2020 Labyrinth Little Rock Central High

Labyrinth 2020 Clearly, 2020 didn’t end the way any of us expected. The Labyrinth staff had just begun creating pages for this year’s magazine when COVID-19 changed all our lives. Fortunately, we had chosen the writing, art, and photography pieces that would go into the magazine, and I thought it was important to get these students’ creative efforts out into the world, where they could be shared, as they should be. Our kids are so incredibly talented, and they deserve to have their efforts seen, enjoyed, treasured.

We all want more days off, to get things done at home, to sleep in, to catch up on Netflix, but I’ve learned, as I think many of us have, to be careful what I wish for. When it really hit me that we would not be returning, and I wouldn’t be seeing my staff or any of my seniors again this year, I sat down and had a good cry, frankly.

This spring of masks and social distancing, of outdoor visits and Zoom dinners, is something that we hope we will not see the likes of again in our lives. One hopes, though, that we will not forget the ways in which this pandemic has perhaps, at least a little, made us see some things differently, and perhaps from this COVID Spring will burst blooms of creativity, of photographing and drawing and writing about our experiences. And then perhaps we can share those snippets of our hearts with one another, which is, I think, what creating is all about.

The first piece of art you will see is “A Brief Inquiry” by Emmy Weaver. The staff had chosen this piece to be the cover art for this year’s issue, so it is the piece that will usher you in. The first piece of writing here is a piece by senior and staff member India Stephens about the class of 2020. It seemed fitting, in light of current circumstances, to allow this piece to start the writing off.

I am grateful to the 2019-2020 staff for sharing themselves with me and with one another through their writing this year in class. I was always amazed at the ways and in the degree to which they supported and rooted for each other when we shared in class. It was a privilege to be invited into their hearts and minds for seven and a half months.

Thank you, Sharolyn Jones-Taylor

Labyrinth Staff: Alex O’Neill Ava Horton Caroline Bryant Chris Aguinaga Cierra Dillard Daniel Cheng Faqirah Dawson George Igwe Jackson Cook Shelby Pederson Jakari Foster James McMath Jack Bryant Isabelle Felan

Jennah Brooks Jasmine Toney Kaden Hendrick Annie McCluskey Mykila Johnson Rachel Nauman Savion Platt Marley Boswell Victoria Wells Vanessa Washington Veronica Van Arsdale Victory Jackson Peter Jewel Deano India Stephens

“A Brief Inquiry” by Emmy Weaver

Can I Get a Roll Call?

This is dedicated to the class of 2020…

India Stephens At that moment the world wasn’t what I’ve known it to be.

It felt clean, and made new.

As if it were preparing for us, you, and me.

I’ve never been more excited to see my school chums.

On that day everyone wore joy, and not a soul was glum.

Not the jocks, the drama kids, or the ones who dressed like bums.

That day there really weren’t any labels, we were all one.

The class of 2020 is here, and we’re almost done.

Caps gowns, suits and heels. Nothing could change the way the arena made us feel.

Walking in you see and hear it all. We’re finally walking the stage, and not the halls.

Man, I can’t wait for Keeling to give our final Roll Call.

You don’t realize how fortunate you are to live in the moment. So shed those tears, give out hugs, smile, reminisce, and own it.

Time goes by slow, but your name comes up fast. You’re on the edge of your seat.

LRCH is now your past...

A Lesson I Learn in Life Vanessa Washington Swimming.

It was never a skill I could pick up.

I remember taking group lessons, Holding on to the edge as I flapped my adolescent feet.

That’s what life makes me feel when I'm trying my best to stay afloat.

I despised the sharp pain I endured from the burning sensation of chlorine filling my nose.

A feeling I get when from the stench of another’s ignorance As they slip into a reality where they think it is right.

I ask myself how things can seem so simple, yet are nevertheless the hardest things to accomplish.

In reality it might not have been simple at all.

It was the misconceptions from those who knew what to do all along.

For me, It was always the dissatisfaction of someone pulling me from what felt like underwater.

Like I was back in my childhood ages trying to keep from drowning.

Or what it was like to be one mile from my destination and fall back down again.

A failure. A check to cast to the newest charter school.

A statistic proven by a test that tells me how smart I am.

I’m drowning, under the realization that I’m not a privileged teen.

I want to keep going.

I’m still flapping my feet because ignorance to history is one thing, But having knowledge of mistakes history made and wanting to make bigger ones has encouraged me.

Swimming gets easier everyday I choose to keep going, and Keep trying

”Alibrije” by Giselle Coyotlecatl

“#8” by Casey Carter Cold as You George Igwe The sky looked blank. It trickled down sheer white snowflakes that glistened as they fell.

They covered everything they touched like an army conquering new land; the snow immersed the suburban neighborhood. Inside one particular house coated in the same design as every other house was a young couple. The silence seemed to stiffen the air. John sat across from his wife, Martha. The two said nothing. They just stared at each other, and then when it became too uncomfortable they turned to their food. John wanted so desperately for a voice, or for the love of God, any noise at all to relieve the room from the suspense. In the living room, the television's glow flickered. It displayed the forecast, which was predicting heavy snow fall and possibly a blizzard. Martha’s stare was piercing through John. All John could do was pretend he didn’t feel it. The tiny snowflakes from outside came trickling into the house. As the two avoided any possibility of having a confrontation, the house began to fill with tiny dots of snow. When Martha finished her food she stood to leave the table. Her movement shattered the focused tension that formed when she was eating. John continued to eat, avoiding any kind of eye contact. His face reflected the sky outside. It was blank and expressionless. He’d notice when the temperature began to drop earlier, but now it was freezing. He could see his breath form in the dead air at this point. He stood and turned to see the snow that had engulfed his house.

“Angels” by Marley Boswell

“Stars” by Aubrey McCabe

Contentment Nora Williams There’s a girl lying beside me On a bed of summer and joy. I drink in her warm, steady breaths As they suffuse the quiet peace Of a morning sleeping late.

I reach out, Tug her closer, Feel the softness of her skin And the pleasant heat within my chest Of four letters That cannot be put into words.

Untitled by Annie McCluskey Tardy Bell Blues

Caroline Bryant

I didn’t want to go, There were just too many kids.

I didn’t want to go, The work was just too hard.

I didn’t want to go, I just wanted to stay home.

Every day, Screaming and crying and begging.

Just one more day at home, But she didn’t listen.

Thankfully,

she didn’t listen.

Now, I want to go.

I just want to see my friends.

I want to go, The work is just a little hard.

I want to go, Home will be there when I’m done.

I want to go to School.

“Arizona Tea” by Eros Bradford

Dave’s Dollar Store Brooke Elliott They replaced the analog clocks with digital three months ago because no one who worked here could read the old clocks, including me. The fluorescent yellow glow that puddles on shelves and shelves of 50-cent santa hats and gleaming sprigs of artificial holly is pulling at my eyes to drag me into sleep.

Two minutes to midnight. The snow outside is wispy, faint and muffled just beyond the searing red light of the clock surface. Last holiday season, we played music to distract us--the usual “Jingle Bells” covers, “Do They Know It’s Christmastime?” and purified, unseductive “Santa Baby.” I remember, on Christmas Day of last year, that I drove home through the rising sun to sleep, blasting the real “Santa Baby” by Eartha Kitt like it would drive out every minute of the simpering, child-friendly version that looped through the store.

Now that I have nothing but the rustling of Dave in the back, not even the slow, metallic tick of the clock that was once in the front, I would take a thousand so-so “Santa Baby”s. I resigned myself hours ago to the fact that this holiday would be like each one before, blurring into each other in a wash of yellow light and polyester stockings hung crooked from the ceiling, not a soul entering for my whole shift.

“See anyone?” Dave asks. I open my mouth to answer and find my throat dry, unmoving. No, Dave. No one is here. I could be in bed right now, or getting a drink at the one bar this backwater town has, but no, we have to keep Dave's Dollar Store up and running.

“I’ll take that as a no,” Dave says, rounding the corner. He wrinkles his nose at me, at my position, the way I lean on the counter and prop my face up with a clawed hand. I used to straighten up and make myself look presentable when he made that face, but when I figured out I’d be in my hometown for the rest of my life, I stopped caring about Dave’s opinion and started making the station my own as best I could.

My phone is right under the checkout counter, concealed by my hand, along with a few Red Bulls and a pack of cigarettes. Dave likes to “go out to check on the building” every once in a while and come back stumbling, so I use the opportunity to stick a Camel between my lips and watch time ooze by just a little more smoothly as I listen to music. Or don’t, as the case often is.

Dave leaves, riled by my blank, lifeless stare, and I turn back to the clock. One minute to midnight. The snowflakes outside have left a thin sheet on the ground, occasionally peeling out of the shadows to leave ghostly fingerprints on the window. I am so absorbed by the hypnotic glare the clock and the void of night behind it that I almost don’t notice the flash of red in the distance until the man in the turtleneck is in our parking lot.

My eyebrows lift. He has to be doing something illicit--he isn’t coming inside the store, that’s a fact. I’ve seen a few people conduct “under the counter pharmaceutical trades” in the parking lot hundreds of times, and I’ve done nothing. They’d be gone by the time Stone Creek’s joke of a police force arrived, and I’d have to answer questions for half an hour while Dave assured the officers that I was just a hysterical woman misjudging the good people of the town. I’d seen the morning shift girl, Leah, call the cops once, and it had gone just like that.

Red Sweater Man comes to a stop on our doorstep, treading so lightly that he barely makes a sound. He has something black and rectangular tucked under his arm, and I back up a little bit, angling my hand toward the .38 special that Dave keeps below the counter. What does he have? Is it a box? Could it hold a gun?

Goosebumps sweep down my skin as the door opens, frost blowing a V shape on the floor past his legs. He ruffles the snow from his gray-speckled black hair, the wrinkles around his eyes forking. He gently closes the door behind him, looking around the store.

“Well, gee,” he says, and his voice is as smooth as fresh snow on a hillside, “is this place always this quiet?”

He turns to me, smiling, and it’s the kind of soft, deep smile that requires no answer. As the shop settles again, I can tell that Dave has stopped moving, has stopped shelving and reshelving to stare at the newcomer. The man moves the box, and I tense, only to watch in fascination as he drags one of our cheap wicker stools from the corner and sits on it, laying the object--an old, timeworn electric piano--across his lap.

“Sir, we’re real thankful for the offer, but this isn’t necessary,” Dave says, in a voice that means Get out. I would glare at my boss if I had the energy. Instead, I watch as Red Sweater readjusts his footing, turning the piano on with the push of a black, grooved plastic button.

“No trouble,” the man says, smiling. “Ain’t no trouble at all.”

Dave starts to say something, and then the man begins to play.

My hand pulls away from the gun’s hiding place, slowly lifting to rest on the counter. I have stopped leaning on my own weight. The song he is playing isn’t one I’ve ever heard before--it sounds like a dream, some of the notes drifting faintly as though underwater, as though in another universe this song is a classic that everyone and their mother stops to smile at when it comes on in the mall. As though I heard it once, coming from inside a log cabin deep in the woods, while I played in the snow with the childhood friends who long ago left town for college.

The man himself has closed his eyes, leaning over the piano with the reverence of a worshipper at church without any of the preening or self-importance. It’s love--love and the faintest hint of an ache, a memory of laughter and light in a warm house buried by years of being rundown.

And it draws to an end. It draws to an end like a dove flying from a tree, delicate, beautiful even as it exits.

Dave is silent. His eyes are on the ground when I glance to him.

The man lifts his hands from the piano, eyes still shut, then opens them with a soft smile, watching the way Dave and I have paused, they way we are trying and failing not to look directly at him.

“Well,” he says, nodding, “have a happy holidays, Dave. Have a good night, Belle.”

I watch him as he goes, stooped ever so slightly over the weight of his piano, dragging the wicker stool back to its spot along the wall. I want to run after him and help, but I am frozen, looking after him as he walks silent and steady into the night.

A sniff. I turn to Dave. He’s still looking at the floor.

“Go home,” he says.

“What?” I ask.

He glances up at me, once, and I see that his eyes are red.

“Just go,” he says, but he says it gently. I hang up my uniform sloppily, with none of the practiced precision I’m accustomed to. My hands feel freshly carved, newly made, as though they don’t remember the simple and monotonous tasks I’ve done for what felt moments before like my entire life.

I glance back as I leave. Dave’s staring out into the night--not at me, but at the snow as it falls. I wonder if he has a family. I’ve never wondered that before.

I see no footprints in the snow where the man walked, so I can’t find him. I get into my car, turning the key and watching it come to life beneath my hands. Everything is quiet in the snow. I turn out of the lot, the strains of the song still rolling through my head, picked like the wire tongs of a music box. I don’t realize that tears have filled my eyes until I pause on a street corner, the light of a house’s window turning into a star flare, distorted.

I park my car without thinking. There is a woman, reading in the light of the window I’ve stopped underneath. She’s my age--I knew her, before she went off to college, walked the woods with her through our own winter wonderlands and hidden groves. She must be home for the holidays.

She pauses, as though she senses me, and looks down toward the car. I hesitate for only a moment, listening to the song in my head, and step out, wondering how she’ll react, if she’ll draw the blinds or if she’ll recognize me at all with my cropped hair and the deep shadows under my eyes.

She leans to look at me as I stand in the faint rectangle of light, and a smile breaks the inscrutable mask of her face. I step after her as she steps away, wondering where she’s gone, whether I should get back in the car and take myself home. The music has stopped in my head, and snow settles on my eyelashes as I watch, fingers numb.

A click. The door of the cottage opens, slowly and gradually, and my friend--the one I travelled forests and worlds with--is standing there, stepping aside to let me in.

“Hey,” she says. “Want to come in?”

I step in. In my head, the piano is playing.

“I think I’d like that.”

“Baby with Gun” by Marley Boswell

Dear Son | Spoken Word

Segovia Lucas

Dear daughter Make sure to get everything you need to be done by 8 Because when it gets to dark no one is around Make sure to have your keys in your hand And to walk straight to your car If a man cat calls you make sure to respond so then the situation doesn’t become violent And if they curses at you it’s just to protect their shattered ego If you leave your drink Get a new one Because it could be spiked with something Never isolate yourself with a man you don’t know Always know where the exits are Make sure you told someone where you go In case something happens I wish I didn’t have to tell you this but the world is a dangerous place So you can’t be naive Because if you can’t resolve the problem I have to give you solutions But why are we the ones who have to look over our shoulder Maybe this isn’t a letter to my daughter but it’s a letter to my son Dear son If a woman feels uncomfortable by your presence then you leave Dear son If a woman is too drunk to consent to sex Then don’t have sex with her Dear son If see a cute girl in a parking lot Don’t follow her to her car Dear son Women are not land to be conquered Dear son If you cat call a woman and get offended that she doesn’t answer you I hope her silence pierces you with shame Dear son I know shouldn’t wish you harm but if you cannot respect a woman I hope that you know that the ancestry of your matriarchy is just filled rape, sexual molestation, and domestic violence That this cycle in our family just happens over and over again But you could be the one to stop it Dear son If you like a girl then buy her flowers If you want to hit on a girl then take the time to introduce yourself If you want to be in a relationship with a girl then treat her like me And nothing less than a queen Dear son

”The Empress” by Eros Bradford

”Bella” by Olivia Van Deventer

Freckles Shelby Pederson He winced at the thought of orange. Tangerine, ginger, sandstone, carrot — they all made his stomach equally queasy. They were all too familiar. Those colors were instantly recognizable to him; he saw them each time he looked in a mirror. He glanced in the bathroom mirror and saw the unchanged arrangements. Lying upon his cheeks were the specks that wouldn't leave him. They resided against his will. After a look of discontentment, he grabbed his denim backpack off the coat hanger in the hallway and was on his way.

The girl quietly sat in the crevice where two wooden fences met. She looked out upon the scene before her at all the faces that never looked her way and heard the voices that never called her name. Her tiny legs spread out in front of her, with faded citrus sneakers on display. She focused on her drawings.

On her paper were sketches of goldfish, pumpkins, monarchs, and suns. They were drawings of happiness. She saw her work and felt warm.

The boy worked diligently on his crossword. Every so often he would push an auburn strand out his view, feeling a ping of gloom in his chest as he did. His pencil was yellow, but it reminded him of another color. That dreaded color. He decided that a rest would do him some good, and looked up to get the lay of the land, or in this case, recess. A girl, only a little taller than a yardstick, walked towards him with great speed. He failed to notice the color on her feet; he was much too captivated by the wide grin across her delicate face.

She couldn't believe it to be true. Standing in front of her was the living image of all her warmth.

Although she had seen her shades on clothing or in books, this was different. The boy before her was made of happiness. His skin reflected spots of apricots and golden retrievers, of poppy followers and honey. She resisted the immediate desire to pull out her notebook and draw a picture of him. Even the hair upon his head provided a sense of comfort she had only before felt from the notebook clenched between her tiny hands.

“You remind me of mac-n-cheese.”

His eyes looked to the ground as if that was where her voice had come from. Disappointment washed over him as he nervously kicked his shoe from underneath his desk in anticipation. These were his least favorite times. A couple of seconds passed, and he looked up expecting to see the hostile expression he knew too well. To his surprise, he was greeted with the same smile seen before.

“I like mac-n-cheese. So I like you, too.”

As the boy walked home, he felt the heat of the sun dancing on his cheeks. Most days he despised the sun, for it reminded him of something he hated. Today, the sun was cozy. It was friendly, comforting, and kind. He peered into the reflection of a car window parked alongside the street and saw himself. He saw honey, pumpkins, golden retrievers, and mac-n-cheese scattered atop his face. For the first time in a long while, he closed his eyes and smiled. He smiled in the direction of the luminous sun and he felt warm.

“Turtle” by Alekhya Pidugu

”Big Hand” by Mimi Ryall

Untitled Alex O’Neill He was my blazing sun Full of heat and passion.

He was a shining star Stretching his light towards those around him.

So to save my sun, my star, I offered myself, My fire, my light, my passion.

I rekindled his flame in the heat of my love.

Yet all stars fade.

He burned and shared his passion To people he thought he could save.

But some people, all they can do is take.

His heart I warmed.

I burned For his flame to shine.

And some people, all they can do is give.

He gave everything.

All of him was used up.

All of him was exhausted.

Some people, All they can do is take.

And some people, All they can do is give.

My sun burned and faded My star lost his light.

It was hard to rekindle his flame, He was cold.

Once a flame spreads, It’s hard to stop, And their greed spread, Into his heart and mind.

You can’t kill fire, But his was stifled with greed.

To rekindle that fire, Was to offer a part of myself.

He was no longer my sun, He was full of greed and shame.

We was no longer my shining star, He was dull and distant.

All stars fade.

”Clouds” by Aubrey McCabe

His looks

Zaria Raglin

He looked like no Like hands up where I can see them He resembled a slave But a king he was Chained he was Looked like every stereotype to ever exist for the average black boy And with a bullet his crown would fall With a bullet those chains would sink deeper into the ground and be the very thing to seal his casket shut Those chains are worn around his neck daily They could easily become a noose He could easily hang Like fruit from trees Except no one would pick him He was told he’d never be great He was below average His name and fantastic would quickly become antonyms Ain’t shit would be it’s synonym His black boy joy looked like making that last shot right before the buzzer went off on 2K Playing at the park and making that shot Shooting that shot The same day someone shot theirs too At that same moment he realized his shot wouldn’t make it Cause someone else’s did Their shot made it Straight through No backboard needed The shell came through the other side His joy is his name being known And for that very reason it would be Because no one remembers until they have to Until it’s the only way to feel close Your imagination and memories become the same thing And you don’t want it to be real But it is Cause that’s how things work in AmeriKKka A bullet has no name It has no gps system It flies until something stops it Until a body stops it He looked like no Like hands up where I can see them He resembled a slave

But a king he was Chained he was Looked like every stereotype to ever exist for the average black boy And with a bullet his crown would fall His thrown would be taken Before he could ever sit on it His kingdom slowly yet quickly being destroyed He looked liked yes A king Happy He looked like him But no one could recognize it And he who holds the gun would disguise it His smile would be covered Anger would always show He would always be the problem Would never be able to explain his pain And it’s all because of his looks He looked like...fill in the blank What angle does your mirror stand at

“Colorado Blue Flax” by Oliver Beland

How It Moves Veronica Van Arsdale it moves so magical it moves to consume me swaying to a note so simple that voice is such a miracle I sway to the sound with Somebody Else in this beat I begin to lose myself it moves so we can just Dance to This it moves me to the words oh, My My My another one is played and I go into bliss the rhythm too beautiful to classify moving like this isn't hard when you’re Young it's almost 11:00 pm but the night has just begun it moves my hips so that I'm Dancing With a Stranger it moves to a slow song so I can't Love in the Dark with you this close it should be a danger but the riff created us with a spark the tranquil sounds run through My Blood closer to 1:30 am, the speakers shake with a thud it moves my body with pleasure, so criminal it moves the crowds body to a slur the bass hits hard to make my eyes blur I'll miss moving like this when I'm no longer Young & Beautiful

“Cow with Guns” by Marley Boswell

Hurricane Brooke Elliott I am a hurricane.

I live with the force and vigor of the storm-Well, the outer edges of the storm At least.

You know.

The ones with the grains of glass And battered buildings And broken water mains?

That kind of storm.

I may be strong, Fast, And glorious in the wind of my ascent, But I have left ruin in my wake I am banned from Chuck-E-Cheese.

Which one?

Every Chuck-E-Cheese.

The details of the encounter Do not matter Nor does the resulting bill For property damage, because I am a hurricane.

I take what I desire and pull Until it is untethered.

Even if what I desire Is Chuck-E’s prime pinball machine Shining and beautiful Forbidden as Eden’s Fruit.

I am a hurricane.

A hurricane not permitted to enter Any Chuck E. Cheese.

“Da Egg, Meal of Champions” by Dhairya Patil

I am Jai Starkey I am a girl Often underestimated until my true capabilities come to light I am beautiful My uneven dimples shine brightly My smile brightens the room I am intelligent My GPA is not the only sign of my complicated mind ‘I am kind

But don’t take my nice words and actions for weakness I am strong The same storms that have made me bend would break you into pieces I am shy I may not speak first But once you get to truly know me and my personality I am goofy I am emotional I am complicated I am open-minded I am sensitive I am honest I am me Unapologetically true to myself With my purpose in mind, I go through everyday life I move with grace to my next achievement I am family oriented I would be nowhere without my support team And to those who don’t support me, You can watch from the sidelines I’ll wave and grin from my throne Everyone will see me shine when it’s the correct time I will make a difference Until my time I will sit back, relax, and grind While enjoying this ride we all call life

“Devil in Disguise” by Eros Bradford

Lost Jasmine Toney You ever been standing in a crowd of people Yet you're the only one there You move about You could scream and shout But no one would really care Focused on you, trying to figure out where you went As if you got lost in the crowd you were in Nobody saw you, yet everyone did But it doesn’t matter They weren’t paying attention Now how does that work They see you but they don’t My body was there but my mind was somewhere else It was like this way too often I’ve been gone for so long Where would one even find oneself In a sea of dreams and endless possibilities In a mountain of rage and utter despair Sometimes it seems as if I was never there

”Vesper” by Yoselin Ventura

“Displacement by Tristyn Perrin

Mama Says Jai Starkey First day of first grade, I come home mama says Hey love how was your day I say it was great mama, I made new friends but I missed you That was one of the first lies I ever told Because my day was filled with white children talking trash saying I was the garbage They said the rules was that the black kids couldn’t play And that was the first time I ever saw color You see mamas white and I’m not Mama says I’m half her, half the man she once loved Mama says it's her and me Me and her Us against the world Mama is my best friend and mama says I love you So why can't the kids at school love me and be my friend too I'm confused

Second week of second grade I come home and mama says Hey love how was your- baby what’s wrong Mama the kids think I’m too dirty to play and mama I washed my hand just like you taught me I even got under my nails so they’d nice and clean just like the kids at school But Mama they say I’m still too dirty I spent recess that day, I mean that year Washing I mean scrubbing my hands until they bed Until the soap made my hands so dry that the ash of my ancestors began to show Mama I’m confused I stood there, tears rushing down my face waiting for her to say something Instead she just hugged me Mama says baby no matter how long you scrub your hands you can't wash away racism That was the year we moved Next thing I know I’m going to a different school All the kids were black so I thought for sure we could be friends Until they told me the rules White kids don't play with them That day I went home, head not held high but low Mama says kids can be cruel And she’s not lying But now I’m more confused than before Because I’m too white to play with black kids and too black to play with the white kids but since I’m both shouldn’t I get double the love instead I get double the hate And in this world I feel like I have no place Mama says you are a product of your past but you make your own future So I got to school and try again and I have more confidence than before But by the end of the day I was on the floor once again being tied down by criticism and hatred That was the time I went home and wept to mama She says as usual hey love how was your day I just looked at her and screamed mama I’m tired of being hurt I just wanna play I wanna be white I mean black I mean me Mama I just wanna have friends Mama, I’m confused Mama says

“Two of Kind” by Oliver Beland

“Elusive” by Taylor Zhang Moment Alex O’Neill I knew the moment it happenedBut I didn’t go running.

I was scared, Clutching a stuffed animal to my chest.

My brother watched a show, Neither of us knew what.

We were just mindlessly staring.

I wanted to keep watching, But this pull inside of me, Eventually said no.

I left my brother in the lounge, I went up the hallway, I looked in the room for my mom.

I looked in the room for my grandma.

“She’s gone.”

I left the room

Screaming and crying Falling to the ground.

I was angry at the TV I was angry at myself I was angry at the man whose job was to console me.

My dad took us home I don’t remember the rest.

But I will never ignore That pull Again.

She was saying goodbye And I should have been there.

I trust my gust, And go where I need to.

“Face Tiles” by Olivia Van Deventer Mother of Clay Rachel Nauman She was sweetly incandescent till the day they fled the basement All her life with broken hopes molding feet with tiny toes That is after she found out she couldn’t make her own So, she’d mold others The smallest feet that were ever known And their hands too pressed neatly with false names all written sweetly with those curly cues like how they do at those painting places the ones she watched with the kids whose hands were smeared with glittery glue The feet were blue The hands were green sometimes purple, yellow, aquamarine all pushed against the clay “My children” she’d say

”Flying Away” by Nora Williams

Nature Alex O’Neill There’s a long creek that trickles down in the greenbelt that runs behind a neighborhood of rural homes. It’s steep, and lined with unidentifiable bushes, which makes it hard to look down into the slick bottom. If you walk up along the edge for awhile, you begin to be swallowed by tall, lush trees. Here, hidden in the foliage, there’s a small cliff that allows you to cross the rocky creek.

This small cliff is a divider for the creek, separating it into a deep, flowing side, and an even, lazy side. This divider is where you cross- from the clean cut yards and trees, to the fallen leaves and low limbs. Once you emerge from the small cliff, you’re in a rough circular clearing, secluded from the eyes of nosy neighbors. Here the ground is covered in leaves of all states of life and death. The trees are spindly, with limbs that cover you in green, brown, and bark.

To the side of this circle sits two lone stone rests. They’re what you’d find in a garden, but older, with stone faces on their two legs. They’re mossy, with hints of purple in their smooth surface. Here, when you sit, noise is dulled, and you can hear nature as it really is. There’s something terrifyingly beautiful about how you’re not quite alone in your silence.

“Girl with Mirror” by Marley Boswell

Nescient Cierra Dillard Slightly after midnight The absolute darkness takes over Riding miles of empty highway Enjoying the rants of the man who protects me The knob turns by the touch of my finger tips Tip of our bumper Collides with their trunk In my seat I sunk Passing through the barriers Grace of God with us Black out Echo of my name Whimpering in pain

I can’t see Haze of white smoke Still in shock I don’t reply Reflections of lights fill the sky Red, White, and Blue Muffled sirens Dragged through a window Back to Earth Bruises and Scars Slightly after midnight Riding miles of empty highway Less than a mile from home

“Uncle Waylon” by Marley Boswell

untitled by Lanae Headley

Not by Sight Benjamin Lyle Cogbill Clark’s alarm cut through the silence of the early Saturday morning. He got out of bed in a hurry.

This speed could only be caused by one thing, and every child who sleeps for too long knows exactly what it is. Nothing is more menacing than a mother’s hurried footsteps approaching a door, when one’s overslept. Few things compare.

“Clark! Get up. Now.” Clark could hear her clenched teeth in the word “Now.” He knew that if he wasn’t up and dressed in five minutes, he was going to be in deeply in it with his mom. He stared up at his blank white ceiling and with a yawn, sat up. This had to be the earliest he’d gotten up the whole summer. Swiftly, Clark pulled on a shirt and jeans. He opened his door, only to be blinded by the glaring light on the kitchen, where his parents had already made a sizable dent in breakfast.

“Hey big guy.” his father said, in between sips of coffee. The smell of coffee in the morning seemed to fill the whole kitchen, trumping anything more pleasurable, like bacon frying or pancakes being made. There was nothing quite as strong.

“Morning Dad.” “I hear you’re supposed to be at Mrs. Taylor’s five minutes ago, son.”

“What, Dad, no… no wait…” A wave of utter shock passed over him. Clark was late. If his mom found out, he would never hear the end of it.

“Clark! That had better not be you in this house. Get over there. Now” He didn’t have to be told twice. Clark grabbed a pair of socks and his work boots and bolted out the door. The boots were seldom used. His father had gotten them as a present for his birthday, and they really only got use when he was forced into doing yard work. They hurt his feet and didn’t go well with anything he usually wore. If he wore them to school, he wouldn’t hear the end of it. To him, they actually looked good. When he did wear them, they made him feel like a working man, like he was bringing home the bacon.

Luckily, he’d escaped his mother’s rage, and sat on the curb in front of his house, getting the boots on. Clark was weary. He put his head between his legs and sighed. How did I get roped into this? he thought. Mothers can be very persistent. Boots on, he arose and began the short walk down the street to the house he was supposed to help out. Rarely did he see anyone coming and going from the place. He didn’t know Mrs. Taylor very well. Clark had always thought something was off with her, but he couldn’t place it. When they met, he was young, so he had trouble remembering what it was that was off about her.

Walking up to her doorstep, a wave of nerve came over Clark. He hadn’t always been the best at introducing himself, especially to new adults. Usually his parents did it.

Now the most important question: to knock or to ring the doorbell. Clark was a notorious overthinker, and this was the peak of useless things to overthink. These two outcomes seemed like they might produce entirely different results, as if he pressed the doorbell something terrible might happen.

With a shake of the head, Clark left the maze of his overthinking and rapped on the door loudly three times.

“Coming!” he heard loudly from the back of the house. Clark rocked back and forth slowly on the balls of his feet as the inhabitant of the house approached. The door swung open, revealing an elderly woman about a foot shorter than Clark, who was just a little bit above average height. She was wearing a long sleeve shirt and khaki shorts, and oddly she had sunglasses on. It was hardly bright outside. Clark

extended his hand for a shake. “Good to see you again, Mrs. Taylor.”

“It’s good to be seen, Mister,” she said. Oddly enough, she never shook his hand back. She stuck her hand out and put it on Clark’s shoulder. “Goodness! You’ve grown since we last met!”

What in the world? Why did she do that? Clark stammered, “Yes ma’am, I grew quite a bit over summer.”

“My son did the same when he was here. Come on in! I’ve got something for you to eat.” She walked into the house, and motioned for Clark to follow. The whole situation was throwing him off a little bit. When Mrs. Taylor walked through the house, she put her hand on all the walls and tables in her foyer and hallway. It seemed she needed them to guide herself. All of a sudden, a bulb went off in Clark’s head.

“Oh!” he exclaimed aloud, without being aware he’d said it out loud.

“What was that again?”

Clark, only now realizing he’d spoken out loud, responded, “Nothing, ma’am. Just a cough.”

“Alrighty then. Here, I’ve made some coffee if you want it, and some ham and eggs.” Clark followed her into the kitchen. Since his plans to eat had been foiled at his house this morning, he was ready to dig into some ham and eggs. How Mrs. Taylor made them without being able to see, he didn’t know. The ham and eggs were on a plate in the middle of the table. Clark stood awkwardly while Mrs. Taylor poured a cup of coffee.

“So, your mom told me you could help me out around the house today. Thank you so much. She pulled out a chair and sat down. Clark followed.

“Of course, I’m happy to help out. I don’t really have very much else going on today.” That was a lie. Clark’s friends were all at a football game, and had been egging him to come for weeks. His mom coerced him into this job, telling him it would be good for him. He simply couldn’t say no. He put some ham on his plate, leaving the eggs.

“Well, sir, I’m very grateful. It’s nice to have a younger face around here sometimes. Old farts like us, we can get set in our ways. It’s nice to have a young person around here, just to keep me honest.”

Clark chuckled, “Of course, of course. I’m glad I can be of help.”

“Well, once you’ve had your fill, you can go out back and get started on the first thing. I’ve got some bags of mulch my friend dropped off, and I’d like to get them in place for the yard people that come later this week.

“Sounds good to me.” He continued eating. The ham was cooked fantastically. The smell of coffee had seeped over to his end of the table. The eggs looked enticing too, but he couldn’t be torn away from the ham.

“So, Clark, where are you in school now?”

She remembers my name? The last time we met must’ve been seven or eight years ago. Wow. “East High. I’m a Junior.”

“I’m an East graduate too. It’s a fine school. Is Harper still the principal?”

“No ma’am, we have someone else now. Harper left a couple of years ago. I heard only good things about him.”

“I loved Harper. We go way back,” said Mrs. Taylor. “We used to jump out the window of a class on the first floor and sneak over to the burger place down the way. Our teacher was none the wiser to our antics. I have some good memories there, and I’m very glad to hear Ms. Harper left a good mark on the school.”

Clark laughed at her story. “Wow! I don’t know if any of my friends would be bold enough to go out a window for a burger! We usually just talk about it.”

“I have so many stories from East, Clark. Things we did to the rival’s schools. Skipping class. We used to smoke cigarettes in the bathrooms. Can you believe that?” she laughed to herself and seemed to enter a time and place only she could remember. Clark could see her, younger, roaming the same halls and sitting in the same classes. Sitting in the same old bleachers at the stadium, and watching the football team. Even though she didn’t know any details about Clark’s life, he felt like she understood him.

“Was the football team this bad when you were at East?”

This question opened up a can of worms. Mrs. Taylor clearly had lots of stories to tell about East, and she told them. They sat there all morning as the eggs got cold, and the day moved into its hottest parts. Clark knew he was going to be doing his work in the scorching heat of midsummer, but he was okay with it. These stories were gold.

The pair talked and talked for hours, until it was past noon. When they came to a lull in the conversation, Clark said, “I think I better get to work.”

Mrs. Taylor felt her watch. “Oh no! It’ll be terribly hot out there.”

“I know, I know. I’ll be okay. Thank you for all the stories. I’m going to get to work now.” He opened the back door to be hit by the waves of southern heat. Looking out over the expanse of Mrs. Taylor’s garden, he sighed. This was going to be much more work than he expected. Clark almost regretted his decision to stay inside talking for hours. Almost.

Two hours later, sweat dripped off Clark’s chin. Every bag seemed to get harder and harder.

Clark wasn’t sure if he would ever want to look at another bag of mulch after this day was over. He didn’t even want to think about one. Mrs. Taylor opened the back door and strolled outside.

“My Lord! It is hot out here today. You’ve been working for so long. Come in, boy, come in.”

Clark wasn’t going to argue with her. “Alright ma’am.” He followed her back into the house. She walked over a counter and picked up her wallet. She opened it up and began to take out cash, presumably to pay him with.

“I don’t want any pay for my work. I don’t need it really, and my mom will just get mad at me for taking money. Please, really keep it.”

“I insist. Just take a little bit. Your mother doesn’t need to know. Good work deserves pay.” She handed him a twenty.

“Thank you, Mrs. Taylor. If my mom asks, I only took this because you insisted. Thank you for the ham this morning.” He turned and headed for the door. Just as Mrs. Taylor began to form her farewell, he turned back around. “Thank you for your stories today, too. They meant a lot to hear.” Clark wasn’t sure where all this was coming from. “I’m sorry you’re blind, ma’am. It must suck. If you ever need anything else, give my mother a call.”

A faint smile crossed the woman’s lips. “Thank you, son. It does suck. I wish I could see but this is my situation, and I’m going to make the best of it. You’ve been wonderful. Goodbye now.”

Clark left the house and strolled quickly back to his. He was overcome with emotions and he couldn’t place any of them. Clark felt uncomfortable. He sat back down on the same curb, and began to cry. He began to cry because he felt that all his problems, like having to get up early in summer, paled in comparison to Mrs. Taylor’s struggles. He cried because he felt bad for her, having to go through life blind. He felt so bad for her. He cried because he finally felt understood by someone. Clark told himself, sitting there on that curb on a hot summer day, as sweat rolled down his back, that he would always, no matter what life threw at him, make the best of it.

untitled by Lanae Headley Petals

Peter Jewel Deano

Imagine everyone as a rose, With vivid shades of red and savage thorns.

Each time you get betrayed, You wilt and lose petals, Until you shed everything, And the only thing left are your prickly thorns.

Vulnerable and empty, You’ll feel like you’re a burden.

The feeling of shame rouses, And soon, you’ll feel like you don’t belong in this rose garden.

With shades of envious green painting you, You’ll start begging others for their petals, So they can be the same color as you.

What a shame, What happened?

I used to be like you.

It will take awhile for you to heal but, Once you bud again, Make sure not to give all your petals away.

untitled by Lanae Headley

Quiet Faqirah Dawson

He was on his way, away from others, and away from all sound. No music was playing, for the radio was not turned on during his drive through the muted streets. He soon arrived at his secluded home in complete silence. The front door was unlocked, opened, closed, and locked again with not one voice to be heard in response. His breath released a quiet sigh that he was unaware his chest had been holding as he proceeded down the hall. His shoes made harsh echoes in the empty home, yet he couldn’t bring himself to remove them, even if the sound did bother him a bit. While yes, as a child, he would have routinely discarded them as soon as he crossed the threshold of anyone’s home, but now he only cared about making it to his bedroom. He could remove them later.

Upon opening the bedroom door his stomach growled. Only for it to be ignored. It was far past dusk by now, and he’d not touch one bit of food all day. He pushed the thought of a meal out his mind and closed the door behind him. He could eat later. After putting a great deal of effort into getting undressed, he looked at his bed with a solemn expression.

“Finally.” he whispered, before collapsing onto the somewhat comfortable, messy mattress without another word. He simply lay still and motionless under countless blankets and pillows. Thinking of nothing, without any sign of genuine rest in sight.

“Late Summer Storm” by Oliver Beland

Reality Jakari Foster Count to ten, he told himself. Close your eyes, count to ten and maybe it will all be gone. He closed his eyes but just as quickly opened them again. It was real, it wasn’t going away. Slowly, he raised the flashlight again and directed the beam toward reality. This isn’t a dream. Yes I’m depressed, no I’m not okay. As I lay in my bed all I can think about is how I want to get under it. Under my bed because it isn’t dark enough here, under my bed to escape, under my bed to find peace, under my bed to run away from reality. No I can not escape, no peace will not find me, but I’m so deep in I don’t know if I want it to. I close my jet black curtains as the sun tries to sneak in, no I do not want it to. It burns. I’ve been in the dark for so long the idea of the sun burns. Reality. The world or the state of things as they actually exist.

Does it really exist? Or are you so deep in your thoughts that you don’t want it to. I’m depressed. No I’m not okay. Attempting to wake up from my intensive deep sleep, only to see clothes piled so high to where I can barely walk, Food left out in the open from when I tried to eat but had no appetite. I haven't done laundry or eaten in weeks. I am mentally deceased, who have I become? Where did the real inner me fade away to? The feeling of sadness overbearing my emotions to the point where when I speak, my throat aches. The feeling in your throat that you get when you can sense yourself about to silent cry? Yeah that one. I try so hard to open the curtains and let in the light, I try so hard to be free, I try so hard to not run. I try so hard but life is a challenge, especially when you can’t take charge of it. Yes I’m depressed, no I am not okay. I can admit, sometimes I don’t want to be here but I push through anyway. Dim the flashlight, redirect the beam, close the curtain. I’m depressed.

“McCann’s Sink” by Tristyn Perrin

Red Dragon Alex O’Neill My grandma had a red dragon.

A small pillow pet, With a purple tongue, And purple feet.

The Red Dragon With purple and yellow spots, Has a long tag I won’t cut off.

My grandma passed And her Red Dragon Was homeless, Until it found me.

The Red Dragon Is never unfolded.

It sits on the pillow Besides my head.

The Red Dragon Watches over meProtecting me In my dreams.

It’s funny how My Red Dragon, Although small, Is so big in my life.

My Red Dragon.

My grandma.

So small, And so important.

“Mini Adirondack & Mini Dining Chair” by Noe’ Heim and Isabel Farnsworth Save Me Victory Jackson this poison suffocates me, snatching away my confidence , my personality, destroying me. instead replacing me with insecurities, instability, erasing my identity ,white washing me. scrubbing away any reminisce of who I am! erasing my hair , the smell of oil sheen , grease , pink berets and black rubber bands.

I miss the smell of coconut oil shining my hands. I miss who I am.

I miss the sound of momma and Medea , their warm voice , their broken English the way they rounds their R’s , something in my old in my old age I hope will be instinctive. instead of store , it’s gone to the stoe , instead of door , it’s “ stop runnin’ in and out this doe!” and that’s what I miss the twang of their voices . it’s soothes me, it kisses my ears wrapped in peace and tranquility. but now all this is old news .. it killed me, eating away victory and it’s been going on for too long.

I’m a blank canvas , with no character , no story , no love , my lips have no song.

I’m an empty heart, no joy , peace , in fear of what... that I can’t answer.

all I know is I’m a dead man I guess you could call me Lazarus , ways of resurrection I wish I could discuss. mom of Mary and Madea of Martha I need ya call on your savioa , cuz I’m drownin’. drownin’ in comparison drowning under this load of sin sin of denying of my roots , sin of straightening my hair , straightening these kinks I could never do.

Mom of Mary , madea of Martha , I need ya , I need ya , please call on your savioa.

”Mountains” by Aubrey McCabe

She Danced

Mykila Johnson

They walked alongside each other. The sand tickled her toes, her lips tasted like salt, the air was filled with the sound of waves crashing against the shore.

They were walking, but somehow, she hadn’t the faintest idea of who the man beside her was.

Moon light from the big, full moon shined down on his face, yet he still had no features.

It should’ve been horrifying, she should’ve felt scared, but all she got from him was this warm feeling of familiarity, like they were old friends just going for a casual stroll on the beach at night. Like this was normal.

He wasn’t dressed for the beach, but when she looked down at herself, neither was she. He wore a full suit, like the ones that would be worn at only the fanciest of dinner parties with, he had a top hat and everything.

She felt under dressed compared to him. She was wearing a short, pure white night gown that seemed to glow when the light hit it. Despite what she was wearing, she was neither cold, nor embarrassed, it just felt natural to her.

She was contempt, her body was light, like all the pains of the world had washed away with the sea. She felt at peace.

Her eyes gazed upon his featureless face and he smiled, somehow. She felt as if he were smiling and she smiled back, unsure of why she’d done this.

He reached a long arm out and pointed. Her gaze followed that arm until she saw what he was pointing at. It was her. Not her as she was now, but another.

This one was lying dormant, face down in the sand. She was soaking wet with salt water from the sea, her pure white night gown clung to her skin. She looked pale, lifeless.

She looked at him, then back at the other her. She didn’t know what she wanted, but she was scared. Scared, but her heart didn’t beat. The feeling of walking on air that she had a moment ago came crashing back down and the entire weight of the world was on her shoulders once more.

He reached his hand out to her and she took it. He pulled her in close with a tight embrace, then they swayed together. His hand was ice cold, but she didn’t care. They danced together, even though there was no music, they danced. Even though she saw herself on that beach, face down and lifeless, she danced. When the weight was lifted off her shoulders and the man was no longer guiding her movements she danced. When the beach was gone and there was only a pure white light, she danced.

“My Father’s Journey” by Taylor Zhang

So Black Zaria Raglin I’m black He’s black She’s black We’re black Which makes us loud Ghetto All over the place Mad We’re always mad We always have to complain about Especially racism

And how slavery is something that still affects to this day How white people treat us How privilege.....White privilege is a real thing And the trend where my brown skin looks good on Sarah Especially on Halloween “It’s just a costume” she said Well mine isn’t At least to the cops They don’t give us time to take it off To explain They jump to conclusions As the trigger jumps And a bullets flies into his chest They don’t see the brush Because I’m black Maybe too black At least I’m told Because I speak on these things Tongue holding isn’t easy for me I’d rather let my words fly I like when they hit Like a bullet to the chest Because that’s what he got With barely and explanation I’m so black That things like lava boarding don’t excite me or scare me It’s the simple things that do The loud scream of a siren A police siren It gives that rush The skip of a heartbeat Even when it’s not me they’re after Because I don’t know that Because guilty or innocent someone’s gonna get shot I’m so black I can list house hold items perfect for whooping I know how to fry chicken And I know the perfect way to cut a watermelon So black I get to say the N-word And you don’t So black my life’s a movie It’s already been written for me The only part I’m missing is where my brother gets shot

My uncle did though A couple of my cousins too I’m so black On those rare occasions I watch the news I simultaneously get a phone call about who’s being buried next So black I scroll through my timeline and every weird thing I see I say “this is some white people shit” and most times I’m right So black That my 5 letter name is rarely properly pronounced And the shorts I wear are to short until Sarah wears them And cornrows become stylish They become a trend when a kardashian gets them And dark skin is cute when a white girl is suddenly 3 shades darker, and she calls it a tan Everybody wants to be me Wants to be black Until it’s time to Until they’re looking down the barrel of a gun Until what saves them is what kills them A cop, supposedly to protect themselves They get to decide who gets to be scared When they have the weapon And the bulletproof vest Why are they scared Does my skin scream run, maybe murder Because I’m black, my hands, my phone, a pack of skittles and a Arizona drink, a brush, a hoodie These things become weapons But only in my hands I’m so black That my hair grows to the sun And my skin glows naturally in it The sweet melanin that makes me me determines my faith But makes me gold And makes my story twice as important Because it’s just that rare I’m so black That I lack the most basic privileges But I wouldn’t ever wish to be any other race Because I’m black I get to do everything under the sun And like flowers...I Bloom

“Olivia” by Taylor Zhang

Southern Heat Ava Horton The cool air conditioned inside seems like a different climate than the deadly heat outside the walls. It’s August 15th- the worst part of the summer. Luckily I haven’t had to leave the house much this summer, except for today. I roll out of bed and put on the outfit my grandma picked out for me- a simple black dress. As I walk to the car, my black dress attracts the harsh sun and causes my dress to stick to my skin weighing me down as if my clothes are drenched in water. Once inside the car, my grandparents discuss who’s attending the funeral but all I can focus on is the scorching black leather seats burning my thighs. Putting the seatbelt on, is like a game of operation, trying not to touch my skin or else the sting of the hot metal will burn.

“Are you okay sweetie?” Asked my grandma.

“No, this car is so hot. Can you turn up the AC?” “Sure.”

The air conditioning is on full blast but it barely reaches the back seat. Sweat drips down my face causing my hair to stick to the back of my neck like a magnet. My only refuge from the heat is the church, but that barely seems like a refuge at all. We arrive and there are already people walking inside. We park the car and as I get out I’m blinded by the intense sun. It’s as if the sun has it out for me, shooting me with it’s beams of harmful light. As we enter the church, I

look around and I don’t recognize anyone, but everyone is looking at me as if I’m sick. Is it the sweat stains on my back?

People start coming up to me saying, “I’m sorry for your loss.”

I feel like I’m going to suffocate from the stuffiness in the church. Is the AC on? How can it be the middle of August and people don’t have their AC on full blast?

“I’m so sorry. She was a wonderful woman.”

When is this going to start? I can’t wait to get home and take an ice cold shower.

Finally the service begins.

The ceiling fans are at the highest speed. Spinning so fast, it seems like they’re going to fly away. Old ladies are fanning themselves with intricately decorated fans. The priest looks like he’s going to suffocate of discomfort from his collar. People have to almost scream to be heard over the loud ceiling fans.

The service ends and we walk out of the church into the relentless heat. The sun has no mercy on me and continues to shoot me with harmful beams of light. My grandparents get stuck talking to people, they’re caught in the red zone- in between the two air conditioned safe zones.

Since my grandma has the keys, I’m forced to stand in the open. More and more sweat collects and I think there is a puddle around my feet.

“How are you doing? You must be in so much pain.”

They’ve escaped and we’re finally headed to the car. I have to brace myself for the initial shock of the scorching leather seats, but I can see the end in sight. We arrive home and instantly as I walk inside, the rush of cool air stops my sweating. I hate the heat. I guess I got that from my mom. She hated the heat until the day she died.

“Palette Cow” by Marley Boswell

Darling Alex O’Neill Darling you’re stronger than you look Blood full of courage and bones made of resilience.

Sweetheart you’re kinder than you feel A heart made to break and arms made to hold together.

Honey you’re smarter than you think Your head full of dreams, your feet moving them forward.

And baby, you’re loved more than you know.

Eyes that glow with openness and lips that speak embraces.

“People in Motion” by Olivia Van Deventer A Tale of Tarot

Kaden Hendrick

The careless and wandering Fool shall be the guide of our soul, While the Magician ensures that we have our goal, The High Priestess will give us all the knowledge we’ll need, And the Empress will grace us with a pomegranate seed, The Emperor will protect us from the nearing storm, Even from the Hierophant and his teaching to conform, The Lovers will teach us to value those we cherish even when they aren’t near, And the Chariot will show us that there is nothing to fear, Strength will prepare you for the obstacles to come, While the Hermit will let you dance to your own drum, The Wheel of Fortune shows that life is constant and long with or without you, And Justice will discern that which is false and that which is true, The Hanged Man will show us when we should bend, Whilst Death on their pale horse will present us with an end, Our patient friend Temperance will restore our flow, And the Devil will teach us the things we shouldn’t know, The Tower brings a disaster with which we must cope, And the Star brings a flame to ignite our hope, Though the Moon’s mirages may twist us from above, The Sun shines to remind us that we have love, Nearing the end grand Judgement deems us good, And now with the World we reflect all we’ve withstood, The Trickster closes the book while humming a song, “Sorry my dear reader, was this piece too long”?

“Pinnacle Silhouette” by Oliver Beland The Cage of Fear

Bianca Cooney

“ The eyes of others our prisons; their thoughts our cages.”-- Virginia Woolf Stop letting your fears control you And cause you to miss out Stop changing who you are It will soon cause you to doubt Stop listening to the people whom you’ve done no harm to And stop allowing their words to beat your mind black and blue Stop allowing people’s thoughts to control the choices you make You might as well give them credit, for they have caused you to become a fake A good old fashion original is always better than a copy Because copies aren’t the real thing and can sometimes turn out sloppy Stop letting the fear of what others think constantly hold you back Why be a follower when you can stand out and become the leader of the pack Stop living your life trapped in the cage of other people’s thoughts Remind yourself it’s your life and stop letting fear call all the shots Being yourself is the key to unlock the fear trapping you in that cage And open your ears to the voice telling you it is time to turn the page

“Place Setting” by Alekhya Pidugu

Tonight I’ll Fall Asleep

Destiny Logan

Tonight I'll fall asleep With my heart in pieces Laying silently in yours And yours will rest in another's.

Rebecca Solina: Italy Series

Untitled Savion Platt The boy woke up before dawn. The horses were restless. Something wasn’t right. He rose and tiptoed quietly down the hall, careful not to wake his mother. She was exhausted after last night’s bingo game, filled with nameless drugs and cheap alcohol in her system. Her body was pale as a white bouquet of roses, yet she reeked of cheap perfume. The nameless boy sniffed the air. It was stale, but also traveling with another scent. A scent he could not put his finger on. The boy could see a flash of iridescent light echoing through the unsettling darkness of the confined house. In that very instant a rattling crash was heard. He whipped his head around towards the culprit of the sound; it seemed to be coming from the shed he thought. The boy glanced at his mom who still was slumped across the dated couch-its color lacking the originality it once held before. He squinted his eyes in order to see through the lack of light.

The boy saw that her neck was placed in an awkward position; she was still asleep he thought. The boy silently tiptoed his small feet through the grooves of the brown rugged carpet to the smudged sliding doors. There he stood. Waiting. Calculating. What was the right move for him he wondered. Leave it be or go investigate? His feet answered that question before his mind could even decide. His miniscule hands sliding the doors back, the outside now greeting the inside. The warmth of the July air breezes by

his tanned face. His small feet exchanged hellos with the damp ground beneath him, his toes curling up at the new feeling to his senses. One foot at a time did his feet exchange the same greeting with the wet grass. With every step the distance between him and the wooden shed seemed to evaporate. The closer to the shed the more frantic his heart would beat. He halted reaching his purpose for the odyssey he took. The boy hesitated reaching for the rusty handle, but did so anyways. He gripped it with anticipation, anticipation on what was behind such wooden doors.

“Saucy� by Tayor Zhang

Van Gogh

Brooke Elliott

“La tristesse durera toujours.”

Medium blood-on-fabric.

Easel in the field Splintered spire above the sea Flecked with barnacles of oil-pigment Watching the tin-coin sky Cloud from dawn to afternoon.

Men will whisper: “He couldn’t have done it himself.”

Men will whisper: “Thieves, murderers, vagrants.”

And he was alone, and they found no gun.

Abandoned, As is its painter.

Thin lungs Want to drown, Mind unspooled Gray thread spills to chest, Tangled on the bullet.

He sits alone (In his room with the soft gray walls) The sky outside is smooth Blue without texture Pale, no star’s bulging eye.

Almond blossom, iris, Sunflower, Shuffling through the warm silk In his mind. His hands Knew them once.

“What happened?”

“I wounded myself.”

He has never painted a rose, Never this abstract

The easel is gone.

Polyphemus, rising from the sea of wheat, Ticking its value on his fingers, Tore it down. Rubbed Paint-mussels off and vanished.

No cry. No bells. No horses In gilded embroidery To lead the muse to his sleep.

“Ah, Theo!

This is how I want to die.”

“This sadness will last forever.”

“Savion” by Olivia Van Deventer

“You Don’t Remember Me” Faqirah Dawson You don’t remember me?

All those touches we shared All those nights we spent together You don’t, remember me.

I held your hands in the dark because you told me you were afraid Afraid of losing me Afraid of all those. . . possibilities You don’t remember me

I remember the taste of your lips The feel of your breath, against my skin I remember the smile in your eyes I remember that you used to be mine You used to be mine I remember when the thought of losing me would make you shiver I remember when I slipped that ring on You whispered, “Forever.”

But you don’t remember me. . .

For years our souls were inseparable So close together It was. . .

Incredible I never thought I’d lose you You never thought you’d lose me All those years All those promises Now. . .

Empty All because, you don’t remember me I cherish those thoughts I cherish those days I cherish those Memories So deep down in our souls Please Remember me I remember your eyes reflecting the sun Your hair flowing in the wind Please, please Don’t say this is the end I crave your touch I crave your voice I crave your love Please remember me Just remember the look in my eyes Your hands clasped in mine

How we would look up at the sky and I would say “The world is yours, and mine.”

But you don’t remember me You don’t remember us You don’t remember we Were lying in bed together We would always say forever But you don’t even know Maybe I should just go And never come back Ever All because After saying that we would never lose each other You had to go and utter “Who are you? And what are you doing, by the shutters?”

“Sea Bottom” by Alekhya Pidugu

“Weaving” by Noe’ Heim