LSUA Jongleur 2023

Editor’s Letter and Acknowledgments

The Jongleur Staff wants to send out a sincere thank you to all those who have contributed to the 2023 edition of the Jongleur.

To this year’s participants, thank you for submitting your Poetry, Fiction, Art, and/ or Photography and for allowing us the opportunity to see the pure talent that is all over our campus here at LSUA!

Thank you to the editors of this year’s edition of the Jongleur: Hannah Morris, Tyler Escobio, Courtney Smith, and Tanek Mouser. All your hard work and time you have put into this has not gone unnoticed, nor has it been wasted. I hope that each of you are just as proud of your work as the artists!

Professor Alai, thank you for your guidance and trust throughout this semester. It has been such an honor to have been given the opportunity to work on the 2023 Jongleur staff and see our visions come to life!

Sincerely,

The Jongleur Staff, 2023

Meet the Editors

Hannah Paige Morris: Secretary, Photography Editor, Senior, Bachelor of Arts in English. Hannah will begin her teaching career in the Fall of 2023 at Mabel Brasher Elementary as a 5th grade ELA/ Social Studies Teacher. She hopes to attain her Certificate to teach and plans to pursue her master’s and PhD in English to become a professor.

Tyler Escobio: Poetry Editor, Served as a medic in the United States Army from 2015-2019. Pre-Law student with political aspirations and a minor in History, with a vision toward a bright future for the world. His primary philosophical approach to life is as follows: “Go through each moment in life like it's being narrated by Jim Ross.”Tyler Escobio

Courtney Smith: Art Editor, Junior, Bachelor of Biology with a concentration Bachelor in English. After graduation, I plan on working in an office, and being a writer.

Tanek James Mouser: Prose Editor, Bachelor of Arts in English and History. He plans to teach English abroad for a time before pursuing a PhD in either English or History, and teaching as a professor.

Table of Contents

Fiction pgs. 1-66

• First Place: A Night in the Atchafalaya by Grant Dahl pg. 2

• Second Place: Polaris Tale by Sydney Garcia pg. 6

• Third Place: Getting a Baby by Judith Anders pg. 14

• Honorable Mention: Axel by Eva Juneau pg. 23

More Fiction pgs. 46-66

• Yours Above All By: Elizabeth Elliot pg.46

• Leo by Hanlin Riddle pg. 54

Poetry pgs. 67-83

• First Place: Butterfly’s Work by Mary Nugent pg. 68-69

• Second Place: Through my eyes by K’Shawnn Walker pg.70-71

• Third Place: Weeping inside by Pamela Young pg.72

• Honorable Mention: I am an Aviator by Mattilla Wiley pg.73

• Honorable Mention: Sacrifices by Ryan Middleton pg.74

• Honorable Mention: The Great Hunter by Ryan Middleton pg.75

More Poetry pgs. 78-83

• Butterflies by Halie Fontenot pgs. 78-79

• The Father by Sarah Brouillette pg. 80

• Eden wept red and it flows down Your stem by Austin Monk pgs. 81-82

• Blue by Brianna Troutman pg. 83

Art pgs. 84-94

• First Place: “Resurrection Parody” by Bethany Lambing pg. 85

• Second Place: “LSUA Fountain” by Gavin Bridges pg. 86

• Third Place: “Midnight Bloom” by Taliyah Winslow pg. 87

• Honorable Mention: “The Silo” by Bethany Lambing pg. 88

• Honorable Mention: “Bridge at LSUA” by Bethany Lambing pg. 89

More Art pgs.

• Submerged by Delaney Merriman pg. 90

• The Seagull with Style by Morgan Villard pg. 90

• Camelo by Noah Naveda pg. 91

• Unknown by Macie St. Romain pg. 91

• Ishi by Jennifer Medina pg. 92

• Lost Elf by Cameron Carriker pg. 92

• Perseverance by Jessica Mordente pg. 93

• Air Balloon Suitcase by Cherus Baker pg. 93

• Ozymandias by Savannah Callaway pg. 94 Photography pgs. 95-106

• First Place: Gleam taken by Delaney Merriman pg. 96

• Second Place: Wave at Antelope Canyon by Seneca Cox pg. 97

• Third Place: Small taken by Valerie Kendrick pg. 98

• Honorable Mention: Wellaway taken by Delaney Merriman pg. 99

• Honorable Mention: Lonely Fisherman taken by April Thurman pg. 100

More Photography pgs. 101-106

• Photo taken by Kelly Menard pg. 101

• Why Did You Ever Buy Me Flowers taken by Simone Campo pg. 101

• 9/11 Twin Tower in Black and White taken by Kylie Voorhies pg. 102

• Dew taken by Alleigh Perles pg. 102

• Photo taken by Elizabeth Babb pg. 103

• Photo taken at Dole Plantation, Wahiawa, Hawaii by Kori Escalon pg. 103

• Granny taken by Valerie Kendrick pg. 104

• Photo taken by Carley Ardoin pg. 105

• Photo of Crater Lake taken by Aayushi Jha pg. 105

• Open Book taken by Mechelle Williams pg.106

• After the Rain taken by Mechelle Williams pg. 106

F I C T I O N

First Place

A Night in the Atchafalaya

By: Grant Dahl

Second Place

Polaris Tale

By: Sydney Garcia

Third Place

Getting a Baby

By: Judith Anders

Honorable Mention

Axel

By: Eva Juneau

First Place

A Night in the Atchafalaya

By: Grant Dahl

Two eyes hovered over the murky water and in the spotlight they shined a fluorescent yellow like marbles filled with neon. The gnarled husk that encased the eyes slowly dragged them without ripple beneath the black surface where in the cone of the light beam shined only a clog of hyacinth against the bank of the channel. Even in that late hour the air was thick with the wet heat of a late summer night in the Atchafalaya. The gentle waves of the channel drummed against the aluminum hull of the mud boat wherein two men were surveying the shallows with headlamps as they puttered along. Drifting out of the channel into an broader expanse of the basin they were at once beset by a thick gathering of cypress and tupelo, their headlamps darting over the cypress knees just as the hull struck one. At the jolt of the impact the man tilling the motor sighed a frustrated sigh and corrected their course. He shined his headlamp at the back of the other man's head. "Watch it now Trey, I can't see over the front of the boat," he said.

"I'm trying I'm trying," Trey said as he turned his head to face the beam and squinted. "Get that light outta my face."

"If you were watching where we were going then the light wouldn't be in your face."

Weaving through the wetland they listened for the jug-o-rum call of the bullfrog they hunted. Moss draped like curtains over the low branches and brushed against the men as they drifted underneath. The purling of the water humming against the hull of the boat mixing with the din of insects created a cadence of white noise. Like official boatmen searching for an escaped fugitive from Angola the two men swept their headlamps through the thin trees, eyes floating in the dark at every turn. The enormous rat head of a nutria bobbed along in the water before them as they steered the boat into an inlet against the bank of a small island where the

water was shallower. They had brought with them a shotgun, a frog gig, and a mesh sack. The man tilling the motor had cut the engine before gliding into the inlet and now stood and began rummaging through the bottom of the boat. He maneuvered from underneath the bench in the center of the boat a long pole on the end of which was fixed a trident in miniature with small barbed prongs. He stopped moving and so did Trey when they heard the distinct gurgling call of a bullfrog. Trey spun his head beam toward a bundle of grassweed punching out of the murky water where the mottled back of a bullfrog swelled and shrunk with the cadence of its call. "Over there Joe, allons allons, get me up close," Trey said. He reached for the gig and held it aloft and in the beam of Joe's light Trey looked like he might be a jungle dweller with spear in hand apart from the faded gray mechanic's shirt he wore. As the boat came to a stop Trey brought the trident closer to the frog and held it hovering there until in a moment of stark silence he thrust the spear violently into the mottled mass. With the gig head of the spear completely submerged and with no frog in sight Trey pulled the gig back out of the water where on the end was a fat bullfrog writhing on the barbed spikes that pierced its body. Trey held the dripping form with legs jackknifed and kicking out like an angry horse above the boat as its movement slackened and its life ended. Joe held the sack open and watched as Trey used his hand to slide the frog off of the barbs like he might a roasted marshmallow onto a graham cracker. Joe closed the sack and stowed it in the bottom of the boat. He grinned and turned and said, "That there's what I call a bullfrog, a few more and we might have a meal."

They were back in the open area of the swamp, puttering slowly and shining their headlamps across the dense edges of the swamp when they heard another call. Following it they steered the boat through an archway formed by two low hanging tupelo branches and once through they heard the call again, louder this time as Joe whispered, "Boy that sounds like a gang of em." He cut the engine and they floated for a moment before the call came again and Trey noiselessly pointed to a piece of driftwood that had lodged itself between the knees and the base of a towering cypress, its branches drooping low so that they had to crouch down in the boat as they glided below it. Like a lofted ball a subtle nod of understanding was passed between the two men as the calls grew louder and louder. As the boat sidled up to the fallen log Trey looked over the wet mass of it and saw four enormous bullfrogs ballooning like pufferfish. Joe passed Trey the gig spear and he held it hovering above the frogs, the barbs still wet with blood, when the

slick black mass of a cottonmouth fell from the branch above them into the bottom of the boat. Trey felt the hollow thud and heard Joe suck in his breath and stutter and yell for Trey to watch out and before Trey could fully turn to face the head of the snake floating above its body thick and coiled like rope he saw Joe with the shotgun aimed at the snake. The awful noise of the blast boomed and Trey watched the snake's lithe form shredded by pellets. As the powder smoke settled on what remained the two men watched as little spouts of water began to fountain up out of the floor of the boat and as the boat slowly sunk into the swamp the men felt the water running over the tops of their sneakers and as they frantically tried to find something to plug the holes with they both heard the call echoing out across the night... Jug-o-rum, jug-o-rum.

Second Place

Polaris Tale

By: Sydney Garcia

The universe is, predominantly, empty.

It is impossible for humanity, who is so surrounded by life and color and matter, to imagine such an emptiness. A vacuum. Years and years and years of nothingness not slow, meandering human years but light years, so blisteringly fast that distance is measured in time. Imagine you are within that nothingness. You feel nothing. You taste nothing. It is probable that you hear nothing. You smell whatever space smells like, which is gunpowder or raspberries or rum or metal or absolutely nothing, reports very. There is a lot of nothing. However, you see light. There are pinpricks of light all around you, stars stretching their long fingers billions of years into the future, into that relentless vacuum. You begin to move towards one of those minuscule dots of light, impossibly fast, and as the light-years pass the light grows brighter and brighter until you are standing next to a brilliant bubbling sphere that towers over you like a skyscraper over a flea. It is both a star and a person, and she is the protagonist of this story.

She does not understand space or time because she has nothing to compare or reference them by. She does not think in words because she has never heard or seen or touched a language. She does not feel lonely because she has never enjoyed the company of another. Always her body crackles and fuses and burns. Always her heart blazes. Always she siphons herself into strands of light and pours them out into the universe. And none of it matters because there is nothing and she is in the midst of nothing and maybe she is nothing, too. Until there is something.

Johnne squints through his tiny window, presses thick gloves against plastic and glass, and gazes into space. The stars seep together as his focus slips away, blurring and crossing each other in a kaleidoscope of light. He has been alone with the stars for two months. He has floated through the black, calculating and waiting. Now, he finally approaches the checkpoint. He will warp through space, and he will be farther from humanity than any other has been.

“All clear?” mission control asks.”

“All clear.”

“Preparing for warp travel,” the voice drones, “five, four, three, two...”

Johnne leans back and closes his eyes as space and time bend around him. She is surveying the surrounding sky when she sees it. It creeps toward her, singularly white against the dark sky. Things have moved towards her before, bits of ice or rock, and they have combusted and burned long before they came near her. She has never minded, beyond a fleeting feeling of disappointment and emptiness. And yet, this thing is different from anything she has seen. It is smooth and regular, divided neatly into sections with sharp angles. She does not want it to burn.

She pulls herself into another shape. She cools her core and feels herself gather into something almost solid. She thinks she has done so before. It feels familiar, like a memory glimpsed on the fuzzy edge of a dream. Her mind clearly knows more than it remembers, and she moves her body with an instinctual grace. She walks away from the rest of herself, the burning star behind her, and moves toward the ship. She reaches out a hand. Johnne opens his eyes. At first, it seems like nothing has changed. That is the strangest thing about warping, he thinks, that one could completely miss it if they weren’t paying attention. Punching a hole in spacetime should feel more violent. “Hello?” He calls into his coms, but mission control is silent. They had warned him that the warp may cut communications, yet he hadn’t truly prepared himself for the possibility. He pushes off a wall and hovers near the window again, pressing his face against it.

The sky is ablaze.

He blinks furiously as the fire comes into focus. There is something like a figure of flames, a beacon standing in the black. Although she must be light years from him, he is forced to tear his eyes away. She strides toward his ship as he watches in silent awe and terror, taking strides that stretch across hundreds of thousands of miles. His little patch of sky shifts in its window, and it takes a moment for him to realize the ship’s trajectory has changed.

When he looks through the window again, she is standing there. He keeps his gaze carefully to the side of her, trying to shake off the stubborn light clinging to the back of his eyelids. When his vision clears, he sees that the figure is less bright than before. A swirling mass of maroon with a metallic sheen hovers before him. Her skin whirls and spins like Jupiter’s storms, and her hair billows around her in tendrils of cooling embers. He is unsure how to interpret her face.

There is a reason Johnne is here, alone at the edge of the universe. When the mission had been proposed, others had shrunk back and averted their gazes. Most found the idea of traveling three hundred and twenty-three light years from earth to be paralyzing. Johnne had stepped forward, eyes wide open, eager to gain the privilege of exploration and discovery. He had imagined many things floating in the depths of the universe, but never a blazing alien. Mission control, if they were online, would tell him to stay inside the ship. Mission control, however, was not here. He begins to pull on his suit, and in a moment of inspiration he clips a backup speaker into his helmet. He doesn’t know if the figure communicates

auditorily but there’s no harm in being prepared. This, he thinks, preparing to leave the ship, is why everyone thinks I’m insane.

He leaps into empty space and closes the door behind him. The figure is more uncanny in person, and he feels a spike of adrenaline or fear.

“Hello,” Johnne says. “Good morning, Miss…,” he trails off, unsure. She understands the greeting but not the concept, the way he tracks time. His speech is a soft humming in her ears, slightly staticky because of the speaker.

She speaks a greeting back, surprised when her body vibrates with the sound. It feels foreign yet so natural. Johnne listens to the way her voice crackles and shifts, like rustling fire, and is dumbfounded to find the meaning is clear to him.

Stars and stardust. Scientists wouldn’t believe they could communicate, vocal cords and fire, but stardust knows and understands that which it comes from.

“Hello,” Johnne says again, a little bolder, “my name is Johnne. I am a human, from planet Earth. I have traveled farther from my planet than any before me. I’m pleased to meet you.” She stares at him in fascination. She has glimpsed other stars, but she has never met another living creature. He stands before her as a blurry mirror of her new shape, with four limbs and a head set atop a thin body. A white shell fits snugly around him.

“I…” she begins, grasping to find an identity, “I am…,” she points behind her, to where the rest of her body continues to blaze.

“The star,” Johnne breathes, and she turns the word over in her mind.

“The star,” she agrees, pleased to find a word to describe herself. “And I have been here since I became.”

“That, that’s amazing” John whispers, staring at her with a new fascination. She smiles, a bit awkwardly.

“Star,” she says carefully, “what does that mean? Is it just me or is it all of us?” she gestures to the galaxy surrounding her.

He opens his mouth and shuts it again. When words fail him, he remembers the map inside his ship. He has spent hours comparing the stars outside his window to the dots on the screen.

“Why don’t you come aboard,” he says, “I’ll show you.” He pauses. “Can you come aboard?” She doesn’t respond, but as Johnne watches she cools into something almost solid.

He opens the hatch, and she follows him aboard.

The ship is a feast for her starving mind. She is surrounded by strange, twisting contraptions, packed into the tight space. She watches as the hatch presses closed, excited yet slightly panicked in this strange, constrictive environment. Johnne holds up a hand, and she stares at it, unsure of what to do. She hovers nervously as he pulls himself free of his shell. His features are soft and cool and completely foreign. He looks terribly breakable and flammable. She has the sudden, horrible thought that she could destroy him with a touch and moves backwards.

Johnne strides past her and pushes some buttons. A map lights up and comes to life on a screen. She stares, fascinated, at the ocean of dots, each accompanied by a series of symbols.

“This is a map of the stars, from Earth’s perspective.” John fiddles with the map, zooming outward and shifting the screen. “It’s incomplete, of course, but we’ve done our best.” She gapes and leans so that he can feel the searing heat radiating off her. She reaches out a hand and hovers it before the screen.

“Can I?” she asks. Johnne wonders if her touch would damage the screen, before deciding he doesn’t care. He nods eagerly. She taps the screen and jerks her hand back. When it remains intact, she reaches forward again, this time with more confidence.

“What is this?” The screen has zoomed in on a string of stars.

“It’s, well, we call them constellations. They’re groups of stars, of sorts, to help us keep track of them.” She watches him intently, before swinging her burning gaze back onto the map.

“And what’s this one?”

“It’s, well,” Johnne shifts, biting the inside of his cheek. He suddenly feels very small and foolish. “This one’s Ursa Major. It’s… supposed to represent a bear.” He pauses.

“That’s a type of creature on Earth, it’s,” he gestures vaguely.

“I see,” she breathes. “Do you call all of them something? The stars?”

“Well, yes, names or numbers.”

“And groups of stars have shapes?”

“Not all of them.” She frowns, so he continues. “Well, a lot of them do.”

“Why is this one a… a bear? Why not something else?” Johnne hums.

“Well, someone looked at the sky one day, a long time ago, and thought some stars looked like a bear. That’s how all the constellations were made, I guess.” She taps at the map again. It doesn’t do anything, so Johnne teaches her how to move the screen. She clicks on star after star, pelting him with endless questions.

“And this one?” she asks.

“That’s Virgo.” She waits, expectant, until he continues. “She was part of an old story, of sorts.” Her eyes seem to glow brighter, and she grins. “She represents Persephone, who…” Johnne stops. Represents a maiden goddess of spring, who was abducted by the god Hades, he had been going to say. The story now seemed utter foolishness. The ethereal being in front of him had no concept of seasons or underworlds or petty gods. Persephone, in most of the old myths, had been weak and usable, a lesser goddess. Johnne looked at the star standing in the cockpit of his ship. He remembered how she had looked outside his ship, burning hotter than Earth’s sun. He glanced out the window to where the rest of her still burned as a gargantuan flaming sphere.

“It’s kind of stupid, actually,” he finally says. “It’s a dumb story.” Because who the hell was he, really, to assign a name to something like that. To someone like that.

“That’s okay,” she says. “Do…” she turns back toward the map. “Do I have one?”

“What?” Johnne asks, pulling together his thoughts.

“A name.” It takes a moment for Johnne to process her words. When he does, he blinks dumbly, feeling a little stupid and proud and nervous all at once.

“Polaris,” he says.

“Polaris,” she says. Again, “Polaris.” Slower, “Pol-ar-is.” She beams.

“Do I have a story?” Johnne almost says no, but he doesn’t want to steal that look from her face.

“Sort of,” he says.

“Tell me, please.”

And so he tells her, soft and quiet, about Earth’s North Star. He explains that humanity forms maps and calculations from her. He tells her how people looked up at her and found their exact location atop their little planet. He speaks of the countless who watched, on weary legs or turbulent seas, and followed her home. He tells her that everyone from every country speaks some form of the name Polaris. For one, magical moment in space and time, a star and a human being stand aboard a ship. They talk about planets and stories and names. Not all of it is recorded here, because some of their words are for them alone.

The conversation is cosmically improbable and more than a bit absurd, like all of the best things in the universe.

And like all of the best things in the universe, it comes to a close. Johnne can feel mission control lingering at the back of his mind, and he knows that they’re worried about him. Polaris has enjoyed her talk with Johnne as much as any moment in her existence, but she is ready to escape the confines of the ship and return to the open sky. Johnne pulls his suit on again and opens the hatch. They drift outside, hovering before the ship, hovering in this last moment of time before the universe exhales and their lives fall back into normalcy.

Third Place Getting

a Baby

By: Judith Anders

Authors Note:

Although this story is written in the style of a children’s book, it is undoubtedly not. I am completely against the idea of lying to children about where babies come from, and this story is more of a pondering for adults.

Once upon a time, there lived two children who wanted a baby. The pair had been friends ever since they first met. They couldn't say when, but it must have been a very long time ago, because their parents remembered and they didn’t. They spent their time in the garden, where their parents could watch over them. The ground was soft, the roses had no thorns and the walls were high. One day, as they played in the thornless rose bushes, they decided it was the day to finally do it. They would get a baby.

“Do you know how?” One asked the other.

“No, do you?”

“No, my parents won’t tell me.”

“Neither will mine.”

They brooded for a moment, but children never do that for long. “I know!” one exclaimed. “We can ask Child, Child knows everything.” and with that very practical idea in their heads, they leapt up from the flower bed and ran for the meadow.

The meadow wasn’t far from the garden. All their friends loved it, because while adults didn’t go there, it wasn’t so far that the children couldn't find them if they needed to. The adults didn’t come to the meadow because it was full of things that annoyed them. There were mud puddles, trees with low branches perfect for climbing, sharp rocks that you couldn’t see in the grass, bugs, rose bushes with thorns, and magical things that they said children would grow out of.

Once they reached the meadow, they found Child playing with the imaginary friends around the big rock in the middle of the meadow. There were lots of imaginary friends, and even

though some were completely not-human it was almost impossible to tell them apart from the real friends. The pair waved, and Child beamed at them.

“Hello!” Child exclaimed through gaps where baby teeth used to be. “What do you want to play?”

“We can’t play. We’re going to get a baby, and you know everything, so you can tell us where to get one,” they said.

The smile melted from Child’s face. “Oh, are you sure?”

“Of course, we are.”

Child sank into the grass and began tearing it up with their hands. It had always just finished raining in the meadow so when Child dropped down, there was the most wonderful squish.

“What’s wrong?” the children asked.

“Every time my friends ask me where to get a baby, they stop playing with me after.” Tears cut trenches through the dirt on Child’s face.

“No, that won’t happen!” the children exclaimed. “We promise, we’ll always want to play with you.”

Child shook their head. “No, you’re lying.”

Both children bent and wrapped their arms around Child, mud smearing from Child’s face to theirs as they embraced. “Yes, we will. We love you.”

Child stopped crying, but somehow didn’t seem comforted, and wiped their cheeks with a dirty hand. This only managed to spread the mess more evenly on their face. “If you really want a baby,” Child sighed, “you need to go to the dock. Fisher will tell you where to go from there.”

“Thank you so much.” With one final squeeze, the parents-to-be leapt up and ran in the direction of the dock.

They had been to the dock before. They never stayed long, but their parents were there every day. Sometimes they seemed happy, but most of the time they were just happy to leave. There were boats full of tools, tables covered in fish, and mountains of rope. There were some imaginary things there too, but most of the adults just ignored them.

Fisher lay in a hammock strung between two half-dead palm trees holding knitting needles as long as oars, and knitting a net. The net covered the ground, but Fisher didn’t act like it would be finished any time soon. The hammock swayed as the giant needles click-clonked a steady rhythm. The trees creaked ominously under the weight.

“Hello,” the children said tentatively. Adults usually didn’t like to be interrupted here. They didn’t know why, but the adults got annoyed more easily at the dock. Maybe it was the smelly fish or the constant muggy fog.

Fisher looked over as if noticing them for the first time. “Do you need help?” Fisher asked, never halting in their knitting.

“Child told us you knew where to get a baby.”

“Ah, you too.” Fisher pointed to a pile of rope on the ground. “Could you hand that to me please?”

The children bent and, straining with their entire bodies, lifted the rope into the hammock. The trees groaned.

“Thank you.” said Fisher.

“You’re welcome.” The children looked around at the vast net on the ground. There was so much net that they could hardly see the pebbles of the beach. It piled in waves around them, so tall that they threatened to hide Fisher in the hammock. “When will you be finished with this?” they asked.

“Soon hopefully. I need to catch some fish.”

The children looked at the tables of fish intermingled with the net. “But you have fish.”

“Yes, but when those are eaten, I’ll need more, and I’d like to eat them knowing that I won’t have to make another net next time I get hungry.” The hammock bobbed as the Fisher shoved a fresh pile of net out onto the ground. “But about your question, if you want a baby you should sing to the water and that will get you to Maker.”

“Thank you.” The children waved and waded through the net toward the edge of the water.

“What should we sing?” one asked the other.

“I don’t know, do you?”

“No, no one will tell me.”

“Nor me.”

Without thinking very hard, they decided to make something up. They had never sung to water before and, as you know, no one had ever told them how, but they couldn’t have been that bad because the water began to stir.

“Do you think that’s supposed to happen?” one asked.

“I don’t know.” replied the other as storm clouds roiled overhead. This was very strange, as the sky had been clear all day, except for the fog, of course. Before they could wonder

anymore, the wind swept them up off the beach and into the sky. They clung to each other as their clothes and hair whipped around them. They weren’t frightened. They had flown before, as all children do at one point or another, they were just surprised to be doing it with someone else.

“Look!” One shouted above the sound of the wind. Not far off was a stark white island with nothing but one building on it. They tried to make out what kind of building it was, but they were flying in so fast that they barely had time to catch themselves as they crashed onto the beach. They groaned, rubbing their bruised knees.

“Oh goodness!” A voice exclaimed.

They looked up from the tiny white rocks of the beach. Maker sat in a rocking chair on the porch of a shack. Wispy white hair fluttered in the wind around their head. “You shocked me,” they said and dropped a block of wood and a carving knife into a basket next to the chair.

“Didn't you hear us coming?” the children asked.

“Well of course, but just because you fly doesn’t mean you’re coming here. Some people do it just for fun and some people do it trying to find me but can’t for some reason. But anyway,” Maker clapped their hands on the arms of the chair and pushed themselves up with a groan, “come inside.”

The children helped each other up and followed Maker inside. The shack was full to bursting with cradles. There were carved cradles on rockers, wicker cradles, tiny hammocks hanging from the rafters, dresser drawers, baskets on tables, even boxes on the floor, and every one held a little wooden baby. Maker ambled across the room. As they did, the cradles all shifted like they had suddenly grown legs. They whirled around Maker in a blur until one wooden baby was plucked from the bunch, and all stopped as if they had never moved at all.

Maker turned to them, wooden baby in hand. “Here you are.” They placed the baby in the children’s arms and started back to the porch.

The children took the baby and beamed down at it, but there was a problem. It was just wood. It wasn’t alive.

“Wait.” They said to Maker, “How do we make it alive?”

Maker turned, “I don’t know. You’ll have to ask Fisher.”

They followed Maker out the door but when they emerged, they were standing on the docks surrounded by waves of net. The island, the shack, and Maker were all gone. The clickclonck of Fisher’s knitting needles drew their attention to the hammock again. They

couldn’t tell if the mounds of net had gotten larger. There was so much, it seemed to get lost in itself.

“Fisher!” they called as they made their way across the beach.

“Oh, you’re back.” Fisher sat up. The sound of the needles ceased for the first time the children could remember. “Can I see the baby?” Fisher’s eyes were wide with wonder. They looked almost like Child’s eyes.

The children held the wooden baby up for Fisher to see.

“How perfect.” they exclaimed.

“But it isn’t. It isn’t alive.” The children cried.

Fisher looked closer. “Oh, I suppose you’re right.” the sparkle vanished from their eyes as quickly as it came.

“What do we do?”

“I have no idea. Maybe go ask Child.” Fisher batted a hand at them and resumed knitting.

The children were growing frustrated. Their knees were bruised and their ankles kept getting caught in the net but they didn’t want to lose hope. Child had to know how to make their baby alive.

“Could you stay a while?” Fisher asked as the children struggled to untangle themselves from the net.

“No we can’t. We have to make our baby alive.”

“Oh, that can wait.” The children tripped and fell but Fisher ignored their cries. “This net is important, you know. I need fish!”

“You already have fish!” one shouted, pulling the other from the nets.

“Yes, but I want more.” Fisher whined.

“Come on let's go.” The children cried to each other, finally free from the net. They ran with rope-burned ankles and hands as Fisher shouted to them with the same dull eyes as before.

They found Child in the Meadow sleeping on the rock, in the sun.

“Hello!” the children called, limping slightly and clutching the wooden baby. The sharp rocks and mud puddles didn’t seem as fun as before. They just made them trip and sucked their shoes off their feet.

Child sat up and rubbed their eyes. As they did, imaginary friends began to pop up out of the grass and run, or fly, or dance toward Child. By the time the pair had reached the rock, it was drowning in make-believe.

“Oh, you’re back.” Child smiled at them

“Yes, can you help us? Our baby isn’t alive.”

Child reached down with dirty hands. The children laid their wooden baby gently in Child’s arms. “Please don’t tell us that you don’t know. That's what everyone says and it’s exhausting.”

Child held the baby close and stroked its wooden head. “Oh, don’t worry. Your baby will come alive on its own.”

“But when?” the children asked

“You shouldn’t worry about that.” Child kissed the baby’s head. The two of them had never seen Child so still. Child sat on the rock enraptured by the baby as imaginary friends oohed and awed around them. Child touched the baby's little fingers and little toes, cradled the little head and blew on the little face. “See, there it is now.” And the baby opened its eyes.

…….

Some time passed after that. They couldn’t tell you how long but their baby had started running around in the garden. The two of them had become very careful. They cut the thorns off the rose bushes, kept rocks out of the soft ground and repaired the high walls whenever they needed to. When they weren’t at the dock fishing, they sat in the garden and watched over their child.

One day they were walking near a meadow, swinging their child between them. It was a pretty place but they didn’t like to go there. It was full of mud puddles, tall untrimmed trees, sharp rocks that one could easily trip over, bugs, thorny rose bushes, and silly things that they had no use for.

Their child pointed to the meadow, tugging on their hands. “Play! Want play!” a cloud of hair bounced around the little face.

The parents let their eyes sweep over the meadow, looking for dangers in the grass, but stopped, suddenly. The sun shone down on a rock in the rolling sea of grass. A small figure lounged on the rock, soaking in the warmth. Their hair was matted, their clothes were ripped and dirty, and their face was smeared with mud.

Something came over them as they held their child back from running into the meadow. It felt like a cup of hot cocoa on a rainy day, or the moment of release after a good cry. It started in their hearts and escaped through their mouths in a deep sigh.

They knelt and kissed their child. “Run along.”

And the living baby ran into the meadow.

Honorable Mention Axel

By: Eva Juneau

I let out a deep breath and glanced at the clock on the wall, ticking slowly. The room was silent besides the soft sound of a tick.

Tick.

Tick.

Tick.

You may be wondering where I am. I’m supposed to be taking a test, something I’m very familiar with. The room was lit up with uncomfortably bright white lights. The flat, white walls had a general tile ceiling and a fake marble floor. The professor was sitting at his large wooden desk, scrolling through his phone with his covered feet resting on top. His chair was leaning back at an almost concerning angle; his body pointing upwards and his head slightly downwards. He wore a casual blue button-up shirt with black pants and ventage black dress shoes.

Everyone was sitting at their fake wooden desks, their heads looking down while they scribbled on the papers or typed in the calculator. I was looking at the clock. I suppose from an outside perspective, it would appear as if I’m thinking, thinking about how to solve this question. I guess you could say I am.

I know how to solve this problem. However, I can’t think of where to begin. I glanced down at my paper again. A jumble of letters and numbers that usually makes perfect sense to me suddenly appears to be in a different language.

You’re going to fail. You aren’t smart enough to pass this test. Everyone else has it together except you.

Tick.

Tick.

Tick.

Tick.

You’re just going to let the time go by like this? You’re such an idiot. You won’t finish in time if you keep going at this pace.

I started to write down an idea on the paper in front of me, but when I looked at my work, none of it made sense. I felt anger bottle inside of me.

How could I be so stupid? What is wrong with me?

I glanced up at the clock again. Is it hot in here? Why am I sweating? I felt the light water drops begin to form on my forehead, my body feeling hot. My clothes were starting to stick to me. I was wearing a pink spaghetti strap shirt with a blue summer jacket over it, as well as skintight blue jeans. I preferred dressing in a casual way. Will my clothes stink now that I’m sweaty? God, I hope I don’t smell bad.

Great, now everyone will smell you and think your scent is horrendous. They will talk about how disgusting you are. They will laugh about how you need to learn what soap and deodorant is.

I gulped, feeling a tightness grow in my throat. I felt like I was breathing through a small straw. It felt as if my throat was narrow, as if someone was slightly choking me. I couldn’t take a full breath in; my stomach was tied in knots.

Now you can’t breathe? Everyone will think you are so fat that you can’t even breathe properly when sitting down. You’re so overweight. You will never be loved. You’re a fat pig.

I could feel my heartbeat through my chest. It felt like a soft punch to the chest that also somehow made a muffled sound in my ears.

Thump.

Thump.

Thump.

Thump.

I glanced at the clock again. Is time moving faster? I felt my heart sink to my stomach. I felt sick like I needed to throw up.

I could hear people scribbling on their papers and erasing their work, frustrated. People were aggressively typing numbers into their calculator. Why is everything so loud?

Here I am, stuck on this one stupid problem. Question one, dividing a polynomial by a binomial using long division. I knew how to set up the problem. I knew the first step. But I didn’t know how to get from step one to step two. And it was driving me insane.

I kept hearing the clock ticking, my heart beating, the pencils, the buttons being pushed.

Someone put their pencil down and slammed it onto the desk, causing me to flinch. They stood up, the chair making a very loud scraping sound against the floor as they did. I could hear their footsteps walking to the front desk, where the professor sat, and then out the door they went, the door squeaking silently as it opened and making a gentle, forcefully quiet noise as it closed. The weight of the door slamming made a thump.

Soon, another person did the same thing. Then another. And another.

I grinded my teeth against each other. I wanted to cry, but crying in a classroom isn’t acceptable. I glanced down at my paper. I wasn’t trying to pay attention to anyone else. But as more students stood up and handed in their tests, I felt my vision become blurry with tears. I knew if I blinked, a tear would escape. I couldn’t blink. I couldn’t breathe. If I breathed, everyone would hear my shakiness.

I felt like I was spiraling. Like I was falling inside a black hole and there was no escape. Like I was neck deep in quicksand and there was nothing else to do except to just accept my fate. Like I’m wearing a steak around my neck while surrounded by a pack of hungry wolves. Like I was drowning, but there’s no surface to swim up to.

I feel like I’m dying.

You are dying.

I don’t know what to do.

You only have one more opti-

“Hey,” my friend, Jase, whispered to me. This snapped me out of my train of thought. I blinked and glanced at him. Jase had been my friend since middle school. We were each other’s ride or die. He looked at me with his concerned brown eyes, a soft frown on his lips. His tanned skin was perfect.

Unlike yours.

His light brown hair was short, but slightly falling in front of his eyes. His hair was so smooth.

Unlike yours.

He rubbed my arm with a gentle touch. He was wearing a gray Nike hoodie and shorts that were above his knees and loose around his thighs. His voice was a tender whisper, making sure no other listening souls could hear him except for me.

“Are you okay?” He slowly moved his hand to mine to gently wrap his fingers around mine. I looked at our hands intertwining with each other, then I looked back at him. He seemed to be waiting for an answer. The truth, specifically.

“I’m fine,” I whispered back shortly, pulling my hand away and looking back at my test. I didn’t have time for feelings. I needed to get this done. But he knew I was only lying. He let out a sigh.

“I know you aren’t,” he whispered, “look, we can talk about this later when we have more ti-“

“I said I’m fine,” I said, my voice louder than I previously anticipated. I saw everyone staring at me. The professor even glanced up from his phone, surprise and confusion in his eyes. I looked around the room, everyone’s prying eyes were locked onto me like I was some type of criminal.

I feel insane.

It will stay that way forever.

Selfish beneath the skin, but deep inside, I’m not insane.

Yes, you are.

I’m not insane, I’m not insane.

You are insane, you are insane.

I’m not insane, I’m not-

You’re insane.

Jase seemed shocked with the way I snapped at him. I’m shocked too. I abruptly stood up, ran out the room, and left the situation, my heavy footsteps echoed through the hallway. This is when my tears finally escaped. I wiped them angrily and felt my breathing quicken, but I didn’t care. I needed to get to safety, and my only safe place right now was my car. I made my way to the stairs and froze.

The stairs appeared narrower, going down at almost an impossible angle. I was breathing quickly. My legs were shaky. I felt lightheaded. Like if I don’t get to safety soon, I would pass out and die.

You’re going to die.

I needed to get down. The elevator wasn’t quick enough, but I felt stuck. I felt like one more step and I would collapse.

I needed to throw up. I needed to get to my car and turn on the AC, but I couldn’t even move.

Coward.

I gulped and slowly took a step down. My foot felt like it took forever to reach the first step, and it was horrifying. One wrong step and I may never wake up again. My body was sweaty to the point where I could feel the air against my wet skin. My clothing was probably visibly drenched. This made my anxiety worse. I was cold, hot. I don’t know who I was, but I needed to get down those stairs.

Step by step, I slowly placed one foot after another.

Halfway down.

I felt so lightheaded, so weak, but I needed to do this. I had no choice.

Step by step, foot by foot.

I felt like my vision was fading. Thankfully it wouldn’t take me long to get to my car once I was fully down.

Just step by step.

Finally, my foot touched the safe ground. I made it down the stairs. I walked out of the building and dashed outside to where my car was, digging in my pocket for my keys.

My vision felt blurry. I was about to pass out. I’m going to die.

No. I’m not going to die.

I pressed the unlock button on my keys and got inside my car as quickly as possible. I practically shoved the key inside the ignition and turned it. Hearing several beeping sounds, the engine started up and the lights in the car flashed. Then, I felt the cool air hit my sweaty face.

My vision cleared up. I was safe. I leaned back into my seat and took heavy breaths, closing my eyes. My lips were parted open slightly for me to breathe through.

I’m finally safe. I’m okay. I’m going to be okay.

I slowly opened my eyes and looked at my surroundings. The interior of my car was an offtan color with a gray steering wheel. I placed my hand on the steering wheel gently, feeling the tight stitches that had been made in the material. I looked through the window, seeing an anthill of cars parked all around mine. Most cars were empty, some had other people in them just like me.

People just like me.

The thought gave me a bit of hope. Everyone is here for a similar reason. To get what they want in life. Nobody is focusing on me. Nobody cares that deeply about me. People care about their own concerns and goals. I’m safe here.

The icy cold AC sent a shiver down my spine. I looked at the vents as they made a soft whistle. It wasn’t annoying. It was loud, but not annoying. I grabbed the knob and turned it a few levels down, the cool plastic feeling very familiar against my fingertips.

I rubbed the smooth plastic. In an odd way, touching my surroundings reminded me where I truly am. It reminded me that I’m not in a war zone. I’m not dying. I’m sitting in my car, the air blowing in my face and the engine running quietly.

I leaned back in my seat again, placing my hands in my lap and staring out of the windshield. I let out a sigh. I was so mean to Jase. I need to apologize. He was only wanting to help.

And that is why he will hate you after this. He’s probably always hated you. He just pitied you.

“Would you shut up!?” I yelled, not necessarily at anyone. I wasn’t really sure who I was talking to. But I needed to scream. I felt my hands clenched into a fist, my knuckles turning white with the force of my grip. My breathing felt tight and strangled. Was there something here? Something choking me?

No, that’s impossible. Nobody could be choking me. There’s nobody else here. That’s such a silly thought. I shook my head and took a deep breath in through my nose, letting out a long sigh through my lips.

I’m fine. Everything is fine. I’m… fine.

You will never be fine.

I saw a movement in the rear-view mirror that wasn’t my own. I glanced up and let out a yelp.

There was a person in the back seat. This person looked like me, but different. The entity had red eyes, like some kind of demonic being. She had long black hair, contrasting my long blonde hair. The being wore pale foundation and contour, making her appear ghost white. I wore highlighter and light blush to make myself appear brighter, more welcoming. The person wore what appeared to be a black cloak from the small image I could see in the mirror.

But despite these differences, me and this person had the same exact face. We looked like twins with different aesthetics. But she looked horrible. She wasn’t ugly, but more… terrifying.

My hand raised up and swung aggressively at the mirror. The plastic broke and the mirror fell in the passenger seat of the car.

“.. Shoot,” I muttered.

“Why did you do that?” The mysterious person asked. “You broke your dang car for no reason,” she criticized. I turned my body around and glared at her.

“Oh, I don’t know. Maybe because there is a stranger in my car? Maybe that contributed to why I broke the rear-view mirror?” I spat out with a cold bitterness towards this person. The girl only chuckled softly.

“Honey, you’re blind. Did you not see me sitting next to you in class? I’m always sitting next to you in algebra. We went to high school together. Don’t you remember? Or are you too stupid to realize you need to be aware of your surroundings?” The girl said. Her voice was calm but cold. I narrowed my eyes at her, clenching my fist.

“Get out of my car how did you even get in here!?” I yelled. I felt a mixture of fear and anger inside of me as I spoke to the strange woman in my car. Have I seen her before? I felt like I knew her on a personal level. I felt like I met her. But I’m not sure where. She smiled.

“Darling, always remember to lock your car doors. You don’t know who or what could come in,” she said. For once, I agree with her. Locking my car door was a smart idea. She opened the car door and stepped outside, dusting her cloak off as she pulled her hood up. I got out of my car as well.

“You can’t just leave! You have to tell me who you are at least. And tell me why you were in my car just now. Why are you doing this?!” I asked as I walked to her. She was a bit taller than I was. I was standing at five feet, four inches. She was probably around five feet, nine inches. I had to look up at her to see her face. Her entire body was covered up beside her face and a few loose strands of hair slipping out from underneath her cloak. She placed her hands behind her back, her right hand loosely wrapped around her left. She leaned down to me, to match my height.

“Name’s Axel. I’ve been around since your ninth-grade year - the year after your mother decided to attempt suicide in sixth grade. Remember? You had to get out of in person school for years to cope. I saw you walk into ninth grade, nervous as ever. You were never the same since that happened to you.” I felt my face go pale. How did she know? I took a step away from her, my eyes shifting from anger to confusion and fear. She continued, “On your first day back to public school, you were the talk of the class. People thought you were dead,

attempted suicide just like your mother had. People made fun of you for it. Pushed you around, made cruel jokes that they knew would trigger you. I watched this all from a distance,” She explained.

“Why didn’t you stop them?” I asked, feeling my face get hot with how many emotions I was overwhelmed with. I was scared, angry, confused, hurt... you name it. I probably felt every negative emotion noted in history.

“You really think they would listen to someone like me? You never paid attention to me. You always ignored me,” her voice started raising in volume, “every time I tried to do something good for you, you never paid attention to me! You ignored me! Just like everyone else ignores me! You are as horrible as your bullies!” She let out an angry growl as she took a step towards me. I took another step back.

“You’re as horrible as everyone who hurt you. All those years you suffered, you were also hurting me. Making me more bitter,” her voice was now softer. She wasn’t yelling. She was... almost whispering. “Take a look around.”

I glanced at my surroundings. I was no longer outside, but inside of my ninth-grade English classroom.

The room had the same bothersome light as the previous classroom I was in. However, the walls were decorated with color. There was a pink board that had bold, blue letters on it, spelling out “A ESSAYS” with a few documents pinned to the board. The classroom also had the same wooden desks, and a similar style in flooring and ceiling. However, there was another board that was blue, outlined “vocabulary words of the week” with various words pinned to the board. There were other colorful boards with other things about the lessons. The objective of the day, the unit we were in, and other things such as that.

Axel was sitting next to me. She had one leg crossed over another. She appeared a bit shorter than me. Her hair was in pigtails, braided and reaching to her mid-back. Her hair was still black. She had nothing on her desk, unlike the other students who were working on annotating an article. She wore a black hoodie with blue jeans and a pair of black converse. She had no makeup on except for black eyeliner and a touch of highlighter to bring out her nose and cheekbones. She appeared to be about ten years old. What was she doing in a ninth-grade class? Perhaps she just looks younger than what she is. She had a baby face, so she could be much older.

I was wearing a pink hoodie with gray sweatpants and gray winter boots with a ponytail that slicked all of my hair back tightly. I didn’t have any makeup on. I looked tired. I was about fourteen at the time, and the same height as I am now. I stopped growing when I was around thirteen. I hit puberty slightly early. My mom attempted suicide and I had my first menstrual cycle not long after. Then came acne, hormonal imbalances, and weight gain in my chest and hips. I always thought I was overweight because of this. It was just my body going through changes earlier than I would’ve appreciated.

“You need to do this right, you know. Here, allow me to give you a boost,” she offered. However, I didn’t have any response towards her. I was silent, staring at my paper. Why was I ignoring her? She kept talking to me, yet, I never said a word to her. I seemed frustrated. I gripped my hair with one hand, scribbling words with my other hand.

“Anna. Listen to me. I’m not as bad as you think. Just give me a chance, please,” Axel practically begged. I didn’t acknowledge her existence. I narrowed my eyes, my grip tightening on my pencil. I looked like I wanted to break the pencil.

“I know I’ve been mean lately, but if you just... work with me, we can both be better,” she suggested. Her voice sounded impatient, and a bit desperate.

“Could you just leave me alone?” I said, snapping at her and turning her direction. The teacher glanced up at me. The teacher was at her computer, typing away at God knows what. Probably writing an email to students to remind them to do their homework. She wore black rectangular glasses that rested on her ears and nose. Her skin was a dark chocolate brown color, her hair up in a messy ponytail; it seemed she didn’t put any effort in fixing her curly hair today. She was wearing a plaid-button-up shirt with blue jeans and checkered vans. She was a bit on the thicker side, but she was still stunning.

“Who are you talking to?” She asked, but didn’t allow me to answer, “You know what? I don’t want to know. Just behave.” By this point, the other students were staring at me. I shrunk in my green, uncomfortable seat, looking back at my paper.

You didn’t listen to me.

My reality snapped back to normal. I was standing outside, in front of Axel. There was a gentle breeze in the air, shifting the leaves back and forth and making my hair flow towards the South slightly.

“You ignored me even when all I was trying to do was help. Now, I will make sure you have no choice but to listen to me.” ~~~

I had a hard day today. I still needed to apologize to Jase, but I needed to do that when I’m fully calm and recharged from today. I closed my eyes. I was in my comfortable memory foam mattress. The fitted sheets were a light blue with a matching dark and light blue checkered quilt. My room had blue LED lights on the top corners of the ceiling. Is it obvious what my favorite color is? My walls were painted white with a pink carpet as the flooring.

I pulled my soft, weighted quilts above my shoulders and sighed heavily, closing my eyes. The blanket felt cool due to the air blowing on it, but warm due to the comfortable weight from the blanket. I shifted a bit, my back against the bed with my knees up. My feet were softly planted on the mattress, my head on my pillow. I stared up at the ceiling. I didn’t glance at the time, but I knew it was around eleven at night. I was so exhausted, but I felt too anxious to sleep. I closed my eyes and laid there for what felt like an eternity, but I couldn’t sleep. Nothing I did helped.

I turned, tossed, shifted, curled up and stretched out. I even tried to cover my head with my pillow to shut my thoughts out.

My mind wouldn’t stay quiet.

The voice in my head was a whisper, but as I continued to stay awake, as I continued to shift in my bed - the mattress squeaking as I did so - the voice got louder. I gritted my teeth together. I felt my stomach begin to turn, flipping around inside my body and swirling like a tornado. My heart was speeding up like a car in the acceleration lane, about to drive onto the interstate. My heart was quick, but so was my breathing.

No, no, no. Please. Not this again. Not another panic attack. Please. My hands went into my hair as I curled up in a ball. My tight hands pulled on my golden locks as my eyes closed. Please make it stop. Please. I can’t take this again.

You are never going to feel better.

Will I ever feel better?

You will always be anxious. You will never win against me. I am in control.

“Would you shut up?” I snapped breathlessly, sitting up. I glared around the room, looking for anything that could be the source of this voice. I felt like I was going insane, and I didn’t know the cure. My stern look softened and I let out a shaky sigh. I needed to focus on staying calm. I needed to stay calm. Just breathe, Anna. Just breathe.

I took a deep breath through my nose, exhaling through my mouth. As I did this a few times, I felt slightly calmer, but my heart was still beating heavily. I usually call Jase when I need time away from my thoughts.

Jase…

I probably pushed him away. I frowned at the thought, glancing over at my phone on the nightstand next to my bed. It was a fairly large phone. Not new for sure, but it worked for what I wanted to do. I grabbed it and as I did, the screen lit up. I had it on silent mode, but I could see I had two missed calls from Jase and a few texts as well. I took another deep breath.

It was currently eleven fifty at night. Jase would be awake, but would he want to talk to me? All he was trying to do was help, and I pushed him away like an old toy.

“You feel horrible, don’t you?” I heard a familiar voice say. I yelped and threw my phone towards the darkness which I heard it come from. Axel stepped out of the shadows, holding my phone. “You suck at chucking things at people you don’t like,” she said nonchalantly, tossing the phone onto my lap. It didn’t hurt me, it just plopped onto my lap upside down.

“How did you even get here?” I growled out, narrowing my eyes and staring into her deep, dark red eyes. She only chuckled.

“Ever heard of locking your door?” She said in a mocking tone. “You worry about it daily and impulsively make sure your doors are locked every day. But this is the one day you forgot.” She smiled in a way that made me sick to my stomach.

“Can you please leave me alone?” My voice was angry, but this was just a mask. Deep down inside, all I wanted to do was cry like I’ve never cried before. I wanted to let out all my emotions in a way words could never express. I felt my eyes well up with tears. The room was dark, but dimly lit by the LED lights. I was hoping Axel couldn’t see my tears begging to escape. She walked over to my bed and sat down by me. I scooted away and curled up into myself. My knees were firmly pressed up against my chest, my arms wrapped around my legs in a way to soothe myself. She was sitting at the left upper corner of my

bed, sitting on my favorite pillow to sleep on. Her legs were spread out on the bed, slightly turned towards me as her hands were calmly resting on her lap.

“You do realize I’m not only a villain,” her voice was softer than usual. “You need me in your life. You just don’t understand this yet,” she said, her head turned towards me. Her expression was unreadable. I gritted my teeth together and looked away, shutting my eyes tightly. I felt like a little child who was just lectured by their parents, and the parent was pretending nothing was wrong.

“Leave me alone...” I whispered out weakly, my voice shaky. My eyes sealed tighter to prevent a tear from escaping.

We sat there for a moment, in silence. The air was cold, the silence uncomfortable and unsettling for both of us. I was trying not to cry. She had an unreadable expression.

“You can’t shut everyone out every time you don’t feel well. Their hatred will only grow,” Axel broke the silence. I glanced at her as she continued.

“You can’t shut out what matters. You can’t ignore the things you need. You will never get better.” Her voice wasn’t hurtful. She wasn’t bitter or sarcastically happy. She was being genuine, open. “I’m willing to start over. You should start by calling Jase, however. I will be in the living room if you need me.” She said, standing up and walking away, seemingly fading into the darkness like some type of phantom.

I took a moment to sit there and think about what the other said, letting her words process in my mind. I saw my phone light up; it was another text from Jase. I watched as my phone slowly turned black again, sitting a few inches away from me. Slowly, I leaned over and reached out to grab my phone.

My anxiety was intense, but also relaxed. It was a strange feeling. I was nervous about the phone call, but I knew what I had to do. I allowed my phone to identify my face and went to the phone app, pressing on Jase’s contact.

I could hear soft ringing against my ear. I bit my lip and anticipated hearing his voice.

“Anna, oh my God,” he began, “you had me so worried! Why did you just run out like that?” He asked. “Please tell me the truth, I want to help.”

“I was having a panic attack. I have an F on that test now. I guess it doesn’t really matter,” I sighed. “I’m sorry I worried yo-“

“Oh my God. Shut up,” Jase said jokingly, causing me to let out a weak chuckle. “Don’t worry about that stupid test. I talked to the professor, and he is allowing you to have another chance. I said you got sick and ran out to throw up.”

My eyes widened at that.

“You did that for me? Why?” I asked.

“Because… Because I love you, dummy.” He let out a sigh. “Look, I’m not good with emotions or whatever. It’s something I need to work on. But I know I love you, and I only want what is best for you.”

I took a moment to process his words, feeling a stupid smile grow on my lips.

“You… love me?”

“I said it like, three times“

“Twice,” I corrected.

“Whatever.” I could almost see Jase roll his eyes. “You know what I mean. I love you. I have for… A while now.”

I let out a genuine laugh. A laugh that was deep from my chest.

“I love you too. Do… you want to go on a date tomorrow or something?” I felt anxious, but the good kind of anxious. It was a childish excitement, like a kid asking their mom to buy a toy.

“Yeah, that’s fine. I don’t have work tomorrow.” His voice was attempting to stay calm, monotonous. I could tell he was very happy, though. Even though I couldn’t see him, I knew that weird boy on the other side of the phone was smiling.

~~~

It was six in the afternoon. Jase would be at my appointment at any moment now. The sun was shining through the window, the setting sun brightly luminating the room. I paced back and forth in my living room, the converse dragging against the soft brown carpet underneath my feet. The room was a basic white room, nothing special. The apartment I lived in wasn’t

horrible, but it wasn’t great either. Though, it had what I needed, so that’s all that truly matters.

Axel was sitting on the dark brown couch, legs crossed over each other and her feet pulled close to her hips. She was still wearing her cloak, but her makeup wasn’t as intense today. All she wore was black eyeliner and lipstick, nothing that made her appearance genuinely scary.

I saw the truck pull into the parking lot. The boy, however, is a terrible driver. His front tires hit the curb. I knew he probably said a swear word or two. The thought made me smile to myself.

“Hey, Axel?” I said softly, turning towards her. She glanced up at me wordlessly.

“Thank you. For last night,” I added. She only smiled. As I saw her fade out of existence, I knew I was ready for this date.

More Fiction

Yours Above All

By: Elizabeth Elliot

July 3, 1945

My Dearest Elenor, Do you remember the day I left to join the Army? You begged me to stay, and there were tears in your beautiful brown eyes. I told you I couldn’t stay. I told you our country needed all the help she could get. You got all serious and drew yourself up like the strong woman I know you are. You brushed off your cheeks and made me promise you something. "Come back," you said. "I don’t care how you do it. I don’t care how long it takes. Just come back, and come back alive." Do you remember my response? If you don’t, I’ll remind you. I told you, "Close your eyes, my love." Then I kissed you and said, "I’ll be back before you have time to open them." To this day, I don’t know whether you watched me leave. I hope you didn’t. I hope you held on to that moment for as long as you could. 'Goodbye' is certainly the hardest word in English to say, because of all the baggage that comes with it. I believed what I said to you; I thought all of this would stop as quickly as it started. I know it’s been almost five years since I left. I know my letters are few and far between. I know how hopeless the state of the world seems right now. But I promised you I’d come back, and as your husband, I don’t break promises. I never have, I never will. And once I am home, I am home forever.

On the brighter side of things, my job here on the base is spectacular. I am an escort to the pilot of a special type of bomber, one of two. That’s all I can really tell you, the rest is sensitive. The pilots have become so bored that they’ve named the bombs they’re carrying. One is named 'Little Boy', the other is 'Fat Man'.

Let me know how you are, and how Caroline is, too. It’s still unreal to me that I have a four-year-old daughter I’ve never met. Written words can convey only so much, my dear. I look forward to the day when physical touch can do our feelings justice.

~ Yours, above all

May 22, 1952

My Dearest Elenor, Had anyone told me that, just seven years after returning home from Japan, I would be in the jungles of politically-divided Korea, I would not have believed them. Yet here I am, away from you again, as much as it breaks my heart. Had I the choice, I would have stayed in the States with you and the children, without a second thought. But the U.S. is needed here. We are aiding the Koreans in claiming their independence. There have been one or two commanding officers who vaguely remember my face. They say I haven’t aged a day, and I blame you and your magic in the kitchen. After all, delicious food does a body good. From what you’ve said in your letters, Caroline has become quite like you since I’ve been gone. I’m glad to hear that you have help caring for the five boys. Let her know how proud I am of her, and that I love her very, very much. I will be back before you can open your eyes, my dear.

~ Yours, above all

December 10, 1969

My Dearest Elenor, For years, I said I could leave the world of warfare behind me and take up a civilian life. But time has passed, and it seems to have forgotten me. I stand here, gazing into a shard of a broken mirror, shaving my face, and the face of a twenty-oneyear-old infantryman is looking back at me. His is the same face that came with me into Japan and Korea, and it’s the same face that I see now in southern Viêt Nam. For all I’ve been told, there’s no explanation for it. Maybe it’s a blessing from God, that I am meant to help enslaved nations across the globe. Maybe it’s a wonder of science, or a side effect of all of the newfound uses of radiation. I can only speculate.

You say that letters from prestigious organizations have come in the mail for me. Throw them out. Unless they can provide us with a more comfortable living situation, they’re worthless. I’m a man, not a lab rat. I don’t wish to be studied or subjected to tests of any kind.

But enough talk about me. How are our beautiful children and grandchildren?

It is hard to believe that our youngest is now married with children of his own. I think about them a great deal, especially with the approach of Christmas. I would like to think I’ll be able to join you all soon enough, but I’ve learned not to hold out much hope. All the same, we will see each other again. In the meanwhile, happy holidays!

~ Yours, above all February

17, 2004

My dearest Caroline…

I would begin all of your mother’s letters like that, with her name instead of yours, of course. Did she ever share them with you? I always imagined that when she received them, she would gather up you and your brothers in the living room and read the words aloud. At least, most of the words. Some of what I wrote was between the two of us. You understand that much better now than you would have then. I miss her so much, and I know you do too. The two of you were thick as thieves; there was no separating you. You spoke a nonverbal language that, had I been able to learn it, would have served me well toward the end of her life.

In a way, though, I’m glad she’s at rest. I’m glad she can’t see what I’ve become. I made a promise to her years ago, when you were little. I told her I wouldn’t leave her. I promised. But things unfolded and my situation remained the same. I felt an obligation to use my blessings to help others. At least, that’s what I told myself. In reality, I had developed an obsession. I became addicted to the thrill of the battle, and when I was home, I felt uneasy and unhappy, because I believed I had no purpose. I never learned how to tolerate peace and quiet. I made myself a machine of war, a rundown dog that constantly required an escape route from the unfamiliar things in life. I became an intoxicated

monster, and I believe that is exactly what your mother feared for me.

These days, I fear for my life, more so now than ever. Modern warfare is a nightmare. The technological advancements that have been made seem to have happened overnight. The enemy is smarter and deadlier, and their plans involve the ruthless, senseless sacrifice of innocent lives. How people can be so uncannily cruel to each other…But you didn’t ask about such heavy topics.

Have I told you that your geneticist husband still contacts me on occasion, begging me to let his team 'fix me'? I’m able to laugh at it now. I really thought that at his age he would be able to see the beauty in meeting one’s great-grandchildren. It’s something that I have been fortunate enough to do, and I refuse to take it for granted, as long as I live.

~ Yours, above all November 3, 2006

My dearest Caroline,

There’s talk of the war ending soon. Saddam Hussein has been on trial since October of last year. The High Tribunal adjourned months ago and the verdicts should be delivered sometime this month. Regardless, it seems I’m not allowed home for a while. There’s still work to be done here in Iraq. People are still in great unrest, and removing American troops would do that unrest no good. It could be years before I’m allowed to see the family again.

To be quite honest, I don’t want to do this anymore, “this” meaning lots of things.

I’m very, very tired. I haven’t slept well in what feels like forever. Every night, without fail, some horrible memory of what I’ve seen or done comes to my mind. I wake up screaming, trembling, and in a cold sweat, and no matter what I do, I can’t shake the fear away. Worse still, these flashbacks follow me into the day. I’m often pulled from reality and into the past, where the ghosts of bullets are shot into my body again and again. I’m dragging myself across Hell’s terrain, my thoughts clouded by agony, too hoarse to cry for help. My fellow soldiers, my

friends, are bleeding and begging me to give their families their love. Because of this, I’m kept on edge constantly.

A significant part of me wants it all to end. I’ve thought more than once about putting my sidearm to my temple and finally getting the eternal rest that I’ve been deprived of for so long. I think about joining your mother, how nice it would be to see her again, how happy that would make me.

That’s a foreign word...happy. It’s been a long time since I’ve been happy with something in my life. Once I get home, I may take your husband on his offer to fix me...

~ Yours, above all

P.S. I think I’ll do as you suggested and start writing letters to Jack. He seems awfully intrigued by our time period.

August 15, 2021

Dear Jack,

I think it’s funny, the way you discourage me from writing you letters, despite the fact that I’ve been doing so for almost fifteen years. I’m “old-fashioned”, you say, which is undeniably true. After all, I can FaceTime you and your children now. Old habits die hard, I suppose. Do you still read my letters to them, per our family’s tradition? In any case, with the kind of news I have, an “old-fashioned” letter seems fitting.

Firstly, as you likely know, President Biden has pulled American troops out of Afghanistan with the arrival of the Taliban. I can’t put my detestation of that decision into words. When the Pashtun people needed us most, we abandoned them, “we” being the American government. No one who is actually overseas fighting for peace, aware of the oncoming nightmare, believes this is best for any of the involved parties. If anything, it destroys foreign faith in the United States and burns the bridges that connect us to the rest of the world. In my mind, we’re being dishonorably discharged. It’s with a heavy heart that I’ll return home, which creates a strange paradox in me, given how sorely I’ve wanted to return. As I write this, I realize that I am twenty-three years, one month, and twelve days shy of being involved in the military for a century...One hundred years spent

being unwaveringly fixed on one thing...It’s tragic, almost poetically so.

My second set of news is much less depressing. Quite the opposite, in fact. I finally have answers, explanations as to why I am the way I am. Forgive my flat affect. It seems I’ve fallen out of feeling anything but reservation and disappointment, as unfortunate as that is. It’s something that, in light of the legitimately joyous information I have, I plan to change.

As you know, I was fortunate enough for your grandfather’s research team to take on my bizarre case, in spite of his death. Over the weekend, I had my follow-up video appointment with the lab to discuss my results, which took much longer to produce than they had originally estimated. I suppose that’s what comes with being unique. What they said, in summary, is that my cells have abnormally large mitochondria. Their size allows them to break down lactate (the chemical that makes your muscles ache when you exercise) vastly more efficiently than the average human. The effects of large mitochondria, at least those of my specific mutation, manifest when one is subjected to extreme stress or trauma. This explains why I am frozen at twenty-one years of age, the age at which I joined World War II.

For all science knows, this condition is genetic and unalterable. One of your children may have inherited it, though I hope to God this isn’t the case. I wouldn’t wish such a horrible fate on them. The results have also concluded that I can, in fact, be killed, something I wasn’t certain of. I’m not sure how the lab determined this, I don’t pretend to understand, and I don’t feel like questioning it. It simply enforces what a miracle it is that I’ve survived all these years on the battlefield.

My only option now is to come home and live, something I intend to do. I’ve wasted too much time with death and terror; they will no longer be my companions. This is not to say that forging new relationships will be an easy process. My people skills are in a dire state and some therapy will certainly do me good. I plan to take up a handful of hobbies, decorate my house, adopt a dog, get a civilian job, and, of course, spend time with you and your children. Hopefully, my presence in your life won’t be too much of an inconvenience.

~ Yours, above all

By: Hanlin Riddle

As I sat at a table by the window and watched the pale blue sky above Grousburg slowly fade into a rich pink hue, I sipped my coffee and wished that I could be back home.

I was in the diner on Main Street. Jenny’s was the name. It was a fine diner back when it was open. The food, though a little pricey, tasted alright, and it was always warm inside whenever it was cold out like it was that day. There was even a piano in the corner of the room. But it didn’t matter to me how nice that little diner was that day because I was more worried about how long it would be before I could finally leave.

“What are you staring at?” it asked me. The “it” in question was an alien. Yes, a real alien. A creature from outer space. It was sitting at the table with me.

“Um,” I mumbled, slightly caught off guard, “I was just… looking at the sky.”

When I told it that, it looked out the window at the sky as I did a second before. The creature was a lot smaller than a human. It was about the size of a newborn baby, which is why it was sitting directly on the table instead of in a chair. It had green skin and was shaped sort of like a light bulb. It had several short antennas sticking out from its bulbous head. And it had sharp teeth, too. The only things remotely human about this creature were the Earth-issued collared shirt and khaki shorts that it wore.

“Interesting,” it muttered as it continued to stare out the window. “The sky on Stasia never morphs into different colors in such marvelous ways! On our planet, it is only ever a pale yellow during the day cycle.”

“Ah,” I replied, pretending to care. The novelty of being in the presence of an alien creature had mostly worn off at that point. I was more interested in the novelty of leaving and going home. But I couldn’t leave yet, because I was the one who was supposed to look after this alien.

You see, my father was the mayor of Grousburg at the time. When this alien arrived on our planet, the government decided that a small city like this one would be safest for the creature to visit, so they asked my father to show it the works. My father, being the mayor, was busy all of the time, as you would imagine. But somehow, he was so busy that day that he could not even find time to tour an alien creature around town, so he asked me to do it instead.

I didn’t mind looking after it for a little while, but I didn’t know doing so would take all day. The government wanted the creature to observe a variety of human activities and practices,

so we had to show it a lot. We had to take it to the cinema so that it could observe how humans entertain themselves. Then we had to take it to a farm on the outskirts of the city so that it could witness the process of growing earthly food. We even had to take it to the supermarket so that it could understand our economic system. Joy. I want to go home, I thought to myself again.

Jenny’s was crowded that afternoon. Lots of people would always go there around that time of day. It was exhausting just being there. I had always been exhausted by people in general, but especially large crowds of them. It didn’t help that the police officers that were assigned to accompany myself and the alien that day were over at the table across the aisle from us, being loud and obnoxious.

One of the officers–Harrison was his name–had just finished loudly telling a dirty joke to the other two. He and the officer named Bradford erupted into laughter. The third officer, Neddy Pennington, chuckled along with them, but covered his face in mild embarrassment.

The alien was curiously staring at the cops as their conversation progressed. “Excuse me, Mr. Fint?” it asked me after a moment.

“You know, you can just call me Sam,” I responded.

“Alright then. Let me try again. Excuse me, Sam?”

“Yeah?”

“I heard one of those officers use a word, but I do not remember ever hearing of it whenever I had first learned English. What is a ‘tushie’?” Are you kidding me.

“D-Don’t worry about it,” I answered quietly, looking around to make sure nobody had heard it say that. How I wished I could disappear at that moment and be back in my apartment. Alone, in my own small space, with everything I need.

I decided that I had better change the subject from the “tushie” thing. “How did you even learn English, anyway?” I asked the alien.

“I had it downloaded into my mind via my personal Orb. I learned it almost instantly!”

I had heard about these Orbs. On Stasia, these creatures had created a highly advanced machine of some kind that could overcome everyday problems similar to those that we face on Earth. I didn’t know much else about these gizmos other than the fact that their invention was Stasia’s shining achievement.

Suddenly, I heard Harrison shout the punchline to another knee-slapper of a tushie-related joke. Bradford snickered and then offered a dirty response, to which

Harrison responded with even more booming laughter. “You people are crazy,” I heard Neddy say. Then he looked over at me. “Sammy! Is there room for one more over there?!”

Before I could respond, he was already out of his chair, grabbing his plate of chicken pot pie and his glass of root beer, and practically running to our table. He loudly dropped his food on the table and sat down. Then he slammed his hands on the table and looked at the alien.

“What’s up, little guy?”

The alien looked directly upwards. Then his beady, black eyes lit up. “Ceiling!” it shouted, proudly pointing his webbed, amphibious hand at the ceiling.

Neddy laughed. “That’s it!” Then he looked at me. “Ain’t he just the cutest, Sammy?”

“Pardon me,” the alien asked me, “but did you not inform me that you are referred to as ‘Sam’?”

“Sammy’s just a nickname,” Neddy answered. “We just call him that ‘cause we care about him!” He then wrapped his arm around my neck and patted my chest. “Yep, Good Ol’ Sammy.”

Neddy caught me off guard when he suddenly grabbed me the way he did, and it annoyed me. But I didn’t resist his gesture.

Neddy was the closest thing I had to a best friend. I went to high school with him, but unlike most of my other classmates, he stuck around and never moved away. I didn’t really see him that often during those days, and looking back, I regret never making time to. He may have been a bit loud like the other officers, but he had a good heart.

The waitress finally arrived with the food I ordered for myself and the alien.

“Two cheeseburgers with onion rings?” she asked me.

“Yes, that’s us. Thanks.”

She placed one plate in front of me. Just as she was about to set the other plate by the alien, she hesitated.

“Are you… sure you can eat this?”

“Do not worry, Miss,” the alien reassured her. “The Stasian scientists have confirmed that my toxithus can handle califrothication of earthly foods as long as my harpinch-chamber is moderately flungilable.”

“...Alright, then…” She then placed the dish of Earth food next to the alien, and it immediately grabbed the burger and began eating it. Well, I guess it might’ve been califrothicating it, but I wasn’t sure.

“What a remarkable sensation!” the creature exclaimed as it chewed with enthusiasm. “So many flavors combining into one… I have never experienced anything quite like it!”

“Probably tastes a lot different than the stuff you’re used to,” Neddy assumed.

“Actually, we have no use for food on our planet. At least, not anymore.”

“Really!” The waitress exclaimed in shock. “How so?”

The alien began telling the waitress and Neddy about the lack of alien-burger-necessity on Stasia, but I zoned out and began looking outside again. However, I didn’t have much time to zone out because a moment later, I heard the alien shout “YAYAYOOOW!”

I jumped in surprise and turned to see what had happened. The creature was holding its sticky little alien hand in agony.

“Oh, goodness!” the waitress shouted. “I should have warned you about the onion rings. They’re probably smoldering. Are you alright?”

“Oh, yes, yes, I am fine,” the alien assured us all. “Wow… what an incredible feeling.”

“Incredible?” I asked suddenly without thinking.

“Yeah,” Neddy added, “what do you mean, little buddy? Didn’t it hurt?”

“Horribly!” it answered. “However… it has been quite a while since I have felt such pain.”

“What’s that all about, little guy?” we heard Bradford ask from the other table. “Do things not burn on Planet X? Ha ha!”

“That is not the case, Officer! Rather, I have not felt much pain, if any, in ages. On Stasia, my Orb would typically protect me from such things.”

“How’s that Orb gizmo of yours work, exactly?” asked Harrison. “Do you wear it, or…?”

“A more fitting description would be to reside within it. A Stasian stays inside, and the Orb protects the Stasian from injury and disease. It constantly provides the Stasian with nourishment, which is why we no longer require food. It can even perform tasks for a Stasian, such as transportation, without requiring the individual in question to move a muscle!”

“Fascinating,” the waitress responded.

“It’d be nice to have one of those, I think,” I decided. I was suddenly interested in the conversation. “Imagine going to the grocery store. That thing could just buy your stuff for you, without you needing to grab anything or talk to anyone.”

All of the other humans in the conversation seemed to agree.

“Well,” the alien replied, “it is not a flawless invention…”

“What’s wrong with it?” Harrison asked. “Do they make it hard to mate or something?” He and Bradford started laughing again.

Just as the alien was about to respond, a little girl ran by and collided with the waitress’s legs, nearly knocking her over.

“Tulip!” I heard a woman, who I assumed to have been the girl’s mother, shout from a few tables away. “Keep still!”

The girl, whose name was apparently Tulip, looked up at the waitress. “Sorry!” she apologized.

“That’s quite alright, dear.”

The girl then turned and saw the alien sitting on the table. She walked up and began talking to it. She had to stand on the tips of her toes to be able to even see the alien.

“Hello! You look funny. Why are you sitting on the table? My name’s Tulip. What’s your name?”

“Oh, well…” the alien seemed to be caught off guard by the rapid-fire assault of words that exploded out of the little girl’s mouth. “I do not exactly…have a name.”

“Really? Why? Names are good. Like my name. My name’s Tulip! Why don’t you have a name?” The little girl was very loud and energetic. At that point, I was starting to think that maybe I naturally attracted loud, energetic people.

“They don’t use names where he’s from, little lady,” Bradford answered from behind.

“Yeah,” added Neddy, “They just call him by those numbers.” He pointed to the alien’s chest, where a golden badge resided on its white, collared shirt. The badge had some sort of identification code on it in black text:

ST-23-URQ

6H-L30

The little girl squinted her eyes at the badge. She then pointed her index finger at the bolded part of the ID as she attempted to read it out loud.

“Leo. Your name is Leo!”

The alien was clearly confused by her conclusion. Actually, it seemed like everyone was confused.

“Oh, I get it,” the waitress said after a brief pause. “The three looks like a backwards E. And the zero looks like an O!”

“Leo…” the alien said to itself. Then it let the sound of the word pass through its mouth a few more times. “Leo…Leee-oooohh…I enjoy the way it sounds!”

“Hey, it makes for a better name than all that letter-number mumbo jumbo,” Harrison said.

“Yeah, we can call you that!” Neddy decided. “It can be your nickname!” The alien’s eyes lit up again. “Like Sammy!” it shouted, pointing to me.

Neddy and the other officers began to laugh. The alien continued to say “Lee-ooohh” to itself. The little girl shouted “MOMMY, I MADE A NEW FRIEND AND HIS NAME IS LEO!” across the diner. I was starting to get annoyed with the noise level of this crowd of characters that had formed around my table.

I looked out the window again in an attempt to drown everyone out. And I did for a few minutes. But then I heard the sound of a single piano key.

I turned away from the window and found that Neddy wasn’t in his chair. Then I turned to look behind me and saw him at the piano in the corner of the diner.

“Check it out, Sammy!” he yelled as he sat down on the bench. “I never noticed they had a piano here!”

Please don’t start playing it, I thought to myself. He started playing it.

The sound of various conversations between the customers of the diner suddenly faded out, and people began turning their heads to Neddy. He played a cheerful, bouncy tune that was full of energy and glee. A big grin came over the waitress’s face, and the little girl named Tulip started jumping and laughing.

I covered my face in embarrassment. It’s not that Neddy’s playing sounded bad. It sounded good. Wonderful, even. But that was the problem. I knew he was going to call me over to play it with him because he knew that I could play piano, too. And if I started playing with him, then we would both be the center of attention.

“Hey, Leo!” I heard the waitress say, “What’s going on with your head?”

Peeking out from between my fingers, I noticed that the antennas on the alien’s head were sort of wiggling. As I removed my hands from my face, it stood up on the table and watched in awe as Neddy played.

“Music…” it muttered.

“Yeah, that’s what it is,” I sighed.

“I wish we had such a thing on Stasia.”

I had heard a lot of strange things about this little weirdo’s planet, but this particular detail surprised me. “You don’t have music there?!” I asked him, a little bit louder than I intended to.

“We do not. Most of the entertainment-related activities you humans have would be viewed as unnecessary on Stasia.”

“Hey, Sammy, get over here!” I heard Neddy call, just as I knew he would. “It’ll sound better with two people! I know you know this song, too!”

I did know that song. I played it at a party during my junior year in highschool. Neddy joined in that night, and we played it together. It was a great night. But I didn’t want to play it now, because I didn’t want to embarrass myself like I did then.

Ignoring Neddy, I continued the conversation. “How can something like music be unnecessary? It can make you feel so many different emotions. It’s an art-form!” The alien smiled at me. “You are quite passionate about this topic, Sammy.”

I suddenly realized what I had just said and how I said it. I didn’t mean to get so emotional about it. It was sort of embarrassing whenever people saw how much I cared about something artsy like music.

“Yeah, I guess I am…” I replied.

Out of absolutely nowhere, I heard the sound of a trumpet. I looked over to the source of the sound. Officer Bradford was standing up now, and he was playing a trumpet. A couple people cheered. “Now we’re talkin’!” Harrison shouted. I have absolutely no earthly idea where Bradford got a trumpet from. It sounded fantastic, too, which only made me feel even more embarrassed.

“But,” the alien continued, “the reason Stasians view such things as unnecessary is because they appeal to emotions. We do not exactly experience much emotion anymore, as our Orbs stifle nearly all emotions when we reside in them.”

“Wait… what?”

“Are you confused? Allow me to repeat. When a Stasian resides in an Orb, it prevents the individual from feeling nearly all emotions. Do you understand now?”

“I…had no idea.” This new detail about Orbs surprised me. How could a person live without…feeling?

“Sammy!” I heard Neddy shout. “Don’t leave me hanging!”

“It had never occurred to me,” the alien continued, “how void of feeling Stasia is nowadays. At least, not until I arrived here! Earth is so full of life and emotion. Some people are happy, like Officer Neddy over there. And some people seem slightly less content, like you.”

“Me?”

“Yes, you! Sammy Fint!”

I hadn’t realized that the alien was so aware of how I was feeling that day.

“You humans have so much to do here,” the alien continued. “You make music, you eat food, you watch each other do wonderful things in films, and you give each other nicknames!”

“Like… Leo.”

“Yes, like Leo! That is my nickname! But what I truly admire about this world is that the many wonderful things here can make you feel positive as well as negative feelings. Some food tastes good, but other meals agitate your body parts. Some musical pieces are joyful, but other pieces can be depressing. And some nicknames sound appealing, but others sound more idiotic, like Sammy.”

I couldn’t agree more.

“Before I left my Orb, I had not felt such powerful emotions in so long. But now that I am on Earth, I feel emotions constantly! And even though I do not always feel good…” I noticed that he began to tap his foot to the beat of the music.

“...well, I just feel lucky to be able to feel, anyway.” Leo gave me a big, pointy-toothed grin as he said that.

Leo’s childlike view of Earth made sense to me then. Of course a creature who feels virtually nothing on its home planet would enjoy being here, where creatures do nothing but feel. I was suddenly thankful for the obnoxious officers and my piano-playing friend and the energetic little girl named Tulip. Because all of these people were always feeling, and they weren’t afraid to hide it like I was.

“SAMMY!” Neddy shouted.

“Alright, I’m coming!” I shouted back. I practically jumped out of my seat and went over to the piano. I sat next to Neddy on the right side of the piano’s bench. The piano suddenly came even more alive as I joined in on the song. Neddy and I bounced all around the keyboard, with me frolicking along the high notes and him hammering down on the low ones. The sound of Bradford’s trumpet danced along with its playful melody.

I suddenly heard more cheering. At first, I thought it was for us. But then, while still playing, I turned around and saw that Leo was dancing in the aisle between the tables. He was swinging his arms and kicking his legs. His antennas were wiggling wild.

“Goodness, Leo! You sure can dance!” the waitress shouted.

“MOMMY, LOOK AT LEO!” I heard Tulip call.

Harrison gave out a jolly laugh, and Bradford began to kick his legs as he played the trumpet. The customers continued to cheer, and a few of them began to clap along to the beat of the music.

I should have felt embarrassed then, but instead, I laughed. Neddy laughed with me.

I could have been home then. I could have shut myself away in my tiny apartment where I had everything I needed and where I could have been alone.

But that wouldn’t have been much different from residing in an Orb.

First Place

Butterfly’s Work

By: Mary Nugent

Second Place

Through My Eyes

By: K’Shawnn Walker

Third Place

Weeping Inside

By: Pamela Young

Honorable Mention

I am an Aviator

By: Mattilla Wiley

Honorable Mention

Sacrifices

By: Ryan Middleton

Honorable Mention

The Great Hunter

By: Ryan Middleton

Honorable Mention

Magnolia Grandiflora

By: Austin Souphanthalop Honorable Mention

Dread

By: Ryan Middleton

First Place

Butterfly’s Work

By: Mary Nugent

Butterfly’s Work

Busy, buzzing, working, bees, Swarm between the forest trees. Following their swarm, their crowd, They are their queen’s loyal cloud. Heavy, honey focused days, Are collected, measured, saved.

Do they even see the flowers, Whose nectars they routine devour?

Do they notice their sweet smell, While I am trapped inside this cell?

I am trapped within their hive,

I wish that I had voice to scream, Could open up my painted wings.

But the space inside is small, Six straight, hexagonal walls. And the honey glues my feet, For what else is one to eat.

Not one sees me though I’m here, No one ever ventures near.

Here, I am all alone. This place cannot be my home. Freedom whispers, beckons me, Out beyond these buzzing bees. I will escape this place and sore. I must flutter out the door.

A single misfit butterfly.

All their stingers and their noise, Feed their profits and their ploys.

They may talk and judge and laugh, But I must take this truer path. In silence make my exit flight, Up and out of their fixed sight.

Where the garden waits for me, Where sunny days and shade of tree, Where petal soft and fragrance fine, Wait as an old friend of mine. There may I spend all my days,

Joining as the cricket plays. Making beautiful this life, Spreading color, softness, light. I must make my exit flight.

Second Place

Through My Eyes

By: K’Shawnn Walker

Through my eyes I see a brown skin woman with wishful eyes of who she may become

I’m proud to say that to no hatred, violence, setbacks, or failures has she succumbed

Through my eyes I see too many pounds of which I could have avoided

I’d like to blame society’s unrealistic expectations for all of my insecurities they exploited

Through my eyes I see my mother’s child, she is the least successful and always fall short

But sometimes I’m reminded that success is measured differently and one day it will be my time to play a better part

Through my eyes I see a struggling mother to three beautiful kids who deserve more than I could give

But to them I’m Superwoman so for their innocent minds super mom is what I’ll always give

Through my eyes I’ve seen people hate me for the color of my skin

But when I look back at them I don’t blame their race, I fault who they are within

Through my eyes I see myself drowned in student loans for a career I’m unsure I’ll ever hold

But I have dreams, aspirations, and goals and for those I will never fold

Through my eyes I see a scared little girl hiding in an oyster like a frightened pearl

But she’s protected by this strong resilient woman who will bravely face this world Through my eyes I see brown, heavy, unsuccessful, struggling, debt, and fear

But staring right back at me I see beauty, curves, strength, and not a single tear

Third Place

Weeping Inside

By: Pamela Young

Amid wild brush, A façade of withering wisteria Bares despair.

Abandoned, no longer trusted, Shelter forsaken.

Hauntings parade splintering halls.

Scorched by sweltering sun, Boarded shell…falls, Rusted by rain, Crimsoned crown…crumbles.

Weeping inside.

Glazed in muck, Portals craze from love’s light.

Empty walls crave…

Laughter, vibration, Hearth covets…

Communion, aroma, Thresholds yearn…

To be graced.

Thwarted by sons’ set, Longings ebb to shadowed corners.

Weeping inside.

Honorable Mentions

I am an Aviator

By: Mattilla Wiley

I am an aviator, I have the world within my grasp. My office is the cockpit, out my window, the Earth is so vast. My view can be the mountains, the valleys, or the shores.

They are forever changing with each adventurous tour. My freedom is to fly, My passion is to soar. I am an aviator, I can ask for nothing more.

Sacrifices

By: Ryan Middleton

Like quicksand, memories slowly sink into yesterday,

Fading more with each crossing of a new pathway.

It is strange to watch them slip away, visions of faint

far flung shores, filled with dreams of quaint

lives lived without constraint. The dreamer

became the doer, who became the schemer

trying to recapture demeanor from when I was young.

Held tightly by chains that bind, golden strands strung

tighter as I climb up each new rung. A new dream

looks back at false freedoms of youth that teem

with the exasperated extreme of midlife wondering.

Thinly veiled goals only distract momentarily from plundering of my souls true surrendering of a real, authentic, life.

One lived without fear, without doubt, without strife, a storybook tale rife with adventure and excitement,

but the mirrors reflection offers only an indictment of living waiting for incitement to knock at a time

when most opportune. Future’s siren song, I must climb

up the ladder, committing a crime that requires belief

I will, one day, set out on paths that bring relief to my life’s droning motif before my final breaths gasp, before Death’s final grasp.

The Great Hunter

By: Ryan Middleton

Stardust I was, Stardust I am, Stardust I will be, Great giants wandering the night sky

Made me who I am, and soon I will return. The great hunter on his eternal silent hunt Roams my night sky, in pursuit of ever escaping Prey. Listens to my ramblings, my confessions, my musings. A smile, a wave, and a thank you

To my great confidant in the early morning sky.

Magnolia Grandiflora

The Flower of Stability

(Southern Magnolia)

By: Austin Souphanthalop

Magnolia grandiflora

The Flower of Stability

(Southern Magnolia)

“This is not a home. It’s a house,”

My husband says 1,200 miles away.

I wonder why it went south.

He’s supposed to love me, his spouse. Honor me, comfort me, keep me.

“This is not a home. It’s a house.”

Every night was filled with petty doubts Which we had and held from that day forward.

I wonder why it went south. To have whispers turn into shouts, For better, for worse, for richer, for poorer. This is not a home. It’s a house. Nothing but lies that came from your mouth. In sickness and in health, forsaking all the others

I wondered why it went south. Now it’s too late for these magnolias to sprout.

“Till death do us part,” I say. I should’ve known.

This is not a home. It’s a house. I wonder why it went south.

Jon Dread

By: Ryan Middleton

Fumbling while stumbling aimlessly directional in my path. Me today is gone tomorrow, Me tomorrow wishes for yesterday, Me yesterday wishes endlessly, Hoping beyond hope to find Something that means something to my mind. Darkness awaits those who don’t, darkness awaits those who do, darkness will find me, and I lay in waiting. Bringing time so close to the edge, Fearful of being passionate, Fearful of not, Fearful

More Poetry

Butterflies

By: Halie Fontenot

People always say that butterflies are late loved ones saying hello. I never put much faith into that. The monarch butterfly prances around my dad’s tomato garden, finally choosing a ripe fruit to land on. Its wings slowly open and close, open and close, as I watch in a daze. My grandfather was a hobby gardener, I reminisce. His cherry tomatoes were always successful in the summer. The butterfly moves onto the next row of vegetables: purple-haul peas. It lands on the green vine twirling around the hurricane fence. My grandfather used to grow the biggest beans, although no one could figure out what kind they were. We just suspected they were a cross breed of multiple beans someone packaged incorrectly under the identity of red beans. In his old house in the woods of Chicot, the warped wooden paneling show evidence of the time he attempted to boil the giant beans for too many hours. It softened the walls before the actual beans. The butterfly circles the warm air above the garden as I can almost hear my grandfather’s deep belly laugh. It has been too long since I heard it last. A tear trickles down to my cheek before I can hold it back. I am still surprised when I feel the hole he left in my life. I never realized when he was here how much I loved him, appreciated his cheery presence. He was the definition of a grandfather, almost as though it was the sole reason he was put on the earth. I hold my arm out in the sun, stand as still as possible. Maybe the butterfly will land on me to rest. If this really is my grandfather saying hello, the butterfly would not come to rest; my grandfather never knew how to take a break from his garden, not even when his heart was slowly failing his body. I still stand there, watching the beautiful creature admire the growth. It flaps in loopy circles surrounding the garden as though it were blessing it with its presence. It feels like it is blessing me

with its presence. People always say that butterflies are late loved ones saying hello. I never put much faith into that until I wished it were true.

The Father

By: Sarah Brouillette

I never feared thunder, goblins, or hurricanes, Never wondered about what creatures lurked under my bed. Those childish fears could never exist with you. Instead, my fears struck past 12,

I became your daily routine.

The sound of old stair creeks and tint on windowpanes. Nothing but the darkness of the night swallowing my screams.

I can still remember the feeling of your hand grasping mine, Your breath on my neck and weight on my chest, You forced me to leave my innocence behind.

From as young as I can remember, I faced the truth.

The monsters were never in the closet or under my bed. He was only one room away, from where I laid my head.

Eden wept red and it flows down Your stem

By: Austin Monk

Eden wept red and it flows down Your stem. the thoughts in Your head now pouring out onto the soil. it takes forms of shapes and shapes of forms. thus, le�ng Eden adore the ways we ignore the turmoil. oh, how could we ignore a deceit so strong? too long, You've tempted the fate we made. unsteadiness birthed from our mistakes (the very ones that were meant to guide us.) I'm not wrong when I say that the seeds You sow somehow only lead us to lose control (and shake at the ground beneath our feet.) I know our growth was never the best. the moonlight slithers while we rest (and withers less of what's le�.) what if the mistakes we make are fabrica�ons of a God? and, the things You think are manipulated thoughts? are the words I say just ar�ficial speech? we are manufactured plants in a garden made of meat. and I saw in the moon’s reflec�on how we, adept inepts, develop from refrac�ons just to keep our distance in this dark. too young to know the Asphyxia�on of Art. You are my therapy; the wind beneath my skin when I can't breathe; the vile exile I force myself to live in; the hypoxic prison locked inside a moonlit prism and I, a lonely infatuate, beguiled by the faint chagrin: a s�gma�zed smiletobacco lips; a sly cough. Your cherry-green zephyr eclipsed onto the moon; Lunar Movements. what once was feigned in its penumbra now framed onto Your roots; the acrylic fic�on of Your words placed in Your head by the very deity who wept in Your face then dug up our base. for if the God is Eden, You are the Fruit. and II am the a�ermath of the palpable, indissoluble error that You mistook for an assuaging grace. a lie so tangible becomes writen on Your face. and, petal by petal, I s�ll search for the end. Eden wept red and it flows down Your stem.

By: Brianna Troutman

Some of the most beau�ful things in life are blue A never ending blue ocean so peaceful soaking in the glistening rays of the sun across its body Or even a powerful dark blue ocean with fierce and passionate waves crashing against the shore around An iridescent blue flower feeling the so� rain drops touching its pedals as the first spring rain commences A broad blue sky pain�ng its horizon with the promises in which tomorrow could bring But when I looked into your eyes I didn’t see that blue anymore I saw a storm that clouded your radiant sun I saw waves thrashing and roaring that looked as if they could escape any minute I saw sadness Yet instead of caring about this spiraling storm in you I con�nued to admire my beau�ful blue I could have been the sun in your sky showing you a brighter tomorrow I should have been the pedal to catch your rain drops I would have given you sanctuary from the tempestuous storms But I let you drown in its flood

A R T

First Place

Resurrection Parody

By: Bethany Lambing

Second Place

LSUA Fountain

By: Gavin Bridges

Third Place

Midnight Bloom

By: Taliyah Winslow

Honorable Mention

The Silo

By: Bethany Lambing

Honorable Mention

Bridge at LSUA

By: Bethany Lambing

First Place

Resurrection Parody

By: Bethany Lambing

Second Place LSUA Fountain

By: Gavin Bridges

Third Place Midnight Bloom

By: Taliyah Winslow

Honorable Mention The Silo

By: Bethany Lambing

Honorable Mention Bridge at LSUA

By: Bethany Lambing

Submerged

By: Delaney Merriman

More Art

The Seagull with Style

By: Morgan Villard

Camelo

By: Noah Naveda

Unknown

By: Macie St. Romain

Ishi

By: Jennifer Medina

Lost Elf

By: Cameron Carriker

Perseverance

By: Jessica Mordente

Air Balloon Suitcase

By: Cherus Baker

Ozymandias

By: Savannah Callaway

P H O T O G R A P H Y

First Place

Gleam

By: Delaney Merriman

Second Place

The Wave at Antelope Canyon

By: Seneca Cox

Third Place

Small

By: Valerie Kendrick

Honorable Mention

Wellaway

By: Delaney Merriman

Honorable Mention

Lonely Fisherman

By:

April Thurman

First Place Gleam

By: Delaney Merriman

Second Place

The Wave at Antelope Canyon

By: Seneca Cox

Third Place Small

By: Valerie Kendrick

Honorable Mention Wellaway

By: Delaney Merriman

Honorable Mention

Lonely Fisherman

By: April Thurman

More Photography

Why Did You Ever Buy Me Flowers

By: Simone Campo

Photo Taken By: Kelly Menard

9/11 Twin Tower in Black and White

By: Kylie Voorhies

By: Alleigh Perles

Dew

Dole Plantation, Wahiawa, Hawaii

By: Kori Escalon

Photo Taken By: Elizabeth Babb

By: Valerie Kendrick

Granny

Crater Lake

By: Aayushi Jha

Photo Taken By: Carley Ardoin

Open Book

By: Mechelle Williams

After the Rain

By: Mechelle Williams