned and told me, “Clean up, Cadence, and then come play for us. The piano will sound lovely tonight.”

My name isn’t Cadence. “Okay,” I said through gritted teeth.

Mother pushed the chairs under the table, and folded the filthy napkins. She placed the folded rectangles in the bowls. “I’ll clean them… tomorrow. When it’s light outside.” She seemed to gaze into nothing, like she was trying to stare at her toes through her shoes.

I nodded, a silent agreement that she could have the night off. As if she ever does anything anyway.

39 For the second time that night, I climbed the stairs. My legs ached, my vision dark, though that may have just been the lack of light in our dreary home. My feet carried me past the rooms where the beings spent their leisure time. Past windows, broken and boarded, and past empty picture frames. To the end of the hall, where a piano sat. I’m sure it was once a gorgeous thing, mahogany and ivory, but now it was filled with broken strings, dust, and rodents that called it home.

Sitting on the bench, a puff of dust rising from the cushion, I could only imagine what I looked like. A white blouse, barely fit for summer, much less this freezing hell that I was trapped in. Pants that I couldn’t tell if they were too big or too small. A frame that used to be tall and glorious but was now only a shell of nothing.

My fingers glided over the black and white keys, pressing none. Finally, one key, a note, then another. Two at a time, up the keyboard and back down. Fingers stretched and palms hovered. Short fingernails danced in front of my eyes, and music came from somewhere. It never felt as if I were making the sound, never felt that the music came from the piano, but simply that music was playing in time with when I pressed the keys.

I had a few moments of peace before the beings started their “revelry”. I learned long ago, it was best to not move during the night. If I’m at the piano when it starts, I stay at the piano for the rest of the night. I dearly hoped Mother had gotten to her room, but it was quite possible she was still sat at the kitchen table, fiddling her fingers together. Scrapes sounded down the hallway floor, and the rug seemed to be torn from the floorboards. The walls shook and glassless windows rattled. The piano trembled under my touch, and my fingers had trouble hitting the correct keys. Whoops and hollers filled my ears, all but drowning out the shaky melody. ✦✦✦ Eventually, morning broke, and all was quiet. I stood from the piano stool, cautious to not make a sound. A lamp had fallen off it’s stool, shattered on the ground. I stepped around it.

Down the stairs, in the kitchen, I found Mother asleep at the table, arms folded

under her head. She seemed peaceful, something I had never seen in her before. She almost looked how a nineteen year old should: at ease and happy. But then something, maybe in her dreams, shifted, and her worried brow furrowed once again.

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41

Fear (a -phobia poem)

Autophobia, you’re alone.

Cleithrophobia, you’re trapped.

Thalassophobia, you’ll drown.

Coprophobia, you’ve crapped.

Pride, He’s filled with hubris.

Cried, He sobbed with loneliness.

Why are we afraid of these things?

What does it all mean?

Oh, how the pain stings!

Why, you can be afraid of a bean.

Listen to this,

Sidonglobophobia is the fear of cotton balls.

Like c’mon Chris…

It’s not like it mauls.

Is it all psychological?

Is it really all in my head?

They aren’t even logical.

I can’t even go to bed!

Self esteem,

It’s at its highest.

With a beam, His attack, at its finest

Brash and Bold,

His best qualities.

Leaves a man cold, Without his main arteries

I’m going insane.

I long to be free.

But who’s to blame?

Oh, it’s just me…

Dignity, His prized possession.

Spitefully, His primed aggression.

He is Pride

Confidence, It’s his downfall.

Coincidence?

It's his call.

To insult him,

Is to insult Pride.

Hope you can swim… … Oh no, you’ve already died.

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43 The hot chocolate slips down my throat, feeling like a warm, heated blanket coursing through my body. I sit inside by the fireplace with my friends Mandy and Cynthia, my hands cupping my mug. The heat from the glass calms my soul.

We all sip our drinks quietly. I enjoy the silence. It makes me feel as if I have almost gained my sanity again. I trust my friends. My friends trust me.

My hands start to shake; my sanity is not returning anytime soon. I grip my hot chocolate, begging for the warmth to calm my nerves.

My friends tell me that Blue will be here soon. Tears tickle my cheeks.

My friends tell me that it's going to be okay. They say that I'll feel better when Blue gets here. I trust them. This too, shall pass.

I keep crying.

Another hour passes and the doorbell rings. I shuffle to the door and open it, seeing Blue standing in the rain. His cheeks are flushed from the cold. I usher him inside.

Blue bows his head toward my friends as he walks into the living room. He slips his coat off and shuts the door behind him. He looks down at me and pulls me in for a hug. I slip away into his soft skin as he holds me closer with each passing second. He tells me that it's not my fault. Even though I know otherwise, I pretend I don't.

44 I tell my friends to stay upstairs while I take Blue to the basement and show him the source of my problems. That's why I called him over.

Blue and I walk down the stairs and I flip the switch and the ray of light reveals the issue: my third friend. Lifeless.

Blue tells me that we will take care of this.

He knows how it happened.

It was game night. I invited Mandy, Cynthia, and Hope over to my house. I made us all hot chocolate. Hope said that she would go downstairs to retrieve the board games, but she never came back. Hope was on the floor. Dead.

As I tell Blue, he rubs his temples and sighs. He walks away, offering me space to grieve.

Mandy and Cynthia join me downstairs when they hear my cries.

I sniffle and rub my eyes, forcing myself to get up and return to the kitchen. My friends remain downstairs.

Blue sits at the kitchen counter. I ask him if he would like some hot chocolate. He nods and even gets up to help me.

He comforts me, and I manage to smile and hug him.

Blue tells me to do like I did earlier. I tell him that I'm glad he's here to help this time.

45 We take two of the mugs and set them aside.

I grab the small bag of arsenic from the back pocket of my jeans and divide it equally into the two mugs.

We take the mugs downstairs to Mandy and Cynthia, holding mugs of our own, too.

My friends drink.

And this time, I don't cry.

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47 I. A pre-written destiny. I am the villain and shall act accordingly. A moonlit night that gave birth to a sunny day. A new dawn that signals the change of the world.

It began on a slow Monday morning, when time stopped. Until the one who broke the world’s rhythm showed herself, I was scared. She took the form of a fairy, but instead of butterfly wings, it was bat wings.

I looked on in awe before she started to speak. “I have a deal for you,” she said. “One you can’t refuse.”

I asked her what the deal was. “I want you to help me on a quest. In return, I shall grant you powers equivalent to mine,” she said.

It was clear she was powerful, so I accepted her offer.

She told me what her quest was and that she was not a regular daemon, but, instead, the leader of a rebellion against the current daemon king: Mephistopholes, who was a ruler who sought peace within the Shadow Realm.

The resistance leader, Malloce, sought to return the Shadow Realm to the way it once was. To war.

I had already vowed to help her, so, of course, I didn’t change my mind.

II. A day later, Malloce returned. When she asked if I was ready, I nodded. But, then, I corrected myself. I asked her how she expected me to fight. She replied with a smile, “It will not be a problem.”

Before I could ask her for clarity, she transported us to the Shadow Realm.

My first sight was not darkness, nor fire and brimstone; instead, I took in the beautiful city.

I asked Malloce why she would want this destroyed. Her response: “He took everything from me.” She explained no further.

I knew what it was like to lose everything, so I sat content with her reply.

She led me to her home. It was a simple house: only one story with very moderate decoration.

48 After she led me in, she gave me a layout of the land. We were in the Low District - our objective was in the High District.

I asked her what the difference between the two was. “There is only one difference,” she said, “Going from high to low, it is ranked in trust. We are in the low district, meaning Mephistopholes does not trust me much. He has the right to. He knows I am going to take my revenge.” Again, another thing I understood.

III. An entire month had gone by. Malloce trained me to fight. In that time, I learned that daemons cannot harm humans. Armed with this knowledge, Malloce and I started our march of unending fury.

I heard the whispers. “Why is a human helping her? Why are they bringing war?”

Malloce told me the full reason as to why she hated Mephistopholes. It was because he betrayed her. He used her to win a war for “peace,” which was what started my training‒and what I needed to not feel any guilt or remorse about the situation.

It was three days before we reached the High District. In those three days, we rallied support from other daemons and laid waste to both of the sides of the Middle District, and we made it to the home of Mephistopheles in the High District.

When I made it to my destination, the King of Shadows himself stood in front of me.

The look on his face was worth it all.

“M-Malloce? I thought I ended your tyranny!”

“You ended nothing, Mephistopholes. You started it all,” he lashed out in anger, attacking us with every bit of power he could muster.

Malloce took a fair amount of damage, but looked at me. “Now is the time that I keep my end of the deal. Take this power and finish the Shadow King.”

In mere moments, I found myself to be even stronger than the puny “King” before me. I spoke, “You have been dethroned, former Shadow King Mephistopheles. Now, disappear!”

I unleashed a torrent of attacks that decimated the former king. He was no more than a pile of dust before me.

49 Malloce smiled, “Thank you, friend. Let us rule the Shadow Realm now.”

“Yes,” I responded, “let us rule together.”

50

51

A Phase

For just a moment, everything is perfect, but as always it is just a phase.

Everything will return to normal, back to chaos and panic, and that perfect moment will be just a phase.

She

A girl I once knew could make stories out of nothing— could smile without being plastic.

She built a whole world in her mind knew what she wanted— knew how to love herself.

She was happy.

She used to be mine.

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53 I stand in my parent’s driveway and look around the yard. There was the treehouse where my sister and I would play princesses and pirates and whatever else. I’m surprised it hasn’t fallen down yet. There was a tire swing that she’d make me push her on all the time. The driveway where we learned how to ride our bikes, skateboard, roller skate, and many other things was the one I’m standing on right now. We used to ride our bikes up and down this street, too. It was a small neighborhood, but it’s grown.

This place is not home.

Now I stand in my grandparent’s living room. It’s small, but I think that’s what makes it cozy. I remember when I’d stay over here for the weekend and my grandparents and I would do random things together. In the next room, I used to bake things with my grandpa, and, in this room, I would talk about life with my grandma. I’d sleep in the recliner and when I woke up my back would hurt. When they weren’t looking and my sister and I were here, we’d play The Floor is Lava and jump from furniture to furniture. Then, when they look at us to see what we were doing, we’d dive onto the nearest couch or chair and giggle at each other.

This place is not home.

I’m driving to my aunt’s house, but I glance over and see my old school. I stop and pull into the school’s parking lot. My brain pulls up images and memories of people I haven’t thought about in years. Once, we were playing Tag in the field across the street and a kid tripped and broke their ankle. Then, I was so worried, but now I think it’s funny. When it was movie day, we’d all gather together because the classrooms were cold. Girls would braid each other’s hair and boys would try to learn how.

This place is not home.

I leave the school and go to my aunt’s house. It was her house where everyone would go during holidays. I would play so many games of Tag and Hide and Seek that I was sore the next day. There weren't any cousins my age, but the little ones were tons of fun. It seemed like they never got tired sometimes. I’d have to push all of them on the swingset, and they’d all try to push me. They never succeeded. I’d push them again to make them feel better.

This place is not home.

I pull into the driveway of my own house. There’s not any memories other than those of moving.

This place is not home.

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55

Granny kept her walls covered in photographs--photographs of me, my siblings, our family. She also had pictures from her childhood, probably passed down from her mother. I did not know most of the people. It was hard to examine the blurry, black and white memories that hung down the hallways, but every single one of them was important to her. She could name each person without hesitation, and with every picture, she felt she must tell me a background story. I did not mind. I was interested in her stories. But, she always found her way back to this one picture. A picture of me and my grandpa fishing.

She repeated the camping story that came along with the picture of me fishing

every time I visited her house; she said it was her favorite. She would tell me how the adults had to put together a makeshift porta potty for us because we didn’t know how to properly squat in the woods--or how she caught the fish and let me reel it in as if it were mine. Her ability to take me back in time was like no other. She managed to remind me of the emotions I felt in those exact moments even though they had happened so long ago.

My grandma was a goofy, kind hearted person. My little sister, Kaydence, and

I found ourselves arguing over who was going to sleep with her at night. She slept on a stiff, narrow couch that was covered in uncomfortable, orange fuzz. It was not very appealing to the eye, and it didn’t sleep much better. But my sister and I fought over this spot because we wanted nothing more than to sleep with her.

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Mornings at my granny’s house were the best. She always made us oatmeal.

Not the instant kind you cook in the microwave, but the kind you have to boil on the stove. She knew how to make it just right: lots of butter and just the right amount of sugar. Sometimes she would let us dip our graham crackers in her coffee.

Most of our best memories came from her front porch. A rather small porch,

still unfinished from a couple of summers ago when Dad had tried to fix the roof.

There were two recliners, one for her and one for my grandfather. Grandpa wasn’t able to come outside anymore, so I retired his chair to myself.

My granny and I sat on the porch every morning. There was a bee that lived in one of the wood frames above us--and a lizard that lived in the boards beneath us.

We had names for them and acted as if they were our pets, Buzz and Lizzy.

We listened to the birds together everyday, and my granny would tell me the difference between them by the songs they sang.

Sometimes after the mail truck would come through, she would let me walk across the road to get the mail with her because she knew what joy that brought us.

We share a lot in common. We both have the same outgoing, tell-it-how-it-is

personality. I noticed growing up how loud we both were and how much we both enjoyed gossiping.

Not only did we act just the same, we looked very much alike. My granny was short--very short--and although she never dressed herself up upon my arrival, she

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would always make sure her hair was in place and her stained clothes were somewhat matching.

She pulled off the lazy look; I’m not really sure if I pull it off, but she makes me feel that I do.

My parents named me after my granny; her name was Ruby Pauline, and mine, Khloe Pauline. I’ve always wanted to be like her. The older and more mature I become, the more I start to understand how I have been a reflection of her since I was a child, and everyday I see more of her in myself.

In sixth grade, the power at my house went out one morning before school.

My three siblings and I had to gather our clothes and backpacks and rush to Granny’s. Needless to say, we were late, and we were all in a hurry.

When we arrived at my granny’s, she was up and waiting for us. Kaydence and I went to the bathroom and began to change. I then realized that I had totally forgotten my bra at home. I had a come apart, an absolute temper tantrum. My granny could not seem to understand why this was such a big deal to me. She told me, “I didn’t wear a bra until I was in high school. Plus, you don't have anything to cover up no how.”

What she did not know was that a girl in my class just got made fun of for her headlights being on.

She tried to make me go to school, and I--I called her stupid. She was not stupid. Far from it. She was right, as she always had been.

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In the 8th grade, I had a winter formal dance at school. My big sister,

Kourtney, helped me get ready by doing my makeup and my hair. After she got me ready, she thought it would be a good idea to go take pictures with our granny. It was kind of random because we hadn’t seen her in a month or two. When we arrived, she was confused and didn’t know why we were there. When we told her we had just come to visit and get pictures with her, she was more than happy.

She was dressed in her slightly dirty, sleeping clothes and her hair was a mess. Before we took the picture, she made sure to brush her hair, and joked about having to make herself presentable.

Granny was easy to love and never failed to make me smile.

In my freshman year of high school, I got to participate in homecoming week,

which is the week in October when almost everyone dresses up according to the fun dress up days. One of the days that year was decade day. Kourtney and I decided Granny’s house would be the perfect place to look for an outfit.

When we got there, Granny made Kourtney and I try on two of her favorite dresses. She told us how these dresses were in style when she was our age and how fabulous we looked in them.

The dresses resembled something that would be sold during The Great Depression. We took a picture with her in the dresses, hugged her, said our goodbyes, and left. It was a normal day to me then, but now that day fills me with regret and many unanswered questions.

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That day of trying on dresses was the last day I saw my granny before she

passed away.

It was the last time I went to her house.

I miss everything about her, but I will never forget her advice, for her advice was better than any I had ever received. I live by her words like other people live by God’s.

She was a lovely woman that made me who I am today. The memories of that fishing trip or the day I forgot my bra may fade, but I will never forget her words, her advice.

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61 Eternity Present ME, Past ME, and Future ME Were all sitting in a room.

Past ME looked over at Present ME, And she cried saying that Present ME wasn’t what she hoped for.

Then, Future ME looked at Present ME, and she laughed Seeing how silly and superficial i was.

And as for Present ME, well she simply sighed Seeing how she seeMEd compared to the Past and the Future.

Suddenly, an extreMEly peculiar thing happened.

Present ME was added to Past ME, And a portion of Future ME becaME Present ME, And that of ME that was left without a naME BecaME the new Future ME. Future ME that was now Present ME seeMEd to have grown A bit in her understanding compared to the MEasure of her predecessor.

And even i, whose components are that which has been, is, and is to be for ME Gained a bit of understanding: Care not about the Past.

She is constantly growing, Becoming glutinous from all the previous occurrences that she consuMEs. Care not about the future.

She is waiting for ME,

And is gradually becoming the now of ME. And worry not about the Present’s circumstance.

She is nothing -- compared to eternity. in all this knowing one must know About the result of eternity.

62 Through the Decades There we go among the stars to find a place within it all.

Then, we fall among the ancients there to see the difference that lies within us.

Although, we all must see the factual evidence of the difference between nothing and our history.

Through the decades, on trods civilization, with a thing called progress allowing them to have wings, or remain -- hidden -- stuffed in their back-pocket.

The ancient things that enlighten the decades of the past, present, and future, shall remain just the same with an additive known as that little measure society deems as progress.

Through the decades the same thoughts remains that of greed, progress, narcissism and an increase of Earthly gain.

One must see things -- remain from the dawn of time, and contemplate upon the fact

63 that values, and all those things that we call qualms are fading away, never to be implemented again.

We must stop chasing stars of progress, and grasp the reigns of this locality, and steer the steed of the future back to the selfsame righteous values expressed previously and continually.

On through the decades, we must continue in far reaching redemptive thoughts.

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65

Contributors Anthony Childers is a senior who writes fantasy fiction. He’s good at chess.

Cassidy Dickson is a senior who likes to write poetry. She is a singer/songwriter.

Edee Johnson is a freshman who enjoys writing fiction, particularly science fiction. She is strong in mind but weak in ankles.

Reed Logue is a junior who likes to write horror and fiction. He enjoys horror movies and cryptography.

Logan McMasters is a senior who enjoys writing fiction. He plays on the Loretto High School soccer team.

Jacob Novem is a junior who enjoys writing fiction. He is not left-handed.

Kenslee Pennington is a freshman who likes to write fantasy. She’s allergic to both cats and dogs.

Emily Price is a senior who enjoys writing fiction. She knows how to play four different instruments.

Ella Reed is a sophomore who writes poetry. She, too, is looking for her Great Perhaps.

Khloe Schultz is a senior who enjoys writing personal essays and realism. She is a cheerleader for Loretto High School.

Macy Short is a sophomore who enjoys writing poetry and realistic fiction. She loves Taylor Swift.

Sydney Stepp is a sophomore who writes short fiction. She owns at least eight flannel shirts.

Elizabeth Turner is a senior who writes fiction. She plays soccer for Loretto High School.

Elizabeth Watkins is a senior who writes poetry. She enjoys watching sunsets and thinks butterflies are pretty.

Lindsay White is a sophomore who enjoys writing poetry, reflective essays, and allegorical short stories. She likes to experiment with form, style, capitalization, and symbolism in her writing endeavors.

Melody Young is a junior who writes fiction and draws comics. She creates characters that she will never use.

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[THE END]